A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Boot to boot, Lascaris and Leo galloped, controlling the pace so the charge could halt on the camp and start the grim work. An undisciplined, headlong rush would only carry the regiment straight through their objective and founder, making them vulnerable to Seljuk counterattack while trying to reorganise. Dust from the Norman assault was drifting across their front. As it stung Leo’s eyes, the decreased visibility made control harder, as he had foreseen and planned for. He swept past a running figure in a rough tunic and boots and knew they had reached the camp. As the cataphracts behind him came upon it, they screamed in unison as their charge smashed through the thin line of sentinels and into the scrambling engineers. “Scholae. Scholae! Manzikert. Manzikert!”

  Leo saw that the plain on this side of the nomad camp was empty and surmised the enemy had not yet had time to react. What he feared most was a trap, where a seemingly surprised Seljuk camp suddenly became a hornet’s nest.

  “Steady, Zarrar. Steady, boy,” Leo soothed, checking the bay horse in a stride and looking around. Zarrar’s ears moved back to listen, spear and quiver rattling against him. The horse slowed instantly, but with a toss of the head and snatch at the bit, told Leo he was ready for anything. Turning in the saddle, the horse spinning instinctively with him, Leo saw the work of killing the fleeing engineers had been the work of a minute.

  Lascaris was thinking with Leo. “You men,” the centarch bawled. “Back into the camp and destroy it. Kill anyone you find there.” Setting his horse to a canter, Lascaris shouted to another tribune to ride with his troop and screen them from the Seljuk camp. “Turn your horses sideways and hold your spears high, to make it look like there are more of you. Engage with bows as soon as they draw into range.”

  Leo could see the beginning of uproar in the Seljuk camp, discerning a few riders darting around on light coloured horses. As yet there was no sign of an organised counterattack. Where the Franks had ridden, there was a lot of dust, the first black horsemen of the Sultan’s ghulams, galloping towards the gritty cloud. There was no time to waste. Leo rode back into the engineers’ camp to check that the destruction was complete.

  Cantering cataphracts were loosing arrows into the engineers who had hidden by the mantelets, under the beams of the engines or beneath carts. Others rode down the enemy who tried to run. Seljuk engines and carts were set alight in bursts of naphtha pots, and figures ran screaming from them. One stumbled blindly towards Zarrar, but the horse barely shied as Leo deftly turned him out of the way. Leo trotted towards where he thought the tunnel entrance would be. A dozen dirty, twisted figures, one woman among them, lay there and he somehow knew they had barely escaped from the inferno underground when his men had killed them. Their faces were dirty, blistered and screaming silently with the horror and unfairness of it. Leo felt sorry for them.

  Cataphracts galloped up around him and throwing reins to the horse-holders, dragged anything combustible—ropes, tools, baskets, shields—far inside the tunnel entrance. Dousing these with naphtha, they set them alight with fire-arrows. From safely outside the evil-smelling, flame-belching hole, they hurled in more pots of naphtha to make sure of the work. Lascaris, satisfied the tunnel was ablaze, gestured the fire party to use the last of their pots on a nearby mangonel and ballista. Then they sprang to plunging horses and looked around for their decarchs, to form up and face the onslaught that must surely come.

  Leo judged the tunnel beams were well alight and his main objective of killing Seljuk miners and destroying their equipment had been achieved. Eager to disengage from battle and withdraw into the fortress, he trotted off to assess how the wider fight had developed and begin the withdrawal. How he loved Zarrar. The bay was alive with the exhilaration of battle and Leo felt indestructible on him. The horse was quick and responsive, darting hither and thither at the lightest touch when asked, galloping full stretch, to slide to a halt in his own length and spin around on his hocks to tear full tilt the other way.

  As he trotted up out of the shallow depression where the mouth of the tunnel was located, he saw a group of about fifty ragged figures kneeling, making the sign of the cross and lamenting piteously as they regarded him with terror. “Who are you?” Leo yelled, his question seeming like a distant sounding accusation. He was vaguely conscious that he must have appeared apocalyptic in the eyes of the freed prisoners.

  One came close and shouted up to Leo, “Have pity on us. We are Christians and have been taken by the Persians as slaves.” He was thin, dirty and ragged with misery over his face and fear in his eyes.

  Leo, relieved his men had been cool enough in the fight not to ride them down, pointed through the tumult to the fortress gates. “Run. Run. That way!” he indicated with his spear. “Make the sign of the cross as you go.”

  Leo cantered up to Lascaris who was already re-establishing order amongst the regiment: shouting officers collecting their men, thrusting them into heaving ranks on their excited horses. “Well done, Scholae,” Leo called to the soldiers near him and then turned to Lascaris. “Well done, Antony! Form them up. Be prepared to either fall back on the fortress, or move forward to aid the withdrawal of the Kelts.”

  Windrows of Turks were galloping towards them. Leo noticed that in their uncontrolled rush, most of the Seljuk riders, who had leapt to horse at the first news of the attack, rode bareback and were unprepared for battle. They posed little more than a nuisance to the disciplined Sixth Schola, now forming a strong front against them. The cataphracts of the second rank were returning an accurate archery at the Seljuks. Balsamon’s reserve had joined Lascaris’ main body.

  Leo was relieved at seeing order established in his ranks and learning that there were few Roman casualties in the unequal fight. He hoped that the attacking Franks could now dis-engage and withdraw to the safety of the walls before the Turks recovered and brought superior numbers to bear. He cantered with his standard-bearer to a slight rise on the flank of the regiment, from where he could see the main-gate towers with the strategos’ pennant fluttering above it.

  “Make the signal,” Leo ordered the standard-bearer.

  The trooper rode several horse lengths in front of Leo so he could be seen clearly. Holding the standard aloft, he raised and lowered it several times in sharp, definite movements. There was an answering signal from the tower, followed by a series of trumpet fanfares: the signal for a general retirement to the walls.

  Lascaris galloped up breathless and triumphant, the protective bard hanging lopsidedly on his black horse. He looked at Leo. “The signal?” he asked, hopeful that the fast-moving battle would soon be over. Lascaris was no coward, but an intensely practical soldier who knew to quit the fight once they had achieved their objective.

  “Yes,” Leo said. “All we need to do is fall back slowly and allow Balazun to return by our left flank and all should be well.”

  Leo looked towards the Franks but could still see nothing but dust. Then there was a great, rolling crash. He knew Balazun’s charge had hit something hard.

  The Seljuk Encampment at Manzikert,

  Sunrise, 4th September 1054

  Every instinct told Derar al-Adin that the Christians would strike this day and the engineer camp would be their main objective with secondary targets as diversions. Before first light he was up and discreetly prepared for the coming battle. Ready, he lounged by his small dung fire, drinking coffee.

  The Sultan had returned the previous day, with most of the tribes getting back late the day before that. The nomads were tired and their horses jaded from the far-reaching, fast-moving raids. With them they had booty, firewood, fodder and captive women. Confidently looking forward to two days respite before the final assault on Manzikert and the plundering of the city, the huge encampment was taking its ease.

  Derar had urged Farisa to rise and get ready. To mislead those nearby about his reasons for rising early, he chastised her loudly enough for the other tents to hear, that she must leave
early with their animals to find grazing for them. She had flamed rebelliously at her treatment as the men of the nearby tents laughed.

  Zaibullah was standing nearby when the distant attack started, the coffee dribbling unnoticed from his cheap cup as he discerned the dust cloud heading for the Sultan’s tent. Derar also stood and looked as others around the camp leapt to their feet and gazed in astonishment. They had not expected the cowardly Romans to come out in open fight.

  A black-clad emir of the ghulams, galloping skilfully through the throng, raised them. “To arms. To horse,” he roared. “The unbelievers are attacking the Sultan. With me, with me!”

  With a shout that startled the horses on their pickets, the Seljuk tribesmen around Derar grabbed whatever weapons were to hand. Some saddled, others did not: there would be time for that later when the Roman attack had been blunted and it was time to destroy them. The first wave of men rode bareback in their hundreds with this unknown emir.

  Zaibullah, already saddled, armed and armoured, ready to accompany Farisa on her forage, sprang to horse and took his spear from its place near the side of the tent. He looked at Derar.

  Derar turned to Farisa, saying, “Get away from the fight, Farisa, to the far side of the camp and return here only when God’s will is done.” She returned him a look that Derar could not fathom. A big Seljuk rushed up and pushing Farisa roughly aside, mounted her black mare. Derar seized the bridle rein and struck him forcefully in the chest with the flat of his war-axe, winding the man so that he doubled in pain. Swiftly Derar grabbed the Seljuk’s long hair, pulled him from the saddle and pushed him roughly to the ground. “Thief, scoundrel,” he roared over the tumult, kicking the fallen man with a viciousness that surprised him. He turned to Farisa with a sudden realisation of just how much he wanted her safely away from this place. “Go,” he commanded with such authority she acquiesced as he heaved her to the saddle. Then Derar flung himself onto Qurmul.

  Close by, an emir of the Seljuk tents spun his mount, exhorting his followers. Even in the haste of the moment, Derar was moved by the exquisite horse, the sumptuous saddle, black mail, black sword and the dark beauty of the rider as the youth cried, “I have seen the green-eyed girls, they beckon with white arms and fair bosoms and they make sweet entreaties. Oh! Woe to thee who does not ride well and swiftly to the battle this day.” Long-haired, bearded men gathered around the youth in a mass of bows and spears. They whipped their open-mouthed, white-eyed horses, so that their maned heads rose in the air and their hooves struck the ground like so much thunder of forgotten steppe gods. “Paradise. Paradise. Fight. Fight!” they roared as one.

  “Let it be done,” shouted Derar to Zaibullah. “Go your way. We have our own fights this day.” Derar did not wish to be closely observed by Zaibullah while appearing to participate in the battle without being caught in the press of it. Derar was no coward, but this day he had considerations other than victory for the Seljuks.

  Galloping over a slight rise, he saw in an instant the unfolding battle. Amongst the splendid tents of the Sultan’s camp, numbers of the gulâmân-I suray were racing on foot to form a forlorn front against the charging Franks. They dragged with them a bawling camel on which a standard-bearer waved the Sultan’s rallying flag. Other palace guards galloped up saddled horses to spirit the Sultan and his family from danger.

  Such rescue Tughrul spurned. Mounting a led-horse and taking his mace and shield, the Sultan moved towards the Franks. Mounted kettle drummers and flagmen followed him to relay his orders for the fast-flowing battle. Ranks of mounted ghulams rode around him. Others trotted into place, forming squadrons, as more troops joined the struggle.

  Squinting toward the fortress in the morning sunlight, Derar could see the flames and dust in the camp of the engineers and knew with certainty that they were the main object of the Roman attack. Standards on the fortress walls were being used to relay signals, with another waved by a rider to the flank of the Roman horsemen reforming near the engineers’ camp. With a glance, Derar saw that the Roman aim had been achieved and that the charge of the Franks was only a diversion.

  Derar also understood that the Frankish attack was going wrong, for their feint had assumed a purpose of its own. At the very moment when they should have drawn rein, veered to the left and withdrawn back to the walls, they spurred straight towards the mass of ghulams who rode forward to meet them. One man had caused this; a black knight on a magnificent stallion rode in front of the Franks. Derar knew the knight had identified Tughrul and believed his heart’s desire and his destiny could be achieved by the death of the Sultan in single combat. The black Frank and the shepherd king had spied each other, a spear-throw across the crowded field.

  Derar sensed Tughrul Bey doubted he could defeat this huge Frank in a trial of arms. The Sultan paused as the flanks of the ghulams surged forward around the close-packed, galloping wedge of Christians. Thick, wafting dust obscured his view for a moment. The battlefield was becoming enveloped in this shifting, dry-powdered mix of campfire smoke, dirt and animal manure, all churned by the movement of thousands of hooves into choking clouds that coated men and horses, searing eyes and gritty in parched mouths.

  In an ear-sundering crash, the opposing front ranks met in a maelstrom of fallen horses, splintered spears and torn, spitted and broken men. Some mounts tried to stop short or shy away just before the moment of contact, but were borne along by the crush of those behind them. Horses and men went down as though scythed, with the shouting, clash of arms and the screams of the stricken all around. Derar lost sight of the Sultan as a tide of loose-ordered tribal horse-archers swept past, as if they innately knew to harry the flanks and rear of the Christians.

  The front of the Frankish charge was halted by the instant sacrifice of scores of ghulams on their lighter horses. But the press of armoured gulâmân-I suray and the Frankish horses floundering almost to their bellies in the mass of fallen mounts and riders, knocked the momentum from the Christian charge. The Franks were now fighting for their lives as the Seljuk host surged forward.

  Seljuk horsemen fell like sheaves before the heavily armoured Franks. The black knight, his lance shattered, fought with his sword, cleaving around him so none could come close as his horse reared and plunged to gain firm footing. To Derar, it seemed as if the Turks’ desire to capture alive the black Castilian horse, worked in the rider’s favour for a while. Then a spear struck home and the black knight staggered in his saddle. Other knights fell by his side as ghulams closed around the mighty Frank’s horse as both were lost from Derar’s sight.

  The Franks were surrounded; a third of their number killed or wounded in minutes. Some surrendered, throwing down their arms and helmets and being led from the fight on their own horses. If spared in the heat of battle, they might later hope to be ransomed, or receive an offer to change sides—anything to stay alive. In the plunging terror of the Frankish ranks, as they tried to ward off the rain of arrows, there was a discernible uncertainty. Men were looking around for a leader and finding none, more cried for mercy and made to yield.

  Then there was one, riding a brown courser, amongst the Franks. Two, three ghulams fell to his sword as he cleared a space around his horse. Other knights saw him waving the weapon defiantly over his head. They took courage and the ghulams shrank from close quarters with them.

  With Qurmul plunging in excitement under him, Derar looked at the Roman horse near the city and saw them formed up, but hesitant. He knew why: their leaders were attempting to learn through the dust and tumult, the fate of the Franks and determining whether to go to their relief.

  “Go back. Go back,” Derar cried aloud in Arabic. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  In the Seljuk lines before Manzikert,

  After sunrise, 4th September 1054

  Leo could discern little through the dust to his front. He had seen the movement of mounted men from the Seljuk encampment towards the direction Bal
azun had ridden and knew a furious battle was underway, but there was no way of knowing which side fared best. He doubted that Balazun had achieved a decisive penetration by killing the Sultan and wondered why the Franks were not withdrawing. The swirling movement of Seljuks towards the Frankish charge indicated an unfolding blunder. Although some of the Seljuks had seen Leo’s regiment, still forming up and evacuating some of their wounded, only a few of the enemy were moving towards him.

  Leo was sweat-soaked under his armour. Perspiration dribbled down his cheeks and flying grit stung his eyes. Dust clouds eddied around as he trotted a little further away to better determine the progress of Balazun’s fight. The trumpets had repeated the recall, but there was no indication the Franks were disengaging in accordance with their orders. Leo was calculating the considerable risk of moving forward to their assistance, against the very real possibility that his own men would be annihilated. By adopting one course, he risked losing the advantage won thus far, by the destruction of most of the garrison’s effective horse. By returning without assisting the Franks, he risked creating a rift between the Romans and Franks inside the walls which in itself might jeopardise the safety of the fortress.

  These things were on Leo’s mind when a warning shout came from one of his escort. A furious fight erupted around him and the momentum of it carried his escort away. Too late, Leo saw the big Seljuk on a dun Turkmene riding hard at Zarrar’s off side. Instinctively, he parried the big warrior’s levelled spear with his own, but the Turkmene hit Zarrar with great force. Most horses would have gone down immediately but the powerful bay, experienced in polo and battle, had seen the attacker and turned in a half rear. Zarrar staggered and went down on his front knees. With a glancing blow, the dun Turkmene’s head hit Leo and lodged before him across Zarrar’s whither.