A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  The three looked blankly at her. “Why?” asked Guy.

  “Haven’t you heard of Artsn?”

  “Artsn? A town?”

  “A city, a beautiful Armenian city, now a ruin inhabited only by snakes and scorpions. And ghosts. Tughrul’s half-brother destroyed it eight years ago.”

  Guy interpreted and there was an awkward silence.

  “Was she there?” Charles kicked him under the table. “Was …”

  “Yes! I was there.”

  “Wouldn’t you want us to fight these infidels?” Charles regarded her with growing interest. A romantic, he loved stories of adventure, damsels in distress, poetry from such things and he loved women. “Surely they cannot defeat the great empires—Persian, Abbasid, Roman—we have heard of? Are they not simple herders—mere men after all?”

  She looked to Guy, who duly interpreted.

  “Alas that is their strength,” she said, eyes on Charles. “All mounted with their mobile herds, they have no cities to capture. The Turk need only to move out of the way of the ponderous armies of the agricultural peoples, then attack again with their terrible bows. It’s hopeless. The arrows of the infidels come like rain. You seem like decent enough young men. Don’t throw your lives away.” She hesitated a moment, looking at them all. “Go home.”

  Guy thanked the woman and answered the looks of the others.

  They dined in silence until Jacques remarked, “Like rain, eh? Well, let’s not go to Armenia, then!” Laughing, they got on with their meal.

  Charles watched Jacques devour his portion and delve in for more. “I had a horse like you once, Jacques. He was literally starving to death when I bought him. Despite years of wanting for nothing, he could not stop eating. I had to lock him up much of the time or he would have died of the founder. Good horse though—as though he knew I saved him and always tried to repay me.”

  “Starving, you say?” said Jacques, still eating.

  Four rough-looking men, bearded with hair over their ears like the Greeks, left the far end of the room and sat at a table beside the priest and his servant, though others were free. Soldiers hired for private purpose, Guy guessed, wondering if they owned any of the horses outside. He could understand some of their conversation and sensed tension between them and the priest.

  “Four,” whispered Jacques. “Daggers. One has a staff.”

  “Going far, god-botherer?” one of the thugs jeered.

  “Where the Lord’s work takes me,” the priest smiled.

  “To Armenia, no doubt, to warn the Seljuks are coming to destroy them?”

  “The Armenians, though Christians, are misguided and need to be shown the true path.”

  “Important work,” the thug rejoined, “for such a … new … priest.” He paused. “Just last week, did you not carry sword and shield in the ranks of the Excubitores?”

  “It’s on,” muttered Jacques, “and neither of you have your hauberks15 nor helmets or shields. Stay out of it.”

  “You’re mistaken,” replied the priest evenly as the sound of three shod horses rung on the cobbled road outside.

  One of the thugs rose, looked out of the door into the street and smirked over his shoulder, as though he recognised the riders. He lingered, blocking the doorway.

  Guy and Jacques exchanged glances as they listened to the hoof beats enter the lane. “I can’t afford to lose our hired horses. I’ll go and check them.” Shaking his head at Jacques’ silent plea not to, Guy rose.

  “You can’t risk your life,” muttered Charles.

  “Stay here,” Jacques hissed.

  Ignoring them, Guy left the room and reached the shadows of their horses moments before three cloaked riders entered the yard.

  “This is the place,” said the first in cultured Greek. “Is it clear? Are your men ready?” The moonlight betrayed a drawn blade.

  As his father had taught, Guy mentally ascribed a descriptive nickname—Swordleader.

  “Yes,” answered the second in gutter Greek, switching his lance to his right hand as he dismounted—Spearman. “They followed the Domestic’s couriers here from the Palace. All’s ready. We’ll catch them and seize their despatches.”

  Guy understood the reference to one of the most senior of Byzantine military officers and sensed the high stakes of the game into which he and his companions had chanced.

  “Make sure of it.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Are you certain about this?” asked Spearman.

  “About what?” said Swordleader.

  “Ah, murdering military couriers and stealing their despatches.”

  “Bah! The army has no power here. In any event, it’s none of your concern. Shut up and do what you were paid for.”

  “Very well,” Spearman acquiesced sourly.

  Against the distant sounds of town dogs and the slow, shoe-scraping passage of some drunken rider, Guy held his breath, straining to discern the substance of their conversation. Despite the cool night, a prickle of perspiration touched his scalp beneath his shoulder-length red hair.

  “And be sure of it.” Swordleader said.

  Guy tried to make out some detail of the third rider, who remained mounted, cloaked and silent, a shadow in the moonlight.

  Spearman moved towards where Guy stood by his hired horse’s head. “I’ll let these beasts go. They’ll be in the way and might be used by anyone pursuing us.” Spearman made to untie Charles’ mare.

  Guy spoke darkly in Latin. “Leave it.”

  Spearman gasped in surprise, taking his weapon in both hands and leaping backwards to give himself space to use its length.

  “What’s up?” asked his companions in unison.

  “A Kelt,” replied Spearman over his shoulder as he brought up the point.

  The third of their party moved his horse to menace Guy’s right, easing back his cloak to draw an equestrian’s strung bow from its shaped case on his left hip—Bowman.

  “How much did he hear?” Swordleader asked.

  “Or understand?” Bowman spoke for the first time in heavily accented Greek.

  A mumbling man, seeming not to notice them, emerged from the inn door, tripped heavily over the drunken barbarian and felt along the wall, fumbling with his dress as though to urinate. Guy recognised Charles, sword concealed against his body.

  There was uproar and the crash of a table overturned from within the inn, then the priest and his younger companion burst into the night, four thugs in pursuit.

  Everyone froze for a moment until Guy broke the silence. “Three! Swordleader, mounted. Spearman, on foot, to my front. Bowman, under the cloak, mounted, on my right.”

  “Kill him! Kill them all!” screamed Swordleader as cavalry clattered along a nearby street.

  Then all was confusion as men shouted and frightened horses pulled-back on their hitchings. Bowman threw back his cloak. Guy saw the long straight hair and brocade tunic over loose trousers as the man drew an arrow from the quiver at his right side. The apparently drunken barbarian in the threadbare coat sprang to his feet and struck down one of the thugs with his sabre. A thug grabbed the youth from behind as the priest, drawing a sword from under his mantle, turned back to help his companion. He was too late. The younger man screamed once and dropped to the ground as a thug knifed him savagely, before the priest ran-through his killer.

  With the grind of steel on steel, Guy brushed aside Spearman’s thrust, cut the haft in two and forced him back three paces.

  Charles came up. “I’ll take him!”

  Guy, with the trained aggression of a confident swordsman advanced towards Swordleader, keeping his antagonist between himself and Bowman.

  The man turned Guy’s sword and forced him to retreat a few steps.

  “They’re the wrong ones. Fools!” Swordleader cried. “I told you one of the couriers
was a woman. This is a trap.”

  Guy saw Bowman draw an arrow on him and stepped behind Swordleader’s horse.

  “Lookout!” shouted Jacques.

  Guy risked a glance in time to see the threadbare barbarian hurl a war axe at Bowman, spoiling his aim. He heard Jacques say in Greek, “Thank you, friend.”

  At the clamour of approaching troops, one thug fled over a wall and was lost to the night. The last fell insensible to a blow from Jacques.

  Guy seized Swordleader’s bridle rein as the dark-cloaked rider spurred and wrenched his horse’s mouth so it reared free. Against the night sky, Guy caught a glimpse of a blade that struck at his throat. Pulled off balance, he leapt back. “Cross me again, Kelt, and you die,” the hooded shadow snarled before the two turned their horses and dashed into the lane, leaving Guy ashamed of the fear he had felt.

  Spearman struggled to mount his skittish mare, but an arrow plunged into his lung. He collapsed, clutching at the shaft buried in his chest and losing his grip on the reins as his horse ran off. Disabled by shock and pain, he tried to turn on his side and look after his fleeing confederates.

  Charles and Jacques, wild-eyed, weapons ready, approached him. Six armed men dressed as labourers appeared from the inn door but seemed uncertain what to do.

  Jacques knelt by Spearman. “He’s trying to tell us something. A name?”

  A dozen mailed horsemen of the Scholae cantered down the lane and wheeled into the courtyard. Others raced into the night after the fugitives.

  “Arrest them.” The detachment commander wheeled his superb bay horse to take in the scene. “Arrest them all. Secure the area. Detain anyone still inside the inn. Clear those stables.” Moonlight gleamed on his helmet and cast his eyes behind the burnished nasal into black shadows.

  A trooper dismounted and knelt by Spearman as Jacques stood back. “He’s dead, Count,” the soldier said as others seized Guy and his companions.

  The barbarian of the threadbare blue coat stood from carefully wiping his sabre on the tunic of a fallen thug and spoke to the count. “Horse-archer! These three didn’t know.”

  “Very good, Togol. Arrest them.” The helmet turned, peering after the tumult of the pursuit receding into the distance, then back to Guy. “Who’re you?”

  “I am Guy d’Agiles.”

  “Frankish mercenary?”

  Guy was silent.

  Togol stepped close to the count, sliding his long blade into the scabbard by his booted leg. “Their leader spoke Greek, a bit uppity. Sensed the trap—smart. Said one of the couriers is a woman.”

  “Did he now? Anyone get a look at him?”

  “This Kelt,” reported Togol, motioning at Guy. “Threatened to kill him.”

  “Who did?”

  “The one you’re after.”

  The count stepped his horse, slowly, deliberately, closer. The eyes hidden under the helmet looked down long on Guy. “Would you know him?”

  “Perhaps. It was fleeting, only a glimpse and a few words.”

  “You spoke?” asked the count.

  “No. He threatened me.”

  “Still, he’ll recognise you, eh?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You’re with us until I say otherwise.” The count spoke without looking to a well-mounted officer behind him. “Bessas, see to it please.” With his white cloak gleaming in the moonlight, he leaned forward a little and gave a light, caressing stroke to his horse’s neck.

  “Where’re you taking us?” Guy demanded as he struggled against the troopers holding him.

  The count turned his horse away. “Far away, I fancy,” he said without a backward glance.

  Constantinople,

  Evening, 19th April 1054

  “Everything’s gone wrong,” Byzantine imperial bureaucrat and traitor, Bardas Cydones, whined to his Seljuk handler as they paused in their flight from the inn near the Golden Gate. “How did they know?” he asked, sheathing his sword.

  “Not everything,” the Seljuk from their embassy to Constantinople responded in grim anger as he thrust his bow back into its case and swung his blowing horse into the shadows to better see behind them. “You planned our escape route well, your hirelings blocked the road with carts and cattle so the Emperor’s soldiers cannot follow. As we left the inn, I saw your blundering go-between fall struck by an arrow from the men I secreted in the stable next door. That is what I like about this city, anything can be bought. At least one of the decoys paid with his life, and the thugs you hired presumably cannot lead anyone back to you. As you say, it’s useful that we know they knew.” A sinewy fifty and excellent rider, the Seljuk diplomat drew his hooded cloak about him to conceal his weapons and distinctive almond-eyed Turkic features.

  The two men turned their horses into a canter and made their escape.

  Cydones thought of the long-haired Kelt who had twice menaced him during the fight. He reasoned that while the man might recognise him if they met again, it was unlikely his path would again cross that of an itinerant foreign mercenary.

  “We now know that someone’s hunting us,” the Seljuk continued. “We know also that the real couriers will be on their way to Armenia. All we … you … need do is intercept them on the road before they can deliver their message.”

  “Asia Minor. Armenia! So vast. Where’d they be? What if you can’t find them?”

  “You! You failed so you’re going after them. Y’know where they started and where they’re bound. They’ll have left tonight so you need to hasten. Riding fast, it will take them seven days at the very least. Twice that probably.” The handler glared at Cydones. “If you fail to prevent them reaching Manzikert, you can still be of use there. I have a message for you to give to a man called Kamyates, you know him, at Manzikert. You’re to remain there and ensure the city falls to the Seljuk Sultan this summer.”

  Trepidation gripped Cydones. Michael Kamyates! There was ice-water in that man’s veins. He was widely regarded as one of the foremost authorities on the Seljuk Turks and was currently on an embassy to the Caliph in Baghdad. Kamyates was too arrogant to bother hiding his sympathy for the Seljuks. His skill as a palace intriguer was evidenced by a string of blinded, exiled and disappeared victims. But Manzikert falling to the Sultan! Cydones had not expected this. A little well-renumerated scheming and murder on his home ground was one thing: riding to the far reaches of the empire and surviving a siege were another. “But I’d be missed.”

  “Don’t concern yourself. You’re senior enough to find an official reason to go there.” The Seljuk looked directly at him. “And I will make sure your family is looked after.”

  Recognising the threat, Cydones took pains not to return a look at his companion. He suddenly realised the journey he was about to undertake began years ago, long before any hint of what course it might take. A minor official with a wife and four children, he was ambitious but without aristocratic birth. He had served two years with a regiment of theme cavalry—enough to gain some knowledge of horsemanship, weapons and military matters—while he studied the classics and finessed his diction in preparation to realise his ambition at court. A favour by an acquaintance of his father’s secured him a post in the Office of Barbarians. It had been a start; his old contacts there still providing useful intelligence, such as the secret despatch of a pair of couriers to Manzikert.

  Cydones, now an assistant to the Keeper of the Imperial Inkstand, had been diligent and learned that the way to advancement was to step in the shadows of powerful men without treading on their cloaks. He hid his minor military background in the army-hating bureaucracy while skill in Arabic, courtly affectations and graceful subservience to superiors brought him to notice. His first opportunity was a post with Kamyates, a senior diplomat charged with hosting an Arab delegation from Cairo. This had been an interesting and pleasant duty, the imperial aim being to incite the Shi’ite Fatim
ids against the weak Abbasid Caliph of Baghdad, commander of the Sunni faithful.

  Cydones wondered now whether he could have, amongst the universal corruption and duplicity, remained aloof from the initially subtle Seljuk embrace. Turning a blind eye had become habitual and the constant flow of additional money indispensable. As they trotted now through the back streets, Cydones grappled with his dilemma: whether to continue with the treachery or throw himself on the mercy of the palace. He reasoned that there was still time to back out and betray his confederates, but it seemed easier to go along with them for the moment. Besides, the more deeply he was involved, the more precious the information he would have to bargain with.

  The Seljuk emissary further instructed Cydones during the remaining hour of their journey, during which they abandoned their hired horses and hurried on foot through the city’s crowded thoroughfares. Cydones was to find and kill the couriers and give their documents to Kamyates. He would hand other official despatches to the Roman governor after Kamyates read them. The imperial ambassador would receive a separate package, of which the military governor was not to know. “You should take a sturdy fellow with you. One that is handy with weapons,” the handler advised. “You never know what can happen on the road.”

  Cydones had deduced most of the conspirators’ broader plan. Through the disbandment of most Armenian troops, pruning of the Roman Army, the transfer west against the Patzinaks of many remaining eastern units and replacement of native Byzantine troops with fewer and cheaper mercenaries—the frontier fortresses that the Seljuk Sultan desired would be delivered to him. For the price of a few slain on the border, Sultan Tughrul Bey enhanced his prestige amongst Muslims and secured his frontier with Byzantium, enabling his campaign against the heretical Fatimids. For the Byzantine officials, the two rival caliphates would exhaust each other in war, thus securing the Romans from Muslim attack. The Byzantine military aristocracy would be further reduced in power and influence, ensuring the Emperor remained in the purple and continued his largesse to his friends—those of the court and church who ensured his survival. Not least, was the Sultan’s payment to those, who delivered to him the Byzantine-Armenian frontier. Cydones would be rich with his influence at court in Constantinople assured.