Maniakh! Guy had not seen him for two days. Now he remembered Joaninna Magistros had asked him that morning whether he had seen Simon Vardaheri. The Patzinak scout and much-travelled horse trader had vanished. “Do you know where Maniakh and Simon are?”
Bryennius again studied the tracks on the ground. “No.”
Guy looked back, realising the count might not know where they were now, but he had sent them somewhere. He begrudgingly respected the count for not telling him; there was too much talk in Manzikert.
“Shall we head back?” Bryennius said. “Ruksh here has enjoyed about as much of this view as he can stand.”
Guy glanced at Ruksh, unconcernedly making with Sira the muzzle-touching, smelling talk of horses, and smiled as he turned Sira towards the fortress.
“Your mysterious Swordleader does not seem to have appeared?” Bryennius remarked.
“No. I’ve looked closely at a dozen men, but, no.”
“Is there one who makes you uneasy?”
“I had that feeling in the market at Karin, and looked around but could see no-one.”
“Yes. The market. You told me. Interesting that incident made an impression on you. Oh well, keep your wits about you.” With that Bryennius lapsed into thoughtful silence. They were soon riding their swift walkers back though the village when Guy noticed a man looking closely at them. “Isn’t that the landlord of Arknik? What’s he doing here, and so soon after our arrival?”
“Yes,” Bryennius answered quietly. “Tigran Zakarian. Say nothing.”
They drew abreast of the Armenian, who had occupied a position before them in the main street. “Bryennius?”
“Tigran.”
“Riding, Count Leo?”
“Riding.”
“Pleasure or purpose?”
“Riding is always a pleasure, Tigran.”
“On such fine horses, I’m not surprised,” observed Zakarian, walking around their mounts to study them.
“That was a most pleasant evening at your stronghold, Tigran. What keeps you so far from home?” Bryennius asked.
“Pleasant if you enjoy burying people under my stockyards,” the Armenian countered, before answering the question. “Oh! You know! Supplies. Gossip. Different company. To be honest I like town life—I have a good head man at Arknik, so it runs itself really. And, I wish to make sure I have lodgings in the town in the event of another raid—supposing I get warning enough.”
Zakarian walked to Sira and stroked her forehead. Guy expected the mare to be more nervous with a stranger.
“Where’d you come by the chestnut, young fella?” Zakarian asked with the natural authority of his class.
“I’ve had her for some time,” Guy answered warily.
“Indeed?” Zakarian returned, unused to being challenged by one so young.
“Indeed.”
“If you need a horse, Simon Vardaheri always has a few for sale,” Bryennius suggested, outwardly helpful and apparently distracted by a graceful woman walking along the street.
“Vardaheri isn’t in town,” Zakarian snapped.
There was a long pause. “I wouldn’t know.”
Guy saw Bryennius still apparently watching the woman, but he could sense that the count had just tripped Zakarian.
Zakarian knew it. He tensed involuntarily then with an effort, relaxed. He forced a smile, “Well. If you ever want to sell this mare, think of me first.”
“I will. I’ll think of you, that is,” Guy responded.
Zakarian nodded and stood back.
They moved on.
“Well done,” Bryennius said to Guy as they rode under the portcullis. “Report to Robert Balazun. He has orders for you.”
Balazun’s instructions were to meet Bryennius at the stone Barbarian House for unspecified duties. Before releasing him to his new task, the big Norman admonished Guy to tell all he learned. By noon Guy had washed, fed and watered his mare and identified the house. Allowed through the gate, he entered the large house and found Bryennius, Branas and Bessas studying a large map attached to the wall. Within a few minutes, it was apparent that he was now part of the strategos’ scouting organization. Guy had no doubt that his capture of Sira and his attempt to learn the language had something to do with his selection and was excited by the prospect of more interesting work and potentially, more pay.
“We’ll get you into harness straight away,” said Branas, ushering him into a large back room where a pretty young woman sat at a table. “Martina, can you get this fellow settled-in please? Isaac knows about it.”
The woman watched Branas leave. “Welcome, Guy d’Agiles?” she said, speaking fluent Greek with what Guy thought was a provincial accent. Her table was crowded with parchments and sketch maps where it appeared she had been transcribing rough field notes into more formal copies.
“Yes,” he said, noticing her men’s riding dress and the military belt on the peg behind her.
“I’m Martina. Isaac will see you presently. Don’t worry, you’ll soon learn the ropes, but until you do, if you need help, ask and anyone will try to assist you, especially Isaac, the chief clerk, who knows all and everyone.”
Guy looked across to see a young dark haired man bent at a desk covered with papers. Isaac glanced at him. “Don’t depend on her for advice! She’s never here. Count Branas has her riding all over the country looking around.”
“Not alone, I hope?” Guy said, his attention returning to the woman. He noted the dagger on the belt and was surprised to recognise her as the youth leading the dun horse at the stables on the first morning.
“Usually with someone, often Yūryak,” she smiled.
Then Guy remembered where he had seen her before—the festival at Arknik, where she had worn a red dress in the crowd. “You must get around a bit!” The notion of a woman doing such work was a shock, although he was not wholly unprepared. He was suddenly thankful he had heard from Irene of Tāryūn and from Bessas, on the journey from Karin, about the tale of Gregory’s daughter during the Muslim capture of Tripoli centuries before. The stories had seemed remote until this moment. “What do I do, exactly?” he asked.
“Exactly? The same as the rest of us,” Martina laughed. “Find out what old Tughrul is up to. Can you read?”
“And his tens of thousands of followers,” Isaac chipped in without looking up.
“Latin? Yes. Greek? A little.”
“Start with these,” she said. “You can sit at that table there, by the narrow window.”
Guy took the sheaf of papers and sat. So much reading was not something he had counted on.
“I am sorry if I seem brusque,” she said, “but we are rather busy just now. We can talk more in a while.”
“Of course. I understand,” Guy replied. Exhaling a long breath, he looked out the window and saw the citadel with its imperial flag and theme pennant trailing lazily in the air. Knowing Irene’s father was princeps, Guy wondered if she looked from a window upon Manzikert and whether she thought of him. Constantinople seemed so far away and Provence but a dream.
* * *
49Donjon—a tower keep, the last bastion within the citadel.
50People from around Kiev and other Viking trading posts on the Russian rivers.
51Greek Fire—a weaponised, napalm-like liquid or semi-solid (possibly naphtha-based) that could be projected through pumps and tubes (effectively medieval flame-throwers) or as pottery grenades by both sides during sieges. Although naphtha was widely used by fire-troops throughout the Middle East, this and its associated technology was refined by Byzantium, thus its name.
52Corselet—sleeveless, hoodless body armour reaching the hips or just below.
Chapter Seven
The Fight at the Wadi
Manzikert,
Morning, 26th June 1054
As the pleasant spring turned to a hot summer, Guy’s attachment to the scouts altered his life in small but significant ways. He soon noticed he was no longer part of the companionship of the Franks: while they were familiar, they knew little of what he did and he did not share their daily duties, gripes, jealousies and brawls. He was conscious of appearing different from them. His old, handed-down mail byrnie lacked the weight, length and coif of the hauberks most of the Latin knights wore and he had adopted the practice of winding a scarf around his helmet to mitigate the heat. With Roman boots, Seljuk bow and horse-equipment, he had assumed a frontier-like appearance. For scouting Guy carried his spear, but he dispensed with the heavy kite shaped shield, or carried a much smaller almond-shaped type Jacques had acquired from the sale of the Seljuk’s corselet—the identity of the buyer being the groom’s secret.
“You look like a damned barbarian,” Balazun snorted one day.
Count Branas had attached three trusted Armenian frontiersmen to Bryennius for scouting. They were Arshak, Ruben, and the courier, Yūryak. They were men who could ride fast along the little known mountain tracks and use the bow as well as any nomad; horse and cattle thieves whose skills and shadowy networks were suddenly useful. They were also of conflicting loyalties; to Christendom even under Byzantine suzerainty, to their own people and land, Byzantine gold, personally to Basil Apocapes and not least to each other
Interesting callers came and went from the Barbarian House: priests from the outer districts brought information, peasants seeking safety told of horsemen passing in the night, travellers reported dead bodies on the byways. All of this, and the unanswered questions—brigands or the enemy—were recorded by the clerks in their journals and as annotations on the maps covering the wood panelled walls. Patrols came and went.
Guy had heard nothing of Maniac or Simon Vardaheri since his first ride with Irene and imagined them in heroic exploits, dramatic confrontations and daring escapes, but did not mention the men.
Nor did Bryennius.
With her old cook as go-between, Guy had secretive rides with Irene. Every third morning Guy rose earlier than usual, left the fortress by the main gate and cantered northward to loiter near the trees where they had first spoken. These were chaste rides, if touch alone be the measure of such things. She would talk of horses or the frontier with perception and depth, or ask him about his past and of other lands. That was his ration: a ride and a smile, parting always as before.
Who art thou to steal my heart away, he would ask silently and chafe inwardly when, in a hunting party, she laughingly cantered next to Balazun, or when men mentioned her—Irene the unattainable.
Every fibre of his being said run, ride away, but he did not.
His languor was deepened by Charles’ and Jacques’ apparent contentment. “There’s time yet to get away,” Jacques had said when Guy half-heartedly broached the subject. Within the sheltering walls, paid, fed and distracted, Guy’s companions contributed to his hopeful wait-and-see ennui.
At length he determined to confess his feelings to Irene at their next outing, but circumstance intervened.
Manzikert,
Morning, 26th June 1054
John Curticius burst into the Barbarian House and past Guy d’Agiles to where Leo was pondering a map. “My God, Bryennius. You must help me. My daughter has gone. Anna’s in such a state—giving me the devil for it! The scandal! Her black horse, Shahryād is missing as well. I’ve been out half the night, even to the hut she and that blackguard used from time to time. Bryennius, you’ve got to find her. Irene’s out there somewhere.”
Leo turned from the map, glanced at Guy d’Agiles and saw the young Frank blanch. “Gone? Can you think where, Sir?” the young Frank whispered.
Curticius glanced uncomprehendingly at Guy, then back to Leo.
“A moment, please, Sir. Guy, get the princeps a chair. Then leave us please and have someone see to his horse.” It was done. The door closed a little too loudly, Leo thought.
“She has a … suitor I suppose you’d call him—that Ankhialou fellow—in Archēsh, damn him. She may’ve gone there. Or to her brother at Artzké.”
“At either place she will be safe.”
“If she makes it. You know what happens in these times,” Curticius choked. “All manner of cutthroats about, infidels, refugees becoming brigands on the roads.”
“She has a good horse and knows her way.” Leo passed the princeps a goblet of water and watched him drink deeply.
There was another long pause before John Curticius answered. “Yes. My God, Bryennius. The scandal. A daughter’s reputation. And mine. What did we do wrong?”
Leo believed himself the last man on earth to be advising a distressed parent. Who knew what passed between fathers and daughters? He did not have the time or resources to search for a wilful young woman probably already with a suitor. “We’ll do what we can, Princeps.” Reluctantly, he added, “Would you have me send out a search party?”
Curticius looked at the count who now controlled most of Manzikert’s cavalry. “Would to God you could. You cannot … but if you hear something …”
“Of course. We have scheduled patrols going out south, east and between in the next day or so. I will ask them to keep an eye out.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you.” One hand on the back of his neck, Curticius turned to the map, eyes roving it.
“Would you like to rest a while and join us later for the midday meal?” Leo took Curticius by the shoulder and steered him towards a back room which held refreshments and three comfortable lounges for the people on the long night duty, or scouts waiting for tasking.
Leo did not need the additional drama. Since his arrival at Manzikert he had been busy training his men and running the Barbarian House—the comings and goings of the net of mounted pickets, patrols and spies Basil, Branas and he had woven around the fortress. The demands were continual and draining; training, a quarrel in the ranks, financing the scouting, constant reconnaissance and participating in daily meetings.
The meetings had been taxing enough when the strategos’ council was a small circle, but this had grown to include chattering officials, each of whom had some self-proclaimed critical role to play in the defence of Manzikert. Decorum and prudence dictated that they—the senior warriors, veterinarians, quartermasters, doctors, billet masters, clerks and priests—were all present and had a voice in the deliberations. Leo had to bite his lip and endure their long orations on any subject near to their hearts, influence and careers. Certainly the matters were important, but they might have learned the virtue of brevity. His confidantes in this were Branas, Selth, Doukas, Oleg and the abbess.
All the while, Kamyates and Cydones sniffed around spreading their slurs.
While others had taken their ease, Leo was taxed for time. Whenever he attempted to rest, there would be a message for his attendance with Basil or Curticius. Zarrar and Ruksh, with their worn shoes and sweated backs attested to the hours he had spent familiarising himself with the walls and terrain outside. He explored the little gully where a tunnel could be cunningly started, noted the dryness of the pasture and dallied in the little hamlet of K’arglukh. With its stone house, well and animal enclosures on higher ground, the settlement might serve as a headquarters for the Sultan.
Days spent walking Manzikert’s defences revealed the tricks of ground and architecture that would influence the battle. The deep, poplar-lined gully to the south, with its rushing creek, would act as an obstacle in the camp of the besiegers. Iron-barred drains under the walls must be guarded. A ragged line of solid stone buildings in Manzikert should be fortified to form an inner wall in case the circuit walls were breached. A forgotten track that dropped from an almost invisible sally-port through the ditch and into the country beyond, could be used to steal into the enemy camp. He listened to the town’s inhabitants with their unspoken fear, but was hea
rtened by their quiet determination not to yield to the fate of Kars or Artsn.
Everyone wanted something; certainty about the Seljuks, the replacement of a lame horse or worn saddle, time off, money, his opinion on this matter or that, or his blessing of some scheme. Even his squire, willing as Taticus Phocas was, needed instruction and oversight in the ways of warriors and war. What weighed most heavily was that Vardaheri and Maniakh had not yet retuned from their scout to Tabriz.
Curticius emerged after a time looking a little more refreshed. He declined lunch and left the Barbarian House to resume his duties despite the turmoil of his private life.
After a late morning parade in the heat to inspect the fitness and preparedness of the men and horses of the Scholae and the other cavalry, Leo decided on some much-needed rest. Bessas agreed to assume his duties for the afternoon and Leo returned to his quarters where he donned a comfortable linen tunic and sandals. Satisfied few people were around to disturb him or he them, he threw his cloak down outside his room in the shade of the stone veranda. Lying down, he closed his eyes—his sword half under him so he would waken if anyone tried to take it. In the quietness he could hear the footsteps and rummaging of odd individual comings and goings, the distant sounds of the military quarter and town, the sounds of peace and all’s well. Opening his eyes lazily, Leo could see beyond the buildings to the clear blue sky decorated by high white tufts of cloud. He felt a gentle breeze take the edge off the heat and was aware of a sense of restfulness. Then he fell into an exhausted sleep.
Awakening in the late afternoon and feeling thirsty, he rose and drank from a clay jar suspended from a beam and washed his face in the bowl of water on the bench in his quarters. Lethargically, he sat on the veranda step and began the familiar mind-clearing task of cleaning and checking his weapons and turned his thoughts again to the matters of Manzikert.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 24