A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  “I am most sorry,” the imperial courier blurted, trying to allay the onslaught. “You’re right, of course. In any event I’ll be more careful in future.”

  Having established his positional superiority, Kamyates now moved to get what he wanted from the meeting. He had to know what was going on, establish who knew what, then further subordinate Cydones as a useful helper and if necessary, convenient scapegoat. Such usurious exploitation of his position of trust and other people was second nature to Kamyates—self-interest was how he lived and all he stood for. He vented a deep breath and spoke in a quiet, conciliatory tone. “Anyway, we shall put that behind us. In our own company, we know we are amongst friends. I am sorry you became unwell on the road—it happens in these backward parts. Your wife and children are well?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Cydones hesitated. “Though I’m worried because my Seljuk, um, friend, in the capital said they would be ‘looked after’ during my absence. I believe it was a threat.”

  Kamyates felt a flush of sympathy as he involuntarily recalled the occasion when Bughra Dumrul had menaced him. “That’s just part of it,” he sighed. “It means you must do as they say. They pay well for it, do they not?”

  Cydones brightened as he managed to change the dismal subject. “I’ve a letter from your wife.”

  “Is she well?” Kamyates tucked the letter into his robe.

  “As beautiful as ever. Your boys also. You must miss them, being away so long.”

  The cold eyes of Michael Kamyates turned once more to Cydones, but he smiled a social smile. Before leaving Constantinople, he had ordered his youngest son castrated, so that the youngster could rise with other eunuchs to the highest offices, close to the Emperor. That would assure the continuation of Kamyates’ influence into old age and the flow of information and riches into his household and extended family. That Cydones had not mentioned it, or unwittingly passed a coded message from his wife, meant the operation had probably been successful. “Of course. Shall we get down to business—I think we’re safe to talk here in my rooms.”

  Cydones breathed a little easier.

  “You say,” Kamyates said, “the pair you intercepted at the inn were decoys for a trap and this Bryennius commanded the ambush party. You are also sure that you and the Seljuk ambassador’s man escaped without trace.”

  “The Seljuk stayed in Constantinople.”

  “As he ought, since he works for Abu ‘Ali ibn Kabir, their ambassador. Before I left I arranged with my colleague in the administration, who shall remain nameless, to use his friendship with the Domestic of the Scholae to assist any arrangements for your passage here, including if needs be, with the very people hunting you. Very good! I like that! However you slipped up antagonising this Bryennius by absenting yourself from the column during the journey.”

  “In any event, I wanted to catch the couriers and take care of them before they arrived,” said Cydones.

  “I applaud your commitment to instructions,” Kamyates snapped, “but you are too late. The couriers had already arrived here and delivered their, albeit vague, warnings before you even reached Baberd. Consequently it has taken me quite some time and effort to assuage Apocapes’ concerns. Put revenge from your mind. They left on the Karin road days ago.”

  “Have you seen them? Do you know what they look like?”

  “A couple, I hear. They’re now immaterial. This … Bryennius … we may have to take care of him, I think. The Kelts who blundered into the ambush were arrested and imprisoned, you say?”

  “In Constantinople!” Cydones seemingly willed himself to believe that this loose end was tied-up. “One attacked me, but I heard a number were arrested at the inn. I don’t know if they were part of the same group. I suspect not, since the one I fought was on his own outside.”

  “A servant watching their horses, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps. He wore no armour but carried a sword. I hasten to say that a number of Kelts accompanied the flotilla to Trebizond and there were others already waiting at Karin. I’ve looked carefully for the one from the inn—after all my life depends on it—but I’ve seen none that make me suspicious above the normal caution that befits men such as us.”

  “Quite,” Kamyates replied icily, pupils pinpricks in his brown eyes at Cydones’ comparison with him. “Anything else I should know?”

  “No.” If Cydones had not been on his guard when he entered Manzikert, he was now.

  Kamyates let the silence linger while the other man looked down, as though he already knew what Cydones might withhold. Finally he continued. “Now then. The Sultan wishes to capture much of the eastern frontier, roughly to the Euphrates. Of course, we don’t want quite that—it would be too much. But Vaspurakan, Manzikert, Ani and a few thousand Armenians are of no importance to us. In any case their loss would negate the need to waste more troops out here. What do you make of its defences?”

  “Karin? Very sound, I should think. It was untouched when the nomads pillaged Artsn.”

  “Good. We don’t want the nomads going too far. Now, you and I have a job to do. We need to give Manzikert to the Sultan when he comes. This is best and most safely achieved by persuading Basil Apocapes to surrender the city and avoid a sack. We have people in neighbouring Archēsh who have been persuaded to do just that. Self–interest is a wonderful thing. But if that is to no avail, then we need to arrange for a gate to be left unguarded or a sally-port open one night.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard,” agreed Cydones, “but how do we ensure our own survival in the event that the Seljuks break in? The slaughter would be prodigious.”

  “I admit that is a risk, but if it comes to that we have no choice.” Kamyates enunciated the plans he had been formulating, under Seljuk direction, for months. “We simply do our best to make sure the city is unprepared for defence and dispel any rumours about the Sultan’s siege train. Apocapes should only expect the usual lightly armed raiders and have no inkling of what is about to befall his city. That fractured belief will do much to persuade him that resistance is futile. If the Sultan has to breach the walls, you and I will hide in the cathedral in our very best robes so that we look like we’re worth saving because we know where all the gold is. Tughrul will have a squadron of his palace guard make straight for the cathedral to rescue us. It’s quite simple and there is little to fear.”

  Cydones seemed to stop breathing.

  Kamyates thought the imperial courier was considering his options: to cut and run at any time, find some corner of the empire where he was unknown, or openly go over to the Seljuks to administer their new provinces. “Now that you know the plan I have confided—trusted—in you. What do you think is the biggest threat to it, do you think?”

  Cydones paused. “Bryennius. He’s suspicious and unpredictable with no concept of diplomacy or how things ought to be. A cloud of scouts and trusted officers surround him and his troops are loyal.”

  “Then we must find a little job for him to do, somewhere where he will be less … umm … less amongst his friends.”

  “And undermine his influence with Apocapes.”

  “You’re learning, Cydones. Well done!”

  “And cause some of his officers to see things … more clearly.”

  “Quite,” said Kamyates smiling. “Now, we mustn’t be seen to be too close.”

  “Do we have any help? My servant is trustworthy to a point.”

  “A local landowner is also active on our part,” Kamyates smirked, “He wants to see the last of us.”

  Arknik,

  Early evening, 21st May 1054

  Back from his patrol, Bessas reported an open road ahead and discussed with Count Bryennius the arrangements for the next day’s march. Time passed quickly while he checked the change to night-routine and listened to Lascaris pass orders for the continuation of their journey. His dark grey gelding, Hector, walked loose-reined nex
t to him; occasionally rubbing his head on Bessas’ mailed shoulder. He would return the affection, and caress the horse’s head as he talked to the men.

  A few oil lamps lit the stone, timber and straw of the stables as a handful of grooms and sweepers moved around. Bessas’ squire indicated an empty stall and brought fodder and a pail of clear water. Bessas removed his helmet then unsaddled, sponged and dried Hector with clean rags left for the purpose. With horseman’s hands he massaged the horse, caressing, reassuring, and feeling down a lifted leg for injury or a loose shoe. Hector looked back affectionately throughout, ears moving and the hard hide leaning firmly back against the grooming strokes. Throwing a blanket over him, Bessas fed boiled barley with finely chopped hay his squire had prepared and stood companionably by his mount. He turned to a slippered step behind him and recognised Serena of the column and the blue cloak.

  “You’re kind to your horse,” she said softly as she leaned over a stable half-door to give her own mare an apple. Instead of her riding habit she wore an embroidered light grey silk gown.

  “As are you,” replied Bessas. “And we have not been properly introduced.”

  “Serena Cephala,” she said, “though we are hardly strangers, since we have already been riding together, in a way, on the march …” thus dispensing with the formality of a formal introduction “… and you have been busy with your duties.”

  “Bessas Phocas. I am with Count Bryennius.”

  “Yes, of the Scholae. And you are being modest. You are also a centarch and the count’s deputy, a position carrying much responsibility, but no additional rank or pay.”

  Bessas blushed, surprised at how much she was prepared to betray her interest at their first meeting.

  “It is comforting to have an escort of the Scholae so far from home,” she said, before correcting herself. “So far from Constantinople.”

  “You are far from the city,” he agreed, attempting to change the subject from himself and trying not to stare. “Where are you going?” Bessas, with his man-smell of iron and leather, was leaning on the loosebox door, his gaze straying to her from the water pail and the fresh straw covering the floor.

  Hector chewed contentedly, one ear on them, moving his head around occasionally to better see them.

  “Manzikert.”

  “Oh! Manzikert? I thought Ani. Or Kars, at least.” He fell silent, realising it would have been better not to mention Kars, sacked four months before.

  “Yes. I know. Manzikert!” She laughed a little at his discomfort before explaining. “It’s awful. Rustic! But rather exciting. My parents live in Manzikert. Father is a civil official.” She glanced down. “I don’t know what Kars would be like, now. Presumably there are people there, but it takes a very prosperous place to recover from being pillaged.”

  Bessas changed the subject from the destruction of Armenian cities. “Why were you in Constantinople?”

  “I’ve been staying with my aunt,” Serena laughed. “My parents trusted her to make a proper lady of me, kind soul that she is. I learned the things a well-educated young woman should know, reading, The Bible, the classics, numbers, spinning and weaving.” She made a face of mock horror. “Forever spinning and weaving. And the household arts.” Flickering shadows from the lamps played on her refined features and loose blonde hair. “They rather thought I should get married.”

  “Married?”

  “Yes, married,” she smiled at him. “That’s what women do.”

  “Yes,” he replied after a pause. “I suppose so.” There was a reasoning side of Bessas that thought this young woman would have been better advised to stay in Constantinople, married to a rich merchant or bureaucrat. But there was a passionate turn to him that was captivated by her. “Are you married?” he asked, embarrassed at his own boldness.

  “No,” she laughed. “My chaperones were far too earnest in their duties and their choices were altogether too ghastly. Since the most ardent of my suitors didn’t much care to visit Manzikert …”

  “Oh, they have no idea what they’ll miss,” he laughed.

  “No they won’t,” Serena said with a far away look.

  Then her eyes met Bessas’ and suddenly neither knew what to say.

  Serena glanced away at Hector chewing his grain. “You ride well,” she murmured. After that, they spoke for a time of horses, the journey and the need to join the others at the feast, but they dallied instead. Hector turned to her and the lovely girl stroked his grey face, running a soft hand gently over his big black eyes. “Aren’t you beautiful?” she whispered into his muzzle. Hector accepted the caresses, sniffed the scent of apple and another horse on her hand and gazed happily at Bessas who returned the look with envy.

  Suddenly, Serena stared past Bessas towards the unmistakable slight scraping sound of a horse’s hooves being lifted in turn from a stone floor. “What kind of horseshoe is that?” she whispered.

  Bessas stole a glance around, caught a glimpse of a Persian shoe and wondered about the owner of the horse.

  Serena tugged his sleeve. “Don’t stare.”

  To allay any alarm by the owner of the Persian shoe, Bessas said in a conversational tone, “Shall we join the others?”

  Serena nodded and turned to go.

  Bessas gave Hector one more pat and thinking of Serena’s display of affection towards his horse, whispered good-naturedly, “Groveller!” Then, picking up his saddle and accoutrements, he followed her into the courtyard where people drifted in the flickering torchlight towards the great hall of the landlord’s main residence.

  Bessas was impressed by Serena noticing the unfamiliar shoe. “You are very observant. That type of horseshoe is found throughout the Muslim lands and that man rode in with a companion ahead of us this evening. There’s something about him.”

  Passers-by gave them odd looks, as though struck by their shy intimacy.

  “We had better go,” Bessas said, concerned for her reputation. They parted. He carried his gear to where his squadron was camped, washed from a pail and dressed in the clean clothes that his squire had laid out. Then, Serena very much on his mind, he headed for the feast.

  Inside the hall Bessas observed the crowd clustered loosely into social groups. The landlord and his richly-robed family mingled with the Roman officers, some of whom had donned formal robes rather than the clean riding clothes worn by most of the soldiers. A handful of the wealthier Norman knights, having picked up a smattering of Greek, joined this group that was attended by the lord’s slaves. Cataphracts mixed confidently with small-landholders and artisans, while the peasants, hereditary renters of small plots who might own a few goats and sheep, perhaps a single cow, kept to themselves in the reserved manner of their class.

  The wealthier Arknik women wore flowing gowns of vibrant, richly embroidered silk; the poorer imitating them with shirts or tunics over long skirts. Young ladies and girls appeared carefree in their rich colours, contrasting with the darker dress of married women. Their hair gleamed and the occasional jewel sparkled. How different they now seemed from the sombrely clad, reticent figures he had seen through the day. The women, under the watchful gaze of their men, served spicy food. Some responded with blushes of offended modesty to the licentious stares and furtive remarks from a few of the wine-emboldened soldiery before the decarchs stopped it.

  Living as they did on this military road, if the track could be thus described, the locals were accustomed to bands of marching troops. They knew Tagmata40 troops this far east was unusual, and for that reason both interesting and alarming. Byzantine troops tended to be much the same, some good, others bad. They marched into Arknik, wanting food served, horses tended and women if they could be had. Then they swung into the saddle or shuffled into dusty-footed files, shouldered their shields and weapons and neither mourned nor mourning, moved on to their destiny in the vastness of mountains and steppe. This contingent was bet
ter disciplined than most—certainly more so than the unruly Patzinak and Uze mercenaries who passed through during the earlier Armenian wars. Being direct from Constantinople, these Scholae had interesting tales of the wider world.

  Bessas noticed Bryennius engaged in a conversation with the horse-trader, Simon Vardaheri: the count deeply interested in the exchange and asking much, to which the horse trader readily responded.

  Through the crowd, his gaze met Serena’s. They each circled the room socially, meeting close to where Guy d’Agiles was making his way through the crowd as though looking for someone.

  Guy looked interrogatively at him

  “I have not seen your companions yet,” said Bessas. “People are still coming. Will you ride your horse tomorrow?”

  Guy smiled. “If God wills it.”

  “Your God, or that horse’s infidel God?” Bessas grinned. While admiring the young Kelt’s feat the day before, Bessas recognized that a different toss in fortune’s game could have seen Guy sprawled on the steppe with two or three arrow shafts letting his lifeblood into the dust.

  “Don’t tease,” Serena admonished. “He captured the horse and will ride it as well.” Then she smiled at Guy. “I saw her, a beautiful mare. She’ll surely serve you well.” She turned to Bessas again, saying with a trace of humour, “It’s the same God anyway.”

  “That’s true,” Bessas said, still grinning, watching Guy as the young Frank gazed at Serena. He wondered where this Frank’s loyalty would be: to the Romans who kidnapped him, a rebellious Kelt warlord staking out his own personal fiefdom in Armenia, or to some lithesome girl he fancies in Vaspurakan. “Drink up!” Bessas encouraged mischievously, “It’s a celebration.”

  Guy recovered and thanked her, but laughed at Bessas’ joke.

  “What do you think of Arknik?” Serena asked Guy. She was one of those infallibly polite women who converse with strangers at a gathering, more so if they were on their own.