Guy pointed his spear at the grey’s rider and said loudly and insultingly in Armenian, “Stay on my shield side, both of you! I have no reason to trust a brigand like one or traitor like the other.” Uncertain at his haughty challenge, they drew rein, following two spear lengths to Guy’s left. They were riding relaxed, insolently so—spears under their thighs.
Guy calculated half a furlong now to the engine. He could see the bulk of the mangonel coming into view as he outflanked the works protecting it and was awed by its size and power. He was conscious of only desultory movement in the sprawling Seljuk camp. It was hot and this closer view confirmed that the Turks had mostly retired to their tents to escape the midday heat.
From the walls, there was silence. He did not look back.
“You speak with an accent,” the rider on the grey observed. “Latin, if I’m not mistaken. Do you perchance know of a P’rang on a chestnut horse who fled Archēsh with an Armenian woman of great beauty?”
Now certain his interrogator was Theodore Ankhialou, part of Guy was tempted to have it out there and then with Irene’s past suitor. He reined-in his feelings and gave the grey-horsed rider a long, scornful look. Judging the time and space to be right, Guy suddenly plunged the spear point into the ground. With a slight move forward, he crossed himself and lunged Zarrar into full gallop, grasping the firepot’s rope handle and allowing the felt pad to fall away. Glancing over his left shoulder he calculated he had several horse-lengths start on the two startled riders. He heard Ankhialou shout and saw some of the soldiery lounging under their black tents near the mangonel, crawl out and stand to stare at him. The fulcrum of the machine was five times the height of the tallest of them.
In a trice, Zarrar galloped up beside the works before the catapult, enabling Guy to see the treacherous footing around the engine. Coiled ropes, buckets and personal bundles, digging tools and a pile of large rocks littered the ground over which he and Zarrar now had to manoeuvre. He noticed dust clinging to the oil the Seljuks had painted on the weathered timbers.
Drawing abreast of the rear of the device, Guy drew on the bit and brought Zarrar’s near side to the machine. Facing his pursuers he stood in the stirrups on the bunched horse, swinging the firepot around his head, before dashing it with all his might low at the bulk of the supporting beams. There was the sound of smashing pottery, an audible blast of hot air and a purplish flame burst forth, immediately followed by a rolling cloud of pungent black smoke which momentarily blinded Guy and caused Zarrar to plunge sideways in alarm.
Aware of an immediate upheaval amongst the Seljuk troops camped close around, Guy swung Zarrar on his hocks, taking the first shock of Ankhialou’s sword on his shield. He spurred the bay horse out of the hide embrace, breaking free of the grey and galloping a few strides around to the other side of the machine. Drawing rein as he fumbled inside his surcoat, Guy grasped the first concealed naphtha bottle, hurling it high at the greased axle on top of the support beams. There the vessel shattered, splashing the sticky, flammable mixture over the upper part of the mangonel, causing the searching flames to leap upwards into it.
Sweat blinded Guy’s eyes. The emotional and mental exertions of the last few seconds already had him gasping for breath. Both mounted adversaries were on the other side of the machine, shouting at each other, coordinating which way they would attack him. A group of footmen ran up on Guy’s unshielded off-side, one thrusting at him with a spear. The others, half a dozen of them, carried pails of sand and wet sacks to try and beat out the flames. Guy pulled Zarrar back onto collected haunches, using his balance and legs to make the horse swing left, then right, and left again in little rears, confusing his attackers as to his intentions and winding the bay horse up, like a twisted rope, for the sudden lunge. In those few precious seconds, the fire took hold. Guy felt the heat as the flames started to roar up the machine.
Holding the last naphtha bottle threateningly aloft and screaming manically at them, he lunged Zarrar amongst the footmen, scattering them in disorder. As Guy moved, so did the two horsemen. Ankhialou, wielding a sword, broke to Guy’s left, forcing the grey high over the earthworks behind the cotton loads to the front of the machine. The mounted Seljuk, making for Guy’s right had taken up his spear and was thus the more dangerous.
Guy spurred straight for Ankhialou, threatening him with the pot. Ankhialou shrank from the assault and his horse, hocks floundering in loose earth, went down on its knees. Seeing Ankhialou temporarily unbalanced, Guy wheeled Zarrar again to counter the mounted spearman behind him.
Guy felt a stab of terror as Zarrar stumbled, his hind legs fouled in a rope on the ground. Almost dropping the naphtha pot in an effort to stay in the saddle, he hauled on the reins to raise the horse’s head. Zarrar collected himself and lashed out with his hind-legs, casting off the entanglement. Guy felt a rush of relief and exhilaration as the bay horse regained his stride.
Expecting Guy to ride past Ankhialou, the Turk halted his mount before turning it to try and block Guy’s escape. In a fleeting chance, Guy saw the Seljuk, flank-on, at too awkward an angle to attempt the use of his spear. For a moment, the Turk was vulnerable. Guy felt the exhilaration of opportunity. Turning in the saddle he pitched his last pot at the machine, feeling the blast as the mixture exploded. Then he put Zarrar straight at the Seljuk horse’s hindquarters. The bay sprang through the air, knocking the other horse half down with his chest. For a moment, Guy feared he would become trapped in the fall, but with his powerful hindquarters, Zarrar calmly launched straight into a jump, cleared the falling Turkman and landed like a cat, lifting immediately into a hand-gallop.
Wheeling towards the fortress, Guy looked over his shoulder at the conflagration engulfing the mangonel. “There’s a wedding gift for you,” he roared. Knowing his life depended on the horse, he leaned forward and patted Zarrar’s neck through the mail bard while checking the horse’s gait. “Good boy. Good boy. You’ve done it, Zarrar.” Satisfied they were in working order, Guy urged the horse into a full-stretch gallop for the walls of Manzikert, while wiping the sweat from his right hand to ensure it would not be too slippery to hold his weapons.
Aware of the clamour behind him and knowing Ankhialou and the Seljuk would be hard in pursuit, Guy saw before him the line of sentries forming to try and block his way. A number of ghulams had mounted and were also galloping to head him off. Arrows arched through the air towards him. Seeing the letter marking where he had plunged his spear into the ground, Guy sprinted for it, wrenching the point from the ground as he galloped past. In a single smooth, arching movement, he brought the blade to the tilt and passed unmolested through the thin line of footmen, who moved ineffectually to try and block him as a spontaneous roar erupted from the watchers on the walls.
Twenty ghulams of the hassa ordusa galloped towards him in a single extended line. Guy knew he had to break through them to get under the covering archery of the walls, or be forced back into the Seljuk camp and killed or captured. He selected an emir on a black stallion as his point of attack. Magnificently armoured with a gilded helmet and mail coat of black iron, the emir rode heavily, his horse fighting the bit. This man would be the least likely of them all to be able to skip away from Guy’s spear point.
“Steady, Zarrar. Steady, boy, steady.” Guy checked Zarrar back from the flat gallop and was thrown forward in the saddle as the bay abruptly shortened stride, ears back and mane flying, reins slippery with sweat. Zarrar collected as he slowed to a hand-gallop and Guy could hear the grunt of his breathing, the thunder of his hooves on the ground and the mad metallic swish of the mail bard.
“Steady, Zarrar. Steady,” Guy whispered as he settled in his saddle for the shock.
Borne along by their momentum, the ghulams galloped towards them. Guy judged their coming, all hoof beats and yelling, waving spears and urging their horses to full speed, trying to catch him on their points as far from the walls as possible. Three of them sh
ot arrows towards him.
With a quick glance, he saw the renegade Byzantine and a Seljuk riding hard, a spear cast behind him and closing. He knew he could not waste a moment cutting through the line of ghulams, for the cost would be a sword plunged into his back with such force that the mail would not stop it.
Pushing Zarrar on a little, Guy made as if to ride at his right of their line. As he hoped, the big emir jerked at his horse’s head to try and change course, but the black, head extended at full gallop, was unbalanced by having it tugged harshly to its left. The emir tried to wrench the horse to slow down, resulting in a few ungainly strides.
It was at this momentarily unprepared pair that Guy and Zarrar, working smoothly as one, launched a furious charge. Covering them with his long shield, spear couched along the nearside of the bay horse’s neck, Guy and Zarrar punched through the hot air, the point of the Frankish lance aimed straight at the emir’s eyes.
There was a heavy hush on the walls as the drum of hooves and “whoosh, whoosh, whoosh” of warhorse breath sounded loud in the still air. In the instant before they hit, the black horse hesitated. Zarrar with his boundless confidence did not. The watchers gasped at the violence of the impact as the black rider went down, spitted on the iron point of Guy’s shattered spear. Thus Guy and Zarrar broke through the line of the ghulams, six of whom wheeled in pursuit. This momentary delay enabled the hard-riding Ankhialou and the Turk, both waving swords, to catch up, one either side, trying to crush Guy between them so he could neither escape nor fight.
Guy had expected their coming. Thinking he could manage the horse and fight more effectively without the encumbrance of the shield, he flung it off at the head of the horse on his left, causing it to check and fall behind two lengths. Switching the reins in his hands again, Guy drew his sword as soon as he dared after the downing of the black emir, risking those few strides to ensure he and the horse were all right. This was no time to grasp the weapon too early and lose it in a fall, or drop it because he was not firm in the saddle.
Turning to his right, Guy swung savagely at Ankhialou, the blow frustrated on the renegade’s shield. They raced along the edge of the ditch, horses’ heads low under the hissing swordplay, dashing over the rough ground and so smoothly jumping the slain that the riders barely noticed the motion. So close and fierce was this combat, the archers on the wall dared not shoot at one for fear of hitting the other. All was the gasping for breath of men and horses both, the fierce clang of weapons and hoof beats on the hard ground.
Guy twisted left and right in the saddle, so busy raining blows from his father’s broadsword onto his antagonists that he had no time to guide Zarrar. He could see the blue of the renegade’s eyes and his haughty moustaches over snarling white teeth. There was hatred between them, like fighting dogs at a country fair. Guy saw Ankhialou’s blade snake out and touch his cheek. Fighting to control the horse and fend off two assailants, Guy realised that in the speed of the combat they had passed by the bridge to the gate and that he must break contact to return to it.
Sitting back in the saddle and drawing on the reins, Guy sat Zarrar abruptly on his haunches before Ankhialou could check his horse. Surprised, the renegade galloped past them a few strides before he could halt and turn. Swinging Zarrar clear behind Ankhialou’s grey, Guy galloped back the other way, thrusting at an emir and two ghulams that tried to block him.
Crowding him with their horses, they delayed him for frightening, endless moments. Seeing the efforts of these three, other ghulams made to join them and there was a great shout from the Seljuk host. Guy felt the glancing blow of a mace on his helmet and reeled in the saddle. As a sword reached for his throat, he smashed the blade away with his own. Just as another struck at the chamfron guarding Zarrar’s forehead, Guy slashed at the unprotected arm and heard the rider scream. He felt a Turk’s stirrup grind into his leg and blood trickle down his face inside the coif. Crowded by three Seljuk horses, Zarrar stumbled. Through the tumult and fear, Guy saw Irene’s face come to him as if in a dream.
Then Zarrar, kicking, striking and roaring with rage, burst from the melee.
Guy heard the cheering on the walls and sensed the arrows engulfing the Seljuks that were not close to him. Then there were the gate-towers before him and cataphracts cantering out to form protectively around him. Bryennius, mounted and smiling, was suddenly at Zarrar’s head and saying something to Guy, but he could not make out the words. Exhausted and sobbing for breath, he slumped forward in the saddle, sweat streaming down his arms and legs under his armour. Twice he tried to sheath his sword but his arms trembled so much he could not match them. A cataphract leaned from his saddle, took Guy’s sword and wiping the blood from it on his own horse’s mane, slid the blade into its scabbard.
Brown rivulets of sweat poured from Zarrar’s belly, Guy could smell it from under the bard. He wanted to be sick from physical effort and felt he would never again be able to get enough air into his heaving lungs. On excited horses they passed under the gate towers into the euphoric throng. Through the perspiration misting his eyes, Guy saw Irene weeping as she looked at him. He nodded back weakly.
Wild with relief and joy for deliverance from certain death, the crowd surged forward. Selth, Curticius and Doukas were in the forefront of it, yelling exultantly that the frightful mangonel was fiercely ablaze and the Seljuks would never be able to douse it. Frankish soldiers, claiming Guy as theirs, pulled him from the saddle and bore him shoulder high to the steps of the cathedral. There they set him down, pulled off his helmet and coif and gave him a draught of watered wine.
Young women of the city, ignoring the protesting Taticus Phocas, took charge of the reins and unsaddled Zarrar, removing the reeking bard, saddle and cloth along with the chamfron and bridle. With pale arms they gave him a mouthful to drink, sponged him with cool water and dried him with soft cloths. They covered him with a light blanket, decked him with ribbons and love knots and led him to the steps of the cathedral, where the crowd reached out to touch with love the warhorse who had saved them from the swords of the infidels. Guy fought free of the Franks and went to Zarrar, throwing his arms around the horse’s neck.
While people stood to arms around the walls, Basil Apocapes, beaming at their deliverance, ascended the steps of the cathedral. He tried to speak, but his voice was lost in another round of wild jubilation as Guy locked eyes with Kamyates in the crowd, the bureaucrat’s face a storm of hatred.
Basil took Guy by the shoulder and led him forward. Four times Basil held up his arms for silence before the people would let him speak. He took Guy’s sword hand and held it aloft.
Chapter Nineteen
The Wrath of the Shepherd King
The Seljuk Camp before Manzikert,
Early afternoon, 15th September 1054
Derar al-Adin was dozing under their tent in the early afternoon heat. Farisa lay close to him without touching in one curtained section of the tent. Zaibullah lay under the other. The sides were up encouraging any vestige of breeze. He glanced aside and counted the days Farisa had been marking on her parchment. It was the twenty-seventh day of the siege.
Derar calculated the Sultan’s army did not have much more endurance for this venture. The early capture of Berkri and Archēsh had fanned appetites for easy and profitable victories. Widespread raiding proved rich in slaves and booty for the tribesmen and an agonised bloodbath for the Christians; scores of thousands of whom were still being chivvied eastward in footsore, broken-hearted caravans.
The disparate army’s morale had been dented by the impregnability of Karin, Kapetrou and Avnik, a repulse from Baberd, the sanguinary victory over the Armenians of Vanand and now the endless fighting at Manzikert. This had been exacerbated by rumours of Roman troops concentrating at Caesarea for a counterattack, discord amongst leaders, unequal pay, casualties and the lack of fodder and grazing. Cracks were showing. The Sultan needed this army to impose his will on Baghdad
and Cairo; he would be foolish to have it destroyed before the walls of Manzikert.
Much depended on the baban hauled from Baghesh, but it seemed impossible that the city would not fall this day. With one breach all but forced and another likely that afternoon, Derar could not see how the defenders would hold out. Accordingly, he set his mind to the details of the apparently endless task of rescuing Zobeir al-Adin, vaguely listening to the background sounds of some distant hubbub in the lines, imagining another fight between the ghulams and the Daylamis, or a dispute over fodder prices. Then he heard the distinctive sounds of urgent shouting, a few horses at full gallop and the fierce clash of swords.
Farisa rolled indolently over on her side to have a look, but sprang up, urging, “Derar. Come and see! There is a fire and the ghulams are chasing a rider to the fortress.”
Mindless of his bare feet in the dust, Derar leapt up and watched the smoke rising in a dark plume from the camp. He saw too the galloping fight that overtook a lone horseman as he rode through the line of dismounted sentries.
“The baban, the mangonel, it’s burning,” Farisa exclaimed. “Who could do such a thing and hope to escape?”
Even at that range, Derar had the feeling that he knew the horse as the one ridden by the Roman count at the wadi fight. If the rider was the arrogant Roman and he was now killed, how would that complicate the release of Zobeir? “Someone who rode from the city?” Derar wondered aloud, as cheering erupted from the walls. “And they seem to have made it back.”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 62