The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  ‘No need,’ said Angel. ‘We arrived too late to do any fighting.’

  ‘How many men did you lose?’ asked Marc.

  The Romans would have been appalled to have witnessed a subordinate talk to his lord in such a way. But the Almogavars elected their leaders, which meant they were all equal and free to say what they wanted, a notion that would also have appalled the Romans.

  ‘Fifty dead,’ snapped Sancho, ‘another score wounded.’

  Marc looked around at the corpse-filled ground around them.

  ‘The enemy lost more.’

  ‘Throw a cordon around the camp,’ commanded Sancho. ‘Hector, you are with me.’

  The lean Hector gave Luca a slap on the arm. ‘Good to see you, Luca, and you, Jordi. How did you like defending a town?’

  ‘I felt as though the whole Turkish army was shooting at me,’ replied Jordi.

  Luca nodded. ‘I prefer to take the fight to the enemy.’

  ‘Well, you are in luck,’ smiled Hector, ‘because it looks like Sancho wants to do some more fighting.’

  Parts of the camp were on fire now, three divisions of Almogavars surrounding it and the fourth infiltrating the tents, Sancho and Hector at its head. Luca and Jordi were also in the vanguard as Sancho Rey went in search of Arabates. Whooping and raucous Alans raised their weapons to the Almogavars in salute as the Catalans passed them, many throwing coins in the air to show off their plunder. Sancho ignored them, heading for that part of the camp where the enemy’s horses were corralled, thousands of them in a vast enclosure, which was guarded by Alans.

  It was a warm July day, but the temperature dropped rapidly when Sancho and his men faced Arabates and around a hundred of his Alans, the two leaders squaring up to each other in the midday heat. As the Alan leader pretended he could understand neither Catalan nor Italian, he summoned his interpreter. The atmosphere continued to get frostier as the two sides stared at each other while they waited. Eventually, the interpreter arrived, bowing to his lord and frowning at Sancho. Arabates scratched his sharp nose in a disinterested manner.

  ‘Tell your master these horses are not all his,’ said Sancho. ‘We demand half of them.’

  Arabates laughed when he was informed of the Catalan’s words.

  ‘We claim all the plunder in this camp, as is our right,’ said the Alan leader. ‘Besides, what do foot soldiers want with horses?’

  ‘It is no business of the Alans what the Catalan Company does,’ snapped Sancho, ‘but seeing as I am in a good mood.’

  Hector guffawed.

  Sancho ignored him. ‘Horses can be sold to raise money for supplies, weapons, armour and clothing. And since we, or you for that matter, have not been paid these past six months, we need to look to our own means to ensure we do not starve.’

  Arabates sighed. ‘I do not care if you live or die. These horses are ours, according to the rules of war. Furthermore Catalan…’

  He stopped speaking when Hector thrust his spear into the interpreter, everyone staring with incredulity at the violent act. Within seconds, Alans were pulling arrows from their quivers, but not before a host of javelins had been plucked from quivers and thrown at the archers. Alans went down in droves, Almogavars stabbing with their spears and throwing javelins at Alans within range. It was carnage, and all the while Sancho Rey stared unblinking at Arabates, untouched amid the outbreak of bloodshed but utterly alone.

  Luca and Jordi, having no javelins, did not participate in the fighting, though were at its epicentre. They stood guarding Jordi’s father while Hector ran amok with his men, relishing the opportunity to kill. Roman, Alan, Turk. It made no difference to a man who was born to fight and kill. He and the Almogavars fought savagely, but not blindly. When the short bout of bloodletting was over, not one Alan horse had been even wounded, though dozens of their owners lay dead on the ground.

  Then there was silence.

  Sancho looked down at the dead interpreter beside an Arabates quaking with fury, but not without reason. He knew he would be cut down if he made a move against the Almogavar leader. So, he calmly walked over to the nearest horse, placed a foot in a stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. He took hold of the reins and gently nudged the animal forward, passing Sancho, Jordi and Luca without looking at any of them. The Almogavars had taken possession of the captured Turkish horses, three hundred Alans had been killed in the fight, and Arabates led his surviving horsemen away from Tire, and out of the emperor’s service. When the two counts and Grand Duke Roger emerged from the service of thanksgiving, they discovered they had just lost a third of their horsemen. Roger was unconcerned. The Catalan Company had fulfilled its promise to Emperor Andronicus, though for his part the emperor had defaulted on the terms of the agreement between him and the Catalans.

  The company returned to Philadelphia in a leisurely fashion, taking the thousands of captured horses with it. The two dukes and their horsemen accompanied the Almogavars, though Ioannes Komnenos left half of his men at Tire to stiffen the depleted garrison. Having seen his imperilled theme saved, he was in an ebullient mood, leading his horse as he walked alongside Sancho Rey. Luca and Jordi tramped behind, both in high spirits after emerging from another battle victorious and unscathed. Grand Duke Roger and the Catalan horsemen had ridden ahead with the captured mounts so they could be auctioned as quickly as possible, so that the Catalan Company could pay for the food, replacement weapons and other supplies it now desperately needed.

  ‘When we reach Philadelphia, I intend to order the archbishop to hold a celebratory mass to thank the Catalan Company for its great service to the empire,’ enthused Ioannes.

  ‘You are most generous, lord,’ said Sancho flatly. ‘But church services will not fill the bellies of my men. We have received no pay for six months and our pouches are empty.’

  Jordi and Luca exchanged knowing glances. They both still had coin in their pouches, courtesy of Princess Maria.

  ‘The sale of the captured horses will help your finances,’ Count Ioannes assured him.

  ‘And the slaves,’ added Sancho.

  The count was confused. ‘The slaves are to be sent to Constantinople, Sancho, to serve in the houses of the wealthy and carry out duties in the palace.’

  Sancho’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, my lord. They were taken by the Catalan Company and will be used for its benefit.’

  ‘The Catalan Company is in the service of the emperor,’ said the count testily, ‘and this land is this emperor’s where his law prevails above anything else.’

  Sancho laughed. ‘I am new to this land, lord, but even I can see that the emperor’s law rules over small islands in what is a Muslim sea.’

  ‘God sent the Catalan Company to us,’ replied the count, ‘and He will ensure that the Muslim sea, as you call it, will drain away, of that I am certain.’

  Sancho had enough experience of dealing with nobles and churchmen to know it was useless to argue when they brought the Almighty into the argument.

  ‘The churches in Constantinople use slaves, my lord?’

  ‘Naturally,’ replied the count.

  ‘Perhaps you can clarify something for me, lord,’ said Sancho. ‘I am of the Catholic faith and have little knowledge of the Orthodox religion. According to Catholic beliefs, all humans are equal before God whatever their social status.’

  ‘As they are in the Orthodox Church,’ affirmed the count.

  ‘And yet, your empire has a great many slaves. Is there not a contradiction there?’

  The count’s bushy eyebrows closed in a frown.

  ‘I do not question church doctrine, but I do know that the majority of slaves are Muslims and are therefore not visible in the eyes of God. That said, I also know that Christian slaves are allowed to receive the basic sacraments of baptism, the Eucharist and funeral rights. Slaves are also allowed to marry.’

  ‘To produce future slaves,’ quipped Sancho.

  ‘The masters of great households often grant slaves their freedom in r
ecognition of long years of faithful service,’ said the count. ‘I myself have granted freedom to those who have served me and my family well.’

  ‘I need weapons, food and clothing for over six thousand soldiers and many of the horses need re-shoeing, new bridles and saddles, my lord,’ emphasised Sancho, ‘and the sad truth is we have yet to receive our pay from the emperor.’

  ‘I am not in charge of imperial finances,’ snapped the count. ‘But the emperor will want to know why I did not send him the slaves captured outside my city after God’s great victory.’

  Sancho fell into a sullen silence and after a few moments the count made his excuses, mounted his horse and rode off to seek the company of Count Michael, who was with the vanguard to ensure the army was not attacked by any roving bands of Aydinids.

  The Almogavars were in high spirits when they reached the former Turkish camp outside Philadelphia, soldiers of the garrison having kept watch over the captives during their absence. A few had escaped but the majority had accepted their fate and had spent their time praying, cooking for their captors and being assigned to work gangs for duties inside the city. They were not maltreated because no one wanted to purchase ill or infirm slaves.

  Luca and Jordi returned to the tent Ertan had launched himself from when the Almogavars had stormed the Turkish camp. To find their own slave cooking a meal to welcome them back. The portly man smiled, clasped his hands together and muttered ‘effendi, effendi’ when they appeared, bringing a pair of stools from the tent for them to sit on. He then served them a delicious vegetable stew, stiffened with spices that made their noses run but which was mouth-watering, nevertheless.

  Ertan refilled their bowls as they sat on the stools, babbling something incomprehensible and periodically bringing his hands together in a submissive gesture. They both ignored him as they gorged on his delicious recipe, beaming with delight when he brought them fresh bread on a wooden platter. Clearly, the Turkish field kitchens were still working. After they had finished, Ertan relieved them of their bowls. Luca stretched out his legs.

  ‘I like Muslim food.’

  ‘Has not Ayna cooked you any of her native recipes?’ asked Jordi.

  ‘You remember the winter? We had to get by on what was available.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘I do,’ sighed Luca.

  ‘Apologies for the interruption.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a tall, striking man with olive skin, black hair falling to his shoulders and a well-trimmed moustache. He wore leather riding boots, baggy tan leggings and a loose, open blue coat. He tipped his head at Luca and Jordi, both of whom sprang to their feet and drew their swords.

  ‘There is no need for that, masters,’ the stranger said in Italian. ‘I wish you no harm.’

  A clearly agitated Ertan spoke something to the tall individual, who brushed aside the cook’s concern.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded Jordi.

  The stranger placed a hand on Ertan’s shoulder.

  ‘My friend here told me that you two are men of importance in this mercenary band.’

  Luca laughed.

  ‘I’m just a poor shepherd.’

  The stranger looked at the knives at their waists.

  ‘Then shepherds must be paid a great deal in your homeland for you to be able to purchase a Damascus blade.’

  ‘They were gifts,’ said Jordi.

  ‘As I said, you both must be men of importance to be given such expensive gifts. Perhaps we might talk without blades being held to my chest?’

  By his bearing and manner, Luca surmised the stranger was a soldier, or former soldier, and he doubted if he was a friend of Ertan. Still, he was intriguing. He slipped his sword back in its scabbard. Jordi did likewise. Luca pointed at his friend.

  ‘He is important, being the son of the Almogavar commander.’

  The stranger’s brow creased. ‘Almogavar?’

  ‘The foot soldiers of the mercenary band, as you describe us,’ explained Jordi. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Melek Kose at your service. In your language, Melek means “Angel”, but alas for my parents, I turned out to be more devil.’

  He looked at Luca. ‘And your name?’

  ‘Luca Baldi, from Sicily.’

  ‘A beautiful island,’ enthused Melek, ‘I have been there a number of times during my service with the Venetians, which is when I learned your language.’

  ‘You were a soldier?’ asked Jordi.

  Melek laughed. ‘A mercenary, like you. And though I am currently a slave, I would like to make myself more useful to fellow mercenaries.’

  He may have been an infidel, but Melek had a silver tongue and was soon having Luca and Jordi eating out of his hand, using flattery to ingratiate himself to them. He asked about their recent victory at Tire and complimented the Almogavars on their even greater victory outside the walls of Philadelphia. And when he casually asked whether it would be possible to meet with Sancho Rey, Jordi was more than willing to facilitate his request.

  The Almogavar leader was irritated that his son and his friend should bother him with the request of a slave, but he was in a generous mood after the spate of victories and agreed to see the former Muslim soldier. The whole company would soon be on the move, back to Artake to be united with its dependents and thereafter to find a new home in Anatolia.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, lord,’ smiled Melek as he stood before Sancho in the latter’s tent, which had been the residence of a senior Turkish officer but a few days before.

  Like the others in camp, the tent was circular and made in two layers: an outer layer of heavy, waterproof material that was a rusty copper colour, and a brightly coloured inner layer, red being the preferred hue. At night the tents were illuminated by candles inside and lanterns hung around the exterior.

  Sancho poured himself some wine and offered his guest a cup.

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ said Melek. ‘I do not drink alcohol.’

  ‘My son and his friend, naïve as they are,’ said Sancho, ‘seem to think you have something of value to offer me. What is it?’

  ‘Straight and to the point, like your way of conducting war. I would like to offer my services to your company, me and three hundred like me.’

  Sancho drank some wine. ‘A few days ago, you were preparing to slit Christian throats in Philadelphia. Now you are offering to fight for a Christian company. Why should you wish to fight for those who are not of your faith?’

  ‘For money,’ replied Melek bluntly. ‘I am a mercenary like you who fights for pay, regardless of the religion of those hiring me.’

  ‘We have enough horsemen,’ said Sancho.

  ‘You have no horse archers,’ replied Melek, ‘for I have seen no Alans return with your company and the Romans.’

  Sancho was surprised by his knowledge and cast an accusing glance at his son. He and Luca had obviously been too free with their tongues.

  Melek pressed the argument.

  ‘When the Alans fight, they do so as a separate body, one that lacks discipline and control. I am proposing something different, lord.’

  Sancho’s ears pricked up. ‘Oh? What?’

  Melek looked at the spare stool.

  ‘May I take a seat?’

  Sancho nodded. Melek smiled and sat on the stool, leaning in towards the Almogavar leader.

  ‘Horse archers trained to fight alongside your own horsemen would make them more formidable on the battlefield, for even the most noble knight in the most expensive armour can be killed by a single arrow.’

  Sancho was no fool and knew the Turk was speaking sense, for he had seen with his own eyes how effective horse archers could be, as long as they were used properly. There was still the subject of trust, however.

  ‘For the sake of argument, let us say we give you back your horses and weapons,’ said Sancho. ‘What is to stop you and your men riding away after slitting our throats.’

  ‘Nothing,’ r
eplied Melek candidly. ‘But why should we wish to ride away, lord? I am a simple mercenary and am offering you my services, a contract if you will. As for slitting your throats, we are but few and you are many.’

  ‘I do not command the Catalan Company,’ said Sancho, ‘and cannot answer for it. But I promise to bring your proposal before the rest of the leadership. In the meantime, you will be escorted back to your living quarters by my son and his friend.’

  Melek stood, placed a hand on his chest and bowed to Sancho, turning and walking from the tent flanked by Luca and Jordi. Sancho was intrigued by the proposal but had other, more pressing, matters to attend to. First and foremost was the issue of pay, or lack of it. The money given to the company by the emperor in Constantinople had been left with the company’s dependents in Artake, which would at least ensure they were clothed, fed and housed until the company returned to them. But the soldiers of the company itself were in effect living off the land. The lavishly stocked Turkish camp outside Philadelphia had been a boon, but the captured food supplies were steadily decreasing to feed thousands of men on a daily basis, to say nothing about the slaves that the Governor of Philadelphia and Count Cosses had yet to transport to Constantinople. To make matters worse, the city merchants and workshops were refusing to sell goods or undertake repairs to weapons, armour and saddlery unless they were paid in cash. The situation became critical when two hundred horsemen and a thousand Almogavars marched into camp, led by Bernat de Rocafort, nicknamed ‘The Bastard’.

  Grand Duke Roger was nothing if not pragmatic. As soon as the war against the French in Sicily had ended, he had despatched Bernat with twelve hundred men to the Italian mainland to seize land from Charles, King of Naples, their former foe in the War of the Sicilian Vespers. Charles might have been the son of the formidable Charles of Anjou of France, but he was a weak, vacillating individual, whose defeat in the war against King Frederick made his lands ripe for the plucking. Roger’s grand scheme was to establish a Catalan enclave on the Italian mainland, from where the company could offer its services throughout the Mediterranean. Alas for Bernat de Rocafort, his arrival on the mainland with a division of Almogavars provoked horror among the Italian kingdoms, which soon rallied behind the Pope to demand their expulsion. Despite Bernat travelling to Rome itself to plead his case, he received short shrift from the Papacy, though Pope Benedict did pay for the ships to take the Catalans to Constantinople, from where they were shipped south to the ruins of Ephesus on the Aegean coast. It was a mere two day’s march to the recently liberated town of Tire to the west, from where Bernat and his men made their way to Philadelphia.