by Tony Roberts
The army straggled for miles. As the rearguard, Raymond’s force got the worst of the dust and filth that was cast off by the thousands of men, women, children and beasts. Animal droppings covered the road and it got everywhere. Fortunately much of it was coated in dirt and could be kicked to one side, but sometimes it was too liquid to do that and that was when it coated the wheels of the wagons, the boots and shoes of the people, and the hoofs of the horses.
Casca plodded on, a cloth over his nose and mouth to protect them from the choking dust. At least there wouldn’t be rocks to negotiate; they had been taken care of. The sides of the valley they were winding their way along were steep and mostly bare. It looked like it was prone to rock falls and landslides. During the largest part of the day the sun hammered down onto them, a merciless mocking sight. It was only in late afternoon that it finally dropped out of sight over the rim of the valley to their right, and only then did they get relief.
They were hot, dusty, tired and had aching feet. The beasts of burden needed plenty of water and the supplies they had loaded up at Nicaea were rapidly diminishing. Casca hoped Tatikus knew what he was doing, taking them on the more southerly route. Raymond had spoken to Casca after the big council of war at the Sangarius. He’d told Casca that there had been disagreements over which route to take, but eventually they had taken the advice from the emperor and Tatikus that it was best to avoid the central route as in summer it was waterless and even more open to the sun’s effects. The Crusaders were inclined to listen to Alexius, given that they’d received plenty of riches from the emperor at Pelekanon. It had bought their ears. What their decisions would be the further they went was open to conjecture, since the emperor was not going to leave the capital for long and he had to ensure Nicaea was rebuilt and repaired after a decade or more of Turkish occupation.
The Crusader lords were now on their own and following their own path. The alien terrain and hostile forces compelled them to group together and act as one, but Casca knew that just under the surface rivalries were simmering. Bohemond and Raymond, for example, hated each other and were determined to assume overall leadership at the other’s expense. Tancred, Bohemond’s nephew, was a surly and difficult man who clearly detested having to rely on imperial assistance. He gave Casca the cold shoulder and never acknowledged his existence.
Of the others, the two Roberts, Normandy and Flanders, were correct and punctilious but never friendly. Stephen of Blois, one who was traveling with the Normandy contingent, was in contrast friendly and approachable. Godfrey and Baldwin spoke to Casca readily enough, but there was always a gap they kept and refused to bridge.
Casca had received from Alexius a letter while still in Nicaea thanking him on helping to recover the city for him, and had made a last effort to keep him in his service, even offering him the governorship of Nicaea, but Casca knew it was time to go. He’d known Alexius on and off for twenty-five years now and sooner or later he’d start to ask why Casca never aged. It was time to go and bid the empire a farewell. At least, for the time being. No doubt he would return this way again in the future, long after Alexius and Irene and even John had turned to dust. The question in his mind was would the Empire also be dust whenever he did return?
The valley was long and winding, and they stuck to the left hand side of the scar that had been scoured from the landscape by the watercourse. The sun beat down and Casca wiped his neck, grimacing. Dust had gotten in under his face cloth and had worked its way round to the rear. He glanced at his hand. Coated with grains of dust and sand. The temptation to slide down off the road into the tiny stream was almost too much.
He looked around. Giselle was seated on the riding board of the wagon behind him, drawn by a donkey. She had found Adhemar’s patronage extended to securing her transportation for her belongings and the tent. Casca had accepted it with good grace, knowing full well it would end up being a blessing the further they went into Anatolia.
The donkey plodded on stoically, head bowed, managing to project an air of utter dejection and wearisome acceptance of the hostile conditions. At least it wasn’t being stubborn and refusing to move. He’d known many beasts in the past to point blank refuse to move. When that happened either they replaced it with another, or if none were available, all kinds of inducement employed to persuade it to move.
Failing that they killed it.
The Crusaders walked, heads down, marching mindlessly on their way towards the Holy Land. They had taken the Cross and had all vowed to free Jerusalem from the grip of Islam, no matter what. They saw it as their divine duty; God had ordained it, or so they had been told by the Pope, and who were they to argue? Their lords did it for other reasons. Land, prestige, money, fame, or maybe just getting favor from the Pope.
Wiping his eyes with the back of his gritty hand, Casca replaced his helmet and resumed his walk, squinting through the dust cloud that filled the valley. Thousands of feet and hoofs kicked up one monstrous cloud, and he was in no doubt the Turks had their precise position known. If they wished to attack they could choose any ambush point. Ambush was their preferred manner of warfare, that and raiding.
A short while later the men ahead came to a halt and Casca looked up in surprise. A rattling of weapons being readied alerted him. He stood up straighter and tried to see ahead, but it was hard to pick out anything. Something was up, that was for sure. He walked back to the now halted wagon. Giselle was looking down at him in concern, the driver alongside her expressionless. He was one of Adhemar’s creatures and following his bishop’s wishes. “Remain here, Giselle. I’m going to go on to see what’s happening.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure; maybe. But worry not, there’s plenty of people here. You’ll be safe. I’ll be back,” he smiled, squeezing her shoulder. He turned and loped up to the next group of men, all looking apprehensively ahead. Casca pushed through them, telling them to wait and be ready. The dust cloud was settling slightly, which was a relief, but it was still obscuring too much.
Raymond’s position wasn’t too far away, and the banners identified where he was. Casca came up and was allowed to approach the count by his retinue who recognized the strangely-dressed warrior. His reputation from the battle outside Nicaea had spread and they gave him the respect he was due. There was also a strange tale circulating that he was blessed in some way, having been saved by a miracle. Bishop Adhemar had forbidden such talk but talk did take place, no matter who forbade it.
“Problems, Count Raymond?”
“Oh, it’s you,” Raymond said, taking time from looking ahead to look at his imperial advisor. “Reports have come back that the Turks are up ahead. I’m waiting for confirmation but it seems the vanguard have made contact and are fighting them.”
“Then we must help them,” Casca said. He cocked an ear. “You hear that?” he said.
Raymond listened. “Drums?”
“Yes.” Casca knew what those were. “Turkish battle drums. That’s the main enemy army. No doubt about that. About four miles away, I think.”
Raymond slapped his thigh in excitement. “Then we must go to the rest of the army’s help. What lies ahead, Baron?”
Casca gathered his thoughts. “This valley opens out just about where the battle is, left and right. If the Turks are blocking the end they could bottle us all up in this valley. More likely they wanted to ambush Bohemond and Tatikus, and if that’s the case then they’d let them out, draw them in towards one force and hit them from two or three sides.”
“Right. You are with me, Baron?”
“You bet, Count Raymond.”
Raymond’s lined face broke briefly into a smile. This is what he wanted to come on crusade for. “We mount up. I will have to lend you a horse. Stay close to me. I will have need of your knowledge of the terrain and the enemy tactics.”
“And my prowess in battle?”
Raymond chuckled. “That, too, yes.” He shouted to his men to prepare for battle. The baggage, women an
d children were to remain there, guarded by a few hundred men. A horse was brought for Casca who mounted up awkwardly, but once in the saddle he felt the familiar motion of a beast underneath him. He didn’t like riding that much but had ridden enough to be reasonably skilled in at least staying in the saddle.
The soldiers marched off rapidly, the cavalry leading them. The valley wound its way ahead, and they soon came across some people streaming back towards them. Raymond shouted at them to stop and some to be brought to him to explain what was going on. These were the unarmed camp followers from Godfrey’s force, and they told of Turks suddenly appearing from either side and attacking them. Godfrey had put them to flight and then had gone on ahead to support the hard-pressed units of Bohemond and Robert who were, apparently, facing thousands of madly screaming Turks.
The sounds of battle carried to them. Not too far away men were fighting, and dying. Raymond got enough from the camp followers to have some idea of what was going on. He beckoned Casca over to him. “Bohemond is trapped in a meadow in the valley you described earlier. Godfrey is trying to support his right flank. The Turks are gathering for a charge. We must stop them. The fight is off to the right, over there,” he pointed at the hills rising on the other side of the watercourse.
“Then we must cross over, ride over those hillocks and take the Turks in the flank. They won’t like that,” Casca said.
“My thoughts exactly. My lords, we ride!” Raymond waved to his lesser nobles. The flags were raised, banners waved, and thousands of throats cried in exultation. Now they were going to fight the infidel!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The valley opened out as it joined the one running left and right at its head. The watercourse flowed into a second, bigger one running to the right. The walls of the valley receded on either side, opening out the vista of the battlefield to the arriving Crusaders.
Casca galloped alongside the heavy cavalry of Raymond and his knights. The infantry gamely tried to keep up, struggling uphill as they skirted the shoulder of the valley side as it rolled back from the river they had marched alongside. The terrain rose and fell, and the ridges hid the riders from the battle taking place in the valley below.
Casca stole glances from time to time, looking down at what he could see of the fight taking place. There wasn’t a great deal of dust, mostly because they were fighting in a flowery meadow, irrigated by the river that wound its way along the bottom of the valley. The main Crusader force was hemmed back into a camp that had been hastily thrown up, and the Turks, riding around three sides of the camp, were pouring a huge number of arrows into it. Bodies littered the ground, small, dark specks with the occasional larger one of a horse.
What was happening ahead was unknown, as the ground concealed it from Raymond and his men as they crossed the ridges. Then they were around the huge shoulder of the hill and could see the main Turkish force below them, gathering for a huge charge that clearly was Kilich Arslan’s intended coup de grace.
Casca sucked in his breath as he recognized the Turkish warriors. “Sire,” he breathed out to Raymond, “those are his elite troops, the ghulams. Tough, well armored. You’ll have to hit them hard.”
They looked at the dazzling array of cavalrymen massing immediately below them. The terrain had hidden their arrival and they had managed to flank the ghulams. The ghulams were attired with lamellar armor, the individual scales glittering in the sun, and a neck and head coif of chainmail that only left their eyes visible under a conical helmet topped with a spike. They were carrying spears and their swords were resting inside richly decorated scabbards slung from bejeweled belts. They were easily identifiable because of their brightly colored attire.
“Very well, we cannot wait for the infantry,” Raymond decided. The foot soldiers would be there in a few minutes but, judging by the look of the ghulams, that would be too late. The other factor was that surely someone would see the new danger and alert them, and if they delayed the charge, the Turks might reorganize themselves. “Men of Toulouse,” he called, raising his sword, “for God, Toulouse and honor!”
The cavalrymen echoed the cry. Casca merely raised his sword. He would fight like the devil, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be for any of the first two. Maybe the last.
With a slow, deliberate movement, they spilled over the final ridge before the down slope to the battlefield and the lining up of the Turkish heavy cavalry. The closing distance and the downward pull of gravity added to the speed of the attack, and they picked up momentum as they closed the distance.
Turkish heads swung round in alarm. Where did these Christians come from? Surely they had trapped all of them – yet here were more!
Casca yelled as his horse reached the bottom of the valley and he raced towards the confused ghulams, desperately milling round to meet the new threat. Hundreds of mounted Crusaders were now charging full-pelt, spears thrust forward, swords pointing at the enemy, screaming in defiance and as a challenge to the Turks.
Casca deliberately held back from the first wave. They had spears and lances whereas he did not. Let them be the impact against the Turks, while he would be the second wave that got mixed into the fight with the sword.
He caught a brief glimpse of ghulams desperately trying to wheel into some kind of order to meet the charge, then concentrated on the line of Crusaders ahead. Banners were flying, men were yelling. The horses, too, were caught up in the excitement and their ears were pricked, sensing the battle.
The crash of men and horses into one another set his teeth on edge. Casca saw bodies flying aside as the armored battering ram smashed into the Turks. Two Crusaders went down ahead and Casca guided his mount to one side to avoid the nearest. A Turk appeared, hauling hard on his reins, trying to turn to strike at the first enemy soldier who had passed him. Casca gave him no chance. One sideways slash did it. The ghulam clutched his throat. Blood spurted out of the wound and he toppled off his mount.
The screaming of horses drowned out the shouting of men. But deeper than that were the sounds of horse hoofs, drums pounding and splintering lances. The smell of his own horse reached him and Casca twisted to one side as a blade flashed at him briefly. It was a reflex act. The Turk was falling from his horse, a spear through his guts, thrown by someone behind him.
Casca came at another. There was no way to stop or to avoid him. The Turk had stopped, hoping to turn and pursue. Men were all round. No chance to stop either. With a yell Casca chopped down hard. The Turk took the blow on the junction of neck and shoulder. Chain links burst asunder. The eternal mercenary felt his blade sink into flesh and bone. With a sickening crash Casca’s horse collided with the Turk’s. The horse shuddered and came to a halt. The ghulam’s shied away and bolted, the rider clutching his bleeding wound.
Blade on blade. Shield on shield. The fight broke up into individual melees. Casca dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and moved forward, sword blade red and dripping. One Turk saw him and met the challenge. Blades met. They spun in small circles. Thrice they struck and were blocked. Casca feinted to slash and pulled up before he executed the blow. The ghulam blocked thin air. With a straight jab Casca’s sword point slid in under the arm and into the ribs.
The Turk gasped and slid from view. His horse careened off out of sight. Riding over the prone body, crushing bone and cartilage, Casca moved on. Gaps were appearing now. The ghulams had been bested. The shock charge of the Christian heavy cavalry had swept half their number away and now they were fleeing.
Kilich Arslan realized all was lost and gave the order to get out of there. Casca saw the Turks turn tail and flee, leaving many of their number lying on the field, soaking the ground with their blood.
Breathing heavily, Casca lowered his sword and slowly turned full circle. Bodied littered the ground and the cloud of disturbed earth, sweat, blood and vegetation began to settle. He wiped his brow on the back of his arm and cleaned his blade. He relaxed and brought his breathing under control. He needed a drink.
Ma
ny of the Turks were trapped and had no escape. They surrendered once they realized their lord and master had abandoned them. One offered his sword to Casca, his features hidden behind his face armor. “Let me see you,” Casca said, refusing to accept the sword.
The ghulam hesitated, then stuck his sword point first into the earth and slipped off his helmet, dropping it to the ground. His hair was dark and plastered to his head, soaked in sweat. He unfastened the coif, fixed with two hooks on the side of the neck piece, and uncovered his face. Fair skin, light colored eyes. Circassian, or perhaps Greek. Maybe even from further north. He had delicate features, a sensuous mouth and a proud bearing.
“I’m Baron Stokeham, name of Caska Longios. You are?”
“Mehmet.” The ghulam, who was in his early twenties, sounded bitter and ashamed. Well he might; losing in battle was not acceptable.
Casca chuckled at the name. “I bet that wasn’t your original name. Let me guess; you were taken captive on a raid, taken to Baghdad and converted to Islam, then served as a slave for some rich Muslim and learned how to be a good warrior.”
Mehmet studied Casca for a moment. He wasn’t like any Frank he’d been told about. There was a slight mocking tone to his voice which put him on his guard. He also spoke good Turkic. He had been told the Franks were ignorant and knew nothing of Islamic culture or language. Did he understand Arabic, too? All Muslims spoke Arabic, the language of the Koran. Mehmet decided to speak in that tongue. “You are correct. I cannot remember my former life. I now live for the glory of Allah, blessed be His name.”
Casca raised an eyebrow. Arabic? Well, he’d respond in kind. “Allah wasn’t so blessed today, was he? You got a real hiding. I accept your submission, Mehmet, but I will not take your sword. You may keep it.”