A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Leo looked up as Martina approached, wearing riding clothes and her careless felt hat. One of the Barbarian House group working mostly to Isaac and Branas, she eased her weapons belt slung over her shoulder and smiled at him. “It’s about time you rested,” she said.

  He was surprised by her candour and the sudden realisation she noticed his movements. In their daily world of reticence, occasional formal pleasantries and plenty of other things to concern him, their fleeting encounter in a dark passage of the imperial palace was not in his foremost thoughts. “You’ve just finished?”

  “Yes. I was going to change into something cooler.” She hesitated. “I just saw Modestos Kamyates watching you. He seemed … intense.”

  “Indeed. Where was he?”

  “Hiding in the bushes at that corner behind me,” she said without looking back. “He left when I passed by.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, suppressing the urge to seek out the courtier and provoke a violent confrontation. “That is useful to know.” Leo read the concern on her face and tried to make light of the incident. “Doesn’t pay to close your eyes around here, does it?”

  She smiled. “No. It doesn’t.”

  “You do not get much time off either, so make sure you also get some rest.”

  Instead she dallied and they talked of horses. In response to his question she described growing up in Syria and learning Arabic from neighbours. A groping stepfather had led her to run away to herd cattle in Anatolia.

  “In my youth, I too drove cattle and broke-in horses in Anatolia,” he said.

  Their eyes met suddenly in the knowledge of a shared other experience: horse sweat and the open sky, long days in the saddle, swift galloping musters and slow droving trips to markets. Each knew the other had been through it and understood.

  At length she excused herself. “Anyway, I must change my clothes,” and went her way.

  To Leo’s surprise, she reappeared after an interval, looking feminine in a cool robe with her brown hair back in a gay bow. “I thought you might enjoy this book—Kasia.”

  “Thank you. Ah! The poetess. That is very thoughtful of you and I will be delighted.”

  “You know of her?”

  He opened the volume and made room for her to sit. “If I’m not mistaken, her independent, some say impudent, answer to the Emperor Theophilus in the bridal line-up meant she was not favoured with the golden apple. She later founded a monastery. That is her, isn’t it?”

  Martina had freshly bathed and wore the faintest hint of an alluring scent. “Yes,” she breathed, edging closer to see the pages as he turned them.

  “Appreciating poetry probably isn’t how you learned to use the bow. We were distracted by the worthy subject of horses before, and you did not tell me what journey brought you to Manzikert.”

  “No, we were distracted,” she mused and told him of her being drawn to Constantinople, of her employment by a remount dealer where she was noticed by a tribune of the Excubitores. Soon she was translating documents for the Office of Barbarians and enjoying more money and a wider social circle.

  Leo noticed her wedding ring. “That is still far from Manzikert?”

  Martina she saw his glance. “I married, not by the usual arrangement as a teenager,” she grimaced at the convention, “but later, for love of a cataphract of the Excubitores.”

  “Did he teach you how to use the bow?”

  “No.” She paused, glanced down and then into the distance. “Another.” She looked down again, long, then up into his eyes. “They needed someone who would not be noticed to bring a message, so I came with Yūryak bearing despatches for the strategos. We have been employed by him since—until it’s time to take despatches back to Constantinople. And that’s how I came to Manzikert.”

  Leo now placed her as the woman in the red dress in the dimly lit festival hall where he had confronted Gurgen. “You seemed so knowledgeable and at ease I thought you had been out here for some time. You were at Arknik when we came through?”

  “Yes. The strategos sent us to check the reports of troops on the way.”

  “Doesn’t give much away, does he?”

  “No, he doesn’t. Everything’s so secret. Only Count Branas, the strategos, princeps and a couple of others know we are the couriers. We arrived by night with a pass that got us direct access.”

  “Perhaps too secret. Were you told you were pursued?”

  “We weren’t told exactly by whom. There was a plan to get us away. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “If you can call such a hasty, scatter-brained thing a plan.”

  They looked at each other with silent questions about the roles they played in the affairs of Vaspurakan. Leo closed the book and put it down by his side. She shifted away in the smallest concession to society’s conventions.

  “Anyway, it didn’t seem too dangerous. Who’d notice another woman with a provincial accent like mine travelling the roads? The money’s good.” She paused, thinking to herself. “Did you ever find anyone after us?”

  “No proof, Martina. But between us I would be careful of Cydones and anyone close to him.”

  She looked down for a time. “It’s all so melancholy. Who to trust? Theodora told …”

  Leo watched her for a moment, realising she was sworn to some confidence. “Well, at least horses do not lie,” he said.

  She looked up and smiled.

  Two hours passed as they conversed freely. With a little crowd of his men now socialising further along the veranda, Leo was acutely aware of their being together for so long, risking the gossip of impropriety. Watching her speak, with her clear eyes and expressive lips, he was suddenly conscious of being grateful to her for the company, at risk of her own reputation.

  With darkness gathering, she looked around and seemed to also sense the little audience that looked their way from time to time. “I’d better go.” There was a long moment before she looked into his eyes. “I must.”

  Leo stood as she did. “Thank you. It was delightful. I enjoyed our talk. Very much!”

  “It was my pleasure,” she smiled, hesitating a moment as though she would say something. Then she was gone.

  Leo felt a loss as she left. Despite his constant dealings with people, he had little real intimacy with anyone—the monk-like solitude of the professional warrior. He loved the charm of the conversation with her, but chafed at how the social and military concerns about others’ perceptions of propriety had intruded into his consciousness, stealing the simple pleasure from him.

  As Leo dined that evening a dusty courier from Artzké rode to the citadel bearing despatches of a rumoured Seljuk raiding party some two-hundred strong, moving westward south of the Sea of Bznunik. Leo was summoned and accompanied by old Arshak, entered Basil Apocapes’ rooms to find Bessas, Curticius, Branas and Doukas already there.

  By flickering lamplight, Basil pounded the map on the wall. “Leo, I was going to send you on a cattle raid along the river valley anyway, but things have changed. I want you to take your regiment down here, to the west, first thing tomorrow. See if you can intercept any Seljuk raid and inflict maximum casualties. Arshak knows the country. The best places to intercept them are here, or here in the theme of Taron.” Basil pointed to two small settlements marked east of the border city of Mush. “I’ll send a galloper to Theodore Vladislav and alert him if your presence in his theme and the possibility of a Seljuk raid.”

  “If there’s no sign of them there …” Basil studied the map in silence. “… then you may push patrols further south toward Baghesh to determine whether they’re exploring the route to Melitene. Bear in mind you may cross into Marwanid Kurdish territory there. Avoid the Kurds. Don’t get decisively engaged with the Seljuks if they are in greater strength than you are certain you can handle. Be back in no more than three days. Your main task is to bring the cattle. We need
the hides and meat, both of which we can dry and store. It is more important to secure them than get involved in a private war. Any questions?”

  Leo looked at the map and ordered his thoughts before answering, “First, the cattle and intelligence, second, to inflict casualties if I can. I propose not to take the squires or a pack train, but leave them here to fill the gaps. We can leave at first light. How close to Baghesh am I to go? Visit the town itself?”

  “No need. The Kurds would be neutral in any contest and I have visited the place several times. Save yourself a detour! And we do not wish to provoke them.”

  Leo looked at Bessas. The centarch nodded.

  “We’re as one,” said Basil. “Tagmata troops on the prowl and a bloody nose might unsettle and dissuade the nomads. But I do need those cattle, both for us and to deprive the nomad of them. Remember the Seljuk raid is a rumour as yet—the cattle are real enough. I want you out before sun-up and back inside three days.”

  Leo saluted and with Bessas and Arshak, turned to leave. On opening the heavy timber door of Basil’s study, he was irritated to find Modestos Kamyates standing in the torch-lit stone passageway. “Kamyates?”

  “Bryennius! I thought you had the day off?” Kamyates said superciliously.

  “As I do.”

  “I heard there was a courier,” Kamyates looked past Leo. “Where’re you off to in such haste?”

  “Indeed!” Leo gave a non-answer and turned to Basil with a raised eyebrow.

  Curticius caught Leo’s eye with a pleading look. Leo nodded sympathetically.

  “Please bid Modestos enter,” Basil said resignedly. As the courtier entered the room, the strategos gave his beaming, inclusive smile. “Modestos! Just the man. I’ve opened wine which I think you’ll like. Yes, we’ve had some droll rumour from an outpost, but it’ll come to nothing.”

  Leo did not hear the rest as he and Bessas dashed from the citadel with Arshak struggling to keep up. As they left, three files of burly Varangians jogged down the roadway from the citadel, boots crashing in cadence on the flagstones, mail tinkering and the occasional thud of a sword scabbard or spear against a shield. The leaders and rear carried torches and there were the darting shadows of double-headed battle-axes against stone walls as they reached the foot of the slope, breathing heavily under their helmets and beards, settling into the jog to the gates.

  Leo recognised one of Doukas’ tribunes with them. The man slowed to a walk to inform Leo the sentries were being doubled and none, except official messengers, would be allowed to leave or enter the fortress until noon the following day. The regiment could deploy with some security as to their intentions.

  Runners fetched the tribunes while the decarchs collected their men and supervised the preparations: light marching order, no arrow-proof bards53 for the horses, but an extra blanket under the saddle. Hard rations for three days were distributed with grain bags for the mounts. The squires also gave the horses an extra feed in the dark, checking all the while that they had water to drink. Then the regiment slept except for the occasional restless or disorganised soul still packing until after the end of the second night watch. In the lamp-lit rooms of the Barbarian House, clerks laboriously copied the available maps, providing enough for each tribune.

  Leo awoke after a three hours of restless sleep.

  Troopers rose in the dark, some alert with vigour and the thrill of an imminent fight, others still stupefied from interrupted slumber. Someone coughed. Sparing of words, they tugged on boots and mail shirts. Men breakfasted quickly in the mess, the torchlight reflecting weakly from interlocked polished iron rings so the mess looked like countless distant stars. In murmuring groups, carrying saddles and weapons, they made their way to the stables and walked the laneways of the yards, seeking their squires and horses. There was movement of hide and the sudden smell of fresh manure and urine, as the tension of the troops transmitted itself to their mounts.

  Bluish in the weak moonlight, the regiment assembled, men leading their horses to the forming-up-place for each troop and easing them into line. A small, silent group of women watched. One of them, on seeing a familiar face in the ranks, darted forward to give a trooper a linen bag, food perhaps or some other small comfort, and a kiss, then backed away, still looking at the shadowed features under the helmet rim.

  Leo mounted Zarrar. “A clear morning, Antony? Are scouts and interpreters attached as discussed last night?”

  “Yes, Count, mostly.” Lascaris swung to horse. “I’ve told-off the three Armenians. Yūryak with Bessas, since Bessas also speaks Arabic. Arshak is with you and as he does not read the tongue, I’ve told the woman to ride with you as she does. Ruben’s with me.”

  “What woman?”

  “From the Barbarian House. Martina Cinnamus. There was no choice. I couldn’t find another interpreter at short notice. And she was keen to come.”

  Suddenly faced with his feelings, Leo was reluctant to expose her to danger. “There is no one else?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Very well. What of D’Agiles and his man?”

  “At the head of the column with Togol and David Varaz,” Lascaris said. “D’Agiles is riding his chestnut mare. I found a spare horse for his man”

  The centarchs formed like ghosts around Leo who now reinforced the gist of the previous evening’s orders. “My command group is first out the gate. Then the Third Squadron under Sebeos—straight west to the river line, on the south side. Bessas, you’re next, with the First Squadron. When through the village, swing south. When well out of sight of Manzikert, cut northwest and pick up my track, close up as left flank-guard. Screen to the south. Antony,” he said, turning to Lascaris. “Last out with the Second. Follow the road west, but do not cross north of the river. Close up as rear guard. Questions?”

  The officers shook their heads so Leo trotted to the head of the column and greeted Togol and David on their captured mounts. Martina, wearing a felt, arrow-proof jerkin, smiled shyly.

  “Ready?” Leo hoped his grin to her appeared encouraging.

  “Ready!”

  Guy d’Agiles still looked downcast and Leo was glad he knew the reason. The young Frank needed to get over the Curticius woman.

  The regiment moved off in column of fours at the walk. They started in the eerie touch of horseshoes, soft creak of leather, and muffled iron sounds of armour and weapons. A horse blew somewhere, clearing its nostrils and several others followed. Riders spoke softly to quiet restive animals as Leo led the column into the shadows of the tree-lined main thoroughfare. The gate towers loomed and Leo reined in as Basil stepped from the shadows.

  “Zarrar looks good, real good. What’ve you been feeding him?”

  “Your barley, I believe.”

  Basil laughed. “It is good grain! Remind me to arrest your squire!” Then he became serious. “There’s nothing more than we knew last night, unless you have any last questions?”

  “No questions.”

  “Good luck,” said Basil as Leo saluted and trotted to the lead.

  Two squadrons, each a hundred strong, peeled off as arranged. It grew light as the fortress disappeared behind them and they extended into open patrolling formation. Leo rode in the centre behind Sebēos and his standard-bearer while Martina, David, Guy and Jacques were close by. He noticed the woman had rolled up her sleeves above the elbow, the measure of comfort in disregard of society’s convention of women covering their arms above the wrist. One troop was spread out around them, the other dispersed forward in arrowhead as screen with the Armenian scouts still further ahead. Leo kept the pace to a quick walk, looking disapprovingly at any man who had to jog his horse to keep up. He varied who he rode with—Sebēos, David and Togol, then amongst the cataphracts, speaking of the raid, horses or answering their questions about the history of which some had a notion they were now a part.

  The sun rose and the da
y grew warm. Gallopers trotted in from Lascaris and Bessas, reporting them in position. Leo lagged behind, looking to the rear left flank for the distant shapes of men and horses. They were there, faintly, if one knew what to look for.

  Leo noticed cattle here and there, small groups of up to a dozen grazing peacefully and paying the dispersed horsemen little mind. Left for now, they could be collected on the way home. He was enjoying the ride and being outside the walls, for emotions inside the fortress became oppressive as the unpredictable future teased at people’s nerves.

  Pausing on another slight rise in the ground that would be unnoticed by a casual traveller, Leo could watch Sebēos’ squadron move out of sight over a similar rise ahead. How the ground could play tricks: friend to the wise and foe to the unwary.

  Scanning the hills to the south he noticed a subtle hue in the haze but could not fathom the source. Dust? Smoke? His own thoughts jumping at shadows, perhaps? He waited.

  Bessas rode up with Yūryak on a dun mare at his side. The Armenian, a brown-eyed young man affecting long brown hair with drooping mustachios, looked workmanlike in a faded brown tunic under his horn-lamellar cuirass, bow and sword at his hips. He owned a small landholding near Manzikert.

  “You’ve seen it too?” Bessas gestured to the distant smudge in the sky.

  The three of them looked at it. “There is a track that way, leading from Baghesh to Sasun,” Yūryak said.

  Bessas eased in his saddle. “It’s dust more than smoke I think.”

  “You might be right.” Leo squinted under his helmet, peering over his forearm held level below the eyes to cut the reflected glare from the ground. “It could be Roman troops from Taron. We’ve probably passed into their area by now. Or it could be hostile. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. We will camp overnight in the village of Sashesh, ahead. I am told it is on a low knoll, has stone buildings and yards with two good wells, so it is quite defensible. We can conceal our strength there. Tomorrow, we’ll collect the cattle and set a trap for the hostiles, if that is what the mystery proves to be. The dust of a big herd of cattle will surely attract their greed or curiosity. I will take the mustering party. You, Bessas, will be to the south-east as the hammer, Sebēos near the village as the anvil and Antony Lascaris somewhere east of there on some defensible higher ground as reserve. Any cattle you come across, hunt them back up river, we can collect them on our return march.” He looked inquisitively at Bessas as he completed his outline. “You have linked up with Antony?”