Chapter 60
At the Gates of Nicea
“We’re in deep shit now,” Pons paused to spit over the side of the parapet. “They are bringing up a battering ram. How is that pot of oil coming along?” he called down. Behind and below a copper cauldron was being heated.
“Looks like we’re in for some close work.” Cyn handed some crossbow bolts to the men on the wall beside him. He opened a compartment on the bottom of his quiver and pulled out a small clay jar. He inserted two fingers in the jar and scooped out a sticky brownish goo. He smeared some on his forearm and handed the jar to one of the others.
“Smear some of this on the shafts of the bolt.” Cyn demonstrated using the tarry substance.
The man beside him sniffed the pot. “What is it?”
“Pine tree resin. Where I come from we use it to hold the bolt into place on the groove of the crossbow when we shoot downwards at the foot of the wall. We don't put pine tree resin in the damned wine for ‘flavor.’ Mind you apply it smoothly - don’t get any on the feathers - then set them aside until we need them.” His Greek was getting better, but it was useful to have the items handy - ‘bolt,’ ‘groove,’ and ‘feather’ - to point to as he spoke.
The men were on the top of a round tower which flanked a small gatehouse on the western wall of the city of Nicaea. Cyn handed his arbalest to the soldier on his right. “Do you know how to use the crank to load this?” He mimed.
The man nodded.
“Good. I shoot it. I hand it to you. You crank like a sonofabitch. You set a bolt in nice and tight. Then you hand it back to me.”
He turned to a dirty kid in rough homespun clothes, perhaps twelve years of age, who had climbed the wall to watch. “Make yourself useful, you little shit. As soon as this man gets it cocked, you hand him the next bolt.” He placed another quiver at the kid’s feet. Cyn looked over the parapet. The battering ram had rolled closer. It was made of a massive tree trunk placed in a sling of thick ropes - probably scrounged from the rigging on a ship. One end of the ram had been capped with an iron glob which resembled… a phallus? The wooden framework was covered with planks over which water soaked hides had been stretched to dampen the effects of flaming missiles. A team of oxen had been hitched to the ram and were pulling it. Behind the ram came a squad of about a dozen heavily armored men. They wore helmets and breastplates and each one had a twelve foot long spear in one hand and carried a large square shield on the other.
Cyn noticed something else. There was something on the top of the ram. He stopped preparing his crossbow. “What the hell is that?” he asked, but Pons had stepped aside to shout to the nearby tower to Issac and Alexios Angelos, the leaders of the rebellion. Cyn focused his gaze. Was someone tied to the top? The person was naked, that much was clear. As the ram trundled closer Cyn could hear screaming and could make out gray hair, breasts, and a thick patch of hair between the legs. It was a woman of middle years.
“Hey Pons, you must see this.” he called.
Pons looked back to the ram. “Oh shit. The bastards have tied a prisoner onto the ram, They must hope we won’t dump oil on it and kill her.”
“Yeah, well it looks like it is tough luck for poor her,” the burly crossbowman replied. “Have you noticed what is shaping up behind the ram?”
The enemy continued to spill out of the camp and formed ranks. A second company of soldiers. Cyn tried to count them. Twenty, forty, no even more, they kept coming. Over their shoulders they carried long double bladed axes. Verangians.
Pons assessed the situation at a glance. “If that lot gets inside the gate we’re done for. There is no way our troops can hold out against them. Any one of them would probably be the deadliest man I have ever faced.”
The Angelos brothers had been standing with some of the other notables on the flanking tower - also assessing the situation. They had stopped talking and were also staring at the ram. Issac’s face had gone pale and his jaw hung slack. “Mamma.” The word half way between a cry and a moan.
Cyn and Pons exchanged a glance.
“Aaw pig shit,” Pons muttered. He then turned and hollered down the stairs to the men at the gatehouse. “Get me some rope up here - a good stout length of it - right quick.”
Pons continued to survey the battlefield. A couple of dozen mercenary Arab archers with curved bows and quivers full of long arrows scrambled forward in a loose skirmish formation to provide cover for the men on the ram and make sure the defenders kept their heads down. The bulk of the army were not going to get off their soft asses if they didn’t have to. They were hanging about, finishing lunch and watching from the shade. If the ram managed to force the gate, the Emperor’s bodyguard would certainly be able to rush in and hold it until the rest could scramble forward.
“Demetrios,” Pons bellowed again, “Get oil up here. However hot it is… is gonna have to be hot enough. Move it.”
“No.” Issac Angelos shrieked. “My mother is on that ram. She will be burned. I forbid it.”
“Everything is gonna be alright,” Pons called soothingly to the nobleman on the opposite tower. “Sergeant Cyn is gonna shoot every one of those sons of bitches pushin’ the ram and I’m gonna go over the wall and fetch your momma. You make sure those men down there open the gate when I tell them to. And mind, they might have to close it behind us again right quick, so be ready for it. Then dump the oil on whoever is left.”
The sight of someone, anyone, taking charge calmed the brothers. Pons went over to Cyn and together they peered over the wall at the advancing men. The Imperial forces hadn’t yet thought to send men with raised shields up front to protect the oxen who were pulling. Cyn fired his arbalest at one. The quarrel hit the beast directly on the nose where a ring was lodged between its nostrils. It went wild from the pain and began to thrash in its harness. For a moment it looked as if the ram would be overturned, but a quick thinking soldier cut the wounded animal free. The same soldier cut the other ox free as well and eight men moved up to push. They did not look like battle ready warriors, more like condemned criminals or deserters given a choice between this or execution.
“No,” Pons spoke his thought out loud, “This is a sortie meant to terrify the Angelos brothers and send a message. It is a feint, but it could still work.”
Cyn reloaded his arbalest himself. It was the only weapon which would work at this extreme range. He was pleased to note the men pushing the ram had slung their shields over their backs to grip the ram and they had handed their spears to others behind them. Cyn saw a nice target. A soldier was straining to turn the ram’s wheel over the ruts in the road. There was an unprotected spot when his head bent down exposing his shoulder, between the helmet and the top of the breastplate. The boy he drafted handed him a quarrel with a sharp narrow point. Not liking the fletching he motioned for another which he took, notched it to the string, and set it in the crossbow’s wooden groove. Keenly he aimed straight along the shaft of the quarrel. Not enough wind to worry about. He squeezed the lever.
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The bolt caught the soldier as he was leaning forward to push with all his might. Smashing his collarbone the tip settled in his lungs. As the soldier dropped to his knees, the man coming up behind him accidentally stepped on him. Not realizing his comrade had been shot, he tried to help the dying man to his feet. The ram ground to a halt. Cyn took advantage of the confusion to reload and shoot another soldier in the back of the knee. A fat soldier came up, apparently to berate the two at the front for slowing things down. He was yelling at them to get the ram moving when a third bolt streaked through his upper palate. For a heartbeat the feathers looked like a strange mustache between his nose and upper lip before they became covered in shattered teeth and bloody gore.
“Showin’ off?” asked Pons.
“Are they stupid or idiots?”
The enemy finally thought of bringing up some men to defend the front of the ram. They held their large square shields directly in front of themselves seeking to cover as much as possible. The archers had caught up to the men of the ram and were pressing forward to fire on the walls. Pons ordered all of the men with bows to fire on the enemy archers with the advantage of range and height. Soldiers on the walls made way as Demetrios and another hulking man used wooden yokes to carry large copper cauldrons of heated pitch up to the parapet on the other side of the gate.
“This is a hell of a plan. I shoot everybody while you fetch momma.” Cyn let loose with another quarrel which punctured the wrist of a man pushing the ram.
A slave brought up the rope which Pons had ordered and the grizzled old mercenary began to tie it around his waist. “As soon as I get the darling clear of the ram and inside the gate, you tip the oil.”
Cyn took his time aiming, finally selecting the exposed feet of the men with shields. He squeezed the lever and the bolt ripped through his target’s ankle. He handed his arbalest to the man beside him and switched to his medium sized crossbow which he could draw more quickly using the stirrup and the strength in his calloused fingers. “You will probably fall and break your neck.”
“Si, if God wills it,” Pons said as he looped the rope around the parapet’s crenellations and eyed the length he would need to reach the ground. The tower was stout, but not tall.
Cyn snapped off another quick shot, but it glanced off a shield. “Shit,” he muttered, “I was doing so well. Hurry with my big one, I was having better luck with that. Crank like a sonofabitch.”
The archers on the plain advanced to within in range. They began to fire arrows at irregular intervals forcing the men on the walls to duck for cover. Rapidly switching crossbows, Cyn fired off three more bolts, but missed each time. He could not take the time he needed to aim properly without presenting a target to the archers. “One of these bastards will shoot an arrow in your ass when you’re goin’ over the parapet.”
“Si, if God wills it. What are those Verangians doing?”
Cyn peered from behind cover. “They are hanging back. I think they are going to see if these men up front can force the gate before they charge.” On the walls a Nicean archer went down, pierced through the throat, but his fellows continued to pepper the enemy. The gate they defended was one of the smaller ones which strung along the city’s walls like beads on a rosary. It was wide enough for a single cart to enter. The lintels were made of marble and a double door of heavy lumber reinforced with stoutly riveted iron bands blocked access. The doors were barred by a thick wooden beam held in a metal bracket and other beams had been brought up for reinforcement.
“Do you want my pavese?” Cyn asked, referring to the large shield which leaned against the rear railing of the parapet.
“Nah,” Pons said, “I’m gonna have my sword, my axe, the rope, and the old lady to worry about. I think I’ll have my hands full.”
Cyn fired at some of the archers who were getting too cocky. Two of them went down and the rest crouched low for what little cover there was behind shrubs and hummocks on the field. The ram rolled to the front of the gate, and the soldiers heaved on the rear end to line it up squarely. They returned to their places and were preparing to swing the massive log back for momentum when Pons, rope in hand, swung his legs over the parapet.
“Now.” he shouted.
Cyn switched to the bolts coated with pine resin. He leaned over the wall and shot almost directly downwards at unmissable range. His first bolt, fired from the powerful arbalest, hit a burly man low in the belly in a gap between his breastplate and armored kilt. His second punctured the side of another soldier’s neck. Cyn judged it was not a lethal shot as the man only dropped to his knees and began to fumble with blood slick fingers to withdraw the shaft.
Pons clambered down the rope and landed atop the ram. He crouched low, thanking Saint Sebastian for blindinging the heathen archers who were holding their fire, perhaps unwilling to send arrows among friend, foe, and hostage alike. The old woman continued to scream and Pons gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. Then he brutally thrust the tip of his sword into a soldier’s face. As the man fell, the blade was wrenched from his grasp. He quickly pulled the throwing axe from his belt and hacked down at the head of another assailant. The axe, deflected by the soldier’s helmet, slid past the man’s face, chopping through his collarbone and into his shoulder blade. Pons wrenched it free and with a few precise hacks cut through the ropes binding mother Angelos.
The four men remaining at the ram began to pull back afraid of the onslaught from Pons and the withering fire from the wall. Pons chopped down once again, this time at one of the ropes which held the massive log suspended. When the rope split, the head of the ram dropped and buried itself in the earth. It was clearly useless.
Pons jumped down to the ground and turned to the old woman who was still sitting on the covered top of the ram. “Come on, Mother,” he called, “Jump down. I will catch you.”
To her credit she jumped, but Pons could not support her, merely break her fall, and both of them fell to the ground in a heap. The great crossbeam was withdrawn and the gates swung open, not to permit their entry, but rather to allow a squad of horsemen to exit.
First out of the gate leading the cavalry in a full suit of plate armor was Theodore Kantakouzenos mounted on a splendid black stallion. When the attack began, he had quickly assembled a group of mounted Turcopole lancers and now they were here with him. He saluted Captain Pons with a grin, gave his shield and lance to a squire to hold for a moment. He gallantly offered his cloak to cover the shame of the naked domina, as the mercenary cavalry, riding smaller shaggier horses and armed with short stabbing lances, began to fan out one by one to the sides of the gate.
Pons looked glum. “Jesus be with you boy, if you are going to charge those Verangians. They don’t have spears so they can’t turn a charge, but those axes could cut your horse’s head off.”
“I will burst through their ranks and then circle around and come right back, Uncle. I will not be gone for a moment. How you do worry?” Theodore put on his helmet with a face guard. The helmet was plumed with the magnificent feathers of the camel sparrow - a giant bird from Ethiopia which could not fly but which could outrun a horse. He caught up his equipment, and with a ‘click-click’ sound from his cheek - set his black destrier to slowly walk forward as the last of the Turcopoles exited the gate and spread to their positions. Another ‘click’ set the horse trotting as they covered the distance to the Imperial guard.
“Too few,” said Pons to no one. The Angelos brothers wept and held their mother.
Up on the wall Cyn watched how the Turcopoles on their sturdy ponies fell in behind their leader in a V formation like a flock of geese on the wing. The enemy archers, highly vulnerable to light cavalry, abandoned the field in haste. With a battle cry the spurs were laid on and the mounted force gathered momentum and raced to engage the Imperial bodyguard.
For a few moments it was magnificent. The pounding thunder of the hooves. Lance heads flashed in the sunlight. Colorful pennants on spear shafts snapped in the rushing wind.
Scant yards from the Verangian line, Theodore Kantakouzenos’ black stallion’s left foreleg went out, bringing the beast down in a cloud of dust, and catapulting the rider forward. The knight landed on his head. The Turcopoles on the flanks reined in and drew up - halting their mounts. Encased in its armor, the body of Theodore Kantakouzenos twitched for a moment before becoming still. Less than the distance of a spear’s throw separated the horsemen and the Verangians, but no spear was thrown. As if they were one, the Turcopoles turned their horses and trotted back to the city.
“What the hells just happened?” Pons called up to Cyn.
“Our boy’s horse went down hard and him along with it. Stepped on a caltrope, maybe?”
From the enemy lines a retreat was being sounded.