The Lady for Ransom

by Alfred Duggan

  But there was no disguising that we had lost popular support. Romans take these rebellions very lightly; there is nearly always one going somewhere, but the populace do not expect it to affect their lives. Great nobles may wager their eyes to win power, and nobody thinks worse of them; but they are not expected to devastate the countryside during their operations. Our sack of Chrysopolis was a breach of the customs of civil war; now every Roman who was not too firmly committed to the Caesar to draw back saw us as unprincipled barbarians, little better than Turks. My lord grew alarmed for the safety of his family.

  The camp was comfortable and strongly fortified, but too large for our numbers to hold against a serious siege. Luckily there was in the neighbourhood a small castle named Metabole; there my lady and her children were installed with a small guard. We had collected a very rich treasure, from Chrysopolis and the estates of the Comneni; this was not to be divided until the end of the campaign, and meanwhile it also was stored in the castle.

  The Turks approached slowly, ravaging as they came; but there was no point in marching against them, for they could always outride us if they were unwilling to give battle. We decided to await them where we were. But the Caesar was worried. He had retreated, and that is normally fatal to a pretender. He decided that to hearten his followers he must have himself crowned. A coronation by the Archbishop of Nicomedia lacked the prestige of the real ceremony in Holy Wisdom, but it was better than nothing; on the Feast of the Assumption a rather depressing ceremony took place. I was there, and I enjoyed the singing and the splendour of the vestments; afterwards there was a great breakfast, with plenty of wine; but the whole thing emphasised that our advance against the city had ended in failure. No recruits came in, and the Caesar’s Roman forces grew less every day.

  Next morning our camp was in turmoil. During the coronation discipline had naturally been relaxed, and it is always very difficult to make a freeborn Frankish sergeant stay on watch unless the enemy are actually in sight. The pedagogue Leontacius had seized his opportunity; at dusk he had taken the Ducas children to the latrine, as always at their bedtime. But he had gone to the far end, where the conduit led over the ditch, and thus escaped with his charges. A sentry should have been there, but it was an unpopular post on account of the stench; of course he had been drinking in the guardroom, though he denied it, saying the learned Roman had caused the children to vanish by enchantment. That is a maddening excuse which may always be true, though I did not believe it in this particular case. But my lord did not punish him, for a captain of mercenaries is ruined if his men consider him too severe. I am glad to say the slothful sentry died in battle soon after. But perhaps the spell lingered, hampering his eyesight; nobody knows what Roman magic can really accomplish.

  Anyway, the grandsons of our new Emperor had been smuggled away to take refuge with Michael; which showed what their pedagogue thought of our chances. Leontacius himself was captured; he was a fat old beast, incapable of marching, and he must have given the children to local peasants. I questioned him that evening, but I learned nothing. He had been beaten by those who caught him, which is always a mistake, though natural in the circumstances; his legs were already broken and he was too dazed to respond to the torture. Two days later he died; a very brave creature, especially when you remember he was a eunuch; but he went into the business with his eyes open, knowing the penalty of failure. No one would make treaties if hostages got into the habit of running away.

  We could all see that the attempted revolution had ended in failure. The old followers of Ralph de Mauron suggested we should sack Nicomedia before the Turks arrived, and then go home with our plunder. But Messer Roussel had sworn fealty and thought it dishonourable to desert his lord; besides, the Caesar still had a small bodyguard of regular Roman soldiers and enough partisans in the countryside to bring in more information than Frankish scouts could gather. My lord was ashamed to be a brigand; while John Ducas rode with us we were respectable mercenaries, engaged in civil war. But I think my lady also influenced him. She had no desire to return to Italy; and she was enjoying a very good time in the castle of Metabole. There she had the best of both worlds, commanding the garrison like a western chatelaine, and at the same time painting her face, bathing in hot steam, and giving supper-parties to the smart young gentlemen of Nicomedia. She had collected a really good choir for her chapel, though her own rich western voice did not harmonise with the piping of eunuchs.

  In the end the council agreed that we should stay where we were, give Artouch a beating when he arrived, and continue to live in luxury on the taxes of Asia.

  Five days after the coronation we had word that the Turks were approaching. We were eager for battle. We had ridden down every band of infidels who had dared to stand against us, and though at Manzikert they had destroyed a great army that was because Andronicus Ducas betrayed his lord. It was likely these men would not face us when it came to the point; perhaps they had taken Michael’s money only to gain unopposed entry to the Theme of Optimation; they might even join the Caesar, and then we could have another try at capturing the city. But my lord, who did not forget his family so long as he saw them frequently, wisely insisted that all our noncombatants should remain in the shelter of Metabole.

  It was two months since our last fight, the Battle of Zompi, and our horses were rested and fit; our mail was in good condition, and the recruits from Pop’s band knew their neighbours and their places in the ranks. The Caesar, who marched with us under a makeshift imitation of the Labarum, brought only a lifeguard of fifty Ducas kinsmen; but we were more than two thousand five hundred mailed Frankish horse, and in a way it was an advantage that we did not have to alter our tactics to fit in with a crowd of Roman archers. We had scattered the infidel on many a Sicilian battlefield, and there was no army in the world which could sustain our charge.

  We bivouacked in the plain, within sound of Turkish kettledrums, and at dawn our scouts reported the foe marching to meet us. This was better than we had hoped, a head-on collision between trained warhorses and Turkish ponies. My lord marshalled us in two lines, about two bowshots apart. Since in fact none of us carried bows the Turks could get in between; but then they would be crushed by the charge of the second line. I took my place with the other knights in the centre of the first rank, near the banner of St Michael. The Caesar with his little troop rode in the second line, a neat solution of the problem of precedence. For according to Roman ideas the place of the commander in chief is in the rear, not several lengths ahead of his most eminent followers.

  As the Turks came over a rise in the rolling plain my first impression was that there were a great many of them. How many I cannot say, for they rode in loose order, always changing places; but they must have outnumbered us by two to one. In the midst rode their leader, kettledrums banging away all round him. But what really annoyed me was that behind his horsetail banners, in a place of little dignity, a shaggy barbarian carried the standard of Anatolikon. The Emperor Michael, or rather the eunuch Nicephoritzes who ruled in his name, had granted this great fief to the infidels on condition they rid him of the Frankish army. It was an insult to rank us as worse pests than the Turks; and of course a betrayal of Christendom as well. When I explained to my comrades the significance of that desecrated cross every knight spurred his horse, and Messer Roussel had to gallop hard to keep his place in the front of the charging mass.

  As you may have noticed, I had done less fighting than most knights of my rank, and in that wild onset I concentrated on the management of my shield, crouching low and bracing myself for the shock. I was riding against a drummer, and I thought what a satisfying clang there would be when those brazen vessels hit the ground, mixed up with the legs of a broken-backed pony. Nothing could stand against my lance, the weight of my steel-clad body and a heavy warhorse concentrated behind the point. Fighting seemed very easy.

  At the last moment, when we were only a few lengths away, the Turks whipped round and galloped before us, shooting o
ver their horses’ tails. That brought a disturbing memory of Manzikert, where a more sedate advance had been countered by the same tactics. But surely no rider who turned in the saddle to shoot behind could keep ahead of galloping knights; we must just squeeze a little more speed out of our horses. But we got no closer, and when a horse came down with an arrow in his leg the rider was cast among the hoofs, where even good mail would not save him. At the end of four miles our horses were beginning to falter, and Messer Roussel waved his lance sideways as a signal to stop. Those near him obeyed, but we were not drilled Romans. When the banner of St Michael came to a halt that was good enough for me, and my horse was only too willing to stand and get his breath. But some proud knights wanted to be further forward than anyone else. They continued to gallop; then the Turks suddenly halted in their turn (I never heard them pass orders; they seemed to move all together, as a flock of starlings wheels). Our heroes galloped straight into the mass, but instead of breaking the infidels clustered round them like hounds round a boar; when each knot dispersed a Christian lay on the ground.

  We had lost more than a dozen good men, and were thoroughly sobered. But none of us doubted the outcome. For more than a year there had been Turks in the field, and always they had fled rather than face our charge. Now all we had to do was to form up and start galloping again; when we had pressed them a little longer they would scatter, even if we could not catch them.

  Then we heard war-cries behind us. I glanced over my shoulder to see our second line with their backs to us, preparing to charge a mass of Turks who had hidden in a fold of the ground and come in on our rear. My lord saw it also and shouted for us to turn about and ride after our supporters, lest the army be divided.

  Our second line was made up of about a thousand Frankish sergeants, beside the Caesar and his little bodyguard; fifty Romans should not have much influence over a thousand Franks, but in fact this second line was easier to handle than the first. Only biddable and level-headed sergeants fall in with the reserve; the uncontrollable paladins who never heed an order naturally ride in the front rank of the first line. The second line performed their about-turn in very fair array, and charged all together; what is more, the Turks rode to meet them, and they actually got home. They overthrew many, and in a moment the survivors were galloping hard to get away, even beating their ponies with the little whips they carry because they are too barbarous to wear spurs.

  This was comforting as far as it went; the second line had knocked over a number of Turks, and the rest tended to disperse as they fled at top speed. But meanwhile we in the front line were facing all ways at once, for the infidels whom we had charged had now come back to long arrow-range. Apart from the difficulty of explaining an arrow in the buttocks we could not bring ourselves to turn our backs on a foe who advanced against us. The front line was too disordered to move in any direction.

  The Caesar was a trained Roman officer, who kept his head in the excitement of victory. He quickly halted the second line, and brought it back at a smart trot. The usual two bowshots away I heard his trumpets sound the Halt. But then things began to go wrong; some of his sergeants were brave, and seeing the main body of the foe before them pressed on to the encounter; others were nervous, anxious to get as close to their comrades as possible. The second line continued its advance, and the Caesar brought up his flag and his bodyguard when he saw he would be isolated if he obeyed his own orders. The whole army, more than two thousand excited warhorses, was clubbed in a dense mass. Arrows began to arrive from every direction. The fact is that Roman officers are a menace to a Frankish army, for they set tasks to the troops which they are not trained to perform.

  ‘I never thought Turks would come back to the fight after we had charged them,’ my lord said anxiously. ‘Roger, tell the Caesar we must get sorted out before we do any more. There’s a little hill over there. Let him bring up his flag, and we will ride to it in one body.’

  The Caesar objected. ‘When you fight Turks don’t take high ground. It makes it easier for them to shoot the horses. That ravine on the left would be better, where there are bushes to give cover.’

  ‘Who’s in command of this army?’ grunted Messer Roussel. ‘Everyone always rallies on high ground.’ He pushed his horse through the throng, and we steamed, in no sort of order to the steep little hill he had fixed on.

  It was a round dome, not high but with steep sides. The Turks made way for us, still shooting at long range, and we reached it unhindered. Of course we knew exactly what to do when we got there, for this is the Frankish manner of fighting; the lesser sergeants, and the fifty or sixty men who had already lost their horses, formed a ring round the base, while the knights grouped themselves at the summit, ready to charge in any direction. The Turks, who think that whenever their enemies make a move it is to draw them into ambush, withdrew out of range.

  ‘There, what did I tell you,’ said my lord with satisfaction. ‘Up here we can reform at leisure, and deliver a charge which will finally scatter those Turks. I’ve never seen them so obstinate. Why don’t they ride home to look after their confounded sheep?’

  When the Caesar looked up inquiringly I translated my lord’s remark. ‘Tell the Frankopole,’ he answered, ‘that the situation is more serious than he thinks. These infidels are not the furtive raiders of two years ago. They have seen an Emperor in chains, and ridden in triumph from the Euphrates to the Sangarius. Our horses will soon need water; we are ten miles from any sort of fortification where we can dismount in safety. Nicephoritzes has promised an enormous sum for my head, and Artouch may earn it.’

  Messer Roussel had picked up enough Greek to understand; he frowned and turned sharply away. But as if to prove the Caesar right the infidels at this moment began to advance in a great half-moon. They had concluded there was no Roman ambush hidden in the plain, and the battle was going as they liked it.

  It was midday, and blindingly hot. Our mail glowed in the sun, and the horses, their eyes sunk deep and the poverty-line beginning to show behind the girths, kept on turning their heads to nibble our feet, trying to remind us that it was time to give them water. We were hungry, hot and tired.

  My lord considered. ‘Come on, gentlemen,’ he said briskly. ‘This is a very tedious fight, and it has not gone as I planned it. I propose we call it a draw, and end it as quick as we can. When I give the word we shall charge back on our tracks, and keep moving until we reach the camp on Mount Sophon. Ride well closed up, and watch our old footmarks, or we may go astray.’ Mount Sophon was only ten miles away, but the heat had brought out a yellow haze all round the horizon; the sun shone through a tunnel in this haze on to a parched featureless plain.

  A retreat was the wisest course; but very few of our men had been wounded, our charge had pushed back the foe, and it took a cool head to recognise our awkward position. Several knights protested. My lord had no patience with vainglorious chivalry, and if it had been only a question of the disgrace of turning our backs on the infidel he would not have listened; but someone raised a more practical objection. ‘There’s my cousin, Messer Eudes,’ a young knight shouted. ‘He’s unhorsed. If you tell me to leave him among the infidels here’s my defiance, you cowardly old fox.’ He actually began to pull at a glove, as though to challenge my lord on the field.

  ‘Then take him up behind you, Messer Ranulf. We shall not desert our comrades. But the Romans, who know the Turks well, say we should get back to camp before our horses collapse.’ At once there was a stir in our ranks, as dismounted men sought out friends who would do them a favour. The Turks saw something was happening, and withdrew with their usual caution.

  But they could see all we did on that hilltop, and horses carrying double would not frighten the most cautious infidel.

  They again formed a half-moon on our line of retreat awaiting our charge.

  Even a big western warhorse is heavily burdened by a man in full mail, and when he carries two he can hardly trot. The enemy easily kept their distance, still pouring
in arrows. More horses were disabled, and each time someone had to stop to pick up the man.

  When we had gone less than a mile a quarter of our horses were down and a band of infidels actually charged our rear, killing three sergeants before they were wiped out. Messer Roussel suddenly seized the banner of St Michael and drove the pole into the baked and crumbling earth.

  ‘Halt, gentlemen,’ he called. ‘We shall wait for darkness before continuing our march. Let the dismounted stand in front, to protect the horses with their shields.’

  ‘Heroes, form a shield-ring!’ shouted an eccentric old sergeant, who may have had a touch of the sun. To well-brought-up young gentlemen who learn the old poems in praise of their ancestors it is a familiar cry; but it was strange to hear it on a modern battlefield. Yet we were in a strange world, where the foe shot arrows from a distance and would not charge honestly; other, more sensible men took up the archaic call, and my lord hoisted a leg over his crupper and slid to the ground. He whacked his weary horse with the flat of his sword, and shouted that all might hear: ‘Uncle Odo is a wise leader. Why not hold out on foot until dark? It’s only ten miles to safety, and we can keep moving all the time. By all means, heroes form the shield-ring!’

  The Romans thought we were mad, but in the crisis of a battle such madness is catching. The Caesar also dismounted; his horse was clothed from ears to fetlock in the purple housing that marks an Emperor, under a very heavy saddle of gilded leather; it was already so exhausted it was not much use to him. Normally an Emperor takes several spare horses into battle, but John Ducas had only enough to mount his bodyguard. His followers swung out of the saddle at his command; they were brave men, for their light corselets did not cover their limbs, and on foot they were still a mark for Turkish arrows.