A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  At this crisis in the fight, Guy thrust with his spear, between two Varangians, at a warrior without body armour. He felt the painful jerk all the way up his arm to his shoulder as the haft cracked badly and was then wrenched from his hand in the melee. Knowing he had spitted his man, Guy drew his broadsword and stepped forward into the blood and gore of heaped corpses, using his shield as a battering ram, slashing and stabbing around it with his sword. Aram Gasparian fought at his side.

  A bolt from Jacques’ crossbow tore into an emir’s chest, just as the Turk’s battle stare locked with Guy’s. The dart sliced through mail, quilted cotton and breastbone to knock the man backwards into the ditch. The attackers lost heart then and started a reluctant, vengeful withdrawal, the covering Seljuk bowmen sending a hail of arrows to protect them.

  At the sight of some of his men in their excitement making to descend the ruined wall in pursuit, Guy roared for order. “Stay in line. Re-form on me. On me! Shields up, the arrows will come now.” Turning to one of his men, a minor merchant from the town, Guy bade him determine how many of them were still alive, and the condition of the rest.

  Arrows came from Seljuk archers among the mantelets and engines of the siege line, as the defenders knelt behind the cover of their shields in the blood and urine-soaked mud. They drew the air with gasping sobs and held grimy hands or rags over running wounds as the shock of battle washed over them.

  Guy looked around at the mounds of murdered and maimed, then towards the Seljuk lines. He reasoned that no fresh attack was imminent and knew he had a short time to prepare for the next. In that ungainly, military crouch of soldiers without cover, Guy made his way down the ranks, pushing men into place, telling them to lock shields and to reform the line the Seljuk tribesmen had almost broken. “Jacques, Aram!”

  As they ran to him, awkwardly under the weight of linked iron rings, covering themselves with their shields, Guy looked behind to the main wall to see if Irene was safe. Jacques saw. “She’s well. I saw her leave a moment go.”

  “Jacques. Take command of the archers, if you will. Tell them to shoot more deliberately. Make sure more arrows are brought up. Aram, go back to the rear and have the workmen bring up any wickerwork mantelets, palisades, or barrels of soil to be found and chain them in place.” Looking behind them, Guy saw that, as the fight at the fore-wall breach had drawn him and his men forward into it, a phalanx of cataphracts of the Sixth Schola had formed along the wreck of the main wall behind them.

  Led by Joaninna Magistros, men and women from the city, many wearing felt swathes as protection against arrows, were coming forward with water and a resupply of arrows and stones, and to bear away the dead and wounded. The Seljuk casualties were simply despatched and pushed forward down the ruins.

  Doukas and Selth ran up and conversed briefly with the strategos behind the shelter of the fore-wall. Bryennius and Oleg joined them, after first mounting the ramparts to observe the enemy positions. Selth came across briefly, supervising the repairs to the defensive works. It was then, with Selth kneeling beside him, that Guy first looked down into the ditch.

  “I don’t know what tribe that was,” said Selth. “To mount an immediate unplanned attack like that and press it up that slope …” He looked at Guy. “They can fight. Let no man say otherwise”

  Leon Magistros spoke up. “We didn’t know how lucky we were when we had a wall to fight from.”

  Someone laughed uneasily.

  Branas arrived, hurrying his brave, frightened sixty townsmen and peasants into line behind Guy’s men.

  Bryennius and Doukas crouched beside Guy. A work party had started to drag the mantelets into position; the big shields of interwoven light branches would provide reasonable protection from directly aimed arrows and some barrier against assaulting Seljuks.

  “Not too close to the edge, there,” Selth cautioned. “And build up a stone and earth step behind them to stabilise the barrier.”

  “I’ll tell my men, those that are left, to spread out so the workmen can do the repairs,” Guy said. “We don’t need to give the Turkmen a good target.”

  “Very good,” said Doukas. “It’ll take discipline though. Take command of the remaining Varangians—they’ve lost their leader. That will make up your numbers.”

  Basil joined them. “I’ve just spoken to William de Chartres. He tells me the south wall was only lightly attacked, and if desired, they could spare a hundred men, twenty of whom would be armoured footmen.”

  Bryennius said, “We’re too obvious as a group here and Guy will not thank us for the attention we bring. Let’s move behind the wall.” This was done and Guy motioned to join them.

  “We should take William up on his offer,” added Branas. “We lost too many here this morning—and all should be in the common fight at the breach.”

  Behind the protection of the wall, Bryennius pulled off his helmet and coif. Trails of perspiration ran down his temples. He looked at Basil as he spoke. “This is where their main blow will fall, at least while that big mangonel is out there. It seems obvious from the stable fire that they have someone, or several, on the inside. Cydones seems to be the main suspect—we are looking for him now. I believe they will keep hitting this point today and tonight, wearing us down and preventing any substantial repair of the breach. Here the slope and broken ground still present an obstacle—up the ditch scarp, onto the peribolos and then over the rubble of the defended remnants of the walls and tower, with us shooting all the time. The breach is still quite narrow, three spear-lengths broad in the fore-wall, twice that in the main wall. Thus we can concentrate our strength to defend it. What worries me most is if they attempt to make a second breach somewhere else.”

  “I know that’s what you would do, Leo, but is it what the Sultan will do?” Basil asked.

  “We cannot count on him not doing it. That counter-weight mangonel they brought from Baghesh is the centre of their strength now—we have to do something about it.”

  Basil looked at each in turn. “All right, everyone, when d’you think the main attack will come?”

  They all looked away, good soldiers and trusted lieutenants that they were, for what a question was that? Each knew they were at the crisis of the siege, indeed the campaign—for if Manzikert fell, the Seljuks would be free to push deeper into the empire with impunity, the threat to their long lines of communication and retreat removed by the death of the defiant fortress. In their minds, they turned over the unthinkable.

  Guy watched and listened to this hasty meeting. For a moment he felt again the gnawing uncertainty he had suffered before his decision to ride on to Archēsh. Now many questions flooded his mind. Should he fight as long as he could, then beg surrender if it were possible, a doubtful proposition at best? Might he rush to the citadel at the first hint of a general collapse? How could he find Irene and Flora Asadian, on whose behalf he had made a pledge to Charles? Jacques? Joaninna? Their horses and equipment, which represented all their wealth in the world?

  “You’ve not heard from your contact?” Basil asked.

  “No, Strategos,” Bryennius replied. “They have proved accurate thus far and informed us the Seljuks were up to something, but were unable to find out. I would say that they, unknowingly, were referring to the stone-thrower the nomads brought from Baghesh. Now I suspect they are too closely watched, or killed in one of the assaults, or have despatched a message as they can, but we have not yet found it.”

  Even in this tight gathering, with its wider circle of watching soldiers, Bryennius had not betrayed the identity, gender or religion of his spy.

  “Your thoughts?” Basil prompted Bryennius, returning to the matter of the major assault on the defences.

  “I think the Sultan will make his main attack early tomorrow morning. It gives them the night to harass us and conduct their preparations, even widen the existing breach, or make another somewhere else to split our
defence. They still have many thousands of ghulams and Daylamis who are relatively fresh. If the Seljuks start the attack early, they have all day to fight-through the town. By night, we’d have the advantage of knowing the layout of the city. In a first light assault, they can prevent people from fleeing the city, whereas by night some may slip through the net.”

  Basil, squatting on his heels, thought on this for some time. “Branas, Doukas, this is what we’ll do. Be prepared for attacks today and this night, but rest the soldiers as much as possible. Put as many townspeople and peasants on the fore-walls as we dare. Use the professionals on the main wall. I want a first reserve based on the Scholae, one regiment of Varangians, all the mounted Kelts we have left and another of irregular foot organised today. They are to have their mounts saddled, but must be prepared to fight on foot. This reserve is to be commanded by Count Bryennius. Form a second reserve from the Kelts and Varangians—three-hundred strong, all footmen—to go straight at any breach of the walls. Man the makeshift inner enceinte with townspeople and position rubble-filled carts to close the gaps in it. Use the bishop and the abbess to encourage order amongst the populace. Doukas, double the guard on all gates and sally-ports and check them yourself, regularly. Ensure no one slips out tonight—the Seljuks would likely capture them anyway. Half stand-to everywhere tonight. Those not on watch should sleep in readiness on the ramparts. Stand-to from the end of the third watch. And you, yourselves, rest as much as you are able.”

  Basil saw Kamyates return from wherever he had been and fell silent.

  “You’ve driven them off.” The courtier smiled condescendingly to Basil as he approached. “Well done.”

  Dark looks flickered amongst the officers. Basil finished the conversation. “Think on it.” Then turning his helmeted head to Kamyates, he stood with his eyes narrow. “What else would you expect, Modestos?” The strategos was not smiling.

  A further two half-hearted Seljuk attacks were driven from the breach before noon. Then the day turned hot. The nomads retired to their tents to shelter, as the city also wilted in the midday heat.

  From his exposed position on the breach Guy observed the enemy encampment. There was little movement amongst the black tents. Engineers rested under awnings as sentries slumped from the heat. The ghulams guarding against a sally from the fortress slouched by their horses. Guy saw many undo the girths to give their mounts some comfort through the long, boring spell of duty. He watched the scene for some time, marking the habits of the enemy. Eventually he decided that midday, when the enemy slept, would be the time to attack, or try to escape.

  “A copper coin for your thoughts?” Surprised, Guy turned and was captivated by the sight of Irene. Wearing her now customary men’s riding clothes and corselet with her helmet tipped back, she sat beside him.

  “My thoughts were quite thick headed and not worth the poorest coin of the Romans,” he smiled. With a glance, he took in the water skin over her shoulder and belt with its light sword and archery equipment. There was dirt on the knees of her trousers and her boots were scuffed. “You’ve been fighting?”

  She looked at him with her green eyes. “Hardly fighting! I was on the wall behind you. I came to …” With a look away, Irene left the sentiment unfinished. Instead she passed him an urn of cool water and a food-laden basket. “I’ve brought this for you and your men. The nuns are bringing more.”

  “Thank you. You’re kind and the men will love you for it.”

  “They respect and like you, I have heard.” She moved closer; improperly so in the normal circumstances of Byzantine society, but the taboos had broken down for the duration of the siege at least.

  “I’ve lost half my men this day, Irene.”

  “It’s not your fault, and you were almost lost yourself. See! You’re wounded.” She touched his sword arm below the short sleeve of the byrnie.

  Guy was surprised. The slight gash had stopped bleeding, but the dried brown stain from it covered his forearm. Then, to his mixed shame and relief, he saw other dried blood on him and knew it was not his own. They were silent, gazing at the Seljuk lines. Irene made to speak but stopped. They looked into each other’s eyes. Guy, lost for words, remembered the food and drink and rose to carry it across to Aram Gasparian for the Armenian to pass around.

  Resolving to speak his mind, he returned to her. On reaching the shelter of the wall where she stood, he pulled off his helmet and ran his hand over his head. “Jacques and I, and our friends, have collected our horses and essential belongings with some infidel clothing, in the chapel of the tunnel. It’s our meeting place if all goes wrong. I don’t know what will happen this day or tomorrow, but at least we know where our horses and important gear are, with a little food and water. If you,” Guy searched awkwardly for the Greek words, “need to, you might join us. Together and mounted, we might be able to trick or cut our way out and …”

  Irene touched his arm again. “Thank you, Guy,” she replied with moist eyes. “But I cannot. I must try and go to my father and family. And you have your hands full already.”

  Guy had to know. “You know Theodore Ankhialou is in the Seljuk camp?”

  “Yes,” Irene said quietly.

  “He will want you back, if they get in. And the Sultan.”

  “Theodore never gives up anything,” Irene murmured. “I know him. He’s ruthless and has terrible rages. He’ll want to kill you. You must stay away from me, for he would then know who you are.”

  They stood in silence for a time until Irene broke it. “I must go.”

  Perplexed, Guy watched her leave. He had never seen Ankhialou and could not picture the renegade.

  In the late afternoon, the Frankish knight, William, and a hundred from the south wall relieved Guy and his men. After going through the ritual of pointing out significant features of the defence and the enemy dispositions, Guy wearily led his men into the city, arranged for the feeding and care of them and appointed the place they were to meet at the end of the third watch.

  Proceeding to the cathedral and stepping through the silently waiting throng, he found the interior almost deserted with only a handful of people similarly intent on penance. It was cool in there, the smells and sounds of battle seeming far away as he said a prayer for Charles. At length he left and after eating with Jacques at a little inn as they had in former times, they both walked towards the abandoned church where Flora cared for their horses and gear as Joaninna, Isaac, Jacques and Guy came and went.

  Passing by the military stables, they saw Taticus Phocas holding Count Bryennius’ Ruksh saddled, with the bay in his yard. Zarrar was eating, taking a mouthful of his feed and walking the yard with his head up, looking at the sights of Manzikert and smelling the fear and excitement in the town.

  “How now, Taticus?”

  “Guy! You look awful.”

  “People keep saying that,” Guy said with an attempt at levity. “Trying times, eh?” He walked up to the yard and looked in.

  Recognising him, Zarrar, unconcernedly chewing on a mouthful of hay, approached and gave him a welcoming sniff.

  “Look at him, Guy,” the squire said as he stepped into the yard and placed an affectionate arm around the gelding’s glossy neck. “Zarrar is not afraid.”

  * * *

  69Baban—the Seljuk name for a large stone-throwing catapult employed against Manzikert in 1054.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Into the Breach

  Manzikert, First light,

  15th September 1054

  Work parties struggled under the waxing three-quarter moon to repair the breach in the north wall, though their work was constantly disrupted by Seljuk attacks using engines, archers and sorties. So confident was the Sultan, he did not order a deliberate night assault into the gap. Despite the continual harassment, the defenders had by first light chained mantelets into place along the line of the fore-wall and cleared aw
ay much of the debris so the troops behind the barrier had a six-foot height advantage over the coming assault. The people who were killed or wounded doing this heavy work were carried by their comrades into the city.

  Behind the circuit walls of Manzikert, citizens and soldiers alike spent an anxious night wondering at any sudden change to the sounds of jubilation in the Seljuk encampment, dreading the full-scale assault feared at any moment, but which daylight would surely bring. Non-combatants gathered for prayer and to await their fate in the churches and other public places. Despite his piety, Basil Apocapes had overridden the priests and forbidden the ringing of the bells, so the defenders might get what rest they could, huddled on the ramparts or the ground, for some the reins of saddled horses clutched in their hands.

  Bessas and his men searched for the imperial courier, Bardas Cydones, but the shadowy figure had seemingly vanished in the dark alleys, cellars and refugee hovels of Manzikert.

  With the moon going down and the palest light in the east, thousands of Seljuk tribesmen on foot assembled just beyond archery range of the north wall. Behind them regiments of Daylami heavy infantry waited on their shields. As the light became certain, the Seljuk mangonels started to lob rocks at the mantelets in the breach. The first missile overshot, crushing a number of the Varangians. The Seljuks adjusted the range, confident this lighter engine would take care of the makeshift defences.

  The third stone scored a direct hit on the mantelets, smashing one and forcing askew the night’s labours of the Christians. At this, a mounted emir on the low spur line waved his sword and the long assault lines jogged forward with their scaling ladders. Turkic bowmen in the rear ranks kept up constant arrow showers to suppress the defences as the tribesmen closed with the walls. In minutes, the entire length of the northern battlements were under heavy attack, the left flank of the Seljuk assault spilling around in the drained ditch, following the line of the creek along the scarp of the eastern ditch. The densest mass of the Seljuk assault made straight for the breach, intending to batter it until they forced their way through while their comrades distracted the defenders along the adjoining sections of the defences.