A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  “Shall we send the infidels another pig as well, strategos,” asked a nearby soldier.

  “No,” said Apocapes turning away, his head bowed. “We—I—have insulted them enough. Now we must tend our wounds. Nor is their apparent departure to be trusted. Stand down. Sentry posts manned. Summon the council to my rooms in the citadel.”

  Seeing the city through a blur of tears, Guy stumbled away, into the standing figure of Modestos Kamyates who had witnessed everything, including Guy’s distress. The courtier’s countenance revealed a revulsion equalling Guy’s. “That was badly done,” he murmured sadly. “You see, we Christians have no higher claim to righteousness.”

  Guy nodded mutely and dragged his spear and shield away, shaken by the strategos’ lapse and the unexpected humanity in Kamyates. As if in a dream, he returned to the little room in the barracks and threw himself down on his paillasse.

  The following morning, Guy woke to the sight of Jacques excitedly entering their room. At first he was alarmed and instinctively rose to a knee, reaching for his sword. A second look revealed there was no disquiet in Jacques’ manner. Guy felt refreshed after a good night’s sleep. His headache was gone and while the covered slash on his cheek itched a little, he was confident it would heal quickly. Sitting on his bedding, he gingerly touched the wound on his head and was mildly surprised by the rough feel of a scab, but pleased it did not hurt much.

  “You’ll live,” Jacques said breezily as he squatted in his loose trousers and a mail corselet he had acquired from somewhere. He wore a leather military belt with the sword of Sira’s former master in its scabbard. “The infidels are still leaving.”

  “I thought they left yesterday?”

  “They can’t all go at once. We’ve won,” Jacques smiled as he rose and began to whistle a country air from home as he tidied up around their room.

  Disbelieving, Guy sat on a stool looking up at him. It seemed so long ago that he watched the Seljuk army ride into the valley. So much had happened since then. He brooded over the terror of battle, struggling against a fatigue that he could never before have imagined and of what seemed like the strategos’ final betrayal of all they had fought for.

  Irene entered. Wearing a gown but unveiled, she was also flushed with excitement. “I wanted to tell you …” she started, but saw at a glance that Jacques had already passed the news. So she just flung herself across the room and hugged Guy, burying her face in his tunic so the tears of relief could not be seen.

  Guy held her for a little while, smelling the perfume of her hair and feeling her body against him. At length he said, “Let’s go and see.” He took up his military belt and they set off.

  Jacques swept up Guy’s felt hat and placed it on his head, and carrying a water skin, walked behind them into the uncertain early light of the thirtieth day of the siege.

  They reached the northwest tower where the door sentry, a Frankish footman, recognised them and permitted entry. Along the walls the garrison remained stood-to, as they had in the early mornings for over a month now. The people lining the walls watched silently, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Guy looked at the faces: Frank, Rus, Norse, Roman, Armenian with a few Kurds and Arabs. The armoured professionals stood under arms next to ragged peasants and townspeople. Many wore bandages and all were gaunt from the physical and emotional drain. Many prayed silently as they watched the Seljuk host depart.

  Bryennius and Lascaris were lounging on merlons next to Basil Apocapes with Togol and Simon Vardaheri slouched against the wall nearby. Though bareheaded, all were armed and armoured, their helmets in a pile on the flagstones. The group saw Guy and his friends and gave a silent acknowledgement. He noticed the long locks of the Cuman contrasting with Vardaheri’s bald scalp, remembering how infrequently he had seen them without their caps or helmets on.

  “The Daylami tribe are leaving already,” observed Lascaris, a clean bandage around his head.

  Long columns of them were riding their camels, or marching away, across the crest to the north; from where they had launched so many fierce attacks. Beyond them were long windrows of tribal horse-archers already saddled up and making eastward, with their pack camels and donkeys trailing them. Even at a glance, there was an obvious difference in the enemy dispositions. The siege lines were abandoned. Beyond them a mounted picket still guarded against a surprise attack from the fortress, as the Seljuk host in their camp struck tents and loaded their carts and pack animals.

  “What do you think, Count Bryennius?” Basil asked.

  “It certainly looks like they’re leaving, but they are a crafty lot, and determined. They might just as well make it look as if they are leaving and double-back when we have relaxed our guard.”

  “They’ll need two days at least, to clear a camp that size,” Lascaris stated with professional calculation, “or they’ll simply clog up the road back past Archēsh. And if they attempt to withdraw too quickly, their main body will draw beyond their prisoners and booty.”

  “Antony is right,” Bryennius remarked, turning to the strategos. “I suggest we give them a couple of days to get clear and then we follow up, to make sure they have gone, hurry them up a bit and rescue anyone we can.”

  A thoughtful Basil gazed over the departing host. “We can mount about two thousand here?”

  Bryennius and Lascaris glanced at each other. “Close enough,” Bryennius replied.

  “There has been no word from Artzké,” said Basil. “I fear much of the enemy may withdraw that way to free up their route from here. I have not noticed significant smoke from that direction, which might indicate it has gone up. So Artzké may provide more troops for us—could join us at Archēsh, or have a detachment meet us here, or both.”

  “We could only have half of the Artzké men to follow up the enemy on the Archēsh track,” Bryennius said. “We’ll need to screen any withdrawal of the Seljuks on the southern route, along the north coast of the Sea of Bznunik. The Artzké troops would need to do that—half of them at least. We might also get a courier off to Taron, to see if they can send a contingent.”

  A lone rider on a chestnut horse approached at a slow walk from the Seljuk encampment and distracted Lascaris from the discussion. “What is this fool doing?” he asked.

  “Another looking for a relative to take and bury, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Basil. Then he turned and shouted, “Steady on the wall. Let the Turkman be.”

  Guy recognised the rider as the one who had walked his horse along the edge of the ditch on the first day of the siege, asking after Sira. “It’s Emren Dirse,” he said, surprised as much by his memory of the name as by the perplexed looks from the men around him.

  Sensing the interest of the group in the tower, Emren Dirse halted and looked up.

  “Who goes there?” challenged Vardaheri in the Turkic language.

  “The Emir Emren Dirse. We’ve spoken before, I think,” the rider called back.

  “How come you?” asked Vardaheri.

  “In peace,” the Turkman replied. “I seek the body of my brother and to speak with the Frank who rode with the woman from Archēsh.”

  Vardaheri looked at Guy, saying with a grin, “Everyone wants to talk to you all of a sudden.”

  “I’ll go down and talk to him,” Guy volunteered, his curiosity aroused. He heard Irene catch her breath and winced inwardly. “It’ll be all right,” he said.

  “Go,” said the strategos. “Take Togol and Simon with you, if they agree. See what you can find out.”

  Simon Vardaheri, who had been watching them keenly, turned to the wall and called down to Emren Dirse: “Where do you believe your brother is?” In answer, the Seljuk pointed with his spear to the ground between the ditch and northern fore-wall.

  Basil spoke to Vardaheri. “Tell him to go there. Our party will pass through the sally-port and meet him there.”

  Irene went with th
em, only her promise of remaining in the tower overcoming Guy’s objections. They walked between the double-walls to the place where, on Lascaris’ order, Varangians opened the sally-port by a tower. Guy, Togol and Simon Vardaheri made their way onto the peribolos, down the corpse-strewn scarp and out of the ditch to where Emren Dirse waited with his skittish mare.

  The emir said nothing as the three approached. All held their hands on the hilts of sheathed swords. As they came close to him, Emren Dirse looked at Guy and said, “It is you?”

  Togol interpreted.

  “What do you want?” Guy asked, looking closely at the Turk and listening to Togol’s interpretation. From its length, Guy thought Togol’s introduction was more polite than he had been and he was again grateful for the big Cuman’s tact.

  “First the body of a relative,” Emren Dirse asked.

  “The strategos has directed that you may search,” answered Togol.

  Emren Dirse thanked him and made to lead his horse into the ditch, but she uncharacteristically baulked. The emir tried twice to lead her in, but the mare still refused. Shortening the long reins so he had more control and something to strike her with, he got alongside her shoulder and flicked the leather ends against her flank, trying to make her go over the edge with him. The mare threw her head up and stumbled backwards.

  His overwrought nerves failing him, Emren Dirse went to strike her harder, but Vardaheri stepped forward saying: “We’ll hold your mare. It is not a pleasant task. It’ll be easier …”

  Surprised at the Roman speaking the language of the steppes, Emren Dirse soothed the mare, which then came to him. “Thank you. What happened to the man I spoke with on my first visit to the walls, the one who asked after the dancer, Hurr?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “The woman disappeared on the day of the mounted battle outside the walls. I have often wondered about him and her.” The emir did not miss the exchange of glances. “You needn’t worry. Anyone interested in chasing them is dead, having paid the price of leading the Sultan here.”

  “What is said of it?” Vardaheri asked without disguising his interest.

  Guy with unbearable curiosity listened to the Turkic conversation before him. Then his heart leapt as Togol explained, “He said that on the day of the battle, Hurr, for that is her name, could not be found by her consort, Isma’il, one of the Seljuk generals. After the fight, Isma’il wore out a horse searching the camp for her, so everyone knew something was amiss. The talk then was of a stranger riding a carthorse and leading a hack, who some saw with the dancer. Neither the stranger nor Hurr were ever seen again after that day. Their spymaster sent a party to look for them, but they returned empty handed weeks later.”

  “Fancy that,” Guy breathed aside. “Maniakh, stealing the mistress of an enemy general, right in the middle of a battle and getting clean away with her. What stories old Speedy could tell, eh?”

  “The less said the better,” said Vardaheri.

  “You’ve fought well,” Emren Dirse said as he took a rolled kilm from the back of the chestnut mare and followed the horse trader on foot into the ditch. Togol stood near Guy, interpreting what they said.

  “So did you,” replied the horse trader politely.

  “Apocapes still leads you?” Dirse asked.

  “Yes. A good soldier and a pious and just man,” Vardaheri answered.

  “Pious? Until yesterday! Was there a real need to separate Alkan’s head and defile it so?”

  “Apocapes had lost many of his people.”

  Still conversing, the pair drew away from Guy’s hearing. Togol went after them, leaving Guy with the mare at the edge of the ditch. He could see Irene standing in the highest floor of the tower and he gave a restrained sign of reassurance.

  The three figures knelt by the fore-wall, Guy guessing they had found the object of their search. Soon they rose and struggled back towards him with the body rolled in the strong fabric, tied at the ends and in the middle. Breathing heavily, they hauled their burden out of the ditch towards the mare. She rolled her eyes in alarm but stood obediently as they gently lifted the burden across her back and tied it in place.

  They stood looking silently at each other until Emren Dirse spoke. “I ask—beg—once more for the return of the chestnut mare.”

  As Togol interpreted, Guy looked at the Seljuk in his boots and fine mail, the silver inlaid iron helmet and long moustaches. The blackness of the Turk’s long hair and the depth of the brown almond eyes fascinated him. There seemed to be no threat in this enemy now; merely sadness without self-pity.

  Togol was looking at him and Guy realised he had to give an answer. He hesitated, unexpectedly torn in his feelings. At length he said slowly, “Alas, I cannot part with the mare. She has become too precious to me.”

  “I feared as much,” said Emren Dirse. “What’s his name?”

  Vardaheri looked at Guy who whispered, “Tell him.”

  “Guy d’Agiles from the far off land of …” Vardaheri looked once more at Guy.

  “Provence.”

  “From Provence, in the Frankish lands,” Vardaheri interpreted.

  “Guy d’Agiles,” Emren Dirse repeated. With a deliberate movement, he thrust into his belt pouch and drew forth a piece of folded parchment, which he passed to Vardaheri, asking him to give it to Guy.

  It was done. Guy looked blankly at the diagram, which comprised the neatly annotated lines of a tree-diagram, headed in many places by Arabic script. “What is it?”

  “It is a great honour. It’s Sira’s pedigree, so it is not lost to her,” the horse trader answered solemnly.

  Guy was deeply moved and for a moment almost offered to return the horse, but he saw Togol’s hard brown eyes looking at him and remained silent.

  Emren Dirse saw the softening expression on Guy’s face, knowing it for what it was. Saying farewell, Emren Dirse started to lead his laden mare back to the Seljuk lines.

  “Wait!” called Guy.

  Emren Dirse hesitated, then turned to look at them.

  Guy glanced at Vardaheri. “Where can he be found? It might be possible to provide him a filly, if I know where to send it.”

  After Vardaheri interpreted, the emir looked long at them, saying, “My father’s sister lives in a white house, near the market in Tabriz. It has five palm trees behind the garden wall. They’ll know where to find me. I would be in your debt. Peace be with you.” Then he returned to the Seljuk lines.

  The three watched the retreating figure for a time. Togol eventually saying, “Now that you’ve given your word, you must keep it.” Clapping Guy on the shoulder, he declared, “It’s too hot here, let’s go.”

  They reached Irene who had descended from the tower and was standing near the sally-port with a question in her eyes. Guy told her what had happened.

  “I’m glad. I know he chased us from Archēsh, but you did a good thing.”

  As they re-entered the fortress, Guy lingered, looking back towards where Emren Dirse had gone. “It feels like it is over,” he said.

  “Not yet,” said Togol. “It’s not over yet.”

  Manzikert, Late at night,

  19th September 1054

  In the bright light of the full moon, Leo and Lascaris removed their weapons and armour, leaving them in the cleft of the roof and climbed to the highest place they could on the cathedral. Leo eased himself onto a flat space near the top and heard Lascaris breathe a sigh of relief as the centarch sat down beside him.

  “How did you happen on this place?” asked Leo in awe of the view, surpassed only from highest tower of the citadel. The night air was crisp and a breeze had cleared the air a little. He gazed over the now deserted river valley and the roofs and streets of the city.

  “I noticed it soon after I got here,” said Lascaris. “Often through the siege, I would wish to be up here—as if away fr
om it all. Look how the moonlight plays on the snow of the mountain.”

  Leo glanced across, then at his companion. The normally neat Lascaris had unkempt hair and beard beneath the bandage gleaming so white in the moonlight. Below them in the city the last revellers were unsteadily weaving home from the wild celebration that had shaken Manzikert. The circuit walls remained fully manned, but most posted there slept in their cloaks. Sentries peered out into the night. Through the day, Doukas had work parties clear corpses from the ditch, dragging them away by mules fitted with collars and traces, to burn or bury downwind. The work was far from complete.

  Looking at Lascaris, Leo reflected on how many people had some secret place where they went in order to seek some private respite from the horror of the siege. For Basil it had been the citadel tower, where Leo had on occasion joined him. Others took solace in a corner of a church, the lonely crowd of an inn, madness, prayer or the creeping, restless sleep of melancholy.

  For Leo it had been at the stables with his horses. He smiled now at the thought of them nuzzling him, showing their loyalty and concern in the amusing little habits they had: like Ruksh always following him to the gate as if for the last time. Or the day Leo, running breathlessly past to some threatened point with a troop of cataphracts at his heels, glanced over to see Zarrar looking at him and trotting impatiently along the yard rails with his head over them.

  “What are you thinking?” Lascaris asked.

  “Just that I would go to the stables when I could—to get away.”

  Lascaris, digging into the satchel he took from his shoulders, produced wine and two goblets. “This will get you away,” he said mischievously. “Red.”

  “Son of Bacchus! I’ve enjoyed about as much water as I can stand.”

  He saw Lascaris smile back in the moonlight as they raised their goblets to each other.