A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  In his life, Guy had never seen such a release of emotion.

  The gathering in the square ended as Basil departed with his staff. Guy turned to the two women and said, “I must return to my post.”

  “Come and sup with us when you get the chance, young man,” Anna Curticius invited. .

  “Yes do, Guy,” Irene whispered. Then stepping closer to him, she gave his hand a momentary squeeze. “Do.” The women moved off amongst the crowd.

  Guy was left standing alone, an empty feeling creeping upon him as he watched Irene move away. After their meeting and the crushing despair of her sudden departure to Archēsh, there had been the emotional intimacy of the ride and the hours afterwards. Now she seemed distant, her messages as mixed as before. All Ankhialou had needed to do was simply summon her, and she had gone in defiance of convention and her family. What did it take? What did he have to do? He was vaguely aware of the thinning crowd moving by, some staring at him.

  Suddenly Bessas was standing next to him. “Thank God for short speeches. The courtier, Kamyates, would have just been getting warmed up by now!” The centarch looked at him with concern. “Are you all right?” Bessas followed the direction of Guy’s gaze. “Ah. Not all right, eh?” He gave Guy a soft punch on the arm. “She’s been through a lot and will need some time.”

  “I suppose so,” Guy said, appreciating Bessas’ concern and feeling hope rekindled.

  The Walls of Manzikert,

  Late Morning, 21st August 1054

  An hour later, Count Bryennius, Bessas and the scouts joined Guy on the wall.

  The Seljuk army filed into the valley, clan standards dancing on the spear-tipped staffs, the drooping horse tails variously dyed in green, red, yellow or black. Dusty riders expecting imminent plunder, looked over the nodding manes of their mostly buckskin Turkmene horses, mocking the townspeople by the mass of their host and deliberate preparations

  First came the clan groups of tribal Turkoman on unshod horses, the Seljuks and some of the twenty-four tribes of their Oghuz cousins, each under their own woollen or cotton banners, blue and red being common. The main tribal flags were surmounted by a horsetail to display their status. Of the Oghuz tribes, the Kiniks rode in pride of place, their black-maned Kazilik mounts, like the others, having a knot tied in the horse’s tail. Predominantly men with some taut, long-haired women riding astride and armed with them, the clans rode in loosely ordered files behind the leaders of their war bands.

  There were roughly clothed people, little washed and mostly unarmoured archers on the Shihry and Nesaean breeds of Khorasan. Tribes from around Khiva and Ferghana, the Seljuk’s eastern cousins from the Jaxartes River, were also in the van with their scant beards and skull caps close on shorn heads. Men of the defeated Ghaznavid Empire followed, vassals now of the Seljuks. Kurds, mounted swordsmen mounted on heavier Persian horses, made common cause against the Christians. Large men, from Bukhara and Samakand, were there, with their dark faces and beards impassive above the brilliance of their horse furniture.

  In their tens of thousands, the Seljuk army swarmed into the plain between Manzikert and the river bend and along the Arsanias, some fording the stream looking for better grazing on the northern side. Herd boys drove spare horses and baggage-laden camels. Dust rose thickly to engulf the blue smoke haze, so that the sun shone dully as a tarnished bronze orb though the opaque air, giving an eerie half-light in the middle of the day.

  On the walls of Manzikert, the watchers were quiet but for muted comments or infrequent staccato orders to the troops. Most observed the Seljuk army in awe, others in fright. Many prayed, kneading in their hands the beads and charms, icons and talismans of luck or hope. Guy overheard the former soldier in Vardaheri speaking quietly and deliberately, “In the advance guard are the tribal Turkoman, fanning out now to select their camping grounds according to steppe precedence and the power of their emirs. See the lines of saddled horses, heads down, drinking at the rivulets that feed the river. They’ve finished their ride and will soon pitch their tents.”

  “Ghulams62,” Count Bryennius observed. “There, in black. Black banners, black turbans, black equipment. They ride the horses of Syria and Arabia. How many do you think? Five hundred? A thousand?” he estimated roughly as the host in their widespread columns arrived. “Two, five, ten thousand. By God, Vardaheri, Tughrul must have stripped the caliphate to assemble such a force.”

  “That’s them, all right,” said Vardaheri, dispassionately. “The Hassa Ordusa, the Imperial Guards.”

  Guy could see the disciplined columns of ghazis riding on the Seljuk flank and he shuddered at the difficulty a few hundred had caused that very morning. They rode insolently, studiously ignoring the fortress, as though it were beneath their contempt. Under the direction of the guides, they formed a camp on the plain near a knoll, the place Count Bryennius had identified as a likely location for the Sultan’s household. Squadrons of ghulams peeled off, halting in a phalanx facing the fortress. These guarded against a foray by the garrison, for the Seljuk army could have been vulnerable when preoccupied with its administrative tasks. The calm order of it all conveyed deep menace.

  Bryennius called Guy close, saying, “Keep an eye open for our friend, Derar al-Adin.”

  “Horse-archer,” Maniakh said. “A rider comes.”

  Togol looked offhandedly at the approaching rider. “It’s not him.”

  Guy peered between the merlons to see a solitary Seljuk riding along the edge of the ditch, calling out to the men on the ramparts. None answered.

  As the horseman drew abreast of them, Maniakh challenged in the language of the steppes, “You’re bold, stranger. State your business before I prick your worthless carcass with a goose-feathered shaft.”

  The Seljuk replied in kind. “You rogue! You couldn’t with your own piss hit the ground at your feet.” Maniakh grinned as he interpreted the insult. The Seljuk explained his business.

  Maniakh turned and interpreted for the others, “He seeks a horse—a chestnut mare ridden days ago in flight from Archēsh.” Maniakh turned to look once more at the rider. “I might know a man who knows someone who has heard of such a horse.” To mock the gravity of the Seljuk’s request he added, “And I seek a dancer from Tabriz.”

  The rider looked back in silence for a time and then asked with an air of indifference, “What’s her name? I presume it’s a woman?”

  “She danced as Hurr in the bazaar,” Maniakh said ignoring the slight and with such obvious interest, that the horse trader, seated with his back to the parapet, let out a low moan, which caused the count to look down sharply at him.

  “She’s here, or soon will be,” the steppe rider relayed, as though it was of no consequence. “What were you doing in the bazaar at Tabriz anyway?”

  At that moment Guy recognised, with a start, the Seljuk sitting his horse at the edge of the ditch, as the one whose horse he had killed with his spear during the ride from Archēsh. “I thought I despatched him on the road.” He had been certain that no man could have survived such a heavy fall. If all those now entering the valley were as difficult to fell, it did not bode well for the defence.

  On learning Hurr was with the Seljuk host, Maniakh moved sideways to better see the emir through a crenelle. Simon Vardaheri stood, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t tell you about that, did I, Horse-archer?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think you did,” Bryennius replied with a trace of irritation as he strove to understand the relationships being revealed.

  “Maniakh became infatuated with a dancer in Tabriz,” Vardaheri started awkwardly. He wasn’t alone, the whole town was bewitched.”

  “Infatuated?”

  “Must be quite a dancer,” Guy quipped and immediately wished he had remained silent, as deep eyed Maniakh, the quiet nomad who knew the languages and traditions of a host of peoples, shot him a scornful look.

  “
I’ve seen none like Hurr,” Vardaheri said. “When she entered the circle of light, you could have heard the sun rise. She finished her dance by dropping to the floor, on her stomach, head up, back arched and the graceful leg of an acrobat high behind her. At that moment, she looked up into Maniakh’s eyes. It was fate.”

  Maniakh was looking wistfully at Vardaheri, remembering.

  “Anyway, they got to know each other.” Vardaheri explained. “And she didn’t betray us when we were hunted by the city guard after we burned their siege engines.”

  “And you didn’t think to relate this?” Bryennius asked in a surprisingly conversational tone, seemingly more moved than angry. Sometimes it was hard to tell what his deeper feelings were.

  Vardaheri spluttered. “How could I know she was going to show up here?”

  Bryennius gave Guy an exasperated glance and said to Vardaheri, “Simon, ask the Turkoman what he wants with Guy’s chestnut mare, should anyone know of it.”

  “She’s of the bloodlines held by my family and precious to us,” was the reply.

  Vardaheri turned to interpret, adding, “I think he’s as he appears to be.” The horse trader looked through the crenelle again. “What’s she worth to you? Should we know of her.”

  The horseman looked for a moment at the ground, then at the figures on the wall. “Exchange for another mare, a good one.”

  Vardaheri remained silent.

  “And safe conduct for the thief, if he throws himself on my mercy before the city falls.”

  Bryennius took a longer look at the horseman at the ditch. “He seems pretty damned sure.”

  Vardaheri relayed, “You seem sure, nomad?”

  “Oh we are sure. We know a very great deal about your city. You should surrender now while the Sultan can control his troops. You don’t have long to think about it, Count Bryennius.”

  Vardaheri and Bryennius exchanged glances. “Thanks for the advice,” the horse trader replied courteously. “Who should we ask for, if we should happen upon someone who knows of this chestnut mare.”

  “The Emir Emren Dirse,” said the rider.

  “Is that you?”

  “I am Emren Dirse.” The rider turned his horse towards the Seljuk host as if to return there, then swung her on her haunches back again. “And you can tell your friend that Hurr sleeps in the tent of my cousin.” So saying, he cantered off.

  “Who would’ve tol…?” Vardaheri began.

  Bryennius shook his head. “The enemy could have had a score of people in and out of Manzikert in the last weeks, or a spy here yet. Or both.”

  They all looked gloomily at the Seljuk army fanning out in its own dust over the river valley.

  The Arsanias Valley near Manzikert,

  Morning, 21st August 1054

  Within sight of the fortress, Derar al-Adin sat his chestnut gelding, Qurmul, named after a fabled steed of Islamic legend that had enabled a daring escape. Escape! The notion led his thoughts to the patrol clash with Roman cavalry at some nameless wadi where he had been captured and briefly detained. It has been no escape. At every moment he was conscious of remaining a prisoner.

  Derar was hot and longed to take his ease, to pull off the long leather boots, arrow-proof quilted cotton tunic and the short-sleeved mail shirt over it. A light, round shield was strapped to his bridle arm and in his right hand he carried a long spear held crossways over his horse’s wither at an acute angle so not to accidentally touch another. He had become accustomed to the constant feel of his straight sword of excellent Syrian steel that swung in its wooden, leather-covered scabbard by his left leg.

  Unlike many Arabs who were primarily spear and swordsmen, Derar was handy with the composite bow and wore a bow case and quiver at his waist belt. These were a gift from his friend, Emren Dirse, these two men drawn to each other by an interest in the Bedouin horses. When the luxury of time permitted, the two discussed and debated the Arabian strains endlessly over wine and games of chess, amongst other subjects that interested them: poetry, philosophy, religion and women.

  Derar’s man, Zaibullah, rode on his left. He noticed, in the idleness of the moment, Zaibullah’s long hair with its plaited side braids hanging down past the rim of his iron pot helmet. The Seljuk had placed his spear against his saddle under his near side thigh and wore his shield on his back, over his cuirass of oiled and polished horn lamellar. The Turk fondled the ornate handle of his curved sabre occasionally, a subconscious check that it was still there, and drummed his strong fingers on the leather quiver that hung from his right hip. The visual effect, Derar mused, was of practiced skill, the look of a warrior. He wondered about this complex wanderer who had become attached to his own household. Did someone spy on the spy?

  Derar, his nose and throat irritated by the smoky air, sniffed and spat distastefully onto the dry ground. He had entreated the Sultan’s spymaster, Bughra Dumral, to allow them to accompany the vanguard of the Seljuk army. Thus they had thus ridden in easy stages for two days and the previous night, the mounted figures moving like ghouls through the smoke haze and dust in the starlight. With the wellbeing of his nephew and his promise to the boy’s mother foremost in his mind, he had chosen to ride with the van to ensure he entered Manzikert early. Being in the lead of the army had other practical advantages. One avoided much of the dust entailed by moving with the main body and a comfortable campsite was more likely to be gained.

  For a day and a night they had ridden over a deserted landscape where the burnt grass scrunched to black powder under the hooves. The Romans had cut and hauled in as hay, much of the useful grass and burnt off what they could not. Derar knew the garrison had deliberately reserved some pasture near the fortress, for if the city survived, they would need it for their own animals. The besieging Seljuk army would reduce it to dust in days.

  Derar had reached the environs of Manzikert just as the Armenian irregular horse had withdrawn safely behind the circuit walls. He hoped the forward detachment had captured and controlled some vital part of the defences so the city would quickly fall by storm or surrender. It took only a glance to see they had failed and paid dearly in the attempt. The bodies of men and horses lay scattered on the plain before the fortress. Saddled mounts moved aimlessly or sniffed the corpses, manes draping over the unseeing faces of their masters. Others, unnerved by the trauma of battle and having galloped to exhaustion in aimless circles, simply stood still, heads downcast, reins dragging, saddles twisted where a rider had clutched it in his fall. They waited with the patience of their kind, for someone to come and feed them and show a gesture of kindness. Many stood near where they had sought to drink from a brook. Some good horses there, Derar observed with his practiced eye and exacting standards, but none worth the wrath of a clan if taken.

  As Derar sat in his warm saddle, the late morning sun beating down through the oppressive haze, he heard a roar, accompanied by the rhythmic clash of weapons, issue over and over from the fortress, “Man-zi-kert! Man-zi-kert! Man-zi-kert!”

  Zaibullah and he looked at each other.

  “They wouldn’t be so cocky if they’d seen what happened at Berkri and Archēsh,” Zaibullah said.

  Derar grunted agreement and turned to more practical matters. “We’ll pitch our tent there, by that poplar lined stream which runs from south of the fortress into the river. Camp on the far side, for the stream with its rocky bottom and sharp gully will be an obstacle to the Romans. There, where the ground rises,” he pointed, “enough to drain away the water if it rains and from where we should get a look at our own encampment and the fortress at the same time. Some grass remains along the stream and we can take our ease under the trees. We should be here no more than a week. I think the Sultan will camp on that knoll, where the stone house is. From there he’ll have a good view as events unfold.”

  The pair dismounted to wait and lounged on the close-cropped green river bottom with the battlem
ents visible beyond the lava step. They watched the tribesmen continue to arrive. The clans of the van and flank guards, stiffened by regiments of border-raiding gaziyân, filled the bottoms of the river valley around them, moving loosely to the Sultan’s grand design. Guides would mark out and supervise the occupation of the huge encampment, to circumvent any disputes between the quarrelsome bands. Ten miles behind were the main-guard, the first disciplined columns of the black clad ghulams of the Hassa Ordusa and landed knights of the sipahiyan with their followers. Behind them marched the main body of the army: endless streams of cavalry and infantry, and then the baggage train, herded into the places designated by the mounted guides. Derar watched the screen and flank guards move out to protect the army as it made camp and wondered at the forces that had led him to be trapped of his own volition in such momentous events.

  Bughra Dumrul, arrived early to observe the temper of the defences. One of Tughrul’s senior generals, Isma’il, rode with Dumrul. Commanding the advance-guard, Isma’il’s main task had been to fight, immediately from the line-of-march, any mobile battle the Romans might offer in the open, or exploit any effective penetration of the defences by the forward detachment. Isma’il had already been twice robbed of easy blows when the captured towers could not be held, and when his disorderly, dust-shrouded flanks had failed to trap the Armenian irregular horse. Despite hearing several descriptions of Manzikert’s fortifications over the preceding months, Isma’il blew loudly through his bearded cheeks in exasperation at the evident strength of the fortress.

  Derar admired Isma’il’s horse and envied him for the lithe, long limbed, combative dancer who shared his tent. For some reason, the thought caused him to ponder on the Horse-archer’s fair interpreter of the wadi fight. His glance flickered to the distant walls and he wondered if she were behind them. He mused on what he might do to save the young woman if the nomads took the city. The thought led his mind’s eye to the Sultan’s instructions to Isma’il for the terms of surrender to be delivered to Manzikert, “And tell them this, tell them I, the Sultan, will take as wife the most beautiful girl among you.” Derar recalled with distaste the torn gowns and tears at Berkri and Archēsh.