Bryennius rode up to Balazun and addressed him in passable Latin. “Robert, it’s time to raise our guard. I’m taking some of my men to follow-up the tracks of two shod horses that crossed our line of march. Would you care to join us?” It was an attempt to bring the Romans and Franks together. “That man, on the mule, perhaps?” Bryennius continued, gesturing indifferently towards Guy. “Also others not riding stallions. Mares or gelding will be more …” He paused, searching for the word, “… subtle than your entires.” The war stallions preferred by the Franks were not particularly well suited to the stealth needed for patrolling.
Robert Balazun did not move in his saddle. “We hide from no man. Guy, go with them. Take Charles and the men I placed under him.”
With mixed exhilaration and apprehension, Guy kneed the mule awkwardly to where the patrol was forming up.
Bryennius addressed the group. “Suspicious tracks. Two horses shod in the Persian manner. Enemy scouts perhaps. We will capture or kill them. Move out into extended arrowhead. On contact, form skirmish line with a ten-man reserve under Centarch Lascaris at centre rear. Line of march, toward those two snow-capped peaks in the distance. I command. Centarch Lascaris is deputy. David, Maniakh, Togol, screen me a visual distance ahead and forward flanks. Engage only on my order or if the enemy surprise us. Remember, we’re after prisoners and dead men cannot talk. We rejoin the column at the castle of Arknik tonight or tomorrow. Questions?”
The men remained silent, some shaking their heads.
“Good. Move out.”
Thirty riders left the road and commenced a wide, dispersed sweep to the north. The main column, under the command of Bessas Phocas, continued its slow progress to the east.
Bryennius’ patrol rode for several hours, keeping to the low folds in the ground as the sky clouded over and the air grew heavy. They alternated trotting and walking to the smell of horse sweat, the creak of leather and soft tinkle of mail. Quivers rattled and sword scabbards swung against hard, booted legs. They detoured to the occasional village to ask for local information, but no one had seen the strangers.
In the late afternoon, David Varaz’s warning gesture towards a thicket on a low rise ahead was the first sign of their quarry. Bryennius hand-signalled imminent action and there was an expectant thrill as bows were drawn and arrows nocked.
Togol walked his horse back to the count and they conversed.
Bryennius signalled again: hostiles ahead, form skirmish line, flanks forward, advance-spears, march-canter. The Franks couched their spears as the flanks loped forward.
Guy could see a horse on the rise ahead grow restless on its picket rope. A man appeared and saw the patrol. He uttered a warning cry, flung himself to saddle and sought escape from the encircling horsemen.
“Charge!” signalled Bryennius. Then he shouted at the quarry in Greek, “Stand fast! Stand fast!” A soldier at his side repeated the cry in Arabic and the Seljuk language.
“Three! There are three!” one of the flankers yelled.
The arching arrows of the left flank missed the escaping rider and a decarch of the Scholae motioned two cataphracts with him in pursuit.
Guy, his heart beating and mouth dry, hoisted his shield higher, gripped his spear and spurred his mule clumsily forward into his first real skirmish as he saw two strangely clothed men and richly furnished horses in front of him.
The second hostile, stranded by his saddled horse galloping off after the escapee, reached for his long lance but was struck in the side by a Frankish spear. The third of the surprised men, long grey hair flowing under a tattered skin cap, deftly mounted a beautiful chestnut mare. Guy saw his booted left foot in the stirrup, knee to the shoulder and the tight inner rein, guiding the already cantering horse in a circle around him, the momentum hoisting him to the saddle. The mare turned on her hocks, head and tail up, eyes wild with excitement, sensing urgency of her rider who drew his bow and nocked an arrow while looking for the weakest part of the closing circle.
With a sickening certainty, Guy saw the warrior glare straight at him. Guy took the first arrow into his raised shield. The second, unloosed in less time than the telling, grazed his mule on the rump. The plunging beast would have unseated a lesser rider, but Guy drove his pain-maddened mount to head off the escaping rider.
The cornered Seljuk tried to check his horse and pass behind the mule. Guy dropped his spear and grasped the chestnut’s bridle, dragging the horse down with him as the mule fell. Amongst the tumult and shouting, there was a moment of silence as the longhaired rider was thrown to an involuntary gasp from the onlookers.
Dazed, Guy struggled to his feet, sliding his sword from its scabbard. In the background, he could hear Bryennius shouting, “Rally on me. Rally on me.”
The nomad lay still in the dry grass at his feet. His chestnut heaved itself up on its forelegs, dodged Guy’s attempt to seize the reins and trotted off a few paces, frightened, but reluctant to leave her fallen master. The count rode up, ordered pickets posted and looked at the still figure stretched on the ground, “Broke his neck, I would say.”
“What manner of man is he?” a Norman asked.
“Saracen,” whispered a cataphract.
“Persian,” said another.
Bryennius looked at the fallen stranger and distressed horse with its red leather saddle equipped for a journey. “Looks Seljuk.”
George Varaz nodded. “He is, by God. Damn him.”
A spear cast away, the second stranger writhed silently on the ground, biting his wrist to stop crying out. In his eyes, there was hate and behind that, acceptance. The cataphracts looked at the wounded man, then at Bryennius.
“Arab. He would not talk, even if he could,” Bryennius said. “He does not have long.”
“Muslim?” David asked, kneeling. At a groan of assent, the scout and Bryennius turned the stranger to face Mecca.
The mortally wounded man looked into Bryennius’ eyes and wheezed a word, “Az … Az … a … z.” There was silence but for the mournful breeze in the coarse grass. The Arab slumped.
“What did he say?” David asked, looking at Bryennius.
“Az?” Bryennius said doubtfully as he stood. “Aziz? Perhaps Azaz, a battle near Aleppo—the Arabs whipped one of our less distinguished Emperors twenty-five years ago. He may have been there and recalled his greatest moment in his last.” Bryennius looked pensively at the dead men, then said rhetorically to Lascaris, “We followed the tracks of two who seem to have met the third here. How many others are there and what are they up to?”
They all looked in silence at these, their first enemies of this campaign, seeming so small and crumpled on the steppe.
Bryennius squinted after the pursuit. “And who and what is the one that got away? It looks like he’s caught that loose horse for his flight—must be a handy sort of fellow.”
Guy, still shaken from the sudden action and his fall, watched as the dead were searched. The pouch at the Seljuk’s belt contained: blank parchment, writing materials, a silver trinket and six pounds of gold nomismas—two years pay for a count of the Scholae. His sword and dagger scabbards and quiver held nothing significant. A wider sweep of the area revealed a marked goatskin map thrown into the bushes.
Bryennius ordered the loose chestnut caught and the saddlebags emptied. Several attempts to catch her failed. Guy studied her with growing recognition, certain he had seen the horse and saddle at the market outside Karin.
Not even Togol of the steppes could place a loop over either her head or leg, so artfully did the chestnut mare duck and weave. “Seen a rope or two in her time!” he grunted in frustration, recoiling the lasso after the fourth attempt. The mare would not be caught by strangers nor abandon her master.
Centarch Lascaris called out to kill her with arrows.
Guy saw his heart’s desire and most pressing need, a riding horse, trotting ow
nerless in circles before his eyes. Despite the dried sweat, hollowed flanks and the mud caked on her legs, he could see she was a quality mare of the desert breed. Sooner than the archers could draw, he ran forward and pulled at them. “No! Stop! Don’t kill her! Don’t kill her!”
The archers looked uncertainly at Bryennius. “Lower your bows, men.”
Guy strode to the count. “I’m certain I saw her and that saddle near the market in Karin. And she’s too good a horse to just kill.”
“We could discuss that, but some other time. In Karin, you say? I want the contents of the saddlebag and very quickly. And we cannot wait here all day. My orders are to get to Manzikert as soon as practicable and it is inadvisable to leave the command fragmented. I must balance those known facts against delaying here.”
“You shall have it.”
“Indeed?” Bryennius dismounted. “You want the horse.”
“Yes. I want the horse.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I’ll lash the body of her master over my mule and lead it back to the road until I find an enclosure. I’ll lead the mule straight in. The mare might follow.”
“On your own?” Bryennius studied the youthful stubble and keen blue eyes behind the pitted metal of Guy’s burnished nasal. No one knew whether there were other hostiles in the area. If the escapee did circle back to link up with friends, or to learn the fate of his companions, the prospect of a lone figure leading a mule across the steppe might make a tempting target. “You’re bold. But good enough. You get the horse, saddle, weapons, armour and accoutrements. The empire keeps any documents, maps or money.” Bryennius gave his horse a rub under the sweated brow band. “You know the way to the road?”
Guy pointed. “By nightfall.”
“Agreed.”
Guy watched Bryennius lead his horse towards Togol and David Varaz and confer with them. Saddles were exchanged as the best mounts for the pursuit were readied for their journey. Togol mounted a heavier gelding of the type used for pulling artisan’s light carts. Pursuit until capture—with such scant instructions to guide their destiny and so little time to prepare, the two scouts mounted and started after the fugitive and the three soldiers already chasing him.
After securing the dead Seljuk on Guy’s mule, the patrol mounted. Bryennius summoned a cataphract and ordered the man to ride to the last village passed and request the locals bury the dead—the patrol had no digging tools that would penetrate the hard ground. The count then circled his forearm and pointed the way back. They departed at a brisk walk, deploying into arrowhead on the move.
Charles drew rein by Guy. “I’ll stay with you.”
“Thanks, Charles. But no. You must lead your men and we don’t need to cross Balazun. Bryennius would not allow it anyway.”
“See you at tonight’s camp then, a castle called Arknik. I’ll tell Jacques.”
“Don’t bother.” Guy did not want Jacques wandering the steppe looking for him. “Thanks, but tell him not to worry.”
Charles shot him a glance and rode on. “Good luck,” he called over his shoulder.
Guy restrained the mule as it suddenly tried to dart after the riders, then began his journey. He was inwardly jubilant when the mare started to follow, for it gave him hope that his plan might work and by nightfall he would own a horse he could not have dreamed of. He watched the patrol draw out of sight, the last sign of it a horseman looking back silhouetted on a rise.
Soon he was alone on the empty steppe. At first he followed the patrol’s tracks, but these were spread out and criss-crossed by others, perhaps of local peasants searching for stock. To keep his bearings, he fixed on the sun as it broke weakly through the cloud, and steered a course to the right of it.
He walked as quickly as he could, carrying his spear in his right hand with the reins and his shield on his left arm. The mail byrnie37 weighed down on his shoulders and chest and on the sword belt around his waist. Perspiration prickled his hair under the helmet and his feet started to hurt in his cheap leather shoes. After a time he felt the first blisters on his heels.
He strode onward with the sun lower and the afternoon grey and bleak. Fear gripped once when he turned around and thought he saw a rider in the distance and realised his vulnerability to mounted archers. He looked again but could discern nothing in the uncertain light.
Later, fatigue overcame self-discipline and he hooked the leather strap of his shield over the pommel of his saddle. It grew darker. Increasingly uncertain as his progress did not reveal the road, Guy scanned the barren landscape around him but it all appeared depressingly unfamiliar, though when on higher ground he was relieved to see the sharp outlines of two snow-covered mountains close together far to the north.
He led the mule on, the corpse draped awkwardly over its saddle. Guy hated the sight of it and tried not to look. Every time he did, some part of him ached with deep guilt. The chestnut mare stopped to crop grass and Guy inwardly cursed risking his life to capture her. She kept grazing, snatching at the low grass and lifting her head occasionally to watch the retreating mule. His hopes started to sink. She made to follow, but stood on a dragging rein and stopped. Seeing a chance he turned and approached her, but she took a practiced step back off the rein and trotted away. Guy turned and continued his journey. The mare picked more grass then finally, to his relief, followed once more.
The clouds cleared for a time to lighten the west in a gilded sunset that cast soft rays on his cheek. Guy watched as fine bands of pastel pink and grey clouds streaked the pale blue of the sky. It was still and silent. Despite everything, the discomfort, danger, loneliness and burden of guilt, he felt a strange quietude under the infinite sky.
The matter of the universe perplexed him and thinking on it kept unease at bay. He had heard that the world was round and noticed the vehemence of those that ridiculed the idea. Thus lacking certainty, he imagined it as a gigantic chest, with the land and seas in the bottom, the sides and lid formed by the heavens, the sun, moon and stars caste by the divine hand in their courses. He could not fathom any notions of heaven, hell or beyond. “Better to leave such thinking to the priests and beggars,” he mumbled to the mule. His thoughts thus turned to religion, and the incessant conversation of the citizens of Constantinople, about God and Church, the hatreds between Catholic Rome and Orthodox Constantinople. How they could talk! For a time his mind was distracted from the pain of his blistered feet and doubts to wonder on the forces that shaped the world and the affairs of people.
In the last of the light he found old wheel ruts indicating an oft travelled road. Feeling the dirt with his fingers he discerned the tracks of many shod horses and men. Elated, he turned into the darkness encroaching from the east. With the sense of sight reduced by the night, Guy removed his helmet to improve his hearing. Occasionally he halted, to listen and be reassured by silence and the nearness of the following horse. Once she nickered softly. After some time he sat by the roadside to rest, chewing on a crust of dry bread from his saddlebag and sipping from the goatskin.
The mule nuzzled close, begging for crumbs. He stroked its muzzle. “When I ride this Saracen horse, a day’s leave for you.” He rested for a while, his mind wandering to the dark and what it might contain. Seeking solace in movement he rose and trudged on. Within a half a league, a human form loomed ghostlike on the road. Guy sighed with relief when Jacques challenged quietly, “You’ve caught the horse?”
“Not yet.” Guy tried to banish any emotion from his voice. “But I will.” He felt reassured by the presence of this loyal peasant who fell-in and walked beside him. “Good to see you. You took some risk, though”
Jacques shrugged. “No more than you. I’d have none blame me if you didn’t return home.”
Home, so far away and long ago. “Is it home if you must leave?”
Jacques was silent for a few strides. “Must leave? Does it matter? We’re he
re now and need to reach the castle tonight, or spend the night on this plain. That’s all.”
They walked some time in silence. “I took a life, Jacques.”
“I heard. It can happen when you take a sword on the road. There was a fight and it was him or you. From what I heard he took a chance and broke his own neck. Don’t dwell on it. Seek penance when you can and forget it.”
“Still, it was I that wanted to continue this journey, and I fear there will be a cost.”
“Charles Bertrum and I would not be here if we didn’t want to be. Destiny or choice, we are not your burden.”
The discussion ended, they walked on in the rising breeze which brought scudding clouds in the darkness above. It sighed through stunted bushes at the roadside as they crested a rise and started down the other side, realising they had followed the track where it passed into a thicket. Hearing voices, they froze, senses strained. The mule stepped close and rubbed its head on Guy’s back. The sounds came again, faintly in the distance. Jacques pointed to a dim glow through the trees. Then a close voice quietly challenged, “Who’s on the road?”
“Say nothing,” hissed Jacques, as a figure appeared in the dimness beside them. They sensed rather than saw the spear point.
“Who goes there?” Guy retorted instinctively with more authority than he felt. He thought the challenge had come with an Armenian accent, but was unsure. It was too late to ready his spear without immediately starting a fight.
“A local—a friend,” came from the dark.
Guy spoke with the innate authority of the mounted warrior. “Soldiers of the Emperor!”
“Should we be impressed?” someone else said to returned laughter.
“A group,” muttered Jacques.
Other armed figures approached. Guy and Jacques were beckoned from the road into a small circle of flickering firelight where they found two others squatting on the ground. Guy’s eye was drawn to a slight, balding man wearing a leather jerkin over a homespun tunic. A saddled and knee-hobbled horse was tied to a bush behind him.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 11