A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  The two friends moved on to Sira’s yard where the mare walked over to them. She sniffed his gift of a quartered apple, her black eye on him all the while. Guy could see the dried bran on the long whiskers of her fine muzzle. Sira’s upper lip and tip of her muzzle puckered, reaching out, testing.

  “I wouldn’t trust you either,” said Charles.

  Sira took the apple quarter with such delicacy that she did not touch his hand. Drops of apple juice fell on the ground and a few stray chickens ran to them. The mare, ignoring the fowls, nodded her head in enjoyment. The horse in the next yard put its head over the rail, wanting some apple also. Sira turned viciously at the other horse, her ears flat against her head. She returned to Guy, looking for more.

  “Hmm,” observed Charles with false gravity. “She doesn’t seem very Christian, but at least you won’t have to worry about another horse ever stealing her food. Come. Let’s look around the town.”

  As they walked from Sira’s yard, a lithe, smooth-faced youth led a saddled dun gelding by them. The youth wore a loose, mid-thigh length, long-sleeved tunic bunched over a belt, to which were attached bow case, quiver and dagger. The gelding, fourteen and a half handbreadths tall, looked exceptionally tough with its black points; dark brown mane and tail joined by the black dorsal stripe. The youth nodded and continued, their eyes hidden by the shadow of a shapeless felt hat. Something in their manner made Guy think their paths had crossed. He paused and looked after them, but could not place either horse or rider.

  Near Manzikert,

  Afternoon, 25th May 1054

  Basil and Leo laughingly slowed their excited, blowing horses to a trot and swerved south from the worn path. The knee-to-knee gallop had basked both in the bonding glow of sporting exhilaration. As Leo patted the arched neck and tossing chestnut mane before him, Basil grumbled good-naturedly, “Don’t think I want to race any more. Should’ve listened to Oleg. He warned me not to challenge any horse of yours. And don’t think I didn’t notice you holding Ruksh back as I urged mine on!”

  “He does love a gallop.”

  Both men wore felt jerkins, swords and cased bows.

  “You wear a Turkish thumb ring?” Basil remarked as they reined back to a walk.

  “I find it easier to draw the bowstring.”

  “You must be skilled. That’s why your scouts call you Horse-archer?”

  “They’ve taken enough pains to try and teach me.”

  “They would not use the term if it wasn’t a compliment. You seem to have their trust.” Basil got straight to the point. “Now we’re alone, I can tell you that I sent one of my own spies to Tabriz three weeks ago. He was only supposed to have a quick look and should have returned by now. Do you have anyone in your regiment whom you could trust to go to Tabriz?”

  “Yes.”

  Basil appeared to consider this response for a few moments, as though calculating whether such a rapid answer might have bespoken vanity, stupidity or forethought. “I’d like you to send them. Simple instructions. Go there. See what’s going on. Verify the location and if possible the intentions of the Sultan, then report back. If they can learn the fate of my man, so much the better, but not at risk to the mission. Make sure it’s all done quietly. There are too many keen eyes and wagging tongues around Manzikert.” The two men rode on a way before Basil continued, “How long would your man need to make the journey and return? Two weeks, say?”

  Leo thought before answering. “About that, perhaps three. I’d want to send a team, two or three men.”

  They rode towards the higher ground on the other side of the valley from the fortress where Basil resumed the conversation. “There’s more. Your prisoner?”

  “Zobeir al-Adin?”

  “Modestos Kamyates wants a private audience with him. It will be hard to deny him, given his rank and influence. Speaking of whom, you’ve not got off to a good start with him and you need to fix it, because I can’t afford to antagonise him.”

  “I understand, Sir, and will do my best. Since you have raised the subject of Kamyates, I need to get a couple of things off my chest.”

  Basil’s moustache twitched once. “I’m listening.”

  “The imperial courier, Cydones, dropped Kamyates’ name before he did the bolt on us at Baberd. They obviously know each other—quite well I would say. We do not really know where Kamyates has been or who he’s met. He makes much of his part in the much-vaunted embassy to free Liparit, the result of which is that the Georgians are now neutral and will be no help to us. Then he shows up here, straight from the Seljuk heartland. And he knew I was here without written orders. Cydones must have told him—and how did he know?”

  “I suppose you have a point there.”

  “And,” Leo paused wondering how to convey it. “Before I left, Cecaumenus told me to watch your back.”

  Basil’s moustache twitched twice and an eyebrow arched. “From whom?”

  “He did not say. But if I’m to do it, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I will remember that.” Basil rode for some distance in silence. “How much does your prisoner know?”

  “I’m certain he was on a scouting or spying mission. He’ll start to feel lonely soon and will talk, but I doubt that he knows that much. He betrayed an interest in Manzikert, which is logical—it would be a key objective for the Sultan. The documents with him show detail about our dispositions and the military aspects of the local geography. What we do not know for certain is what level of command sent them, either the Sultan intent on invasion, or a local emir planning a slaving and looting raid?”

  “There were rumours of a Seljuk group being around here. Praise God, if you have caught them.”

  “I am betting it’s the Sultan,” Leo continued. “Thus far, the prisoner has spoken only his own name. We now have their marked maps—his turban had secret writing on it. They do not show much, but indicate a Seljuk mounting base at Tabriz and scouting through Archēsh and Manzikert to Karin, which of course does not rule out other parties scouting other routes.”

  They were silent again. Manes nodded and nostrils flared to the pink as their horses drew in deeply of the warm air as they climbed the higher ground. The smell of horse sweat rose as the two rode on, wild oats caressing their boot tips.

  “I suggest,” Leo mused aloud, “showing the captured horses around a bit to see who knows them, or who they react to.”

  Basil looked at Leo. “Good idea.” They rode on in silence for a few moments. “Your unit seems to be in good shape.”

  “Thank you. There is always room for improvement. I need to familiarise my men, and myself, with the local area and conditions.”

  “Your officers are reliable?”

  “I believe so. Antony Lascaris and Bessas Phocas in particular are good, thoughtful men. Sebēos, too is very competent.” Leo knew something was coming, but could not yet determine its nature. “The younger officers are, like all young officers, enthusiastic and willing enough, but need proper instruction and control. Also, like many young men, they are apt to be gullible when faced with slick-tongued senior officials. Of them, Balsamon is wilful, but I cannot otherwise fault him.”

  “You trust your scouts?”

  “We’ve three and I trust them all. David Varaz, is a Georgian. He is moody, but tough and effective, speaking the Seljuk tongue to a degree, having travelled in their lands. If he has a fault, it is that he hates them too much. I am told he lost one he loved to them … as a slave … from Artsn. He fought with Liparit at Kapetrou and entered Roman pay thereafter.”

  Basil looked sharply at Leo. “Kapetrou! Your scout was there, you say?”

  “So he’s told me.”

  Basil looked long at his pommel, as though recalling the battle where Liparit was betrayed: the Romans and their Armenian troops near the fortress of Kapetrou, their Georgian allies approaching from t
he north-east, all dispersed to forage and to seek contact with the elusive Seljuks. Then came that endless, tumultuous night: the long approach march and the couriers coming and going on jaded horses as commanders tried to co-ordinate their widespread columns. In the ferocious running engagements, the Seljuks although badly mauled, had surprised Liparit, captured him and escaped the trap.

  Leo sensed Basil’s pre-occupation and was silent.

  “Kapetrou!” Basil muttered. “Hard to say who won. We owned the field after, but failed to destroy them or free any prisoners.” Then, sharply to Leo, “He must tell me about it some time.”

  “Very well, I will arrange it.” Leo paused. “Our Cuman, Togol, left his tribe after an indiscretion—with a chieftain’s mistress, apparently. He is unlikely to return. Indeed he’s learning to speak Greek. He tried to warn Cecaumenus before Artsn and my father saved his life at Kapetrou. He is with us. Togol is an animist, and rumoured to be a sorcerer. He might become Roman in time, but we’ll never make a Christian of him.”

  “A sorcerer, eh!” Basil laughed. “He and the bishop can get together!”

  “Maniakh is a Patzinak. He is one of the men who saved Cecaumenus and my father at Diacene …”

  “Your father has been in the thick of it. How is he?”

  “He has made a reasonable recovery from the wounds suffered at Diacene, but is not fit for military service.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. He lives a good life?”

  “Good enough he tells me. As I was saying, Maniakh was detached to me for this mission by Cecaumenus himself. He is well paid and would settle on military land if it were allocated to him. Maniakh is a quiet and deep man who knows much of the oral tradition of the steppe peoples.”

  “That’s good. Knowledge is no burden.”

  “And then there is Vardaheri, not exactly one of my scouts.”

  “The mysterious horse trader! I know him. And trust him—that is enough!”

  Drawing rein at a large, flat rock that overlooked the valley, they dismounted and sat, taking care to keep the horses apart.

  “Count Bryennius, I like your style. I have my own scouts, but I want you to take control of the scouting and the cavalry. Branas has been trying to cover it but has too many other duties. It will take a little while to take over and you will need to keep him informed. The local scouts and guides are a close-knit lot—I’ve assigned Cecaumenus’ two couriers, Martina and Yūryak, to them until they return to the capital with despatches. There’s a rambling house with a walled garden in Manzikert we use for the purpose—our own little Office of Barbarians—which is more discreet for people to approach than the citadel and is quite near where your troops are quartered. Also I will set aside a room in the citadel. But for the moment, the city house is more appropriate.”

  “And …” Basil looked at Leo, “it will give you some space away from Kamyates. He wants to know and influence too much of what goes on for my liking. If he is right, our preparations will harm few. If you are right, we will be fighting for our very lives before long. Find out what the Sultan is doing. The key is whether their main effort will be in the south against Manzikert, or the northern route into Armenia proper, from Dvin along the Araxes. The most direct and likely Seljuk approach into Vaspurakan is from their base at Tabriz, bypassing Van, coming through Her and Archēsh and then here—so we need to screen in that direction. Archēsh has a reasonably powerful garrison—they should impose quite some delay and provide us some warning. I do not entirely discount the Seljuks coming from the south by the Kurdish cities of Baghesh and Khlat’ either. We need to check on your theory of a siege train as well. That worries me.”

  Basil stood. “Your Scholae are the best body of cavalry we have, so I would suggest you get them out to assist training the local theme horse and to learn the lay of the land. One of your officers can see to that.”

  They rode by a circuitous route back to the fortress, ambling under the portcullis to the salutes of the Norman sentries. They parted at the tree-lined avenue from where Leo returned to the military area. He handed Ruksh’s reins to Taticus Phocas and sent for Bessas, Maniakh, David and Vardaheri.

  Near Manzikert,

  Mid-morning, 28th May 1054

  Guy felt good. Well rested, he had explored the fortress, walked through the town outside the walls and ridden in the valley. Under Maniakh’s tuition, he began to practice with his bow on the target range in the fortress. He had cleaned his newly won saddle and had a saddler in the city replace the worn girth and stirrup leathers. In the next shop Guy spent a significant part of his limited coinage on a new pair of buff-coloured cavalry boots of the type fashionable amongst the Romans and their frontier troops. Many stained them black, but he preferred the raw leather look. Despite the private expense, most preferred them to the white, protective leggings of layered and glued linen issued to many imperial troops.

  Now, on his fourth morning at Manzikert, Guy found a secluded area of flat ground along the valley and was trotting and cantering circles and figure-of-eights in the warm air. For mounted archery training, he had brought an old sack stuffed with dried grass, which he tied to a young tree and shot at from various angles, distances and gaits. Having expended his limited supply of ten practise-arrows, Guy cased the bow and was preparing to dismount and reclaim them when Sira almost unseated him by spinning around to face a noise behind them.

  He recovered from the start and saw a woman on a well-groomed black horse emerge from a copse of trees and shrubs. She rode astride as most people did. “Hello,” he greeted, feeling foolish at being caught unaware, but trying to appear nonchalant as he dismounted.

  She drew up near him. “Hello,” she replied in polished Greek, also dismounting. “Can I help?”

  Guy felt it was the same horse and rider he had seen cantering the tan track during his first evening in the fortress. “Thank you,” he replied.

  She led her horse around, searching the ground for Guy’s arrows. She approached and handed him four shafts.

  He thanked her and wiping dirt from the iron heads, fed them into the quiver at his right hip. “I am more accustomed to sword and spear.”

  Removing her keffiye and tossing back her long black hair, she watched him in silence, her green eyes roving over his actions and the chestnut mare.

  Seeing the light in her eyes, the sheen of her tresses and the slightest hint of perspiration above her soft upper lip, Guy was certain she was the good rider on the splendid black.

  “So it is you,” she said softly.

  He looked blankly at her.

  “People speak of a Kelt, who ventured alone across the wilderness to acquire a chestnut Arabian mare. A Kelt who prevented the escape of a nomad spy and defended a lady at Arknik.”

  “People talk too much,” he said.

  “So it seems,” she smiled. “Come! Ride with me awhile.”

  They rode, talking, for some miles along a circuit of the bridle tracks that fringed the valley, her smile flashing sympathetically when he stumbled on the new language. As if by unspoken agreement, they kept the conversation light-hearted, tales of horses and the exigencies of rural life. In the same vein they did not introduce themselves; Guy fearing it was symbolic of the fleeting nature of their ride, as though names did not matter, because the future held no promise. Their horses walked easily together, the riders knee to knee. Guy felt a thrill every time their legs brushed as their mounts came together at a narrowing of the track.

  Too soon, they halted on a rise, the fortress and town in sight. Guy could feel the gentle breeze in the trees and long dry grass and hear the distant calls of cattle, the mill working and a church bell. Both looked down, knowing they had missed the service. Their stirrups touched and Guy glanced at his lovely companion, a question in his eyes.

  “It would cause a scandal if we returned together!” she said. “But it would be nice to ride agai
n.”

  “It would. We can meet here—when you are able.”

  “I’ll send a message.” With a bewitching smile, she rode on, turning in her saddle to wave.

  Sira made to follow, but Guy reined-in the mare as she looked with pricked ears and impatience after the black stallion. “That’s a magnificent horse,” Guy called. “What’s his name?”

  She halted and half-turned. “Shahryād. Named after a warrior who fought the Arabs, three hundred years ago. Tāryūn, daughter of the Lord of Khlat’, went to his aid with four thousand horsemen.”

  “A fine name, then. And yours?”

  “Irene. Irene Curticius.”

  “I am Guy d’Agiles.”

  “I know!” With her brilliant smile and a wave, she cantered away.

  Guy lingered on the rise with his thick-headed thoughts, when Bryennius ambled up on Ruskh, nodded a greeting and glanced at the hoof prints but said nothing. For some reason, Guy knew that he never would.

  Bryennius looked at Guy’s bow case and quiver. “How is the archery going?”

  “Slowly. You’ve been out?”

  Bryennius nodded.

  Guy had seen him, constantly walking the defences and riding the area for miles around the fortress, checking every rivulet, fold in the ground and crack in the old walls. Guy had asked Maniakh what the count was doing, to which the Patzinak replied that when the time came, the count would know the battlefield better from the Sultan’s view than the shepherd king himself.