A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Guy glanced around the room before answering. “I expected something different out here. I don’t know what. This is the same as gatherings in all the lands I have travelled. There is the local lord in his grand house with its wall of stakes or stone. There are artisans who live nearby, peasants and those who contribute in some other practical way. Then there are the others, priests and the like—local variations, but the same, everywhere.” Guy’s voice trailed off as he saw the landlord of Arknik, Zakarian, engage in a quick word as he brushed past the falconer who had ridden into Arknik that afternoon.

  Bessas and Serena subtly followed his look and exchanged glances. “We used to have a tradition of small, independent landholders,” Bessas continued as if nothing had happened. “Everywhere the same. Yet everywhere different.” He clapped an arm good-naturedly on Guy’s shoulder. “And well spotted.”

  “Where’s your home?” Serena moved the conversation forward.

  Guy hesitated. “Provence, in the Frankish lands, although the Burgundian kingdom now rules much of it.”

  “What’s it like?” Her fingers played with the base of a silver goblet as her eyes held his.

  “Provence?” Guy answered with mixed feelings as though uncomfortable with the subject of home. “Golden in the summer. Like parts of Thrace, I suppose. It has mountains and forested meadow. It’s not like here, where it looks green and fertile at a distance, but up close the grass is thin and the ground hard.”

  “Yes,” Serena agreed. “Armenia is certainly stony and largely treeless, though it has beautiful places. Have you come to learn the art of war so you can go home and achieve some purpose? Or will you stay?” It was as though Serena looked through him. She glanced downward, “One shouldn’t ask.”

  Their host, the landlord of Arknik rose to speak. Serena smiled at Guy and turned politely to listen.

  Arknik,

  Early evening, 21st May 1054

  Martina touched the red dress into place, stepped into her slippers and opened the door to admit Yūryak. Bathed and a little rested, she delighted in the caress of silk and hint of scent. The dangers and privations of their long ride had salved her soul a little and she enjoyed feeling feminine. “How do I look?”

  Yūryak stared before entering the small room they rented in Arknik’s inn. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you in a dress.”

  “I wore one today,” she countered, determined not to allow a friendship to become something more.

  On Basil Apocapes’ order, they had back-tracked to Arknik, by-passed on their original journey to Manzikert, before Count Bryennius’ column had arrived from Karin. The strategos wanted confirmation reinforcements were on the way and an assessment of their battle readiness.

  Martina had earlier donned a commoner’s coarse workaday dress to learn what she could as people mingled at the market outside the walls and visited the camping troops. The talk amongst many citizens was of the clash with a Seljuk scouting party on the previous day and versions of a young Kelt’s capture of a Seljuk warhorse. She had also seen strangers ride in with hawks on their gauntlets and learned their names.

  Yūryak paused. “Not like that dress. Did you buy it today? Anyway, you asked.”

  “I did, at the market, and the slippers. It’s not too much?”

  “No. Everyone is dressed in their finest for tonight. We’ll fit in well enough.”

  “Not too well, that would be careless. And you look rather dashing yourself!”

  “Well, we are dashing to the feast,” he said, stepping across the small room to flop face-up across the single bed.

  “You will surely win some local lady’s heart tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with one. I’m still tired from the ride out here. I was expecting a rest at Manzikert, not be sent here within a couple of days to see if the rumour of reinforcements was true. At least we arrived before the troops and got a room.”

  “Fortunately true.”

  “What is?” Yūryak put his arms behind his head, closed his eyes and sighed.

  “A room. And troops! Three hundred Scholae, with only a hundred squires instead of three. Sixty-two Kelt horse and four hundred foot. A Norman named Balazun leads the Kelts and Count Bryennius commands the Scholae.” She turned to look at Yūryak with wry sympathy, snatched a silk scarf from the bed and threw it at him. “And, yes, it’s been hard on the seat bones.” Arching her back, she stretched a half-turn in the dress, tugging at the waist to improve the fit. Reflected by lamplight in a hand mirror, Martina thought her hair and face passed muster enough for Arknik. “Have you heard anything about him?”

  “You have been busy. I was going to ask a few drunk soldiers tonight. Heard about who?”

  “Count Bryennius?”

  There was a silence, as though Yūryak was searching his recollections. “Nothing in particular. He must know something if he’s been sent out here so soon. I think he was in charge of getting us away.”

  “All those men, marching away again, so soon after the Patzinak wars. His wife must be upset.”

  Hearing nothing, Martina turned on her heel in time to see Yūryak close his eyes. She silently chided herself, knowing she had been caught. “Wake up, sleepy-head, it’s time to go.”

  He raised an arm lazily and she hauled him to his feet.

  “Anyway, he can certainly shoe a horse!”

  “Who can?” Yūryak opened the door for her.

  “Count Bryennius.”

  “He shod a horse?”

  “Two. Come on!”

  They entered the hall and felt the disquiet of strangers looked-over, before the locals returned to their doings. Martina saw Bryennius in a corner conversing with a countryman as the patrician-looking Centarch Bessas Phocas, talked with a beautiful woman in a light grey gown. A red-headed young Kelt conversed with them.

  Yūryak touched her back lightly. “We’d better blend in. Let’s find the food.”

  Before long cries for silence announced the landlord, Tigran Zakarian, standing upon a bench seat to welcome his guests. Stocky and powerful under his formal robes, Zakarian brushed the dark hair from his eyes, took a sip of wine and cleared his throat. There was a hush—courtesy from the visitors, discernible unease from his people.

  “Welcome, soldiers and travellers, to the hospitality of Arknik,” he began with a smile which twisted to a smirk. “We seem to have had rather a few visitors from Constantinople lately.” Some in the crowd managed crooked grins, while there was a momentary murmur from amongst the Roman soldiery.

  Martina noticed but could not attach any particular significance to it. Instead she felt a warmth, of belonging to that place of spiced food, scrubbed women, the earth-equus smell of off duty cavalry mingling with people who won their living from the land. Turning to listen she saw in sudden sharp clarity the rough stone walls festooned with weapons and hangings. Colourful carpets from beyond the Muslim frontier covered the flagstone floor on which long trestle tables were laden with food and wine. Flickering oil lamps cast an orange light and dancing shadows across the crowd.

  “Many …” Zakarian went on with a lighter tone, “… many of them bearing arms? Why? Are the infidels about to fall upon us again? We all know the fate of walled Kars, a mere two days ride away, on the Day of Epiphany this very year. It does no good to dwell grievously on it, but we must look to our futures. So we shall pray, bring in the harvest and see to the defence, if needs be, of our poor walls of Arknik. And now, of all times, we must be grateful to those who place themselves in harm’s way for the common good.”

  “Common what? Common good!” The falconer who rode in that afternoon stood defiantly, cloaked and capped, dagger at his belt. All could hear the rage in him. “What would that effeminate race, the Greeks, contribute to any common good?”

  Martina gauged the crowd’s reactions before leaning close to Yūryak. “It�
�s Bardanes Gurgen.”

  “Digging his grave deeper.”

  “Yes,” Gurgen continued, his face afire. “We’d scarcely seen off the Arabs, who occupied Mantzkert—its proper Armenian name—and much of our land, before you corrupt and perfidious Greeks tricked and bribed your way in, taking our blessed city, Ani, nine years ago. Then you stole estates, persecuted our church, castrated and dispossessed our noblest soldiers and dismantled our army of fifty thousand. You ravaged the countryside with your landlords and tax collectors until there was nothing. There were once seventy well-guarded castles in Vaspurakan. Now? Helpless!” Gurgen glared around at the silent faces. “Helpless! With the infidels on the doorstep. The sooner you tax collecting Greeks with your land-stealing mercenaries are gone, the better.”

  He had spoken treason in the presence of the Emperor’s soldiers and the intensity of the silence stopped his outburst.

  Martina saw the Centarch Phocas exchange glances with the blonde woman and the Kelt, then move towards Gurgen, but a slight shake of the head from Bryennius stayed him. Tigran Zakarian hovered unhappily in the background as a glowering silence from the Romans provoked sympathetic murmurs from the Armenians. Normans looked on in amused silence at this trouble between allies.

  Bryennius rose and strode across the hall to stand beside the landlord and confront Gurgen.

  Count Bryennius! This was who the Augusta said she might trust. With the hardness of a professional soldier and the arrogance of the Tagmata, his gaze swept the room over her, then back again. Their eyes met for a moment before the rhythm of his address obliged his attentions away. Then she sensed someone had seen through her and looking around suddenly, saw the red-headed Kelt quickly avert his gaze. Unease touched her—she could not afford an uncovered moment.

  “Hardly helpless!” the count replied evenly to Gurgen.

  “Ah! The nosey blacksmith!”

  “I … we”, Bryennius waved his arm inclusively of Romans and Franks, “neither know nor endured the history of this land as you who were born here. Nor is any person here the author of it, thus none should be faulted. But I must set you right on some matters. First, people here may wish to check the facts for themselves, but my recollection is that a Roman army under John Curcuas, himself Armenian I think, recaptured Manzikert and Khlat’ from the Arabs over a hundred years ago. I do not believe it was you, or the Armenian state.”

  “Second,” Bryennius continued. “When your king, John Senekerim, thirty years ago ceded his realm in return for extensive lands in the west, it was because he knew that he did not have the power to resist the increasing Kurdish and Seljuk incursions.”

  Some of the older locals nodded slightly. They were listening.

  “Third. We soldiers here this night are sent so the fate of Artsn is not repeated. The Emperor orders and we obey.”

  There was a murmur of assent from troops and citizens alike.

  “Last,” Bryennius paused to make the point. “All are now confronted by a terrible common foe. Bitterness between us no matter how provoked by past injustice, will do nothing but harm. From such harm will come mistakes, and from mistakes, catastrophe.”

  There was a grim silence as his words hung in the air.

  “Bah!” Bardanes Gurgen blustered. “Catastrophe for whom? And what will you accomplish with your legions—a lone regiment of Scholae with a few hundred more Kelts on foot. The nomad king quakes in his tent at your approach.”

  “I doubt Tughrul Bey is sleeping rough this night. I rather fancy he has finer quarters in some city. In any case, we are here and I intend to smite Seljuks, not Armenians.”

  The stranger glared defiantly across the circle at Bryennius and made to leave.

  “Do not turn your back on me,” snapped Bryennius. “Who are you?”

  “I am an Armenian, wronged, my father carried off in chains, my mother dispossessed, their estates stolen by barbarian mercenaries for one of your Emperor’s friends. I’ve wandered homeless since. What use would I have for a name?” He turned to leave but cataphracts blocked his way.

  “I asked you a question.”

  Gurgen made to push through the soldiers.

  “Arrest him,” Bryennius ordered quietly. Then he murmured instructions to Centarch Bessas Phocas who departed with the prisoner and escort.

  Martina noticed Bryennius waited a decent interval before departing with Tigran Zakarian and his wife. That was the signal for many of the troops, mindful of the march on the following day, to retire also. A few revellers stayed as the local musicians and dancers threw aside the inhibitions caused by so many strangers. She wanted to remain, but Yūryak insisted, “We must be on our way before too many are up.”

  Arknik,

  Late evening, 21st May 1054

  As Guy and Serena turned to listen to the landlord, he mused on her questions about the purpose of his journey: whether he would stay or return home to Provence, matters he had not considered. Home? Guy knew at that instant he could only return if he had no need. To ride a fine horse back and thunder on the gates of his father’s fiefdom was one thing. To slink back defeated by the world was another.

  As Guy’s consciousness turned to the drama between the rebellious falconer and Bryennius, he noticed a woman in red; fair-haired in the lamplight, she wore the festival day dress of a commoner and was striking in a way that caused his look to linger. Languid eyed, lips parted, she studied Bryennius closely. She turned her head suddenly as if by sixth sense. Guy averted his gaze back to the exchange between the count and the falconer. When he looked again, the woman was lost to his sight as the crowd moved to make way for the troopers escorting the hapless Gurgen from the hall.

  Recalling their conversation, Guy turned to Serena. “I came to see the world and find I know little enough of it. Which one was right, the count or the falconer?”

  “That is the pity of it, she said. “Both, in their own ways and fate has set them against each other.”

  “I feel sorry for him, that man with the hawks.” Guy reflected on his own dispossession by birthright. “What will they do with him?”

  “I shouldn’t worry. He is very lucky, for he was intemperate before two just men, Bessas, that is Centarch Phocas, and Count Bryennius. I doubt they will do more than lock him up overnight until he cools down, then send him on his way. With others he may not have been so fortunate.” She looked around. “People are leaving—it is the proper hour, so I must also leave. Farewell, we will meet again on the road.”

  Charles came up and thrust a spilling goblet into Guy’s hands. “Did y’see that. One more, then I’m off to my blankets.”

  “Thank you. I might do the same, Charles. Have you seen Jacques?”

  “Turned in already. Long day tomorrow, he said.”

  Not saying much, they stood and watched the mood of the gathering revive until an engaging local woman smiled at Charles and grabbed his arm as she whirled past.

  Guy leaned against a stone pillar. He took in the sparkling eyes of the young men and women dancing and the smiles of the older folk. Some of the men approached him, telling in broken Greek of the local history and events celebrated in this feast. A matron of the district seized him for a dance, the crowd smiling good-naturedly at his ungainly attempt. He saw the girl who served breakfast at the inn in the arms of an artisan and Leon Magistros clapping in tune to the dancers, a goblet of wine on the table beside him. His sister, Joaninna was close by, drinking wine, swaying her hips to the music, watching the rhythmic pumping of the life of that small community as it came together.

  Time passed and the crowd thinned. Guy left and made his way through the night to where Charles and Jacques were already asleep. Rolling into the folds of his cloak he stared for a time at the canopy of stars and felt the night breeze brush his face.

  Sometime later he woke abruptly, conscious he was at some outpost beyond the Euphrates, lyin
g still so any would-be assailant would be unaware of his watchfulness. Somewhere, a woman screamed; and again. No one stirred, so Guy leapt up, pulled on shoes, seized his sword-belt and made for the sound, passing through the dark space between the stables and the row of shops. There he saw two figures struggling in a shaft of moonlight: the merchant, Taronites, dragging his wife by the hair.

  Guy dropped his military belt and stepped from the shadows. “Lady, are you all right?” he asked, glaring at the merchant.

  Taronites looked around, a pitiless wildness in his eyes. The sobbing woman slumped to the ground as her husband growled through bared teeth, “Mind your own business!”

  “You have just made it my business. Lady?” Guy asked as though Taronities was not there.

  Maria hurriedly wiped away her tears. “No. It’s all right. Thank you. A misunderstanding.” She smiled weakly in the moonlight. “My fault.”

  There was an awkward moment when no one moved.

  “I’m all right,” Maria reassured him.

  Guy still glared at the merchant. “Very good,” he said slowly, then retreated into the shadows, retrieved his military belt and retraced his steps.

  Reaching his tossed-aside cloak he sat, looking around at the sleeping forms. Unsettling images of the encounter with the merchant and his wife came to mind. Recalling the man’s hate-filled countenance, Guy knew he had made another enemy.

  Charles, without stirring, drawled from beneath his blanket, “Fire breathing dragon, or some peasant’s goblin?”

  “Both and neither!” Guy removed his shoes and lay down.

  “Well, I hope she’s worth it.” Charles grinned to the stars.

  Guy looked crossly at him but said nothing. His gaze was drawn once more to the night sky, his thoughts to its majesty. He reflected on how much untellable experience was crammed into each day of this life. For all his fears and uncertainties, he was suddenly glad he had not stayed at his ancestral home: better to journey far and perhaps return—one day when there was no need—to the wonder of those who had not ventured.