The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  As well as crops, animals reared for food and hides included swine, cattle, buffaloes and sheep, large flocks of the latter still present in the valley. Philadelphia had once supplied the empire’s mounted soldiers with woollen horse cloths for their animals, though those days were long past. Nevertheless, the city was still a centre for dyers, wool washers, linen workers, fullers, felt makers and carpet weavers. But the most famous product of Philadelphia and the surrounding region was honey. Every Almogavar was issued with a flask of the pale-yellow sticky fluid to provide energy for their journey.

  That journey began on the second day after their arrival back at the city, Luca and five thousand others following the pace set by Sancho Rey at the head of the column of foot soldiers. Ahead of them rode Grand Duke Roger and Bernat de Rocafort with the Catalan horsemen, accompanying them the two counts and in the vanguard Roman horsemen, which also brought up the rearguard. The counts had brought their servants and squires, which were all mounted, but there were no wagons carrying grand pavilions, musical instruments to entertain the Roman nobles at night, and no camp followers to entertain the troops with their bodies for hire. Melek and his horsemen rode on the flanks of the Almogavars, bows at the ready to see off any enemy raiders that might chance their luck against them. In total, seven thousand six hundred horse and foot marched from Philadelphia to engage the great Muslim army assembling at the city of Anaia.

  As before, the Almogavars set a cruel stride to keep up with the horsemen, Sancho having instructed Bernat to set the pace, and also keep the Romans from treating the expedition as a grand tour of the theme they no longer ruled. There were no drums, trumpets or other musical instruments to accompany the sounds of horses’ hooves and feet pounding the sun-hardened ground, only a steely determination to reach Anaia as quickly as possible. At the end of the first day, the army reached the eastern end of the Maeander Valley, through which the river of the same name flowed.

  Then the soldiers disappeared into the trees.

  The valley itself is a luscious green in summer, sprinkled with pale-pink almond trees in blossom in the spring. Count Ioannes may have lost most of his theme, but he knew the geography of the land well enough and now used it to his advantage. The valley appears as flat as a table but is in fact slightly tilted, which means when the winter floods came and the river broke its banks, the deluge was far worse on the south side of the valley. Conversely, the northern part of the valley drained much earlier in springtime and in some winters did not flood at all.

  As the valley floor was essentially a floodplain, it was ideally suited to agriculture but unsuitable for human habitation. In contrast, the lower slopes of both sides of the valley were unsuitable for arable cultivation but still suitable for vines, olives and fruit trees, as well as being ideal for permanent settlements. The lower slopes on the northern side of the valley were blanketed with groves of orange, apple and fig trees, now sadly untended and overgrown, nearby settlements abandoned and derelict after the great slaughter at Tralles twenty years before.

  There were signs of decay everywhere, not only in the untended orchards but also the settlements the Almogavars came upon. The villages they passed through varied in size between five to fifteen households, each one of stone with a tile roof. But two decades of being vacant had resulted in their roofs caving in and the stonework being covered in mould. It was the same with the manor houses, the former homes of the landed nobility who had administered what had been a prosperous valley. All the buildings – the small churches, the domed cruciform dining halls, bedrooms and outbuildings – had been gutted of anything of value, to be left empty, decaying husks. The stench of decline hung over the valley as the army threaded its way west through the trees. The rate of advance was markedly slower than it had been, both because of the terrain the troops were moving through, and the need to stay hidden for as long as possible from the enemy.

  It was hot and humid in the trees, made worse by each Almogavar carrying his food bag, water bottle, spear, javelins, shield and sword. But at least the atmosphere was more relaxed, Sancho walking ahead in the company of his captains and Grand Duke Roger and the two counts leading their horses on foot. Even the fearsome cataphracts were walking, though not in their mail armour, their squires leading their own and their masters’ horses to save the nobles the effort of pulling their own reins! The fine young aristocrats were unused to sleeping in small tents among foreign mercenaries, who they were shocked to discover were originally shepherds and foresters. In what was left of the Roman Empire, shepherds were regarded as coming from the most primitive and uncivilised layer of society, inferior even to bandits. It was made worse by the realisation that these base shepherds were the emperor’s only hope of salvation.

  ‘Count Ioannes’ scouts’ have returned with reports of many tents pitched outside Anaia,’ said Sancho. ‘They have identified the banners of a number of emirs, leading me to believe they have formed an alliance.’

  ‘How many troops in total?’ asked Hector.

  ‘Over twenty thousand at least,’ answered Sancho.

  ‘Odds of three-to-one,’ mused Marc. ‘I’ll take that.’

  ‘Our inferior numbers will encourage the Turks to seek battle,’ said Angel. ‘They will think we are out of our minds to seek an engagement with so few troops.’

  ‘That is what I am banking on,’ said Sancho. ‘An over-confident enemy works to our advantage.’

  ‘What of your Muslim mercenaries? Will they fight or desert to the enemy on the eve of battle?’ asked Hector.

  ‘They are not my Muslims,’ Sancho corrected him, ‘more Luca’s recruits.’

  The all turned to look at him, causing him to blush.

  ‘Well, Black Sheep,’ said Marc, ‘can we rely on these infidels?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ replied Luca.

  ‘How can you be certain?’ probed Angel.

  ‘Melek has given me his word,’ said Luca, rather naively.

  Hector and Sancho guffawed.

  ‘Then I will hold you personally accountable for their actions during the impending battle,’ threatened Sancho.

  ‘You are not thinking of becoming one, are you, Black Sheep? A Muslim, I mean?’ asked Marc.

  ‘No, lord.’

  ‘What about that woman of yours?’ asked Angel. ‘She is a Muslim, is she not?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Father Ramon wants her to convert to our religion, or burn her,’ said Marc.

  Luca was enraged. ‘He touches her, I will kill him myself.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Luca,’ smiled Hector. ‘Model yourself on Sancho, here. He likes killing priests.’

  ‘I would like to remind you I did it to save my only son,’ grunted Sancho.

  ‘For which I am most grateful, father,’ said Jordi.

  Tralles was a ghost city, its gates smashed in and the gatehouses burnt-out as a result of the Turkish siege that had emptied the city of its inhabitants. But the walls were still in a good condition and inside the perimeter many of the buildings were in an adequate state of repair. All the domed churches had been looted and destroyed by fire, as had the monasteries. The paved streets were still extant, though curiously two marble-paved streets near the centre of the city had been stripped of their flagstones.

  Only the two counts, Roger and Sancho entered the city, along with a small escort, which included Luca and Jordi. Ionnes Komnenos was distraught at the violation that had been wrought on the city, which he had helped liberate as a young man. Tralles occupied a strong position, being built on a plateau with a steep acropolis. But like all Roman cities surrounded by enemies, unless constantly relieved and supplied, it was terribly vulnerable. A gentle breeze was blowing through the empty city, which was filled with a dread silence, its grand, despoiled buildings standing in mute testimony to the horror that had taken place a generation before.

  They were standing in the middle of the forum in the centre of the city, a paved circular space with a large stone colum
n in the centre, which had been surmounted by a cross before the Turks came. Around the perimeter had been shops, porticoes, churches and offices, all now empty and gutted of anything of worth. Ahead, looming over the city, was the fortified acropolis that appeared impregnable, with deep gorges on either side.

  ‘How did such a strong city fall?’ said Luca absently.

  Sancho turned on him. ‘Speak only when you are spoken to.’

  But Count Ioannes was in a reflective mood.

  ‘How? I will tell you, young Luca, for the tale of Tralles deserves to be heard. As your young eyes have noted, the city has strong defences, but what are strong defences without food and water? Nothing.’

  His head dropped. ‘The city had no wells from which to draw water, relying solely on the river below. When the Turks laid siege to Tralles, it was only a matter of time before it fell. There were thirty-five thousand people living here once. Fifteen thousand were butchered when the gates were opened to the Turks. The rest were sold into slavery.’

  ‘Where was your army?’ asked Luca naively.

  Roger laughed but Sancho was fuming. The governor of Philadelphia laid a hand on Luca’s shoulder.

  ‘What is left of the emperor’s army is in the north, on the eastern side of the Bosporus, defending Constantinople from the army of another Turk called Osman Bey. Indeed, Luca, it was a defeat at the hands of Osman Bey that brought you and the rest of the Catalan Company here.’

  ‘For which we thank God,’ said Count Michael.

  ‘For which we thank God,’ echoed Count Ioannes.

  ‘And with God’s help we will destroy the Turkish army at Anaia,’ added Roger.

  ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ growled Sancho.

  The ruins of Tralles were some thirty miles east of Anaia, which the Catalan Company and its Roman allies took a further day to cover, staying among the trees on the northern side of the valley. The valley itself was largely deserted, fields laying empty and overgrown, though enemy scouting parties were operating from Anaia itself. And it was one such group that spotted soldiers moving through the trees on the lower slopes on the north side of the valley. Melek led some of his horse archers out of the trees and they shot a few arrows at the riders who were dressed and equipped in an identical fashion. The scouts wheeled about and galloped back to Anaia with news that infidel soldiers were advancing on the city.

  *****

  ‘Thank you for accepting my invitation.’

  Mehmed Bey smiled, extending an arm to his guest, invited him to relax on one of the couches in the office. Though grand viewing chamber would be a more apt description. It gave panoramic views of the countryside around Anaia, extending to the blue waters of the Aegean some ten miles to the west.

  Karesi Bey accepted the proposal and took the weight off his feet, accepting the offer of warm water in a silver bowl in which he washed his hands, drying them on a towel offered by another Christian slave, one of several in the room.

  Mehmed Bey, dressed in a white silk shirt and blue silk kaftan, also seated himself, more slaves coming forward with a fresh bowl of water and clean towel. All were under the watchful eyes of guards standing around the walls, for Mehmed Bey was not a trusting individual. He clapped his hands to signal he and his guest should be served wine.

  ‘I trust you still imbibe?’ he asked his fellow emir.

  ‘I do, though only in moderation.’

  ‘If your Sufi had his way, we would all be living like hermits, scraping the earth for a living.’

  Karesi Bey sipped at the wine served in a silver chalice, its previous owner being the Roman governor of the city. It was most excellent.

  ‘He and his followers are bleeding my granaries dry,’ complained Mehmed Bey, ‘though fortunately their dislike of alcohol means at least my wine cellar is safe. For the moment.’

  Karesi Bey looked around the room, the walls of which were still decorated with Christian frescoes denoting Christ being served by kneeling Roman emperors. His host noticed his stares.

  ‘Quaint, are they not? I really should remove them but I have to confess I quite like them.’

  ‘You have retained many Christian images?’ asked Karesi.

  ‘I have found it is easier and far less distasteful to tax Christians and their churches, rather than kill them and destroy their places of worship. This is not Bergama.’

  Karesi Bey shuddered. ‘That atrocity was not of my making.’

  ‘Destruction and slaughter are bad for trade,’ said Mehmed. ‘And fanaticism can be a double-edged sword.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Once Izzeddin Arslan has finished killing all the Christians and Jews in this land, he will begin a purge of those he considers apostates. We might all find ourselves at the mercy of him and his ghazis.’

  He clapped his hands. ‘Let us eat.’

  More slaves brought dishes served on silver platters, too much for two individuals to consume, but were a display of Mehmed Bey’s power and hospitality. They barely touched the dolma made from aubergines, courgettes, onions, peppers and tomatoes stuffed with minced meat and rice. It was a similar tale with the mountain of fattoush that was brought from the kitchens: a salad of chopped cucumbers, radishes, tomatoes and pita bread. Though both enjoyed the endless number of kebabs of chicken roasted on skewers, Mehmed Bey instructing that the leftovers be given to the poor. By the time musakhan was being served, consisting of whole chickens baked with onion, saffron and fried pine nuts, the two emirs were only picking at their food.

  Karesi Bey’s dark and gloomy face was briefly lightened by a smile.

  ‘Izzeddin Arslan would say such opulence and easy living are signs of a dissolute life.’

  ‘If that was so,’ said Mehmed Bey, ‘then why does Allah allow us to live in the cities and palaces of the enemy? If we are so corrupt, why have our armies been so successful against the Romans?’

  ‘Perhaps you should point out to him the contradiction in his argument,’ suggested Karesi Bey.

  ‘And have ten thousand enraged ghazis vent their fury on this fine city? I think not. Anyway, are you not the chosen one as far as the fanatic is concerned?’

  Karesi Bey nodded to a waiting slave with a fresh bowl of water, the man walking forward with head bowed to allow the emir to wash his hands a second time.

  ‘Alas, I am out of favour due to allowing the enemy to march through my lands uninterrupted, that and berating him in public for convincing one of my governors to join him in a reckless military adventure.’

  ‘The clash outside Soma,’ nodded Mehmed Bey, ‘I heard about it. These Catalans are not to be tangled with lightly.’

  ‘Fortunately, they are marching back to Artake, so the reports say.’

  Mehmed Bey accepted the offer of a slice of orange, one of several arranged in a circle on a small silver dish.

  ‘These Catalans have been like a whirlwind charging through Anatolia. But the thing about whirlwinds is that they are only temporary. When they have departed, we will still be here.’

  He put the orange slice into his mouth.

  ‘But there is another problem which is less temporary and needs to be dealt with speedily if it is not to sweep us all away.’

  Karesi Bey accepted the offer of a slice of orange.

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘Izzeddin Arslan and his fanatical following. The cave dweller is right in insisting we pool our resources to regain the losses suffered at the hands of the Catalan infidels, I will concede that. But once we have done so and forced Philadelphia to surrender, what then?’

  ‘Then we will conquer Artake, the last great Roman province left in Anatolia,’ said Karesi Bey.

  ‘But that still does not solve the problem of Izzeddin Arslan, who draws the rabble of humanity to his banner, which then becomes his own private army.’

  ‘He is a descendent of the Quraysh, my lord. Only a Muslim with a death wish would raise his sword against him.’

  Mehmed Bey took a
fig from a plate offered him.

  ‘So, you accept he and his followers are a problem?’

  Another smile creased Karesi Bey’s face. ‘I am a soldier, my lord, not a politician.’

  Mehmed Bey nodded sagely. ‘A politician’s answer, my congratulations. But when the Catalans return to the abyss from which they came from, Izzeddin Arslan and thousands of his followers will still be roaming this land like a plague of locusts, stripping the land bare whenever they appear.’

  ‘Perhaps when the Romans have all been conquered, they and their leader will disappear.’

  Mehmed Bey nibbled on a second fig.

  ‘I have used a combination of flattery, bribery, threats and a limited amount of force to create the domain I now rule. But I learned very quickly that fanatics can rarely be reasoned with. You either submit to them or eradicate them. There is no middle course.’

  ‘Allah will reveal his plans, my lord.’

  They fell into silence, the Emir of Aydin chewing on his fig, Karesi Bey running a finger around the lip of his silver cup. Both stopped their activities when an officer of the palace guard in red leggings, a short-sleeved red tunic and thigh-length mail armour appeared, snapping to attention before Mehmed Bey and handing him a note. The hairs on the back of Karesi Bey’s neck stood up. He did not know the contents of the letter but his sixth sense honed on the battlefield told him something was amiss. His gut did not lie because Mehmed Bey’s eyes opened wide with alarm while reading the note. He sighed and looked up at the officer.

  ‘Assemble the army.’

  Karesi Bey sprang up from the couch, staring at the other emir in anticipation.

  ‘It would appear the reports you read concerning the Catalans returning to Artake were wrong, my lord,’ said Mehmed Bey, slowly rising from the couch. ‘They have been identified, along with their Roman paymasters, a mere ten miles from this very palace.’