by Peter Darman
‘No, this city is not yet under Muslim control. But perhaps they think we are Turks. The men will stay here until I have spoken to the governor.’
‘Do you speak Greek?’ asked Marc. ‘I doubt the governor can speak our language.’
‘I’m sure there is someone in that fine city who can act as a translator,’ replied Sancho.
‘What about our guide?’ suggested Luca.
They all looked at him.
‘He can’t understand what we are saying. Idiot,’ scoffed Marc.
‘That may be, but he’s the best we’ve got,’ said Sancho. ‘If I get shot, you will command, Hector.’
He pointed at Jordi and Luca. ‘You two are with me.’
Luca felt distinctly nervous as he descended the grassy slope above the city, Sancho diverting to the right to avoid the towers where archers were nocking arrows in their bowstrings. There were no clouds in the sky and only a soft breeze, which meant any archer worth his salt would be able to shoot at the four individuals with ease should they come within range, especially as none wore any body armour.
The tension rose as the group neared the eastern gatehouse, halting a safe distance from the battlements where many soldiers peered down at the Almogavars. Luca glanced back at the mass of Almogavars on the hillside and wished he was with them. The more so when a single arrow left the battlements, arched into the air and slammed into the ground a few feet in front of Sancho.
‘We are friends,’ called the Almogavar leader.
Another arrow was shot at them, this one thudding into the earth closer to his feet. He turned and ordered the scout to plead the Catalan’s cause. He may have been a poor shepherd, but Luca was proud of him as he walked past Sancho towards the closed gates, shouting something in Greek. It must have resonated with those on the walls as no more arrows were shot at Sancho and those with him. The guide continued to shout up at the walls, no response coming from the battlements for what seemed like an age. But then, as Luca scuffed at the ground in boredom, a shrill voice was heard from the gatehouse.
‘Who comes with an army to the city of Magnesia?’
The words were Catalan, a language Luca was familiar with and could now speak if not fluently, then certainly adequately. Sancho handed his spear to his son and walked forward, slapping the guide on the back in thanks.
‘I am Sancho Rey, leader of the Almogavars, part of the Catalan Company sent by Emperor Andronicus to aid you in your fight against the Turks.’
‘We have not heard of you,’ came the blunt reply.
‘I am the vanguard of a great army led by Count Ioannes Komnenos, Count Michael Cosses and Grand Duke Roger de Flor, who is married to the emperor’s niece.’
There was a long silence and Luca thought Sancho’s words had had no effect. But then one of the heavy wooden gates beneath the battlements creaked open.
‘You and your three companions may enter the city, Sancho Rey,’ came the reply. ‘You must surrender your weapons to the guards when you do so.’
Sancho turned and beckoned Romanus, Luca and Jordi follow him, before striding towards the open gate. Once inside, they were disarmed by soldiers in pure white, knee-length tunics, white leggings, mail corselets, helmets and teardrop-shaped shields bearing a gold lion on a red background. Their spear points looked like mirrors so burnished were they. Luca and Jordi were very impressed, though Sancho viewed them with mild contempt. The officer in turn screwed up his face at the drab clothes worn by the Almogavars.
Like Philadelphia, Magnesia was clean and tidy, with well-maintained streets, splendid buildings and impressive churches. Curious citizens stared at the Almogavars being escorted from the gatehouse to the palace located in the centre of the city. Neither they nor Magnesia gave the impression of having suffered the trial of a siege.
The palace was a place of beauty surrounded by gardens and fountains. Large bronze doors gave access to the main entrance, leading to a corridor containing statues of former Roman emperors, generals and philosophers. Luca walked on a mosaic floor depicting the recapture of Magnesia from the Muslims by the Emperor Alexios two hundred years before. He and the others gasped when they were led into the Golden Hall, which was decorated with gold leaf, had half a dozen vaulted niches, a score of windows to allow light to flood in, and a massive domed ceiling. It looked like something out of a Greek myth. The white-uniformed guards standing by each niche appeared almost transparent in the dazzling light. And there, at the far end of the hall, sat the governor, dressed in a gold-trimmed blue kabbadion decorated with brocaded lions in silver thread, sitting on the golden throne once used by the emperors of Constantinople when they had been in exile.
A court official in a white kabbadion marched to stand beside the throne and nodded to the officer escorting Luca and the others, who ushered them forward. All subdued chatter ceased as courtiers and officials looked at the Almogavars and their guide as they walked towards the governor, stopping when the officer held out his left arm to halt their progress. The voice of the white-dressed court official filled the hall, speaking in Catalan.
‘You are in the presence of Count Arcadius Drogon, General of the Emperor, Governor of Magnesia and Scourge of the Godless.’
Perhaps in his early thirties, Arcadius Drogon was an exceptionally handsome man erring to feminine beauty, with a mass of blonde curls and ringlets that resembled liquid gold in the bright light of the hall. He toyed with one of those ringlets as he indicated the Almogavars should approach him. Luca noticed he had a gold ring on every finger, and also noticed that though he was talking to Sancho, his hazel eyes were examining him and Jordi closely, making him feel very uncomfortable.
The court official, who was obviously an expert in languages, listened to Arcadius and then spoke to Sancho in fluent Catalan.
‘My lord wishes to know how many men are loitering in the hills above his city.’
‘Nearly four thousand.’
‘And how many more are marching with counts Komnenos and Cosses?’
‘Three thousand horsemen,’ answered Sancho.
‘It would have been courteous to have sent word that you intended to march to my city, Sancho Rey. Your sudden appearance has frightened the populace.’
‘We heard the city was under siege, like Philadelphia, so speed was essential,’ said Sancho.
Arcadius licked his lips as he studied Luca.
‘As you can see, Magnesia is not under siege.’
‘What of this Muslim leader, this Mehmed Bey?’
Arcadius’ blemish-free brow creased. ‘What of him? He resides in his palace in Izmir and I reside in mine.’
Sancho, his instincts honed by years of soldiering, smelled a rat. He could see for himself the opulence of the governor’s palace and his non-martial bearing. He doubted if Arcadius Drogon had ever wielded a sword in anger, though he believed he was well capable of thrusting a dagger into someone’s back, be they friend or enemy. He wondered why, if the Turks had posed no threat to his own city, he had not lifted a finger to assist Philadelphia? But he was also astute enough to know not to pose these questions to the preening peacock seated in front of him.
‘The rest of our army might be held up at the town of Salihli, lord,’ said Sancho.
‘Salihli is under the control of Saruhan Bey, who wishes to establish his own emirate, just as Sasa Bey and Mehmed Bey have done. Perhaps he will succeed.’
‘He will with men like you opposing him,’ thought Sancho.
Arcadius waved a hand at the Almogavars.
‘Now you may leave us,’ he commanded, ‘and please remove your soldiers from the hills above my city. They are upsetting the common folk.’
Arcadius nodded at the officer who had escorted Sancho and the others from the city gates, who saluted, turned and indicated to the Almogavars they should leave.
‘Wait,’ said Arcadius, pointing at Luca and Jordi. ‘They may stay if they so desire.’
For the first time in a long time, Luca felt real fear
. He had grown increasingly uncomfortable during the interview when the governor had been speaking to Sancho but had been ogling him and Jordi. He had no desire to spend any more time in Arcadius Drogon’s company, and by the concerned look on Jordi’s face, neither did his friend.
‘They are soldiers,’ replied a testy Sancho, ‘and cannot be spared.’
The Almogavars left the hills to enter the valley and march back east, towards the town of Salihli to link up with the rest of the army. After an hour of marching, they ran into a mounted patrol of Catalans, which informed Sancho the garrison of Salihli had surrendered after thousands of horsemen had been arrayed before the town walls. The meagre and half-starving garrison, ravaged by the harsh winter, had gladly surrendered their weapons to hobble north with their lives and the rags on their backs. For Count Cosses and Count Komnenos, it was another victory after the great defeat of the Germiyanids outside Philadelphia. The counts were delighted to hear the news the city of Magnesia was not in peril, which left only the besieged town of Tire to be relieved to bring the campaign to a successful end. Grand Duke Roger was also delighted, for different reasons.
Count Komnenos sent soldiers into Salihli to secure it for the emperor, and sent a courier to Magnesia to invite Count Drogon to join him and the others in the march to Tire. Grand Duke Roger assembled his officers in his tent to discuss other matters.
Luca and Jordi performed their duties as servers of wine as Roger sat huddled with the others in a small circle, perched on stools and resembling thieves in the night, their features made harsh by the half-light cast by a pair of flickering candles that provided the only illumination.
‘Sancho has informed me of the situation at Magnesia,’ began Roger, ‘which confirms what I have believed for some time now.’
‘Which is what?’ asked Marc, holding out his cup for Luca to fill.
‘That Emperor Andronicus is ruling over a rotting empire. Were it not for us, Artake would have already fallen and it would have been only a matter of time before Philadelphia would have suffered the same fate.’
‘That is why the emperor hired us,’ said Angel.
‘It is accepted custom that mercenaries are paid for their services,’ said Roger, ‘but we are now in many weeks’ arrears, and I fear the imperial treasury will renege on its promises made to us.’
‘Then we will leave him to his many enemies,’ shrugged Hector.
‘Roger has another idea,’ said Sancho, ‘one we should seriously consider.’
‘What I am about to say must not be spoken of to anyone outside this tent,’ said Roger sternly, ‘and that includes you Jordi and Black Sheep.’
Luca looked at Jordi and nodded to the grand duke.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘On pain of death,’ emphasised Roger.
‘I know the Almogavars do not accept the absolute ruler of a single lord,’ said Roger, ‘preferring to come to important decisions by common consensus. Therefore, I ask you, their captains, to consider my proposal, which is to remain in Anatolia and make it our home.’
‘Home?’ said Angel. ‘Our home is Catalonia.’
‘Is it, Angel?’ replied Roger. ‘Can you even remember what Anatolia looks like? The harsh truth is your king does not want you back, and neither will any king look kindly on a ruthless band of mercenaries that has spent the last twenty years fighting.’
‘That is what we do,’ said Hector.
‘We are good at it,’ added Marc.
‘Which is why I am suggesting putting down roots here, in Anatolia,’ said Roger, ‘to establish our own kingdom, which we will defend against the Turks.’
‘And the Romans?’ asked Sancho. ‘For they will be reluctant to swap one invader for another.’
‘From what I have seen, the Romans have neither the means nor the will to reclaim their lost lands,’ opined Roger. ‘But we have both the means and the will, should your men so desire.’
Angel looked at Marc, who appeared thoughtful. Hector, relishing the idea of fighting all and sundry, whatever the location, was nodding at Sancho.
‘We will certainly consider it, Roger,’ said the Almogavar leader. He looked at the silent Corberan. ‘What of you, my lord?’
‘I am a lord without lands and a castle,’ smiled the noble. ‘I crave a place to call home as much as you do, Sancho Rey.’
Roger rubbed his hands together. ‘Excellent, but we must be discreet when around our Roman allies.’
The hoarse voice of Count Komnenos outside the tent interrupted their plotting.
‘Out of my way, I need to see the grand duke.’
The occupants of the tent all stood and Roger went outside, reappearing seconds later with a concerned Governor of Philadelphia.
Jordi offered him a cup of wine but he waved him away.
‘A courier has just arrived from Philadelphia. The town of Tire is on the verge of being captured by the Turks. The governor sent an urgent message to the city, thinking I was in residence. The garrison is most depleted so he informs me.’
‘We will leave in the morning, lord,’ Roger assured him.
By the look on the count’s weather-beaten face, he clearly believed the town would fall before any relief arrived.
‘We must march east back to Philadelphia, skirt the hills and then head west to Tire. It will take at least three days.’
‘Why don’t we just go directly south, over the hills?’ said Hector.
‘It would take just as long for thousands of horses going through the hills using a handful of narrow, rocky tracks as it would riding around them,’ replied a dejected Ioannes.
‘Not for a small party on foot,’ said Sancho.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Roger.
‘We send our crossbowmen and an equal number of our most agile foot soldiers to stiffen the garrison until the main force arrives. That guide who led us to Magnesia could show us the way through the hills and on to Tire.’
‘Us?’ said Roger.
‘Never ask someone to do something you would not do yourself,’ came the reply.
Jordi looked at Luca.
‘I would go with you, father.’
‘And me,’ added Luca.
‘We leave within the hour,’ Sancho told them.
He took only the fastest and youngest, reasoning that a night journey through the hills, followed by a dash through the enemy’s siege lines and then a battle manning the walls for those who made it would be a taxing affair. He was a weak link in the chain and so were the crossbowmen, who like him were in their early forties. When the Almogavars had first arrived in Sicily, they had comprised half spearmen-cum-javelineers and half crossbowmen, the former being assigned to guard the latter on the battlefield. But the Almogavars were themselves missile soldiers, albeit armed with javelins and not crossbows. Moreover, they could defend themselves against horsemen and fight at close quarters against enemy foot soldiers, something crossbowmen could not do. And so, as the Catalan crossbowmen were either killed, deserted to join other armies or retired, they were not replaced. Those remaining were the last veterans of a dying unit but were still greatly respected for their service and skill with a crossbow.
God had blessed the venture with a full moon and Sancho would have liked to set a hard pace. But the reality was the column moved at a walking pace through the hills. Marching through trees meant tramping through the undergrowth in pitch black, and the higher the Almogavars climbed to leave the trees behind, the more the ground turned into a mass of scree and stones. It took all of Luca’s attention to avoid the outcrops and stop himself from slipping on the loose rubble beneath his feet. Beside him was Jordi, ahead of him Sancho and in the vanguard the guide Romanus who had led the Almogavars to Magnesia.
Remote and a man of few words, just as Luca had spent his youth in the hills around Rometta, so had he tended to his sheep in the highlands between Philadelphia and Magnesia. His simple, harsh life had been interrupted by the incursions of Sasa Bey’s soldiers. They
had burnt his hovel in the hills, killed his flock of sheep and turned him into a penniless refugee. A priest might have told him he had been fortunate not to have lost a family as well, but Romanus had no time for small mercies. Only revenge. Luca liked him, his story a sad reflection of his own.
‘Silence!’ hissed Sancho, Luca having cursed after stubbing his foot on a large stone.
The night march was like wading through thick mud, not that Luca had ever attempted that. It was actually more frustrating, the hills bathed in an otherworldly silver light to seemingly provide an easy passage through them. But the track was narrow and treacherous, and a misplaced step could result in a twisted or broken ankle.
The night seemed to last forever, the Almogavars inching through the silent, ghostly hills, the air still to allow sounds to travel a great distance. Aware of this, the Almogavars slowed their pace further as they gingerly took small steps to avoid disturbing any loose stones, much to the frustration of Sancho. His food bag filled with crossbow bolts gifted by Philadelphia’s armouries like the other Almogavars, Luca felt the same tingle of excitement and anticipation he had experienced on the eve of previous battles, relishing the opportunity to get to grips with the enemy. He never thought about being killed or injured. Why should he? He had been saved from the gallows at the eleventh hour, had along with Jordi saved the life of Princess Maria, which had allowed him to free Ayna, and he had never suffered even a scratch in the battles he had fought in. He had no time for priests, but surely God had spared him and continued to spare him for some great purpose, which as yet had not revealed itself.
The Almogavars began their descent into the black mass that was a forest on the southern slopes of the hills they had journeyed through, the air becoming tinged with the scent of pine as they entered the trees. The dawn was now breaking, moonlight suddenly vanishing and the eastern sky changing from black to purple and then blue hues. Then came small shards of yellow to announce the birth of a new day, the temperature plummeting to make men shiver as they paced through the forest. They halted at the edge of the treeline, giving them a panoramic view of the valley and the town of Tire some three miles distant.