The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  ‘Who’s this?’

  The gruff voice of Sancho Rey shattered the happiness. His severe face was examining the busty, black-haired woman standing behind his son, Chana’s hazel eyes narrowing when she heard the suspicion in the big Almogavar’s voice.

  Jordi grabbed Chana’s arm and pulled her forward.

  ‘This is Chana, the woman I am going to marry.’

  The long line of wagons carrying the women and children and flanked by three thousand Almogavars wound its way across the valley towards Anaia. Bernat and his horsemen provided outer flank, rearguard and vanguard protection, for neither Grand Duke Roger nor Sancho were taking any chances when it came to the security of the column. Melek and his horse archers stayed close to the wagons to provide missile support should the Turks attempt to raid the column. But it was not the threat of attack that had darkened Sancho’s mood as the carts trundle through the lush valley. He marched beside the lead wagon, which contained a driver, Carla, Ayna and Chana, the Almogavar leader continually frowning and shaking his head at Jordi who walked behind him, holding the hand of his new-found love. Luca walked on the other side of the vehicle, smiling at Ayna staring down at him lovingly.

  ‘Try to remember we are in enemy territory,’ snapped Sancho. ‘This is not a pleasure trip.’

  But it was for his son and Luca, very much so.

  ‘You were supposed to marry into Roman royalty,’ grumbled Sancho, ‘and now you bring a Muslim slave before me and declare you are going to marry her.’

  Jordi sprang to Chana’s defence. ‘She is not a Muslim. She is Jewish.’

  ‘Please remember Ayna is Muslim and has been welcomed into the Almogavar family,’ Carla scolded her husband.

  ‘A Muslim, a Jew, an Italian and a Catalan,’ scoffed Sancho. ‘It sounds like some alehouse ballad, one that will have an unhappy ending.’

  ‘I am free to marry whom I wish,’ insisted Jordi.

  ‘Perhaps you should give the matter more thought,’ suggested Carla.

  ‘No!’ snapped Jordi. ‘My mind is made up.’

  Ayna poured more oil on the fire.

  ‘Perhaps we could hear Chana’s opinion on the matter.’

  Luca was impressed. Her Italian had indeed come on leaps and bounds.

  ‘She cannot speak any Italian or Catalan, at least not yet,’ said Jordi.

  ‘I will teach her,’ offered Ayna, ‘then we will both be able to speak for ourselves.’

  ‘A chilling thought,’ grumbled Sancho.

  But nothing could dampen the spirits of the soldiers of the Catalan Company, now reunited with their loved ones and in possession of a fine city sited in a fertile valley. Grand Duke Roger, Sancho Rey and Bernat de Rocafort made up the newly formed city council and all were determined to ensure the economic life of Anaia continued uninterrupted, and no enemy would breach its walls. The Almogavars resumed their training routine, Luca, Jordi, a healed Romanus and thousands of others tramping across the hills on either side of the valley, practising battle drills and undertaking joint exercises with Bernat’s riders and Melek’s horse archers. The autumn was mild, the land was green and pleasant and the Catalan Company stood at the pinnacle of its power.

  While Luca and Jordi fulfilled their military obligations, Ayna taught Chana Italian and Catalan, as well as assisting Carla in domestic chores. Ertan had arrived from Philadelphia along with the other Turkish slaves, and quickly established himself as a master chef among the Almogavars. Sancho, delighted by his exotic dishes, became less angry at the world and settled into the life of an important city dignitary. He did not approve of Jordi and Luca sharing their beds with women they had not married. But as both Ayna and Chana had been purchased and were in any case infidels, he turned a blind eye. Carla, though, was always pestering her son and Luca on the need for both women to convert to the ‘true faith’ so both couples could be married. But as neither Ayna nor Chana would renounce their own religions, her pleas fell on deaf ears.

  With the power of the Turkish emirs severely curtailed, and the fanatic Izzeddin Arslan removed from the world, there was no enthusiasm for a renewal of hostilities against the Romans in Anatolia, much less against the fearsome and seemingly unbeatable Catalan Company. The peace Grand Duke Roger’s mercenaries had won had reversed decades of imperial decline, and the Catalan Company waited for an invitation to Constantinople to be awarded a Roman triumph through the city.

  Chapter 22

  Michael Cosses, Count of Opsikion, victor at Philadelphia and Anaia, now the most senior Roman commander in Anatolia, was surprised he had been summoned to the Blachernae Palace like some low-ranking official. He had expected to be rewarded with a triumph through the streets of Constantinople for the recent successes against the Turks, which had turned the tide of war in favour of the Romans. He had journeyed to the city after reaching Artake to await the emperor’s pleasure. But the emperor was not pleased, far from it.

  From a distance the Blachernae looked austere, its thick walls and high towers projecting strength rather that grace and beauty. After he had ridden into the huge courtyard and left his horse at the stables, he was escorted to the throne room where Emperor Andronicus waited for him. There was no empress as the ruler’s wife Irene was in Greece, estranged from the emperor years ago and now the head of a rival court.

  ‘Welcome, count.’

  The shaven-headed eunuch with gold earrings bowed his head at Michael.

  ‘The emperor awaits, lord.’

  He turned on his dainty heels and marched into the palace, leading the way down a long corridor resplendent with gold mosaics depicting ancient Roman triumphs against the barbarians, beside him and behind him an escort of Pelekyphoroi – axe bearers – élite Varangians who never left the emperor’s side. How he would love to command a formation of Varangians on the battlefield, to see their axes cleave a path through the infidels and water the holy soil of the empire with their godless blood.

  The palace was like a maze, its harsh exterior housing no less than three hundred rooms and twenty chapels. But at its centre was the throne room, from where the emperor received guests and issued decrees to his subjects. When the party had reached the red leather doors studded with gold, the eunuch knocked on one of them. A Varangian opened it and the eunuch waited for the court chamberlain to appear, a middle-aged man with a huge belly and bulbous head that made him look like a pig standing on its hind legs. Michael smiled at the master of ceremonies, who ordered the Varangian to open the other door before asking the count to wait at the entrance. He then turned and addressed the assembled court in a booming voice.

  ‘Count Michael Cosses, commander of the Opsikion Theme, Governor of Artake and Admiral of the Imperial Fleet, defender of the Orthodox Faith, shield of the Roman Empire, requests an audience, highness.’

  ‘Let him come forward,’ commanded the emperor.

  The chamberlain walked beside Michael as the count strode confidently into the gilded chamber, courtiers bowing their heads to one of the most senior military commanders of the empire. Perfumed ladies looked admiringly at the handsome count, and young pages near the dais where the emperor sat dreamed of becoming a slayer of Turks like the famed Count of Opsikion. And as the noble made his way towards the emperor, a black-robed priest near the dais reminded him and the whole court who sat on the throne.

  ‘Behold Andronicus, elect of God, crowned by God and defended by God, who sits in the Queen of Cities and rules over the Kingdom of Heaven on earth, who holds the reins of all human affairs, both temporal and spiritual, in his hands.’

  Michael had deliberately chosen to wear soft-soled leather boots so that his steps would not make a sound in the throne room, as it was common knowledge the emperor disliked loud noises. The throne room itself projected two distinct concepts. The first was power and wealth. The palace was the epicentre of the Roman Empire, after all, and was expected to reflect the empire’s might and longevity. Palace decoration thus propagated imperial ideology symbolically,
with displays of military triumphs, religious scenes and huge imperial portraits.

  The ceiling of the throne room was decorated with gold leaf, which had been arranged to appear like ethereal dust. The columns in the throne room had also been overlaid with gold and silver to emphasise the wealth and power of the emperor, and thus the empire he ruled over.

  The second idea that the palace decoration projected was religious authority, reinforcing the notion that the emperor had indeed been appointed by God. The walls of the throne room thus contained paintings of the four virtues – Prudence, Justice, Fortitude and Temperance – depicted as saintly maidens. There were also images of previous emperors kneeling either side of Christ, promoting the idea that Roman rulers took their orders and advice from the Son of God.

  Andronicus, dressed in a dazzling silver kabbadion, sat on a gold throne inlaid with precious stones. Suspended above his head and hanging on a gold chain was a golden crown. Even the scarlet cloaks of the Varangians around the throne were edged with gold. Michael bowed deeply to the emperor.

  ‘Welcome, count,’ said Andronicus, studying his commander. ‘I trust your family are well.’

  ‘Well, highness, thank you.’

  ‘We were sad to hear of the death of your eldest daughter during the harsh winter just passed. We continue to pray for her soul.’

  ‘You are most generous and devout, highness.’

  Polite applause greeted the count’s words, the emperor’s advisers standing next to the dais nodding in approval. They nodded more enthusiastically when the emperor got to the kernel of why he had summoned the count to the palace.

  ‘We were surprised, count, when word reached us that the Catalans have taken possession of our fair city of Anaia.’

  ‘It is as I feared, great one,’ said Patriarch Athanasius. ‘We hired the servants of the apostate Bishop of Rome and now they are intent on establishing a Catholic enclave in the heart of the empire.’

  There were groans and gasps from the courtiers, which were stilled by Andronicus raising a hand.

  ‘It does seem curious, count, that you returned to Artake without the Catalans. Is there any reason why they should remain in Anaia?’

  The count felt every pair of eyes on him as the court waited for his answer.

  ‘In truth, highness, neither myself nor the governor of Philadelphia have the resources to protect our own lands and garrison the city of Anaia.’

  ‘Who is the governor of Philadelphia now that Count Komnenos is dead?’ asked Co-Emperor Michael standing near his father.

  ‘His son, majesty,’ replied the count, who looked at General Mouzalon beside the detested Timothy the Forest Dweller. ‘Perhaps if the imperial army could be moved south…’

  ‘Impossible,’ snapped the emperor’s son. ‘The army defends Constantinople against the might of Osman Bey and his Muslim hordes.’

  ‘It is as my son says,’ agreed the emperor.

  The fat eunuch treasurer took a few steps towards the throne and whispered into the emperor’s ear.

  ‘Ah, yes, thank you, Timothy.’

  Andronicus looked at Count Michael sternly.

  ‘We have heard disturbing news from our dear cousin Arcadius Drogon, the Governor of Magnesia who has been waging an unceasing war against the Muslims.’

  Count Michael Cosses willed himself not to laugh out loud.

  ‘It appears that the Catalans took him hostage and plundered his treasury, which is our treasury.’

  There were loud gasps around the chamber.

  ‘The price of hiring heretics, alas,’ said Athanasius out loud.

  The fat eunuch was looking at Count Michael with disdain, this man without balls, this boy lover who like a worm inside an apple was corrupting the empire from within.

  ‘It is true, highness,’ admitted the count. ‘The Catalans, having already destroyed two Turkish armies and having relieved Philadelphia, desired payment to avoid having to plunder Count Ioannes Komnenos’ lands. They could have plundered Magnesia, highness, but chose not to.’

  ‘No indeed,’ seethed the emperor’s son. ‘Having emptied Governor Drogon’s treasury, they finally remembered why they were hired in the first place.’

  ‘I am surprised you are defending their abominable actions,’ sneered Timothy, to accompanying nods from the courtiers and their painted wives.

  ‘They are a rough and ready lot, I will concede that,’ said the count, ‘and in the peace and calm of this court their actions may indeed seem appalling. But in six months they have achieved more than we have done in as many years. I will gladly make allowances for their lack of manners if it means we can reverse the advances the Turks have made in Anatolia.’

  He looked directly at the emperor.

  ‘In the spring, highness, we must unite the Catalan Company with General Mouzalon’s army and strike against Osman Bey. With him defeated, the empire can finally begin to reclaim the lost lands of your ancestors…’

  Andronicus, his head cast down, held up a hand to quieten the count.

  ‘We thank you for your great service against the Turks, Count Michael. And as a reward we are creating you Count of Samos and Count of Bukellarion, with all the attendant privileges accompanying each title.’

  Warm applause greeted this pronouncement, Andronicus looking up and smiling in recognition of the affection shown to him by his court. Count Michael forced himself to smile and bow his head, for the titles were worthless. Samos, a naval theme centred around the Aegean island of the same name, had long ceased to be under Roman control. Indeed, the island was actually under Genoese jurisdiction, though the Italians allowed the Turks to use it, for a fee. The inland theme of Bukellarion abutted his own Opsikion Theme but had been overrun by the Turks decades before. It would take a large army to retake it and raising such a force was beyond his own meagre resources.

  ‘I am unworthy of such generosity, highness,’ said the count.

  ‘What plans do the Catalans have for the spring?’ asked the co-emperor.

  ‘I do not know, highness,’ admitted the count. ‘I assume they will leave Anaia…’

  ‘They will be leaving Anaia,’ snapped the co-emperor. ‘The Catalans are squatters on imperial land and will be removed once the spring arrives. If we do nothing we set a dangerous precedent.’

  ‘Especially as they are heretics,’ added Patriarch Athanasius.

  ‘Heretics who have given the empire invaluable service,’ said Count Michael.

  Andronicus had had enough.

  ‘All decisions pertaining to the Catalans will be devolved to my son, who on the advice of Treasurer Timothy is the one who wished to hire them in the first place,’ said the emperor. ‘And now, Count Michael, lion of Anatolia, you may leave us.’

  Glad to be given the opportunity to leave the detached, surreal world of the imperial court, the count bowed, turned on his heels and marched from the chamber. Polite applause accompanied him to the doors, which were opened by a pair of Varangians to allow him to exit.

  Co-Emperor Michael later visited the imperial treasurer in his sumptuous mini-palace overlooking the blue waters of the Golden Horn, young male slaves in close-fitting garb showing him into one of Timothy’s reception rooms. While he waited for the corpulent treasurer to arrive, he was served wine in a silver chalice and offered sweets and pastries on silver plates. As he reclined on the luxurious couch his eye caught the magnificent painted ceiling, which depicted a garden filled with fruit, flowers, birds and beasts, such as peacocks, hares and a lioness playing with her cubs. The detail was amazing. It must have taken weeks, perhaps months, to complete such a work. He wondered how much such beauty had cost the imperial treasury.

  The treasurer swept into the room, smelling of expensive perfume, gold rings on his fat fingers and a huge white silk kabbadion covering his over-sized body. He bowed deeply to the heir of the Roman Empire.

  ‘Highness, this is a great honour. Can I get you anything?’

  Michael raised the
chalice to him.

  ‘I have been well taken care of, lord treasurer.’

  Timothy flopped down on a second well-stuffed couch, the padding sinking beneath his great weight. As soon as he was seated, slaves rushed forward to serve him a chalice of wine and offer him sweets.

  ‘I will come straight to the point, lord treasurer,’ said Michael, ‘what is the current state of imperial finances?’

  Timothy took a large gulp of wine, his eyes taking a trip over the lithe body of the male slave nearest to him.

  ‘Dire, highness. Revenues from Anatolia have all but dried up, the Genoese charge us exorbitant fees for transporting our exports overseas, and the taxes from our European colonies are low this year on account of the severe winter they, and indeed we, suffered.’

  ‘So, there is little hope we can raise enough money to bribe the Catalans to leave Anaia?’ said Michael.

  Timothy shook his head, causing his jowls to wobble.

  ‘Perhaps General Mouzalon could evict them with force.’

  Michael sniffed at the notion. ‘These Catalans made short work of the Turks. I doubt our own troops would fare any better against them. Probably far worse, in fact.’

  Timothy was most surprised by the admission, but then the emperor’s son had always adopted a more realistic, pragmatic approach when it came to the empire’s many shortcomings.

  ‘Would it be so bad for the Catalans to remain where they are, highness?’ asked Timothy. ‘The city was, after all, a Turkish enclave with little hope of being recovered by the late, greatly lamented Count Komnenos.’

  ‘Therein lies the problem, lord treasurer,’ said Michael, greatly appreciating the fine vintage he was drinking, far better than the wine in the palace. ‘If we allow the Catalans to remain in Anaia, what is to say they will not expand the territory they control, attract more Catalans to their colours, and declare a Catalan Empire in Anatolia? To tolerate their insolence is to invite the religion of the heretical Bishop of Rome to take root in Asia. Such a thing would be intolerable.’