by Peter Darman
‘What about the shepherd?’ asked Marc.
Sancho considered the matter for a few seconds.
‘He will be handed back to the Sicilians. It is his fault my son was placed in danger.’
‘And the young lord?’ pressed Marc.
Sancho nodded. ‘He will be ransomed, if no one has any objections.’
Hector shrugged, Angel beamed with delight, already thinking about fresh slaves to amuse his sexual appetite, while Marc nodded thoughtfully.
‘I will send a rider to the Fabrizio estate.’
‘How much will the ransom be?’ enquired Angel, conscious that the price of female slaves had risen alarmingly in recent months.
The question took Sancho by surprise. ‘Good point. Two hundred florins should be ample.’
The florin was a gold coin minted in the city of Florence and accepted as currency throughout Christendom. Two hundred was enough to purchase a decent-sized mansion.
‘What do we need with money?’ asked Hector. ‘We always take what we want.’
‘The war is over, my friend,’ said Sancho. ‘At the moment, Messina is paying for our food and other supplies. But with winter approaching, the city’s generosity will fade, of that I am sure. We therefore need to think ahead. Having money buys us time.’
Marc grinned. ‘That is why we made you the head of the council, Sancho.’
Their meeting was interrupted when one of the tent flaps opened and a man they all knew well sauntered in. Tall, handsome and attired in a hauberk beneath a black surcoat emblazoned with a white vulture, Roger de Flor, military adventurer, King Frederick’s vice-admiral and supreme commander of the mercenary army, was flamboyant, ostentatious and affable. He was essentially a pirate made good, but his wit, charm and intelligence kept him one step away from calamity. It was so now.
He sat down at the wooden table the council were sitting at, poured himself some wine and toasted the other four men.
‘Gentlemen, Count Carafa wants his son back, and is marching at the head of an army to retrieve him.’
Concern showed in the admiral’s blue eyes. ‘I trust he still lives?’
‘He lives,’ replied Sancho, ‘though only by God’s grace.’
Roger toasted his old friend. ‘Then all’s well that ends well.’
‘We were going to ransom the little bastard,’ said Hector.
Roger grimaced at his coarseness. ‘It is probably best all round if we give him back, without ransoming him.’
Marc tipped his head at Sancho. ‘He nearly killed Sancho’s son. He should answer for that.’
Hector and Angel both nodded in agreement. But Roger was used to extricating himself from tight spots. He finished his wine.
‘I have come with news that will make you forget all about petty squabbles, my friends. God smiles on us. The Emperor of Constantinople has need of our services and will pay handsomely for them. We are going to the promised land, my friends.’
The council was underwhelmed by the pronouncement, not least because they had never heard of the Emperor of Constantinople. But Roger was nothing if not determined, and his next words pricked their interest.
‘The emperor has promised to pay us in advance for our services, and has also promised that what we take while fighting for him, we keep.’
‘Who will we be fighting?’ enquired a now interested Hector.
‘Muslims,’ said Roger.
He looked at their blank faces. ‘Muslims, my friends. The enemies of Christ. They have overrun most of Anatolia, the land east of the city of Constantinople, and will keep on conquering unless someone stops them.’
‘This emperor has no army to do his fighting?’ asked Sancho.
‘It has been beaten many times,’ Roger told him. ‘It is a broken reed. Anatolia is ripe for the taking, and much plunder will be ours when we defeat the Muslims.’
Angel rubbed his hands together. ‘Sounds good to me.’
Roger studied each one of the council.
‘So, we can give Count Carafa his son back?’
The others looked at Sancho, who shrugged.
‘Very well. We give him the shepherd as well.’
Roger was intrigued. ‘The shepherd?’
‘A friend of my son, whose foolishness nearly got Jordi killed.’
‘What foolishness?’ enquired Roger.
‘He kept a black sheep, which prompted the ire of Fabrizio Carafa. A quarrel ensued, which led us to the current situation.’
‘Black sheep are regarded as unlucky,’ agreed Roger.
‘Unlucky for the shepherd, certainly,’ said Marc. ‘He thought he had escaped the noose.’
‘Count Carafa will want to make an example of him, to keep face and uphold the family name,’ said Sancho.
‘The count can fetch his son, and the shepherd,’ said Hector, ‘but tell him to keep his army away. If he thinks he can intimidate us, he is mistaken.’
But Count Carafa had no intention of arriving at the sizeable camp of the Catalans like some impoverished hawker selling his wares. A man who was high in King Frederick’s favour, who owned great estates and held lordship over dozens of villages, and whose son had been taken by low-born Catalans, was intent on presenting an intimidating spectacle to both affirm his determination to get his son back, and also behave in a manner befitting his superior social position.
The Catalan camp outside Messina was a messy sprawl: cows, chickens, pigs and sheep being kept in pens among the tents, to provide milk, wool and meat. Barefoot children ran between tents, which were far from the magnificent pavilions used by great lords, with their two or more central poles, ridge poles, roofs, sidewalls and interiors divided by curtains. These travelling displays of wealth and power were decorated with pennants, merlons and ornamental valances. There were a few smaller pavilions where the Catalan knights were housed, though most of Sir Roger’s horsemen were adventurers, poor sons of impoverished Catalan knights and mercenaries who had managed to acquire a horse during their campaigns in Sicily. The vast majority of tents were either the cone variety or simple linen structures with two sectional upright poles supporting a ridge pole, over which was a fabric covering.
The camp reverberated with the sounds of horns and whistles warning of the approach of the count’s army, prompting Almogavars to arm themselves and rally to their captains and horsemen to run to their mounts. Luca roused himself from his pit of self-pity when Jordi appeared at the tent he had been given until his fate was determined.
‘Luca, come quickly, Giovanni Carafa approaches with his army.’
Luca was surprised to see his friend wearing a strange helmet comprising vertical metal strips secured to a horizontal metal band, with a leather neck guard. He was also carrying a spear and three javelins slung on his shoulder. Jordi kicked his friend.
‘Move, Luca.’
The camp was a bustle of activity, men rallying to their units, which numbered between five and fifteen men. Jordi led Luca to where his father was standing with the sultry Carla, his wife, the large-headed Roc, and ten other men, all sporting beards and armed in a similar fashion to Jordi.
‘You took your time,’ growled Sancho to his son, ignoring Luca.
Most of the women stayed behind in camp to guard their children, but Luca noticed several dozen females among the large body of soldiers assembling to the immediate west of the camp, ready to face the approaching Carafa army. Among the ranks of the Catalan army, which now numbered several thousand, were many banners comprising alternating horizontal red and yellow bands. The flag was called the Senyera and was the ancient standard of Catalonia.
From the northern part of the camp came the Catalan horsemen, all wearing iron helmets of one shape or another, and a variety of body armour from mail hauberks to boiled leather. Every rider carried a shield, a lance and a sword. Luca also saw crossbowmen among the foot soldiers, and a small group of horsemen wearing black surcoats sporting white vultures and mail hauberks, their horses covered in bl
ack caparisons on which were stitched white vultures. They trotted over to where Sancho Rey stood in the centre of the Almogavar battle line.
Sancho’s jaw was set rigid as he stared at the oncoming army, which was led by a host of horsemen. The man in the black surcoat smiled at the Almogavar’s wife.
‘It is good to see you, Carla, and looking so beautiful.’
She gave him a dazzlingly smile. ‘You flatter me, lord.’
Roger continued to smile at her as he spoke to Sancho.
‘Where is Sir Fabrizio?’
Sancho turned, clicked his fingers and one of his men marched the young noble forward. He had a face like thunder, which the words of Sir Roger did nothing to change.
‘We will soon have you back with your family. Where is the shepherd?’
Sancho walked over to his son and grabbed Luca by the scruff of the neck, hauling him forward. Fabrizio curled a lip at the shepherd.
‘Well,’ said Roger, ‘better let me do the talking. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can put this sorry episode behind us all.’
Roger turned his horse and began trotting towards the Carafa force now filling the ground to the west of Messina. The authorities had ordered the city gates to be closed, but the walls were lined with curious onlookers eager to see the unfolding drama from the safety of thick, well-maintained walls. Sancho looked left and right to see his fellow commanders and council members – Marc, Hector and Angel – standing in front of the battle line. He saw Hector practising a stabbing motion with his spear and hoped the negotiations between Roger and Count Carafa would conclude quickly.
The count’s army was now leisurely spreading into a line to match the extent of the Catalans. It was perhaps inferior in numbers to the thousands of Almogavars and hundreds of horsemen, but better armed and equipped. The élite were the knights who surrounded the count, all wearing gleaming one-piece iron helmets, long-sleeved mail hauberks over a quilted gambeson, and red surcoats, the upper part of which were lined with scales secured by gilded rivets. Their legs were protected by leather armour and each rider carried a shield emblazoned with red and white stripes. It was difficult to be precise, but Luca estimated their number to be between two and three hundred.
Outnumbering them were the count’s foot soldiers. The best wore iron helmets and red, knee-length, long-sleeved tunics worn over short-sleeved mail hauberks. The rest, the majority, wore their peasant costumes – light woollen tunics beneath heavy smocks secured down both sides by loops and wooden toggles – being commoners temporarily impressed into the count’s army. They all had spears, knives and small wooden shields. None had any head protection. There was also a square of crossbowmen superbly equipped in padded coifs beneath mail equivalents, and quilted outer garments worn over short-sleeved, short-hemmed mail shirts.
The drums had stopped beating and no trumpets sounded while Roger spoke with the count, the latter pointing at his son around a hundred yards away. Roger kept nodding and spinning in the saddle, looking at Fabrizio and then Luca. After a tense few minutes, he turned his horse and walked it back to where Sancho, who was still holding Luca’s tunic, was standing.
‘It is agreed,’ Roger said to the Almogavar commander. ‘When you have finished, we will thrash out the details of how we are getting to Constantinople.’
Carla’s ears pricked up. ‘We are leaving Sicily?’
Roger smiled at her once more. ‘No more living in a tent for you, Carla. We are travelling to a land of riches where your husband can win you a lifestyle you deserve.’
Sancho handed his spear to one of his men, grabbed a mortified Fabrizio by the scruff of his neck and bundled him and Luca forward.
‘What are you doing, father?’ asked Jordi.
‘Silence!’ commanded Sancho.
Luca, momentarily alarmed, was then relieved when he saw his parents appear from the horde of spearmen around the count’s mounted knights. He grinned like an idiot, expecting a happy family reunion in the no-man’s land between the two armies. Only to have his hopes cruelly dashed when the throats of his mother and father were slit by grinning, knife-wielding assassins.
Luca stared in disbelief as the bodies of his parents flopped down on the sun-bleached ground, lifeless corpses watering the earth with their blood. Luca knew nothing of the chivalric code that was supposed to regulate the behaviour of knights, even in battle. He would have perhaps been more familiar with the code of vendetta, which was rife throughout Italy and especially Sicily. But even the code of vendetta had its own strict rules. Vengeance, for example, had to be both proportionate and appropriate. Luca saw murder but Count Carafa viewed the two deaths as justifiable retribution for the insult done to his son and his family name. Then Luca saw nothing but white-hot fury.
He grabbed Sancho’s spear and ran forward, one thought in his mind – kill Giovanni Carafa. He was unaware of the thousands of Sicilians and Catalans observing him, or the crossbowmen opposite who brought their weapons up to their shoulders, ready to unleash a blizzard of bolts to cut him down.
‘Come on, then.’
Sancho heard Hector’s call and cried out in anger. Then he heard a thousand war cries and knew the die was cast. The Almogavars surged forward, following the foolish shepherd into battle, taking great strides to get to grips with the enemy. Their charge was reckless, brave, contrary to the rules of war, and wholly irresistible.
The Sicilian crossbowmen got off one volley that cut down several dozen Almogavars. But then they, the spearmen and mounted knights were assailed by a storm of javelins as the Almogavars hurled their deadly darts at the enemy. The air was filled with thousands of light spears that fell among the Sicilians, causing chaos. Those that had them raised their shields to deflect or stop the javelins, concentrating on the first, second and third volley of javelins lancing through the air towards them. High-pitched screams rent the air as iron heads pierced mail, flesh and bone. And then the Almogavars were among them.
Luca hurled his spear at Giovanni Carafa and saw the shaft fly straight and true, past the count and into one of his men immediately behind. He raised his arms and roared in triumph, then stared in disbelief at the hundreds of men passing him by.
At first glance it looked chaotic and doomed to failure, for how could ill-armed shepherds and foresters triumph against the cream of Sicilian chivalry? But the Almogavar way of war had been honed over decades, and to brutal effect. Frontal charges were risky affairs, but if one was going to be mounted then it had to be conducted as quickly as possible. There was no bulky armour or clothing to get in the way or slow them down. No large shield to worry about, and no long sword in a scabbard to get entangled in the legs. Hit the enemy fast and hard. The spear was carried in the left hand, the shaft resting on the shoulder when rushing forward. The javelins, heads pointed up, were carried in a special quiver slung on the back, which allowed them to be plucked and thrown with the right hand. And when all three had been hurled, the spear shaft was gripped with both hands and driven into the nearest enemy belly. The small round shield favoured by the Almogavars was slung on the back, on the left-hand side, to be used with the short sword when the javelins and spears had been used up.
Assailed by volleys of javelins and then assaulted by screaming Almogavars gripping spears, the Sicilian battle line buckled and then disintegrated as the Catalans carved their way into it. They pulled their short swords from their scabbards and went to work, stabbing and slashing with gusto with spear and sword. But by then it was all over. Only those with nerves of steel and total faith in their comrades will stand and fight such a merciless and unrelenting foe, and the Sicilian foot soldiers, those still living, were for the most part garrison troops and impressed peasants. They were already running before the Almogavars went to work with their swords.
The knights were a different proposition, but they were few in comparison to the bearded horde sweeping around them, and they and their horse were still vulnerable to expertly thrown javelins. Count Caraf
a led a phalanx of knights into the maelstrom to rescue his son, whom everyone had forgotten about, before heading back to his fortified home with his entourage. The Almogavars did not follow.
They may have given the impression of being a rabble, but their commanders had instilled in them the need to obey orders at all times, even in the thrilling moments when the enemy turned tail and ran. Pursuit was a temptation, but lightly armed soldiers spread out over the countryside would be vulnerable to mounted knights, and Count Carafa still had his horsemen with him. So, the Almogavars finished off the enemy wounded, rallied to their commanders, and waited for orders.
Luca stood in the centre of the carnage staring down at the bodies of his parents, the corpses having suffered the indignity of being trampled on in the Almogavar charge. Tears filled his eyes and they dripped on the corpse of his mother, a gentle woman who had lived a pious life. She had deserved better. He felt an arm around his shoulder and saw his friend beside him.
‘I grieve for you, Luca,’ said Jordi, unhurt though his face was beaded with sweat.
Jordi slapped him on the back. ‘You did this my friend. You have avenged the murder of your parents a hundredfold.’
Luca did not care about vengeance, nor did he notice the dozens of Sicilian bodies lying on the ground, most with javelins sticking in them, others with hideous belly wounds resulting from Almogavar spear thrusts. A screen of Catalans had been established beyond where the brief battle had taken place to guard against them being surprised should the count and his men return; others were going among the dead to retrieve their javelins, prising the steel heads from corpses.
Luca was still staring disconsolately at the bodies of his parents and Jordi stepped away to leave his friend alone with his grief. He changed his mind when he saw the figure of his father marching towards Luca, fury etched on his face, his anger-filled eyes focused on his friend, his sword gripped in his right hand. He knew his father well enough and was certain he was going to kill his friend, if only for stealing his spear. His father did not become de facto leader of the Almogavars by tolerating his authority being undermined.