A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  When not busy with some important or trivial physical task or mental challenge, Guy allowed his thoughts to roam of their own volition to what really perplexed or preoccupied him. He wondered why a glance from the woman in blue, Serena Cephala, and a couple of brief encounters with the merchant’s wife had lingered in his thoughts. This troubled Guy, offending his piety. He wondered if he were trivial in affairs of the heart and contrasted his own inner turmoil to Charles’ complete lack of concern with such matters. Yet he did not consider Charles a bad person. No one did, for the blonde knight was universally popular.

  He lay there thinking for what seemed a short time, until a rough voice shook him. “D’Agiles—your turn to mount guard.”

  Guy sat up with a start. Looking around, he realised where he was, and that he had slept. Pulling on his byrnie, he rose and taking up his weapons, drowsily followed the nameless Norman to his post.

  Guy stood his watch in the main-tower during the two coldest, darkest hours of the night, just before dawn. These posts were double-staggered: two men on for two hours, one changing on the hour. It ensured sentries were alert and there was no treachery, but meant few knew the luxury of adequate sleep.

  Leaning against the stonework, Guy peered into the gloom. He had stood guard enough to know how the mind played tricks: if one stared too long at something in the dark, it could seem to assume human form and appear to move. Better to force the stare move on and look back suddenly at any shadow of doubt. For the moment it seemed quiet. With a sigh, he let his head rest for only a moment against the stone merlon.41

  “Don’t go to sleep!” hissed Bessas, from beside him.

  Guy felt ashamed. “Do you never sleep?” he whispered.

  “Of course. But something woke me.” Bessas spoke quietly without looking at him.

  Guy felt alarm almost burst through his chest and his fist tighten on the spear. “What?” whispered the other sentry, a local boy who stood close, listening also.

  “Don’t know,” Bessas whispered, helmet under an arm and head cocked to one side. “It went quiet of a sudden, I think. The night does that sometimes.”

  Bessas was right. It was still: no bird or beast stirred. Even the spaced snoring from some sleeping figures seemed part of a deeper silence.

  The accumulated fears of civilization welled almost unbearably in Guy. He swallowed. “Do you hear anything?” His voice felt small and far away.

  Bessas listened for a time. “No.” There was a pause before he spoke again in a hush. “Nothing, and no dog has barked. If it’s men, you will hear a distinct sound, a scabbard or shield against a stone, or a stick breaking on the ground. If it is a horse, a shoe will strike something, they’ll crop grass or snort softly to each other. Cattle will get up and rush if disturbed. These are the things to listen for.”

  Below them the guardroom door opened and a pale shaft of yellow light splashed across the inner courtyard. The commander of the watch would have noted the flame on his time-candle burn down to a marked ring and was now doing his rounds, telling the sentries to change.

  Guy’s Armenian companion acknowledged the watch commander’s head appear at the top of the ladder. He checked that Guy had observed and understood, then left to wake his relief. This turned out to be a local peasant, a pleasant, unshaven boy with a sure knowledge of the valley. The lad spoke a little Latin, his speech laced with unknowing oaths acquired from passing soldiers. He whispered the features of the landscape as the light slowly improved.

  Already the decarchs were stirring the sleeping forms with that quiet insistence that bespoke a day’s march. As soon as it was light enough to discern trees and the village outside the walls, the mounted picket trotted out to occupy observation posts in the distance. Charles appeared on the ladder, hurriedly offering leftovers for breakfast. Then he left as quickly as he had come to help Jacques saddle their mounts. Guy gulped down the cold lamb, fruit, bread and milk, knowing how fast he would need to move when released from his post.

  From his stone vantage point, Guy could see the preparations for the march. Byzantine decarchs and Norman sergeants supervised loading the baggage. Heavier horses were backed up to the carts and harnessed by the teamsters, contracted citizens from Karin. There was an ordered bustle, the angry clatter of hooves on cobbles as one of the Sixth Schola’s pack mules objected to its lot, the clang of dropped weapon or dull thud as a shield bumped another while the men formed up. At a signal from Bessas, the column moved off in its composite groups. With less to do than the mounted troops, most of the foot were soon tramping off with the lead carts down the slope and wheeling left onto the Manzikert track. Dust rose in thin curls, hanging heavily in the morning air. Guy noticed Serena and her maid cantering in bursts of silken colour to the van to avoid it.

  Domnos Taronites was already mounted and waiting with obvious impatience for Maria to saddle up. Guy thought it unusual that no servant had been assigned to prepare her mare. Was it her personal choice, or public slight for private rancour? Guy wondered if her veil was drawn so tightly to hide a bruised face. A cataphract moved to help her as she struggled with her saddle. The trooper then legged her up and as she settled on the horse she leaned forward and briefly touched his bare arm in gratitude while Taronites glowered. With a nod the soldier led his roan off to join his section. Smoothing her light travelling robe, she glanced around as if to see whether her husband had observed the innocent exchange of kindness. Maria’s roving gaze noticed Guy watching. She looked at him then bowed her head slightly as she kneed the horse on behind her husband.

  With an abrasive yell, Balazun waved Guy down from the tower. Guy needed no urging to skim down the ladder and jog through the gate to where Jacques had already saddled the mule. Impatient and ungainly, the animal pulled against the reins while Guy slung the strap of his water skin over the high pommel, stuffed the cloth-wrapped breakfast leftovers in his saddlebag and tied his cloak behind the cantle.42 Then with part thrill, part trepidation, he entered the enclosure and caught the snorting Seljuk mare.

  Guy arranged the unfamiliar bridle in his hand. It was a simple strap affair with a jointed iron snaffle with long cheek bars to stop the bit pulling sideways through the mouth. Narrow leather reins were joined at the ends with a thin leather lace. He saw the reins had often been knotted about half way along their length and suspected the reason had something to do with the techniques of mounted archery. Slipping the reins around her neck, Guy bridled her as gently as he could. The mare, excited by the activity around her, put her head up and rolled her eyes at his unfamiliar manner. She backed up a couple of steps until her rump touched the rails, took a step forward, then with snorts and suspicion, allowed him to bridle her.

  Holding the reins in one hand, Guy took the Seljuk saddle from a rail. It smelled as old saddles do, of other riders, of the dogs and goats of the black tents and of man-sweat dried on horse-sweat. A simple, robust design it comprised two felt-padded and shaped parallel boards with pommel and cantles of the same timber screwed and glued into place. Rawhide straps from pommel to cantle covered with a thick leather seat, provided support and comfort for the rider. Breastplate and breeching were attached to the wooden frame by sturdy leather thongs laced through holes in the frame. Delicately etched bronze stirrups were attached well forward on the tree by leathers buckled at the bottom, so the rider could simply lean down and alter their length. Guy hesitated before the unfamiliar equipment.

  Maniakh, handing his own reins to Jacques, climbed into the enclosure.

  Guy watched as the mercenary ran leathery hands over the horse and felt saddle pad, checking for burrs and grass seeds. He then placed the blue felt saddle blanket and saddle on the mare’s back. Using a stick to reach under the horse, the scout hooked the end of the braided girth and gently tightened it. He led her around the enclosure once and then tightened the girth a hole. Next, a shaped sheepskin, dusted by banging it firmly against the rails, w
as laced into place over the seat.

  “Good saddle,” Maniakh pronounced. “Long sword under leg here,” he explained, strapping in place the long sabre the nomads used against people on the ground. “Second quiver here. Cloak here. Food here,” he grunted, indicating the saddlebag. Maniakh untied the lace Bryennius had placed around the mare’s neck and buckled her light, decorative leather collar in place, slipping it through a keeper attached to the bridle headpiece so the collar would not slip down and impede breathing. The collar had a small bronze plate riveted to it and from that hung a henna-stained tassel in a bronze holder. Smaller bronze plates with etched pastoral scenes decorated the collar. The nomad slipped his hand through the strap and looked at Guy as he tried to explain something obviously important in his accented Greek.

  His words were beyond Guy’s limited but growing knowledge of the language.

  “He says,” Simon Vardaheri explained as he approached, “it identifies the owner when horses are grazing in large herds on the steppe. The collar is left on so they can be easily caught. He says to be careful lest strangers ask how you acquired the horse and tassel.”

  Struck by the kindness, Guy smiled at Maniakh.

  “Let’s put the collar and tassel on the mule,” Jacques said. “That’ll fool ‘em.”

  “Leave it where it is.” Bessas rode up behind them, taking in the situation at a glance.

  Guy shot the centarch an irritated glance for reminding them they were still tantamount to captives, bait in some Roman plan.

  “You ride now?” Maniakh asked in halting Greek as he handed the reins to Guy.

  Guy took the reins, looking doubtfully as the mare bunched under the saddle.

  “She looks rather fiery,” Jacques said. “New shoes, a couple of good feeds and a day’s rest. She’s ready for anything.”

  “Yeeessss, she is!”

  “You might want to lead her for half a day, until she gets used to the new arrangement,” Bessas suggested. “There’s a long, steady hill a few hours ahead. Mount the mare at the bottom. A tired horse is less inclined to buck, rear, bolt, throw itself down, kick, grab your foot in its teeth or plain refuse to go forward.” With the self-assurance that comes from being well mounted, Bessas had cheerfully listed a fraction of the things that could go wrong when mounting a strange horse. “Then again, she may very well just walk quietly away.”

  “Perhaps I’ll lead her awhile,” Guy decided, at which Maniakh stepped forward to loop the Seljuk’s weapons belt around the cantle, securing it in place with a leather lace.

  Guy, mounting the mule, nodded in agreement with Bessas and with thanks to Maniakh. Jacques handed the mare’s reins to Guy and they joined the column. He saw the vanguard moving ahead and the screen cantering out beyond them as the Frankish horsemen deployed as flank and rear guards. Two squadrons of the Roman regiment remained standing to horse beneath the castle walls while their squires herded the spare mounts, some four hundred of them, into the rear of the column. Blocked by the carts and marching foot, the herd soon settled into a relaxed, grazing walk, pausing to snatch mouthfuls of the softer valley grass.

  Looking back as Arknik receded in the distance, Guy asked Charles, “What are the Greeks doing?”

  His companion simply shrugged. Like many Franks, he would ride down a nightmare if one should present itself, but saw fighting as a simple affair. He had little patience for the wisdom of the Byzantine military manuals, even if he could have read them.

  Robert Balazun rode by and looked at Guy’s horse with interest but without comment. Looking down from his big black warhorse, he answered Guy’s question. “The Scholae are going to remain a little behind as rear guard, but will keep us in sight. If we’re attacked, we are to circle the carts and hold our ground, stay alive and keep the enemy distracted. Then the Greeks will charge them unexpectedly—surprise!”

  Guy did not like the man with his small blue eyes and loud, aggressive manner. He wore his helmet and heavy mail hauberk and his long kite-shaped shield was looped by its shoulder strap over the pommel, so it rested on his left knee to be raised quickly. Balazun gazed around at the steppe and let out a breath. “I need a fight. I haven’t had one since I left Rome.”

  Charles and Guy glanced at each other. They had heard of Balazun’s earlier wars: suppressing peasants or fleeing the cataphracts of George Maniakhes after the lost battle of Monopoli where the Byzantine general defeated a Norman invasion of southern Italy. Balazun would have been a young knight of barely twenty-one years and the disaster could scarcely be attributed to him. Nonetheless, his martial prowess was not the stuff of legend.

  “Oh well,” Charles replied breezily, “you might get your wish yet.”

  Balazun stared back at Charles, not sure whether he was being insulted. “Anyway, keep a sharp lookout,” he ordered, “and don’t break from the column unless I command it.” With that, he rode to the lead.

  “Keen for blood!” said Guy with some distaste as Balazun rode away.

  “Hmmm,” Charles mused.

  “Though he does seem to be trying to learn from the Greeks.” Guy’s chestnut mare walked on a loose lead at his right knee as he occasionally caressed her forehead and neck He talked to her and fed her titbits to win her confidence.

  “As though they have anything to teach!”

  Guy did not agree with his friend. This was no sleepy mob plodding along in its own stupor. Both bands moved in self-protected groups, each able to detect and fend off an attack and support the other. The slow-moving carts, colourful civilians and braying pack mules might even invite attack by appearing relatively helpless, but the attackers would then be easily surprised by Bryennius’ regiment. There was always attack and defence, pin and hook, hammer and anvil, left and right hands, security and surprise. This wily way of war was different from the Frankish heroic tradition with its legend of Roland and Oliver.

  Guy wondered about the chase from which none had yet returned. He remembered Bryennius’ emphatic instructions as Togol and David had filled water skins, stuffed dried food into saddlebags and glanced hurriedly at the map. Then the two had galloped into the dead-grass landscape. Where were they now?

  The cool air of morning gave way to a light breeze and finally the heat of the midday march when the column halted. Knights dismounted, drank from skins of water and conversed in groups, leaning on their spears, here and there sitting or lying to ease legs stiff from riding. The footmen simply rested their shields on the ground and lay down with their weapons, removed helmets and ran rough fingers through hair damp with perspiration. Salt crystals had formed on shoes where the sweat had soaked through the leather. Teamsters walked the lines of their charges, keeping animals in line, checking the pins and greasing the spoked hubs. Most snatched a morsel from shoulder bags, washed down with water they carried in skins or small jugs. Some of the soldiers joked of sore feet or heavy spears and of what they would be doing now had they married that girl and stayed in the village—as though that mattered anymore. Those few who had wives went to where they had been walking as a group near the rear of the line of carts. Soldiers’ women, that hardy and philosophical breed, undertook the little rituals of care and support.

  Taronites and his wife dismounted wordlessly near their servants. Maria sat on a bundle taken from one of the carts and sipped water from a goblet handed to her by her maid. Guy saw the maid look in his direction several times and wondered what she knew. Serena Cephala, with her servants, also dismounted and silently joined the quarrelling couple, as if to distract their anger.

  Guy and Charles dismounted where Jacques sat uncomplainingly beside his crossbow at the edge of a circle of resting infantrymen. Jacques took the reins of the mule while Guy stroked the muzzle of the chestnut horse. Together they ate their bread and cheese and sipped water in silence.

  Bessas approached them leading Diomed and accompanied by his squire. “Well, your n
ew horse seems quiet enough! You could probably ride her when we move on. If not, we start to climb that hill in a league or so.”

  After an hour, Bessas, signalled “Saddle up!” The column rose to its feet and into order.

  Guy decided to ride his mare. Instructing Jacques to mount the mule and carry his sword, byrnie and the bow, Guy removed his spurs and prepared to mount. As he did so, she backed away nervously. Gathering the reins around her neck, he tried again to place his left foot in the stirrup. The unfamiliar Seljuk saddle with its lower pommel felt strange, even before he sat in it. The mare backed away quickly, pulling Guy on his tender feet after her. Half a dozen paces they went thus, until Guy soothed her to a halt. Then, impatient, young and inexperienced, he vaulted to her back as he had done on other horses.

  It was a mistake. As soon as Guy hit the saddle, the mare, with that deep ancestral fear of a predator’s claws in her back, exploded into the first buck. He did not have time to find his stirrups or shorten the reins. With a grunt she launched into the air, bounding forward, her head between her front legs, back arched like a cat. Then she thudded to the ground with a bone-jarring shock. The wooden pommel hit Guy’s groin and he winced in pain, conscious of the great strength of the horse.

  In a few moments a circle of onlookers formed. Some cheered, others laughed.

  “She thought you were going to kill her,” Charles shouted, grinning.

  “Stick your spurs int’er, d’Agiles,” shouted a knight, doubled over with laughter.

  The wiser looked on in concern, for the grave of a horseman is always open. Simon and Joaninna moved quickly to join the circle around this acrobatic display by those ancient companions, man and horse. The chestnut mare, head down and mane flying, spun half a turn and gathered herself for the third buck. Frightened by the people yelling and gesturing, she wheeled again and bounded forward through the third and then two more bucks in rapid succession.

  “Hang on, miles43, a teamster called out, using the Frankish term for a mounted warrior he may have learned from passing bands of mercenaries. “They’ve only got seven good bucks in them.”