Talon felt exposed sitting high on the back of a horse, certain that he was a target for more than one of the enemy archers. At that moment an arrow pierced the chain mail of his upper left arm. The mail stopped the arrow from going deep but it made him gasp and it knocked him sideways in the saddle. He looked down and saw the arrow sticking out of his arm. Gritting his teeth he pulled it out and cast it aside. He retaliated by taking down three of the enemy in quick succession before his arm became too numb to use for a while. Slight as the wound was it still made Talon feel momentarily weak, so he stopped and attempted to bind it.
Max sidled his horse alongside. “Here, Talon,” he said, and bound the arm quickly with a rag.
“Thank you, Max,” Talon said through parched lips. Max grinned and slapped Talon on the back.
The Turks decided this was the time to attack again and hurled themselves at the Varangian wedge. The impact shook the shield wall as savage men bellowed their war cries and hacked and stabbed at one another, grunting with the effort of pushing back and holding their places in the line. The crash of shield on shield, the rasping of sword blades rang out, and the screams of wounded men deafened Talon’s ears. The Byzantine group was the more determined, and, to Talon’s relief, the shield wall held and prevented the Turks from breaking through.
Try as they might the Turkish footmen could not prize the overlapped shields apart. Max, unable to restrain himself, handed his bow to another man then joined the ranks of the Varangians in the melee on the line, and Talon could see him in the thick of the fighting. His sword moved like a piston, stabbing back and forth while he batted aside the blows from the enemy with his long shield. But he too took a wound, in the mid thigh, made him stagger before he decapitated the man who had struck him.
It was Talon’s turn to bind his friend’s wound while Max leaned panting against his horse. The wound, while not deep, was clearly painful. Eunuchs nearby were administering to others in the same manner and one passed a bandage to Talon. The dog sidled up to Max and lifted its head, locking eyes with Max, clearly concerned. Man and beast appeared to have bonded.
“Do not worry, Dog. I am fine and so will you be,” Max said as he patted it on the head. The animal whined.
“You should stand back, Max. They are doing fine just now,” Talon told him.
Max nodded, but then gave Talon a slap on his arm—forgetting that it was his wounded one—and plunged back into the fray. He was joined by the dog, which growled in one continuous note, its huge jaws snapping ferociously at any exposed flesh that presented itself.
Talon felt the friendly slap hurt as he mounted. Max’s exuberance! He smiled ruefully as he rubbed his wounded arm.
Slowly a mound of bodies from both sides began to grow in front of them. A few Turks with reckless courage ran at the shield wall in a tight formation and managed to create an opening with their stabbing spears and maces taken from the Byzantine dead. While the gap was quickly closed and the brave men slaughtered, one managed to get past. Incredibly he evaded the surprised men behind the wall and drove straight at the Emperor, who was easy to identify because of his white horse. The Turk dodged past a stabbing spear and leapt at Manuel. His astonishing move brought the horse down and the Emperor with it. The Turk was first to recover. He lifted his sword to finish the still dazed monarch, but then Talon hurled himself off his own animal to hammer his small shield edge onto the neck of the warrior, who rolled off the Emperor and died in silence of multiple stab wounds inflicted by the Byzantine men around.
Talon and Manuel stared at one another, panting. Their eyes met and the Emperor blinked the sweat out of his eyes. The shocked officers scrambled to pick Manuel up and assist him back onto his horse, while Talon grabbed the reins of his horse from a eunuch and remounted. Manuel himself looked too dazed and disoriented to know what had just happened but General Mavrozomes called over to Talon.
“You saved his life with your quick action, Knight. It will not be forgotten.”
“If we live though this I shall be grateful to God for just having preserved my own life,” Talon said to Max.
Several other Turks attempted the same feat of wild courage but the Byzantines were now ready for them and spit them on spears as they charged; in one case the eunuchs stabbed the man to death with their long knives once he got through. The reckless attacks of this nature soon stopped.
Despite the pain in his arm Talon joined the other archers and shot arrow after arrow into the packed ranks of the Turks from his vantage point on his horse, and before long this intense barrage of arrows from him and the other archers had its effect. The Turkish warriors could not reach the Byzantine archers to destroy them because of the immovable ranks of the Varangians, who were disciplined and ferocious fighters. Eventually with sharp cries of defiance the Turks pulled back, waving their fists and weapons, unbeaten but frustrated.
Talon heard the sound before it happened. There was a low roar from behind followed by a gust of hot wind that startled him. He spun in the saddle, half expecting another barrage of rocks to come flying at them only to see a wall of dust being blown up the valley.
Within seconds a strong wind that suddenly roared up the valley, bringing with it a dense cloud of dust, swept over the combatants, blinding everyone with swirling particles that stung and burned their exposed skin. Within the howling storm that encompassed everyone in the valley the men around the Emperor groped for one another and Talon heard the general shouting. “Hold onto one another but keep moving, we must keep moving! Blow the trumpet to tell our people where we are.”
A trumpet sounded but it was soon cut off as the trumpeter choked on the dust.
Men from all about began to call out and even the Varangians joined in, shouting for one another in their own language. Talon looked around for Max and found him winding a cloth around his lower face. Max lifted his hand and then rode in closer to Talon. The dog came with him, cowering near the horse’s legs.
Talon whirled as he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. But it was only the general.
“God has sent us help! We must keep moving! How far to go now?” Mavrozomes shook Talon by the shoulder questioning him. “You came up here before; how much further?” he demanded over roar of the sand storm.
“Perhaps several hundred paces and we leave the gorge, general,” Talon responded. He coughed from the dust as it went into his throat. Pulling out a rag he wound it around his lower face. It was incredible that a dust storm of this kind should spring up so quickly from literally nowhere. They must use it to their advantage, he thought.
They pushed on through the blinding dust , tripping and falling over bodies that were in places stacked four high. Turks and Byzantine soldiers lay sprawled all about in the rictus of death. Disoriented and as lost in the sandstorm as the Byzantines, small groups of Turkish soldiers would blunder into them. There would be a brief fight and more men would fall, and then the Turks would disappear into the swirling dust. Men of their own army were found sitting on the ground having given up. They were kicked to their feet by the unsympathetic Varangians and officers and beaten back into service, swelling the ranks.
The ordeal felt as though it lasted an eternity as men and horses staggered forward. The men on horseback, their faces covered with cloths, squinted desperately to see far enough forward to tell if there was yet another ambush to overcome. No one had any water so they were parched with thirst, but none dared to leave the ranks of the main body to seek it even as close as it was known to be.
After an hour or more the keening, buffeting wind abated and they began to see that they were exiting the gorge, and before long, men noticed that a large fort on the flat area on some high ground. Talon knew it had not been there when he came up before. The wind all but died out and the soldiers began to exclaim with joy at their deliverance. In front of them was the van of the army and the troops from Antioch behind a crude makeshift defensive barrier thrown together from rocks and trees.
Men began to take
heart, wanting to run to the enticing safety of the defenses, but General Mavrozomes held them together with his fierce will and marched them as a unit until they were finally within the walls of the barrier constructed by the divisions from Antioch.
The men with the Emperor staggered into the temporary safety of the fort and collapsed with exhaustion and relief. Some men even fell to their knees and raised their clasped hands to the heavens calling their thanks to God for their deliverance.
There was even enough water for all, brought from the river by a few courageous souls determined to obtain water despite Turkish harassment.
Ragged groups of men trickled in for the rest of the day. Most were disoriented and many were wounded; all were fearful and dispirited. There was little to be done for the wounded other than bind their wounds and give them some water. The eunuchs took on the task of creating a makeshift hospital where wounded men were sent. The rest of the men stayed near the barriers of rocks and trees, prepared to defend them at a moment’s notice.
The Turks were not inclined to give up the fight. Their mounted cavalry made determined incursions, seeking weak spots and opportunities, the warriors riding their ponies in hard and loosing flights of arrows over the defenses. Many of these arrows found their mark and made life very uncomfortable for those inside. Talon and Max found themselves alone with Alexios. They were all three exhausted and lay on the ground with the reins of their horses held firmly in one hand, oblivious of the occasional arrow that thudded into the ground nearby.
“Well, now we know for sure that the Turks were in the gorge, by God,” Max panted. Talon croaked a laugh.
“Yes, I wonder what the Emperor is thinking about that now.”
“It is very serious,” Alexios said gloomily. “We have lost all our baggage and our siege weapons. We cannot go forward to Iconium without those and we cannot go back because it is clear the Turks hold the passes.”
“Do you think the Emperor will be able to negotiate a withdrawal?” Max asked, sitting up on one elbow.
“We might have to, but it will be on their terms. They have won this battle as far as I can see.”
At that moment there was a great cheer from the men standing by the defenses facing the gorge. Talon and his companions got painfully to their feet and went to see what was going on.
The sight they was worth cheering about. General Kontostephanos was marching his men out of the passes and it appeared that they were relatively unscathed. The men of the main army greeted them with enthusiasm as they marched into the encampment.
“I am going to see what has been happening with the Emperor,” Alexios announced. He walked slowly towards a group of senior officers gathered around Manuel.
Talon and Max watched him go and then sat back down on the stony ground to discuss their situation.
“It looks as though we have ourselves in a pretty pickle this time, Talon,” Max remarked, chewing on a length of dried grass.
“Yes, we are trapped, unable to go forward and unable to go back. And it looks as though the other army did not fare so well either, if the head the Turks displayed earlier today really was that of Andronikos.”
“You mean the general leading the other army?” Max asked, for he was not as aware of events as Talon, who could understand the Greek being spoken all around them.
“Yes, that’s him. His army was supposed to go to Amasia and cut the Turks off.”
“Looks like they didn’t make it then. God be merciful on their souls, for the Turks will not have been,” Max said.
“Any army as powerful as this and as well organized cannot function as it was designed to in an ambush like that. The Turks knew what they were doing. They have all but destroyed us. Ugh, what a stink!” Talon exclaimed.
He had just caught a whiff of excrement left by men with dysentery. If seemed that many of the soldiers were afflicted.
“The men have had the flux since we were on the plains,” Max said. “I am even feeling the effects of something. The food is terrible.”
Talon wrinkled his nose. “We have not been here even a few hours and those men are shitting all over the place. It is a perfect breeding ground for disease!”
“Do you have anything in your saddle bags?” Max asked.
“I thought you said that you were feeling sick.”
“Only at the other end. The front end,” Max said pointing to his mouth, “tells me that my stomach thinks my throat has been cut.”
Talon laughed. Max never seemed despondent when things were going badly.
“Little enough, but we might manage for a day or so.”
“God help us but that will not be long enough, I fear. We need to find some water for ourselves and our horses.” Max indicated their two mounts, which were standing with their heads down, clearly exhausted, their flanks heaving. “They are in a sorry state.”
Talon beat his fist on the ground. “Why did he not listen, and why did he not bring the Turks to battle on the plain of Philomelion when he could have?”
“The plain of what?”
The plains we were on before we entered that God forsaken pass. This army could have minced the Turks out in the open. They knew it and so did general Kontostephanos; he argued for us to stay out of this place.”
“Well, now we are here.” Max stated. “It is almost as though the dust arrived at divine command! Never seen anything like that before.” Max said.
Talon nodded agreement. The dust storm had been an extraordinary occurrence and had arrived just in time.
There were thousands of perspiring and exhausted men and animals within the confines of the crude defenses and the noise was deafening, made worse by the cries and groans of the wounded.
“I wonder what we can expect from the Turks?” Max muttered looking towards the plains.
“Not much,” Talon answered. “Their leader Arslan is probably crowing with delight right now. We gave him the victory with our own stupidity. God willing we will get killed and not end up as slaves of those hairy men on ponies. I have to give it to them though, they know how to ride and shoot. It reminds me of the time I was in Persia.”
There were anxious shouts from the barricades and a shower of arrows flew overhead, so they scrambled to their feet and hurried to the defenses. Another attack was upon them and the Turks seemed determined to make life as miserable as possible for the Byzantine army.
After the attack had been beaten off with spears and arrows, Talon and Max found themselves seated next to some of the men from the Varangian guard. Some of them spoke bad Greek, so they could communicate.
“You two are pretty good with the sword and the bow,” one of them commented. “I am Cuthberht and I come from the Norselands,” he explained.
“You are not so bad yourselves! What is it that brings you to this country so far from home?” Talon asked.
“Gold and curiosity. The gold I do not have anymore and the curiosity might get me killed this time.” Cuthberht laughed and spoke to his companions.
They were a tough looking crowd with their thick blond beards, heavy tunics, and chain mail that made no concession to the heat. Their long blond or red hair fell in braids down their backs from under their helmets. Many bore wounds, but their blue eyes were sharp and undaunted by their circumstances. These men did not give up easily, Talon thought, looking at them. Their axes were encrusted with blood from the fighting. They chuckled at whatever it was that Cuthberht told them.
“They seem to be mighty handy with those axes of theirs, I noticed,” Max remarked.
Talon translated for Cuthberht, who guffawed. “Yes, these axes are for chopping people up, not for wood!” he said with his thick accent. He took off his helmet and rubbed his forehead where the rim had worn a red welt. His red bearded face was flushed with the heat and he was sweating copiously. Indeed, the slim but wide blades of the axes made for intimidating weapons.
“Where are you from? Are you Franks?” one of the other men asked.
“We
have come from the Holy Land,” Talon told him.
They were interested. “You Christians have conquered that land?”
“That was nearly a generation ago,” Talon informed him. He was rubbing a nub of grease into his bowstring as he spoke. His arms ached from the shooting and his wound, he felt bone weary.
“You know how to use that, Frank,” the same man said. “You were killing them at a greater range than they could from their horses. I saw you kill one at more than a hundred paces. That was a feat.”
“Has anyone got any food to share?” A Varangian called out. We should share our food.”
Men immediately checked their satchels and pockets, while Talon and Max retrieved some bread and cheese from their saddlebags. Someone made a small fire and shared out the rations to the men clustering about.
“By the Gods but I miss a good Herring Matjes!” one named Erikr said, his tone wistful.
“What is that?” Max asked.
“It is pickled herring fish that is salted. Tastes fine with ale or mead,” Erikr said.
“I prefer Surströmming,” another Varangian who introduced himself as Eadgar told them, smacking his lips through his ginger beard.
Cuthberht chuckled. “Now that will put hair on your chest!”
Eirikr noticed the puzzled looks on Talon and Max’s faces.
“It tastes like rotten fish marinated in cat’s piss,” he laughed. He pretended to gag.
“Thus speaks a man without any couth who cannot tell good food from bad,” Eadgar retorted.
Talon and Max sat back and enjoyed the argument that ensued. For a few brief moments they all forgot their predicament and were able to laugh at these good-natured but formidable warriors from the countries far to the north. They spent the next few hours around the small fire chewing on the meager rations they shared with one another.
The talk went back and forth as night fell and the men tried to make sense of their situation. Despite their apprehension there was a sense of comradeship engendered by their dire situation and the fact that they all knew they had fought well together and survived thus far. Men tried to joke and pretend that it was not as bad as it sounded. But everyone knew that this day had been a disaster and that the army was trapped and could well be destroyed by the next day.
Greek Fire Page 27