Crusade

by Stewart Binns

  ‘I know, and I think we have made the right decision. I like the sound of this new Sicily. But we must hurry – Byzantine themes can be formidable, and the Count is going to need our help.’

  The Emir gave instructions to his stewards to break camp, and for the community to return to Calatafimi to begin its new life. Within the hour, he was leading us down to the valley and the road to Mazara.

  His men were a mixed bunch. The elite Faris were freemen and led small squadrons of Mamluks, who had begun life as slaves but had trained as professional soldiers. Most were Arabs, with their ancestral roots in Egypt, but there were also small numbers of Berbers, Kurds, Turks and Christian Armenians among their ranks.

  The Turks and Kurds came from families with military traditions going back many generations, while the Armenians, highly adept cavalrymen, chose to live in a Muslim community because their belief that Christ had only divine form, not a parallel human form, made them heretics to both Roman and Orthodox Christians.

  The Emir also had Nubian servants, both male and female – very tall, dark people from beyond the great southern desert – and a Bedouin personal bodyguard, a fierce-looking man who rarely spoke and whose people lived in the deserts of Arabia.

  The four of us, English knights many miles from home and about to join forces with a Norman lord against a Byzantine army, added a little northern flavour to the Emir’s exotic blend of warriors. We numbered only a few more than fifty, but all were professional soldiers of the highest calibre – men who would be very welcome among the Count’s army.

  And there was Adela, of course, now so easily included as one of the ‘men’. I watched her and Sweyn riding together, both bright-eyed and eager for the battle to come. There seemed to be no obvious way to resolve their respective dilemmas – patience seemed to be the only answer. Perhaps time and future circumstances would heal their wounds or offer a solution.

  14. Battle of Mazara

  By the time we reached the Bay of Mazara, Count Roger’s army had already launched its attack on the Byzantines. It was a chaotic scene. Although it was late September, it was still hot and dry and great clouds of dust billowed in the wake of horses, men and supply carts moving rapidly across the battlefield.

  Not even the air out to sea was clear. The Byzantine triremes were belching volley after volley of burning cauldrons. Only later did I hear that it was called ‘Greek fire’ – a lethal weapon, the ingredients of which were a closely guarded secret, known only to the Emperor and his senior commanders.

  Thick smoke made the whole sky above the ships as black as Hades. Where the cauldrons landed, infernos of flaming pitch raged. Men and horses were hurled into the air or knocked down like skittles, covered in burning pitch, destined to meet a grisly fate consumed by fire.

  Ibn Hamed directed us to the centre of the action.

  ‘Quickly, more and more are coming ashore. There are Thracian and Macedonian themes and, over there, Greeks – this is the elite of the Byzantine army.’

  We soon reached Count Roger at his command post on a promontory just back from the bay. He lost no time in delivering his battle strategy.

  ‘It is good to see you and your men. We have a few problems; if we let too many more get ashore, we’ll be overrun. My archers are trying to stop any more ships from coming in, and my cavalry are driving a wedge into their beachhead, but they must have five hundred men ashore already. I need you to support the cavalry, try to split their force in two, and then aim to cut off their retreat to the sea.’

  We rode down into the fray and were soon in the midst of vicious hand-to-hand fighting. The sheer weight of numbers and the mass of bodies, both living and dead, made progress slow. I looked over to check on my comrades – all were flailing and hacking in a sea of carnage, benefitting from their hours of training. With her helmet down, Adela looked no different to anybody else and was holding her own. Edwin and Sweyn were close to her, each watching her flank, while Sweyn was easily distinguished by the speed of his blade and agility in the saddle.

  Ibn Hamed called him over.

  ‘Look, to the left, the two ships making for shore – the Varangian Guard, the Emperor’s personal guard – there must be two hundred of them. Ride to the Count, tell him to direct his archers at them; they mustn’t be allowed to come ashore.’

  With Adela and Edwin in his wake, Sweyn rode like the wind to deliver his message, while Ibn Hamed and I protected our position. I was shocked by what I saw as the ships carrying the Varangian Guard drew closer.

  ‘They look like Englishmen! They’re carrying shields and axes like housecarls!’

  ‘Many of them are. Norse, Danes, Balts, English; they are highly paid mercenaries, the best infantry you’ll ever see. The one at the prow of the first ship, giving orders in the scarlet cloak, that’s the Captain of the Guard, the finest soldier in your world and mine.’

  He looked English too. I could see long blond hair trailing beneath his helmet, and the distinctive decorated circular shield of a housecarl. Then he fell backwards, struck by an arrow which pierced his hauberk at the top of his shoulder, and then by another which hit him in the chest.

  ‘That is a piece of very good fortune. The Captain of the Varangians leads the army unless the Emperor is present. We have just killed their general.’

  Ibn Hamed was smiling broadly. Arrows were now falling on the Varangians like hailstones and the order was issued for sails to be unfurled and for the oarsmen to row the Byzantine ships away. As soon as the men on the beaches saw their fleet turn seawards, there was panic and a mass retreat towards the ships. Roger immediately ordered his own cavalry squadrons and all his reserves to attack.

  The Norman destriers flowed into the bay like a tidal bore. It was a mass slaughter. The Byzantines had no defence and a stark choice: stand and fight in a hopeless final redoubt, or discard their weapons and armour and try to swim to the ships.

  Most chose the latter option. Many were drowned, and the rest were killed by the arrows and quarrels from the unremitting onslaught unleashed by the Norman archers and bowmen.

  Those who chose to stand their ground fared little better. Initially, the separate themes formed their own redoubts, the Macedonians distinctive with their black-plumed helmets, the Thracians in their blue tunics and the Greeks wielding small, highly decorated shields. But soon, as numbers diminished rapidly, the three redoubts became one.

  After about an hour, with Byzantine numbers reduced to under a hundred, Count Roger ordered his men to cease the attack. He then stood high in his stirrups and spoke to his foes in fluent Greek.

  ‘I offer you quarter. Lay down your weapons, and you will not be harmed or enslaved. You are brave men, the most noble of a great army; you are free to find passage to your homes or to stay here in Sicily and make new lives. All are welcome here: Muslims, Christians, Jews. Our taxes are fair and our people are happy. You are even free to join my own army – we will gladly have you, if you will swear your allegiance to Sicily. It is your choice.’

  In the many battles these men had fought, such generous terms were rare – especially the offer to continue their lives as professional soldiers. There was a little muttering in the Byzantine ranks, but it did not take long for swords and shields to be thrown on to the ground to the sound of widespread cheering from Count Roger’s forces.

  The Count ordered that the Byzantines be fed and quartered and rode among them to greet as many as he could. The effect he had on them was charismatic, and many rushed forward to kneel before him and kiss his ring. I reflected that we had been very fortunate so far in Sicily; we had met two remarkable men and found a haven of just and benign rule.

  The Count soon made his way over to us.

  ‘Ibn Hamed, I owe you a great debt. Your eagle eye in spotting the Varangians and alerting me turned the battle.’

  ‘My Lord Count, it is your archers you should thank. Hitting their Captain, probably killing the most important warrior in the empire, won the day for you. Their a
ccuracy and speed of shot is a credit to your training and discipline.’

  ‘Thank you, it is good to have the Emir of Calatafimi at my side; long may it last. Tonight we will celebrate our victory and toast our future together. I will tap a butt of the finest Sicilian wine and, for you, I will prepare a deliciously sweet punch made from my own orchards in Palermo. But first, I want to meet the English knights who carried the vital message. Prince Edgar, will you oblige?’

  ‘I will be delighted. Edwin of Glastonbury you have already met, one of England’s most senior knights. This is Sweyn of Bourne and his wife, who is also a knight in her own right, Adela of Bourne.’

  ‘Edwin told me a good deal about you as we rode to Ibn Hamed’s camp together, but I want to hear much more – especially about Hereward Great Axe, as he was known to me.’

  Adela responded to the Count’s invitation.

  ‘Then we can exchange stories, my Lord. We are keen to learn about Hereward’s time with you in Melfi and your early campaigns here in Sicily.’

  Roger looked at Adela, almost in awe.

  ‘Agreed – and you can also tell me more about you and Sweyn. You have my greatest respect to have become a Knight of Islam. Perhaps, one day, the Christian orders of knighthood will accept women into their ranks.’

  ‘Only if we deserve it, my Lord; we do not crave charity.’

  ‘Nor should you, Adela. I believe all people should make progress by merit. It has been the story of my family; my father was the modest lord of a small estate in Normandy, now we rule the whole of Italy south of the Tiber.’

  Sweyn then spoke to the Count. ‘My Lord, Hereward taught us that if a man or woman has suitable merit, there should be no limit to what they can achieve. That is why Adela and I follow the Mos Militum, a code that stresses talent above privilege and honour beyond self-interest.’

  ‘I like the new code; I encourage it among my knights and follow it myself. Chivalry is the measure of a man. When we celebrate our victory, we will sing the songs of the troubadours about the love between a knight and his lady … in your case, of course, between a knight and a fellow knight.’

  Little did the Count know that his well-meaning attempt at gentle humour was so wide of the mark as to be hurtful. I looked at Adela and Sweyn, who gave no hint of any discomfort. They had become very practised at disguising the true nature of their relationship.

  There was a long and raucous celebration in Mazara that night, and several more over the following days in Palermo.

  Count Roger invited all the lords of the various cities of Sicily, as well as its major landholders, merchants and knights, to a series of feasts to celebrate the submission of Ibn Hamed, the last Saracen to resist in the north and west of the island.

  Desperate to spread the word about the beneficence of the new Sicily, the feasts and attendant performances were as lavish as anything I had ever seen.

  There was an endless supply of the finest food and drink, numerous tumblers, jugglers and clowns, and songs – the highlight of every evening – composed by William, Duke of Aquitaine, the finest troubadour of the day. Adela, Sweyn and Edwin knew the songs well because their home at St Cirq Lapopie, near Cahors, was at the heart of the lyrical tradition of the troubadour.

  During the ensuing winter and spring we filled our time helping Count Roger build and train his army and oversee the building of new fortifications and defences. By the summer of 1085, much of Calatafimi had been rebuilt and the Emir reciprocated the Count’s frequent hospitality by hosting a celebration of the progress.

  Ibn Hamed strove to emulate the feasts of Palermo and even included in the fare wild pig and the best Sicilian wine for his guests – although, in the case of the pork, he had to ask some of his Christian Armenians to prepare and roast the meat.

  One of the principal guests was Themistius, a strategoi of the Thracian theme of the army of Byzantium, the most senior man captured at the Battle of Mazara the previous year. He had chosen to settle close to Calatafimi, and Ibn Hamed had given him land in exchange for service as the leader of his knights, a vacancy that had been created when Sweyn put an end to Hassan Taleb’s swaggering ways.

  Themistius typified the Count’s vision for Sicily. His family had been killed in the Byzantine wars against Alp Arslan, Sultan of the Seljuk Turks, in the 1070s. The mighty empire of Byzantium, the surviving link back to the glory of Ancient Rome, was in chaos, and Norman Sicily offered a new beginning in a land of peace and plenty.

  Men like Themistius were arriving from all over Europe, the Levant and North Africa to find a new beginning, and the island’s prosperity thrived. We became part of that and often thought about making it our permanent home.

  After the main feast was over, Count Roger, the Emir and a few senior guests sat on the terrace of the Emir’s new palace, a fine stone fortress overlooking the valley, enjoying the cool evening air. Roger was slightly drunk, but sobered up quickly when Themistius began to speak about the dark days he saw looming for all of us.

  ‘Although Byzantium is in chaos, the new Emperor, Alexius Comnenus, is making the army strong again. When we were humiliated at Manzikert by Alp Arslan, I thought Constantinople would fall, but we survived – just. Alexius wants to keep the Muslims to the south at bay. He sees his natural allies in Rome and the countries of northern Europe – a Christian alliance, as in Spain, to fight the Muslim Saracens. This could be very dangerous – a war about God.’

  Count Roger was by now listening intently.

  ‘You exaggerate, Themistius. Men fight for land and money, not for their gods.’

  Ibn Hamed was concerned.

  ‘There is much talk in the Muslim world about the one true faith and what should be done with those who don’t follow the ways of Islam. Some are tolerant and see Christians as followers of the same God, but a different prophet; others see them as dangerous infidels, who should be put to the sword.’

  I offered my own view.

  ‘It is the same in the Christian world; we have many who think it a stain on God’s name that Jerusalem is ruled by the Saracens.’

  Roger had heard enough and was keen to return to the less vexing subject of the merits of Sicily’s fine wines.

  ‘Gentleman, we have peace and prosperity here. Constantinople and Jerusalem are a long way away; let us enjoy what we have. A toast, to my good friend Ibn Hamed and his people in their new home here at Calatafimi.’

  Although the subject was not raised again, I thought about Themistius’s warning many times and, on each occasion, the prospect seemed more and more disturbing.

  As time passed, I began to wonder whether this threat of war between Christian and Muslim would be the test that destiny had prepared for me and my friends – just as the arrival of the Normans had been the anvil on which the lives of Hereward and his followers had been forged.

  15. Mahnoor

  Shortly after we returned to Palermo, Sweyn came to see me with Edwin. He was ill at ease.

  ‘I have to leave Sicily.’

  ‘I thought you and Adela were happy here.’

  ‘She is – and, in a way, so am I. But I am the one who has to leave, not Adela. It is a terrible dilemma. The four of us have been together so long and I love Adela very much, but our relationship will never be what I want it to be.’

  I looked at Edwin; he shook his head.

  ‘I have met someone here, and she has helped break the spell of Adela. She is very beautiful, the daughter of a Muslim trader here in Palermo – you know him, Suleiman of Alexandria.’

  ‘And I know his daughter, the very beautiful Mahnoor.’

  ‘Yes, it means “light of the moon”.’

  ‘Have you told Adela?’

  ‘Yes, she’s very happy for me. We talked many times about me finding a woman who would return my love.’

  Edwin got to his feet and started to pace up and down.

  ‘I don’t suppose you can take her as a mistress? You are, after all, already married.’

 
‘Not in the eyes of God, or of any sane person. My marriage to Adela has never been consummated; it is not a true marriage.’

  ‘What have you said to Mahnoor?’

  ‘I told her about my situation as soon as I realized I had feelings for her – to do anything else would have been wrong. She understands and will stand by me.’

  ‘What about her father? He might not be so understanding.’

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  Edwin started to pace a little faster, and I began to realize how difficult this situation could become.

  ‘How did you meet? Her father hardly ever lets her leave the house. And when she does, she is closely guarded.’

  ‘I saw her at one of the Count’s banquets. I couldn’t take my eyes off her … and, eventually, she smiled at me. Shortly afterwards, a pigeon was delivered to me by one of her servants. It was a homing bird with a message in a small capsule tied to its leg. We communicated like that for days. Now we meet when she goes to the markets. Her guardians don’t go inside the shops, and I wait in the garden of the silk merchant. He’s very discreet.’

  ‘Muslim fathers don’t take too kindly to young knights seducing their daughters – especially if they are already married.’

  ‘I have not seduced Mahnoor; I wouldn’t touch her until we are married.’

  I was now as anxious as Edwin – there were, to say the least, a few issues to resolve.

  ‘So, how do you propose to proceed?’

  ‘I have agonized over it and talked it through with Adela, but I need you and Edwin to help me also – even if it means we are no longer brothers-in-arms. I think I have only two options; both are selfish, but I must take this opportunity to spend my life with the girl I love. I could either elope with Mahnoor and return to St Cirq Lapopie and raise a family, or brazen it out here and ask Count Roger to intercede with the Bishop to ask him to annul my marriage.’

  ‘Both options bring great shame to Adela. In both cases, she will become the poor, abandoned spinster.’