“It is quite a view,” said Leo.
“Yes,” agreed Drosus. “We’re pretty much on the watershed between the river systems here. It is no wonder Karin has been so strongly fortified and contested for so long—since the ancients.”
Drosus, as straight as he stood, then led Leo to his chambers where Drosus’ undersecretary joined them. The men sat down to refreshments and work. Drosus detailed the military economies imposed on him, mentioning that none of his troops had yet returned from the Patzinak front. “We’re down to the bare bones, Bryennius. Talking soldiers, professionals and mostly mercenaries at that, we have two thousand in the city garrison here and another eight thousand scattered throughout Iberia and Ani. Theodore Vladislav in Taron has three thousand. The catepano at Van has five thousand for the defence of Vaspurakan—and he is very much on the front line. These can be augmented by militia and armed locals, but it’s not much of an army for you. Scattered all over and many of them infantry—fine for defending walls, but inadequate to fight the Turk in the open.”
Drosus knew what he was talking about. He was Aaron’s deputy during the campaign of 1048 and led the embassy to ransom Liparit from Tughrul Bey. “Got a message by carrier pigeon from Apocapes at Manzikert. Couriers arrived. D’you know him?”
“Strategos Apocapes? Only by reputation. I look forward to meeting him. People speak well of man and soldier. Also, speaking of Manzikert, I am looking for two others, an imperial courier named Bardas Cydones and his servant. They left my column against orders at Baberd, hell-bent on getting to Manzikert ahead of us.”
“Hmm! Cydones called in asking after the couriers. My spies tell me he sniffed all over town and left in a hurry this morning. I had no grounds to keep him here.”
“Did he mention that an associate of yours, Modestos Kamyates, will meet him at Manzikert?”
Drosus leapt to his feet. “Associate! Kamyates! That pissant! What’s he doing there?”
“He’s been on an embassy to the Seljuk capital apparently.” Leo was heartened by the reaction.
“What?” Drosus stormed. “Embassy! I’ll tell you something. When we went to get Liparit back a couple of years ago, Kamyates kept pushing the line that the Georgian pretender would need to agree to a peace pact with the Sultan. And he got it. So there’ll be no Christian Georgian allies in the next campaign.”
“No. It seems not.”
Drosus went quiet, steeped in thought.
“Well,” said Leo. “I’ve no need to sniff around town. I’ll be on my way tomorrow and will send a detachment after Cydones immediately, to intercept him before he meets Kamyates at Manzikert.”
“Perhaps he was just in a hurry,” mused Drosus sardonically, staring out of an arrow slit. He turned to Leo. “And what would they do should they catch him? Arrest him? Tip him off and give grounds for a grudge? No. I counsel that you outwardly do nothing, and when you see Cydones next, apologise that the escort missed the appointment and you chastised the decarch in charge.”
Leo smiled at the wisdom, covering his embarrassment at the mistake he might have made.
“No need to wear out your horses and men. Balazun’s Kelts won’t be ready to march for days in any case. Take the chance to replenish your supplies and rest up a bit. Look around. Learn about the place. Can’t give you horses though, except for local use. Don’t have enough myself. I see David Varaz has returned with you. He’s a useful man. Keep him for the time being.”
Drosus walked Leo to the door. “For the future, visit Kars and Ani if you can—good to know the lay of the land. I’m glad you’ve come, but I have to tell you, the Empire’s strategy is flawed. Just holding a few key cities is too flat-footed and allows the enemy too much freedom of action. We need a decent field army to crush them when they’re caught in our web of fortresses. Kamyates in the area means trouble, but his presence alone is not evidence of anything. It’ll take an actual invasion by the infidels to move the powers that be. As soon as I have proof they have crossed the border in force, I will call—and damn loudly too, mark my words—for an army to be assembled further back, Caesarea perhaps, to destroy the Seljuks so thoroughly this time that they don’t return. Look around and dine with me two nights hence, and I warn you, my chessmen have been lonely.”
Few visited the ruins of Artsn, but as his men rested at Karin, Leo with Cecaumenus’ scout, Maniakh, rode on borrowed hacks to the devastated city. He was struck by the stillness in the abandoned streets of other people’s memories. Their horses snorted at the grotesque black shapes of burnt-out houses, silent in their overgrown gardens near the gutted tenements. A pack of dogs skulked away as they rode by, bows ready, alert to the possibility of bandits.
Leo wondered what it was about a ruin that was so touching. He tried to imagine the refugees around Karin in their former homes: hopeful maidens in rich gowns, urgent fathers, disappointing sons, stoic mothers greying with the years. Often in his travels, he had noticed a tiny timber farmhouse, dilapidated but alive with the family in it, a hundred years past its expected ruin. Over the next hill might be a stone villa, built to last for generations, which had collapsed soon after abandonment, as though the structure’s soul left with its people.
A sacked city, Leo saw, was this and more. Charred, smashed walls were everywhere with tiled roofs caved-in by the fires. Broken pottery and glass, like shards of human lives, littered the ground and crackled under their horseshoes. There were frescos with the likenesses of those who once lived there. Faded writing described where there had been shops: Emma Fine Wines, or Constantine Kapsomenos Blacksmith. In places a rough, unfamiliar script marked the walls—impress of the raiders’ contempt. The smell of blood and burning had passed with time, but evidence of fire was everywhere. Most of all, there was an eerie silence, even when the lonesome breeze rustled the weeds in the streets.
“It has ghosts, this place,” said Maniakh. “Only six years and already the wilderness returns—how frail the time of man.” Maniakh fell silent, embarrassed, as Leo looked at him.
They withdrew from the ruins and dismounted under cover, leading their horses to a place on a rise where scrubby bushes provided concealment but allowed good views all around. Over a lunch of bread and cheese from their saddlebags, Leo wondered what the scene would have been like before the attack. There were trees and gardens, no doubt, but no defensive walls. Oak, birch and beech still grew along the riverbank. He imagined the Seljuk hordes pouring over the distant crest in the early light.
Maniakh tore off another crust, took a draught from his goatskin, noticed Leo’s watchfulness and took his ease, closing his eyes and letting the tension flow from his body. “Horse-archer, what happened here?”
Leo told what he knew, including facts from an eyewitness account given by a priest in Karin. “It wasn’t just the city, Maniakh. The Seljuks pillaged twenty-four districts.”
Maniakh, a hint of red in his brown beard, hair worn long over his shoulders and reins in his hand, took in what Leo said. “Is it true the Muslims placed dead pigs in the arms of the slain, as a sign of disrespect?”
“It is said, but I do not know.”
“Waste of a good pig! What happened after they destroyed the city?” Maniakh sought the details of both heroic and horrible deeds.
“It’s said that after Artsn, Ibrahim Inal’s raid was repulsed from Karin and almost trapped at Kapetrou. But he escaped with a hundred thousand captives, ten thousand camels loaded with booty and many thousand coats-of-mail. The country around is now said to be inhabitable only by snakes and scorpions—as you see. The Emperor, to his credit I have to say, then sent troops to restore the frontier. Thereafter many fortresses were built to shelter the population.”
Maniakh was silent for a time. “Did their God punish the people for their wickedness?” He sat up as though refreshed and unbidden, took up Leo’s surveillance.
“Some speak thus but I cannot
say. I doubt God punishes people for wickedness, not in this life anyway, for many do great evil and appear to suffer no admonishment for it.” In the resting awareness of soldiers and perceiving Maniakh’s vigilance, Leo eased his back against a rock and stared into the blue reaches of the heavens. They were like horses: one standing watch as its mate rested, an unconscious, primal instinct. Leo’s eyes closed occasionally, but he remained alert to any sound beyond them and their mounts. “I think they were just ordinary people trying to get through life and thought they were safe enough this far back from the frontier.”
Maniakh chewed on a twig. “And no one came to help them?”
“No. No one came.”
“Of course, the steppe people hate walls. I’ve heard that old Tughrul’s collecting miners and engineers.” Maniakh stared off into the haze. “What would he want such people for d’you suppose?”
“Where did you hear this, Maniakh?”
“People talk, in the markets.” Maniakh answered with disarming evasion.
“Do you believe them?”
“Yes.” The scout gazed squarely at Leo. “Horse-archer, you should choose carefully which pile of stones you hide behind.”
“I should give you more pay.” Something in the ground caught Leo’s attention and he rose and picked up a half-buried and tarnished silver spoon. He rubbed the loose dirt from it and slid the handle into his bootleg. “A good campaign spoon is hard to find.”
“That’s the truth of it. The Seljuks sack the richest town in the land and they leave you a spoon! This Sultan is a most unthinking man, Horse-archer.” Maniakh rolled to his feet. “You’ll have the best of him yet.”
Leo gathered his reins and mounted lightly, catlike in his country horseman’s way. “Let’s hope you’re right, Maniakh. For there’ll be no pay for you if we do not,” he joked.
They arrived back at Karin in the brilliant colours of sunset and returned their horses to the garrison stable-master. Leo drank little enough, but that night he sought out Bessas and they stayed late at an inn outside the military quarter.
Togol found them. He was dressed comfortably in a knee-length tunic, more like a Roman countryman than a barbarian. “We’ve found the imperial courier and his man. At least we found where they stayed.”
“What have they been doing?” Leo, leaning on his elbows at their table took in the Cuman’s unfamiliar appearance, feet pale in the sandals and the hair worn from the insides of his legs from riding.
“Nothing much. Resting. Buying things for their journey. Asking a lot of questions. They left in a hurry.”
“Nothing, eh? Perhaps that explains their desire to get here so soon,” said Bessas.
Leo grinned. “Cydones gave us the slip for something and I’ll warrant it wasn’t resting.”
Togol pulled up a stool and leaned close to Leo. “Want us to kill them, Horse-archer?”
“No! We cannot go around killing people on suspicion. Besides, they might yet lead us to something.”
Togol grumbled indecipherably into his beard.
“Anyway,” Leo said over his goblet, “if it must be so, you get them to play polo and I’ll do it—and make it look like their fault.”
The fortress of Manzikert,
Afternoon, 13th May 1054
Basil Apocapes, patrician, deputy commander of Vaspurakan and commander of the fortress city of Manzikert with its surrounding districts, rode up the cobbled ramp and into the cool shadow of the citadel gate-tower. Lean from the constant exercise of arms and riding, he was thirty-six years old with flecks of grey in his light brown beard and riding-clothes soiled from weeks in the saddle. Accompanied by a small escort, Basil had just ridden a wide circuit of the vast lake, called by locals the Sea of Bznunik. It was an annual tour after the snow melted to tie-in the defences with his superior at Van. He had to plan how he could, with overstretched resources, defend the people, their customs and commerce, against the expected summer raiding by the Seljuks and their Kurdish allies.
The lake made defence difficult, because the Muslim Marwanids30 controlled the western shore from Khlat’ to beyond Baghesh, so Roman troops could not move freely to respond to any threat on the southern side. With much of the theme strength at Manzikert, the Muslims could raid on the south around the cities of Van and Agthamar. If he stripped the garrisons on the north side to campaign in the south, the natural northern invasion route from Tabriz and the city of Her, through Berkri and Archēsh, would be exposed. The province did not have enough cavalry and most of the troops had been dispersed to garrison the fortified cities. Kelt and Varangian troops were adept enough at defending walls, but could not match the Seljuks in swarming cavalry fights in the open. After years of misrule from Constantinople, the remaining local Armenian troops were indifferently armed and despondent. He sighed.
“Something wrong?” Count Daniel Branas, who had ridden with Basil, spoke from behind him. Branas was a tall, muscular professional Roman soldier of Armenian descent. He was the same age as Basil and the two men were firm friends.
“We need more mounted archers, Daniel.” Basil removed his sword belt with its bow-case and quiver and looped them it over his left shoulder. “And I need a bath!”
“We need more of everything!” Branas, the Adonis of Manzikert, swept a crumpled felt hat from his shock of unruly dark curls. “And so do I.”
Grooms led their horses away to the citadel stables. “Go to your family,” said Basil. “We’ll dine on the roof at sunset. Bring them.”
Basil and his wife were the first to arrive at the highest tower of the citadel, his favourite place of solitude and reflection. From here he could look down on the citadel battlements, the cathedral, circuit walls and ditch that protected the city. From here, Basil could observe far in almost every direction, except to the northeast where a low crest inhibited the view of the road from Archēsh.
A wooden table held a light meal of roast lamb, spiced vegetables, bread and cheese. Basil poured red wine into two silver goblets, passed one to his wife and sat back in one of the timber chairs. The servants withdrew discreetly. Through the late afternoon, the couple discussed what to do. Basil wanted her to take their children to safety with her relatives in Georgia. His wife refused. “If I go, the people will lose faith in you and then you would lose the city.”
Branas arrived on time, bathed and with his beard trimmed. He greeted the couple and Basil waved him to the table. After a glance around the scenery, Branas poured himself a drink, took some food and sat. “My wife thanks you for bringing me back—finally. She’ll join us after the servants have put the children to bed.”
Basil chuckled. Mariam Branas was a fiery, dark-eyed Georgian woman with four small children who used the citadel as a playground. “I’d better stay out of her way for a while.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s that bad,” Branas said quietly. He paused and smoothed his robe. “She mentioned we have a visitor, some courtier from Constantinople who has been to Baghdad as an emissary. And Isfahan, evidently.”
“Isfahan! I’ve heard.” Basil wondered why Branas was raising the matter so delicately.
“I have to say,” Branas started, “Mariam doesn’t like him. Too charming by far and asks too many questions. And she is not often wrong.”
“The princeps informed me after I got back,” Basil said with a faintly bemused air, recalling the exasperated expression on Curticius’ face as he relayed the news. “He is going to bring Modestos Kamyates here to join us, that we might afford him such hospitality as Manzikert can offer.”
“Who knows he is here, apart from John Curticius and my wife?”
“Therein’s the rub. Kamyates has busily acquainted himself with some of our officials and many of the Normans. He’s already sent despatches to Constantinople informing his friends of his safe arrival here and his intention to remain as our guest for the summer. With one of my
damned couriers, too!”
There was a long pause while they listened to the sounds of the city: the hum of ten thousand conversations, a dog barking, horseshoes and wagon wheels on cobblestones and somewhere beyond the staccato commands of the changing guard, the ringing of a hammer on an anvil—the musical five-tap of a blacksmith shaping hot metal.
“Prudent fellow isn’t he?” Branas remarked into his goblet.
Basil grinned humourlessly. “Of interest and before he gets here, there are reports of reinforcements.”
“Oh? The Kelts of Karin, finally?”
“Yes and not quite. John Curticius mentioned that he received a separate message from Karin saying there are Scholae and Kelts there, preparing to march here. Couriers brought despatches in our absence, warning of an impending Seljuk invasion. There are no further details and the two couriers could provide none, though they did say they were despatched by Cecaumanus himself in great secrecy—and haste.”
“Scholae?” Branas murmured with obvious surprise. “Unusual. How many? The couriers specified invasion, not raid?”
“Yes, invasion. Only one regiment, the Sixth, a Count Bryennius commanding. But why the …” Basil’s voice trailed off. He had the uncomfortable sense of a high-stakes game being played on the chessboard of his command: high-level military despatches conveying vague warnings, imperial troops in token numbers and the sudden appearance of a senior diplomat returning from the empire of the shepherd king. Who could he trust and what would be the consequences of a wrong move, for the people of the district and himself? “Of course, I’ve sent a courier to inform the catepano at Van, of how much I know. But Daniel, I believe I’m going to need you now more than ever. I will keep news of these reinforcements quiet for the moment. Let’s see what it’s all about!”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 8
