A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Guy drew his bow and nocked an arrow, concealing the motion under the billowing cloak. He glanced back and marked a Turk riding closer. Dropping the reins on Sira’s neck, Guy turned far to his left, brushing aside the cloak with his bow arm. Drawing the arrow in a fleeting sight picture, he discharged at the chest of the closest horse and thinking he had missed, cursed himself. Another look back revealed his target faltering, the foam from her mouth turning pink. As they rode away, he watched that grey mare die, the blood welling on her still galloping chest. Even at that distance, he could see the light going from her eyes when she went down in front, only to try and rise and continue the mad chase.

  It was desperate now, Guy and Irene both shooting backwards from their saddles and the Turks drawing ever nearer. Guy saw Irene look back more often and was perplexed to notice her glances seemed less in fear than calculation. With a swift, precise movement she thrust her bow into its case and reached for her belt. Then Guy understood, for she opened a leather pouch with her free hand and brought forth gold coins which she scattered behind them. Already the main body of their tormentors were reining up, dismounting to claim the treasure. Guy saw the leaders hesitating, each man debating with himself whether to continue the pursuit to its unpredictable conclusion, or make certain of part of the spoils in the dust merely for the picking up. Irene dispersed two more handfuls, throwing them wide of the track so more time would be consumed in the search.

  Guy cased his own bow as they galloped away. As the squabbling Seljuks fell behind to specks in their dust, Irene and Guy slowly eased their sweating, flying horses back to a steady hand-gallop.

  Thus, Guy and Irene escaped to Manzikert, peering into the setting sun to make sure all was well at the fortress. In the dusk there were the disbelieving faces of the guard as Guy shouted to hell with the password and to close the damn gate. “Take post. Take post. The Seljuks are up. Berkri and Archēsh have fallen,” he commanded in tones that brooked no argument. Behind them as they cantered from the northern main gate towards the citadel, they could hear the sergeant’s Frankish shouts and the trumpets and horns sounding the alarm. They dismounted in the citadel courtyard and asked the guards to lead their steaming horses, to loosen the girths a little after a while and take out the bits, but not remove the hot saddles. Varangians assisted them to the strategos’ quarters.

  Basil Apocapes took one look. “Archēsh gone up?”

  “Yes.” Guy replied. “And Berkri before it.”

  “Before you were able to deliver my message?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alright. Relax as you can—you’re amongst friends. I, and the key officers, need to hear what you have to say, but I must get things moving for the defence.” Basil motioned a servant to bring food and water for them.

  Branas and Theophanes Doukas, already in the citadel and brought running by the clamour from the main gate, appeared on the scene. Basil rattled off orders for a score of immediate actions for the defence of the city. “And Daniel, assemble the council here in an hour for briefings. They’ll need that long to get the final preparations underway.” Basil turned to Guy and Irene, his expression grave. “Irene, I’m glad you escaped. Sit down, please, both of you. You look done in. The message?”

  Guy passed the despatch case, still sealed, to Basil who glanced at it and placed it on the table. “Thank you for trying, D’Agiles. It was a damn fool errand I sent you on; I am grateful to God and your own skill that you have returned to us and brought with you the princeps’ daughter.”

  “It was not my doing alone,” Guy said.

  Count Branas re-entered. “The fore-wall is manned and the gates guarded as the locals seeking refuge come in. The Kelts are getting the townspeople to their places now.” Guy was struck by how calm Branas was.

  The strategos, also measured more than ever, looked through his window at the last redness in the west. Then he turned to them. “When the others are here, we’ll hear your report. Take your ease and think on what you will say. And, well done, both of you. Guy, now that battle is joined, you will need to revert to Robert Balazun’s command, he will have need of your skill.”

  “Very well,” said Guy, having enjoyed the interest and excitement of the scouting role and hoping his tone did not betray reluctance.

  Refreshments were placed between Guy and Irene, but both remained too keyed-up to do more than slake their thirst a little. He took the time he now had to collect his thoughts as the council members came and assumed their places; a report they wanted, not a story. A glance sideways at Irene revealed she was thinking the same. Guy noticed Bryennius arrive and give him a wink. He smiled back weakly; aware of how clean they all were in their light robes, though Bryennius and Doukas in their rough dress looked like they had been working.

  The abbess entered and made straight for Irene, kneeling by her and looking into the younger woman’s eyes. Irene smiled a weary smile and touched the abbess’ arm. Reassured the abbess rose to her feet, saying to Guy, “God love you, gentle knight.”

  Guy noticed that Reynaldus, Kamyates and Cydones were in the room and wondered why it had been Martina and not the latter who had carried the latest despatches from Manzikert. The obsequious bonhomie and flattery of Reynaldus towards his superiors were as obvious as the glares he cast at Guy.

  Curticius walked towards his daughter with tears of relief streaked across his face. He squeezed her shoulder and Irene responded with a hug. As she stepped back her tunic fell away at the collar to reveal the light mail she wore underneath. With a jolt, Guy noticed the leather craftsmanship around the collar and learned the identity of the mysterious buyer of the mail shirt taken from Sira’s former master.

  Irene saw the look. “Our cook swore Jacques to secrecy because I didn’t want you to think … to get the wrong impression.”

  Guy stammered out, “Why …” before Basil quietened the background hum by rising to speak.

  “Gentleman, Abbess. I regret to confirm very disastrous news. Archēsh has fallen to the Sultan after an eight-day siege about which we evidently knew nothing. Before that, Berkri was massacred and we did not know about that. I do not need to tell you it makes a bad beginning. I will find out why we began this campaign in ignorance. But before that, we’ll have each relate how their preparations stand.”

  It took some time: what had been minor tasks days ago had suddenly become major obstacles. Finally Basil signalled to Guy and the rest hushed.

  Guy related his finding of the overrun camp.

  Reynaldus broke in. “You didn’t think to return here and tell us?” The Norman’s eyes blazed with accusation and self-importance, seeking any chance to belittle another in the presence of their comrades.

  Guy noticed Bryennius lean forward, but spoke first, not wanting the count’s defence of him to lead to further friction between Frank and Greek. “Those were not my orders.”

  Reynaldus fumed.

  Guy described his arrival at Archēsh and observations of the Seljuk army, finishing by simply stating he had met up with Irene and they had ridden back together.

  “What happened at Archēsh?” Karas Selth looked to Guy, wanting to know the details of the Seljuk’s siege techniques.

  “Perhaps I can describe that,” Irene offered calmly, continuing after the murmurs of assent. “In Archēsh, we heard of Berkri’s moat and walls being carried by assault, the city taken by storm and devastated by massacre … the important citizens taken away …”

  “Berkri,” Kamyates interrupted rudely with the certainty of one who had travelled through there, “has changed hands several times in past decades, always with prodigious slaughter. It is important to the Caliph, al-Ka’im, but unimportant to us. Forget Berkri.”

  “Do not forget Berkri!” rasped Basil. All eyes switched from Kamyates to him, still standing. “They were our people massacred, remember.” Basil’s glare bore down on Kamyates. “Nicetas Peg
onites retook it twenty years ago and we’ve held it since. Its loss represents a major rent in the defensive fabric of the province, not to mention the morale of the remaining population. No more interruptions. Go on, Irene.”

  “Thank you, Strategos.” She had been looking at Kamyates with undisguised revulsion. “Some people not trapped in Berkri escaped,” she continued in hushed tones, “and brought the news. A courier was sent to Manzikert. It seems he did not arrive? The fate …”

  “A courier? You’re sure?” broke in Basil. He looked around the gathering. No one spoke. Bryennius, Branas and Doukas, shook their heads imperceptibly, brows knotted, perplexed. Basil looked back to Irene.

  “I am certain. I was there when he, a youth, a good rider on a fair horse, was despatched.”

  “When?” Basil demanded, his expression betraying rising alarm and anger.

  Irene maintained her patrician mask, but beneath was the turmoil and fear of the last days. Every eye was on her. “Tuesday last week.”

  Branas spoke up. “Nothing has been either reported or recorded, Strategos. But I’ll make inquiries.”

  Basil looked as though suppressing a boundless fury. “Go on, please, Irene.”

  “The fate of Berkri made the townspeople of Archēsh so fearful that many had no taste for battle. Within a day we were surrounded by the Seljuk light troops and none could escape. The walls were subjected to violent assaults for eight days. They had endless numbers to hurl at us and soon people wearied of the fight. After a week, their siege engines arrived and at the sight of them, any remaining courage deserted the garrison. A deputation from the town went in submission offering gold and silver, horses and mules. They surrendered the fortress city of Archēsh to Tughrul Bey himself with the words, ‘O conquering Sultan, go and take the town of Manzikert, and then we and all Armenia will submit to you.’ After the gates were opened, there was no general massacre, but their troops sacked the town anyway and many citizens were killed or outraged, our soldiers enslaved or killed.”

  “The lesson is clear,” Kamyates said. “Resist and die, or submit to the Sultan and be spared.” Everyone looked at him. Sensing advantage in the shocked silence, the courtier was about to continue his argument for capitulation.

  “There’ll be no surrender here,” said Basil.

  “I urge you to reconsider,” Kamyates enunciated, deliberately undermining Basil’s authority. “Many lives are at stake and the lesson is clear. Submit and survive, or resist …”

  Basil silenced him with a glowering stare, but a look around the room showed the courtier’s words had struck a chord with some.

  Cydones, with a sideways glance at Kamyates spoke up so all could hear. “If I might be so bold, there is a third way.”

  All looked at Cydones.

  Basil glared at Cydones. He had been manoeuvred into hearing out the proposal, thus giving some credence to whatever it proved to be.

  Guy noticed Kamyates staring uneasily at the imperial courier.

  “Flight, or more correctly, withdrawal.” Cydones looked around the room. “Get out while we still can—it’s no disgrace. Live to fight another day.”

  Kamyates visibly relaxed.

  “We have a head start and can make for Taron, or Karin.” Cydones sensed some support and smiled confidently. “Save the people. The sooner …” His voice trailed off at the look of fury that crossed Basil’s face.

  “You forget, perhaps, two important factors,” Basil reasoned in the measured tones of command. “First, it is the oldest lesson in tactics, that it is much easier to destroy a fleeing enemy in the open, whose sole thought is of escape, than it is to attack them in a strong defensive position where they are prepared and able to sell their lives dearly. Second, my orders say nothing about surrendering the district in general and Manzikert in particular to the enemy. On the contrary, I have been ordered to hold them. That brings me to the third point. For any of the city’s leaders, indeed anyone wealthy enough to own a horse, to flee now would precipitate a collapse of morale and induce panic. Except for necessary patrols, on their way out as we speak, I have ordered the gates barred and walls patrolled. Any questions?” He stared at each face in turn, saving Kamyates and Cydones for last. “Is there anything about that you do not understand?”

  Curticius broke the silence and returned the discourse to a less contentious thread. “Daughter, what became of the turmarch of Archēsh?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Basil sat, still glaring at the two bureaucrats from the capital.

  “How did you escape?” Kamyates demanded.

  Bryennius leaned forward suddenly, the movement catching Irene’s eye. Guy noticed Bryennius shake his head imperceptibly as all turned to Irene.

  “I was lucky,” she said. “When I was outside the walls and in danger of being captured near the enemy encampment, Guy D’Agiles most gallantly came to my assistance.”

  All eyes flickered to Guy. Reynaldus and Kamyates glared blackly.

  “Strategos,” she asked. “If that’s all, will you excuse us, we must tend to our horses, for without them …”

  “Of course! Thank you very much. Your reports have been most useful and I will speak with both of you later.” Basil rose.

  Guy and Irene stood and moved, stiff-kneed and saddle-sore, to the door. As Guy opened it, one of Basil’s clerks ushered in Isaac from the Barbarian House who made straight for Bryennius, whispering in the count’s ear. Guy turned to hear what followed.

  Basil regarded Bryennius with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sir,” said the count. “Reports are starting to come in. Smoke plumes in the far distance and credible descriptions of strong Seljuk groups—north, south and east of us.”

  “What are you saying?” Cydones smirked.

  Bryennius hesitated, seemingly to gauge Cydones expression and the purpose of the question.

  “He is saying,” said Basil, “that the net has been cast around us and will soon be drawn tighter. So, any who planned to run from here have left it too late.” With a wave, he sent Irene and Guy to their rest.

  As the Varangian sentry closed the door on the sudden babble of voices behind them, Irene turned to Guy and gave him a hug. “Did you see Reynaldus? He went purple when I told them what you did! I thought he was going to explode. He’s such a small man in his heart and hates others being praised or recognised.”

  Jacques, Charles and Vardaheri, had taken their mounts from the sentries and were massaging the animals all over. Horses and men looked up as Guy and Irene approached.

  Jacques stood. “Welcome home, Mistress. We feared never to see either of you again. But if anyone could get you away from the Turks, it would be this man.”

  Irene smiled at him, then at Guy.

  “The Mistress got herself away, actually,” said Guy as the group headed for the stables in the yard of Curticius’ walled house.

  They unsaddled and rubbed the horses down firmly with clean straw. Sira, knowing she was being cared for, nickered softly to Guy as he removed his weapons and armour. Under Vardaheri’s direction, they then washed both horses all over with vinegar and tepid water, again rubbing them dry. Jacques removed their shoes and Vardaheri allowed them a small drink of lukewarm water. They then swathed both horses entirely in blankets and gave them, at intervals, a small damp mash of finely chopped hay followed by meadow hay with more water. From time to time they led them around a little and massaged their legs. The care took most of the night. Shahryād and Sira were then released into adjoining loose-boxes as the first grey steel tempered the eastern sky.

  “We’ll watch over them,” Jacques stated. “These horses will be worth a fortune when news of their journey gets out. You two—go and rest.”

  Irene, carrying her mail shirt and cloak, walked the score of paces to the back door of the villa and slumped onto the stone step, her head on her drawn
up knees.

  Guy, feeling as if he was swaying on his feet, lingered next to Jacques and Charles. They pretended to look over Sira. “Charles, Jacques, we’ve stayed longer and further-out than we meant. We’re all mounted and there’s still a chance to get away. You should go, now. You have good horses and could evade their patrols. Bryennius would release you—I know it. ”

  “And you?”

  “I’m staying.”

  “For her?”

  “Yes.” Guy whispered looking towards Sira without seeing. “There’re a few reasons, but in the end, for Irene.” His gaze returned to Jacques. “I’ll see you both off and give you a letter for my father.”

  “We’re not going.”

  “Not going? But why?”

  Jacques stared at the ground for a moment and then looked back at Guy. “It’s too late. Charles Bertrum wanted to return as soon as we got here—and certainly as soon as I had a horse as well. But we didn’t. We came as wanderers. Now all have reasons to stay.”

  “What?” Guy stammered.

  Jacques threw up his hands.

  Guy feigned manly understanding, but realised shamefully that he had been so absorbed in his own world that he had little noticed what had befallen his companions. He recalled Jacques’ tenderness to Joanina and a young Rus-Armenian woman, Flora Asadian, with her arm around Charles. “That’s true,” Guy admitted. He searched their faces for long moments. “Is there hope here?”

  Jacques looked down at the ground and with the toe of his shoe, toyed as if absently minded, with a pebble. “The towers of Manzikert are strong and there are good people here to defend them.” He brought his heel down on a stone, as of to crush it. “And this is where destiny and our choices have brought us.”

  Guy knew then, through the journey man and master had become comrades. His eyes lit to Jacques.