A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  The Sixth Schola, in column-of-four, halted a mile from Manzikert. There they dismounted, loosened girths and led their horses into the fortress. Leo noticed a small group of soldiers’ women waiting inside the gates, searching for faces in the ranks. They watched him pass by, recognising him and knowing his role in the fate of their men. Leo hoped beyond mere wishing that none of the fallen were special to any of these women. He had seen it before, the tearful rushing to the friend leading the burdened horse; the comforting arm around—then later, a soldier seeking a companion, the woman a new ally in life.

  All things were fleeting. He slipped an arm over Zarrar’s neck and the horse turned his head to him as they walked along together. “So many soldiers and widows in this Empire of the Romans, Zarrar.” Something made him look back, to see Kamyates and Reynaldus glaring from behind the little crowd. Slowing, he enabled Bessas to catch up. “Don’t look around. Kamyates and Reynaldus just watched us come in. Remind everyone again that no one is to speak of what happened over these past three days. No one.”

  Taticus Phocas, with his adoration of Zarrar took the horse’s reins and fussed over the graze on his rump. Leo passed by the Barbarian House where Bessas was already going through the despatches. There was nothing urgent.

  “Come!” Basil led Leo up the stone stairs to the citadel’s highest tower where there was nothing above them except the red afterglow of the sun and the floating double-headed eagle of Byzantium. Leo thought fleetingly of Constantinople and Trebizond, deciding they did not matter anymore.

  A servant brought water, wine, bread and cheese. After she left, Basil waved Leo to a chair. “Now we can talk.”

  Leo relayed the events of the last days and noted the growing interest in Basil’s face.

  The strategos rose and paced. “Imagine that! A prisoner who gives us hold over one in the Sultan’s court! Imagine Tughrul Bey’s army down there on the flat. And him giving orders every day and us knowing what is said.” He slapped a merlon and stared into the distance for a long moment. “By God. Imagine that. Who else knows?”

  “Bessas, Togol, David. And Martina—she interpreted the interrogation.”

  They exchanged glances. “Very useful young woman,” Basil said.

  Leo continued. “Guy d’Agiles and his man. Six of my cataphracts. All sworn to secrecy.”

  “Will they be discreet, or should I lock them up?”

  “They can be trusted. If I have the slightest hint to the contrary, you will not need to lock them up. I will.”

  “Keep it that way,” Basil said. “Tell no one else for the moment. I’ll speak with the princeps, Oleg and Daniel to ensure the prisoner is kept safe and that his fate is as you’ve promised.”

  They were silent for a time, then spoke of other things while darkness crept across the sky. Basil finished with a reluctant request for Leo to reconnoitre—to Artzké, certainly, and Archēsh, preferably—as soon as practicable to inspect the defences.

  Leo left the citadel and made for his quarters. He would have passed by the Barbarian House but a candle burned inside. Intrigued by who would be working late, he entered and found Martina scanning a sheaf of papers on the table that served as her desk. “You should get some rest,” he suggested gently.

  She looked up. “I was making sure there was nothing important that had to be done. It seems not,” she said, replacing the paperweight, a worn horseshoe from her journey to Manzikert. “You’ve seen the strategos?”

  “Yes. He’s pleased by our good fortune and intends to keep quiet about it. He wishes me to go to Artzké, and Archēsh if I see fit. I leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! But you’ve just got back. And you will miss the fair. And a market! The day after tomorrow—it is Sunday and everyone goes. You need rest, like everyone else.”

  “It should not be too arduous, just another horse ride, but it is a pity about the fair.” He paused, imagining. “It would have been very pleasant. Make sure you go. Do not let Centarch Phocas keep you here. He would work an ant to death.”

  Martina smiled and rose slowly, still looking at the papers on her table. “Can I get you anything at the fair?”

  Leo was touched, perplexed by how to show his feelings without betraying them. “That would be nice. Perhaps a tan shirt, cotton or linen. As you can see, this one has had better days. And,” he smiled, “I like surprises.” He made to leave. “I’ll give you some money before I depart.”

  “When you return will be fine, I don’t think you’ll rob me,” she smiled, blowing out the candle. “There’s no one else here. I checked.”

  With the door locked behind them and a word to the sentry, they strolled down the narrow, cobbled street to the military quarter, the shadows of the stone houses cut by shafts of silver moonlight. At the corner where their ways parted, they dallied, speaking of pleasant things far removed from the troubles of Manzikert.

  * * *

  53Bard—horse armour, like a horsrug, made with either: mail, lamellar, glued felt, or silk padded with cotton wadding.

  54This battle (August 636CE), near the Golan Heights, was fought between Byzantines and Muslim Arabs. The Byzantines lost control of Syria, paving the way for the early Islamic invasions of the Near East and North Africa.

  55Furlong—literally “furrow’s length”; a measure of distance equivalent to 220 yards or 201 metres.

  56Chukka—a time division in the games of polo and polocross

  57These Spanish wars were part of the slow, faction-riven Christian re-conquest of Spain from the Muslims. The period of Jacques participation was during the childhood of the famous El Cid, (c1043–1099), who campaigned from about 1060 until his death.

  Chapter Eight

  A Gift

  The Artzké Road,

  Morning, 30th June 1054

  Leo left money for Martina and departed the city early the following morning. Riding Ruksh, he was accompanied by Togol and an escort of a decarch, Loukas Gabras, and four cataphracts leading spare horses. They wore mail shirts but left their helmets behind; opting for the practicality of shapeless felt hats or headscarves.

  The detachment covered the southward first eight miles of undulating steppe in an hour of alternate trotting, cantering and walking. Staying on the rough track, they began climbing the low foothills with snow-capped Mount Sippane always to the east. The hills were a tangle of bare knolls cut by small streams and gullies. Reining in, Leo looked back over the plain and saw the tactical advantage conferred on any force holding this high ground against an approach from Manzikert. The party dismounted, studying and memorising the terrain for future reference. Leo marked his salient observations on the rolled goatskin map he carried. “Good cavalry country,” he remarked to Gabras as they ascended the hills of ancient volcanic rock, sparsely covered with stunted shrubs and yellow grass.

  The party proceeded south-east until with audible gasps the riders beheld the Sea of Bznunik, which stretched southward in its blue depths to distant brown mountains and sparkled out of sight to the east. Descending from the high ground, they rode through blooming yellow wildflowers at the fringe of the flatlands of tilled fields and hamlets towards Artzké. The city was built on a knoll overlooking the lake with the landward sides protected by formidable fortifications, the other by the waters.

  Leo’s clipped Greek was persuasive and the unexpected visitors were soon speaking to the garrison commander, an effete, world-weary turmarch from Cappadocia. He complained of the unpredictability of local Kurds, the insolence of his Norman garrison, his unreliable handful of Patzinak horse and the understandable resentment of the Armenian citizens.

  Leo’s party borrowed horses for a tour of the area while their own were groomed, fed and watered in the citadel stables. “I have little choice but to defend the city,” the turmarch said defensively, irritated at what he perceived as Leo meddling in Apo
capes’ name. “There’s enough manoeuvre room on the plain for the Seljuks to bypass me here and go on, either southwest through Baghesh and on to Melitene, or north to Manzikert. Incidentally, I do not share Basil Apocapes’ sanguine view of the good intentions of Abu Nasr ad-Daulah of the Marwanids, I have it he is too accommodating to the Sultan.”

  As they paused on a spur which allowed a good perspective of the local area, Leo asked the officer’s opinion of the unfolding situation. “Is Baghesh militarily significant for us?”

  The turmarch, looked in the direction of the closest Muslim fortress, out of sight to the west along the northern shore of the lake. “Khlat’ is much closer—a reasonable but lightly garrisoned frontier fortress ensuring Amida’s control of their local Kurds, and to keep an eye on us of course. Baghesh is further along, at the western end of the Sea. That is the Marwanid’s regional bastion, but I believe it is primarily defensive, against us, and the Seljuks for that matter, if Abu Nasr realises how much a threat to him they really are. The key to the defence of this district is our city of Archēsh, farther to the east along the lake shore. Or Manzikert itself—if they come by there. Either way, Archēsh is the cork in the bottle. Its neck for me is the road by the lakeshore. I do not have enough troops to fight in the open or try to block the road. I’m very confident I can hold out behind my walls and the water until the nomads return home.”

  “Horse-archer,” Togol hung back and whispered fiercely to Leo, “Their land walls appear strong—but how can they be so sure of the water?”

  Leo silently agreed with the scout. He knew they now had to visit Archēsh and scout the ground between there and Manzikert before he completely understood the broader battlefield.

  Leo asked after Irene’s brother, Damian Curticius. A fine young officer, he was told, but out patrolling with his men. His sister, a beautiful girl indeed, had not visited, nor been in the town as far as the turmarch knew.

  Leo’s group dined at Baghesh and pressed on, taking advantage of the cool, dimly lit night to ride to Archēsh, the lake shimmering in the ghostly light on their right and the mountain a silver sentinel on the left.

  Manzikert,

  Early morning, 1st July 1054

  Serena Cephalus dressed and crept through the dark house, taking care not to wake her watchful maid, Eirene. Taking an apple, she closed the door behind her and with a sigh of relief that no light or cry followed her, made her way through the pre-dawn streets of Manzikert to the citizen’s stables.

  It had only been days since one of those periodic, moralizing sermons in the cathedral about the sinful consequences of having so many soldiers around and the need for the city worthies to guard their daughters. Of her feelings for Centarch Bessas Phocas, Serena did not know what vexed her most: the cautionary sighs of her parents or the icy silences of Eirene.

  Bessas was already there. They embraced in the depths of the stable until she broke free for a moment, to give her mare the apple. Serena feared for her mount—should the Seljuks come—that the mare would be pressed into service as a remount or killed to feed a starving city.

  Bessas took her hand and they felt their way up the wooden steps to the loft where he spread his cloak on some stacked bags of barley. They kissed. “There was no need to meet this way,” Bessas whispered. “We could meet at the market, or I could visit.”

  “People gossip,” Serena sighed. “I couldn’t stand all the knowing smiles. Or Eirene’s huffing.”

  “She only cares for you.” Bessas lay beside her, his head propped on an elbow, and ran his hand through her hair.

  They were silent for a time in their little nook. A stable cat found them and settled in, purring.

  “What will become of us, Bessas?”

  “We shall get through the summer and both return to Constantinople. Once there I will take my father’s advice, become a merchant, grow old and fat with you at my side. He will love you.”

  Serena smiled in the dark and poked him in the ribs. “Don’t you dare get fat!” Then she nestled closer to him.

  They heard approaching footsteps and saw the uncertain flickering light of a lamp being brought into the stable beneath them. He placed a finger over her lips as they heard the voices of the snobbish courtier, Modestos Kamyates, with the imperial courier, Bardas Cydones. The two officials fed their horses hurriedly, speaking indecipherable murmurs all the while. There was a pause after which Kamyates said audibly, “I can hear a cat.” There was a further muted conversation and the men departed, with the courtier saying, “Anyway there’s no hurry.”

  Serena and Bessas breathed easier but said nothing. After a time, Serena whispered, “They came to check their horses but said not their names—not the actions of horsemen caring for their mounts. Their exchange was far more furtive and urgent. They were using it as a cover to …”

  “Plot,” agreed Bessas. “I think I made out a reference to Count Bryennius and Archēsh. I suspect the comment about there being no hurry was meant to be overheard—a precaution.”

  “You should tell him.”

  “I will. But what?”

  “We should go,” Serena said.

  “We must wait, Serena. They noticed a cat purring, so may know someone was in here. They could be waiting outside.”

  Manzikert,

  Early morning, 1st July 1054

  Kamyates stepped from the stables and glanced at Cydones in the first grey light touching the city. “There were too many shadows in there, and I have never heard a cat purr without people around.”

  “A stable boy perhaps,” replied Cydones, perplexed at the urgency of the summons to a meeting.

  “Stable boy be damned! It could have been anything from an illicit couple, to someone following us. Is there nowhere in this disgusting remote village to have a private conversation?”

  “I quite agree,” Cydones said. “That’s something that has worked in our favour so far.”

  “Yeess.” Kamyates exhaled slowly. “That is why you’re here. There’s been an important development.” He was satisfied with the growing unease on Cydones’ face that he would be confronted with some accusation; he enjoyed keeping his subordinate in a constant state of subtle anxiety. His cultivation of the Norman mercenary, Reynaldus, meant that he did not depend on Cydones as much anymore. “It seems Bryennius has not been open with us, nor Apocapes for that matter.”

  “Really?”

  “One of the Roman officers listens too much and talks more.”

  “Which?”

  “That is of no consequence,” purred Kamyates. He enjoyed the put-downs he could inflict on Cydones.

  “I am told that Bryennius, on his cattle patrol a few days ago, had a little fight.”

  “I’ve heard,” interjected Cydones, anxious to display his knowledge.

  “And?” retorted Kamyates.

  Cydones stared blankly.

  “Did you know,” Kamyates said with a faint air of triumph, “that Bryennius caught a prisoner. And then, our rustic count of the Scholae let him go again?”

  Cydones grappled with this new intelligence. “Why?” he asked incredulously. “Is he working for the Sultan?”

  “I doubt it, but that’s a good rumour to spread, especially back in the capital. Only three people know what transpired between the count and his prisoner—Bryennius himself, his scout Togol and that girl, Martina.”

  Cydones let out a short, sharp breath through his nose at the mention of the courier who had evaded him. “Of the three, she is the softest target and I have a score to settle.”

  “Leave her to me,” Kamyates snapped. “Bryennius and Togol left with an escort and spare horses this morning. They took the track south, to …”

  “Khlat’!”

  “No. Artzké, I’ll warrant. Bryennius hasn’t been there yet. Nor Archēsh. If I’m right about Bryennius, he won’t be able to resist goin
g on to the latter. He will be tired and off his guard. No one will be expecting him, so that is the ideal place to arrange a tragic mishap. You go directly there today—you’ll easily get there ahead of him and be much fresher. Arrange a brawl or something.”

  “I’ll get Petros Doukitzes to do the work. But I should have an excuse to go there myself, in case I’m seen.”

  Kamyates drew himself up. “Of course you don’t. You’re a senior official, expecting promotion. As well you know, the dullards that never leave the capital bow—however petulantly—to those with greater knowledge. It is naturally in your—and the empire’s interests—for you to see all you can.”

  Cydones was reassured. “I’ll leave as soon as I’ve found Doukitzes.”

  “Make sure he does not mess it up. If he does, kill him, he knows too much anyway.”

  Archēsh,

  Early afternoon, 2nd July 1054

  Arriving at Archēsh after noon, Leo found the turmarch, a brown-bearded Armenian, was more forthcoming than his counterpart at Artzké. As before, they rested their horses and most of the party while Leo, Togol and Loukas Gabras, on borrowed mounts, accompanied the turmarch on an area tour during which Leo told him something of what he had gleaned the day before.

  “My colleague at Artzké who briefed you yesterday is correct, though I would add that our betters at Van are not much help. Archēsh is the cork in the bottle. Basil Apocapes has a choice. He can conduct his main defence forward here, or back at Manzikert. There are risks both ways.”