The sun had barely risen when Cydones rose and walked a turn of the drab stone city looking and listening for any sign of his quarry. He roused his snoring companion and they breakfasted at the inn before checking their horses. Then Cydones reluctantly—because it betrayed his interest—inquired whether a travelling couple had yet passed through Karin. He tried a direct approach to the officers in the citadel, counting on the authority of his office to bluff an answer from them. All professed ignorance, though he doubted the honesty of two. Disappointed, Cydones and Doukitzes searched the town for any trace of the couriers, whose despatches warning of the impending Seljuk attack, he must prevent from reaching Manzikert.
Manzikert! The imperial courier had never given the fortress-city at the limits of empire any thought before this. Now it loomed large in his consciousness. He wondered and asked too much about the place. As was his custom, he sought solace in red wine, dragging Doukitzes to a tavern where he discovered to his immense satisfaction that he could still function when his companion had collapsed in stupor.
Cydones dragged him upstairs to their simple room and threw the barely coherent thug onto a bed. Then, his head still dull from the wine, he cloaked himself in someone’s nondescript travelling cape from a peg near the entrance. With a sense of freedom, he set out for the caravanserai outside the circuit walls where he had been told that merchants, cameleers and others from the Muslim lands might be found. This pleasant distraction would allow him to practice his language, see the sights and learn what he might.
He studied the construction of the brick caravanserai with its eastern influence: a double storied building surrounding a courtyard where camels, donkeys and mules were tied or hobbled, as their masters rested in the upstairs rooms. The animals boasted by their trappings of the vast exotic worlds of the Silk Roads.
In the market next to the caravanserai, Cydones lost himself amongst the rows of produce and goods. Wheat, oats and barley from local fields were stacked in burlap sacks beside loads of goods from across the chimera of the Muslim frontier: cloth and carpets from Bukhara, copperware, leather and paper from Samarqand, saddles and quivers from Tashkent, silks and wool from Zeravshan, metalware and weapons from Ferghana.
While bartering over a pair of colourful woven camel-bags, Cydones found himself in conversation with a Kurd from Tabriz whose interests seemed far wider than the price of the bags. “But it is not a very good caravanserai,” remarked the Kurd. “It is not like that built by the great Mahmud the Ghaznavid near Nishapur.”
“Indeed?” returned Cydones affably, wooed by the stranger’s warmth. “I’ve not seen it.”
“It’s your loss. You’re from Constantinople? You have that manner. From the palace?” The Kurd spoke passable Greek and looked Cydones straight in the eye as if trying to gauge his reaction to such a leading question.
“Really?” Cydones replied in Arabic, finding the multi-lingual Kurd interesting and somehow intimidating.
“I see much,” the Kurd returned, also in Arabic. “It amuses people in Tabriz who are interested in such things. It can be … profitable. Each must make his own way in the world, y’know?”
“Exactly!” said Cydones, concealing his shock that a stranger could pick him as one who might trade secrets. Was he so obvious? His heart beat wildly and his mouth was so dry he could not refrain from licking his lips. “D’you work for such people?”
“No. No!” the other protested with a gesture. “That would be bad for business.” He paused. “But messages can be … passed. You see?”
“I understand,” Cydones mused aloud, shocked at the blunt approach and his own reaction to it. Something must be afoot in the Seljuk court for their questions to be so blatant, as if the answers were needed urgently. “It’d not do for such people to learn that a regiment of imperial Scholae from Constantinople have left Baberd, marching for Vaspurakan.”
“No, it would never do. How many? Who leads?”
“The Sixth Schola. Three hundred, four, counting their squires. Count Bryennius commands.”
“Not many squires?”
Cydones was surprised a wandering Kurd would know such detail of Byzantine military tactical organisation. “No. Money is short.”
“Do others come?” the Kurd asked.
“No.”
“Not so!” said the Kurd in Greek, loudly enough for the closest people in the crowd to hear and dismiss it as mere bartering. “Feel the quality of these bags,” he continued as he slipped in a few golden nomisma27, the byzants referred to by Franks. “You should take these bags, they’ll suit your purpose very well.”
With a furtive look around, Cydones passed some copper coins and made to leave, the bags over his shoulder. Close by, a hooded figure knelt examining the front shoe of a fine chestnut horse with a red leather saddle. Cydones worried whether someone watched him, but the hooded figure, evidently satisfied, straightened and resumed a conversation with a cameleer.
“Perhaps one day, here will be built a proper caravanserai?” the Kurd said under a public smile. Then he finished, his voice slightly raised for the benefit of those around, “Please come again and bring your friends.”
Cydones walked away, uneasily conscious of how simple and profitable another betrayal had been. At the hairs rising on the back of his neck, he glanced furtively around the crowd but could see no one familiar.
The following day, Petros Doukitzes had more success with the grooms than Cydones had with officials. One remembered a reserved woman and said that the couple had changed horses days before and would certainly be at Manzikert by now. Cydones was crestfallen. He had failed and now faced a prolonged stay in Armenia and the dangers of a besieged city. Bitter as he was, Cydones was not idle. Using his rank and position, he learned all that he could about the defences of Karin in particular and the Byzantine-Armenian frontier provinces in general. Once in the business of peddling information, every piece of a puzzle could be useful—and rewarding. Cydones decided to stay ahead of Count Bryennius and press on to Manzikert.
Karin,
10th May 1054
“Five days in Karin, and I have not seen anyone who looks like Swordleader, damn it,” said Guy. “He must’ve gone on already.” Wearing sidearms but no armour, he and Charles sat at a table in a secluded little tavern, one of their meeting places with the scouts. Jacques remained close to the cramped room they had rented, watching over their gear and animals in the stable behind.
On their first day in Karin, Guy had secured an interview with Robert Balazun, the leader of the Frankish mercenaries bound for Manzikert. The black-clothed Norman was a tall, powerful figure with a hooked nose and ready laugh. Like many of his kind, Balazun had left Normandy in search of land and wealth: either through conquest, or the seduction of an heiress. He bought Guy and Charles a jug of wine and accepted their services, but said he would not pay wages until the band started their march eastwards. Guy had not liked him—the Norman was too loud and arrogant.
“Karin!” Charles looked around at the mixed crowd. “A craphole between worlds. And the women are more coy and more covered than in Constantinople. I didn’t think it was possible.”
Guy laughed. “It’s not so bad.”
David Varaz, the scout, approached them and sat at their table.
Guy greeted him, “We’ve walked around so many times the beggars know us by sight.”
“Sometimes when hunting it is best to lay in wait,” said the borderer and horse thief. “I’ve come to take one of you to the market to spend your handful of silver coins on—what is it? Trousers, shoes, bow and, ah yes, a horse.”
“Not all at once,” grimaced Guy. “Centarch Lascaris is not very generous.”
“No. But he’s a smart one. It wouldn’t do to splash money around and draw attention to yourself. Put this on.” David handed Guy a strip of yellow and tan patterned silk to wear turban fashion. “Not so tight, loose. Now y
ou’ll look like just about everybody else. Anyway,” he grinned, standing, “only a fool would buy a horse, by God.”
“How else does one get a horse?” Guy also rose.
“Thieve one, of course,” David laughed, leading the way with a self-assured strut as he farewelled Charles. “Your turn tomorrow.”
They walked uphill past the citadel and turned east along a main thoroughfare leading to the Kars gate. “This isn’t the most direct way to the market.”
“No. We need to visit someone.”
They passed beyond the recently repaired and strengthened circuit walls to where Guy found himself in a shantytown of makeshift houses and lean-tos arranged into little streets. David—left hand resting on his sword hilt with the little finger caressing his cased bow, right fist on the hinged leather lid of his quiver—singled out a man lounging against a rail and spoke to him in Armenian.
When finished, he turned to Guy. “I am looking for a priest—one who knows many and much.”
“What’s this place?”
“A squat. Or refugee camp if you like. People who escaped from Artsn fled here. Most haven’t been able to find the money to start again, or leave—lost everything.”
They picked their way through the poverty, coming at last to a small wooden dwelling. Guy followed him through a dark entrance and saw David enter a tiny room bathed with sunlight where an oilcloth cover was drawn aside. Six people sat on cushions around the walls eating a sparse meal from a low central table. They looked up quickly and their expressions brightened as they recognised the tough little Georgian.
Guy followed him, both surprised and ashamed, as they gasped and shrank back from him—an armed stranger. They recovered and a middle-aged man with a dark beard rose to welcome him. This was the priest and he introduced the family: an old man with the red weal of a sword scar across his face, his daughter in her thirties and a beautiful granddaughter in her late teens who forced a smile and quickly averted her eyes. A nephew and the orphaned boy of a neighbour looked at the foreigner with the open curiosity of children.
Guy sat in the place they made for him and courteously accepted a small cup of wine and piece of bread.
David stepped outside with the priest.
The woman watched Guy glance around the room, saw him gauge their cleanliness and paucity. “Do you speak Armenian or Greek?”
“A little Greek.”
“I am sorry we can’t offer more.”
“I understand.”
“You are of the Kelts in the city who will march to Vaspurakan to fight the Turk? A friend of David’s?”
“Fellow traveller.”
“You must be a friend, or he would not have brought you here.” She paused. “You know what comes? What confronts you?”
“Perhaps a little. I have heard something of Artsn. Of the massacre.”
“Then you do not know?”
Guy was aware of the way in which traumatised people cannot stop talking about what was done to them. He did not know whether it was best for them to blurt it out, or bottle it up within, relying on God and time to heal invisible wounds. “I am reluctant to pry.”
“I see. But you should know what faces you and why David is so … driven.” She looked away, surrendering to the flood of toxic memories. “We were too proud or foolish to follow Cecaumenus’ advice and seek shelter in Karin, so were forsaken by God, some say because of our wicked ways. We had no city wall and only a few troops. Ibrahim Inal surprised the town and the citizens refused his demand for surrender. Inal became so frustrated with the resistance that he fired the city and put the populace to the sword. Those who could get away fled—at least the battle enabled some to escape. Children were led in bondage from the city, babies hurled mercilessly against rocks, young people blackened by fire, respectable elderly folk killed and maimed, maidens outraged and herded into slavery.”
The woman was silent for a time. “The Greeks excuse their failed diplomacy and wasted battles by saying the Seljuk columns are huge. They aren’t. But they are fast moving and daring. And their arrows are terrible, like the rain. That day the raiders set fire to houses, churches and public buildings where people tried to shelter. A severe wind came up and fanned the flames so the smoke billowed in a great cloud. The infidels stripped the place of all our gold and valuables. Forty camels were needed to carry the plunder from the bishop’s treasury alone and a hundred and fifty priests were killed during the sack.”
“Your family survived?”
“There are the remnants of three families in this room. Some fled in panic and with God’s grace escaped. Others feigned death.” The woman lowered her voice. “Our poor little Tamar was …” She motioned to the silent young woman who sat rocking on her knees, looking at the floor. “Still more hid in cellars that were not discovered. If the murdered and maimed and those enslaved were here, we would be fifty.”
Guy lowered his gaze.
“Has David told you anything? Of himself?”
“I know he was at Kapetrou.”
She smiled sadly. “He has not, has he? David was a landowning borderer and one of Liparit’s officers. He loved our eldest—a beautiful girl. She was taken at Artsn but our soldiers were unable to rescue the captives, so she was taken to the Muslim lands. David followed in disguise, to the slave markets of Tabriz and Baghdad but could not get near her. A thousand dinars she fetched in Baghdad. A cavalryman of the gulams gets forty a month, a Daylami foot soldier, six. Most slave girls cost perhaps twenty, less when many are taken. A thousand dinars! David did not have it, of course, and after the auction he could not find her. A different man returned home.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something in him has died. He hates the infidels and … Hush! Here they come.”
Guy left with David soon after and they walked together to the market by the caravanserai. Guy wondered why the scout had taken him to the family. “They are good people,” he ventured.
“Yes,” replied David solemnly. “I wanted you to meet them. For by God, you three Kelts have made little secret of your desire to return to the safety of your own lands—though so far, you’ve kept your word to Centarch Bessas Phocas. Why do you want to return to where there is no place for you? If there was, you would not be here! This is the end of the Christian lands. Beyond here are pagans and Muslims. You came as a soldier of fortune. Now you know the price, if you’re prepared to pay it, stay and welcome. If not, go now and be damned, by God. That is all I have to say.”
Thereupon they reached the market where Guy, suddenly with much to think about, paid increased attention to searching the faces for any who might be the Swordleader.
David Varaz immediately changed the subject as though the previous conversation had not occurred. “Riding pants you need now,” he observed with his familiar good-humoured grin at Guy’s worn linens. “The best stall for them is over there. Get boots in Manzikert. They’ll be cheaper there and if you buy them here, you’ll be tempted to wear them on the march and get sore feet.”
Guy purchased some tan coloured linen trousers and then they strolled around taking in the sights and wares for sale. It grew late and as they turned to go, Guy accidentally brushed against a tall man walking distractedly by with a pair of camel bags over his shoulder. Guy felt a sudden, overwhelming tension and turned almost involuntarily, to stare at the retreating figure. The stranger in his travelling garb was walking away in no particular rush. Nothing seemed remarkable about him.
Guy turned to follow David, scanning the faces of the crowd and fighting the deepening sense of unease.
Karin,
Mid-morning, 11th May 1054
The Sixth Schola rode the cobbled streets of Karin, the jostling crowd parting before the cavalcade of burnished mail, helmets low over shadow eyes, drab campaign cloaks rolled across the bunched muscle of blue blood horses. Leo was proud of
his cataphracts, men drawn from the military elite, the sons of the estate-owning families of Anatolia and Macedonia, born to horses and arms. Bureaucratic attacks on the soldier-farmer class and the losses in ceaseless wars against the Normans, Arabs, Kurds, Seljuks and Patzinaks had made such men rare enough. From the head of the column, he surveyed the Armenian throng with its sprinkling of Kelt and Varangian mercenaries. The hand and donkey carts of tradesmen and pedlars crowded the side streets while shutters opened in the little stone houses and shops. Leo could not see Cydones or his servant.
The princeps of the Karin garrison, riding on Leo’s left, had met them at the city gates to guide them in and organise their reception. “If you halt your column here in the square, the guides can show the men to their billets and stables. I’ll take you to the governor.”
“Very good.” Leo threw up his arm to signal a halt, a few paces before turning his prized Kuhaylan gelding, Zarrar, out of the column. Behind him the tribunes and decarchs repeated his signal and the column came to an orderly halt. “Centarch Phocas, with me. Centarch Sebēos, with the guides—see the regiment into billets then report to me.”
The princeps led Leo, his squire and Bessas up to the fifth century Roman citadel. They rode through the barbican guarding the citadel gates, ducking under the low arch. Inside the gate-yard Leo dismounted, handed the reins to his squire and walked under the raised portcullis of the main gate and up the stone ramp into the citadel. On the ramparts Leo met George Drosus, the strategos of Iberia and Ani, and the Norman knight, Robert Balazun, with whom he was to proceed to Manzikert. There was no warmth between them, merely formal courtesies and military acceptance: a perception by the Frank of privilege and arrogance matched the Romans’ veiled suspicion of the mercenary’s motives and loyalty. Balazun led sixty-two knights and four-hundred spear and bowmen, mostly Norman mercenaries and took his leave after arrangements were made for the journey to Manzikert.
From the battlements, looking north westward beyond the lower town, Leo could see the circuit-walls standing sentinel over the wide, light green valley of the uppermost reaches of the Western Euphrates28 and beyond that, the grey stone and blue haze of the Pontic Mountains. To the east, a bald rise two miles distant blocked any view of the other strategically important invasion route: the valley of the Araxes River29, which drained eastward through the Plain of Basen with its Kapetrou battlefield, to Armenian Kars and Ani and beyond them, the once Armenian now Shaddadid capital of Dvin and thence the Muslim world.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 7