“You don’t sound Greek?” this man queried fluently with a slight accent Guy could not identify. He inspected with practiced eyes the two Franks and the mule with its burden. Guy saw his interrogator had already noticed the chestnut mare waiting uncertainly at the edge of the firelight.
Guy hesitated before answering, reluctant to give away too much. He knew there was little to gain by revealing they were alone. “A riderless horse we have yet to catch. We’re with a larger party.”
The bald man mused on this a moment, but said nothing of it. “Where are you making for?” he asked with the guarded familiarity of the traveller.
“We’re seeking the next castle where our column will have halted,” Guy said.
“That’s Arknik. We saw the column on the road and a smaller group, a patrol or something, hastening to catch up. You two aren’t Normans then? Kelts though? Do you know where it is?”
Guy and Jacques exchanged glances. “Arknik? Further along the road I expect.” Guy spoke with a show of confidence. “We’ll find it.”
The stranger studied them for a short time. “It isn’t quite that easy. The fort is off the main track a distance, on higher ground for observation and defence. You could miss it in the night.”
Remembering his relief at finding the line of the road at dusk, Guy had no desire to blunder around in the dark hoping to stumble on a single point such as a castle. He was already late and he did not look forward to a rebuke from the count. “You’ve got a suggestion?”
“You could stay with us. There are four of us armed, but extra swords are no debt with the Seljuks around.”
“Thank you, but that cannot be. We must press on.” Guy added an afterthought, “You’ve seen them too?”
“The Seljuks? Not apart from the one I see you have there. There are signs, though. Interesting tracks in out of the way places. Odd people all of a sudden have a little gold. More Kelts for the frontier forts. Rumours.” The bald man rose and looked at the chestnut mare as she grazed closer with her reins dragging.
Guy took in his short stature and slight build. “What do you know of spymasters’ gold?”
The bald man turned abruptly, looking at Guy. “I said nothing of spymaster’s gold. I could ask you the same question?” He switched his gaze to the mule and its burden. “One learns to smell the stench of it.”
“How do you know so much?” Jacques demanded. “Some book-learned presbyter? Or other dark business?”
“You ask a lot of questions, stranger. But I’ve nothing to hide. I am a horse trader, a calling that takes me far. Who killed the Seljuk? And who now owns the horse?”
“His death was my misfortune and penance.” Guy touched the cross of his sword hilt and made a silent prayer. “And I will own the horse.”
The horse trader studied Guy for long seconds, as though gauging the worth of this wandering Frank. “She’s flighty, sure enough, but you seem to know what you are about. That horse will be your fortune. Keep the saddle. And out here,” he paused, “a wise man would learn the skill of the horse-archer. Since it’s a Seljuk weapon, you might use the thumb ring, the better to draw the bowstring.”
Guy chose to hide his ignorance of this obviously desirable art. “Good advice. Who’re you?”
The horse trader looked long at them, as though considering whether to answer. “I am Simon Vardaheri. This is Leon Magistros and his sister, Joaninna. I met them while they were visiting their parents in Karin. The mother is ailing and Joaninna is a healer. The others are shepherds from Arknik. We were making for the fort when overtaken by darkness. The rest of the party was afoot, so I’ve walked with them. We’ve finished our dinner and were going to stop here overnight.”
“Everyone out here seems to have a reason to be abroad at night on foot?” Jacques muttered.
“On foot is how the poor normally travel,” the woman said from behind her shawl. She did not move from her place near the fire, but even in the dim light Guy could see her take in the worn shoes of the two Franks. She would have noticed his painful, shortened step. “Or those who like walking.”
Jacques allowed himself a smile.
“Simon Vardaheri is a gentle man, and such a man would not ride while his companions walk.” Joaninna rose and looked over Jacques. She motioned to the embers. “There is a little bread left, if you will have it.”
Jacques needed no second invitation. He stooped, and grasped the portion of flat bread, breaking off half and handing it to Guy.
Deciding to remain silent and avoid further slights, Guy looked at Leon. Tall and lean in his shirt and cap, the young man appeared to be a peasant, but the easy manner in which he carried his spear indicated some training. Guy judged him a simple fellow, but robust and good-hearted. The two other men were of similar stamp. Joaninna in her dark dress and stout shoes seemed more complex and resourceful than her brother.
“If you’re moving on, we’ll go with you,” Vardaheri offered.
As they set off, Jacques moved close to Leon and asked quietly, “Why did you halt and not keep travelling through the dark?”
Leon looked keenly at the sweeping clouds and bushes swaying in the breeze. “For fear of demons and goblins.” He repeated with such conviction the common fears held by many ordinary folk, that Guy and Jacques exchanged a quick glance. “They live hereabouts,” he went on, “and enter the bodies of unwary people. It’s said that by night any stray boar, wolf or serpent could be the devil incarnate or one of his companions or evil spirits.”
Guy fought off his own childhood fears as around him the windblown bushes heaved wildly. “Have you encountered such beings?”
“Not I,” Leon answered through his thin brown beard. “But I’ve spoken with many who have, and others who have seen them come from their victim’s mouths while they sleep.”
“Your sister? Does she know of potions and spells?”
The horse trader broke into their conversation. “Wise people don’t talk of such things. Joaninna Magistros heals the sick. It’s only the feeble minded or wicked who accuse the innocent of sorcery.”
Guy and Jacques looked at the woman striding steadily in the dim light, bundle over her shoulder. Not much reassured, Guy muttered a precautionary prayer. Beside him, the horse trader walked on in silence. Guy noticed he carried no weapons, except a cheap butcher’s knife such as a farmer might use.
Vardaheri, seemingly prompted by the previous exchange, explained. “Hereabouts, I mean the empire not just Armenia, not all women are high born and gifted with suitors. Their lives are set when they are still girls, the marriageable ones matched off early to husbands who keep them with child. Large numbers of children make up for the many deaths of the young from disease, war or other misfortunes. So, lucky women are early bound to a life of breeding, managing their husbands’ household and sometimes, his business affairs. That is the life of choice for a well-born lady. Others may marry artisans or peasants and live an acceptable life—though they may also toil at the forge, field or shop bench while still spinning, weaving and breeding. Many men die in battle, so widows are common—a disaster for all. Not all … most, for it usually brings poverty. A few widows continue to run their husband’s affairs. Some might remarry, though it’s rare. Many turn to God and become nuns, which provides sanctuary and a type of family. But an independent woman, without the benefit of a rich upbringing or providing husband, must either sink to what people call low occupations—actresses and the like—or find some other means of making a living. Joaninna Magistros has become a trusted midwife, a skilled healer of people and horses. In your life you must guard against those who speak of sorcery and the devil to explain everyday affairs. Mankind is a strange bit of furniture and does not need other help to be capable of great evil. Or great good.”
Guy nodded understanding and resolved to think more carefully before he spoke in haste before Simon Vardaheri. “How far to
Arknik?” he asked, changing the subject.
Simon led the small group towards the fort where a single lantern, almost indistinguishable from the stars on the horizon, flickered in the watchtower. They were challenged by two of Bryennius’ mounted cataphracts, who directed them to a track leading from the road. Guy sensed the yard wings and heard the chestnut mare snort suspiciously. Mounted cataphracts closed behind and the gate swung shut on the trapped mare.
Soldiers lifted the burden from the mule. Guy was unsaddling it as Bryennius appeared with two of the regiment’s farriers bearing torches, the light from which played on their features in the breeze. Bryennius studied Guy with his prize and burden. “Good. Say nothing to anyone.”
Guy looked on as they ran his skittish mare into a smaller yard where Bryennius lassoed and unsaddled her. The count tied a loose thong around her neck so she would be easier to catch the following morning. “Your new horse has a loose shoe,” he mentioned casually to Guy as he picked up the saddle and carried it outside the yard. “My men have some water and hay for your animals.”
Guy realised he had not noticed the sound of the loose shoe amongst the press of other distractions. “Thank you,” he said, inwardly cursing Bryennius for his fault-finding.
The torchbearers came close as Bryennius emptied the saddlebag. “You’d better re-shoe her in the morning.” Kneeling in the flickering light of the torches, Bryennius rifled through the saddlebags. “We’ll stop here tomorrow to attend the feast. It will be a chance to show the locals that we are here to protect them. You can find a blacksmith then. It will probably be the last chance before Manzikert.” He passed the money and the annotated goatskin maps he retrieved to the centarch. “Bessas, see what you make of these. Get that body buried, deep, in the enclosure, so the grave is obscured by hoof prints before morning. Keep the men quiet about it. Hold the citizens who came in with the two Kelts and make sure they talk to no one until Lascaris or you have a chance to speak with them.”
Bessas scanned the documents. “Looks like they knew about us.”
The two officers exchanged glances, then Bryennius turned to Guy. “Karin? Near the market you said? The horse?”
“Yes. There were two hawks out in the steppe today. And no sign of them at the camp we attacked.”
“So there might have been someone else,” Bessas concluded. “I’ll take these and go over them.”
“Thank you,” said Bryennius as he waited for Guy to feed and water his horse and mule. At the count’s request, Guy related what had befallen him since the skirmish.
“Did you see anyone out there?” Bryennius asked.
“I thought so, a horseman, for a moment. Did you drop someone off behind me?”
“I did, as it happens.”
“If the information on the horse was that important, you could have just killed it, or caught it some way—you had enough men.”
Bryennius was silent for a time. “Enough men? There were thirty out there today—good men. But you were the only one who thought differently. Reason enough to give a man his head and see what he’s made of. But I was short of time and not going to take chances.”
They sat together for some time, backs resting against the rails, savouring the stillness as people do in that end-of-day weariness.
Guy broke the silence. “Will your scouts catch the one that got away?”
“We must wait and see, but I would not like to be running from them. Togol can track like a wolf, David knows this country backwards and there are good soldiers with them. And Togol is riding Speedy.”
“Speedy?”
“Yes,” said Bryennius warmly. “Interesting, restless old horse. Once a chariot horse, he has been in this regiment longer than any other mount or most of the men. All he wants to do is go. Who could know what spirit drives him?”
Bryennius asked Guy about his past: how he came to Byzantium and what had prompted his risky actions during the day.
Guy told him the facts about his travels from Provence to the inn near the Golden Gate, but for his actions this day, he was lost for an answer. “I needed a horse.”
“Makes sense.”
The breeze had dropped and the clouds cleared to the west in a towering white bank lit by a waxing three-quarter moon. They watched it, clear and very beautiful.
“Well, congratulations. You have yourself a very fine horse.” Bryennius glanced sympathetically at Guy. “Everyone’s been told to keep quiet about what happened after the skirmish today. That includes you. Now, you had better get some sleep.” Then the count rose and walked into the night.
Guy reflected on how exhausted he felt. It was a month since the fight at the inn. So much had happened, and yet it was only the beginning of whatever would be. He took his cloak from his saddle and lay down near where Jacques was already snoring quietly. He arranged his weapons and other equipment and made a deliberate mental note of where he was, the sentry posts and layout of the defences. If attacked through the night, there would be no time to casually roll over and come to one’s senses, as a mercantile fellow safely ensconced in Constantinople might do.
The castle of Arknik,
Late evening, 20th May 1054
Leo left Guy d’Agiles and returned to his vigil by the yard wings where he waited for Maniakh and the troopers whom he had tasked to shadow Guy through the afternoon. It had been an eventful day with the consequences not yet played out. He looked at the sky, knew the night for a hunter’s moon and wondered about the pursuit on which he had sent Togol, David and three cataphracts—the effect of orders on peoples’ lives. Leo was sceptical of prayer, but in the darkness he regretted that day’s dead. Nonetheless he wanted to account for all in the Seljuk group, silence them, know their business and find their contacts to turn them to his advantage. He wished for a prisoner and needed any information carried on the two horses that escaped the contact. The Romans were too few so must inflict a bloody penalty on the enemy in every fight. The nomads must not win the scouting war.
Leo was surprised at his determination to apprehend the authors of the strange tracks earlier that day. Splitting the command had been risky but right. He could not be everywhere and do everything so he had to depend on others. Now he waited impatiently for the different threads, or consequences, of his decisions to come together. The ever-dependable Bessas had brought the column to Arknik before darkness. Leo had arrived with his patrol shortly after with the trooper detached to organise the burial getting in before sundown.
Now Guy d’Agiles was in. Leo wondered what chance had led this wandering Kelt across his path. He had blundered into the affair at the inn, caught a glimpse of his assailant, healed a lame horse, completed a feat of endurance in the ride to Karin, foiled the escape of an experienced steppe warrior and won his horse. The young man was quite unlike most other mercenaries that came to Byzantium seeking their fortune.
Restless, Leo walked to the yard where Zarrar and Ruksh came close and stood beside him, their sweet breath warm on his cheek. “Hello boys,” Leo whispered gently as he caressed them around the ears where the bridle headpiece rested on the long marches, the horses lowering and moving their heads to the touch. Suddenly they raised their heads, ears pricked, staring into the night.
Leo followed the direction of their gaze and presently made out the white-blazed face of Maniakh’s mare in the moonlight. The horsemen reined to a halt before him, reporting all was well and that the patrol had simply shadowed Guy d’Agiles at a distance.
“The Kelt caught his horse?” Maniakh asked.
“In the yards here, as he planned. He did well.”
“Good. Did he say anything?” Maniakh asked.
“He thought he saw a rider. It crossed his mind I had dropped men off behind him. He knows now.”
“Good. Smart young fellow. Good judge of a horse. All has turned out well for us!”
“Yes, Maniakh
. It’s a start.”
“I’m glad we didn’t have to kill the mare. She’s too good for that.”
“Yes. Nothing of Togol?”
The Patzinak shook his head in the moonlight. “He’ll be right. You’ll see.”
“Let’s hope so.” Leo turned to the soldiers. “Have your squires put your horses away, men. There’s a hot meal for you inside the fort.” He spoke quietly as they gathered around him. “One thing, no one is to speak of where you have been, nor what you have done or seen.”
With murmurs of assent, the soldiers left for their meal, but Maniakh lingered, in the indirect manner of someone who does not wish to raise an awkward subject. “Are we in Vaspurakan yet?”
“Yes, Maniakh. Soon after we left last night’s camp.”
“What’s the rest of it like?”
Perplexed by the question, Leo searched for Maniakh’s deeper purpose. “You have never travelled here before? I have not seen it either, though my father spoke of it and I have read some. It’s quite large, perhaps one hundred and fifty miles north to south and almost two hundred east to west. Much of it is barren and mountainous, with fertile valleys and steppe between, like the terrain here. The province has a very large salty lake in the middle of it, ten cities, about seventy castles like Arknik or better, and over three thousand villages.”
Maniakh was silent. At length he said, “I must learn to read like a Roman, Horse-archer, who lives here?”
“Armenians—though many left twenty years ago, because of increasing pressure from Kurdish emirates and migratory Seljuks, some of whom also live here apparently. Many of those Armenians now live around the Western Euphrates. I’m told there’re still quite a few Arabs and some Kurds in the south-western parts of Vaspurakan.”
“Arabs?”
“Yes. A legacy of their conquest three hundred years ago.”
Maniakh was silent for a moment. “The Frank will need to be careful, lest someone recognises his new horse.”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 12