8 August 1525: Battle to Capture a Gold Caravan

In this chapter Julian, his two colleagues and marines from a Venetian warship have already thwarted an attempt by Spanish forces to overthrow the Bey of Tunis. Like the kingdom of Morocco, the Hafsid dynasty in Tunis at this time relied to a large degree on caravans of gold dust coming from the interior of Africa to offset its annual expenses. Julian, his colleagues, and a detachment of the bey’s guards are sent to seize back one such caravan someone has intercepted. This is a cavalry action, but Julian is uneasy on horseback. //

It seemed I had barely closed my eyes by the fire when someone shook my shoulder. Daylight.

     I opened my eyes to see Nestor’s approving smile. His left hand restrained my right, which clutched the Italian dagger. I slept with it by my side.

     “I’m glad to see you are watchful, even in sleep, compai. I let you have a whole four hours rest. Now arise, for this morning we’ll take the caravan. We can’t waste any more time wandering around the countryside. Have the surgeon take another look at that poke in your thigh. There will be rest later, though not much of it.”

     And he was gone. Our sergeante was like a guiding bird from some mythological tale, glimpsed in the sky, emitting brief exhortative keenings, then swooping out of sight. 

     I sighed, threw some water in my face, and found the surgeon. Afterwards I sat on a log with Alonso and shared a half a roasted chicken (where that came from, I had no idea) and bread. “We have to make this quick,” advised the Basque. “We’re intercepting the thieves at a pass south of a town called Jendouba.” 

     Indeed, I could already hear the hisses around me as the men doused their breakfast fires.

     “For God’s sake, qahwa.” Coffee, I begged through a mouthful of bread. According to an obscure footnote relayed by Nestor earlier, the original meaning of this word was “strong drink”, so it implied that in an earlier age the Arabs were no strangers to alcohol. It was only later that they turned away from wine and beer.

     A thimbleful of the North African brew was placed in my right hand.

     “Better make it two,” I pleaded. The most dangerous thing at this point was not the numbers, nor training, nor armor of the enemy, nor the question of one’s own motives (to survive was the foremost among those), nor any question about the Hafsids–were they good rulers? Bad rulers? Incompetent rulers? But the simple danger of fatigue. One had to snatch moments of rest and sleep where one could and keep going.

     Nor was this problem at an end if we succeeded in recovering the caravan and its cargo. Indeed, then the peril would be worse, because we somehow had to get the precious bags of gold-dust back to the capital, either by running back the way we had come, or by hiring or commandeering some vessel at the coast. Problems.

     I entered our tent and strapped on nearly every piece of gear I had. My stallion was a big beast, he didn’t care if I wore greaves or forearm-guards. I donned them all. My circular shield was something which could have been used in Caesar’s time, but it would do as good work today. I wore my straight blade because, as I have said, we didn’t incline towards use of the local curved scimitars, and there was no need now to pretend we weren’t foreigners. I placed the Italian dagger in my saddlebag and instead strapped on my Cretan long knife, the basalis, in a nod to my ancestors. It lay across my stomach with the hilt pointing towards my left hand. I put on the German helmet and set the chin-strap. That strap, by the way, was a useful improvement. In the sea-battle off Cyprus, in Montenegro and at the battle of Pavia I had seen several pieces of head-gear knocked off heads by maces, clubs, and other weapons, with the victim’s heads in great peril thereafter. The ancient Persian kings may have gone to war bare-headed, but that was suicidal today. Anything which kept your skull covered was valuable.

     I ruminated that it was just as well we were engaging the enemy this morning; we had lost ten percent of the bey’s soldiers and we three Zorzi men were all wounded. Alonso still had two fingers of his left hand bound together, Nestor had a slight limp but said it was nothing, and I had the tender left shoulder from the battle in Tunis. I feared that if my shield were somehow torn away and someone tapped me there with a mace, I would surely faint dead away, and another enemy would shortly be by to finish the job. Then I had the puncture in my left thigh, sewn-up, but which was guaranteed to be torn open within the next hour.  Yes, I needed as much armor as possible. And the quicker this action could be concluded, the better.    

       The horses of most of the men had head-guards, chest-plates, and even chain-mail around their bellies. “What is going to happen underneath the horse?” I asked.

     “The horse may need to rear-up. It is some protection from a thrust to the horse’s belly,” explained Alonso.

     “Tell me the most dangerous things to look out for.” As if one could absorb a lecture on cavalry actions five-minutes before the battle…

     “You’ll be up in the air, so danger can come from any direction. Stay alert. If the horse goes down, draw your legs up and try to get clear. If you’re pinned beneath the beast, that is certain death. The good thing is, this should all be over in a few minutes. The camel-train with the gold will turn back and try to run through the pass, but Nestor has already sent ten men behind to block them, including the three marines.”  

     Since I had no experience in action on horseback, when Nestor was walking by I suggested perhaps I might do better to remain in the second line, but Nestor merely chuckled. 

     “Good try, comrade. You’ll be in the first line. Raghi says your steed won’t have it any other way. So get ready.”

     “Five minutes!” Someone called. It might have been one of the marines.

     I stood outside the perimeter of the wall with my face to the horizon. It was light now and the Bey’s men were leading out their mounts. I lifted my palms to the distance, in the ancient attitude of prayer (this is not so different than some of the gestures the Muslims make, by the way)–no one paid any attention.

     After reciting the Our Father, I made a silent entreaty to the escorts of the caravan: When you see us coming, armored, at speed, with trained men, just ride away. Ride away and don’t even take the time to apologize. Don’t explain you could win the day, but have no desire to cause bloodshed. Don’t say anything. Just ride away as hard and as fast as you can.

     I made this entreaty not because of any inflated notion of our prowess, or of the physical strength of Nestor, Alonso and myself, nor because of any great acquaintance with the capabilities of the Bey’s men, but simply because I thought I knew what we would find this morning. Not counting the nighttime attackers—who had yet to be dealt with conclusively–I suspected the men before us were irregulars, local fellows making a bold move, expecting to deliver the goods to the port at Tabarka and collect their reward. Then they would be back in their hills. No one would venture out of Tunis to pursue them in this borderland. What need to worry? This was their region. They knew every trail and track.

     But we were here. I’m sorry.

     “Mount up!” Nestor shouted.

      Two hours later we drew up in the tree-line, obscured from the view of anyone coming through the pass of Jibal Teboursouk. In another setting, the sweet smell of the pines would have been pleasing. 

      A week ago Abril had advised that there was a kind of communion between rider and equine, but however that connection worked, it clearly didn’t exist between myself and the creature I had been given to ride, Crimson. The horse wanted action. I merely happened to be present.

     When we had tidied-up our ranks–with Crimson pawing the ground impatiently–Nestor and Raghi rode by in a final inspection. Nestor did not seem as at ease on horseback as Alonso, but neither did he appear doubtful.

     To my surprise, Raghi and Nestor halted before me, and our Tunisian commander started talking. Nestor translated: “I meant to advise you earlier. When we give the signal, this horse will charge.” He indicated Crimson with one hand; again, the local custom was, no pointing. “Make no mistake about it. That’s what he was trained to do and you won’t be able to stop him. When we reach the enemy line, don’t be surprised by anything he does. And I want to stress to you: whatever happens, do not lose your seat. If you are unhorsed, there is a chance you may be trampled, speared, or a hoof to the head can finish you off. However bad it looks or whatever he does, your chances are better atop this beast. So take a care to remain there. Do you understand?” 

      “I understand. Thank you capitano.”

     Raghi nodded and continued his progress.

      Nestor leaned forward and had quite a different message. “I’m confident we’ll prevail, but if anything happens to me in the next few days, I want you to find that bastard Enver and remove him from the rolls of the living. Do you think the two of you manage that?”

      It was a grim entreaty. “Allah yemna, sergeante.” God forbid you are harmed, sergeant. “It might take some days to find him, but it can surely be done.” Those were confident words, but in fact I wasn’t sure where to begin looking; we were strangers here. What allies could we might enlist in such a task? Perhaps our Tunisian commander, Raghi, would have some ideas? 

     I believed it was essential to keep Nestor alive; he had the local knowledge and spoke the language. He had orchestrated this entire operation in North Africa. Although there had been key knowledge from the agent of the Sultan, that same Enver, the plan of the response to the Spanish attack was entirely his.

     The leader of our trio rode on.

     It was a hazy morning. In the distance, I saw a string of horsemen emerging from the pass in the Teboursouk Hills. I couldn’t count all the heads, but it looked to be at least fifty riders. It would be a thirty-second gallop to take us into them.

     “I just remembered something,” I said to Alonso, who was on my right.

     “Yes?”

     “When we were on the way to Egypt last year, you said you would tell me how you came to seek a new life in Venice. You never did tell me the tale. And in fact, why would you even go to Italy?”

     “Oh that. It’s very dull. Entirely commonplace. When I was eighteen, my father had a disagreement with another local family, who were not Basque.”

     Crimson whickered with impatience.

     “And?”

     “There was an altercation in a tavern, which became deadly.”

     To our left, Captain Raghi raised his right arm.

     “No time,” concluded Alonso.

     “We’ll talk later.” I patted Crimson’s neck – I now see that was a laughable gesture.  “You’ll be all right.” The horse had no doubt he would be all right. It was the enemy who would need saving.

     I realized in an instant that not only all the riders but even Crimson was looking at Raghi. The horse knew who Raghi was and knew he was the commander. Crimson must have ridden with him before. Could a horse really understand all that?

     Raghi lowered his arm.

     The horse charged.

     The next thirty seconds were the longest of my life. Crimson wanted not only to be in the first line, but to lead the charge, or at least be in the van. He easily jumped forward beside the steed of our captain, and seemed to believe that was his rightful place. Perhaps the two horses knew each other, God only knew.

     My shield was on my left shoulder, my blade in my right hand, and I leaned forward, holding the reins in my left hand. When we were within twenty paces of the enemy, who was spreading out to receive us, I saw that among the hostile horsemen were three footsoldiers with arquebuses, the long firearms. That was bad. One of them discharged as we drew closer, but I heard no bullet fly by my vicinity; I don’t know if anyone was hit.

     A horseman came up before me (that was how it appeared to me, but actually, we were galloping into him). He was a tall man in sienna-colored robe, looking confident. I saw him raise his blade, but to my surprise Crimson merely lowered his head and rammed the enemy steed in the shoulder. Never mind what the humans are doing; I’ll take care of this! Both horse and rider went down. The rider was pinned under the horse. Alonso said that above all else was the development you wanted to avoid.

     Someone’s sword glanced off my shield.

     I twisted around and jabbed at an enemy; inconclusive, we rode past each other.

     Crimson was already focused on a new target: on my left a footsoldier with a long gun appeared. The man was already edging backward.

     And now Crimson did something which was of the kind you hear about stories, but I never thought to see: his head darted forward and his jaws clamped on the man’s left forearm. He dragged the wretch to the right and threw him into the path of another oncoming steed–it might have been that of Alonso–where the man went down under the hooves.

     The beast lifted his head and looked about to see who else needed removing from the field of battle.

     My contribution so far had been exactly nothing.

     While Crimson was catching his breath, a horseman approached on my right; I barely swung my shield over in time to catch a glancing blow from a spear. Even that mild impact sent a jab of pain through my shoulder. I sent the tip of my sword beneath the attacker’s chin and in: opponent, never bare the neck. The rider wheeled away; he wouldn’t be in the fray long.

     I felt Crimson rear up; now I was standing in the stirrups, whatever happens, don’t be unseated. Xristos…

     Some fool with no headgear approached on foot (always wear a helmet; any head-covering you can find) but he had only raised a pistole half-way when–and here was another occurrence I would not believe if someone related the story in a tavern, but I saw it clearly—Crimson reared-up and clouted him in the head with his right hoof. I distinctly heard the impact. His horseshoe pierced the skull as easily as if it were an eggshell. The wretch spun to our left and the weapon didn’t discharge. 

     Who trained this animal?

     My steed had all four hooves on the ground again just in time for a frightened-looking young rider holding a curved blade in his right hand to attempt to jab me in the chest (no harm would have been done, I was wearing the front-plate). My sword-tip slipped over his weapon mid-blade and I flung the sword out of his hand. It bounced against his shield and fell to the ground.

     “Feroo, feroo!”  Flee, flee! I shouted at him. Just leave. It simply came out.

     The opponent wheeled around and disappeared. I had half a mind to join him.

     Crimson gave a snort, no doubt of disapproval.

     Someone landed a ringing blow on my sallet which nearly sent my skull flying back towards the city of Tunis, but I responded with a jab through the attacker’s side, he wore no armor, but what I dealt him was not a fatal blow.

     And then there was sudden quiet, with less than a dozen enemy riders galloping away, and the rest compressed into a circle, throwing down their weapons, some holding their sides or their heads.

     Silence.  

     My neck hurt like hell. Since all of the enemy were now hanging their heads in submission, after a careful glance around the field, I hung my shield from a hook on my saddle. I wiped my weapon with a cloth, sheathed it, closed my eyes for three seconds and massaged my right shoulder.  

     Raghi demanded that the leader come forward, but apparently he had been killed, which was unhelpful. The body was found and dragged over but neither Raghi nor Nestor recognized the person.

    “Have them turn over any coins or valuables they have,” I suggested. “Such things may provide a clue as to their employer.” I remembered the case of Rastoder, the apparent Ottoman agent in Montenegro, who had had his purse of Hungarian gold coins, implying he had had some business or activity there. Retrospectively, the clear implication in that pile of coins was that Sultan Sulayman was looking west.

     Most of the men had no coins at all, which didn’t recommend their group in case one might need employment at some future date, but what was deposited in a pile before us was an assortment of Spanish, Hafsid, and even Italian coins. No help. Raghi declared we would share out the proceeds tonight.  

     Raghi demanded that the second officer come forward, because there had to be one, and an uninspiring specimen kicked his steed forward. I wondered if the purported leader was really just any corpse the prisoners thought to point out, while this person might be the true chief. The horseman in question kept looking beyond Raghi’s shoulder as if he was expecting help. I twisted around too, wary of a last-minute attack from behind, but there was no one there; no one in the trees.

     Nestor translated: “This one says the gold was due to the governorate of Tabarka.” Which was the port to the north. “That’s nonsense.”

     I didn’t even know there was a governor in Tabarka. 

     The remaining nineteen horsemen claimed to be loyal subjects of the bey. They were only following the orders of Salim, the deceased captain. It seemed they were all residents of some town in the hills to the north called Ain Draham. What they said was a confused tangle of half-truths and outright falsehoods.

     I was still looking back in the direction we had come. “Ask the second in-command who was following behind us. And are they coming now?” The last was the most important question. Who the hell is out there…

     The prisoner stated twenty men were supposed to meet the caravan before Jendouba, which was the town immediately to our north. Were those the night attackers? If so, we had dealt with six of them; that left fourteen at large. Enough to make trouble.

     Our Hafsid captain decided it was time for his concluding speech: “Some of you know me,” he began. “I am Commander Raghi of the Bey’s guard. I follow the directions of the Bey. You would have done well to do the same.”

     There were some protests and murmurs from the prisoners, but Raghi held up one hand and cut them off. “This is my judgement: whatever arms you have left, throw them down. We will keep them. You will all dismount and we are taking the horses. Most of you are from Ain Draham. You are free to walk back there. If some of your wounded cannot move, then they will remain here.”

     “It is a distance of thirty-five miles, sidi,” protested the purported second-in-command. “And you have taken all our coin.”

     “You are fortunate that is all I am taking. Dismount and start walking.”

     Slowly, and with obvious reluctance, the defeated got down from their horses.

     A little later we were back in the trees and our blocking party had brought up the string of seventy camels. These were unpleasant, hissing beasts which would snap at you if you ventured too close. The horses shied away from them in distaste, and I leaned towards the opinion of the horses. The brown bags containing the gold dust were completely unremarkable in appearance.

     I stood by leaning my forearm against one tree. Crimson was nearby sniffing at some grass. Both my steed and I were none the worse from the clash, except for the impact to my head (thank you again to the German sallet, which also had padding). I had already carefully taken off all Crimson’s armor and rubbed him down, as I had been taught to do.

     I considered Crimson’s deeds on the battlefield. In truth, none of them were things that could not have been countered, but the vast majority of opponents would not expect them. In the first encounter, the horseman and I were looking at each other, eye-to-eye. The last thing he would expect would be that my steed would butt him over (nor had I given any direction that Crimson should do so). His mount would not have expected it either. Hence, success.  In the second encounter, the foe on foot should have fired his weapon. If for some reason he was unable to do that, he should have turned and run. He did neither. Again, you don’t expect to have an approaching horse fasten his jaws on your arm! The third man with the pistole should have known that approaching a rearing stallion was inadvisable, and he was to slow to discharge the weapon. But even granting all that, he probably never anticipated receiving a fatal blow on the head from a hoof. Good God…

      Alonso led his mount up. He also appeared to be unhurt.

     “Nothing like the life of a cavalryman, eh?”

     I slowly shook my head, almost at a loss for words. Almost. “I think I’ll stay a simple footsoldier. The thieves were lucky my horse wasn’t angry, otherwise there might have been a massacre.”

     Alonso laughed. “I saw when he threw the man under our hooves. That one perished quickly. After that I lost sight of you. Cut this in half and give it to him.” He was holding out an apple and I took it. Once again I had forgotten the equestrian proprieties.

     “They also like carrots,” added the Basque.

     “Thanks.” I cut the apple and held out half for Crimson. He took it immediately. The beast definitely had a taste for the things. Apparently now we were friends. He seemed to believe I had performed tolerably. I told him in Italian that he did well, and I suppose at least he understood the approving tones. 

     Odd, but now Crimson couldn’t care less about the whereabouts of Raghi or his mount; he knew the excitement was over for the day. An extraordinary creature.

     Nestor called out there would be one hour’s rest. Sentries were sent out, but I was not one of them. I sank by my tree, fully-armored, and was asleep at once.

     When I awoke my neck still hurt and I heard there had been no attack from the fourteen or however many following and attacking men remained. Where were they, how many were they, what were their intentions–all unknown. There had been no further trouble from the second-in-command of the thieves and his remaining men. They were on foot now, and had no or few weapons. They were lucky to be left alive. We saw no more of them.

     Nestor and Alonso approached for one of their by now standard three-minute meetings. Our sergeante began on a cheerful note: “I hope the two of you are ready for two or three days with no sleep, because I know you realize that now that we have the gold, who knows how many bands will appear to contest our passage.”

     Alonso and I nodded, with less than enthusiasm.

     “Captain Raghi is going on about the governor at the port of Tabarka, how we need to deal with him – “

     Alonso and I both shook our heads.

     “Don’t worry, I urged upon him that that is not our mission now. We need to get out of here and bring the treasure back to Tunis. That is what we will do. Rather than run back east through Dougga with the mounts and the caravan we’ll proceed north. We’ll bypass the towns of Jendouba and Ain Draham–

     The home of the troop of thieves.

     “ –and keep going to the port of Tabarka. There, three miles east of the town, I asked the captain of the Republic’s vessel the Dolphin to meet us. She has two cannon and a small complement of marines. Despite my letter from the senatore, the captain of the Tigre said he wanted no further part of our adventures, since we had already cost him three marines. I’ll write a complaint about him later.

      “We will signal the Dolphin and the long boats will come and get us. We’ll send the mounts and the camels back to Tunis with a small escort. We and the Tunisian troops together will escort the treasure back to the port, and thence to the city. Simple.”

     It sounded anything but simple. I stated the obvious: “But the enemy is expecting to pick up his gold-dust in Tabarka. Whoever it is will be there waiting.”

     “That bothers me too.” Nobody laughed. “But seriously, we will not enter Tabarka. Priorities, comrades. Our mission is not to sort out what the governor of the province is up to, nor to engage any waiting force at Tabarka. We’ll pass them by, meet the vessel east of the town, and be off. The bey can deal with his western possessions at a later date–or never. If I had to guess, I would suppose that representatives of our enemy or perhaps Kheiruddin himself are sitting in Tabarka. I don’t care to find out which it is. If the waiting enemy should happen to hear we are coming and wants to engage us, in a land he does not know– “ He shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend it. We have guides and will move quickly. And on that note: away!”

     “And besides,” began Alonso.

     I held up both hands: “Don’t say it.” Alonso was always saying ‘How good will the enemy be?’  

     The best thing was not to have to find out.