Presently the yellow dust-cloud grew darker; then Whitefoot gave a buck which shifted me in the saddle. Looking down, I saw the scars of many fires, and understood that he had trodden on a hot ember. I called: ‘See, my lord Bryennius. We are among the cooking-fires of that immovable Turkish camp. Will the infidels never stand?’
He answered crossly, snapping over his shoulder: ‘Every Roman noticed that ten minutes ago. But the Emperor leads us, and we must obey his orders. Keep in line.’
We were making not more than two miles an hour, edging forward as the Turks continually wheeled and galloped, always threatening to stand yet always retiring. We were tired and thirsty and cross, and when I adjusted my helm the steel noseguard burned my hand. But we continued, hour after hour, until we must have covered twelve miles. Then suddenly all the trumpets screamed, everyone bellowed with excitement and relief, and the whole army spurred against the foe.
Of all the warriors in the world only drilled Romans could have jumped in an instant from a languid walk to a fiery charge, every man in the line. The Turks were caught unawares, and we crashed into their foremost ranks before they could escape.
I saw Bryennius split a skull with one blow of his mace. But I was in the fourth rank, by the great battle-flag, and though Whitefoot struggled to reach the front the Romans kept such close order that I could not find a gap. The Turks fled. Those little ponies, bearing woollen-clad archers, always outdistance big chargers burdened with armoured swordsmen. There was no obstacle to check the infidels, nothing but the level empty valley stretching away to the boundless plains of Magog. Soon the whole hostile army had galloped out of reach. Then again the trumpets sounded, and we halted to dress our ranks.
Our thirsty horses had done enough; there were still several hours of daylight, but I was not surprised when the order came to turn about and retire at a walk. We had been cheated of the decisive battle we had marched so far to seek, but on the whole we had done well enough. The Turks dared not meet us; next summer they would fear to raid Romania. As I wheeled Whitefoot I looked forward to the cool tent of Nicephorus Bryennius.
But a retreat in the presence of the enemy is more difficult than an advance. As we turned the infidels closed in; and now if a horse was disabled the rider would fall into their hands, instead of retiring safely to the second line.
As we crouched in our saddles, flinching at the hostile arrows, Bryennius shouted to his trumpeter, bellowing in his ear above the triumphant roar of the kettledrums. Hitherto our orders had come from the Emperor; this worried intervention by a subordinate commander brought back my earlier fears. But when I heard the signal I hastened to comply with it. For we were to quicken our retreat since the Schools of the Guard had turned too soon, breaking our line by moving off before the order could reach the wings. We could all see that things would become very unpleasant if our formation dissolved.
When we were once more in line we were ordered to walk. The steady veterans obeyed the signal; but I could sense, from their impatience and bad temper, that I was not alone in thinking the battle was beginning to go wrong. Just then a dismounted trooper ran up and begged to be taken on my crupper; there was neither oath nor kinship between us, so I told him to find a horse with a lighter burden, and threatened to cut him down when he persisted. In that surging throng a dismounted man had no hope of escape, but Whitefoot could not carry double.
The Turks pressed closer. Some galloped round our flanks and engaged the second line at long range; but while that second line kept station it did not matter if we were surrounded, since each band would have the foe on one side only.
Suddenly a Roman band turned about and charged by itself. The Turks fell back and we halted while our men returned to the main body. That made things easier, and all down the three miles of battlefront the same tactics were repeated. But it was a difficult manoeuvre; our soldiers had to listen very carefully to make sure the order was intended for their particular band, and there was a great temptation to gallop to the rear when our comrades galloped past us after the charge. All the boring drill which these troopers endure every day was now proving its worth; the mighty army of Romanus Diogenes was as easy to manoeuvre in complicated patterns as a choir of monks in a procession.
Our second line seemed more distant perhaps; Andronicus had not noticed that we were retreating more slowly.
At every quarter of a mile some band delivered a partial charge to clear the archers from our rear; each time a different band was chosen, but Bryennius remained with the main body. I suppose if his great battle-flag had moved to the attack the whole wing would have followed. I had no opportunity to strike a blow against the infidel.
Each band in the Roman army has its own trumpet-call, which is sounded before the main message; in theory every man ought to know whether a particular order concerns him, but in practice, with trumpets blowing on all sides amid the confusion of battle, mistakes were made. A few men charged without orders, but many more disregarded the commands addressed to them. That kind of fighting makes shirking very easy, and I have already explained that a professional army of paid men is tender to shirkers. Each successive charge seemed to be delivered by a smaller force.
Presently, while I faced the foe at a halt, watching a band wheel between the hostile lines, I heard the rumble of kettledrums behind me. Bryennius turned with a broad smile, shouting through the din:
‘We’ve done it, young Roger! Now you see what a drilled army can accomplish! We’ve tempted the rascals, and they’ve ridden right into the trap! Andronicus has only to charge and those fools will be caught between the two lines. Face about and knock them over as they flee!’
But when I faced about all I saw was a crowd of Turks shooting their silly little arrows in our direction. The mass of scampering ponies blocked my view, but I thought I could make out the regular array of Roman standards moving slowly to the rear.
‘I suppose Andronicus is obeying the last order that reached him,’ said Bryennius in a worried tone. ‘Why doesn’t the Emperor recall him? He’s missing the chance of a lifetime.’
To this day no one knows why the second line abandoned us, just when the Turks were between the two halves of the army; Andronicus said afterwards that he was obeying orders, and that later, when things grew desperate, he thought it his duty to draw off what soldiers he could save. But in my opinion treason is the only explanation; he was determined that his cousin Michael should reign as sole Emperor, and he did not care what became of the army if his end was achieved.
For a few minutes we remained at a stand, our ranks facing both ways. Then we heard trumpets blowing the Charge. ‘I suppose that means charge forward, the way we advanced this morning,’ Bryennius said aloud. ‘After this campaign I shall invent a call for Charge to the Rear as well as Charge to the Front. We need it while we fight these Turks.’
Some men wilfully misinterpreted the order, and made off towards our camp. But we saw the tall Labarum advance, and Bryennius led most of us after it. Our ranks had grown ragged, and I was able to push Whitefoot into the front line. As I couched my lance I hardly bothered to choose a worthy antagonist, for all day Romans had been charging and Turks getting out of their way. But this time the infidels rode to meet us, waving their silly little swords.
I have heard, from a Roman renegade, the Turkish version of the battle. The Sultan knew that eventually he must meet the Christian charge, or return to the hungry pastures of Magog; he had delayed as long as possible, to weary our horses; but now the time was propitious three hours after noon on a Friday, when all the infidels in the world call on Mahound to help them in their warfare against God’s Church. He threw away his gilded bow, and the nobles of his guard copied his example; all down the line the infidels charged sword in hand.
Such a charge, when drilled and armoured sergeants meet a cloud of woollen-clad skirmishers, could have only one ending. At last I drove my lance into flesh and blood. But our horses were exhausted; soon Whitefoot stumbled to a tired w
alk, and I dropped the lance to draw my sword. When I had it out there was no foe within reach, and Bryennius was yelling to his trumpeter, and to any who could hear him, to turn about and meet the attack which bore down from our rear.
We had lost all formation. But these drilled soldiers rallied to the standard, and quickly we formed a shapeless cluster, facing outwards, while arrows poured in from all sides. By now nearly half our men were dismounted, though they drew their bows on foot.
But in the centre things were much worse. The Schools and the nobles round the Sultan clashed together very stubbornly, while more Turks charged into the rear of the Emperor’s mesnie. We could see the Labarum, surrounded by the lesser standards of the Schools; but the mass of infidel archers hid its defenders.
Bryennius rode among his men, trying to get them to reform. ‘Now, boys,’ I heard him call, ‘at last we have a mark to charge at. Form line facing right, and we shall catch those presumptuous fools who came in behind the Emperor. One good charge, and the battle’s won. Remember, if our horses are tired so are theirs.’
But that wasn’t true. Those little ponies carry a light weight, and each Turk has dozens of them; many infidels had mounted second horses during the fight. They scurried about, as fresh as in the morning.
I formed on our new front; Whitefoot was going short since he had trodden on the ember, and it was hard to keep him up to his bit. But there was one charge left in him, if I rammed the spurs well home; and one charge would be enough to decide the struggle in the centre.
Then far to the right a great mass of horsemen streamed up the valley towards the Christian camp. The standard-bearer beside me cried out in dismay: ‘Our Lady of Blachernae save us! There go the Themes of Asia! If the right of the line has broken we Europeans may get out without disgrace. There’s a pass yonder, leading west.’
But of course a standard-bearer is chosen for his steadiness, and though he wished to flee he held his ground.
We were a long time forming our new front, for the Turks in our rear could shoot into our unshielded right shoulders, and the men moved reluctantly. When at last we were arrayed the throng before us was thicker than ever, for the flight of the right wing had released a great host of Turks. The trumpets blew and Bryennius cantered forward, the flag and its escort behind him; but I did not hear the expected thunder of hoofs, and looking round I saw the main body still halted.
A Frankish knight would have charged alone, and perhaps when it came to the point his men might have followed. But Bryennius was a trained officer, not a paladin. He pulled up, rating his men at the top of his voice. But I knew the fighting was over. Those men would not charge again until rest and food had restored their courage.
Bryennius had another try. He summoned the colour-guard and all the officers within reach, and set off at a slow trot, looking over his shoulder to see who would follow. Naturally I did; in this valley I was the only Frank, and I felt that the honour of Normandy was in my keeping; besides, we would probably be killed whether we charged or fled, and on Judgement Day I don’t want my resurrected body to show the mark of an arrow in the back. But the troops did not stir, and after a few yards we halted, rather sheepishly. Bryennius addressed his officers:
‘Gentlemen, you see how it is. If the Emperor would sound the Retreat he could still cut his way to our camp; though he might be no better off when he got there. My duty is to save the Army of Europe. Tomorrow they may be the only troops under our standards. At the halt, about turn. We shall ride west, and cut our way to that notch in the hills. We may find water the other side, and dismounted archers can hold the crest while the horses drink. Then we shall retire, in the best order we can, and get in touch with the co-Emperor in the city. You will bear witness that I fought while my men would follow.’
The Turks, glad to see us go, did not bar the way; we climbed a difficult pass, leaving in the fatal valley of Manzikert the Emperor, and the Labarum, and Our Lady of Blachernae, and the Schools of the Guard; all trophies for the infidel.
6. Anarchy
During the days of retreat our discipline vanished. Bryennius wished to garrison the frontier Themes whose troops had perished in the lost battle; but his men were eager to go home, and made it clear that if they were ordered to halt they would just ride on independently. This longing for the familiar fields of Europe quashed a plan which occurred to every senior officer; that Nicephorus Bryennius, who led the only surviving wing of the regular army, should march on the city to seize the Purple. I heard it proposed at many open-air bivouacs of our baggageless march, only to be dismissed as impracticable. No one considered it treacherous; the Emperor of Romania is commander in chief of the only army which is perpetually at war in defence of Christendom; it may be the duty of a good soldier to snatch the office from the hands of an incompetent. But he cannot do it unless troops will follow him.
We rode west as hard as our worn-out horses would carry us. No quarter-masters had gone ahead to order rations, and we lived by plunder; such a host, too tired and frightened to spread out, does as much damage to the countryside as a raid by the infidel. But the peasants did not hide their grain; what we did not eat the Turks would burn.
I was the only Frank with the army. I lived as an officer, because Bryennius liked me and the Romans are vague about the difference between a knight and the son of a blacksmith. I inquired everywhere for news of the Franks, but to rustics all foreigners are alike; we may have crossed their line of retreat, but of course they would be described as Turks. I wondered whether perhaps they had all been killed under the walls of Chliat.
In October, after more than six weeks’ marching, we reached Ancyra, headquarters of the metropolitan Theme of Bucellarion. We expected to find it ungarrisoned, for every trooper of the Theme had ridden with the Schools who died round the Labarum. But the gates were closed, and the suburbs had been levelled. Bryennius said with satisfaction, ‘A trained soldier has taken charge. Perhaps more fugitives than we could see got away from Manzikert. I propose, gentlemen, that we put ourselves at the disposal of whoever rules in the city, even if it is that scoundrel Andronicus Ducas. That’s the best way to get a quick passage to our homes in Europe.’
A clerk of the provincial Treasury hailed us from an embrasure above the gate: ‘Ancyra obeys the Autocrator Michael Ducas, but our garrison are barbarians who can’t understand a word we say. If you are loyal soldiers of Romania I shall try to make them open the gate.’
Suddenly I recognised a face peering from an arrow-slit. ‘Peter, ahoy,’ I called in French, ‘is my lord Roussel in the town? Here is your comrade Roger fitzOdo, who will interpret if you have no other linguist.’
The clerk leaped aside, as though kicked on the bottom; then my own dear lord pushed his flaming red head through the embrasure, and shouted cheerfully:
‘Roger, ahoy. If you need rescuing from your companions wave your hand and we shall charge. But if they are truly friends of yours bring them right in. Supper will be ready in an hour.’
I rode proudly through the main gate, smiling in a patronising way at the hungry Romans who would be fed because I said so.
Ancyra has a very strong castle, but Messer Roussel did not invite the Romans within it. The troopers bivouacked in the portico of the main square, and the leaders supped with my lord in the provincial Treasury, which showed signs of recent pillage. I was so busy I could hardly eat. First every Frank tried to tell me his adventures during the retreat, then I was called to translate at the high table. Out of half a dozen linguists attached to the band not one was left. I never found out exactly what had befallen them; I think they had been abandoned, either dead or alive, when every mount was needed to carry Frankish women and children; linguists of the Dromos could not keep up on foot when their mules had been stolen.
As a result, for the last six weeks Messer Roussel had been entirely in the dark, not knowing who ruled in the city or whether there was a Roman army in the field; he had seized the strong citadel of Ancyra, meaning to
hold it against all comers until things cleared up; the puzzled townsmen fed him and allowed him to guard their walls, because these barbarians were at least Christian. There was a lot of explaining to be done.
Bryennius and my lord explored the situation while I translated, and by bedtime we had a picture of the condition of Romania which was probably more coherent than the reality.
At the first tidings of disaster the young co-Emperor Michael had proclaimed himself sole Autocrator; he was no warrior, but he administered the Treasury with the assistance of a clever but unpopular eunuch, one Nicephoritzes, whom he had appointed Logothete of the Dromos. Andronicus Ducas had deserted his lord in the field, hoping to become supreme in the state; but his noble followers scattered to defend their own castles, and he reached the city with only a small escort. The Emperor Michael had promptly appointed as Domestic and commander in chief Isaac, head of the late Imperial house of Comnenus; so the Ducates, though the Emperor bore their name, found themselves still in opposition.
So much for the city, which was all that interested the Romans. My lord wished to learn the news of Asia, which politicians disregard, since they think that whoever holds the city must in the end rule all Romania. But the condition of Asia was indescribable; in the first place, Romanus Diogenes had not after all been killed in Manzikert; he had been dragged, wounded from under his dead horse; he was making an excellent recovery as a prisoner of the Sultan, and his partisans were collecting the ransom which would set him free; then presumably he would march against Michael Ducas, who had declared him dethroned for culpable incompetence. This approaching civil war gave every provincial governor the opportunity to sell himself to the highest bidder. The Duke of Antioch, Philaretus, had already proclaimed himself an adherent of Romanus, and kept the frontier-dues of Syria for his own purse. But Europe obeyed the city, and the general opinion was that Michael would keep his throne.
The Lady for Ransom Page 10
