Jacques suggested, “You’d better go to her. We’ll talk when you’ve had some sleep.”
Guy hobbled across to Irene, sitting down next to her and placing his armour and weapons on the step beside him. They were tired and filthy. Now they had stopped moving, the weariness was crushing. Both averted their eyes, staring at the flagstones before them. In the silence Guy felt he had to speak. “Praise God you escaped.”
She was quiet for a time, collecting her thoughts. “Someone hid me in the town and helped me through the Seljuk lines. Do you know, for all his dash, Theodore’s was the first and loudest voice for surrender.” Her tears started. “He was going to give me up to save himself.” She convulsed for long minutes, the tension and terror of the last weeks bursting forth then draining away in exhaustion. She did not look at him. “The turmarch, knowing his duty and his wife their fate, gave me their savings of gold before … The blacksmith, Kavadh, hid me in his loft for the first day while claiming my stallion belonged to a Turkish emir and he alone was charged with its care. He shod the conquerors’ horses and engaged in banter and religious debate with them. In the midday heat of the second day of the sack, Kavadh, pretending to the role of a Turk’s slave acting on his master’s orders, led me from the town. A ghazi sentry at the gate doubted his story and was about to detain us, so I did as Kavadh had told me. I lashed his face with my whip as though he was my oppressor and jumped Shahryād through the closing gate. I pray he got away in the furore.”
Irene looked him full in the face. “Then you were there, on the track, fighting single-handed. You came for me?”
“The stratetos asked me …”
“I know … despatches.” She smiled wearily. “Basil picked his man. No one else would have accepted such a mission. You did and you stayed. Why?”
He searched for words, but they all seemed trite.
She waited.
“When I was riding towards Archēsh … into the unknown, all the while my reason was telling me to watch for the enemy, to be prepared for flight, yet in my heart … I could only see your face.”
They turned to each other and it seemed to Guy there was no gulf between them now.
“Not this face, I think.”
He took in her wry smile and the tear tracks in the dust beneath the tossed hair matted with dried perspiration. Taking a cloth from the purse at his sword-belt, he heaved himself up and rinsed it under a nearby water pump before returning to her side. “Let’s look at you.”
Eyes closed, chin up, she allowed him to sponge her face. “Guy, were you making plans with Charles and Jacques to leave?”
“No. We just found each of us was planning to stay, whatever the others decided.” He dropped the cloth by his helmet.
She reached out for his hand and held it in silence for a time. “If the city falls, don’t let the nomads have me.”
“I will not desert you.”
Chilled in the morning air, they shared an intimacy hitherto unknown, neither wanting to move from the step, as though it would shatter the moment of completeness with another.
At length, Irene wiped her eyes with a grimy tunic sleeve. “I’m sorry.” She looked at him and then at the horizon, saying in a distant tone, “You can’t help who you fall in love with.”
“No. You can’t help who you fall in love with.”
They remained side by side until the last star faded, the last but the new star in Taurus, which shone on into the new day.
END OF BOOK ONE
The story so far, from Book I: The Past is a Small Place
In 1054CE, concerned by reports of a looming Seljuk invasion of the Armenian provinces of Byzantium, the Empress Elector despatches a courier, Martina, to warn a frontier commander, Basil Apocapes. A Roman officer, Count Leo Bryennius, is directed to protect her getaway and arrest the as yet unidentified Byzantine traitor and Seljuk spy, Cydones, in Constantinople. A wandering Frankish mercenary, Guy d’Agiles and his two companions, Charles and Jacques, unwittingly spring the ambush. They are arrested by Bryennius who presses the three into accompanying his regiment to Armenia, where he has been ordered as a forlorn hope to strengthen the neglected defences. Guy d’Agiles, Martina, Cydones and Bryennius’ regiment are then swallowed in the vastness of Asia Minor.
During a patrol clash on the march to the east, Bryennius captures a Seljuk spy, Zobeir al-Adin, an Arab. On reaching Manzikert, Cydones teams up with a senior Byzantine diplomat, Kamyates, also spying for the Seljuks. Their mission is to ensure the Byzantine-Armenian province of Vaspurakan and Manzikert fortress fall to the Sultan that summer.
Guy, Bryennius and the frontier commander, Basil Apocapes in the midst of their preparations for war, are faced with the dilemma of moral men—are suspicions alone grounds for convenient arrest or murder?
At first sight, Guy is drawn to Irene, the daughter of a senior Byzantine officer but his hopes are dashed when she runs away, in defiance of her parents and society’s values, to join a suitor, Theodore Ankhialou, in the nearby city of Archēsh.
Across the Muslim frontier, the Arab soldier Derar al-Adin, searching for his missing nephew, joins the Sultan’s army. In his quest for Zobeir, Derar crosses into Byzantine territory but is captured by Bryennius in a skirmish. Realising his advantage, the wily Roman releases Derar on parole to spy on the Seljuk army.
Basil, frustrated by lack of intelligence from the garrisons closer to the frontier and wishing to convey his concerns to them, orders Guy to Archēsh with despatches. On arriving, Guy discovers Tughrul Bey’s invasion was underway and the city has fallen. Irene and he are thrown together in a terrifying escape during which they reach Manzikert and warn the city.
Guy, Charles and Jacques know they can flee before the Seljuk army surrounds the city, but Guy vows not to desert Irene. His companions have their own reasons for staying. Each eschews safety to face the fury encroaching from the east.
After the fall of two cities in as many weeks, the Seljuk horde coils around Manzikert and the citizens are given a stark choice: death, or surrender, handing over their fairest daughter as a bride for the Sultan.
Chapter Ten
I Will Take as Wife the Most Beautiful Girl
Manzikert,
Early morning, 21st August 1054
By moonless night they stole, black-clad horsemen, ghazis60 all, dismounting in a shallow wadi a mile from Manzikert. The first bold souls stole by foot to the dry ditch and into it, then slithered up between the merlons of the scarp breastworks. Ropes snaked out in the night, catching on the battlements of the western fore-wall. Men climbed them with their soft-booted feet braced against the facing stones until they could cautiously squeeze through the narrow crenelles.61 Ten, twenty, gathered in the shadows on the battlements; the wall sentry slain before he could raise the alarm.
By the same means they scaled the highest platform of the gate towers. The noisy death of a relief sentry as he tried to gain the observation platform, alerted the guard. Now the town dogs started to bark, but too late. Surprised, the tower’s defenders responded with shouts, the brave attempting to recapture the upper chamber, the craven shrinking from the clamour. Christians died in the fight, hacking and hewing, stabbing and cursing, the shame of their watch surprised threatening the safety of all within.
At the clash of arms and the shouting, the forward detachment of the Seljuk army, five hundred picked raiders of the gaziyân, rose like a shadow and galloped for the western gate. They had plunged like a spear down the Archēsh track that night, brushing aside the screen, forcing it broken and fragmented into the foothills. In the confused night battle, Seranush Donjoian, the Armenian centarch commanding—a slash across the forehead and blood in his eyes—despatched warning couriers. Two lost their way in the foothills while another pair were overtaken and killed on the track.
Now the ghazi raiders surged their horses quietly into the ditch at a we
ak point, collapsing the soil wall. More ropes snaked out and black riders scrambled up the walls of Manzikert.
Inside the fortress all were awakened by the tumult and the cries, “To arms! To arms. The infidels have taken the western gate.” Men grabbed armour and rushed to their posts on the walls or saddled horses in readiness for action. Women hurried after them carrying water or wick-burning oil lamps of pottery or metal. Others who had previously been touched by the wrath of the nomads felt again the paralysis of terror.
Guy d’Agiles, woken by the clamour, pulled on boots and byrnie and belted on his weapons. Barely recovered from the ride from Archēsh four days before, he set his helmet upon his head, took up his spear and an old shield Jacques had obtained for him. Taking a deep breath, he followed his man and Charles Bertrum into the night as the horsemen of the Scholae swung to saddle. From out of the gloom, Basil Apocapes rode up bareback on his grey horse. He wore a sword over his short tunic and carried a shield and spear. An orderly rode behind carrying the Byzantine commander’s helmet and mail coat.
“Quickly,” said Charles. “To Balazun.”
“Wait,” counselled Guy. “See what the strategos says.”
Apocapes was angry and apprehensive at the surprise won by the Seljuks at the beginning of the fight. Nevertheless he spoke calmly. “Count Bryennius! The city is in deadly peril. The Seljuks have overpowered the guard and captured the western gate towers of the fore-wall. More of their horse are arriving. They mean to defend the towers until the main body of their army comes up. We still hold the flanking towers but we must isolate the enemy in the gate towers and recapture them.” Basil calmed his horse as a detachment of Armenian irregulars, leading saddled mounts, ran past him to form for battle. “Ride from the north gate, Leo. Screen to the northeast along the Archēsh track with one regiment of the irregulars. Take your Scholae, wheel around to the western wall, assault any enemy outside in the flank—kill them or drive them off, to stop them reinforcing while we recapture the towers.” Basil took a moment to quieten his horse, half rearing in its excitement. “Leo, don’t get caught out there, but buy me some time. Return by the south gate if under pressure. Any questions?”
“No questions.” Bryennius saluted and turned Ruksh to shout orders over the noise. After a short delay, the orders relayed by the bawling tribunes, six hundred horsemen trotted out of the north gate.
As he turned to go, Guy saw the concentrated features of Bessas Phocas under his helmet and Serena Cephala rush to his warhorse’s side. She took the Roman officer’s hand for a moment before the equine rush of the column bore him away.
Guy, Charles and Jacques found Robert Balazun at the section of western wall facing the main gate, forming his mostly Norman troops for whatever task Basil gave him. “You Provencals,” Balzun said. “Wait by me in case I have special jobs for you.”
It was now first cock-crow. Guy noticed the fullish moon low in the western sky and wondered briefly what ill fortune should bring it on through the day, when that night they would surely need its light. The dawn was shrouded in a blue haze caused by the many grass fires started throughout the district to deny the Seljuks feed for their animals. In the lost towers, there was no discernible movement, though some said they could see dark faces peering at them from the arrow slits and crenelles.
The city’s leaders clustered on the battlements engaging in a lot of urgent, emotional discussion. Reynaldus, the surly Norman mercenary, was berating no one in particular about the negligence of the watch, adding nothing to the solution of the crisis but ensuring that his voice be heard and his presence remembered. Outside the walls, the fierce cavalry fight had ended with many ghazis killed and the remainder driven off. The watchers saw Bryennius signal with his spear that the area outside the gates was secure.
Theophanes Doukas, the count of the city, spoke. “Both towers have three floors, each with two ballistae inside. They could fit up to twenty fighting men on each floor, that’s a hundred and twenty. If they still hold the towers when their main body gets here, then we’re damned. The Sultan can start peeling back the defenders on the fore-wall like an orange skin. Then get engines close enough to start assaulting the main wall here.”
“There’s no question that the immediate re-capture of the towers is vital.” Basil spoke deliberately in his gravelly voice, his squire nearby him with the armour and accoutrements the strategos had yet to pull on. “Who’ll take it on?”
Guy felt his guts tighten as the Frankish leader, Raymond de Gaillon, stepped forward. “They were Norman held towers. It is a matter of honour that their brother Franks regain them. We’ll need support from this wall, and from Selth’s engineers.”
“Thank you, Raymond,” said Basil. “If direct assault does not work, burn them out and quickly. We’ll clean up the mess later.”
Under the direction of Doukas, a heavy and continuous concentration of darts and arrows was started against the ghazis in the towers, clattering and clanging against the loopholes like sudden gusts of rain. In the growing light, before following Balazun from the wall, Guy overheard the strategos say to Count Doukas, “I’ve seen it.” Following their gaze, he saw the immense dust cloud to the northeast with the thin line of Armenian irregular horse, specks on the Vaspurakan steppe, riding hopelessly towards it.
Burdened by armour, weapons and foreboding, Guy, Charles and Jacques, followed Balazun out of the main gate to form up on rampart of the fore-wall. Ninety Franks were with them. Guy knew a similar number were approaching, along the fore-wall on the other side of the captured towers. De Gaillon led the third storming party on the ground level. The plan was brutally simple—to assault simultaneously, smash down the doors and enter fighting.
Crouched around the heavy battering ram, a long, iron-shod beam with ropes looped around it as carry-points, they had a moment’s grace, just time enough for a private prayer. It had all happened too quickly for much contemplation before this. Balazun faced them, his back to the hostile tower. He had laced up the protective flap of his mail coif to cover his face below the eyes. Like a feather he held the kite-shaped shield in his left hand while wielding a short handled battle-axe in his powerful right. Behind the helmet’s rim and nasal, there was fire in his eyes as he exhorted his storming party to courage. “Even you, D’Agiles,” Robert Balazun roared happily. “Let the heathen see your face this day!”
Guy managed a self-conscious smile as the others laughed nervously at the good-natured joke, crafted from his two wild rides from pursuing Seljuks.
In those brief seconds, Guy saw in sharp clarity the archers on the main wall, with de Gaillon’s group forming up below them covering the battering party with their shields. From the hostile bowmen in the tower ahead, arrows sped towards them, sticking in shields with a gut-wrenching thud. Through the crenelle at his left shoulder, Guy observed Bryennius’ horsemen maintain a desultory archery against the towers. Six cataphracts cantered up, a ladder suspended by ropes between them. A dozen troopers with two more ladders followed them, so the Turks in the tower now had to guard against a threat of assault from that quarter as well. Balazun turned and faced the tower. Guy closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, mouthing a short prayer for Irene and the city if they should fail.
Then to a shout from Balazun accompanied by a ragged cheer from the Normans, Guy, Charles and Jacques were lurching forward behind the footmen struggling with the battering ram on the narrow rampart. A dozen arrows fell amongst them. Turkoman faces, dark under their helmets, rose to shoot at them from the observation platform. The Seljuk bowmen were now spared the arrows off the main wall, as archery from there ceased for fear of hitting the Normans and Bryennius’ men. Another dozen Seljuk arrows thudded into shields or foiled in armour. One of the footmen, struck through his unprotected face, fell with a cry. Jacques leapt forward and took his place, seizing the rope handle and yelling like one possessed, his stare fixed on the wooden door.
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p; A heavy ballista bolt tore away four men in a shrieking crimson ribbon. Seeing the confusion on the beam, the Seljuks rained arrows on the men around the foiled ram. Hunched against the missiles, Norman footmen pushed past Guy to disentangle their wounded comrades from the carry-ropes and take up the heavy timber.
“Quick,” roared Balazun excitedly. “Quickly, before the infidels reload.” They started forward again, arrows plunging amongst them. The iron ram-head hit the door, with a loud thud and the sound of splintering wood, but still it held firm. “Again,” roared Balazun, “and again.”
Holding his shield over his head, Guy plunged his spear through a loophole. Through the slit he could see forms struggling to reload the ballista, the inside of the tower filled with shouting, jostling men. An archer aimed at him. Guy drew back hurriedly and hurled his spear.
“Get back,” a Norman footman shouted from behind him. The man, stubble faced under his iron helmet, sweating and excited, thrust folds of heavy felt into the slit, forcing it deeper and holding it in place with his spear. He grimaced at Guy, “Let them try to shoot through that while we knock on their door.”
There was a searing pain in Guy’s arm as a stone dropped from above, landed heavily on his shield and fell at his feet. Not daring to look up, he drew his sword and noticed Norman archers at the rear of the storming party, shooting up at the crenelles above to suppress the defences. With a groan the door gave way, hanging crazily from its hinges while the ghazis thrust out with their spears or discharged arrows through the gaps. Normans fell.
Balazun was the first man in, screaming prayers and oaths, buffeting with his shield and swinging the battleaxe against the sea of moustached, bearded faces in front of him. Charles drove straight in after him, undergrasp spear first, forcing the heavy head through a round shield into the softness behind it, then drawing his mace to batter into the gap, sword swinging at his side. Two more Norman knights stormed in, Guy and Jacques after them. More followed into the dimness, the stone room taken up by the two ballistae swinging wildly on their frames as the fight surged around them. The floor was slippery with blood and thick with torn, spitted corpses, Christian and Turk.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 38