We Franks, on the other hand, were practically invulnerable. Our mail covered everything except ankles and face, and we had our great shields as well. Our warhorses were valuable; to abandon them was a serious financial loss, and a galling admission that the Turks had got the better of us; but we saw that in this queer battle, where the infidels would not fight fairly, we were better without them.
Perhaps not quite all of us; a band of more than two thousand mercenaries is bound to contain men who panic in a crisis, though they are not really cowards or they would not have chosen to live by the sword. A foolish young knight called on St Michael and galloped hard for Mount Sophon, and perhaps thirty more asses followed him. The Turks let them through, and then pelted after, shouting hunting-cries as though chasing deer. The fugitives were shot down one by one, and stabbed as they lay on the ground; it was all over in five minutes, but it gave us time to form a solid cluster, our shields overlapping; as our ancestors fought three hundred years ago, before the paladins of Charlemagne taught them to ride to battle.
In that formation it was impossible to march. We were ten miles from the camp, and there were seven hours of daylight and Turkish arrows before we could begin the journey; we were obviously in for a very exhausting day.
At first it was no worse than tiring. Our shields were proof against arrows, and so was the mail behind them; it would be very bad luck if anyone was hurt by a chance wound in hand or ankle. I set the point of my shield in the ground and rested my arms on top, to take some of the weight off my feet, swollen and tender in the heat. The next few hours would be very tedious, as Messer Roussel had said; but we did not appear to be in danger.
Seeing their arrows did no harm, the Turks changed their tactics. Little bands continually threatened to charge, so that we had to carry our shields and keep on our toes; we might not rest, though we were very hot and thirsty. Some infidels even dared to ride home. The light Turkish sword is very handy, and the savages themselves, wrapped in loose sheepskins, are as active as cats; they don’t sit their ponies like warriors, but clamber all over them, using the carcass of the beast as a shield; when they rode in, their sword-points darted like snakes, and they were back out of reach before we could bring down our heavy weapons to cleave them from crown to waist; but so long as we remained alert neither side damaged the other. Thus the battle stood for three long hours.
We were blinded with sweat, and very thirsty. My sword was too heavy to lift, and I could hardly manage my shield; my knees trembled, and what I feared most of all was that I would faint. Then ponies would trample me to bits. I have always hoped that when my time comes there will be something for my friends to bury, and such a death seemed more horrible than the straightforward crack on the head which is the end of most warriors. But there was a temptation to sink down and wait for it, if only to rest until the hoofs trampled me. Then a big troop of Turks charged all together, behind a horse-tail banner, breaking the shield-ring. In a moment we reformed, and our heavy swords beat them back; but now we could see a pile of our own dead lying before us. There were still four hours of daylight.
Our stubbornness exasperated the infidels. Tired men run risks they would avoid if they were fresh, and the foe were tired though they rode while we stood. The next band who charged came straight for my place in the ranks, and one man suddenly wriggled up to stand on his saddle (a trick many Turks can perform, and not so difficult as it looks) and jumped down on top of me. He landed on my shoulders, and for a moment I stood tottering, my face buried in stinking sheepskin, while he fumbled with my hauberk to find entry for his little sword. Then a jet of blood blinded me, and I sank to my knees as he tumbled off, his neck nearly severed by a sweep of my lord’s great sword. I had not known that my lord stood behind me, and I felt more confident as I tugged at his belt to regain my feet.
But instead of clambering up I pulled him over, and we lay panting into each other’s faces; until two loyal men dropped their shields to haul him upright, and as an afterthought me also. Then I knew we were finished. If Messer Roussel de Balliol, the best knight in Romania, was so weakened by heat and thirst that he could not stand unaided, there was no hope. I fumbled with the fastenings of my hauberk; if I could undo it my throat would be exposed, and Turks always go for the throat I would be killed at one blow, without the long agony that comes to a mailed knight when he is knocked over and trampled to death.
My lord saw what I was at. ‘Now then, young Roger, suicide is a mortal sin,’ he croaked. ‘Only three hours to sundown, and then we go home. If you need a rest I’ll take your place. But I ought to stay by my banner, so let me know when you feel better.’
‘Let me die and get it over,’ I answered.
‘Nonsense. They will leave us when darkness falls, and then we can march to safety. They’re just as thirsty as we are.’
In fact the Turks had drawn back. But then we saw they were passing round waterskins, and that made our thirst harder to bear. They knew we could not get away, and they were in no hurry.
There was an eddy in our close-packed sweating ranks, and the Caesar pushed his way to my lord. He was fresher than any Frank, for he was accustomed to the burning sun of Romania, and his corselet was much lighter than our mail.
‘Lord Frankopole,’ he said quietly, not wishing the men to overhear, ‘it is time to yield. The Turks may give quarter, and anyway it is disgusting to see Christians fighting hopelessly like wild beasts. If they cut our throats we shall at least die with a prayer on our lips, instead of with anger and despair in our souls. If I cast down the Labarum will you lower the banner of St Michael?’
‘I can stand and hold a sword,’ my lord whispered in answer. ‘My grandchildren will sing of this battle. Go away and kill Turks.’ He spoke in French, but there was no need for me to translate.
The Caesar caught me by the shoulder. ‘You understand me. Persuade that mad Frank to surrender now, during this lull when no one is fighting. It’s our only chance of quarter.’
I wanted to live; but I could not bring myself to say so. I answered roughly: ‘You may think it fitting. You will live content in the city, while we are known as dastards in all the lands of the Franks.’
‘I hope I shall live content,’ he answered quietly, ‘though it will be in the dark. Surely if I counsel surrender you must see it is the only course.’
I had forgotten the fate of a defeated pretender. John Ducas really did hate useless bloodshed.
But Franks don’t surrender to infidels. I turned back to face the foe. They had finished drinking; now they charged all together with a thunder of kettledrums.
In the next hour there were three general charges, and three times we beat them back. If only they had jousted like that in the morning we would have won easily. But we were too exhausted, when at last there was flesh for our swords to bite on. Our mail turned their blows, but they knocked us bodily off our feet; when the third charge was repelled there were not more than five hundred men round the banner of St Michael; the rest lay on the ground, trampled or stabbed.
The Turks once more watched from a distance. The last charge had been nothing more than hard pushing, with both sides too weary to strike. Night was not far off, but darkness would not help us now; we could no longer walk. I had lost my sword and I leaned, doubled up, on my shield, with only a little eating-knife for weapon; I couldn’t have broken an egg with it anyway, for my trembling arms would not obey me.
Then a single man rode out from the Turkish array. Six feet off he halted and called in Greek; ‘The Lord Artouch offers you life. Embrace the True Faith and you may ride with his band; or if stubborn in superstition you will be sold at a fair price.’
‘That means ransom,’ the Caesar called to my lord. ‘I shall take the offer, whatever you barbarians decide.’ With half a dozen followers he staggered out of the shield-ring; his Labarum fell to the ground, and I don’t know what became of it.
The Turks pressed forward, thinking we had accepted their terms; and when
it came to the point we did. A filthy rider, smelling of old rams, jumped off his pony and seized my shield; I might have stabbed him; instead I lowered my head to get out of the shield-traps. In a moment three or four of them were tugging at my mail; they were rough, but not deliberately cruel, and when they left me I lay sobbing on the ground, naked and a slave, but longing for life.
I have no excuse. I was standing with steel in my hand. But after twelve hours without water under the August sun of Asia the bravest knight thinks more of life than of honour. I was not alone in my shame. As I pulled myself together and looked round I saw my lord close by; he was completely naked, but quite self-possessed; altogether four hundred Franks accepted dishonourable quarter that evening.
11. Matilda the Deliverer
A frightening thing about the Turks is that they are completely merciless but not actively cruel. In camp they go about with smiling faces and lend a hand to any captive who is in difficulties filling a strange water-skin or saddling a restless horse; then one will come with a spare bowstring and strangle some prisoner who is no longer worth keeping, showing no particular emotion, just doing one of the endless round of petty jobs that fill the life of a nomad. They have no feelings, one way or the other, about human beings who are not fellow-tribesmen or at least fellow-Turks; any more than a housewife has feelings of charity or remorse when she feeds her pullets or kills them for the table.
That night they gave us water, and blankets from a pile of stinking felt; they saw we could not march, so since to them one place is as good as another they pitched their tents on the battlefield. Then a fatigue-party examined the prisoners, and strangled about a score who were seriously wounded and unlikely to recover. (They have a superstition about shedding blood in camp, thinking it brings civil war; and strangling does not make a mess.) I was too exhausted to feel fear, and after the disgrace of surrender it did not seem to matter whether I were strangled or not; I slept soundly, and when I woke at dawn I was too hungry to worry about anything except whether I would be fed before my end came.
Our conquerors were warriors on campaign, and their sheep had been left in some valley to the eastward. But even on a swift march they take a great herd of animals, mares and cows and camels, to provide the milk which is their principal food. As soon as the sun rose they all went to milking, many sucking breakfast straight from the udder; but some remembered their responsibilities, and dumped among the naked prisoners leather bags of sour milk. Others approached with leather halters, and I thought how typical it was of savage lack of forethought to give us a meal just before execution. But the halters were not for strangling; they were fastened round our legs as ponies are hobbled to graze, and the linguist told us we might wander about the camp until evening, when the council would decide our fate. He added that we would be wise to make ourselves useful if we wanted any supper.
We were not guarded, and the hobbles allowed quite long steps, but no one tried to escape. We wore nothing but a blanket folded round the loins, and we all knew that a Frank would be skinned alive if he did not find shade during the heat of the day; besides, Turkish pickets could ride us down. We wandered among the tents, looking for shelter in return for help with the household chores. Each tent held a group of Turkish women, slit-eyed dumpy figures who were quite unabashed in the company of naked captives; when the barbarians march light they leave their pretty Roman and Arab concubines with the sheep, but the honourable wives, of their own tribe, accompany their husbands to war; in battle they manage the herd of spare ponies which is one reason why nomads out-distance their enemies, and some of them shoot well enough to be useful in the rear ranks. Most of my comrades were set to beating heaps of tangled wool to make felt, or scouring crockery, but I was lucky enough to find a smith hammering out arrow-heads from a pile of broken Roman corselets. I picked up a spare hammer, and he soon saw I knew as much about it as he did (he was very incompetent). This was harder work than washing milk-jugs, but I was glad to get it; even if there was a hitch over my ransom my life should be safe; the most improvident barbarians would consider an arrowsmith worth a drink of milk and a place by the fire.
In the evening we were given a scanty meal; then we were bound and sat down in a row. One at a time we were hauled off to see the council; but those who went first did not come back, a sensible precaution to prevent us backing up a lie told by a comrade.
When my turn came I was hustled to a round dome of black felt as big as a small church. A great fire burned before it, and my escort pushed me very close; I was a little scorched, but I know now that this was not a torment to weaken me, but a precaution against treachery. These barbarians believe their sacred fires can discover evildoers; if I had been planning to assassinate Artouch it would have turned my skin black. Then I was pushed down on my knees in the middle of the tent, facing a row of cushions on which squatted the leader and half a dozen of his counsellors.
These tents of the nomads are not constructed like western pavilions; instead of being upheld by a multitude of poles they are stiffened at the sides with wickerwork, leaving the centre clear. Since they have no other homes they hang on the walls any fine carpets or weapons they may have plundered, and often the whole interior is lined with silk. The Turks put splendour before comfort, and in their queer barbarian way they can be impressive.
The linguist was a renegade who addressed me in Greek, which was all right with me but must have been awkward for some of my comrades; the other hindrance was that he didn’t know very much Turkish, to judge by the discussion among the council whenever he tried to communicate with them. But the savages could speak no Christian tongue, and I suppose they were used to blundering interpreters and constant misunderstandings. Anyway, the ideas the linguist was trying to convey were fairly simple.
He began by asking if I would renounce salvation and worship Mahound; if I consented they would give me arms, and I might ride with them as soon as the slight wound which such treason entailed had healed over. I had feared that a refusal would mean martyrdom, which I dreaded, though every Christian must face it if it cannot be avoided. Luckily I realised from his tone that he was repeating a form which meant nothing. Not long ago the Turks were idolaters of the type who willingly embrace a civilised religion because they think it smart to belong to an organised church; unfortunately the infidels met them first, and quickly converted them; but they are not fanatical, and this preamble is hurried over at the beginning of all interviews with Christian captives. They would be rather annoyed if a rich man sold his soul to save a ransom, though they might keep the bargain unless he was very rich indeed.
When I answered, as politely as I could, that I was a baptised Christian and a gentleman of honour, he at once dropped the subject and came to business. ‘Forty pieces of gold is a fair price for a slave,’ he said. ‘If you can raise it within a week you may go free. Or if you think you might produce the money one day, but not now, you may cut a tally for it. But I warn you not to lie. If you can’t offer ransom the wisest course is to be frank about it. Perhaps my lord Artouch will send a convoy to the slave-market in Baghdad, and I shall do my best to get you into it. But the odds are you will be strangled to save the bother of guarding you. Now make up your mind and don’t keep us waiting.’
Although he was a renegade who had sold his soul to escape from slavery he was not the worst type, who hate Christians because they feel ashamed in their presence; he seemed anxious that as many as possible of us should pay up and go free; of course he probably got a commission, but it was better than the envy of a damned soul for sinners with a chance of salvation.
I answered frankly: ‘Until yesterday I was a knight, and in our camp on Mount Sophon I have a little bag of silver, besides my share of the plunder which has not yet been divided. Or rather I had these things. Who has them now I cannot say, or whether they will be delivered if I demand them. But if they offer ransom for my lord Roussel or any of his knights they will probably offer it for me. That is all I can promise.’
I was dragged out and tied to another knight, but not too cruelly, for we could sit on the ground if we got down gently. As the evening wore on more of our comrades joined us, but many of the lesser sergeants were never seen again.
I have said very little about my feelings; partly because they were very depressing and you can guess them without being told; but partly because for long stretches of time I had no feelings in particular. When you are constantly in danger of death and cannot do anything about it your mind grows numb. That evening I thought of supper, and after I had gulped down a cup of sour milk I thought of breakfast (we were very hungry); but Death, Judgement, Heaven and Hell, which should have been the objects of my constant attention, slipped out of my head unless I made a deliberate effort. I even managed to sleep, when the comrade tied to my back took the weight; later I supported him while he slept.
We could not have long survived this treatment; Turks are too negligent, and themselves too tough, to give captives the food and rest necessary to support life. They cannot be bothered with slaves, which is why their raids are so wasteful of life. But next morning our ordeal was ended. While we were being unbound for breakfast we heard shouts at the edge of the camp, and a drum began to beat the alarm; it was quickly silenced, and someone came running to fetch the renegade in charge of us. As he hurried away he called out: ‘Cheer up, lads. The envoys have arrived to discuss your ransom.’ He was not a bad creature, though of course doomed to Hell.
The Lady for Ransom Page 16