Except our tracks, thought Guy as he helped the farrier unload the donkey.
The two friends and the farrier sat on the ground, Guy on his saddlecloth with its acrid odour of dried horse sweat on wool. His short shoes were falling apart and his trousers frayed from riding.
Lascaris, tall in scuffed boots with the slight breeze ruffling his fair hair, introduced them by first names only. Then the officer too reclined on his saddle blanket. “How do you know Togol?”
The grey woman busied herself preparing a meal of bread, wine, greens and cold mutton. “There is little enough to tell. Togol left the lands of the Cumans—further away than the Kurds24 and Seljuks—beyond even the Caspian Gates. His wanderings led him to the Shaddadid25 city of Gandja, which was soon besieged for a year and a half by that brute, Kutlumush. While Gandja suffered, other Kurds joined Ibrahim Inal and Kutlumush on the raid against Artsn, despite their ruler in Dvin’s sworn fealty to the Emperor after Cecaumenus had devastated his lands. Togol, insulted at such perfidy, carried warning of this to Cecaumenus.”
Guy listened closely, noted Togol’s concept of honour and was surprised that a nomad from beyond the Christian frontiers would have one. The Cuman, sword and bow case around his hips and a hint of fair colouring in his long hair, stood gazing at the distant mountains as though scarcely listening. Guy had given his word to Bessas: he would not want Togol on his trail if he broke it.
“But,” continued the woman, “he was caught at Kapetrou by some of his former associates and only saved by Michael Bryennius.”
“Count Leo Bryennius’ father?” Lascaris asked.
“Yes, the father,” she said. “In those days my husband and I lived near the battlefield. Togol was one of the wounded we treated. He left for Constantinople with Michael Bryennius.” She fell silent, as if thinking of those terrible times. “It all seems so long ago. Will Michael return?”
“No,” said Togol. “He was nearly killed by the Patzinaks and was saved by one of them. He lives, but will soldier no more.”
The woman blew through her teeth and clucked. “Where were you, Togol?”
“Scouting with his son.”
There was silence for a time, then Lascaris remarked, “It seems a small world out here, where everyone knows everyone else?”
The woman regarded him keenly. “You’re only partly right. It is a very big world as well, but large as it is, there is not room for everyone.”
Lascaris nodded. “Has anyone interesting been through?”
“As you see, a trickle on the road. Those who suspect trouble from the Seljuks and wish to flee. Kelts at Karin waiting to march into Vaspurakan. The usual army comings and goings.”
“No courtiers or thugs from the capital?”
She chuckled. “Is there any other sort from the capital? No. Not that we have seen. We can go into Karin and look, if you like?”
“That might be very helpful.” Lascaris seemed pleased to have his small army reinforced.
They ate greedily as though nothing could assuage the exertions of that ride. After the woman left, Lascaris reviewed their situation. “We’ll stick to the plan. There’s no evidence of the group from the inn near the Golden Gate being in front of us—that would be difficult for them, for we left soon after and have travelled fast. Togol and I will ride separately into Karin each day and see what we can find. If there’s anything suspicious, I’ll get a message to the old couple and they will relay my orders. For now, rest here and wait until your man arrives, then proceed as planned.”
“All armies are the same,” grumbled Charles. “Hurry up and wait.”
“I ate too much,” groaned Guy.
“In the meantime,” Lascaris continued without heed, “my good farrier friend here will cut your hair quite short, Guy D’Agiles. The man we seek threatened a long-haired Kelt, did he not?”
Guy and Charles waited impatiently for four days. They explored the valley and hills from where they could see the road back towards Constantinople and eastward to the ancient battlements of Karin. Together they slept, ate, stood watch, tended their Roman horses and awaited the summons that would end their quest and their confinement.
On their fourth night in the valley, the two friends and the farrier were lazing around a small fire as Lascaris reconnoitred Karin. A low hiss from Togol on watch signalled the approach of shod horses. They rolled with their weapons into the darkness.
Guy strained his senses, then heard Togol call softly.
“It is I, Togol. I have the Kelt called Jacques, David, and Centarch Lascaris’ squire with me.”
Guy leapt to his feet, unexpectedly reassured by the presence and calm voice of the groom. “I have your mule, Charles Bertrum’s horse, our gear and the horse I rode here. But, I can tell you, seasickness is to be avoided.” Jacques, grinning broadly, approached them then muttered to the ground at their feet. “We’re united again. Now—to get out of here …” His face fell at their silence.
Guy hesitated. “Jacques, we cannot, for I gave my word.”
“You what?”
The fortress of Baberd,
Evening, 6th May 1054
Leo Bryennius sat comfortably on the Baberd castle battlements allowing his thoughts to roam as he watched the sunset colours in the light cloud and the shadows lengthen in the valley below.
His wife had retired early that last evening in Constantinople as he finished his preparations and slept fitfully before rising in the dark. With his squire, Taticus Phocas, he had left his home leading two spare horses and a pack mule, along the dark streets to the Prosforian Harbour on the Golden Horn. Agatha had not risen to wave him off. Leo had not looked back.
At the waterfront, the three hundred men of the regiment waited together with their hundred squires, a handful of Cuman and Patzinak scouts and two dozen Frankish mercenaries. Leo had been pleased to see his special charge, the mercenary, Jacques, blend into the crowd without attracting attention. An imperial courier, Bardas Cydones, with his servant had joined them bearing palace orders for escort to Vaspurakan. Leo was suspicious of the coincidence, given the speed and secrecy of their preparations, but imperial couriers seeking military escort were common. Nonetheless Leo had sent Centarch Sebēos to the Domestic to verify the courier’s credentials as their animals were loaded through the side-doors of the transports and secured in stalls. Sebēos returned and confirmed Cydones’ orders. Leo had directed Cydones to stay close to the standard-bearers, who with Sebēos, had orders to watch him closely. Constantinople with its sumptuous comforts, delights, intrigues and memories then slipped from view behind the sleek stern and dipping oars of an imperial trireme.
Despite the turbulent waters and execrable reputation of the Black Sea—ships simply disappearing or carried off by hostile Vikings—the voyage to Trebizond had been uneventful. While it was a hundred years since the last major Norse invasion fleet was destroyed by flame-spewing Roman ships, imperial flotillas remained vigilant, especially since the last Rus seaborne expedition against the Empire only eleven years earlier.
The force sailed past the lights and battlements of historic Sinope and after four days at sea, disembarked at the walled harbour-city of Trebizond. Bessas had discreetly despatched Jacques to rendezvous with Lascaris’ party. The scout, David, and a squire, both mounted, accompanied them leading Charles’ mare and Guy’s mule. Leo’s regiment had then spent some days at Trebizond, resting horses and acquiring information and provisions.
Trebizond, a key Byzantine trading post and bastion on the Black Sea coast, was protected from the great strategic crossroads of the Anatolian plateau by pine-forested mountains that plunged in folds down to the coast. The citadel and circuit walls—sited between the precipitous eastern and western ravines—protected the northern battlements overlooking the walled harbour. The city was a place of rich variety. Serene sea views from the stone cathedrals contrasted viv
idly with the tortuous streets, where Alan and Georgian traders from the Caucasus rubbed shoulders in the heat with Norse mercenaries and the rich gowns of veiled Byzantine daughters brushed the dresses of Rus whores.
In Trebizond, Leo had an encounter, unlooked for, unexpected. There had been kind words and lingering looks from the beauty. They walked at sunset along the sea wall, chatting of the classics and horses with other thoughts unspoken. Her striking form and graceful carriage turned the heads of passers-by. “You’re interesting,” she sighed with a lingering look, taking his arm and encouraging another outing. Instead, her servant came to Leo’s tent and demurred that her lady was betrothed and would not see him again. Nothing should interfere with the gravity of money and marriage—a soldier bound for the Muslim frontier had little to offer.
The regiment had marched from Trebizond, four days uphill along the rough, winding road which was flanked by forested defiles and surrounded by grey crags, bare and menacing as though tossed up by the underworld. They came at last into the stony mountains and bare hills surrounding Baberd, with its triple-walled fortress overlooking the town nestled below in the narrow valley of the Chorokh River. A brigade of three-thousand bearded Varangian26 and Rus mercenaries held the stronghold that guarded the intersecting roads: from the interior to Trebizond and laterally along the river valley.
Earlier this evening of their arrival, the garrison had entertained the Sixth Schola with drinking and dancing. The highlight was a friendly contest between a number of Varangians and a wayfaring Armenian, Tatoul Vanantzi. They laughed and brawled, upsetting tables and overturning benches before collapsing in a heap, to roars of approval from the onlookers.
Now Leo swilled the last of the red wine in the goblet and drained it as the shadows lengthened over the toy trees and fields below. The imperial courier, Cydones, strolled alone further along the battlements. Leo was momentarily irritated that he was not escorted. Still, it was difficult to be with someone all the time and remain discreet, while Cydones seemed only to be similarly taking in the pleasant evening air. Who was he? Who knew the regiment was leaving Constantinople and arranged orders for him to join them? What was he up to? And for whom?
“Melancholy?” The mighty Tatoul approaching with two goblets of red wine, interrupted Leo’s thoughts.
He accepted one. “Never, Tatoul, merely reflection. I was thinking these battlements have a different feel to the sea wall at Trebizond.”
“We both know it’s some journey you make, for you look a hunter. May I join you? And what was it about Trebizond?”
“I hope it was not that obvious? The sea was serene, and very beautiful.”
“No. It’s not that obvious. And isn’t this pastoral scene one of peace and beauty?”
They talked for a time, reticently at first, both seeking trust in allies during dangerous times.
Tatoul was returning to Kars after visiting friends in Trebizond. “What do you know of our new Seljuk neighbours?”
“Little enough, I confess, for I have not soldiered in these parts before. I’m told they are ever more numerous and aggressive—the tribes unlikely to give up their raiding and migrating. It seems their Sultan, despite some problems maintaining central control, has a renewed hunger for conquest after consolidating on the Iranian plateau.” Leo paused. “Were you at Kars in January?”
“No, at my estate. I hastened there with my men as soon as I heard. Kutlumush gained complete surprise. It was as though there was no organised resistance at all. My God, Leo, after they got such a bloody nose at Kapetrou, and after Aaron and Cecaumenus killed Prince Hasan and many of his followers at Stragna, we thought they would stop. But Kars has changed that. But if a lone regiment of Scholae are marching to Armenia, someone knows something. Why do they send you, if you have not soldiered here before? And why so few?”
“Only horse in the stable at the time, I suppose.’ Leo smiled. “If the threat is real, an army will come, but they need time to organise and train.”
“And you’re the time!”
Leo grimaced good-humouredly and sipped some wine. “One can win battles and still lose the war. The Sultan can lose a few and it will make no difference to him. I don’t think we can afford to lose a single battle. What worries me most are rumours Tughrul now has a siege train. That would mean he is serious this time, and it will not do to just hide behind city walls, hoping he gets tired of it.”
“This time?”
“It is almost certain.”
“Well, Leo, many Armenians hate you for your Roman annexations, but our little Kingdom of Kars cannot stand alone. I for one welcome your legions as allies, as long as you keep your damned tax-collectors away.”
“I would feel as you, but know that they are not my tax-collectors. They’re a heavy burden on our own people as well.”
Uninvited, the imperial courier joined them and commented pleasantly on the evening colours. Leo and Tatoul returned his greeting then steered their conversation to the more inclusive and agreeable subjects of horses and the voyage. Throughout, Leo wondered how much Cydones had heard. He could not consciously fault him, but remained wary of the courier. “Will you be long in Manzikert, Bardas?” He asked while maintaining the appearance of a vague gaze over the valley.
“I don’t know, really. I am to meet an official there who should arrive from Baghdad and Isfahan. It much depends on him.”
“Isfahan, Tughrul’s capital, eh? One of ours or one of theirs?” Leo joked.
Cydones looked condescendingly at him. “Ours. No one you would know, I suspect. The Magistros, Modestos Kamyates—a most important man, he won his title for his penultimate role in the delegation that secured the freedom of Liparit from Sultan Tughrul Bey.”
Leo’s heart sank. He knew of Kamyates and suppressed a desire to ask if Cydones was sure Kamyates was one of ours. “I’ve heard that,” he replied slowly as if lost in inconsequential whimsy. “Oh, well. Good for him,” he said, as though approvingly before changing the subject. “I must say, Bardas, I do admire your saddle.”
“Speaking of which,” Cydones rejoined, “I’ll go on earlier tomorrow with my servant.”
“Very good. I’ll furnish an escort for you.”
“Don’t bother,” Cydones said, rather too quickly. “In any event, it’s only two days ride and my groom is a handy fellow. I’ve no fear.”
“No bother,” insisted Leo. “Indeed, those are my orders as you showed me at the dock.”
“Very well.” The imperial courier snapped, before recovering his usual charm. “That’s kind. We leave at sunrise.”
“They’ll meet you at the main gate.”
Cydones, seemingly aware he would hear nothing of any value to him, moved on.
Tatoul followed Cydones with his eyes. “You know the fellow he is to meet?”
“I know him. It will be an interesting summer I daresay.”
“Then God be with you. Sounds like I’d better get an early start tomorrow. I’ll be at Kars, or my estate near there.”
“Manzikert.”
“Then Count Leo of the Scholae, God go with you, and may the ramparts of Manzikert be as serene for you as the sea wall of Trebizond.” He clapped Leo on the shoulder and was gone.
Leo felt he would have cause to remember Tatoul Vanantzi. Lingering silently on the darkening battlements, he studied the waxing crescent moon rise over the silent mountains and wondered if some Turk from the far-off Oxus mused on it as well.
Near Baberd,
7th May 1054
Bardas Cydones evaded Count Bryennius’ escort, leaving Baberd an hour before the appointed time with his servant, Petros Doukitzes, a swarthy citizen from Melitene. Once a Roman cavalryman, Doukitzes had participated in the Byzantine occupation of Armenian Ani in 1046 and the failed attack on Kurdish Dvin the year before that. Skilled with knife and bow, an excellent rider but cruel horse
man, Doukitzes had been recommended to Cydones by the one who arranged the thugs at the inn. The imperial courier was assured that Doukitzes, a deadly killer, was a “cleanskin”—no one of consequence would know his name or face. Much of the time he grunted acknowledgements rather than spoke and Cydones had never met anyone less interested in the affairs of the world. Nevertheless the man had been a hard-working, discreet and useful travelling companion. His mischievous audacity, when it came to the fore, gave him a touch with common people that enabled him to enlist their sympathy and assistance.
Cydones had not told him much. He simply alluded to a secret task from the palace that could incur some danger but paid well. For the time being, Doukitzes was useful. If he became troublesome, Cydones would kill him without conscience. Thus the imperial courier noticed everything, strength and weakness, about Petros Doukitzes.
Anxious to evade any patrol Bryennius might send after them, Cydones kept up a steady pace, intending to reach Karin in a day. The two trotted through mountain-fringed steppe, stopping briefly at noon at a pleasant rivulet to eat bread and water their horses. Entering Karin long after dark, they lodged at an inn. The exertion of the day caused Cydones to readily fall asleep. The next morning he arose stiff but refreshed and reckoned he had at least a day before Bryennius would arrive in the city and seek him out.
Despite Cydones’ ingrained contempt for the army, prudence dictated that he needed to be careful of Bryennius. The officer must have been sent for some purpose and insisted on providing an escort when Cydones had made it plain he wished to travel alone.
Before he left Constantinople, Cydones had made discreet inquiries about the long-haired Kelt with an indifferent horse that he had encountered at the inn. He had learned that imperial troops had arrested and imprisoned some Latins and none knew their fate. Not recognising anyone among the Franks with Bryennius’ column, his assailant at the inn had faded from Cydones’ conscious thoughts.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 6