The group turned their horses for the journey home, Curticius looking straight ahead at the horizon. “And we’ve had reports of unknown riders using that hut.” He looked sideways at his daughter and continued pointedly, “I should have known, when I saw you in that green outfit this morning.”
“Perhaps you did, Father.” She threw one more barbed look at him then concentrated on trying to make her horse outwalk his.
Constantinople,
Late morning, 20th April 1054
Charles Bertrum turned from his inspection of the cell. “You’ve done it this time, Guy d’Agiles! No way out of here.”
“Where are we, anyway?” Jacques watched Charles complete his inspection. “At least we can see something now it’s daylight.”
Guy returned their looks. What would have happened if he had chosen another inn, or not gone out to check their horses? “I don’t know—couldn’t see a thing through the blindfold. Still in Constantinople. Somewhere in the palace, probably in the cells of their barracks.”
Charles leapt up, seized the bars of the high window and with a grunt, hauled himself up to peer out.
“At least,” Jacques said, glancing up, “we’re not dead and they’ve fed us, even if heiresses are not in abundance here.”
Charles chuckled. “They’re in abundance out here though. Hullo, my sweet!” he waved and called in appalling Greek to a scandalised chorus from beyond the bars. “This is the palace all right. I can see the Hippodrome.”
Sitting in the straw covering the stone floor with his back against the wall, Guy recalled the previous evening’s events. Clearly they had blundered into an ambush of some sort, which had not gone according to plan. “The thugs,” he thought aloud, “were in the pay of the three mounted fellows, one of whom looked like an eastern barbarian, I think. Then I went out and they panicked. That Swordleader said it was a trap, they were the wrong ones and that one of the couriers was a girl.”
“Woman,” Charles dropped from the window and turned to face his friend. “The last three times you’ve told the story, he said one of the couriers was a woman. And he wanted us dead, especially you. You’re too forlorn, Guy. They’ll work out we had nothing to do with it and we’ll be out of here.”
“Then the troops arrived,” Guy continued irritably, knuckles pressed against closed eyes.
Charles, restless, heaved himself up again to the view from the high window.
“Their count wanted to know if I would recognise their leader.”
“We could always join the palace guard when we get out of here.” Charles lowered himself to the floor again.
“More than that,” Guy continued as if he had not heard. “Their count said, exactly—the one that got away will know you.” He looked vacantly at Jacques. “The one that got away will know you.”
Jacques looked from one to the other. “Keep your voices down.”
“It was a trap within a trap. Both went wrong and we were in the middle of it.”
“Still are,” croaked Jacques. “We should take that old woman’s advice and head for home as soon as we can. It mightn’t be great, but it’s safer.”
“I think you’re right,” said Guy.
They fell silent and stood as approaching footsteps halted at their cell door, then there was a metallic clang of bolts slid open. The heavy door swung out to reveal a young officer of the Scholae and ten men in civilian clothes, swords under their cloaks. “I am Tribune Balsamon, Sixth Schola.” He motioned to Jacques. “You, come with us.”
“Where’re you taking him?” remonstrated Charles.
“I’ll go too!” Guy stepped forward.
“Stay here,” Balsamon ordered.
Guy and Charles banged impotently on the door as Jacques was marched away. Their situation had seemed bad enough when they were together. Now the sense of helplessness was oppressive. Guy paced the cell, wondering where and for what purpose Jacques was taken as Charles sat brooding.
Some hours later, the door opened again and four armed cataphracts in mail shirts entered the cell.
“Where’s my man?” Guy asked, trying to sound calm.
The soldiers ignored the question and handed them light brown military cloaks. “Put these on and come with us.” They watched as Guy and Charles pulled the quality waterproof garments around their shoulders. A cavalryman stepped forward and arranged the hoods over their heads. “Let’s go.”
Thus disguised and unbound, they followed uneasily as their escort led them from the barracks and departed through the main palace gate with its quarter-guard of Khazars from the Third Hetaeria,22 then crossed a wide street with its idling crowd and entered the bulk of the Hippodrome through a small side entrance. Guy thought of making a bolt for it, but because of the hoods, could not catch Charles’ eye. They passed through empty stables of the chariot teams—Greens, Blues, Reds and Whites—and onto the track with its tiered stands. Guy had been an occasional spectator at the races; one of the things visitors did. He had been amazed at the reckless violence of the drivers from the Blue and Green factions and did not doubt the tales of their sanguinary past.
They approached four men discussing a grey horse, lame in the near foreleg. One was an officer of the Scholae in undress uniform, the second appeared to be his squire, while the other two wore the picturesque costumes of the eastern frontiers. Guy recognised the barbarian in the threadbare blue coat from the fight at the inn. The man’s eyes flickered back.
The officer had the lithe appearance of a professional cavalryman: a straight fellow of middle height in his early thirties with a touch of humour in his hazel eyes. He looked up as they approached. “Ah! Good. There are secret passages, but sometimes it’s as easy to hide in the open.” He spoke Latin. “Guy d’Agiles?”
“Yes.”
“I am Centarch23 Bessas Phocas, Sixth Schola.”
“The one who arrested us?”
“Yes. Regrettable but necessary. ”
“Who ordered you?”
Bessas Phocas paused. “Count Bryennius.”
“Bryennius.” Guy repeated.
“Charles Bertrum.” Guy’s friend stepped forward.
Bessas nodded.
“Where has my man been taken?” Guy asked.
“To collect your belongings, settle your affairs in Constantinople and send, via one of my men, the personal items you will need for the next few days. You will meet him again in due course.”
“Settle our affairs?” Guy said doubtfully.
“Yes. I hope the three of you don’t owe too much—it’ll come out of your pay. You need to lie low, after last night.”
“Pay?”
“Yes.” Bessas was not about to elaborate.
Guy relaxed a little and glanced at Charles. If they were to be paid, imminent death or imprisonment seemed unlikely. “It’s a fine horse. Yours?” he asked in an attempt to make the conversation less strained. Guy noticed the light in Bessas’ eyes, for the Greeks were notoriously humourless, especially when dealing with Latins.
“Thank you,” Bessas replied though his brown beard.
Some deep instinct in Guy told him to check the horse’s hoof for the cause of the lameness. He bent down by the leg. “May I?”
“Of course. He’s been unsound for days. No one is able to determine the cause.”
Guy lifted the hoof. “A knife?” he asked, feeling the exchange of glances behind his back.
An exquisite blade was dropped to the sand at his foot.
“That is Togol, our Cuman scout and an excellent fellow. You met last night.”
“I remember.” Guy found an object driven into the underside of the hoof. “Looks like a stake lodged in deep.” The grey flinched as he prodded at the deep commissure beside the frog. “I can’t move it. Do you have pincers?”
The squire hurried away and returne
d with a pair, which he passed to Guy.
With some effort, Guy drew forth a short stake smeared with pus and blood, then gently put down the leg. The horse shifted its weight normally and turned its muzzle to him.
“The wound will need cleaning.”
The scouts murmured approvingly as the squire led the horse away.
“I’m in your debt,” admitted Bessas. “And embarrassed. I should have seen it.”
“Yes, you should!” said Charles.
“Sometimes things are overlooked when one is busy.” Guy glanced angrily at Charles. They were not in any position to antagonise their captors.
“Have you been here long?” Bessas switched the conversation back to its purpose. “You speak some Greek?”
“Several weeks. A little.”
“Had you found a position?”
“Not yet,” Guy replied, being careful not to appear too desperate. “We were looking when we were arrested.”
“Then you won’t be missed.” Bessas remained silent for a moment. “You and your comrades have been overtaken by events. You two will leave by boat tonight, with Centarch Lascaris and Togol here. Your man and animals will follow, initially by sea. As soon as we reach the port of Trebizond, David here,” he indicated the Georgian scout standing nearby, “will guide your man to a hideout near the city of Karin where you will be reunited.”
“We’ve never heard of these places.” Guy said.
“Quite so.” Bessas dropped to one knee and drew a rough map.
Guy knelt also, trying to orient the rough lines in the sand. “Where are Cae … um, Caesaria and … ”
Charles leaned on his shoulder. “Melitene?”
Bessas pointed to places half way along the intended journey.
“Far to the east,” Guy murmured.
With prudence born of habit, Bessas stood and obscured the sand map with the toe of his boot. “Yes. Far. The three of you …” He stopped speaking as an orderly approached. “Excuse me,” he said and left the two friends standing alone.
Charles spoke under his breath while seeming to stare at some point in the Hippodrome. “We’re hardly guarded. We could slip away. Jacques would be thinking the same. He would know to look for us near the last safe place we were together. Near the inn.”
“They’re cunning, Charles, and ruthless, and they have us in check—except that we’re pawns, not kings. Jacques will be too closely guarded and they have your horse and all our gear. Let them unite us. Then let’s see what can be done.”
“Jacques is your man, Guy. I’m with you, whatever you choose.”
Bessas returned. “As I was saying. After you meet up, you will proceed to Karin, locate the attackers from the inn and capture or kill them. If that’s done, you’re free to go. If not, you’ll volunteer to join a band of Frankish mercenaries in Karin—that is preparing to march to Vaspurakan—so you can continue the hunt. Only after that will you have anything to do with us, as we’ll probably share the road from then on. The only contact with us is to be discreet, through David and Togol. When we meet at Karin, that will be the first time we have met. Of course you’re volunteering, you understand.”
“Volunteering?” Charles grinned.
“The count doesn’t want anyone along who will hamper us.” Bessas looked straight into Guy’s eyes. “Your word on it?”
Guy and Charles exchanged glances. “Our word.”
“Good,” Bessas said brightly. “Tonight you begin a long journey and you should rest. As you’ve given your word, you will not be escorted.”
“Why Vaspurakan?” Guy asked. “What’s so important?”
“The shepherd king,” Bessas answered as he walked away with the scouts.
Guy watched them go. “We’re doing the very thing that woman at the inn warned us not to do.”
* * *
1Cavalry brigade of the professional Byzantine Army.
2A Byzantine general.
3A brigade of cavalry in the Byzantine Army.
4Turkic tribes from north east of the Black Sea.
5Turkic people from western Central Asia.
6Turkic dynasty based in eastern Iran and Afghanistan.
7Sunni Muslim Turkic sub-tribe of the Oghuz Turks.
8Battle of Stragna (now the Great Zab River), spring 1047. See map page v.
9Battle of Kapetrou (now Pasinler, eastern Turkey), 10 September 1048. See map page v.
10Artsn—some ten miles north west of Karin; the first Armenian city to fall to the Seljuk Turks. See maps, glossary.
11Defence of Messina, Sicily, against the Arabs in 1041.
12Battle of Diacene, against the Patzinaks in 1049, see map page v.
13Byzantine military province of Armenia, in which Manzikert (now Malazgird north of Lake Van) was a major fortress.
14Theme—a Byzantine civil and military province commanded by a strategos (the exact rank and function varied over time).
15Hauberk—a knee/calf length chain-mail coat, split front and back for riding, with sleeves reaching at least to mid-forearm. It had either an integral mail hood protecting the head and neck, or a separate mail pullover coif serving the same purpose. It superseded, for those who could afford it, the earlier byrnie from the early 9th Century.
16Count—the commander of a regiment, of 300–450 men.
17Cataphract—Byzantine cavalry trooper. .
18Her—a city, now Khoy in Iran. See Map p. v.
19Keffiyeh—flowing fabic headdress of the Arabs.
20Generic term for the peoples of the Middle East and North Africa.
21A Byzanine Army appointment title for chief of staff.
22The Emperor’s bodyguards.
23A commander of a squadron, about 100 men.
Chapter Two
How Frail the Time of Man
Near Karin,
Late afternoon, 3rd May 1054
That night Guy and Charles accompanied by Centarch Lascaris, Togol and a farrier of the Scholae, had crossed the Bosphorus by boat to Chalcedon. They each took their armour, weapons and a small bundle with a spare shirt, comb and toothsticks. Togol and the soldiers carried their personal saddles and accoutrements. The farrier also carried a handful of essential tools and a selection of horseshoe nails in a small pouch, all rolled in his leather apron and strapped to the saddle. On the Asian shore a detachment of cavalry provided them with seven horses: saddled mounts for Guy and Charles, with military cloaks over the cantles, saddlebags containing hardtack and a goatskin of water. With rolled mail shirts strapped over their pommels, the five departed on their six hundred and fifty mile ride leading two relief horses between them.
Lascaris was a spare man of few words, the farrier fewer and Togol even less. Guy soon understood why, for Lascaris set a hard pace: sixty miles a day, stopping only to eat and change horses at military exchange posts every twenty miles or so. They snatched sleep when they could. Sometimes they walked and led their horses to rest them and ease their own stiffness.
Mostly at a steady trot they passed through mountains and rolling fields dotted by the estates, villages and cities of the Byzantine Empire’s Anatolian heartland. Here armies had traditionally been recruited, warhorses bred and the staple grains grown. Guy saw the tell-tale signs of ceaseless wars and oppressive taxation. Many maimed men eked out a bare living on the charity of others, while people spoke of fickle seasons, near empty granaries and high taxes.
The mere hint of Cecaumenus’ authority brooked neither questions nor stinting support from the garrisons. At Nicopemedia and Ancyra they had bathed quickly, salved their saddle sores, ate lightly and pressed on. Five days into their journey, a full moon enabled them to
travel easily for several nights and rest away from the road by day, observing who else travelled the route. During a half-day rest at Sebasteia, Guy noticed the number of Frankish soldiers and the paucity of native Greek troops. The senior officer there had confided that an Armenian man and Greek woman had passed through the previous day and changed unbranded horses, but their opponents from the fight at the inn had vanished in the vastness of Asia Minor, if they had entered it at all. They encountered some Greeks who might, by their mannerisms, have been Swordleader, but none seemed familiar or travelled with a barbarian bowman. The five had pressed on through Koloneia into western Armenia with its craggy brown-grey mountains framing sparse valleys of light green grass interspersed by patches of melting snow.
On the eleventh day, they halted at a wayside inn two hours ride west of Karin. Guy, fighting to remain awake, barely noticed a more relaxed air in Togol or the knowing glances from the elderly couple that ran the house. Togol led them from the rutted dirt main-road some miles north into a picturesque hidden valley, where nestled an abandoned farmlet with a cave behind, high in the rugged northern slope. After securing one horse for immediate use in an enclosure near the hut, they released the others to graze, sank to the ground and slept. Lascaris took first watch.
Now they roused in the late afternoon as the woman from the inn arrived leading a laden donkey. “Togol, if you’ve returned, there’s trouble afoot. Who’re these men and why are you all so tired?”
“Riding is hard work, and you ask too many questions, woman.” Togol turned to his companions. “This lady and her husband, I trust with my life.”
“Hush, you’ll still ride easily if you live to ninety,” she smiled kindly. “Lads, sit down. You have the look of huntsmen pursued, but you can relax. No one comes this way.”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 5