Bessas met Loukas Gabras but the decarch’s glance bespoke no glad news. “The imperial courier’s a cunning rascal.”
“True enough,” Bessas said. “Keep searching. He’s running out of chances to save himself and must be here somewhere. Even the knowledge of a hunt will serve to keep him off-balance and separated from his friends. He will make a mistake and when he does, there we shall be.”
“It would be better if he led us to them,” Gabras said.
Bessas saw the princeps and Irene hurrying down the path towards where Bryennius was checking Zarrar’s saddle and accoutrements. Guy had gone with Karas Selth into the guardroom. He turned to Gabras and smiled encouragingly. “You’re right, of course. But first things first—we must make sure the Kelt’s mission is not compromised.”
Serena approached. She too caught Bessas’ eye and shook her head. “No one has seen anything.” For a time she surveyed in silence the battlements and buildings around. “He must be here somewhere.”
Bessas looked at her—blonde hair under the scarf, fair skin and the bluest eyes—with tenderness he had once been unaccustomed to. This sudden realisation of the change in him was at once warming, but unsettling. The social pressures of the siege had broken down many barriers, but at a daunting price of fear and uncertainty, for the future or life itself. Serena was frightened, as they all were, but was trying not to show it.
She spoke warmly to Gabras, when many well-born people would not deign to speak to a soldier. The two had been closely engaged in the hunt for the imperial courier for a day now and the task had brought them closer together. She watched Bryennius whispering to Zarrar as the count ran his hands over the bay, telling him what a brave, clever and nimble horse he was, how he must safely bear back the Frank to the gates of Manzikert, and how from this deed he would be as famous as Bucephalus. Zarrar bent his head to Bryennius. “He’s an incredibly calm horse, Zarrar, isn’t he?” Serena said.
“He is,” Gabras agreed. “Never was a horse better bred for the ride the Kelt must make this day.”
Bessas turned as he heard a breathless male voice cry his name.
“Centarch Phocas! Centarch Phocas.” It was Araxie Bagradian, the warrior monk who cried, “I’ve found a priest, dead a day. Stabbed—his cowl taken.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. “I have not run so far since chased by a peasant for kissing his daughter—we were twelve. It still feels like yesterday.”
A murdered monk was suspicious, but Bessas could not determine any immediate link to the imperial courier. “Stabbed, you say? Murdered for food perhaps?”
“Stabbed in his chapel by the military stables,” explained Bagradian, shaking his head “The military stables?” Bessas’ suspicions were now thoroughly aroused. “Where the killer would have seen Guy’s rehearsal.”
“I’m astonished,” Bagradian was visibly shaken. “He was a good and pious man. I cannot understand why anyone would do this.”
People jostled against Bessas who winced as one bumped his wounded shoulder.
Under the direction of Theophanes Doukas, files of archers were mounting the main wall to reinforce those already there. Against his orders, non-combatants were also forcing their way onto the ramparts to see the drama that instinct told them would be played out before the walls. “Ghoulish bastards,” Doukas mumbled to Bessas as he passed, glaring at the disobedient citizens.
Serena took Bagradian’s arm, saying, “You had better sit down, if you feel faint.” She led the priest a few paces to the stone seat under the shade tree by the guardroom. As he sat, the rough black cloth of his habit rose, revealing ancient gnarled feet in worn leather sandals. The nails were long and aged, with dirt under them. Thick calluses had cracked around the sides of the brown, dusty foot and the instep was dried and coloured by long exposure to the sun.
Guy walked with Selth out of the guardroom and prepared to mount.
Seemingly in the vast distance, Bessas heard Basil order, “Prepare to open the gates.”
There was an acknowledgement from the guard and the rasp of the portcullis being raised.
Serena stared at Bagradian’s feet. She stood suddenly, looking Bessas full in the eyes. “He’s here. How often have you seen priests here with soft white feet?” Before Bessas could fully comprehend, Serena had seized his arm with such force that the nails dug into his forearm. “He’s there, in the tower already. Cydones! I saw a monk with soft white feet climb the steps and walk towards the gate tower.”
Gabras stepped closer to her and motioned to four troopers.
Bessas heard Zarrar’s shoes on the cobblestones as the horse took a step forward to brace himself while Guy swung to the saddle. “When?”
“Just now!” Serena cried, already turning to run to the steps leading to the ramparts, Loukas Gabras and four men sprinting after her.
Bessas ran after them for a few painful steps, then turned and called, “Jacques, come quick, and make ready your crossbow.”
The small group ran up the steps, roughly shouldering aside several townsfolk. Serena tried the door leading from the rampart to that level of the tower. It was barred from the inside.
Bessas made a sign for silence. Seeing a heavy pole on the ground, he signalled for a party of cataphracts to fetch it, using whatever cords and straps they could find as carry-ropes. Zarrar’s shod hooves scraped on the flagstones below. At last the battering-party appeared on the rampart. Bessas whispered to Jacques to enter first then waved them on.
From beneath came the echo of the guard commander ordering, “Open the outer-gates,” followed by the dull rumble of the rollers as the great iron doors swung inwards on their iron tracks.
The little wooden door in the tower gave way, and the battering party fell in on top of it. Jacques stepped over them, crossbow raised to his shoulder. Nothing was said. Bessas entered the dark chamber immediately after Jacques and saw the figure in a monk’s cowl crouched over the ballista. The hooded face turned towards them. In the daylight from the arrow slit, Bessas could see the scowling countenance of Bardas Cydones. The imperial courier looked startled, but not terrified as he deliberately turned his head away from them and sighted down the length of the ballista bolt, his soft fingers moving to the release.
Manzikert, Early afternoon,
15th September 1054
As he waited in the guardroom, Guy felt an enervating sense of nothingness. To his surprise he felt less physically frightened now than in the immediate aftermath of volunteering to destroy the mangonel. He had just banished his doubts, no terror, merely nagging preparation, into the pail of excrement at the back of the guardroom and refastened his dress. The old stones of the walls near him were silent and he was grateful for the privacy they afforded for this last reflective moment.
At the strategos’ insistence, Guy had shaved, bathed and changed his clothes to appear as a well-rested and confident chieftain when he rode forth. Simon Vardaheri and Taticus Phocas had obtained and burnished a good mail hauberk that would cover his thighs to the knees when mounted. Guy’s own helmet and a borrowed coif were also polished to a high sheen. Jacques and Flora Asadian treated sword scabbard, belts and scuffed boots by staining and polishing until the leather gleamed with a deep red-brown hue. Into these boots were tucked fitted blue riding trousers. Over a white linen shirt, Guy wore a quilted tunic held to be arrow proof when worn under the mail. Zarrar had been groomed and saddled, armoured with his polished bronze chamfron and mail bard.
At the stables, before Guy donned a surcoat of unbleached linen, Jacques had tied a broad strip of cloth crosswise around his shoulders. This had open pockets sewn into them, both at his left breast so he could reach the two additional bottles of naphtha there with his free hand, his left being occupied with shield and reins. Then they had set out on the long walk through the growing crowd to the guardroom.
In the shadows of the gua
rdroom a circle of silently watching Armenian locals, mixed with Varangian and Norman mercenaries, witnessed his final preparations. They had fought valiantly for a month but were now beaten: one breach in the walls and another soon to be made. Guy could see it in their eyes: he was a dead man the moment he rode from the gates into the midst of the Turkish host.
He had not seen Irene since volunteering to destroy the catapult. Everything had happened too quickly. While the imminent ride should have filled his thoughts, all he could think of was her face, their early rides, the escape from Archēsh and the chill morning after with the dark memory of her former lover stalking them, when Guy had promised not to let the nomads have her.
“Ready?” Karas Selth asked in the coolness of the room, where every sound seemed deafening.
“Ready,” Guy replied.
“Any words?”
“No.”
“None?” Selth asked doubtfully.
“No.”
Selth leaned forward and with his dagger cut a vertical slit on the front of Guy’s surcoat. Taking the first bottle of incendiary liquid, the Byzantine engineer eased it gingerly into a pocket sewn inside. Then he reached in with the second. “Mind you don’t knock them and blow yourself up when you mount.”
Guy looked at him sharply.
Selth stood back. “Let’s hope the Turks don’t look too closely. If you think they suspect something, look them in the eye and act proud. The firepot is in the gate-yard. You’ll pick it up on your way through.”
They walked together into the bright light and growing crowd. Guy pulled the coif over his head and Selth laced it in place. Guy then set his helmet upon his head and adjusted the throatlash, feeling the unfamiliar mail against his throat and neck. The borrowed heavier armour felt hot and constrictive.
It seemed to Guy that he had never seen the world so clearly. Each face, scent and sound had a majesty he had not before noticed. He saw Serena and Bessas rush off followed by Gabras and his soldiers and thought it a strange thing for them to do. Jacques was not in sight and that concerned him too. Domnos and Maria Taronites were there; his hostile face seeming far away and unimportant. Maria stared at him, her mouth open a little.
With a show of confidence for the crowd, Basil exclaimed lightly, “Good luck, Guy d’Agiles. The message is for the Sultan.”
Guy nodded and approached the horse. Zarrar snorted suspiciously and moved a step away.
“Steady, Zarrar.” Bryennius spoke soothingly to his horse and turning to Guy explained, “He can smell the naphtha and knows what comes. Don’t worry. The horse will do his work.”
Then Irene was standing next to him, her green eyes moist and black hair bound back by a blue kerchief. She stood between Guy and the near-side stirrup, preventing him from mounting. Oblivious to the silent crowd, their eyes met.
“Don’t do this for me,” she murmured. “I am not worth your life.” Irene took his hand in hers and for long moments she gazed at his face. “Don’t.”
“I’ll see you soon, Irene.”
They were silent until she said finally, “You lost your scarf on the Archēsh track,” She took the kerchief from her hair and knotted it around his arm. “For luck.”
Zarrar moved impatiently.
“All right. All right,” Guy turned to the horse and mounted with help from Bryennius and Selth. Seating himself in the saddle and searching with his toe for the off-side stirrup, he felt the explosive power beneath him. “Steady, Zarrar!” He looked down at Irene’s face.
“He’s right,” reassured Bryennius.
“Beware of Ankhialou,” Irene warned. “He often rides a grey horse, a gelding with a dark mane and tail.” She smiled bravely. “He knows of you and will be searching for you. He’s bigger and very cunning. But you’re a better rider, more skilled-at-arms, and God is with you.”
They handed up his shield and spear with the letter firmly attached by a red ribbon. Irene stepped forward. Taking a light chain and its crucifix from her neck, she attached it to the throat lash of Zarrar’s bridle. The bay horse, sensing a bond between Guy on his back and the woman, bent his head to her. Murmuring something no one heard, Irene Curticius kissed Zarrar lightly on the muzzle and stepped back.
Guy read the emotion in her face. “I go for you and will return for you,” he said.
“I shall pray for you.” She blinked away tears.
Zarrar moved again.
Guy swallowed and motioned the horse on. “What does the letter say?”
Bryennius answered. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. Isaac chose it.”
“Go!” said Basil.
Bryennius swung onto Ruksh and fell in alongside, the two horses stepping into the shadow of the vaulted gate chamber. The strategos walked on foot with them, never taking his hand from the bridle rein of Bryennius’ chestnut. In the gate courtyard, two of Selth’s engineers eased coals from a brazier into the upper chamber of the fire-pot, stopping up the hole at the top with a wooden plug. They covered the pot with a piece of damp felt so the concealing surcoat would not catch fire and carefully passed the device to Guy, who slipped the rope handle over his pommel.
Zarrar tensed at this strange new ritual with its suspicious smells, his whole bunched body a question. “Steady, boy,” Guy soothed, as Bryennius laid a calming hand on the horse. The three walked into the harsh sunlight outside the main wall and through the fore-wall gates.
“God is with you, Guy d’ Agiles,” said Basil.
Bryennius stroked the horse’s neck once and clapped Guy on the shoulder. “Hearts up.”
Guy nodded, urging Zarrar on a few steps. The horse snorted with suspicion as he stared with pricked ears at the wooden bridge and unfamiliar corpses, Seljuk earthworks, the sentries and saddled horses of the ghulams. Suddenly realising they were alone, Zarrar made to turn back to the fortress.
Guy straightened him with a turn of wrist and a heel. “Come on, Zarrar,” he murmured, trying to conceal his alarm. The horse responded with a sudden start forward, the pot dangling unsteadily from the saddle. “Zarrar, steady,” Guy whispered, thinking how preposterous he would look, bursting into flame, or worse, being bucked off before the crowded city walls. Then Zarrar relaxed and walked forward confidently, his ears back listening for Guy’s voice. Feeling the horse bond with him now, Guy breathed a sigh of relief. He heard the iron gates swing shut behind him. “It’s almost as lonely out here,” he said, the horse moving an ear forward when his rider finished speaking.
Squinting beneath his helmet, Guy set his mind to rehearsing his course to the mangonel. The device was almost two furlongs away, a rough string of pickets with three or four men in each group marking the forward extent of the Seljuk lines. Their forward troops were dismounted, some holding loosely girthed horses. Most were footmen. Guy would need to brazen his way obliquely across the frontage of the western wall, pass through the sentries and ride up to the machine, a short bowshot beyond the pickets and protected by barricade of earthworks and cotton loads.
Dry-mouthed and heart pounding, he rode through the sentries, making sure to pass close to one dismounted group. He kept them on his left, the shield side, so the pot hanging against Zarrar’s off-shoulder would not be noticed by them. Glancing down, he saw the device moving awkwardly in its rope basket. To him, it looked enormous and he dreaded that the whole Seljuk army must surely see it. He feared the coals burning the horse, causing Zarrar to buck or bolt, or setting fire to the felt and his surcoat or worse, going out altogether. Through his uncertainties, Guy searched for a sign of smoke near the machine, so that if his first plan did not work, he could dismount and throw a brand from a fire onto the engine after he had doused it with naphtha. Most of all, Guy was concerned that the Seljuks might uncover his plan before he struck at the engine and attack him in numbers he could not fight off. A thousand fears coursed t
hrough this mind.
He held the reversed spear with its letter high for the dismounted sentries to see. They were fierce, bearded men wearing round felt caps and lamellar cuirasses of laced leather or horn over black and brown homespun tunics. One of them pointed to the mangonel with his spear and smiling broadly said something Guy could not understand. He reasoned the fellow was boasting of what the mangonel would do to the wall this day. Another moved on foot to intercept him.
Guy uttered the Seljuk phrase Togol had taught him. “My patrons send me as their delegate to see the Sultan.” He feigned a harmless, resigned smile and nodded back at them, thinking Latin insults. Waving his spear toward the machine, Guy indicated he intended to have a look at it. With the deference due to a mounted man of rank, the sentries allowed him to pass.
Zarrar, as he ambled by in his quickstep, gave the footmen a suspicious, disdainful, snorting glance. The horse walked swiftly, light of mouth and collected, his ears pricked, one switching back every few seconds listening for Guy’s command.
From the corner of his eye, Guy could see a few ghulams tightening their girths without any appearance of urgency. Others had mounted to get a better view of him. There seemed to be no immediate menace from them and none appeared able to prevent him reaching the engine.
Through the picket line now, Guy had perhaps a furlong to ride. From the corner of his left eye, he saw an armed and armoured warrior walk towards him on a well-bred grey horse. Something about the newcomer spelled trouble: he did not look Turkic, bore an almond-shaped shield and was not carrying a bow. Another rider, a big Seljuk on a Turkmene mare, joined the stranger. The two talked familiarly with each other as they approached to within a spear cast of him. Guy thought the horseman mounted on the grey made to ride behind him and close up on his off side, leaving his companion to draw alongside Zarrar’s near-side. The two strangers might look just like a polite escort, but it would severely hamper his attempt to destroy the stone-thrower if they succeeded in getting one on either side of him.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 61