disappeared, though the curve seemed to slow them, allowing the Normans to close.
‘If Tancred gets any nearer, he’ll have to duck,’ Sigurd observed.
Sure enough, a second later three of the Turks swivelled in their saddles and loosed a volley of arrows at the leading Normans. The horses swerved and shied, almost throwing their riders, and the distance between the two forces widened. Once they were past the cliff the Turks would have an almost straight road back to the city, and the Normans would be hard pressed to catch them.
Looking down the valley after the fleeing horsemen, I let my gaze wander. In the gap where the road rounded the cliff I could see the green valley descending towards the river beyond; up on my right, the ridge of the valley followed the line of the road until it ended in the bluffs.
I paused, keeping my gaze fixed on the cliff. The main body of the Normans were under it now yet it seemed I could see something glinting above. It could not be the Turkish riders, for they would have needed winged steeds to climb it. Perhaps it was a spring, or a puddle.
‘Christ’s shit.’ Sigurd spoke it so mildly that at first I thought he must have dropped his shield on his toe, or pricked himself on a briar. Then I saw where he looked, and the obscenity was on my lips also. As if smitten by an unseen hand, two of the Normans had fallen from their horses at the foot of the cliff. Even as I watched, one of the other animals collapsed onto its knees. The heights above, where I had imagined I saw a puddle, now bristled with archers who were pouring arrows over the precipice.
‘Come on.’ Shouldering his shield, Sigurd grabbed my arm and dragged me after him, running across the slope of the valley towards the cliff. His men followed as we stumbled through the gorse and rocks, the sound of our bouncing armour jangling in my ears. My thighs burned with the effort; with every step my legs had to be kept from sliding away down the hillside. With the footing so treacherous I could risk only the briefest glances forward, and I prayed that the Turks on the cliff ahead were too preoccupied with their attack to look back.
Following Sigurd, we came around the crook of the valley and crested the ridge on its northern arm. From where we stood, it ran down gently to the head of the cliffs where the Turkish archers still loosed their arrows on the unseen Normans below. We crouched in the shadow of a boulder as Sigurd swiftly counted them.
‘Twenty-three,’ he announced.
‘Two to one,’ I said.
‘Not if you count a Varangian worth three of them. We’ll advance in line, quietly. If they see us, close ranks and make the shield wall. They’re isolated on that promontory, and without their horses. Get close enough, and we’ll deny them their favourite tactic.’
‘What’s that?’
Sigurd grinned. ‘Running away.’
It was a tactic I would happily have embraced myself, but I had no choice. Already we were moving on, spilling out from the shelter of the rock and advancing slowly down the loose scree towards the enemy. Mimicking the Varangians around me, I dropped into a low crouch with my shield held before me. Sweat trickled from under my helmet, running down behind the nose-guard, while I fervently wished I had painted my shield some colour other than red. Still the distance between us closed, and still they did not see us: I could hear their bowstrings snapping now, and the screams of men and horses echoing up from the road below.
‘Now,’ said Sigurd from my right. ‘We’ll sweep them off that cliff. Just be sure you don’t get between them and the edge. We—’
Whether the Turks heard him, or whether one of them turned back, I did not see, but no sooner had Sigurd spoken than a great infidel shout rang out from the cliff. Some already had arrows nocked, and they turned in an instant to loose them at us. From either side of me came the ringing crack of iron embedding itself in leather.
‘Come on,’ bellowed Sigurd. He was on his feet, drawn up to his full size like a bear facing its hunter. The axe seemed to dance in his hands. He ran down the last few yards of the slope while the arrows swarmed towards him, and slowed not an inch as he punched his shield into the face of his first adversary. The arrows which stuck from it snapped with the impact, and I saw their splinters tear great rents into the Turk’s skin as he collapsed backwards.
The rest of our company met the enemy, a crimson line of swinging axes and barbarian cries, and I realised too late that the drama of the spectacle had stilled me in my place. In every battle I had ever fought, from the mountains of Lydia against imperial usurpers to the alleys of Constantinople against mercenaries and thieves, I had begun with the same alloy of dread and anger molten in my heart; in every battle, I had forced the fury to vanquish the fear. It seemed to grow ever harder as I grew older, but still I could not fail before God and my friends. I charged forward.
No arrows flew now, for the Turks had abandoned their bows for spears and knives, but the air was still clouded with blades swooping, stabbing, hacking and biting. I threw up my shield as a spear lunged out of the fray, and managed to deflect it past my shoulder. The man who held it stumbled on, too committed to break off his attack, and in a second an almost forgotten instinct had swung my sword into his jaw. Blood gushed out of his mouth as he sank to the ground, and our stares met in shared disbelief. Then his head slumped forward, and mine jerked up to seek the next threat.
But already the battle had passed me. On horseback, or with the bow, few could equal the Turks, but on foot and face to face they were no match for the raging Northmen. A slew of their dead lay scattered on the rocky ground before me, while their last remnants made a desperate stand on the brink of the cliff. Even as I watched, Sigurd kicked one in the ribs so that he staggered back, lost his footing and flailed over the edge. Seeing the cause was lost, that they could retreat no further and fight no longer, his companions threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees.
I joined Sigurd at the cliff edge. Both of us were breathing hard, both dashed with blood and the grime that fixes itself to men in battle, both still too much in thrall to the frenzy of war to speak. Below us, I could see Tancred’s Normans huddled into a grove of pine trees just off the road. Several of them, men and horses, lay sprawled out, pierced with arrows. A little further down the road the company of Turkish archers they had originally pursued sat mounted in a line, looking up at our cliff uncertainly.
‘Get those bows,’ Sigurd barked. ‘Let them see they’re defeated.’
The Varangians, who had already begun stripping the dead of their armour, were quick to obey. Kneeling by the cliff, they loosed a desultory volley of arrows towards the mounted Turks. They did not fly with any great accuracy or range – only one struck within twenty paces of its target – but it was enough to convince our enemy. Before the last arrow had dropped, they had turned their backs to us and cantered away towards Antioch.
Suddenly I felt my limbs go as weak as straws. I sat down on a rock and surveyed our bloodstained promontory. One of the Varangians was down, his shoulder gouged by a Turkish spear, but his companions were giving him water from a flask and I guessed he would live at least long enough to see whether the rot set in. Otherwise, we had suffered few injuries. Of the Turks, meanwhile, I counted eleven dead or dying among us; some had been forced over the cliff, while others must have managed to squeeze around our line and run for safety. We would not pursue them.
Sigurd caught my gaze. Even his arm did not seem so steady as it had before. ‘Another bloody skirmish,’ he said, kicking at a loose helmet on the ground. It clattered like a cymbal as it bounced over the cliff and down to the road. ‘More scars to no purpose.’
‘We saved Tancred and his men,’ I reminded him. ‘Their gratitude may yet serve us in its turn.’
‘Their gratitude. They will feel no gratitude – only envious shame that they owe their lives to a rabble of womanly Greeks.’ Sigurd turned away. ‘And when we get back, Demetrios, we will find that this bloodshed has not loosed one pebble from the walls of Antioch.’
? ?
Sigurd’s glum prophecy proved all too accurate. No sooner had we regained the road, leaving the Turks unburied on the cliff top, than we were facing the sneers of Normans whose sudden rescue only sharpened the barbs they threw at us. Their temper was improved somewhat by the discovery of a herd of horses tethered in the next valley, doubtless left there by the archers on the cliff, but we almost started a fresh battle quarrelling over
