A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  He reminded himself that a slave girl should not be foremost in his deliberations, for he was on the cold trail of his older brother and a nephew who had left home months before with the avowed intention of joining the rising military power of the Seljuks. The brother concerned himself with the fight against the heretical Fatimid caliphate.34 The nephew, Zobeir al-Adin, was attracted to the unreasonable notions of honour and glory. Derar had been moved by his sister-in-law’s entreaties to find them and having tender feelings for the woman, agreed to undertake the search. He left his younger brother in charge of the family estates and brought little, in the belief less risked least lost and more incentive to return home.

  Losing their way in a sandstorm, Derar and Farisa were aided by a Bedouin tribe whose hospitality, in the unwritten lore of the desert, warranted recompense. Thus they had arrived at Baghdad with three horses, two camels, and somewhat less gold coinage than he had started with. The city had cost him dearly while weeks of enquiry had revealed only that many adventurers had gone north to join or profit from the expected Seljuk move into the Roman eastern provinces.

  In Baghdad, Derar hired a second servant; a Seljuk named Zaibullah, once an armoured cavalryman of the Abbasid Caliphate, who claimed to know the way to Tabriz and something of the country surrounding it. Reaching that city at the end of its bitter winter, Zaibullah soon learned the Seljuk spymaster had hired Derar’s brother and nephew as interpreters. Derar was dismayed to learn that the two men had recently departed on a scout across the Christian frontier and he could only await their return, or go after them. They could have been anywhere, so Derar decided to wait at Tabriz, a known point to which they should return.

  In Tabriz and running out of money, he had shamefully taken his black Mu’niqi mare to the markets to sell. A manly Seljuk had demanded to know what hidden fault the mare had for he could find none. Derar had bristled so the nomad asked what ill fortune forced the sale. Derar explained a little and the emir, Emren Dirse, seeing the Arab’s love of his mare, offered to ask about employment as a scout or interpreter. Derar had skills to sell, for he could read and write in Arabic and Persian as well as speak the Greek tongue of the Romans. The two men became friends and when Derar had later quizzed Emren Dirse about his access to the Seljuk spymaster, Emren had replied that he had cut short a hunting trip to find his father. The old nomad was now missing, evidently on the same mission as Derar’s relatives. Derar and his companions were pressed to stay at the spacious house of Emren Dirse’s aunt.

  In this way Derar kept his mare and was duly employed by the Sultan’s spymaster, thus gaining entry to the court, which he studied with the intensity of a man aware that his fate now lay in the hands of these powerful and tempestuous princes. While he performed his duties assiduously, Derar noticed the tensions between Kurds and Seljuks and learned of their recent past of bloodshed and reprisals.

  White robed Tughrul Bey had arrived in Tabriz escorted by four hundred youths of the Gulâmân-I sura, the palace guards, bearing the Sultan’s seven horsetail standards at their head. Tughrul Bey: The Falcon; Sultan of the Seljuk Turks; Client of the Commander of the Faithful; conqueror of Khurasan with mud-bricked Nishapur and Merv; and of Persia with the cities of Rai, Hamadan, and Isfahan. In his wide dominions, the shepherd king was father of his soldiers and people and the guardian of justice and peace. It was fourteen years of painstaking consolidation since he was acclaimed lord of the Seljuk hordes after they vanquished the lion banners of the Ghaznavids in the three-day battle of Dandanqan. Now destiny beckoned.

  The Sultan’s family came also. His father-in-law, Osketsam, a younger man than Tughrul by years, was charged with the siege operations. The famed Ibrahim Inal, governor of Azerbaijan and scourge of Artsn, also visited, ostensibly to coordinate the planned movements of the invading columns. Ibrahim Inal and his colleague, Kutlumush, were of the old roaming culture of raiding and plunder who conquered new areas for subsequent Seljuk administration under Tughrul. Inal was a soldier of fable. He had revolted once and been forgiven, but the watchful scrutiny of Derar saw the fleeting envy that crossed Inal’s sunbaked countenance as he regarded his half-brother, the Sultan.

  Thus, Tughrul Bey, iron-haired and bearded, over fifty with his time running out and knowing it, sited his invasion mounting-base at Tabriz and demanded the loyalty of the emir of the city, Wahsudan ibn Mamlan, taking his son as hostage. He would subdue the troublesome Roman frontier and open the lands beyond, before turning his attention to the stricken Caliphate that awaited his clemency in Madinat al-Salam, the City of Peace, once a village called Baghdad. Tughrul Bey rose each day to pray, ride and exercise under arms, fasting on the second and fifth days of the week. Beyond his personal devotions, the affairs of state swallowed his days, during which he never forgot his fate to rule the Muslim world. He held court toying with two arrows, symbolic of the power churning from the steppes of Central Asia.

  Derar al-Adin knew that armies held few secrets. Tughrul Bey had collected the largest force in years, complete with a siege train of specialist troops and engines for attacking city walls. Many wives and children accompanied the expedition in the common knowledge that the newly won territory would be colonised. The valiant could win the hands of Seljuk maids by deeds of honour. Those who desired could take brides from amongst the scented women of the captured cities.

  Few were told of Tughrul’s specific plans to capture two key Roman fortresses that guarded their frontier, Manzikert on the Arsanias River35 and Karin by the Araxes. Even fewer knew of the Roman traitor who would betray Manzikert to the Sultan; those who did understood a terrible death was the penalty for disclosure. In a blow, the Sultan would secure and occupy his northwestern flank before taking Baghdad the following year, after which he would turn on the Fatimids in Cairo. The re-direction of the energetic Seljuk hordes into Roman territory would keep the tribesmen from preying on his new Islamic subjects in Khurasan, Mesopotamia and soon, Baghdad. Choosing battlegrounds favouring the swarming tactics of his horse-archers, Tughrul despised sieges. Derar had seen him scowl disdainfully at the battlements of Tabriz and boast, “Only the weak need walls.”

  Tughrul’s closest advisors controlled the other advantages he had in the coming offensive: the circle of deceit sowed by his representative in Constantinople. Paid and guided by the Seljuk ambassador, Byzantine traitors soothed away their countrymen’s fears and prevented any warning reaching the puny garrisons on the frontier. Despite Islamic soldiers from far and wide flocking to his standards for the impending jihad, it seemed the Romans suspected nothing: so much so that Tughrul doubted his good fortune and feared a trap. He had sent more spies and scouts to assuage his fears.

  Tughrul Bey needed to win the Armenian campaign, in order to blood his new professional army and so sate the tribesmen with Christian blood and plunder that they would not provoke trouble for him. The tribes had to assemble and be disciplined; they were his very strength and his greatest weakness. He could scarcely control the stormy migrations of those whose numbers, loyalty and arrows underpinned his military power. Many of their horses needed to gain condition on the lush spring grass of Azerbaijan and their bare hooves harden. Tughrul willed the melting snows of Vaspurakan to stream away and the terrain dry so his army could move its baggage and engines over the tracks that passed for roads and so unshod hooves would not wear away as if by whetstones. He wanted the Armenian harvest gathered, so food and fodder were conveniently stored for the taking. Importantly, the Sultan awaited the return of his scouting parties so he could confirm the dispositions and temper of the Roman armies.

  While he too waited, Derar reflected on the Sultan’s life—from rustic steppe prince to suzerainty over a vast empire that encompassed snow-capped mountains, frost-bound steppes and hot deserts, from the sumptuous cities of the conquered to the black tents of his tribes. What drove this shepherd king who controlled so many destinies as if by whim? The question intrigued Derar. It would al
l be for nothing if Tughrul’s empire of legend and dream of a secure Sunni world died with him. The question of succession also troubled the heirless Sultan’s advisors. “Perhaps a Roman girl from one of the cities to be captured,” one had sniggered to a colleague. “They’re favoured in Arab harems. Some have given birth to sons that became caliphs, so they ….” The whispered conversation had moved on from Derar’s hearing.

  Weeks passed as Derar proved increasingly useful to the court. He heard nothing of his relatives, as if they had vanished into a void. At length, he secured approval to accompany a planned exploratory raid into Vaspurakan. Never forgetting his purpose, Derar readied his weapons and emotions for the journey, surveyed the surrounding mountains and wondered what lay beyond. He selected the horse he would ride and chaffed under a mask of serenity for the raid to get under way.

  Farisa bit her lip and remained silent as the apocalypse of horsemen made their preparations.

  East of Karin,

  Morning, 20th April 1054

  Guy looked from his saddle at Count Bryennius’ column marching in its own dust eastwards from Karin. Alone with their thoughts, each toiled forward, people and animals sweating to the accompaniment of horseshoes on stones, the lurch of cartwheels and calloused leather tread of Norman infantry. For some this was a higher purpose of duty, destiny or both. For others it was another passage in the business of life, carting goods to sell where paucity promoted profit. One rode with ambition, another with greed. Some sought adventure, others to escape whatever was now behind the western horizon—lover, creditor, ­­­poverty or pestilence.

  Karin was the last city on the journey, the final chance to slink away. None had, despite their fears. All seemed caught in a destiny beyond their control, seduced by the simple habit of taking their place in the ranks. Horses and troops had been fed and rested in Karin, but two hot days on the march had quietened even the most boisterous as they sweated under the weight of leather and iron. Men’s legs and shoulders ached from the tramp under their loads as blisters beset the negligent and inexperienced.

  The blue sky, streaked with high white cloud, reached endlessly over rolling steppe. The grasslands, broken by lines of rugged mountains and stony hills, still bore patches of unmelted snow on the green tinge of sward and a spring breeze was yet to become the summer’s furnace breath from the southern deserts.

  In Karin, Guy and his companions had not found Swordleader or Bowman from the fight at the inn. The night before leaving Karin they had debated the courses open to them. Charles had argued for return to Constantinople, reminding them of the Armenian woman’s warning about not travelling east of Caesarea and pointing out that adequate pay would not make them wealthy.

  Guy struggled to answer Charles’ caution. As if drawn to the frontier world they were entering with its rich fabric of new names, places, sight and smells, he recalled the refugees from Artsn and David’s grief for lost love. “We’ve been there, Charles, and found nothing. We now have pay and people with us. And protecting Christians from the infidel is a worthy calling.”

  Jacques reluctantly sided with his master. “True, it is further to go back than forward and we do have pay for the first time in months.”

  Charles had simply thrown up his arms.

  There were few secrets in the markets and inns of Karin. When the column had formed under the walls two days before, a disparate score of citizens had joined it, seeking protection from whatever fears the steppe might hold. At this first meeting of ranks, Roman and Frank had eyed each other suspiciously, separated by language, religion, dress and custom. The armed men had looked with mixed feelings on the merchants and other travellers: scorn for soft usury and self-seeking indulgence, envy for the fine clothes and horses. The soldiers stared at a merchant’s beautiful wife on her matching grey horse. None of the poorer women, walking with their babies or small children next to the creaking baggage carts, failed to notice the yearning stares at beauty and privilege.

  By this morning of the third day, the column marched in a subdued silence broken by occasional low conversations or the chivvying of the Norman sergeants and Byzantine decarchs, the veteran commanders of ten. As they progressed from Karin, the walled estates and clustered villages became ever further apart.

  Guy rode in the rear guard with the Frankish knights and mounted sergeants-at-arms. Most wore swords over mail hauberks reaching to their knees and carried spears and shields. He lifted his gaze from the column to two distant raptors circling high in the blue sky. Were they a pair matched by human hand, or a couple that had mated by chance in the wild? They ranged with seeming purpose over the valleys and hills. The specks drew inexorably closer and he imagined crafty Saracens, warned by the falcons of approaching strangers, lying in wait. The arrows of the infidels come like rain, the woman at the inn near the Golden Gate had warned. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of lying on the steppe, arrowheads frothing blood-wet in the lungs or bile-soaked in the stomach. Like a shadow, doubt crossed him again.

  Riding next to him, Charles sat straight in his deep wooden Frankish saddle. He had rolled the mail coif36 back off his head so it curled in folds around the shoulders of his hauberk. Green linen trousers, tight around the lower legs and a dusty pair of ankle length shoes protected his lower limbs. Shield on his back, Charles suspended his helmet by its throat-lash from his sword hilt and carried his spear in his right hand as his left held the reins. Jacques strode with the soldiers escorting the baggage. The groom’s brown hair hung from beneath a shapeless felt cap to frame his stubbled double chin and cling in damp licks around the nape of his neck. He carried his crossbow over one shoulder while his sword swung from his left hip. Charles and Jacques betrayed in their countenances and movement an unconcerned interest in their surroundings. Their evident calm in contrast to his own unease perplexed Guy, for neither had been keen to come forward of Karin.

  The thought caused him to recall with some fondness the interlude in Constantinople. Certainly, they had been poor as he fretted over a horse, but they rented a reasonable apartment—beyond their means—with a rooftop vantage point and stabling behind. They enjoyed easy evening meals in the glow of the sun setting over the Bosphorus, or the Golden Horn gleaming silent and silver in the moonlight, the dark shapes of scores of ships and hundreds of boats swaying gently to the sounds of the great city at night. In his mind’s eye floated a vision of the gaily-clad young ladies with jewelled hair rebelliously uncovered at market, or the black habits and veils of older women, pre-occupied clergy, obsequious officials and richly caparisoned palace guards. His thoughts drifted back to veiled eyes taking in his strange Frankish dress and shoulder length red hair, to meet his own gaze and then look away, sometimes quickly, often not. Markets were well-stocked with wine, spices, foodstuffs, textiles, and perfumes. In other quarters, there were horses of numbers and types he viewed with envy. Blacksmiths and armourers were all busy. Constantinople teemed with people, bartering and haggling, while an endless crowd of workmen carried urns, boxes and bundles in that timeless commerce of the crossroads between east and west. Lamp-lit inns and eating-houses bespoke half a million tastes and as many opinions. Looking back it seemed dreamlike, false, a waiting.

  Guy’s reflections returned to the present as Balazun drawled, “Those damned Greeks are up to something.” Taller even than Charles, Balazun’s every fibre bespoke strength and confidence. He wore his brown hair cropped short and shaven-behind in the manner some Normans found fashionable. Guy envied him, for his might, fine arms and the black Castilian stallion he rode.

  Guy looked to the head of the column where Count Bryennius dismounted to join Togol who was kneeling, studying the ground. Bryennius remounted and casually circled chestnut Ruksh on his haunches, sweeping the horizon with a searching gaze. Centarch Bessas Phocas was with him and the three conversed for a short time.

  “They’ve found something,” Balazun said.

  So Guy had s
een. Easing his seat in the saddle, he noticed that the circling birds of prey had vanished. A subtle movement in the centre of the column caught his eye and his gaze fell on the woman wearing the bright blue cape so fine its fabric caught the breeze. The garment protected her blond hair and fair skin from the sun and dust while concealing her beauty from the lewd stares of the soldiers. She was Serena Cephala, a young woman from Constantinople. Accompanied by two servants, she had joined the column at Karin. Guy had earlier noticed Serena’s merry blue eyes and now saw the hood move slightly towards Centarch Bessas Phocas.

  Guy and Charles caught each other’s glances. “Beautiful, but not rich enough,” joked Charles.

  True to their role as Frankish mercenaries, they had kept their distance from the Roman officers. Guy observed Bryennius with interest.

  Unusual for a Byzantine, Bryennius was close-cropped and clean-shaven. He sat easily on his horse in the working dress of a Roman cavalryman in patrol order. Under a tan linen surcoat, he wore a well-made mail coat below which his drab fitted trousers were tucked into buff coloured, knee-high riding boots. The count was well armed: a dagger and quiver of thirty arrows at the right hip, on his left a straight broadsword of excellent Syrian steel and an ornate leather bowcase. A strip of faded green cloth wound loosely around his helmet kept the sun off the metal. Strapped to his saddle were: a light brown military cloak; mace in its pouch suspended from the pommel; saddlebag for hard rations and other essentials behind his right thigh; balanced by a goatskin of water on the near side. At a little distance, he seemed to merge imperceptibly into the red ochre country around Karin.

  The horsemen of the Sixth Schola were similarly, though less expensively equipped and mounted. They carried spears with a leather thong allowing the weapon to be slung from an arm when the bow was in use, and almond-shaped shields that were smaller and lighter than Guy’s. The white cloaks had been packed away and each man had strapped to his saddle a drab greyish-brown cape the Greeks favoured for their “shadow warfare”.