by Peter Darman
Luca and the others ate well during the first part of their journey, the generosity of King Frederick and Prince Philip ensuring they feasted on salted pork, cheese and wine daily. Occasionally the weather would prevent that day’s journey, so the Almogavars stayed onshore and practised their drills. Constant practise to maintain the skills that had been used to devastating effect in Spain and then in Sicily. Luca, his body now accustomed to carrying weapons and covering long distances on foot, found the training invigorating and absorbing, which meant he had little time to think of his dead parents.
The fleet loitered in the principality for a few days until the sea was calm and the winds favourable, before striking out for the coast of Epiros, a self-governing kingdom allied to Constantinople. The only incident of note during the five-hour dash across the sea was one of Angel’s whores falling into the sea. The Almogavar captain was distraught but was reunited with the missing member of his harem when the fleet dropped anchor in a beautiful sheltered bay fringed by a semi-circle of luscious white sand. The courtesan had been picked up by another galley after a short time thrashing around in the turquoise Ionian Sea. Their reunion on the white sand was truly touching and was reckoned a good omen for the rest of the journey.
Roger had planned the journey to Constantinople thoroughly, mapping out with precision the spots where the fleet would anchor each night. Epiros was selected because its ruler, Regent Anna, niece of Co-Emperor Michael, was well disposed towards efforts to restore the Roman Empire in the east to its former glory. She had therefore wholeheartedly endorsed the voyage of the Catalan Company and ordered any locals who encountered the mercenaries to supply them with food and other supplies.
The day after they had arrived at the sheltered bay, scouts reported to Roger that horsemen were approaching the anchorage, and he gave orders for the Almogavar captains to accompany him to welcome what he believed would be a reception party sent by Regent Anna herself.
Sancho ordered his son to accompany him, and Hector commanded Luca to also join the party as part of his overall education in Almogavar diplomacy. The day was overcast with spits of rain in the air, a fresh breeze blowing off the sea. Everyone wore long-sleeved woollen tunics beneath their sheepskin coats and woollen caps now it was winter, though Luca felt no cold as he tramped across the dunes to welcome Regent Anna. Only Roger de Flor among them resembled a knight, though he looked awkward not being on a horse. The rest resembled poor shepherds, which is what they had originally been and why he felt at ease in their company, notwithstanding Sancho’s frostiness towards him.
‘Try to remember you are in the presence of royalty,’ Roger reminded them.
‘They shit like the rest of us,’ said Marc crudely.
‘You have just illustrated my point,’ sighed Roger. ‘Don’t say anything, unless you are asked, of course.’
Hector stopped. ‘Damn!’
The others likewise halted.
‘What is it?’ asked Angel.
‘I forgot to bring my knee pads,’ said Hector. ‘I will need them, seeing as we are going to be grovelling to this woman.’
‘We are guests in her land, and should behave accordingly,’ Roger reminded them.
Angel turned to Luca.
‘What do you think, Black Sheep, shall we abase ourselves at the feet of a woman we have never met, just because Roger says so?’
He felt all their eyes on him, waiting for his answer. He swallowed.
‘I, I think we should be grateful for the lady’s hospitality, lord.’
Hector slapped him on the back. ‘We should send him to grovel at her ladyship’s feet.’
Sancho pointed his spear ahead. ‘Here she is.’
The land they stood on had once belonged to the Roman Emperor who sat in Constantinople, but a hundred years before Latin crusaders sent by Rome’s Pope had sacked the city. In the aftermath of that calamity, the Roman Eastern Empire had fractured and the territory opposite the eastern shore of the ‘boot of Italy’ had been seized by a rebel Roman family from Constantinople, which established the so-called Despotate of Epiros. For the next hundred years the rulers of Epiros held absolute power in their lands, while paying lip service to the emperor in Constantinople who had no way of bringing the empire’s former territory back under his control.
The small group stood and watched horsemen and foot soldiers fill the horizon, the land adjacent to the beach being largely flat until it ran into the hills in the distance. The wind made the plethora of blue banners billow, the uniforms of the foot soldiers and riders matching the colour of the standard of the rulers of Epiros. That banner was a rampant golden lion with red claws on a blue background. The rulers of Epiros had deliberately chosen the lion as their symbol because the beast stood for courage, loyalty, nobility and strength. And the army of Epiros was certainly strong, or at least that was the view of the man who had moulded it into the instrument marching towards Roger de Flor and his senior commanders.
Thomas Komnenos Doukas was not a handsome man, being rather short and stout with large eyes and a mouth shaped in such a way as to give its owner a permanent disapproving scowl. Surrounded by a large number of lancers kitted out in knee-length blue tunics, helmets, grey leggings, short-sleeved mail hauberks and almond-shaped shields, he trotted up to Roger and his officers, halting his impressive stallion a few paces from them. There was an awkward silence before a shrewish individual leapt from a smaller horse and scurried over to stand in front of his lord. He stood to attention and addressed Roger and the Almogavars in a slightly high-pitched voice.
‘You stand in the presence of Thomas Komnenos Doukas, by the grace of God Great Despot of Romania, Prince of Vlachia, Lord of Archangelos, Duke of Vagenetia, Count of Acheloos, and Naupaktos and Lord of the royal castle of Ioannina.’
Silence followed the announcement, neither Roger nor his commanders knowing what any of those titles meant. But Roger knew a prince was higher in rank than a count or duke. He bowed his head.
‘Lord prince, we had expected your mother but are pleased to see you.’
‘My mother has retired from official duties,’ snapped the prince. ‘I am responsible for the security of Epiros.’
He spoke in Italian out of courtesy to the Almogavars, the mercenaries he had heard so much about. But he was underwhelmed by the ragged bunch of individuals standing before him. Were these really the men who had defeated the cream of French chivalry in Sicily?
‘We thank you for allowing us to beach on your land, lord,’ said Roger.
Thomas Doukas examined his manicured fingernails.
‘I did not, my mother did. I assume you have availed yourself of fresh water for your onward journey?’
‘Yes, lord,’ smiled Roger, ‘this area is abundant in fresh water.’
‘There is a fee,’ the prince smiled back.
Sancho was unimpressed. ‘What?’
Roger held up a hand to him.
‘I do not understand, lord.’
The prince leaned forward. ‘It is quite simple. I require payment for the supplies you are extracting from my land. Failure to do so will result in grave consequences for both you and your mercenaries.’
‘Arrogant bastard,’ hissed Hector, an insult heard by the ears of the prince, who smarted, his eyes bulging.
‘Arrogant? How dare you! I demand immediate payment or I will unleash my army to teach you a lesson.’
That army was now forming up behind their prince, who had decided to seek a confrontation with the Catalans. He cared nothing about the water or indeed anything else they had taken from the land. He was thinking ahead. He knew the Muslims were pressing Emperor Andronicus hard, which was the reason he had hired the Spaniards. And if the so-called Catalan Company was successful against the Muslims, then the emperor would be free to turn his attention to reclaiming the territories lost by his predecessors, including Epiros. That he certainly did not desire. And if he destroyed the mercenaries, it would not only remove a future threat to his rei
gn but would also test the army he had lavished much money on.
Sancho and the other Almogavars abruptly turned and began striding back to the beach, leaving Roger alone with the smirking Thomas Doukas. Roger’s next words wiped the smirk off the prince’s face.
‘I would advise you to turn your army around and march it back to your palace, lord.’
He bowed his head, turned around and followed his captains, leaving Thomas Doukas fuming.
‘Deploy the army for battle,’ he shouted at his commanders.
The army of the Despotate of Epiros was certainly an impressive sight: thousands of foot soldiers in identical uniforms marching perfectly in step. For this was a force trained in the same way as Rome’s imperial legions, though designated by Greek names. So, the army was called a tagma, which was divided into several tourmai. Each tourmai was in turn divided into three droungoi, which were sub-divided into ‘banners’ – vandon – each one commanded by a count. The old Roman century still existed, called a kentarkhion and commanded by a kentêrion – centurion – being the final sub-division of each vandon.
Sadly, neither Epiros nor Constantinople had the money or manpower to field large tagmas. Indeed, the army currently deploying into battle formation numbered barely five thousand men. The cream of Epiros’ army were the horsemen, though the beasts themselves wore no caparisons or the expensive scale armour worn by the élite horsemen of Constantinople’s guard. Three hundred horsemen attended the prince, deployed behind the foot soldiers to be the instrument that would strike the final blow once the mercenaries had been fatally weakened by the foot soldiers.
Those foot soldiers – three thousand men organised in three droungoi – all wore iron helmets and blue, heavily padded coats with sleeves slit at the elbow and turned back to the shoulder for freedom of movement, underneath which they wore long-sleeved red tunics. The coats were padded with raw cotton wadding, which could defeat glancing blows, though not direct strikes with a pointed weapon. Extra defence was supplied by teardrop-shaped shields made of soft, light wood edged in iron and faced with leather painted with white and blue squares.
Much expense had been lavished on their footwear, each man having been issued with a pair of thigh-length leather boots, which were folded down onto the shin for ease of marching. As the separate droungoi halted to dress their ranks, the men folded the tops of their boots back up over their knees to provide protection in the coming battle. They rammed their eight-foot-long spears into the sand as they did so.
Sancho ground his heel into the soft sand.
‘We can’t move fast over this ground.’
Hector nodded. ‘We burrow, then?’
The others nodded. Luca was none the wiser but had no time to ponder Hector’s words when Sancho pointed at him.
‘You find the commander of our horsemen and tell him to get the women and children on board the ships.’
Marc laughed and pointed at the blue-uniformed mass around four hundred paces away.
‘You think that can beat us?’
Sancho tapped his nose. ‘I think if they see us trying to evacuate the beach, they will become over-confident.’
He turned on Luca. ‘Move, boy.’
He sprinted through the dunes to reach the beach, around two hundred paces from where Roger and his commanders stood. Around him, fully armed Almogavars were forming into their units on the fringe of the beach, drums beating as they did so. The few crossbowmen were also assembling around their officers. He found the commander of the Catalan horsemen with a knot of his officers near one of the galleys, a standard bearer holding his banner behind him. Luca fell to his knees at the feet of the tall, imposing Spaniard attired in mail armour and helmet.
‘My lord, Commander Sancho requests you begin evacuating the women and children, so as to encourage the enemy to be reckless.’
The knight nodded. ‘Makes sense. Get up.’
Luca did so. The handsome noble examined him closely.
‘You are the one they call the Black Sheep?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Well, you had better run back to your commander if you don’t want to miss the battle. Tell Sancho we will clean up if his men get overrun.’
‘Yes, lord.’
He ran back to where Sancho and Roger stood with the others, except when he retraced his steps he discovered they had disappeared. He was shoved roughly aside.
‘Out of the way.’
A line of Almogavar crossbowmen passed him, perhaps around a hundred, all with loaded weapons in their hands. There were more crossbowmen to their left and right, forming a long line walking slowly towards the blue and white shields of the enemy.
‘Luca.’
He heard Jordi’s voice and looked right, to see a hand appear above the marram grass on the lip of a nearby dune.
‘Over here.’
He scampered over to where Jordi, his father and around twenty other Almogavars were crouching in a sand dune. He slid down the bank to rest beside his friend.
‘The commander of horsemen says he will take care of things if we are overrun, lord,’ he said to Sancho.
The others guffawed. Sancho did not laugh but pointed at his spear.
‘You touch that and I will kill you myself. Understand?’
Luca nodded, ‘Yes, lord.’
He gripped his own spear and checked the three javelins strapped to his back were still in place. They were. He glanced at the sword in its scabbard at his hip. He had had only rudimentary training in its use, and he viewed it as something to be used only in an emergency. Jordi slapped his arm.
‘When the enemy is close, we will spring a trap on them. Look.’
He was pointing behind them where hundreds of crouching Almogavars were moving forward before disappearing.
Into sand dunes.
Sancho and the other captains had a keen eye when it came to ground to fight on. Beyond the beach was a wide belt of sand dunes – shallow, semi-circular-shaped hollows that had developed as a result of wind and the relatively flat terrain. They were surrounded by clumps of marram grass – vegetation with dense, spiky tufts with matted roots that acted as stabilisers for the dunes.
Thud, thud, thud.
The crossbowmen were now shooting at the enemy and Luca could see no more Almogavars. The sandy terrain appeared empty.
Thud, thud, thud.
The crossbowmen had shot a second volley. Then there was silence, only the sound of the wind blowing off the sea breaking the tension. Luca became aware of his heart pounding in his chest. He gripped his spear with his left hand and pulled a javelin with his right. Around him, everyone had a javelin in their throwing hand, ready to rise up and hurl them at the enemy.
Then he saw the Almogavar crossbowmen beating a hasty retreat, keeping low to avoid the arrows of the enemy archers, threading a way between the dunes at speed. He knew the foot soldiers of the enemy would be close behind, buoyed by the apparent flight of the crossbowmen, and enticed by the sight of women and children being frantically marshalled back on the ships in the bay. A beach seemingly within touching distance.
Sancho was peering over the top of the dune, whistle in his mouth. Luca thought his heart would burst from his chest.
He did not hear the enemy, their boots being muffled by the sand they were marching across, and he believed they must be some way off so quiet was it. Then the air was rent with a shrill whistle blast and Sancho clambered up the last few feet of the dune. He screamed a war cry in Catalan and hurled the javelin he had been clutching in his right hand. Hundreds of ‘hurrahs’ filled the air as the men in the other dunes emerged from their hiding places. Luca clawed his way up the inside of the dune with the others, stood and froze.
In front of him, a mere ten or less paces away, was what looked like hundreds of heavily armed soldiers, all looking at him! Or at least it seemed that way. He saw an impenetrable wall of blue and white teardrop-shaped shields, helmets and dozens of spears with lethal points levelled at h
im. Time seemed to slow as he beheld the fearsome spectacle, but that was because the soldiers of Epiros were being slowed by the soft ground underfoot. Luca hesitated for what seemed like an eternity but was in reality only a second or two before his training kicked in.
The weeks spent hurling javelins at targets and thrusting spears into tightly packed straw paid off. He had been pushed hard by Hector, day after day, week after week, and now his instincts kicked in. Without thinking, he focused on a face and threw his javelin at it. The shaft was in the air for a second before the steel point embedded itself in the neck of the target.
It was the second time he had hurt another human, the second time he had drawn the blood of an enemy. Perhaps he should have felt a solemn remorse for taking the life of another person, for that would surely be the result as the spearman collapsed with the javelin lodged in his throat, blood shooting from the wound.
All he felt was elation.
Elation that he had proved his worth to his peers, the men around him who were unleashing a hailstorm of javelins at the only target that presented itself – the faces of the enemy. Supreme joy that he had not faltered in the face of peril, that he had stood his ground and fought back. Elation and a strange relief as he finally threw off the shackles of his former peasant life. A life of grinding servitude. A short, humiliating life now washed away by the blood of the man he had just killed. And he was not alone in dying on the stretch of sand dunes in a nameless place near the shoreline of Epiros.
Luca had thrown one javelin but either side of him, extending left and right, veteran mercenaries hurled three javelins in under a minute. Not wild, inaccurate volleys but targeted throws, each missile finding a target. And those targets were faces and necks. Steel points shattered teeth, split eye sockets and severed windpipes in a frenzy of killing that destroyed the cohesion of the soldiers of Thomas Doukas, and dealt a death blow to his army.