The previous evening he had barely slept, spending much of the late afternoon with the Persian scribes who had accompanied the raiding columns. They had, in the manner of bureaucrats everywhere, calculated the amount of booty and Christian dead. Taken aback at the toll, Derar had undertaken the nerve-racking crawl in the early hours and despatched another message arrow into the fortress.
Fear had stalked the Seljuk army from the moment of the mangonel’s destruction. Such was the mood that some people of influence feared for their lives. Derar looked at the distant walls standing defiantly on a canvas of handsome terrain and early autumn sky. It was a dangerous time for him now. Should he avoid the orgy of blame that inevitably follows defeat and now steal away from the Seljuk army to secure the release of Zobeir al-Adin?
His melancholy was interrupted by the approaching voice of Emren Dirse. “Hey, desert dweller,” the Emir greeted in a quietness Derar had not heard before.
“Emren. What brings you?”
Accompanied by Burla, Emren stooped under the tent and sat cross-legged next to Derar. “We’re beaten.” They all sat in silence for a while before Emren ventured, “I need you to write something for me the Romans will understand. Will you do it?”
“Of course.” Derar looked hard at his friend.
“There are two things I must do. First I must retrieve the remains of Beyruh Dirse from the ditch. And then I will give to the Frank who has my mare, a copy of her pedigree, so it is not lost to her.” Emren looked long at the fortress, then at Derar. “Do you think he would care about the mare’s breeding?”
“I would normally say not,” he paused. “But this Frank could be different. One never knows.”
A cavalryman of the gulâmân-I suray cantered up on a dappled-grey horse. Leaning from his saddle, the youth informed the two men they were required at the Sultan’s court. “Now, please,” the young man ordered with polite authority before riding off to summon others.
With a resigned glance at each other, they rose and taking up their weapons, walked towards the Sultan’s pavilion. A disturbance on the walls made them pause. They could make out between the merlons many heads moving with an obvious air of excitement. Then there was the distinctive squeal of a pig and they could see the swing beam of a catapult arm being hauled back.
Derar had an inkling of what was about to occur. “Don’t do it,” he said under his breath. “Take your victory gracefully, lest you never be forgiven.”
Emren looked at him, but said nothing.
There was ragged cheering on the walls as men heaved sharply down on the ropes of the engine, catapulting an object from the sling into the dusty air. High in the air it shot forth, landing with a dull thud away from them. They made towards it, shouldering through the outraged crowd that had gathered. In the middle of the throng a bound pig lay dying in the dust, dirt in its mouth and a dulled eye staring at them.
From the walls came a ragged chorus. “O Sultan, take this pig to wife and we will present you with Manzikert as her dowry.” Twice more the chant was repeated.
When they got to the court, it required only a glance to see just how offended Tughrul Bey was. Derar could scarcely breathe as the ghulams made in his direction, passing him to seize another. Isma’il was dragged forth, as was Dumrul. The Persian scribe, Ames, was also flung before the Sultan.
Isma’il stood resolutely, touched by the gloom that had dogged him constantly since he failed to capture Manzikert by coup de main70 on the first night and by the despair caused by Hurr’s leaving. The prolonged siege had deepened Isma’il’s agony. A blow with the haft of a spear sprawled him full length on the ground. The disgraced general lay looking hopelessly at the dusty ground before him, the unfairness of it writ large in the silent language of him.
The spymaster, Dumrul, tried bluster and pleading, reciting how much he had done for the Sultan in the past and at what personal cost. He also was pushed roughly to the ground.
Heedless of his crisp white robes, Ames prostrated of his own volition, all the while praying, either to prove his fidelity or assuage his fright.
Two Christians were also shoved forward. Theodore Ankhialou stood in his characteristically arrogant manner of dealing with other men, staring back at the Sultan as if his defiance would spare him. A kick to the back of the knees brought reality. The other, by his dress and the cut of his hair and beard, was an Armenian rural landlord. Deliberately, this man shook off his guards and slowly prostrated himself.
The vizier walked to the centre of the circle of silent soldiery, looking with exaggerated contempt upon the line of prostrate men. After a disdainful interval, he turned and faced the Sultan’s pavilion, the signal for Tughrul to theatrically walk forward.
Sensing the fraught period of selection had now passed, the crowd murmured. Under cover of this, Derar whispered to Emren Dirse, “Who’s the last man?”
Emren leaned slightly towards. “Tigran Zakarian, the landlord of a place called Arknik. We rode by there on the way back from Karin. He’s supposedly well connected to Apocapes’ council and escaped over the wall the night after the mangonel was burnt. It’s said his wife remains inside.”
At the thought he might yet be exposed, fear stabbed the very heart of Derar, but he held his nerve and muttered back. “Supposedly! Not well enough connected!”
The vizier spoke. “The Sultan, Tughrul Bey, Lord of the Land of East and West, Client of the Commander of the Faithful …” At the sound of his clear tones, the crowd hushed.
Derar scrutinised Tughrul Bey, who stood a spear cast from him. Despite the defiance and anger, Derar had never seen Tughrul Bey look this tired or old. The Sultan glared at the circle of faces, his stare lingering long on his relatives standing together at the front of the crowd.
Tughrul Bey walked along the line of condemned men, pausing over Theodore Ankhialou. “Oh conquering Sultan,” he mimicked, “go and take the town of Manzikert, then we and all Armenia will submit to you.” He paused there, looked down, then turned on his heel, saying crisply to the commander of the hassa ordusa, “Place their heads next to those who failed to guard the baban.” The Sultan paused by Zakarian, “Except this one.”
Realising he was being addressed, Tigran Zakarian twisted his head and awkwardly looked up in terror.
“You may yet be useful,” murmured Tughrul Bey, as if to himself, “if you can talk your way back into the Roman camp. If they take your head, it’s no loss to me.”
The Sultan and vizier looked at each other with that knowing way they had. Watching them from the crowd, Derar was certain the Sultan’s lips formed the words, “Tabriz.” They left at this point, Prince Alkan from Chorasmia hurrying after them.
Later Alkan came to see Derar in his tent. “Before he died, was murdered, Osketsam told me you’re a literate man, a poet.”
“I don’t know where he got that idea,” Derar protested vehemently, remembering the frightening encounter with the Sultan’s father-in-law in the guard tent when he had thought capture was imminent. He was concerned that getting him to write something the Romans understood might be a trap. Derar observed the air of excitement that accompanied the black beard and clear eyes of Alkan. “Why do you need a poet? If I knew a poet, that is.”
“I don’t need a poet. I need a witness that can write.”
Derar’s brow furrowed.
“Don’t be perplexed. The Sultan has decided to give up the siege …”
Derar’s heart leapt. The release of Zobeir and an end to this misery was at hand.
“… but I am honoured with his authority to make one more attempt on the walls. The army will give the appearance of withdrawing and, in doing so, will move the siege engines to the eastern wall. I think the gate between the citadel and the lagoon is the most vulnerable to attack, as we have drained the lagoon.”
“I don’t advise it,” Derar said sincerely. “Indeed, I co
unsel against it. The unbelievers will not be fooled for long and will know the weak spot themselves.”
“We’ll use wheeled crawlers to get to their walls. Anyway, I can do no other, and I ask you to be on the ridge to the east, with the other notables, to witness our deeds.”
“As you wish,” Derar sighed deeply as Alkan walked away.
Farisa watched. “Why do they do it?”
“In war, Farisa, there is always someone to offer up more death. The best offer themselves, as that Frank did. The worst offer the lives of others.”
That night Derar sped another message to the Romans.
Manzikert, First light,
18th September 1054
Before dawn, the defenders were prepared. The other walls were lightly held with the main fighting strength of the garrison concentrated out of sight and under cover in the citadel and along the eastern wall. The cautious strategos had a strong reserve ready in case the spy’s intelligence was incorrect or duplicitous, but Manzikert was ready for Prince Alkan.
Jacques woke Guy before first light, informing him the Seljuks had moved their engines to the eastern approach overnight. Stiff, sore and still fatigued, Guy struggled after Jacques to where Basil Apocapes was quietly directing the troops into place. The strategos saw Guy. “You’ve done your bit,” he said. “No one will hold it against you if you stay out of this one.”
Guy shook his head. “My men are here.”
“You’re right.”
“Where is Count Bryennius?” Guy asked.
“His regiment is in reserve,” Basil explained, “out of range of their stone-throwers, behind the citadel. Doukas is in the citadel. They, like you, have stretched their good fortune. This is the Sultan’s last gasp—it’s my job to meet it.” Basil stood and peered between the merlons towards the growing light. “They’re silhouetted against the dawn. See the standards on the ridge. All their chieftains are up there watching the fun.” He turned to the nearest soldiers. “Keep down everywhere. Don’t show yourselves or shoot back until I give the word. We want them to think we’re done for. Pass the word.”
Basil glanced back at Guy. “Every engine they have—except the one you burned—is out there. This’ll be the most intense flogging we have had. It appears they are going to try and smash the gate. This Lord Alkan knows his stuff—if they’d concentrated like this early on, we’d have had trouble.”
“We did have trouble,” Guy reminded him.
“Watch out,” commanded Basil. “Here it comes, like the flood.”
A storm of rocks and darts hit the old fortifications like hail while others arched high overhead to wreak havoc amongst the townspeople waiting behind the walls with loads of rocks, arrows and water. Dust and flying fragments filled the air and people screamed as a score or more were killed or maimed in minutes. There was a ripple of near panic and people looked uncertainly at the strategos. “Stay down! Stay down,” Basil gestured as his shouts were lost in the din.
Then there came a remorseless rain of arrows, clattering between the merlons to drive the defenders from the walls and skiffing over them to seek out those in support.
Guy, crouching next to the strategos, chanced a look. He saw the formidable assault force moving forward behind four-wheeled and roofed mantelets, thickly covered with fresh hides as protection against fire. Each sheltered between forty and fifty soldiers who heaved the machines forward.
The strategos looked for himself. “Five of those machines. ‘Crawlers’ they call them. The Turk means to push them right up to the walls. The ditch is shallow there because of the rock, so they’ll probably fill it in while we’re pinned down. This time we’ll let them.”
Count Selth approached, hunched under his shield. “When?”
Basil shouted to be heard. “I think we should let them come on so we can hit them hardest at close range, as we discussed last night.”
Selth looked doubtful, but nodded. He peered quickly between two merlons, ducking back as a hurled rock exploded close by. “We can let them come close to the wall between the towers. I’ve rigged up heavy beams, one end sharpened, so we can swing them low and hit the crawlers from the side, hard enough to overturn them, I pray, or at least puncture the roofs so we can get the last of our fire in.”
Basil, crouching in the debris, shifted his weight. “All should have been told. We will make a seemingly ineffectual response with a couple of engines and a few archers. That should stop them from thinking we’re up to something.” He called over two tribunes to reinforce the orders.
Alkan’s barrage was relentless. As planned by Apocapes, the desultory Christian response seemed to cease altogether. There was a discernible thrill amongst the emirs on the ridge as Alkan’s crawlers approached the fosse where his troops erected protective mantelets from which they commenced to fill the ditch with rocks and spoil. Further back, a large reserve was readied to exploit the entry made by the assault troops.
As hours passed, the bright sun grew hotter.
Under the furious punishment from the Alkan’s engines, cracks appeared in the fore-wall and the gate towers were so badly damaged the outer gates hung crazily on their hinges.
Taticus Phocas, Loukas Gabras and a cataphract appeared at Guy’s shoulder and addressed the strategos. “Count Bryennius’ compliments. He sent me to find out what’s happening,” the squire shouted. “It looks like the inferno here.”
“They’ve filled the ditch in places, and five Seljuk crawlers are close to the walls,” Basil shouted back. “Their engines and archers have slackened their effort for fear of hitting their own men. We’re about to engage. Tell Count Bryennius to hold firm where he is.”
The strategos and his chief engineer crawled to a crenelle and peered out. “Now’s as good a time as any,” Selth said.
Basil stood and with his great voice boomed as he waved his sword, “May Christ be with us.”
Archers, slingers, javelin throwers and ballistae-men sprang to their posts and delivered a storm of destruction to the Chorasmians below, as the city’s mangonels heaved full slings of rocks into their midst.
Selth waved his arm, and the great beams were cast from the towers, swinging wildly on their chains until smashing into Alkan’s crawlers. Three were knocked over outright, the occupants quickly despatched by archers on the walls. A fourth had a large hole pierced in its roof, into which a pot of Greek Fire was thrown. The fifth stalled beneath the gate towers, disabled by a broken wheel. The men in the towers hauled up the heavy beam for another attempt, sending it smashing into the wall of the crawler, throwing it sideways and crushing many of the men beneath it.
Loukas Gabras ran to Guy begging permission to rush to the threatened gate. Sending the cataphract back to Bryennius with news from the fighting line, Taticus Phocas sought Guy’s approval to go with him.
“Let them go,” urged Jacques. “It is not your place anyway, since you do not command them. What they ask is something men with fire in their belly cannot be held from, like a good horse.”
Guy looked down at the slaughter in the ditch and on the peribolos, as the remnants of the Muslim attack tried vainly to carry the fractured gates. He had faced many attacks now. This one did not have the same fearful intensity: instead it had the shameful aura of desperate failure and murder. He turned to the two ardent young men. “I cannot stop you. Take prisoners if you can. There’s been enough killing.” He watched them bound down the rubble to join the assault team forming inside the gates under a tribune of the local Armenian troops.
The hail of missiles from the wall broke the attack, forcing the survivors to fall back. Few moved amongst those sprawled obscenely below the fortifications. Apocapes strode along the wall, calling on the soldiers to cease shooting. A ragged cheer rippled along the walls as the sortie ran from the gates and despatched or captured the few survivors cowering under the remnants of the crawlers.
/> From his vantage point on the wall, Guy saw Taticus and Loukas run towards the wreck of the closest crawler, dragging from it a wounded leader, judging by the richness of his armour and weapons. He watched them bend over the prostrate figure as if examining his wounds. They then half-dragged, half-carried him inside the gates and onto the main wall where Apocapes was watching the Sultan and his emirs turn their horses away.
“They’re leaving, God damn them,” the strategos spat bitterly. “So much murder and mayhem, and they just ride away as if it is nothing.” His voice was lost in the rising crescendo of cheering and abuse from the Christians on the walls.
Tacitus and Loukas dragged their prisoner to Guy. “It’s Prince Alkan himself,” announced Taticus.
Guy looked at the Chorasmian nobleman, proud and foolhardy, defiance in his eyes and blood on his gilt armour. “Get his wounds treated and put him in the dungeon,” Guy ordered.
“Wait!” snapped Basil, stepping down from a crenelle and glaring at Alkan whilst jerking a thumb towards the departing host. “This was your idea, was it, this last attack?”
“Yes,” retorted Alkan.
“Well, you can join them,” Apocapes raged. “Cut off his head,” he said to the soldiers nearby, “and return it to the Sultan.”
Guy was speechless, a nausea creeping to his stomach.
Alkan, resisting furiously and grunting in his exertions, was thrust to his knees, his neck stretched over the framework of a mangonel.
“No!” cried Guy, to a glare from Basil.
A Varangian’s axe did the deed. Prince Alkan’s severed head with its silent screaming protest was catapulted over the littered peribolos and bloody ditch to roll over and over, unnoticed in the trampled dust far behind the departing emirs. The walls rang with the cheers, celebrations and insults of the Christians as their deliverance and triumph became apparent. Guy watched the sanity return to the strategos’ demeanour and regret to his eyes.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 64