A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Guy felt like he had taken hellfire by the tail. Deep pain seared his groin, his back jarred with every thudding impact and the world spun dizzyingly without focus. He leaned back and pulled as hard as he could on the reins, trying to shorten them and so get the mare’s head up. In his blurred vision he could see nothing of her in front of the saddle. Then she sprang forward again and galloped a few paces, glancing off the back of a cart as though intent on scraping off the rider. He felt a searing pain in his right leg. With a squeal of mixed fear and rage, the chestnut half fell away from the cart, regained her balance and ripped into another buck.

  As she thudded to the ground this time, Guy came off, slamming into the hard earth, grazing knees and palms and knocking the breath from him. Deeply shamed, he rose as fast as he could and limped after her, as she galloped around looking for a way out of the circle of peculiar-smelling, strange-sounding people.

  Michael Taronites was loud in his ridicule. “Some cataphract the nosy Kelt is,” he laughed without humour. “Can’t even ride his stolen horse.”

  “Be still. Don’t move,” Simon Vardaheri said with such authority that the crowd stilled. They held out their arms to make a fence and the mare slowed to a trot, blowing hard, snorting and looking around her with pricked ears and white, staring eyes. Then she stood still, watching suspiciously, as Vardaheri walked to her. The mare sensed something in the man and allowed him take the reins.

  “Oh she just got a fright,” Simon explained to no-one in particular, but loud enough for everyone to hear. Then to Guy he murmured, “It’s sometimes best to mount a strange horse very gently so they get used to the idea. Are you alright to get back on?”

  Bessas motioned the crowd away. “Move off. Move off.” Taken aback by his unwitting role in the drama, he rode close to them. “Perhaps not that quiet after all, I see. Mount up on that mule there, Jacques, and we’ll see if she’ll come quietly along with us.”

  Guy nodded gratefully, appreciative of Simon’s intervention and balm to his pride. Overcoming his reluctance for a repeat performance, he took the reins as Simon held the chestnut’s head, speaking soothingly to her in a language Guy did not recognise. He mounted quietly and found the off-side stirrup with the toe of his shoe. Simon looked at him. Guy nodded, reins gripped short to prevent them being pulled through his hands again, feet forward to guard against inadvertently goading her flanks or being pitched over her head. Jacques started forward on the mule. Bessas stepped Diomed forward and Simon led the mare by the bridle for her important first few steps with her new rider.

  “Just relax,” Vardaheri advised.

  Guy nodded, concentrating on every bunched, explosive muscle beneath him. Simon let go of the bridle and to Guy’s relief, the mare walked nervously but steadily alongside the mule. He felt like he was on a much taller horse, such was her strength and the spring in her step. Guy guided her between Jacques and Bessas. The mare cocked an ear at quiet Diomed, who for a moment turned his head to her in friendly greeting.

  “She’s right. She has her tail out and is walking along quite well,” Bessas encouraged. “Have you named her?”

  “I hadn’t thought.”

  “May I suggest Sira?” Bessas said.

  “What is Sira?” Guy was beginning to relax as the mare calmed and moved gracefully forward into her swift walk.

  “A Persian queen of long ago.”

  “Si-ra.” Guy liked the idea and in his mind’s eye imagined a beautiful woman against a backdrop of columns and gardens. “If she hasn’t turfed me again by this night, Sira it is.”

  They rode to a flank of the column as it began to ascend the escarpment Bessas had described. Men leaned into the climb and draught animals shouldered their breastplates and collars. Infantrymen, in unspoken sympathy with the beasts, put shoulders to the sides of the carts to help them.

  Guy guided the mare through the long grass at the steepest side of the hill. She lowered her head a little and he could hear her breathing sharpen. As they went up and her breaths became more laboured, he waved his arms, flapped clothing and made strange noises, teaching her not to be startled by sudden events. Half way up the hill he dismounted and mounted again. Two thirds of the way up the slope, he dismounted and girded on his byrnie and sword. He donned his felt hat, mounted from the off-side and trotted the mare up the last gentle grade near the crest.

  Jacques beamed. “You’re like a knight again, except for that ridiculous hat!”

  Guy smiled with renewed confidence. “With fair skin, I’ll bear the hat. You’re olive complexioned, so you don’t have to worry. Anyway, out here, nothing is ridiculous!”

  “You’re right. Nothing’s ridiculous out here.”

  At the crest, Guy urged the mare into a canter. Her perfect motion bespoke long leagues44 ridden over steppe and mountain. He liked the Seljuk saddle and worked out how he would tie his cloak at the cantle and how the goatskin of water might be hung from the pommel and fixed with a thong. He realized how much the count and Bessas had become role models with the workmanlike cut of their weapons, accoutrements and tack. More than that, there was in their warlike preparations a studied calmness and knowledge, very different from the quarrelsome Normans.

  Above Guy, the blue sky stretched over the low green hills, rolling on to browned-off higher ridges with their drifts of snow in the gullies. Occasional thickets and small groves of birch, oak and poplars dotted the shallow streams and valleys. The tan-grey crags of rugged foothills dipped in places to reveal distant snow-capped blue mountains.

  Guy allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He now was superbly mounted and a mare held the promise of offspring. Young and strong, he could run a mile in armour and swim half that bare. Rare for his class, he could read and write in Latin and had gathered a smattering of Greek. He had no ties aside from his companions and was favoured by a little Byzantine gold in a leather pouch under his byrnie. Being thrown from Sira—for that was her name now—had not noticeably degraded his reputation with the people of the column: indeed if anything human failing and perseverance had enhanced it. He was conscious that he had been drawn so far into his adventure that the deep fears and doubts seemed to dissipate with each day. Now his world was centred on the column: its armed men, toiling animals, equestriennes on their well-groomed ladies’ hacks and knights on their warhorses.

  There was another short halt as the rear gained the top of the escarpment and a reconnaissance party trotted off to identify the coming night’s campsite. The guides spoke of a temporary camp ahead often used by Roman troops and hence already partly fortified with a ditch and berm.45 Commanded by a Roman centarch, the reconnaissance would select, mark out and picket the camp, then guide the various elements of the column to their assigned places.

  Guy looked back for any sign of the count’s regiment, scanning the landscape to no avail. Then he saw them on a distant slope, spaced irregularly like grazing cattle. If he had not known they were there, he might not have seen them. A closer scrutiny betrayed the occasional glint from an uncovered helmet or spear point. Sombrely, Guy reflected on what he might miss, in war or life, because he did not already know something was there. He had gained a valuable horse cheaply, perhaps, but what would be the true cost?

  * * *

  38In Western Europe, a military fief or landholding, held by a knight in return for armed service to an overlord.

  39Body armour comprising overlapping plates of iron, horn or hardened leather, held together by leather or silk lacing.

  40The Byzantine central, professional field army of about 30,000, predominantly cavalry, based in or near Constantinople.

  41Merlon—the raised part of a battlement between two embrasures or crenelles.

  42Cantle—the raised rear of a saddle seat behind the rider.

  43Miles—a Frankish term for an armed horseman or knight.


  44League—old unit of distance of three miles, about the space covered in one hour by a person walking.

  45Berm—embankment of soil excavated from the ditch.

  Chapter Five

  The Fountains of Manzikert

  Near Count Bryennius’ camp,

  Late afternoon, 22nd May 1054

  Leo Bryennius watched from a rise as the first elements of the column occupied the campsite laid out by the guides. Sited on a low hill close to a running stream with a few trees inside the perimeter providing shade and some concealment, the place had obviously been occupied by previous marching columns and chosen so no nearby grove or thicket could conceal enemies. Norman horsemen screened to the east as carts and wagons were guided into a rough square where the teams were unhitched and teams of men started repairing the protective surrounding ditch and berm inside it. Others filled water containers or grazed and watered the animals. There were too many spare horses to allow loose inside the small camp so most were hobbled and sidelined, then grazed under a strong guard nearby. When the semblance of a defendable camp was made, the screen was withdrawn and replaced by a closer mounted picket. As they withdrew past the sentries, the knights tossed the reins to their servants and retired to their baggage. In the mild weather, only Robert Balazun and the wealthier citizens had their servants pitch their tents.

  In the soft light of early evening, Leo led his regiment into the camp through one of the four entrances. They off-saddled in the centre, where their squires had already hobbled the spare horses along picket lines. The squires took the late arrivals out to be similarly fed and watered and saw to the unloading of pack mules. Before dark, the mounted picket was withdrawn and sentries posted on foot around the perimeter. One troop of cataphracts saddled and knee-hobbled their mounts in case of emergency, the men eating and sleeping with the reins in their hands.

  The camp stood-to just before dark and Leo did his rounds with Bessas and Balazun. First they toured the perimeter, ensuring the sergeants of foot had properly prepared their fronts and were ready to receive an attack: sentries posted, spearmen in the foremost rank to form a shield-wall on the berm, with archers behind them. The knights and cataphracts in the centre were to support any part of the perimeter. Leo hid his impatience. Unlike a practiced army on the march with its engineers and baggage train, this column was too slow and noisy as raw troops and accompanying citizens searched for their kit and sought a place to sit and eat their cold evening meal.

  It grew dark and the word was passed to stand-down into night-routine. All were tired and most slept who were not detailed as sentries or to work-parties. A few lounged in small groups and talked quietly. Leo permitted one small fire, such as a group of travelling citizens might have, to enable his missing scouts to locate them in the dark. The camp quietened as the moon rose.

  Bessas approached and stood by the fire next to Leo, scorch marks of campfires past marking their bootlegs. “Count, have you ever been in a camp attacked by barbarians at night?”

  “Yes. And I was once in a camp that thought it had been, and that was bad enough.” They were silent for a moment, each after their fashion taking in the night, the stillness of the firelit camp and the soft breeze. “I’d hoped David and Togol would be back by now.”

  “They may’ve stopped for the dark part of the night.”

  “Perhaps. Bessas, you told me this morning you were suspicious of that outspoken Armenian at the feast last night, yet let him go.”

  “Gurgen? He was drunk.”

  “Which might explain his passion, but not his presence at Arknik?”

  “He claims to be from Archēsh and that he travelled to Karin to visit his sister …” Bessas seemed less certain.

  “Which puts him within reach of where we contacted the Seljuk patrol.”

  “True! He said he was told that she—his sister—was ill. The horseshoes that aroused my suspicions are the work of a blacksmith from the city of Her, who now has a shop in Archēsh. So he says.”

  “How convenient!” Leo snorted. “Kurdish Her is now under Seljuk suzerainty. And it’s not far from the border town of Salamast, half a day’s ride I’m told. Did Gurgen see Guy’s new horse?”

  “Not that I’ve seen, or heard. But he did speak, very briefly with Zakharian at the festival.”

  “Yes, so I saw. It isn’t surprising that they’d know each other. Zakharian watched us bury the Seljuk scout in his yards. I do not know how much he saw or if he knows who it was, but he linked the corpse with d’Agiles’ horse.”

  “Lucky d’Agiles,” Bessas said grimly.

  “The falcons?” Leo asked.

  “Sport and game for the journey. Gurgen also said he sells a few pairs,” Bessas answered. “Y’know, I watched them, Gurgen and his man, exercise the birds this morning. Quite interesting. They walked down past the cattle enclosures with the birds in hand. One cast off one, then the other. The first bird rose very quickly, the other circling underneath it. They flew far away until they were specks, then returned and swept in low around the handlers. Gurgen’s bird came to rest on his glove where he replaced its hood. The other must have been a younger bird, more wilful, or less confident in its handler, for it alighted on the ground a spear’s length from them and waited for the glove to be offered.”

  “What of his man?” Leo asked.

  “Ananias? Just that, Gurgen says,” said Bessas. “I’ve heard no different from anyone.”

  “Gurgen decided not to accompany us?”

  “He thought it unwise after his outburst. And he thought he would travel more rapidly cross country by paths he knows.”

  “That wouldn’t be hard,” said Leo.

  “We couldn’t kill him,” Bessas joked. “That would be un-Christian, and if we chained up every Armenian yokel who damned our empire, the fleet would want for anchor cables.”

  “I know enough Christians who are quick to kill, but you’re right. At least we’re aware of him. We should be at Manzikert in a day’s march, so any Seljuk raiders he was reporting to would need to move quickly to catch us in the open. We could’ve left him in a dungeon at Arknik for a couple days, but it would’ve made a poor impression on the locals, and him if he’s innocent. And we didn’t really know much about that landlord. That’s the problem when you are strangers in the land.”

  “Speaking of strangers,” Bessas said. “There were two others at Arknik that the locals did not know—an Armenian, a soldier by his look, accompanied by a handy sort of woman with him, perhaps his wife for she wore a ring. Some thought they were just a travelling couple. They left well before us this morning.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  “The sentries reported they rode off towards Karin, but they could have circled back.”

  “True,” Leo observed. Thinking back on events at Arknik, he remembered a woman in a red dress listening intently and watching him closely during his intercession between Zakarian and Gurgen. There had been some presence about her and despite the immediacy of the disturbance with Gurgen, she found a niche in his reflections. “People come and go I suppose.”

  “Perhaps,” Bessas replied before falling silent.

  “Speaking of secrets and handy women,” Leo said with a glance at his companion. “You seemed to be getting along with Mistress Cephalus last night.”

  “Yes,” replied Bessas with a glance back. “We have hardly met, but I rather like her.”

  “Good,” Leo said after a thoughtful silence. “Seems a very fine young woman and rides well. Light hands on the bridle rein can tell you something of a person.”

  “Yes,” Bessas mused.

  “I am going to turn in,” Leo said. “You might do the same.”

  “Should I wake you if the scouts return?”

  “Yes. Do, please.”

  “If they haven’t by daybreak?”

  “Th
en we will wait here a day and give them a chance to catch up.”

  “What will we tell the worthy citizens who are keen to get behind stone walls?”

  “Tell them the truth—that we remain here on good grazing in a secure camp while we wait for one of our detachments to catch up.”

  The following day the animals filled their bellies as Leo paced the camp and rode the surrounds, between reading snatches of Dictys’ Diary of the Trojan War while reclining against his saddle. Reflecting on the book’s treatment of the effect of war on the character and fortunes of people, he read aloud, “When we were sated with Trojan blood, and the city was burned to the ground, we divided the booty, in payment of our military service, beginning with the captive women and children.”

  “I beg your pardon?” asked his squire, looking up.

  “I said, what price Manzikert,” murmured Leo, at which he rose and scanned the horizon, chafing at the delay, worried for his missing men and longing for certainty in this journey.

  The lost patrol did not return that day so the column passed a second night under arms on the steppe.

  Just after sunrise, six horsemen entered the camp amidst the preparations for the day’s march. Togol rode Speedy a long bowshot in advance. David Varaz led a saddled but riderless dun Turkman gelding. With them were the three cataphracts who had pursued the escapee from the skirmish. One led a seventh horse bearing a bound and blindfolded stranger.

  Leo walked over and looked up at the Togol’s gaunt face. “Well done, my friend!”

  The Cuman swung gracefully from the saddle as the first elements of the column stepped off on the Manzikert track. “Mighty old horse, Speedy!” Togol dropped his belt of weapons to the ground and stretched. “I’ve got a damned stiff neck from turning round waiting for t’others all the time!”