Ranks of cataphracts came upon them, carrying Guy and the Varangians forward. Guy was borne by the closed shields behind him and pushed into the sea of snarling bearded faces, crying to their own God in their fears. While all was lightning fast around him, it seemed his own arms and legs were as lead, unable to keep pace with the feverish demands of his fighting instincts.
A Daylami seized Branas by the harness of his cuirass. Guy saw the enemy’s vulnerable arm and cut at it. As he did so, he was vaguely shocked that the Daylami—the hysteria of battle high in him—had been so intent on pulling away the fallen count that the soldier had simply watched Guy slice into his limb.
Branas’ head lolled helplessly. Guy saw the fading blue eyes recognise him as Branas made to say something, but his torn throat would not work. Instead, he waved weakly towards the city. In the midst of the hacking, stabbing, screaming multitude, a decarch of the Scholae arose; taking hold of Branas by the shoulder straps of the cuirass, he made to pull him back to the Roman lines. With a great shout of rage, the Daylamis railed against them.
Standing astride the fallen count, Guy stuck blow for blow against a daunting opponent, sword blade grinding against sword blade. He noticed the eyes narrowed over the shield rim and the sun glint weakly through the dust and tumult of the combat on the burnished iron helmet, the solid brown arm raised with its bulging bicep, a hairy armpit beneath. It was unprotected: so close he could have reached out and touched it, but it was on the wrong side for him to get to with his sword.
With a sickening metallic rasp, their swords slid together so the hilts met. Guy realised how powerful his antagonist was as he felt his arm being driven back. He thought about releasing his shield to reach for his dagger, but in the press he could not disentangle from it. Grunting with effort, he strove to force back his opponent’s sword arm. The Daylami’s green eyes stared into his. In momentary terror, Guy was consumed by the leer of imminent success on those bearded lips.
From Guy’s left, a broadsword slid with seeming ease half its length into the Daylami’s armpit and he crumpled as Centarch Lascaris wrenched out his blade. Before Lascaris could recover his guard a mace knocked away his helmet and a sword slashed his forehead. Doubled over, the centarch stumbled to his right, instinctively seeking the cover of Guy’ shield.
There were Greek shouts of, “Make way. Make way.” Hands reached out to guide the popular Lascaris into the safety of their ranks.
“Fight on! Fight on! We nearly have him,” Guy heard from close behind him.
How small the world seemed now. Nothing seemed important except to stop the Daylamis carrying off the fallen Branas: he who had ridden out to tell the Sultan to go home, and gone again to offer them a truce to bury the dead, and who was cheerful, brave and ever watchful. In all the hysteria the wider battle, even the defence of the breach itself, seemed somehow less important than saving him.
It seemed another phalanx of Daylamis, led by their prince, rose from the maelstrom and surged forward. Powerless to prevent it, Guy and the few men around him were forced back from the prostrate count. They stepped a pace back. Then two. And three.
Guy’s ears rang with the din of battle and his eyes ran with dust and exhaustion. Sweat streamed underneath his helmet, stinging his eyes and tasting salt in his mouth. His tortured breath came in throat-tearing gasps and his lungs burned from the need for air. Under the heavy armour his clothing was soaked with sweat. There was blood on him and he knew it was his. He stabbed and parried with the sword but could not make a mark and felt a sudden sense of being alone.
Daylamis were bending behind their front rank to gather up Branas. There was now a growing cohesion amongst them. Guy sensed it from the way in which their shouts were becoming more cadenced and their shield wall was taking form after the chaos of the close quarters fight.
With his animal instincts racing, Guy backed another step. He saw the Daylami prince stride purposefully to the front of his men who were forming-up in the narrow space between the walls. They had conquered the awful rubble of the fore-wall and knew one more push would carry them into the fortress.
Cataphracts formed around Guy who could hear Bryennius shouting to steady their ranks and to charge on his command. Guy readied himself. Arrows arched above. Somewhere close by a rock struck the wall with a dull thud. Against the distant tumult, there was a sudden silence as the two sides at the breach looked into their enemy’s eyes before throwing themselves forward once more.
Suddenly, sharp iron hooks thrown from the wall gripped the prince of the Daylamis. In an instant, the Norsemen, seeing their victim snared, jerked tight the rope while others swung on beams and pulleys to haul the hapless prince upwards. Without daring to look, Guy knew the shrieking prince was being raised over the wall to be taken prisoner.
In that moment, Bryennius and Guy screamed for the charge, hurling themselves at the startled ranks before them. With savage fury, cataphracts thrust, parried and bashed forward until with a roar of triumph, they passed over the broken bleeding form of Branas as the Daylamis broke and ran.
At the brink of the ruined fore-wall, Guy sank to his knees. There was no cheer. On seeing the enemy withdraw beyond arrow range, men pulled off their helmets and sobbed from physical and moral collapse. Guy and Bryennius looked at each other in the shocked recognition that the fight had been won for the moment and that they still lived. Then they remembered and turned to Branas.
One leaned over him and said, “Count Branas has gone to God. We can only mourn him now and bless his soul. He was the best of men and lived the life of a saint.”
All seemed surreal as the soldiers stared at the ruination around them and comprehended their own survival. They heard the groans of the wounded and crossed themselves, each man wondering how long his fortunes could last. “Lord Jesus Christ, our God, have mercy on us, Amen.”
Oleg, ran forward from the main wall, calling his men forward. “Leo,” he cried. “My men will take over here. Get yours back. They have done enough for now.”
Basil, exhausted himself, nodded mutely to Bryennius. “Well seen, Oleg. We must establish order here before they come again.”
Irene approached, calling over her shoulder for the orderlies to move forward and tend the wounded. She had removed her helmet. Guy could see the ring of damp, flattened hair where the sweatband had been. Without a word, she handed him a water skin.
An Armenian cavalryman rode up, dismounted and clambered to Basil, with whom he spoke quietly but urgently. In the late morning heat the strategos listened as he looked at the enemy retire to their tents. “Count Bryennius, Oleg,” he said. “Leave Egin in charge here—we must attend the western wall.”
Something in the evenness of Basil’s tone made Guy and Bryennius exchange glances.
“You’d better come too, Guy,” said the count.
The cavalryman passed his reins. Basil took to the saddle, with Bryennius and Guy hanging onto a stirrup leather each. Oleg took hold of the same stirrup leather as Guy and at a trot they made their way to the middle of the western wall.
Manzikert, Late morning,
15th September 1054
Guy followed Basil up the steps of the main wall to find many of the council already there, including Modestos Kamyates who hovered at the edges, waiting for the moment when his words might carry most weight. Cydones was missing and Guy wondered how the hunt for him had progressed.
John Curticius looked distraught. Guy shared his distress, for it was the princep’s daughter the Sultan might take as his bride. He had heard Curticius, despite his shortcomings, especially the fondness for wine, had won respect on the walls as a determined and adaptive fighter.
Isaac listened in the background. Bessas, his wounded arm still in its sling, arrived looking like he had not slept properly for days.
Curticius grunted. “There it is—next chukka in the shepherd king’s game.”
&nb
sp; A glance between the merlons revealed the dilemma. The concealing screens had been removed, uncovering the huge mangonel—that had wrought such destruction against the north walls—already in position to create a second breach. It was now within range of the city’s defences and well protected by low berms, surmounted by cotton bales, which the Seljuks had thrown up.
Guy felt a jolt of fear when he saw it.
“You see the problem?” the strategos asked, looking at Bryennius and Selth in particular. “In the post-noon, they’ll attack the breach in the north wall. At the same time, they’ll create another here.” He lowered his voice. “I do not believe we can defend both, for we’ll be heavily outnumbered at each. Many of our men have already been cycled through defence of the first breach. All are exhausted. We’re low on arrows and bolts …”
“And almost out of fire,” Selth reminded them.
“We need to destroy it, now.” Bryennius said.
“How?” Doukas asked, tears of failure and frustration welling in his eyes. “We can’t touch it with any engine we have, nor could we build one in time. Even Araxie Bagradian’s mangonel cannot reach it with a sufficient weight of rock to wreck the infernal thing.” He waved impotently at the Seljuk engine. “And see, they’ve protected it well.”
Bryennius looked long over the Seljuk camp and engine before he then turned to them. “There seem to be three choices,” he said just loudly enough for the circle to hear him. “Mounted attack as we’ve done before. Dismounted attack as Theophanes did on the first night. Or some stratagem. They can defeat a formal mounted or dismounted attack. See, they have deployed many mounted ghulams and Daylami footmen—they’re ready for that. It’s what they want us to do and their sentries would sound the alarm before we left the walls and formed for battle.”
They were all grimly silent.
“What do you have in mind?” Curticius asked.
Bryennius looked once more over the walls and bit his lip.
“Leo,” prompted Basil.
Glancing around at the small circle of worried faces, all that was left of the council, for some had been killed or wounded, Bryennius ventured, “Someone must ride out there, as though a messenger, carrying a concealed naphtha pot, and burn the damned thing.”
“Just like that?” Doukas gasped. “How’ll you set fire to the mixture? We can’t reach it with fire-arrows, and the Seljuks are unlikely to provide you with a flaming brand to torch it and there doesn’t seem to be a cooking fire near it. Nor does carrying a pot with a smoking wick seem practicable.”
Selth cleared his throat but even then could scarcely get the words out. “I’ve made a pot.” They all looked at him. “Two—two clay pots—months ago. They have been fired in two parts. The bottom is solid and contains the naphtha. The top chamber has a solid bottom, except for a bunghole, but there are many holes in the sides to permit the flow of air. The whole is held in a rope basket with a handle. The idea is to seal the flammable mixture in the bottom chamber with a wooden bung and clay, then to put glowing coals in the top.”
The council were deathly silent as they stared at the engineer.
“Brisk movement will permit the air to fan the embers and keep them alight for a short time. At the decisive moment the device is swung around, which will fan the coals to glow, then the pot is dashed against the object, the hot coals igniting the mixture as it splashes over the target. The rope basket serves as a means of delivery and also keeps the naphtha and coals together. At the time of impact, it will itself be soaked in naphtha and catch fire.”
“You thought of this?” Basil asked.
“I made the pots,” Selth said unassumingly. “The plan for delivery is Leo’s.” He looked at their doubting faces. “Might work?”
Basil looked at Bryennius. “Always thinking, eh!” He chuckled grimly then regarded Karas Selth with a long, thoughtful stare. “You say this thing hasn’t been tried?”
“Once only, an earlier model. These two haven’t been tried,” Selth answered.
“The damned things will be dangerous enough,” said Oleg, “let alone to load them on a horse, ride out there in broad daylight into the middle of the Seljuk army, and then just casually set fire to that mangonel. It’s a ride to Valhalla for whoever goes.”
“Oleg,” Bryennius said gently, “You’re right, my friend, but we’ve no choice, or time. The moment has come—one dies or we all do.”
Basil stared over the battlements at the huge machine protected by defensive works. “Karas, you’ve two of these ready to use?”
“Yes, Strategos. And some naphtha pots to throw on the flames afterwards.”
“And they can’t put out the fire?”
“Not unless they have carefully stored a very great amount of piss and sand around it,” Selth answered with somewhat more confidence.
“Which they may have done.”
“Who is to make such a ride?” Oleg wondered aloud, his indifferent horsemanship adding to the multitudes of uncertainties he foresaw.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Basil.
Guy, listening to all this, drew his eyes from the close circle of faces. Along the walls, soldiers and townspeople watched the council in silence, interpreting through their fears and hope every expression and gesture of the city’s senior soldiers. Below them, hundreds looked up, pale with fright for they read the desperation in the discussion amongst the council. Many people sank to their knees in prayer, while others wept openly in terror.
Basil went to speak, but Bryennius cut in. “Strategos, we need to keep quiet about this. It’s our last attempt to keep them outside the walls. We cannot afford for anyone to deliberately, or even accidentally, interfere with the plan.”
It was at that moment that the corrupt merchant, Domnos Taronites, very agitated, walked up and stood by Kamyates. The merchant was wearing the same crimson gown and expensive kid shoes he had when Bryennius had shod Sira at Arknik. Like Kamyates, he was unarmed. Something about their attire indicated to Guy that they were dressed to be noticed: not as soldiers, but as rich men, ripe for capture, ready to reveal their riches, or be ransomed if the city was taken, anything to avoid being killed out of hand in the first orgy of destruction. Anything to give their sly tongues the chance to work, he thought.
Kamyates, sensing the unease of all who watched, began loudly enough to be overheard by many of the people standing below them, as well as the troops on the wall. “Apocapes! There is a fourth choice that Count Bryennius was too clever, or foolish, to bring up. Surrender the city. It’s over. You must surrender the city.”
Basil was speechless.
“There’s no other choice,” Kamyates continued smugly. “You cannot beat the Sultan. It’s over. Your vanity does not matter any more. The citizens must place their trust in our Lord and beg the Sultan’s mercy, if they wish to live beyond this day. I demand it.”
The strategos had recovered from his shock and appeared even-toned, but Guy knew him well enough to see that this time he was dangerously angry.
Taronites, the merchant who had never borne arms, piped up, “Basil, you cannot win. Your execrable pride threatens us all. Yours, and Bryennius’, and this barbarian’s.” He gestured towards Oleg. “And that of this foolish, greedy Frank here.” With a sniff he indicated Guy. “You buffoons risk all our lives. Give the infidels what they want. Send out Curticius’ daughter! She’s the one the Sultan would marry, isn’t she? We’ve all heard. And send with her the beauteous young women and men laden with gold and silver. The Seljuks will go away then, having attained their hearts’ desire.” The merchant looked at Curticius.
Many people looked at John Curticius. Guy watched the man visibly wither. A haunted look took hold of his face as he looked down for long moments then dolefully around. Guy thought he was about to cave in to the perceived public will, or private desire for life, no matter how timorous
. Or did the father hope if the daughter surrendered herself to the Sultan’s whim, she might remain alive and rise to power and influence. After all, other Byzantine girls—Qarātīs, Hubshiya, Dirār and Qurub—had borne sons who became caliphs in Baghdad—surely better that than being violated and killed resisting the inevitable in the smouldering ruins of Manzikert.
Guy, seething inwardly, despised Taronites as a wife-beater and coward. He felt his cold anger towards the man stirring, even more so given the merchant’s shrill tone. Even had such a craven scheme as Taronites proposed been thinkable, the situation was too desperate now for the Seljuks to be bought off. Every person in Manzikert knew well enough the fate of Archēsh after its surrender. All understood that there would be no mercy for a city that had resisted for so long and inflicted so many casualties on the invaders. He looked around, but could not see Irene.
“Do you number your own wife, the lovely Maria, amongst those who should be thus sent forth?” Oleg exploded.
“If needs be,” replied the merchant, cunning enough to know blatant hypocrisy would not wash now.
Guy had a fleeting mental image of Olga, Maria and others being forced out the gate and carried off by the infidels. He saw the angry spittle caught on Kamyates’ beard and Taronites blanch as Oleg’s hand gripped his sword hilt. Then Guy thought of Irene forced out of the gates by these two or borne away by some Seljuk during a sack and the idea was unbearable.
John Curticius licked his lips as if to speak.
Guy was about to cut him off, but Basil caught his eye and shook his head imperceptibly.
Kamyates added to the diatribe.
Through his anger Guy did not discern what the haughty courtier said.
There was a murmur in the crowd, an uneasy stirring, the first hint of a mass panic. In a blink, Basil Apocapes stepped forward and landed such a punch into Taronites’ sternum that the merchant folded to his knees with a gasp.
“You will address me as Strategos, you petty profiteer,” Basil roared, giving the quaking merchant such a tremendous kick that Taronites fell backwards down the steps. “Get off my battlements, damn your eyes. You are not fit for the walls of Manzikert, upon which so many men, women and even children have given their lives. You never amongst them I have noticed.”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 59