First published in Australia in 2016
© Lance Collins 2016.
The right of Lance Collins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Requests and enquiries should be addressed to:
Lance Collins
PO Box 4079, Geelong VIC 3220
AUSTRALIA
National Library of Australia cataloguing in publication data
Creator: Collins, Lance, author.
Title: A Dowry for the Sultan: A tale of the siege of Manzikert 1054
ISBN: 9780994540928 (ebook)
ISBN: 9780994540904 (paperback)
Subjects: Historical fiction.
Dewey Number: A823.4
Cover and internal design by DiZign Pty Ltd, Sydney
Cover artwork: Flight from Archēsh, by Jill Collins
Back cover artwork: Nomad, by Jill Collins
Maps by DiZign Pty Ltd, Sydney
Contents
Title
Imprint
Frontis Maps
Main Characters
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Book One: The Past is a Small Place
Chapter One: Empire of Betrayals
Chapter Two: How Frail the Time of Man
Chapter Three: A Skirmish
Chapter Four: A Red Dress
Chapter Five: The Fountains of Manzikert
Chapter Six: Irene
Chapter Seven: The Fight at the Wadi
Chapter Eight: A Gift
Chapter Nine: From Archēsh
Book Two: The Towers of Manzikert
Chapter Ten: I Will Take as Wife the Most Beautiful Girl
Chapter Eleven: Comes the Shepherd King
Chapter Twelve: The Landscape of Fear
Chapter Thirteen: Laced with Intimacy that Gesture
Chapter Fourteen: The Dance Under Arms
Chapter Fifteen: One Love and One Death
Chapter Sixteen: The Lonesome Dove
Chapter Seventeen: Into the Breach
Chapter Eighteen: Fairest Fame
Chapter Nineteen: The Wrath of the Shepherd King
Chapter Twenty: A Draught of Cool Water
Characters
Afterword
Glossary
About the Author
Main Characters
Guy d’Agiles Frankish mercenary
Leo Bryennius Byzantine officer
Basil Apocapes Byzantine commander at Manzikert
Bardas Cydones Byzantine bureaucrat
Bessas Phocas Byzantine junior officer
Derar al-Adin Arab mercenary in the Seljuk army
Irene Curticius Greek-Armenian woman
Martina Cinnamus Byzantine courier
Modestos Kamyates Senior Byzantine official
Tughrul Bey Sultan of the Seljuk Turks
All persons in this story are fictional, except where specified in the list of characters. Any resemblance of a fictional character to a person living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
This journey could not have been made without the kindness of friends and strangers. Paul A. Blaum, formerly of the University of Pennsylvania, an authority on 11th Century Byzantium’s relations with its neighbours, was meticulous in checking the historical and biographical facts that underpin the story. His knowledge and enthusiasm for the subject were profoundly reassuring and encouraging. John Julius Norwich generously read a later draft and provided invaluable advice and support. A field trip to the fortress ruins and the surrounding region at Malazgird in eastern Turkey was enabled by my Turkish guide and the friendly interest and assistance of many local Turks and Kurds.
Warren Reed, Bob Breen, John Collins, formally of Jacaranda Press, and Rozamund Waring were generous with their time, knowledge and thoughtful suggestions during the early stages of the work. Louise Byrne, Patsy Thatcher, Annette Culley and Rebecca Langley together with Don and Cheryl Osborne, contributed markedly to the telling of this story with their timely editing of the final draft. Hilton Deakin, noted for his work for human rights in general, and Australian Aborigines, East Timorese and West Papuans in particular, very kindly took the time to read the work and speak at a pre-launch in Melbourne in December 2015.
My sister, Jill, researched and painted the cover illustration and Tommy Latupeirissa produced the cover photograph from her original oil painting.
Diana and Peter Murray, at DiZign in Sydney, with infinite patience and knowledge, undertook the design and layout, as well as drawing the maps and diagram.
The responsibility for any mistakes or oversight is mine alone.
Prologue
Twenty lifetimes ago …
They are times of fear and superstition, ignorance and suspicion rife as people attribute great powers to a deity and demons. The rich abuse the poor, the cunning exploit the just and the powerful prey upon the weak who brave famine, plague, attack from beyond and misrule within.
In the spring of 1054CE, Byzantium, the Eastern Roman Empire, languishes in fading glory as Western Europe shakes off the Dark Ages and ripples in the great whirlpool of Central Asia recast the Islamic world. Constantinople is in decline, the treasury looted and Roman Army weakened by neglect and ceaseless wars. Patzinak hordes ravage to the walls of the capital itself as Rus and Vikings prowl the Black Sea. Arabs and Kurds raid the desert borderlands while increasing numbers of mercenary Franks masquerade as friends.
Few in Constantinople recognise the greatest menace in the east, where the Seljuk Turks migrate in overwhelming numbers from the steppes by the Oxus River. With the legendary valour of the horse-people and the zeal of converts, the robber bands with their flocks are forged into armies under a Sultan, Tughrul Bey; risen from wanderer and prisoner to bestride an empire. Ageing and childless he plans to move on the Christian frontier seeking conquest and a captured wife.
As the Seljuk host prepares to engulf Byzantium’s Armenian provinces, a woman with a warning, a Roman officer on a mission and a wandering Frank with nothing to lose, are despatched to meet the shepherd king at the crossroads of the world where the future for a thousand years will be decided.
Chapter One
Empire of Betrayals
The Great Palace, Constantinople,
Early morning, 18th April 1054
Though they may share a path, no souls make the same journey.
Martina’s veil shrouded the outer world in mystery as she followed two nuns along a dark passage in the Great Palace. They had come for her after midnight and waited while she dressed. “You should look your best, dear.”
A door loomed and swung open on oiled hinges. Martina could smell the dampness in the old stone and sensed the familiar iron-leather closeness of soldiers, but could hear only murmurs. She eased her wedding band and forced a composing breath into a bosom that felt crushed by the weight of her gown and cloak. By the light of a flaming torch she could make out an armed cavalryman take post either side of her. From their white cloaks and distinctive shield-emblem, she knew them as from the elite Scholae1.
“Go with them, my child,” said the older nun.
The troopers led her down a flight of stairs, torchlight reflecting orange on their cloaks as th
e sound of booted footsteps echoed off the walls. Tripping once, she admonished herself: people condemned horses for stumbling. Ascending flights of narrow stairs into another passageway, they halted before a stout door. She heard the knock, whispered challenge and password. A white-cloaked arm gestured towards the doorway. Martina stepped into the screened entrance of a large, lamp-lit room where an officer wearing a helmet and chainmail shirt took her cloak then left the room.
“Come in. Come in, girl,” a man said.
She stepped around the screen to face a veiled woman and two richly robed men, lounging on divans by a low table close to a fireplace. A desk covered with papers crowded the far corner where the wall was hidden by drapes and double-doors opened onto a balcony. Beyond that, first cock-crow stole over the battlements and tenements of the great city.
The older man motioned with an upward sweep of a hand across his face. “Let’s see you.”
Martina raised her veil and recognised, by reputation and association, the disfigured face his beard could not hide.
“D’you know me?”
“We all do, Strategos2. You’re our most famous general, Catacalon Cecaumenus.”
“No more than my colleague here, Commander of the Scholae.”
The latter waved a deferential arm to Cecaumenus and nodded to her.
The woman remained silent.
From somewhere outside, not far away, came the sounds of a detachment of cavalry at mounted drill. Preparing for a change of the guard, she thought.
Cecaumenus rose, closed the balcony doors and strode to the fireplace, turning his back to the glow. “Martina Cinnamus, do you know why you’re here?”
She felt her stomach knot. This was Constantinople, still called by its once village name, Byzantium, renowned capital of the Eastern Roman Empire. Though queen of cities, Christian and civilised, boasting a university and legal code; people were still murdered, blinded, disappeared and exiled on imperial whim. “Not really,” she said.
Cecaumenus gave her a lingering look, then walked to stare through the window.
The quiet woman rose and approached, a sweep of gloved hand raising her own veil from a thin, plain face. “You’ve had a dream, child. Two, I’m told.”
Martina did not know this obviously patrician woman and could not guess her age, something over fifty. She saw again the visions in her mind’s eye and felt goose bumps on her arms, despite the warmth of her gown.
“You told a nun, the nun her abbess, the abbess informed me.”
“Mistress?”
Cecaumenus turned from the window. “The Empress-Elector, Theodora.”
“Augusta!” Martina made to lower herself but was prevented by the chaste old lady grasping her forearm with surprising strength.
“No longer an empress, child, so you need not address me by that title. But thank you.”
“But you were,” Martina protested, more aware her country accent contrasted with their crisp diction.
Theodora, the Bulgarslayer’s niece, last of the Macedonians, the virtuous “mother” of ordinary people, co-empress and force behind the throne until banished by her jealous sister, side-lined now by dead Zoe’s husband—an emperor only by marriage—with his Georgian mistress. “All in the past,” Theodora murmured as the tragedies of seventy-four years flitted across her face. “Tell us of your dreams, child?”
The three looked to Martina. She could read nothing on their faces. Did they think her sinner or saint, seer, sorceress or senseless? “I … I had two. The same dream, twice. First when I was a child, the second, three nights ago. I didn’t recognise the setting in the earliest for I was young and had never been to Constantinople. I don’t know what they mean but I was … puzzled … and so told the nun.” She looked to Theodora.
“Go on.”
“I don’t know, Mistress.’ Perhaps I needed to know they meant nothing. They seemed too much to carry on my own and I knew the nun as her monastery is near where I work. I had no thought it would lead to this.”
“What did you see, in your dreams?” Theodora asked gently.
Martina swallowed. “A blue mosque standing where the Great Palace should be.”
“Both dreams the same?” the empress-in-waiting and the general asked in unison.
“A mosque?” Cecaumenus stared at her. “Here?”
Martina nodded mutely.
He again gazed intently at her. “Where were you, when you had your first dream?”
“When I was small, I grew up near the fortress of Abydos, by the …”
Cecaumenus shook his head in disbelief or disquiet. “By the Hellespont, where Troy sleeps beneath olive trees and grazing goats! There Xerxes crossed the sea to attack the Greeks and Alexander traversed the narrows to subdue Babylon. The ancient Romans passed by to destroy the heirs of Alexander. We guard it still, for who holds the Hellespont owns the key to two worlds.” He stared into nothing, seeing everything. “Sit down please,” he said, guiding her to a divan. “Do you remember anything else? A sign or symbol?”
“I can’t.” She sat silently for what seemed like an eternity. “A host of dark riders … and something else … a crescent moon in the morning sky above the mosque.”
“Crescent moon? You’re sure?” Cecaumenus stooped over her, looking into her eyes.
“Yes. I’m certain.”
He glanced at Theodora. “The Seljuk Turks!” His gaze returned to Martina. “Young woman, I’m a devout, some say overly zealous, Christian. In my time I’ve been approached by every manner of portent pedlar. Holy relics, icons, hermits, lizard’s guts—I’ve seen them all, but you, … you’re different. For a start, you had to be brought here.” The general rose, motioning his colleague and Martina to come with him.
Sensing his purpose, Theodora led them to the curtained wall, pulling the drapes back to reveal a swathe of colourful map: stylised, inaccurate and crowded with fanciful annotations, but nonetheless a representation of their world.
“Show me where we are?” Cecaumenus said.
“The city.” Martina pointed to where Constantinople stood as a walled place at the confluence of the Sea of Marmara, the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus: the major crossing place and trade route between Europe, the Middle East and Asia.
“Very good. Your work with the Office of Barbarians stands you in good stead. Point out the Hellespont, where you grew up on the Asian side.”
Martina met his look. The weather-beaten, battle-scarred face bespoke the wisdom of triumphs and disappointments, courage and fear. She felt a curious attraction and sensed he did also. With a flash of guilt she thought of her husband, a ranker in the Excubitores3. He had not come home last night—again. She pointed to the eastern shore of the narrow Hellespont.
“As the general says, you know your geography, Martina,” Theodora broke in. “Our world has been dominated, with some Latin interruptions, by Greek-speaking peoples since the fall of Troy and her allies over two thousand years ago. The early Islamic invasions four hundred years past were a great and terrible threat. With God’s help, we held and steadily regained many of our lost lands, but now, things are turning for the worse.”
In a step, she was squinting at the western extremity of the map. “We’re losing. The Pope in Rome wishes to take over our Church. Norman Kelts threaten Longobardia and Calabria. The populations of the Frankish-Keltic lands are warlike and growing rapidly. At present their armed and destitute younger sons come as mercenaries. Inevitably they will attempt to conquer us.” She pointed to the Balkans. “Overwhelming numbers of barbarian Patzinaks4, pressured by the Cumans5 behind them, have moved southwest from north of the Black Sea, crossed the Danube River and ravaged Thrace. I do not need to tell you we are unable to expel them completely and must sue for peace. Vikings and their Rus offspring have settled along the great rivers north of the Black Sea. Our alliance with their prince at Kie
v is one of religion and convenience only.”
Cecaumenus took over. “The Muslim world to the south and east has been divided for centuries. The Shi’ite Fatimids of Cairo, with whom we’ve been friendly for some time, are enemies of the Sunni Abbasids of Baghdad. Fortunately, they’ve weakened each other and the other Arab states are too small to count. The Kurdish emirates—Ravvadids, Marwanids, Shaddadids—grouped like a horseshoe around the Armenian plateau, are torn by disunity. Further east, the Persians Buyids are a power no more. Beyond them, the Muslim Turkic Ghaznavids6 are both, driven by the Seljuk Turks7, and drawn by desire or destiny, southeast to Herat and Hind, away from us.”
“That was all well and good. But now this Seljuk Sultan, Tughrul Bey, has united and inflamed Sunni Muslims from the Oxus to the Tigris. The multitude of his soldiers have occupied the strategic crossroads of the Iranian Plateau, subjugated the Ghaznavids and Kurds, enlisted the peoples of Transoxania and the Caspian hinterland. The Sunni Caliph in Baghdad is no more than a client. The Fatimids in Egypt are famine stricken and present no threat to him. Seljuk ambition and military strength have grown more powerful and sophisticated as their enemies crumpled. Byzantium is depleted by war and usury. We have nothing left to fight with, no men, no horses, no money. Our army destroyed a Seljuk incursion at Stragna River8 and mauled another by Kapetrou fortress9, six and seven years ago. I fear that was our high tide. Now the Seljuks are back and this time, if we falter, it might signal the last chukka.”
“It is clear Armenia will be the battleground,” said Theodora.
“But you’re our most senior generals,” Martina protested, wondering why they were confiding in her. “Can’t you tell the Emperor?”
“We’ve tried and been rebuffed. He’s surrounded by bureaucrats, was one himself, who have him thinking his agreement with the Sultan means something and there’s no threat. He’s too weak and sick to care anyway, a shell of a man since the death of the beautiful Sclerina—she, it’s said, who could melt a heart of stone. Byzantium sleeps as the Seljuk wave prepares to fall on our eastern provinces. It’ll be worse than the massacres around Artsn10 six years ago.”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 1
