by Peter Darman
Karesi Bey smiled. ‘They are the ones with the death wish, my lord, for they have unwittingly stumbled upon a great host that will surely annihilate them, God willing.’
‘Fetch my armour,’ called Mehmed Bey without enthusiasm.
Allah had indeed revealed a plan, though it was not to the Emir of Aydin’s liking. The ferocious reputation of the Catalans had spread far and wide in a very short time, and he had no desire to witness their battlefield prowess at close quarters.
Chapter 19
The Maeander Valley runs from east to west, the river of the same name flowing across the plain in a winding fashion as it heads toward the Aegean. But around fifteen miles from the coast the valley curves in a southwestern direction to reach the sea. Anaia was positioned on the northern side of the valley, at roughly the mid-point of the ‘curve’, steep hills behind it, the valley floor extending east from the city to the river. The river itself follows the course of the valley, flowing through its centre. It is deep but not very broad – around twenty yards – but presents a formidable obstacle for foot soldiers and horsemen without boats or bridging equipment.
The distance from the city’s eastern gates to the river is around three miles, a similar length from the river eastwards to the hills on the other side of the valley. Because of the geography of the whole length of the valley, the land south of the river often experiences severe flooding, resulting in an absence of trees and sandy earth sprinkled with tufts of rushes. The soil itself is covered with a thin layer of heather and is brackish in colour. Horses’ hooves will sink into it without a sound, which makes it unsuitable for large-scale military operations involving sizeable numbers of horsemen and foot soldiers.
The space between the city and the river was where the Turkish army – over twenty thousand strong – formed its battle line against the Romans and their Catalan allies. The emirs were aware their forces outnumbered the enemy but had no experience of battlefield cooperation. And they also knew that Izzeddin Arslan and his ghazis were almost impossible to control in battle. They thus adopted a strategy they hoped would maximise their advantages while minimising their deficiencies. It was Karesi Bey who thought of the plan, the Turk who had been fighting in the saddle since he had been a boy.
In his scale armour and oversized helmet, Mehmed Bey looked ridiculous, though his foot soldiers clustered near the city gates were a magnificent spectacle. Disciplined, well equipped in helmets and leather corselets worn over scale body armour, they used the teardrop-shaped shields of the Romans and were armed with spears and swords. Unfortunately, they numbered only a thousand and their emir had issued strict instructions they were to stick to the city like glue. They thus formed the left wing of the Turkish army.
‘I hope I do not live to regret this, my lord,’ whined Mehmed Bey. ‘I would have preferred to close the gates of Anaia and let the enemy waste their time and lives on a futile siege, rather than sit on an uncomfortable horse in this heat.’
‘Allah has presented us with a chance to destroy these Catalans,’ said Karesi Bey, ‘and we should take it. Once they have been defeated, the remaining Roman garrisons in Anatolia will quickly surrender.’
A mighty cheer went up from the great horde of ghazis deployed on the right of the Aydin foot soldiers, though ‘deployed’ hinted at a military formation rather than the mob of ten thousand ghazis clustered around the emaciated figure of Izzeddin Arslan. In the midst of the unruly host stood the holy man’s élite soldiers, immaculate in their mail armour and rigid in their disciplined ranks. The reason for the rising noise was the unfurling of the sacred banner of the Prophet. It was a huge green flag made from silk, on the end of its pole a gold clenched fist holding a Koran. Any Christian whose eyes looked on the banner was to be put to immediate death, though no one dared touch Karesi Bey’s Christian heavy horsemen deployed to the rear of the ghazis.
They along with the rest of Karesi Bey’s horsemen – two thousand horse archers and fifteen hundred mounted lancers – stood ready to charge through the gap between the ghazis and the river. In addition to Karesi Bey’s horsemen, there were the riders of Mehmed Bey – three thousand horse archers – and the five hundred horse archers and five hundred mounted spearmen led by Saruhan Bey. The final mounted element of the Turkish army were the three thousand horse archers of Sasa Bey, the unstable, brutish leader of the Germiyanid Emirate. The horsemen were a blaze of colour. The horses wore thick saddle blankets – called içlik – in red, purple, green and blue. There were many red banners sporting a sword, the emblem of Karesi Bey. Others were maroon with a black circle in the centre, the standard of Mehmed Bey, while the plain black flags carried by other horsemen designated those loyal to Sasa Bey, and Saruhan Bey’s horsemen carried purple flags.
Karesi Bey knew his horsemen were head and shoulders above the other Turkish riders when it came to battlefield tactics, being fully trained in close cooperation between horse archers and lancers. But he also knew that the Catalan mercenaries would immediately attack once they came within range of the Turkish army. He gambled that the thousands of ghazis would be the main focus of the Christian attack, and while the Catalans were busy slaughtering Izzeddin Arslan’s followers, he would lead thousands of horsemen through the gap to envelop the Catalans and their Roman allies. Caught between the ghazis to their front and thousands of horse archers raining missiles down on them in the rear, the Christians would either be slaughtered or they would throw down their weapons and beg for mercy.
There was a reason he had suggested the Turkish foot soldiers should form the left flank and centre, because there were olive groves near the city, which would disrupt the Catalan attack. The excellent foot soldiers of Mehmed Bey would hopefully be able to use the trees to their advantage when battling the enemy. Beyond the olive groves extending eastwards was pastureland, which was largely flat and sparsely populated with trees. It was where the ghazis stood and where they would bear the full brunt of the Christian attack. Izzeddin Arslan was no fool and knew his followers were being used as bait for the Christians. But such was his blind faith that he did not care. Ghazis killed in battle would enter paradise and so he relished the opportunity to give his followers a chance to reach heaven. Tactics were irrelevant. Allah would decide the outcome of the battle.
Five divisions of Almogavars were running towards the mass of enemy soldiers mustered to the right of the gleaming city of Anaia, their whoops and cheers reaching Luca’s ears as he paced forward beside Jordi Rey. He was in the first rank made up of two hundred and fifty in total, behind him three other ranks of equal number. Each man occupied around three feet of space, which meant the Almogavar battle line covered a distance of three-quarters of a mile.
Luca felt the same emotions as he had during other battles: intense exhilaration coupled with a thirst to get to grips with the enemy as soon as possible. His legs felt as light as feathers, as did the spear he held in his left hand. His javelins were tucked in the quiver strapped to his back and his shield hung by a strap on the left side of his back. He and the thousands of others made no sound as they raced across the grass, on their left hundreds of horsemen cantering forward towards the inviting gap on the Turkish right flank.
The tactics were simple enough: close with the enemy as quickly as possible to negate their greatest asset – their horse archers. Foot soldiers, regardless if they are disciplined or not, are extremely vulnerable to arrows and crossbow bolts, the more so if missiles are shot at them from mobile horsemen who can withdraw, reform and charge to get behind any units of foot soldiers. But once the Almogavars were in a close-quarters mêlée with the enemy, the foe’s horse archers would be immediately rendered ineffective.
The endless training and route marches had produced soldiers who were both physically strong and knew drills off by heart. They were striding across the ground but did not break formation, every man constantly glancing left and right to ensure the ranks were maintained. Enemy horsemen could appear at any minute; indeed, many were
wondering where were the Turkish riders? And if they did it would be imperative to maintain formation. Horsemen could not break a discipline formation of foot soldiers, and if the Almogavars were surrounded it would fall to Bernat de Rocafort and his riders to chase away any horse archers.
But there were no horse archers today.
Luca could see individual faces among the enemy throng now. He also saw a smattering of white turbans among the mostly unprotected heads, and out of the corner of his eye a huge green flag fluttering in the breeze. Then he heard a great cheer and the enemy surged forward. Unencumbered as they were by helmets and armour, and equipped only with round wooden shield and spears, the enemy sprinted forward at great speed. Sancho Rey blew the whistle in his mouth, a signal that was echoed up and down the line, and hundreds of javelins flew through the air in response.
Luca plucked one from his quiver and threw it at the torso of a wild-haired man armed only with a spear whose face was twisted with hate. The man was closing fast but the javelin was travelling faster and he collapsed to the ground when the steel head slammed into his body. The air was thick with missiles as the Almogavar front rank emptied their quivers, Luca and Jordi throwing their second and third javelins in quick succession. Each one found a target but the enemy fanatics kept on coming.
Javelins from the ranks behind lanced through the air to ensure the enemy warriors would run into a rain of deadly rain of steel-tipped missiles before they reached the front ranks of the Almogavars. This had the result of culling hundreds of warriors and taking the sting out of their wild charge.
But still they kept coming.
Luca took the shield off his back and gripped its central handgrip, his spear now in his right hand. A screaming Turk running at him tripped over a dead comrade impaled on a javelin, and tried to clamber to his feet, only to be killed when Luca thrust his spear into his heart. Luca stepped over him to fight a more-wary spearman who had his own shield tucked tightly to his body. But he was barefoot and a lightning-fast lunge and jab to his toes made him lose his balance. His spear arm faltered, Luca lunged forward again and stabbed him in his belly. Not a deep wound but enough to make him drop his spear and shield.
The Almogavars pushed on against successive waves of enemy warriors, which broke against Catalan spears. But the Catalan advance slowed to a crawl. Sancho gave two sharp blasts on his whistle to indicate the front rank should turn about and withdraw to the rear. Luca, Jordi, Romanus and the others were bundled to the back of the formation to allow the second rank to take over the close-quarters killing. Luca did not like to be wrenched away from what for him had become an exhilarating activity, but it had been drilled into him that orders came before private pleasure.
He and his friend grinned like imbeciles at each other. They were drenched in sweat but there was not a scratch on them. He slapped Romanus on the back. It was his first battle and so far, despite two of his javelins missing their targets, he had not faltered and was unhurt. Others had not been so lucky and there were a few gaps in the now rear rank of the formation, but only a few. And the Almogavars continued to move forward, stepping over dead Turks killed in the earlier javelin storm.
The Turks were now a dense mass in front of the Almogavars, which meant the advance was slow and grim, akin to hacking through thick foliage with an axe. It required skill and reserves of stamina against a foe possessed of religious fervour.
*****
Karesi Bey’s battle plan was falling to pieces. He had deliberately left a gap where the Turkish right flank should have been to allow his and the other horsemen to flood through it when the Christians directed their attack against the ghazis. Instead, the Roman riders and their mounted Catalan allies headed straight for the gap, forsaking their own foot soldiers. He saw the enemy riders approach, red and yellow banners among them, the mighty cataphracts in the vanguard. Only his own heavy horsemen and lancers could hope to stop the Christian riders. He turned to Mahmud.
‘Sound the charge.’
But before he could do so, the horse archers of Sasa Bey, Saruhan Bey and Mehmed Bey cantered forward, breaking into a gallop as they headed straight for the Christian horsemen.
‘Idiots,’ hissed Karesi Bey in helpless rage.
Hundreds of horse archers wearing no armour and only soft headdresses charged headlong at the Christian riders, all of whom had levelled their lances in expectation of close-quarter combat. The horse archers began shooting arrows at the enemy, the thin black missiles arching into the sky before falling among the Catalans and Romans. Those striking the armour of the cataphracts and their mounts bounced off. But others struck unarmoured horses, sending beast and rider crashing to the ground. But then the Romans and Catalans were among the Turks.
The horse archers, or rather their commanders, had made a fatal mistake. In their eagerness to attack the Christian riders, they had sent their men into a limited space in which they would find it impossible to manoeuvre. The river prevented them wheeling to the right, and the great contest between the Almogavars and ghazis was occupying the ground on their left. This meant they charged into a narrow space, which prevented many escaping when the enemy horsemen reached them. Dozens were skewered on lances as they attempted to wheel around and flee, many stabbed in the back by pursuing Christian horsemen. Then the Romans and Catalans went about their deadly work with swords and maces. Soon, dozens of horse archers and horses with empty saddles were streaming past a livid and helpless Karesi Bey, Mahmud sitting in the saddle beside him shaking his head as they witnessed the routing of six thousand Turkish horse archers.
Bernat’s Catalan horsemen, like their Roman counterparts, highly trained and disciplined, reformed on the corpse-littered ground. The initial arrow volleys had emptied a number of saddles but they had inflicted many more casualties on the hapless horse archers they had cornered. Now all that remained was to wheel right to envelop what was left of the Turkish centre.
*****
Luca could see the large green banner now as he and Jordi moved forward to relieve those in front, taking up position in the second rank of the Almogavars. He had no idea what was happening to the other divisions, or indeed the Catalan and Roman horsemen. But he did know that he and those around him had killed many Turks because he had been stepping over their pierced and bloody bodies for what seemed like an age. Then he experienced something different – men in the first rank stopped and then began to fall back, others falling to the ground, clutching wounded bellies or lacerated faces. The man directly in front of him groaned and crumpled, to reveal a line of large oblong shields and a row of spears pointing menacingly at the Almogavars. They had swept aside the ghazis but now came face-to-face with Izzeddin Arslan’s élite foot soldiers.
As well as their religious fervour, they were former professional soldiers in the finest war gear. Crucially, they were highly disciplined and remained in their ranks as they stepped forward to halt the Almogavars.
Luca had never faced a seemingly impenetrable wall of shields and spears before, black eyes staring back at him above the top rim of shields and below helmet rims. He searched for suitable targets for his spear but had to react with his own shield when a spear point was jabbed at him. Unlike the Turkish soldiers, he was wearing no armour and his shield suddenly seemed tiny and wholly inadequate compared to the large oblong ones he faced. But his instincts were still fast and he brushed the spear point aside, thrusting his right arm forward at the face of the man who had just tried to stab him. Who brought up his own shield to block the blow. Sensing an opportunity, Luca whipped back his spear and tried to stab the soldier in his shins. But his opponent also had fast reactions and dropped his shield to stop the point.
An endless rasping sound filled the air as men on both sides stabbed and jabbed with spears, striking shields as they search for an opening. The first two ranks of the Turks began working in unison, the front rank crouching to allow the one behind to thrust their spears forward. Almogavars parried the first strike but were cau
ght by the second spear point. Men began to fall, to be roughly dragged back by those behind before they were trampled on or finished off by a spear thrust.
Luca, Jordi and a wide-eyed Romanus were now fully occupied with fending off multiple spear attacks. Then Romanus beside Luca went down with a shoulder wound. He was pulled back out of the fray. The Turk who had stabbed him stepped forward, Luca pivoted low and delivered a jab to his momentarily exposed left thigh, the point of his spear piercing flesh. The Turk faltered but Luca’s attention was drawn back to his front and he had no choice but to step back to avoid the wicked metal points being directed at his face and torso. He and Jordi continued to step back as the Almogavars went through an unusual experience – retreating.
Their discipline and formation were still holding, but the Catalan foot soldiers were steadily and surely being pushed back. Out of javelins, many of their spear shafts broken, they had no answer to the unbroken wall of shields and spears that was retaking the ground they had won earlier.
‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’
The religious chant drowned out all other sounds as the Turks sensed victory. Luca saw the green banner fluttering defiantly out of the corner of his eye, though only fleetingly as he used his now damaged shield to block spears thrust at him.
‘Forgive me, Hector,’ he said to himself, bringing up his spear to shoulder height and hurling it at the black-eyed demon who had been tormenting him for what seemed like an age.
He shouted in triumph as the metal point went straight though the Turk’s left eye socket and into his brain. The hideous spectacle of a dead man with an eight-foot spear lodged in his head remained in place for a few seconds before he and the shaft fell to the ground. Luca drew his sword, leaped forward and stabbed a Turk in the neck, blood sheeting over his arm. He whipped the blade back and slashed it across another Turk’s neck to his right, causing the man to drop his spear and collapse into the spearman on his left. Then he speedily withdrew before the Turks used him as a pin cushion. It was a small victory in a battle that was being lost. And now he had no spear with which to fend off the enemy assaults. Before he could do anything, he was grabbed and yanked back by a gruff Almogavar behind.