Guy followed the three up the steep stone steps to the rampart of the main wall. Looking into the night dimly lit by the stars and a crescent moon, were Basil, Oleg, Doukas and Branas. They glanced around. Oleg, on seeing the newcomers, whispered, “All sorts of people are not sleeping this night.”
“What is it?” Bryennius murmured.
“I don’t know,” Basil replied quietly. “But the sound of their camp has been different. For several nights since, it has been unusually quiet, as though they were resting—especially the night before this. Tonight they started being noisy again, but excessively so …”
“Like they were trying to cover something,” Bryennius suggested. “As they’re noisy now.”
Basil looked sharply at him. “Cover what? Have you heard from your contact?” He spoke in hushed tones so they had to crowd forward to hear him.
“Not since the arrow they shot during the attack against the north wall on Wednesday night,” Bryennius answered, “when they said something was in the air, some plan. They also stated there was much suspicion in the nomad camp. The fact the message came at an entirely different part of the wall, and during an attack, may mean my contact is under suspicion and has to play their part more convincingly.” As he spoke, Bryennius’ tone betrayed his concern about the pressure his spy must be under and the effect it would have on intelligence. “So far, I have not been able to determine the significance of the word ‘baban’69 which was in the last message, with no clue to its meaning.”
Baban? Basil thought on it for a moment. “Have you had your scouts out tonight?”
Bryennius answered. “No. Togol tried by different sally-ports. He’s been out before, seeing what there is and spreading derogatory rumours about the Sultan’s military qualities, manliness and virility. But last night he returned, saying the enemy lines were thick with pickets and he couldn’t pass.”
Basil held out his hands, feeling the breeze, listening, like an animal. “The wind’s dried things out. It’ll turn hot now and reduce their camp to dust. Surely the pressure must be telling on their army. The Sultan has to give them something.” He leaned on the merlon with his rough hands. “Damn them! What’re they up to? And where?”
“Listen,” hissed Branas in such a tone that all were silent.
“It sounds like they have draught animals yoked up and are pulling something,” Oleg ventured softly. They stood silently, mouths open slightly, heads cocked to the direction of the faint sounds, senses straining.
“In their camp from time to time,” Vardaheri said quietly after a while, “they used to have a couple of elephants, for hauling their siege engines and then grain from Archēsh. But I haven’t noticed them for a few days. They were normally out of sight on the northern edge of their camp. But …” Faint noises could be heard again.
Guy listened and thought he could hear through the din of drums, horns and trumpets, the distant tinkle of chains and the crunch of heavy wheels or rollers on the hard ground. He concentrated, but could discern nothing definite and wondered if the conversation had stoked his imagination. In the dim light, he could just make out the torture of doubt and indecision on Basil’s features.
Then there came the muffled but unmistakable sound of digging: earth and stone being levelled and bracing stakes being hammered in. The sounds continued.
Suddenly Basil squared his shoulders and turning to Doukas and Branas, ordered, “Stand-to! Do it silently.”
“Theophanes,” Basil continued. “Make sure each wall is prepared to support another, by releasing every second man. They know already, but remind them.” Doukas turned to go and ensure an all-round defence was presented to the Seljuks, with plans afoot to react to any breach, or breaches. “And Theophanes,” Basil hissed after him. Doukas paused and turned. “Don’t let there be panic in the city.”
Doukas saluted hurriedly and continued running down the steps from the rampart, ordering a tribune to fetch the bishop and abbess and to bring them to him wherever he could be found.
“Bryennius,” Basil said, turning to the count. “Saddle up and hold your Sixth in first reserve. Be prepared to plug any breach of the walls and hold it until Oleg’s Varangians get there. If it all goes badly, fight your way to the citadel and hold out there for as long as you can.”
The strategos turned to the big Viking standing nearby. “Oleg, have your deputy, Egin, form and command a second reserve—regiment-sized group, three hundred strong—from the Varangians still in the citadel. Their task is to move, on order, as rapidly as possible to any threatened or breached place and destroy enemy incursions. If Leo’s men get there first, relieve him in-place as soon as it’s safe, so the cataphracts of the Scholae can re-form a reserve.” Oleg turned, grunted an order and a runner made off to the citadel.
After listening to Oleg’s role in the coming fight, Bryennius turned to Guy. “Where’s your post?”
“Stood down. My men have orders to assemble outside the stable shop at stand-to.”
“Good. Stay with the strategos for the moment. I’ll form my men in the square near the military stables. We’ll be a bowshot away.” With that, the count was gone.
Around them were the subdued sounds of people trying to take post without making any noise. Boots scuffed on stone and an occasional shield or scabbard bumped the walls. Men filed onto the main wall ramparts, their comrades similarly lining the fore-wall below them. Those nearby looked at Basil and Oleg, grasped their weapons and stared into the gloom.
The garrison stood to arms as the eastern sky paled beyond snow-streaked Mount Sippane. Guy knew this early light played tricks, so he looked away often from the gloom to his front, blinking to rest his eyes. By the scratches on the merlon near which he stood, he reckoned it was the twenty-fifth day of the siege and wondered whether the count of days mattered anymore.
The walls were silent now, the defenders scarcely daring to breathe. Dark shapes seemed to move before Guy, until his reason and a second look convinced him they were rocks. The hum of the night-shrouded Seljuk camp seemed to lessen behind the mask of their clamour, and then the nature of the sound changed, as though many men were moving quietly into position.
“Listen,” hissed Vardaheri.
“That’s a stone-thrower being made ready—that creaking sound,” Basil murmured with a certainty they dreaded.
Then the sound stopped. All along the rampart men instinctively crouched lower against the wall. Starting from the low ridge to the north and rippling around to the river flats on the east, a silence descended on the unseen Seljuk host.
Dry mouthed, his heart beating, Guy peered once more into the darkness, which was receding with agonising slowness. After a long stillness, there came the grunt of many heaving in unison followed by deafening silence. Guy looked in alarm at the men around him. Suddenly came the rumble of the counterweight and whiplash report of the sling release. Guy’s heart seemed to stop and he felt terror and the urge to run from the wall.
The three-hundred pound rock hurtled with unstoppable force out of the darkness, smashing into the tower on his left. The old masonry of the upper story collapsed in a spitting shower of fragments and grey dust. Screams of pain and terror came from the men maimed by splintering stone or trapped under the tumbled wall. Soldiers turned and stared helplessly at the cloud of dust in the gloom. A ripple of uncertainty passed along the line.
“Steady in the ranks,” roared Basil. “Stand fast on the wall!”
In the Seljuk camp, a great shout arose as they realised the damage inflicted.
Guy joined those moved to rescue the wounded or stand in the path of the rush that might follow. A few paces and he was there, tearing with his hands at the fractured stones. Desperate clawing by a few men produced a moaning, bloodied form. “Scribones,” shouted someone as orderlies carried the wounded man away. Guy knelt to listen for more sounds from the rubble. To his astonishment, M
odestos Kamyates was suddenly standing against the dawn in his crisp robes.
The bureaucrat said knowingly, “The walls here are damaged internally by water and are weak. The Seljuks know it and are concentrating their efforts on it.” Kamyates smiled unconsciously in his superior knowledge as he indifferently watched the men searching for others in the gloom.
How did he know? Guy wondered. It came to him suddenly; Kamyates knew and was gloating. So smug and damned superior, he couldn’t help showing it to someone he thinks beneath him. Guy felt an instant, raging hatred of the bearded bureaucrat, with the cold, mocking smile. Many thought Kamyates amusing and charmingly skilled in rhetoric. To Guy, Kamyates had ingratiated himself into too many sensitive meetings, cultivated too many people and been seen too often with the sly Bardas Cydones and the ambitious Reynaldus. Now his mistrust of the man took on a hard edge, but he bit his lip and remained silent.
His brush with Kamyates occupied an instant, in which Basil Apocapes saw the faltering confidence of the men on the wall. “Oleg!” the strategos ordered quietly, “Tell the men to be steady and watch their front. Daniel, organise someone to help clear the tower and aid the maimed.”
Branas spoke without any hint of unease to a nearby tribune of the garrison staff, asking him to organise the work party. The man in his helmet and corselet hurried off.
Oleg was pacing the rampart of the main wall, his great voice carrying in the languages of Vikings and Rus. “Steady on the walls.” Interpreters shouted the message on to the many Armenian townsmen under arms. “Take cover, in place.”
In their iron caps and mail, or quilted or felt armour and covered by their shields, the men crouched close to the merlons, their bearded faces against the grey stone. Many prayed. The leaders moved rapidly in awkward bounds along the rampart, peering through the gradually increasing light towards the enemy. They pushed men under their shields and kicked away the little personal bundles that might impede their footing. “Take cover! Keep your heads down, men. We’ve repulsed them many times before. This is just one more time.” Oleg was as cool as if inspecting the palace guard in Constantinople.
Gradually a dark shape took form to their front. Guy could see the outline of the terrible engine looming from the scar of the Seljuk siege lines. Involuntarily, he uttered, “My God!”
Five times the height of a man, the swing-beam counterweight mangonel was twice the size of the others the Seljuks had, or any other that Guy had ever seen. From the collective gasp along the wall, he knew its appearance had the same effect on others. It seemed hundreds of the enemy were hauling on the ropes to pull back the great arm as others heaved on the mechanism that held the counter-weighing net of stones in place until the moment of release.
Oleg saw it at once and ordered the archers to make ready. Then the Viking turned and looked at Basil. “I make it about four hundred people around that machine, many Christian slaves amongst them.”
Once more Guy saw the agony on Basil’s face. “Very good, Oleg. We have no choice,” the strategos replied through his clenched jaw. “But, by God, I’ll make the Sultan pay for this.”
“At the men on the machine, in your own time—shoot!” roared Oleg, turning to coolly watch the effect.
Basil bit his lip as the first arrow showers were released then uttered to himself, “Lord Jesus Christ, our God, have mercy on us, Amen.”
With a prayer for his own soul, Guy drew his bow and marking one among the crowd who seemed to be flailing with a whip, loosed the goose-feather shaft.
An answering hail of arrows clattered like hail on the ramparts where several of the rudely armoured townsmen fell. Guy jumped aside and pressed his face in the cover of a merlon and found himself looking directly at Basil who was doing the same. Guy could hear Oleg, still bellowing, ordering the archers to keep shooting. “Damn your eyes, if you cower like cowards you’ll perish that way. Shoot, men. Shoot!”
Guy’s eyes met Basil’s. “Where did they get it from?” Guy shouted over the tumult.Another rock smashed into the tower. More of it fell with a heart-rending crash. Guy could hear Oleg still shouting.
This was Basil Apocapes’ moment of self-reproach. “It’s ours! Or at least is used to be. The infernal thing was left at Baghesh over thirty years ago, after Emperor Basil the Second used it against the Muslims of Her. Nasr ad-Daulah at Amida professed friendship with us—it never occurred to me that nomads would take it from his Kurds of Baghesh, or that Nasr would give it to them, nor that the Seljuks would get it working, then drag it across here. It all makes sense now, their new plan and the elephants disappearing for a few days. God forgive me. In my heart, I knew about it and I did nothing.”
Guy was stunned by the oversight, and the terrifying role of chance in human affairs. What if Basil had arranged its destruction? Or if they had not had the fight at the wadi and the count had instead returned by way of Baghesh where he would surely have seen the catapult? The Marwanid Kurds of Baghesh could have destroyed it rather than be implicated in the war. How different this morning might be if the count’s scouts had reported the engine, or the count had asked the direct question whether there was a big catapult around Vaspurakan. So many “ifs”.
As another arrow shower clattered around them, they both winced and hugged the merlons. Then Basil rose and strode, with every show of fearlessness, along the wall in full view of the defenders as Guy drew an arrow and shot back around the side of the merlon.
Lighter Seljuk machines joined in the attack on the tower, the besiegers shouting in unison as they heaved down on the ropes of the machines to drive the defenders from the ramparts. More stones smashed into the stricken tower, pulverising the upper chambers so that they collapsed. As day grew lighter, other rocks hit the adjoining sections of the old main wall and it, weakened by the fall of the tower, cracked dangerously. Many were wounded as the deadly missile duel continued. Everywhere were the cries of the maimed, twang of bowstrings and the distinctive sound of the arrow skiffs hitting people and stone. Again and again the townsfolk braved the hail to bring bundles of shafts and bolts, water and dressings to the wall. Many stepped forward to take the places of the fallen as others helped the wounded to aid. Guy could see Egin’s Varangians, back out of arrow range, waiting to be called forward. Gangs of armed townsmen, struggling with the fear and determination that wracked their souls, gathered near them under the leaders appointed by Basil.
More of the high arching, Seljuk rocks hit the section of wall near the felled tower. With a rasping groan, it too collapsed into a mound of rubble, which could be scaled by assaulting footmen.
A great cheer from the besieging engineers announced that they, after half a morning’s effort, had seen the collapse of a section of the main wall. The flights of arrows from the Seljuk lines slowed to a steady harassing trickle. Guy saw a horseman race from the vicinity of the siege engines towards the Seljuk main camp along the river.
“See that?” he said to Oleg.
“I see it! They’re surprised by their own success. Now they must organise a hasty assault to try and exploit their good fortune. At the moment, they are conserving their arrows to support the next attack.” He turned to the men along the wall and called for them to save their missiles, except for those most skilled with the bow.
Doukas galloped up on a foaming horse. “Strategos.” he cried past a cupped hand. “The Seljuks are massing to attack the south wall.”
Basil did not reply immediately. Instead, he looked around at the broken north wall, the tribesmen and ghulams forming up before it, at the dust and devastation and broken stones. “Theophanes, they almost have a breach here, so this is the most vulnerable point for us. The south is probably a diversionary attack to stop us reinforcing here. There are quite a few Kelts along that south wall to stiffen the townspeople, but just in case, give Count Bryennius my compliments and ask him to detach three troops, a hundred cataphracts, to you as a reserv
e for the south wall.”
“That is half the effective strength he has left,” Doukas said.
“Very good. Give him my compliments and ask for one troop, thirty of his men.”
Doukas saluted in acknowledgement and was about to gallop off.
Basil raised his hand for him to wait. “Theophanes, when you have organised it over there, find the princeps and put him in charge of meeting that attack. Then raise a third reserve of the theme irregulars, a hundred strong. Form up behind where Leo is now. Place someone in command of it, and tell them, if the Seljuks get through in either place, to go straight at it. But be alert to the rest of the town. They could be mining or just trying to bribe a sally-port guard at this very moment. Then return here.”
The strategos saw Guy’s look. “Tughrul moves tens of thousands around the battlefield. I meet him with scores and hundreds.”
“This is it, isn’t it? This is the day?” Guy asked.
Basil regarded him in silence. The strategos had borne the defence of Manzikert on his shoulders and participated in the thick of almost every fight. Already today, he was grime covered, his beard grey with dust while slivers of mud had formed at the corners of his mouth. Armoured and armed, he was magnificent in his determination and the trust placed in him by soldiers and citizens alike. “So it seems, Guy. Hearts up.”
Branas, balancing himself on the tumbled stones of the collapsed main wall, called a warning. “They’re about to start on the fore-wall.”
One that heard Branas’ warning was Aram Gasparian, who Guy had appointed deputy of his own little army. He appeared at Guy’s side and after listening to Branas, said to Guy, “It’s said their first rock killed three sentinels and knocked another dead into the town. What’re your orders, Centarch?”
“How many men have you got?” asked Basil.
“Fifty-four,” Guy answered, looking to Gasparian for confirmation.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 55