by Peter Darman
*****
The approach of summer meant sleeping on the ground with just a blanket for cover was bearable enough. Indeed, for Izzeddin Arslan it was a joy for it brought him closer to Allah. After all, did not the Prophet Muhammad himself prefer to live at the same level as the poorest in society? Only through ordeal could the word of God triumph over the disbelievers.
The great ghazi army had meandered its way north through the mountains and valleys of western Anatolia, drawing a host of recruits to its red banners. Some joined out of curiosity, others for the prospect of loot, but all were subject to the harsh discipline of Izzeddin’s Sufi lieutenants. They ensured everyone obeyed Salat, the obligatory Muslim prayers, which were performed five times a day: at sunrise, midday, during the latter part of the afternoon, just after sunset, and between sunset and midnight. It was a godly army, determined to erase the blasphemous presence of the apostate Romans from the earth, especially those resident on the Artake Peninsula, notwithstanding Karesi Bey’s orders.
Izzeddin Arslan marched at the head of the army, a scrawny individual in ragged clothes, sandals on his feet, a stout staff his only weapon. The only musical instruments allowed in the army were drums, which were used to strike fear into the enemy just before battle was joined, and to alert the warriors to dangers during the march. Either side of the column were low mountains, while the dirt track it marched along lanced through a rolling plain dotted with olive groves and abandoned farms. The sound of drums coming from the rear of the column made Izzeddin stop and turn, peering past the thousands of warriors in drab clothes to scour the distance. Those behind him shuffled to a halt, their leaders shouting orders to face the flanks and prepare for battle. Then the drums stopped and everyone began to stare at each other in confusion. Izzeddin’s expression hardened when he saw the red flags fluttering in the breeze, and behind them a plethora of red pennants flying from lances and knew the horsemen of Karesi Bey had arrived, led by their charismatic commander, Mahmud of Caesarea.
The ghazis began to cheer the armoured horsemen, behind them a long column of horse archers wearing no armour, and packhorses and camels carrying the tents, weapons and supplies of the horsemen. The column of riders presented a colourful spectacle, in stark contrast to the drab hues and threadbare attire of the ghazis and the host of hangers-on that had joined the army of the godly. At the head of the horsemen rode an individual in a burnished helmet and a lamellar cuirass, the individual steel scales glinting in the sunlight. A standard bearer carrying a huge red banner emblazoned with a golden sabre rode immediately behind him.
The piercing eyes of Izzeddin Arslan followed the figure of Mahmud as he accepted the acclaim, waving his right arm at the cheering ghazis. Izzeddin was not cheering or smiling, his expression not changing when Mahmud pulled up his magnificent black stallion and looked down at the holy man. It was a symbolic moment for Mahmud looked down on Izzeddin in every sense, despising him as a dangerous fanatic who once he had finished slaughtering all the Christians and Jews, would focus on purging the faithful themselves.
‘I am here to warn you that a force of Roman horsemen has left Constantinople,’ said Mahmud tersely. ‘My lord has commanded me to shadow the Romans and loan you some horsemen in case the defenders of Artake have mounted soldiers.’
Izzeddin leaned on his staff. ‘I do not want any of your kafir horsemen.’
‘You mean Lord Karesi’s élite corps of horsemen?’ smirked Mahmud.
The armoured horsemen he was alluding to cantered past the pair, all resplendent in helmets and lamellar armour cuirasses, their lances flying red pennants, red cloaks billowing in the breeze. But to Izzeddin they were an abomination.
Kafir meant ‘unbeliever’ and was applied to anyone who did not follow Islam. For individuals such as Izzeddin Arslan, the world was divided into two camps: the faithful and unbelievers. And he had been put on earth to eradicate the latter. But he was continually frustrated in his efforts by individuals such as Mahmud of Caesarea, the aristocrat who indulged in decadent practices and commanded a kafir corps.
The corps numbered only five hundred horsemen but each one was superbly armed and equipped. They were the descendants of the cataphracts of ancient Parthia who had smashed Rome’s legions at the Battle of Carrhae, and had been copied by the eastern Roman emperors to provide a mailed fist on the battlefield. Each rider wore a short-sleeved padded jacket, a zoupa, over his torso, over which was worn a lamellar cuirass, called a klibanion. Each klibanion comprised overlapping rectangular iron plates arranged in horizontal rows fixed to a leather backing, riveted in place at top and bottom. Arms were protected by upper sleeve guards of lamellar armour, while the forearms were covered with mail. Lamellar greaves were worn on the lower legs and the head was protected by a mail coif and helmet.
The horses of the ancient cataphracts had been fully encased in scale armour, but such was the prohibitive cost of armour protection that the mounts of Mahmud’s heavy horsemen wore lamellar armour on their chest, necks and heads only. But like their ancient predecessors, the heavy horsemen were equipped with long lances, though unlike Parthian cataphracts they carried two swords: one single edged and slightly curved called a paramerion, and another straight, double-bladed weapon called a spathion. But the favourite close-quarter weapons of the heavy horsemen were the vardoukia – maces – with either globular or sharp-cornered heads and a combination of iron and wooden shafts. Each rider had two holsters on either side of the pommel to accommodate a number of maces.
Izzeddin may have disliked the heavy horsemen for their brightly coloured cloaks or the heretical designs painted on their teardrop-shaped shields, called skoutaria and strapped to their shoulders to allow them to freely use both hands. But what really incensed him was that they were all Christian.
At the height of its power, the emperor in Constantinople ruled over an empire made up of military districts called themata – themes – containing farmlands owned by families who provided military service in exchange for the right to live on the land. Over time, wealthy landowners provided the imperial army not only with soldiers, but also resources and money. The imperial treasury in turn paid the estate owners for their time in service. But a succession of inept emperors, combined with powerful external threats, resulted in the relationship being strictly one-way. The imperial army made increasing demands on wealthy landowners in the provinces, but provided little in return, while the imperial treasury’s taxes sapped the resources and morale of the wealthy of the themata, especially as the money was used to preserve a decadent court. The wealthy of the military districts were ripe for the plucking.
Karesi Bey was an accomplished military leader, but his real talent was diplomacy. During his war of expansion against the themata, he won more victories off the battlefield than on it. He saw that the Christian landowners had been abandoned by their emperor, so rather than fight them he offered them peace, a respect for their property rights and religious freedom, in exchange for their services, which he would pay for. They accepted and Karesi Bey doubled the territory he controlled overnight.
‘How do you know a Christian force is riding for Artake?’ said Izzeddin brusquely.
‘I have my spies,’ replied Mahmud.
Izzeddin curled at lip at him. ‘Christian spies? Only a fool trusts a kafir.’
‘If you wish to refuse the emir’s offer of reinforcements,’ said Mahmud, fast losing patience with the fanatic, ‘then I will continue on with my journey.’
‘I have no wish to ignore the emir’s generosity,’ sniffed Izzeddin.
‘Excellent,’ smiled Mahmud, ‘I am authorised to allocate two thousand horsemen to your army. The emir has ordered me to stress to you that he desires the city of Artake to be taken intact, and the many farms on the peninsula not to be despoiled. After all, is it not written that Allah is the most merciful of the merciful?’
Izzeddin bristled at this. Just as he and his followers had ‘cleansed’ Bergama so it was fit to be the Islami
c capital of the Karesi Emirate, so was he determined to eradicate the last Christian stronghold on the coast of the Sea of Marmara by sending a strong message to the chief kafir sitting on his throne in Constantinople. And that message would be written in Christian blood.
‘I am merely the instrument of Allah,’ said Izzeddin softly. ‘But if the Christians submit to His will, then I will extend His mercy to them.’
Mahmud did not believe him but it made no difference. He had instructed the commander of the horsemen he would leave with the holy man that his task was not to support the depredations of his fanatics, but to ensure the city of Artake and the prosperous farms on the peninsula of the same name passed seamlessly to the control of his emir.
‘Then I will take my leave,’ said Mahmud. ‘May God go with you.’
He tugged on his reins to turn his horse before Izzeddin had chance to reply, both men glad and relieved to be away from each other’s company.
‘You dare quote the holy word to me, apostate?’ spat the holy man. ‘Those who malign Allah will be seized wherever found and slain with a fierce slaughter. So it is written; so let it be done.’
*****
It was a beautiful day, the blue sky dotted with white puffy clouds, the sun warming the earth and the sea either side of the isthmus a dazzling sparkling blue. A gentle breeze took the sting out of the rising temperature and also brought the sound of drums to the ears of four thousand Almogavars waiting behind the sections of wall that had once presented a formidable barrier to any hostile force intent on conquering the Artake Peninsula.
How Luca wanted to peer around the end of the stretch of crumbling wall he and the other Almogavars were hidden behind. But Sancho Rey had issued strict instructions that no one was to show their face to the enemy until the trap had been sprung.
Michael Cosses was a competent commander and he had scouts out far and wide to warn him of the assault he knew would come, just as surely as the sun rose each day. Sure enough, they returned with news that a great army was approaching the peninsula, a force comprising thousands of religious warriors armed only with a shield and spear, plus thousands of others, including women and children, who followed behind, hoping to share in the spoils that would come their way when the peninsula and city of Artake fell to the warriors of Allah.
The Catalans and Romans had heard the enemy before they had seen them, the low rumble of hundreds of drums being carried on the wind to the wall and beyond. So often that sound had signalled the defeat of the emperor’s army and the remorseless, seemingly unstoppable advance of Islam. Michael Cosses hoped it would be different today.
He sat on his horse a few hundred paces back from the wall, the red and yellow banner of the emperor fluttering behind him, and behind it his two hundred horsemen, all immaculately attired in helmets, mail hauberks and lamellar cuirasses. The points of their lances glinted in the early morning sun and their horses scuffed the ground with their hooves and snorted, restless with anticipation at the approach of the coming fury.
Around a hundred paces from the wall were his foot soldiers, drawn up in three blocks so they could more easily about-face and retreat through the three gaps in the wall they were ostensibly defending. Whether the enemy would fall for the ruse he did not know, but he did know that if the wall itself appeared to be undefended, the horse archers that always accompanied Muslim armies would not shoot volleys at it. His palms were sweaty and his tunic was already soaked with perspiration. He had a lot to worry about, not least being entrusted with the defence of the peninsula. If the Muslims seized it, they would not only deprive Constantinople of wine, olives, olive oil and timber, any ships they based at Artake would be able to threaten the Hellespont, the narrow strait that connected the Aegean with the Sea of Marmara. Much rested on the coming clash.
Luca was not nervous but impatient, eager to get to grips with the enemy.
‘Are they going to bang those drums all day?’ he said to Jordi, who was equally eager to start killing heathens.
‘We should attack them rather than wait behind this wall,’ he complained.
‘Be quiet, both of you,’ commanded his father. ‘Obey your orders and stay silent.’
The Almogavar leader was unusually nervous, feeling constrained by the tactics agreed upon before he and his men had moved into position before dawn. The plan had made sense when it had been an abstract notion. Now it was reality he was not so sure. The wall was half a mile in extent, with three substantial gaps along that distance. This created four separate sections of dilapidated wall from coast to coast, behind which waited four groups of Almogavars, each numbering a thousand and led by Angel, Marc, Hector and Sancho, respectively. The latter’s force was adjacent to the sea at the western end of the wall, next to the ruins of Cyzicus.
The drumming increased in intensity as the enemy, which none of the Almogavars could see, flooded the plain in front of the isthmus. They carried hundreds of red flags and began chanting as they neared the remains of the wall. Unarmed religious leaders stood in front of the horde and incited their followers to wash the earth with the blood of unbelievers, promising that any who fell this day would be guaranteed a place in paradise, and any who faltered would be damned for all eternity.
The majority of the ghazi warriors of Izzeddin Arslan had no armour or headdress, aside from a few white turbans. They carried a small round wooden shield for protection and were armed with a spear. Many were barefoot. The élite ghazi soldiers, held back as a reserve, were a different proposition. Well trained and led, every soldier was equipped with a helmet, mail armour and a large oblong wooden shield faced with thick hide. Their primary weapon was a spear, but each soldier was also equipped with a sword and dagger. They also wore stout leather boots for making marching long distances on foot easier. Izzeddin himself stood in front of the phalanx of these troops, coolly observing the infidel army.
His commanders had reported that the wall was essentially a ruin, three large gaps in its length inviting attack. He had been surprised when the enemy had left those gaps to stand in front of the wall in three bodies, each numbering no more than a few hundred. The commander of the emir’s horse archers had ridden forward to offer the services of his men to ‘soften up’ the enemy before the attack was launched. He had declined the offer, having no wish to taint Allah’s victory with soldiers who consorted with kafir horsemen. So instead of the horse archers forcing the Romans to cower beneath their shields with their volleys, they were reduced to being bystanders in the coming battle.
Whipped into a frenzy by their religious leaders, the armed mob that was the majority of Izzeddin Arslan’s army suddenly surged forward, sprinting across the flat, barren ground towards the three Roman formations, which abruptly about-faced, each one heading for a gap in the wall.
The holy warriors raised a great cry as they beheld the infidels melting away before their eyes, spurred on by the exhortations of their holy men. They had been promised an easy victory and it had come about before their very eyes. The enemy had run away from them without even the semblance of a fight. They would soon be feasting in Artake and living on the lush, fertile peninsula, with a host of kafir slaves to do their bidding.
They poured past the Almogavars, oblivious to the hundreds of Catalans waiting patiently with javelins clutched in their hands. The warriors only saw the Roman foot soldiers ahead of them, who had stopped and turned to form three tightly packed formations once more, between them horsemen with lances levelled.
‘Now!’ screamed Sancho.
They had practised for days, performing the drill over and over so when the whistles sounded they would react instinctively, ignoring the prospect of hundreds of ghazis flooding through the gaps in the wall to instead focus on what they did best.
Luca and Jordi were smiling as they hurled their javelins at the torrent of enemy warriors rushing past them. Even if they had been blindfolded they could not miss. One, two, three javelins left Luca’s hand, each one striking a target, just a t
rio of missiles among hundreds thrown at the Muslim horde, scything down ghazis and felling dozens more as the living tripped over the dead.
Luca felt a thrill such as he had never experienced before as he beheld a seething mass of enemy soldiers within spitting distance, all now slowed by the blizzard of javelins directed at them, those following also moving slowly as they were funnelled through the gaps in the wall.
‘Into them,’ screamed Sancho, racing forward with spear gripped in both hands. His son and Luca were a split-second behind, stabbing the points of their own spears into enemy bodies.
It was easy at first – jab, pull back, jab, pull back.
Ghazis, surprised to be attacked from the flanks by javelins, were even more startled when fierce spearmen attacked them, Sancho’s men from the left, Hector’s from the right, to seal the gap nearest to the ruins of Cyzicus.
Luca stabbed a bare-headed warrior in the side of the face, the sharp spear point shattering his jawbone, causing him to crumble in a heap. He stepped over a dead body impaled on a javelin to attack a spearman who had halted and turned to face him, only to be knocked over by another warrior barging forward, who Luca ran through the belly with his spear. He and Jordi worked as a team, one stabbing before pulling back, the other thrusting his spear forward, and vice-versa. They and Sancho were at the tip of the spear and that spear had one purpose – drive forward to seal the gap. On the other side of the gap Hector and his men would be doing the same, as would the Almogavars of the other captains trying to seal the other gaps.
Luca did not know if Hector and his men were triumphing, but he had faith that just as he was grinding forward against the wall of enemy flesh in front of him, so would his mentor and his men be being doing the same.
A ghazi swung left to battle him, but too slow, exposing his torso to Luca who thrust his spear into his belly. He yanked it back but the ghazi had gripped the shaft with his left hand, having dropped his shield. He looked Luca directly in the eye, his own eyes wild with fury, not pain. Luca screamed and drove the shaft forward with all his might, pushing it deeper into the warrior’s body. But the ghazi remained standing, thrusting his own spear forward to cut Luca’s left arm. Jordi on his friend’s right side finished off a ghazi, pivoted left and drove his spear point straight through the neck of Luca’s opponent, who collapsed to the ground.