by Tony Roberts
Giselle had dressed and had brewed up a goat stew for the two of them, but the aroma had brought a few soldiers sniffing appreciatively around, their hopeful looks centered on the iron cooking pot. Casca got a nice wooden bowlful and he gratefully spooned the tasty broth down, and Giselle had her share. There was a fair bit left so Casca nodded his approval for the five soldiers to have a bit, and one tried to take advantage by taking too much. Casca growled at him and the soldier, smiling sheepishly, handed half to his comrade.
There was still some left for later and Giselle put a lid on the pot and left it to cool. His belly full, Casca made his way to the center of camp where Raymond was to be found. His circle of nobles were also camped there and the eternal mercenary noted a few priests who were holding mass. It seemed being on a Crusade increased their religious fervor. Judging by the tone of their sermons, they were seeing themselves as God’s divine judgment against the followers of Islam and that the Turks inside the city would soon be put to the sword. It was God’s will, Deus lo vult!
There was a particular cleric who interested Casca, a bishop called Adhemar. It seemed he was the senior cleric amongst the various priests on the Crusade and he held a great amount of influence. As he was an ally of Raymond, it gave the Count of Toulouse an additional amount of prestige. His influence was greater whenever Adhemar was around.
Casca, wearing his official imperial tunic which denoted his rank as a general, stepped up to the tent, guarded by two big and tough looking warriors, armed to the teeth. They blocked the way to the entrance. They recognized Casca but since he wasn’t from their part of the world, and furthermore represented a schismatic empire, he was regarded at best in a neutral manner.
Casca decided to throw his weight around. “Tell the Count that the Baron Stokeham is here.”
“Baron Stokeham?” one of the guards echoed.
“Yes,” Casca said, exerting a great deal of patience.
The guards looked around but saw nobody else. “You having us on, Lord?”
“I am Baron Stokeham,” Casca snapped, hot and irritated.
“Oh, uh,” the two guards looked at each other with uncertainty.
“Look, one of you please go tell the Count? I’m sweating my balls off here.”
Finally one did, leaving the other looking somewhat uncomfortable. Within moments the second guard returned and waved Casca in. The scarred baron grunted at the two guards and stepped into the welcome shade of the tent, but the heat was just as bad in there as it was outside. Raymond was seated on a cushioned chair with rugs draped all over the ground, and barrels and boxes lay around the tent’s edge. With Raymond were a number of minor nobles, and Adhemar, stood slightly behind the Count to one side.
“Ah, Stokeham,” Raymond said, a slight edge to his voice. He was clearly still irked at not having been told by Casca of his English title. To Casca it was something in the past and no longer relevant, any more that his title of Baron of Chung Wei was, except that it gave him a little bit of respect from these nobles.
“Count Raymond. I’m told the Turks are still being supplied across the lake.”
“Who told you that?”
“My engineer officer, Butumites.”
Raymond scowled. His nobles stared at Casca with a range of looks that went from dislike to neutrality. “Why wasn’t I informed of this before?”
“I’m informing you now, sire.”
“Damn it to hell!” Raymond thumped the tabletop in irritation. “How can we conduct a siege properly if the enemy get help? And why wasn’t this brought to my attention sooner? This Butumites should tell me these things himself, not you.”
Casca folded his arms. “Count Raymond; Butumites is an officer of the Empire and under the command of Emperor Alexius, not you. The same goes for me. I’m a liaison officer between the Empire and you and that’s what I’m doing, liaising. Now if you don’t want imperial help we’ll up and go and leave you to it. I hear the Turkish main army is approaching. It’ll be difficult to maintain a siege and deal with Kilich Arslan and his troops.”
Raymond growled and stood up. “You test my patience, Stokeham. Very well, you’ve informed me of this flaw in our siege. Do you have a solution?”
“Yes,” Casca responded, walking to the map on the tabletop. He peered at it briefly. The oval-shaped Ascanian Lake stretched westwards for twenty miles so it was not possible for the Crusaders to guard all of the shoreline. To the east the road from Nicaea ran to the snaking line of the River Sangarius where it forked, the main road turning south-east after the bridge there, with the other branch running north-east. The Turks would be approaching from the south-east, from the direction of Dorylaeum. “Blockade the lake with boats. The emperor will have some, and could spare troops to man them. I suspect most of the supplies arrive at night.”
“Hmph!” Raymond eyed the map. “I shall have to discuss this with the other leaders of course, but if it means the garrison is properly cut off then you have my blessing.”
“Thank you, sire.”
Casca turned to go but there was a commotion and shouting outside the tent. Everyone looked at the tent flap and it was thrown open to reveal a hot, dusty and sweating mail-clad knight who came stumbling in. He knelt before Raymond. “Sire! The Turkish army approaches. Thousands of them.”
Raymond exclaimed. “By heaven, now we have a chance to test ourselves against the foe! To arms, all of you! Send messengers to the other lords, ask them to come to our assistance! Go!”
Casca plunged out of the tent and looked to the south-east. Dust clouds were visible and by the size of them the numbers of troops were substantial.
And they were very close indeed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Tolosian army hastily assembled its lines across the road to Nicaea. Casca took up a post close to Raymond, his sword ready. The Franks lined up with spearmen in the front, but it wasn’t really what Casca could describe as being a ‘line’. It was a hotch-potch of groups all gathered to their respective lords, and Casca’s impression that this was not so much a united army as a collection of small units with a common cause was reinforced.
Messengers arrived breathlessly, sweating in the hot sun. Raymond read their hastily scribbled notes or took their verbal reports and nodded. There wasn’t a great deal of space to maneuver anyway, and the land away from the city rose in a series of wooded hills. “Stokeham,” Raymond called to Casca. “What will the Turks do?”
Casca flipped off his conical helmet, glad to be free of the iron headgear. The sun pounded down mercilessly. “Sire, they will attack. They will shower you with arrows and then try to break through with a massed cavalry charge.”
“Very well. Take up whatever position you so wish, and may God go with you.”
Casca grinned, bowed and stepped down towards the front units, nervous looking soldiers with kite-shaped shields, swords, spears and a motley collection of armor. Most of their armor was of the chainmail type, similar to that Casca was wearing himself, and much the same as he’d worn in England fighting for the Normans. Most of their helms were of the conical type with nasal bars, but a fair number of the soldiers lacked the chainmail protection and had gaily colored tunics and hose or simple leather-type protection.
Only the nobles had head-to-foot armor and were easily identified with their brightly adorned swords, pennants and clasps. Casca sought out the noble leading the unit that stood across the road, for he guessed here would be where the now visible Turkish army would try to smash through. To either side of the road the land rose, gently in some places, much more steeply in others. The undergrowth varied, too, from thick woodland to sparse scrubland, depending on the quality and thickness of the soil.
The nobleman was surrounded by his collection of aides and commanders, and he looked in surprise at the gaily dressed soldier tramping up the side of the gentle slope he had set his command post on off to one side of the road. He noted the circular shield, calf-length leather boots and red cloak of th
e newcomer, as well as the scarred face and tough looking features. “Baron Stokeham,” Casca introduced himself, “attached to Count Raymond courtesy of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Alexius I of the Romans.”
“William of Montpelier,” the square-jawed olive-skinned nobleman replied. “You are welcome, Baron Stokeham. It would appear we’re about to be attacked.”
“Indeed. Order your men to ready themselves for a heavy barrage of arrows. They’ll try to soften you up, then charge. They’ll try to break through to Nicaea.”
“Thank you for your advice. We shall not let these infidels succeed. Are you to stand with us this day?”
“That I am. I’ve killed many Turks in my time and a few more won’t go astray.”
Montpelier nodded in gratitude. He’d heard the usual gossip that the Greeks were cowardly and effete, but so far he’d seen anything but that. Talk was talk and much of it trash, so it seemed. He began bellowing out orders in the Provencal tongue, but Casca understood it perfectly. A pang of nostalgia gripped him; his native language of his youth had been something similar, Occan, and Provencal was an adaptation of it. He felt oddly at home amongst these people.
The Turks had massed at the far end of the valley and were now whistling, cheering and emitting shrill noises, all designed to unnerve the Provencals. Casca turned to William. “My lord, tell your men to stand firm and ignore these noises; this is normal behavior by those people.”
Montpelier passed on the advice and stood gripping his sword tightly, staring at the massed horsemen. Dust to the left and right told them all that more Turks were off to those directions unseen thanks to the terrain.
With a sudden yell the Turks sprang forward, short bows in hands. Their long black hair flowed in the air as they closed the distance, lightly armored cavalry, and they closed to a distance of thirty feet before loosing off their arrows and turning aside.
Casca raised his shield, as did the others, and he grimaced as it shuddered and shook to the repeated blows at received. Men screamed and yelled and Casca caught sight of some writhing in agony as the missiles found their targets. William was shouting encouragement to the soldiers to stand strong. Casca peered round the edge of his shield and saw the Turks milling about unable to peel away very far thanks to the hills and woods.
“They’ll come at us next,” Casca said, grimacing as yet another shaft deflected off his shield. He saw perhaps half a dozen Crusaders lying still, their throats or chests pierced by arrows, and another ten or so hurt, either crawling away in pain or hastily tending their injuries, keeping one anxious eye on the Turks who were like a massed black horde at the end of the short valley. They were spread up on either side of the road into the trees, too, but their charge would be slowed there. Only along the open ground would it be at its worst.
A few Crusader crossbowmen were now loading up and sending their quarrels into the ranks of the enemy, and a few toppled off their mounts with shrill cries. Arrows still spat from them and arced towards the men blocking the road. Casca kept a careful watch on them and stepped across to a slightly higher point on the hillside where a rock protruded, giving Casca a height advantage. Taking on horsemen needed more height. The Turks would be poorly armored at best and on a one-to-one in a melee the Crusaders would be king. It all depended on whether the Christian lines were broken or not. A fractured line favored the Turks.
With a shrill, eerie ululating whistle-like cry, the Turks gathered themselves and launched their charge. The Crusaders gritted their teeth and readied themselves, spears and shields gripped tightly. The Turks now wielded swords and maces and came at the Crusaders hard, reins, hair and pennants flowing behind them as they narrowed the gap.
Casca braced his legs apart and put his shield forward, his sword high above his head. The Turks hit the Crusaders. The sound was indescribable. Screams. Splintering wood. Breaking bones. Metal striking metal. Horses thundering across the ground. Panting horses and men. One Turk bowled through two men, knocking them sideways and came for Casca, his eyes wild and mouth fixed in a rictus of hate and fear.
The Turk swept down with what he believed was a death blow. Casca met the sword with his shield. His own sword came down hard, cutting across the face and neck of the Turk. There came a grunt and the sound of flesh and bone being cut open. The horseman flew from his saddle, hitting the ground with a crash and rolled to an inert heap ten feet away.
Casca switched his attention back to the front. Two Turks were hacking away at a knot of Crusaders right in front of him. Casca jumped down the slope. The nearest Turk had a circular shield and curved sword, which he was using to slash at a stumbling spearmen trying to get away from the attack. Casca came on him from the blind side. One thrust of his sword was enough. The blade entered the rider’s ribcage, angled up. The man screamed and arced his back in agony. The eternal mercenary helped him off his horse by grabbing his loose green tunic and hauling him through the air, ripping his blade free. The Turk crashed to the ground and lay still.
The second horseman had cut two men down and now saw Casca as the immediate threat. The spearman was lying helpless in the dust staring in horror at what he thought were his final moments. Casca stood over him and met the first downward blow with his shield. The shield shook but he stood firm. A side swipe, angled up, cut through the horse’s neck. Blood sprayed out and the animal screamed, rearing up. The rider was dumped onto the ground hard, stunning him. Casca stepped forward, his right foot slamming down viciously on his head. There came a teeth-gnashing crunch and the Turk moved no more.
“Get up and fight!” Casca snapped, moving off to the right. The whole hillside was a mass of writhing, contorting men, locked in a deadly contest. Dust billowed up, adding to the confusion. The dying thrashings of the horse meant Casca had to step quickly aside, then he was alongside two Provencal soldiers, both wearing thigh-length chain armor. Four Turks were galloping past, blades blurring in the air. Casca met one with his own blade and in a reflex motion smashed his shield into the horse’s head. The horse sank to its knees, catapulting the Turk over its head. The rider landed in a huge cloud of dust and rolled over a few times.
Another shout brought his head round. Two of the knights had stood firm but the others had fallen and one of the enemy riders came at Casca. Screaming with a high-pitched shrill, the Turk sent his sword blade down again and again. “Allah akhbar!”
Casca staggered under the force of the blows. “The hell with you,” he said, sending his sword flailing up. The blow missed but the Turk had to pull his mount round to attack once more.
“Die, infidel!”
“Fuck off,” Casca retorted, blocking the next slash. He thrust up hard and the point of his weapon sank into the Muslim’s throat, puncturing his windpipe. The man dropped his sword and clutched at his wound. He fell backwards off his horse which bolted off away from the fight. Casca whirled full circle. The Turk that had been sent from his saddle was up on his feet, blood dribbling from his lips but with murder in his eyes.
“Come on, then, son,” Casca said, closing on him slowly, “try your best.”
The Turk snarled and sprang forward. His sword went high, ready to chop down onto Casca’s head. The scarred warrior had seen it all before. He stepped forward, shield high. His sword rammed into the Turk’s chest, the force of the blow sending him staggering back. He fell onto his back and lay there, staring vacantly up into the sky.
Another fight behind him. There were horses everywhere. A captain, wearing the green around his conical hat, had spotted Casca dispatching three of his men and snapped curt orders to a small group of men to take care of the defiant Christian.
A quick look around. One spear lying abandoned near his feet. Casca stepped forward, grabbed the spear, dropping his sword. Four Turks pushed through a gap in the fight and came for him. The spear was already drawn back and Casca sent it hurtling at the nearest man. The spear took the man clean in the chest, sending him off the saddle.
Casca grabbed his swor
d and stepped to one side, putting a downed horse between him and the three remaining Turks. Two more Crusaders came to his assistance, men with red surcoats over their armor. The Turks wheeled, enraged at the resistance being put up. Casca now had just one to face. This man came at him, sword whirling in the air. Casca dodged to one side, at the same time flinging his shield at the Turk, striking him full in the face. A quick grab of his shirt and the horseman was pulled off to land at Casca’s feet.
Casca stepped back, giving the winded man a chance to get up. He wanted a proper fight. The Muslim warrior spat dirt as he groggily levered himself up off the ground. “So, Christian,” he snarled, “you wish to meet death?”
“Try it, goat fucker,” Casca said calmly, waiting, swinging his sword from side to side.
The Turk grabbed his sword and got to his feet, his face streaked with dirt and spittle. “I shall know paradise when I kill you, infidel!”
“You’ll know pain before your death. Now shut up and get on with it.”
The Turk growled and sprang forward, his blade flashing in the sun. Casca slapped the strike aside and sent his own back across the throat of his opponent. The Turk stood stupefied as a line of red appeared, and then blood dribbled down his front and out of his mouth. The man sank to his knees, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward to lie still at Casca’s feet.
A thundering of hoofs alerted Casca. Another Turk was bearing down on him. Casca flung himself backwards. There came a solid blow to his left shoulder and Casca crashed to the ground, his body afire with agony. The Turk wheeled, eager to finish off the brightly-dressed infidel. An arrow suddenly impacted on the horseman’s chest and he was pitched from the horse to lie a few feet away, kicking violently in the dust.
