by Peter Darman
‘You’re no use in the front rank now, boy.’
A shrill whistle blast signalled the front rank should retire to the rear. Tired and bleeding men gladly obeyed the order, but those behind were equally fatigued, whereas the Turks were relatively fresh.
It was only a matter of time before the Almogavars would be forced to break off contact to try and save themselves from being overrun.
*****
The majority of the Turkish horsemen had fled. Sasa Bey was dead. Saruhan Bey had been wounded and had limped from the battlefield with what was left of his horsemen. Mehmed Bey, not a scratch on him, had been the first to turn and run, ordering his horse archers to accompany him to safety. He and a host of maroon banners were last seen galloping towards the coast. They had all gone. All save one.
Karesi Bey drew his sword, turned and nodded to his subordinate. Mahmud gave the order to the signallers behind the pair and a loud blast of trumpets prompted over two thousand horsemen to nudge their mounts forward. In the vanguard were the magnificently attired and armed cataphracts – all Christian – armed with lances, swords and maces, the chests, necks and heads of their horses protected by armour. Accompanying them were their ‘spear companion’ squires, ready to fight and die beside their masters. Behind the cataphracts were fifteen hundred lancers, not as heavily armed or armoured but still formidable horsemen.
Most of Karesi Bey’s horse archers had either fled with the others or lay dead on the battlefield, but he and his two thousand horsemen could still scatter the Christian riders to their front, who had already been involved in a mêlée.
The Turkish horsemen broke into a canter and then a gallop, lowering their lances in unison as they thundered across the grass towards the enemy. The Catalans and their Roman allies also broke into a gallop, for to meet a charge of heavy horsemen while stationary was to invite certain disaster. The thunder of hooves was replaced by a frenzied clattering sound when the two sides clashed, men and horses going down as lance points were driven into human or horse flesh. Then came a more sustained sound, that of sword blades clashing as a furious mêlée erupted. Both sides were professional soldiers and at first the struggle was one of equals, men using their shields and swords and manoeuvring their horses in an attempt to give them the edge against a skilled opponent.
Count Ioannes Komnenos, Governor of Philadelphia and commander of the Thrakesion Theme, was in his element. For years, he had seen the empire’s strength and prestige diminish at an alarming rate. The imperial army had become a pale shadow of the force of his youth, and every year Turkish power increased. Their minarets filled the towns and cities that used to resonate with Christian hymns, and their ships brought more Muslims to the shores of what had been the great bastion of Christianity when the world had descended into pagan darkness. When he had first clapped his eyes on the Almogavars he had thought them godless barbarians, and he still believed they were rough-hewn individuals devoted to violence. But their arrival in the empire had breathed fresh life into the emperor’s cause. They had achieved more in six months than the imperial army in six years, and had given him the chance to once again lead men into battle rather than hide behind city walls and wait for the inevitable Turkish siege and subsequent humiliating surrender. But now, thanks to the Catholic barbarians, he could meet the enemy face-to-face with a sword in his hand.
His sword cut down many Turkish horsemen that day and for a brief while the banner of the Stratopedarches soared like a Roman eagle above the fray. But Karesi Bey’s cataphracts were many and gradually they closed in on the great Christian banner, hacking left and right with their maces and swords, first isolating and then bludgeoning the armour and helmets of their enemies – two bodies of cataphracts doing battle in a scene reminiscent of battles fought over a thousand years before.
In one of the tragic ironies of the times in which he had lived, the Doux of Philadelphia died at the hands of a Christian cataphract in the service of Karesi Bey, his cataphract bodyguard dying around him. The people of Philadelphia would have wept at seeing their lord fall, but for Ioannes Komnenos it was a better death than he could have previously hoped for.
Karesi Bey sensed victory, and with a battlefield triumph would come the prestige of leading the Muslim cause against the Romans. What legitimacy would those beys who had fled the battlefield have against one who had stayed and snapped victory from the jaws of defeat? The enemy horsemen were surrounded and being whittled down in a merciless struggle, but his instincts told him the red banner emblazoned with a sword was about to triumph. And when it did he would seal his victory by slaughtering the Catalan foot soldiers who were being forced back by the ghazi élite and the soldiers of Mehmed Bey battling bravely among the olive groves. Praise Allah.
Arrows!
To the maelstrom of battling horsemen was added a new element – the missiles of Melek’s horse archers. He had been carefully observing the course of the battle and from his vantage point behind the Almogavars was able to time his intervention precisely. He saw the Almogavars cut the ghazis to pieces, only to be stopped and pushed back by the élite soldiers of Izzeddin Arslan. On the right, he saw one division of Almogavars enter the olive groves where Mehmed Bey’s foot soldiers fought them among the trees. The ghazi élite had struck Sancho Rey’s men hard, but they were outnumbered by the Almogavars and so the latter began to assault the Turks on their flanks as the Almogavar line became concave in shape. Melek realised his men could have a pivotal impact on the engagement by intervening on the left where horsemen were doing battle.
Three hundred horse archers galloped over to the left flank where they circled the great mêlée, riding forward to take aimed shots against the horsemen with red saddlecloths, before withdrawing and reforming. Any Turkish horsemen who spotted the horse archers and gave chase were immediately surrounded and shot. The tactics were akin to nibbling the edge of a round piece of bread. It was a slow, methodical process, but the arrows of Melek’s soldiers shot many Turks from their saddles and in consequence, Mahmud gave the order to break contact and withdraw.
Karesi Bey, sweating, angry and frustrated, rode over to where his commander of horsemen was issuing his orders, already parties of riders disengaging from the battle to withdraw south.
‘Explain yourself.’
‘We are losing too many to arrows, lord. The battle is lost. The horsemen of the other emirs have already deserted. My first duty is to you and your horsemen. Let the Romans enjoy this day. We are many, they are few. Allah’s cause will triumph in the end. But it is now only vanity that keeps us here today.’
The words stung the emir but Karesi Bey knew his subordinate was right. He cried out in frustration but then turned his horse, following others obeying the signallers blasting instructions for a general withdrawal.
The Romans and Catalan did not follow. Many among them had been killed, many more had been wounded. Tired men on blown horses were glad to be alive and drank tepid liquid from their water bottles. Bernat de Rocafort, his mail hauberk missing many links and his shield splintered from repeated mace blows, rode over to Melek when the Turks had left the field. The Catalan removed his battered helmet and beamed at him.
‘Never have I been so glad to see Muslim horsemen. You and your men have cemented their place in the Catalan Company this day.’
Melek placed a hand on his heart and bowed his head.
‘We are your loyal servants, lord.’
Grand Duke Roger, the huge Catalan banner flying behind him, rode over in the company of Count Michael, whose blue-green eyes were full of sorrow.
‘Count Komnenos is dead,’ he lamented.
‘I will pray for his soul, lord,’ said Melek earnestly.
‘Prayers will have to wait,’ said Roger. ‘We have to aid Sancho in his fight.’
*****
Jordi was bleeding heavily from a head wound. His helmet had been knocked off and a sword had inflicted a nasty skull injury. He sat on the ground, disorientated, Luca frantical
ly applying a bandage round his crown. Like many head wounds, it looked worse than it was and as far as Luca could tell, the blade had mercifully glanced off his friend’s skull rather than bite into it. But there was still much blood.
‘No more fighting for you,’ he said to his friend.
There were many others lying or sitting on the ground in the rear of the division, which was no longer being pushed back. Unknown to Luca, the ghazi élite were now fighting Almogavars on both flanks as well as in front, and the pressure on them was beginning to tell. It was fortuitous, because Sancho Rey’s division had been sorely pressed and its soldiers roughly handled in a bloody, bruising contest. Sancho himself, looking tired, his arm gashed and bleeding, knelt down beside his son, examining Luca’s handiwork. He slapped his son on the arm.
‘You’ll live.’
Luca was very pleased with himself, until Sancho stood and looked at the sword in his hand.
‘Your spear broke?’
‘No, lord, I threw it straight through a Turk’s head,’ he replied without thinking.
Sancho grabbed his son’s spear and handed it to Luca.
‘Are you injured?’
‘No, lord.’
‘Then back in the line for you. The tide is turning against the Turks.’
Luca laid a comforting hand on Jordi’s shoulder and retook his position in the rear rank of the division. He was not at the back for long, whistles blasts announcing the withdrawal of the front rank to the rear and the advance of the ranks behind. Because fatigue was sapping the strength of the Almogavars, the time the front rank spent fighting the enemy decreased as the battle wore on. In what seemed like no time at all, Luca was once again facing the enemy.
The enemy was also tired, their wall of shields and spears no longer tight but broken in places. The battle between the two formations had degenerated into a desultory affair, in which both sides probed for weaknesses, aware that if they broke formation their foes might surge forward, prompting a general collapse and slaughter. The ferocity of the initial combat had disappeared as men summoned up their last reserves of strength.
‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’
Even the enemy’s war cries were not as forceful as they were.
Luca scanned the shields in front of him, searching for an opening. But even if a Turk suddenly revealed a vulnerable spot, he would have to traverse the dead bodies between him and the enemy – the result of the final Turkish attempt to break the Almogavars. He jabbed his spear forward over the carpet of dead, directed at the face of the Turk opposite, but immediately withdraw his blade and stepped back when the Turk attempted the same. To the right and left came the sound of battle: weapons clashing, men hollering war cries and their high-pitched screams when weapons found flesh and bone.
Then the Turks began to edge back and the Almogavars sensed victory. Ostensibly, nothing had changed, but alarm began to show in the enemy’s faces as they stepped back, still retaining their formation. Like everyone else, Luca sensed the change. He could almost taste it. His tired, heavy limbs were suddenly reinvigorated by the palpable presence of victory in the air. There were whistle blasts and he and the others in the front rank stepped forward, having a care to place their feet on earth and not dead flesh.
The Turks continued to edge back, increasing in speed as some tripped and fell backwards. The sounds on the flanks were getting louder and he knew the Turkish wings were collapsing.
Then the enemy showed their backs to the Almogavars. The withdrawal was turning into a rout.
‘Into them!’
He did not know who gave the command but he and those around him needed no second prompting. His legs once again felt like feathers as he sprang forward, reaching a Turk who attempted to turn around to face him, but too late and was skewered in the underarm by Luca’s spear. He saw Turks shedding their shields and running, desperate to escape the Almogavars. But the Catalans were on them like ravenous wolves, ramming their spears into thighs, faces and necks. There was little point in trying to drive spear points through mail armour, which all the Turks wore.
And then Luca stopped in his tracks. In front of him, clutching a flagstaff attached to which was a huge green banner, was a deranged, wild-haired man with rage-filled eyes, daring him to harm him. Without hesitation Luca drove his spear into his belly with all his energy, yanked back the point and stabbed him again, and again and again. The fanatic’s filthy clothes became stained with blood and gore and he collapsed to the ground, still clutching the shaft. Luca placed a foot on the dead man’s chest, bent down and picked up the banner, rolling the green silk around the shaft to make it easier to carry.
And so it was that Luca Baldi captured the sacred banner of the Prophet. And the Catalan Company won a resounding victory outside the walls of Anaia in what was the greatest Christian triumph over Islam in two hundred years.
Chapter 20
Luca presented the captured banner to Sancho Rey after the last remnants of the Turkish army had been slaughtered. There were thousands of bodies strewn across the valley floor, the olive groves close to the city also choked with dead and dying. The gates of the city had been slammed shut in the faces of the victors, parties of which ignored Anaia and trudged over to the river to slake their thirsts. The victorious commanders held an impromptu council of war in the middle of the dead.
‘A gift for you, Roger,’ said Sancho, holding out the captured green banner to the leader of the Catalan Company.
Roger slid off his horse and stretched his back. Bernat did likewise, taking off his helmet and breathing a huge sigh of relief.
‘That was too close for my liking.’
Roger took the banner.
‘Well done, Sancho.’
The Almogavar pointed at Luca.
‘He captured it.’
‘The Black Sheep covers himself in glory once more,’ smiled Roger. ‘You should reward him, Sancho.’
‘I promise I will,’ said the Almogavar.
The next day Sancho organised work parties to dig graves for those who had fallen during the battle, which also included the Muslim dead. Aware that it had been Melek and his horse archers that had proved decisive, Roger had insisted the enemy dead be interred in the ground and, in a gesture designed to win over the city authorities, sent a message to Anaia that Muslim priests could say their prayers over the dead. But first, graves had to be dug.
Luca hacked at the earth, cursing under his breath so Sancho standing nearby would not hear. Around him, dozens of others with spades were also digging. Sancho saw Luca shaking his head.
‘I promised Grand Duke Roger I would reward you and so I am. This is your reward for throwing away your spear during the battle.’
Luca and thousands of others had slept in the open the night before, waking with aching joints, dry mouths and rumbling bellies, having emptied their food bags. Count Michael and Bernat had sent mounted parties to plunder the valley of food, but the Catalan Company needed the city’s granaries. Otherwise, it and its allies would have to retrace their steps back to Philadelphia. Sancho strode off to meet with the other captains, leaving Luca and the others to dig the mass grave. Jordi, his head now heavily bandaged, brought a pair of water bottles to quench his friend’s thirst, Luca taking the opportunity to take a break from the back-breaking work.
‘My father says yesterday was the greatest victory in the history of the Almogavars,’ said Jordi.
The thought cheered Luca. ‘I wish Ertan was here. I’m starving.’
‘Me, too.’
‘How is Romanus?’
‘He’ll live,’ said Jordi, ‘though he will not be doing any fighting for a few weeks.’
It was not Ertan but another Muslim who arrived, Melek jumping down from his saddle to greet the pair of Almogavars.
‘It gladdens me to see you both alive,’ he grinned. ‘Allah smiles on you.’
‘Not on me,’ complained Luca. ‘I am reduced to a gravedigger.’
‘Allah will s
mile on you more for caring for His dead, Luca,’ said Melek. ‘For an enemy to care for the remains of his foe will surely be blessed.’
He did not feel blessed, but it cheered him that Melek thought he was. He liked the Turk, who had an easy-going manner that endeared him even to those he had been trying to kill just a few weeks before. And it was Melek who acted as a negotiator on behalf of Grand Duke Roger and the city authorities that afternoon, the Turk conveying the Catalan Company’s terms for the surrender of Anaia. Of course, the city authorities could choose to defy the Catalans in the hope of relief. But what relief would come? The thousands of bodies being prepared for burial were mute evidence of the absence of any army of note that could march to Anaia’s relief. More likely, the emirs who had been worsted before the city walls would flee back to their own capitals and leave the city to its fate. On the other hand, Roger offered safe passage to any Muslim wishing to leave the city to seek sanctuary elsewhere, and would even provide Muslim horsemen as an escort to guarantee their safety. Moreover, any Muslim wishing to remain in Anaia would not be reduced to slavery, would not have his or her property molested, and would be allowed to practise his or her religion. They were generous terms. But then, the exhausted Catalan Company had neither the means nor inclination to mount a siege that might last for months.
The city authorities agreed to Grand Duke Roger’s terms, subject to the Muslim dead being given proper and respectful burials. Every Almogavar was therefore assigned to grave-digging duties so the thousands of dead could be interred as speedily as possible, Jordi joining Luca in the grave pits. After two days, the city having provided white sheets for every Muslim corpse and priests – imams – having conducted the funeral rights, what remained of the garrison of Anaia, plus a few thousand of the city’s most important and wealthiest citizens, marched out of the city gates where Melek and his men met them and escorted them from the Maeander Valley.
