A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Stroking Speedy’s forehead, Leo greeted the horse. “Hello, Old Man. You didn’t let them get away, did you?” Speedy stood in his acrid smell, saddle hot and saddlecloth plastered with sweat and hair. They had walked since first light so the bay horse had cooled, but caked-sweat and dried grey rivulets plastered down his legs told the temper of the pursuit. Leo noticed the shoes had been all but worn off on the hard ground but Speedy seemed not the least distressed. He looked around in his calm, head-down manner, ears half-pricked at his familiar fellows in the lines and waited patiently to be unsaddled.

  Togol with a sweep of long fair hair eased his saddle from the horse’s back and threw the empty water skin to Leo’s squire to fill.

  David Varez, stiff-kneed, joined the little group around the dying fire.

  The cataphracts drew up and unsaddled their tired mounts as their squires came running. Two horses were trembling with exhaustion and wet with a heat-sweat that had not dried with the hours of walking they had done. A cataphract’s roan mare sank with a groan and made to lie down. Her rider and nearby squires rushed to stop her, get her to her feet, to be led around, properly cooled, groomed, watered and fed a little.

  The soldiers stood like chessmen of iron and leather and watched: practiced eyes taking in the unspoken language of horses and the evidence of the chase. Leo turned to his squire. “Taticus, please organise breakfast for these men and care for their horse. As soon as you can, commensurate with other attention to them, have them stand up to their knees in that cold stream—will do them good. And have a change of mounts brought up. Thank you.”

  The Arab was pulled from his horse and pushed to his knees at Leo’s feet. “Give him a little water,” he ordered.

  Maniakh walked over to them and good-naturedly chided the Georgian “Took you long enough!”

  “You forgot to tell the Arab’s horse to wait for us, by God.” David answered in the Turkic tongue. “Otherwise we would’ve been back days ago, without chasing him all over the country.” David looked at Leo and changed to fluent, if uncultured, Greek. “He had a real good horse, but nothing on Speedy. Togol and bay Speedy just rode him down over a day, a night and into the next morning. The Arab stood no chance. He had no bow, only a spear—so Togol lassoed him out of the saddle.”

  As the column’s baggage train with its guard of mounted Normans moved off, the cataphracts dispersed in small groups outside the ditch waiting for the word to move. Leo listened to the scouts as in their manly ways they tried to be matter-of-fact about their experience. As the tale progressed over breakfast, the difficulties they overcame emerged: lost tracks and fear of ambush in the night, the Arab in desperation jumping his horse off a high cliff into a river and Togol, not daring the leap, plunging down a nearby slope to cut the Arab’s tracks where they left the water. A cataphract related the exhilaration of the capture, the terrified Arab wrenched from his horse, Togol towering above him, spear aloft, demanding submission.

  David told how the prisoner had been unable to take his eyes from Togol and Speedy, until they had blindfolded him with his own black turban. His worn boots scraping on the gravel, David stood before the kneeling captive who shrank back, his mouth clenched in a grimace of resolve. “He’s the handsomest boy in all of Arabia though.”

  “Togol gets the black mare,” Leo said. “How did you catch the dun, David?”

  “It is the horse that galloped free from the contact.”

  “I know.”

  “She baulked at the cliff,” David explained. “Had nowhere to run so we lassoed her. Good horse—I’ve been riding it to rest mine.”

  “So it belongs to the dead Arab? Keep it.”

  David nodded. “Thank you, Count,” he said, removing his cap and running dirty nails through his hair. “Saves me stealing one!”

  “Has the prisoner seen it?” asked Leo.

  “No,” said Togol.

  “What else have you got?”

  “A marked goatskin map,” David answered. “Some gold, parchment, quills and ink in the saddlebag. Nothing written except a name stamped onto the saddle, the same etched into the sword.”

  Leo studied the map and nodded to Bessas who instructed some nearby troopers to hold their shields around the captive so he would be unable to see around when the blindfold was removed. Bessas stood with his back to the morning sun. Togol removed the blindfold and the Arab winced and squinted in the light. Togol dropped the turban: the Arab’s gaze lingering on it for just a moment.

  “You are a prisoner of the Roman Army. What is your name?” Bessas demanded in crisp, unsympathetic Arabic.

  The prisoner was silent, insolent, barely bearded and as handsome as his mother must have been beautiful.

  “You’ve been caught spying,” Bessas stated flatly, “inside the Roman Empire. There is no help for you.”

  The Arab looked back in silence, attempting by some mistake on the part of his interrogator, to determine the fate of his companions and chances of his own survival or rescue.

  Togol moved menacingly to Bessas’ side and glared down. The Arab’s eyes widened.

  Bessas took in his clothing and well-made boots: the dress of the frontier, which might equally have been worn by Christian or Muslim countrymen. He continued conversationally, “You are going to the dungeons. You’re obviously rich and someone will wish to ransom you. But we must know your name to spread the word, so your mother …”

  The Arab’s eyes flickered, then he looked down.

  “… knows where to find you.”

  The prisoner was silent.

  Bessas let it drag out. “It is mothers who provide the ransoms you know. Their love is unconditional. But the nomads who sent you here have no such care.”

  The prisoner continued to stare at the ground.

  “It would be useful—and in your own best interests—to know your name,” Bessas said, as if it was of no real consequence to him, “so we can spread the word you are alive. Otherwise, your relatives will believe you dead and leave you to your fate.” He paused. “A man can be a long time in a dungeon, his life seeping away while he scratches on the stone walls with his fingernails.” Bessas waited through the long silence.

  “I am Zobeir al-Adin.”

  “What were you doing, Zobeir al-Adin, sneaking around on Roman lands?”

  “Not Roman lands! Arab lands until we drew back and they became Armenian borderlands. Then you Romans invaded.”

  “Hardly Arab lands! Armenian. Christian lands. The Armenians and Romans have always been close.”

  “Arab lands of the faithful. We built the fortress of Manzikert …”

  “Manzikert? I doubt that. Word is, it has been a settled place for a very long time.”

  Zobeir al-Adin fell silent. At length he asked, “Where’re my companions?”

  There was a long pause before Bessas said, “I ask the questions.”

  The Arab was silent and looked at the ground again.

  “I’ll tell you this much,” Bessas said, staring hard at him. “By sundown you’ll be thrown in the dungeon of an impregnable fortress. The word might be spread that you have deserted to us, for it is known we pay very well. If you ever got out, you would be an outcast with a price on your head. On the other hand, should you prove, shall we say, co-operative, we’ll see what can be done. We’ve no fight with the caliphates, provided they stay on their side of the frontiers. Think hard on it—this is no friendly polo match.”

  Taticus Phocas brought some food and water for the prisoner, placing it in front of the kneeling youth. Zobeir al-Adin looked hungrily but doubtfully at it.

  “Why bother poisoning you if we simply wished to kill you?” Bessas shrugged.

  Leo, who had been standing back a little, walked over and picked Zobeir’s black turban from the ground, the Arab furtively following his every move. Motioning Taticus Phocas to pour wa
ter over it until the material was soaked, Leo turned and held the turban at arm’s length to the sun. As he suspected, the procedure revealed Arabic script, black lettering on black cloth and only visible when wet—secret writing.

  Leo glared at the visibly wilting Zobeir, “He has a shy hand, it seems. Translate it.”

  Bessas held the turban to the light. “Scouting notes, by the look: garrison strengths and locations, roads, bridges, mood of the people, conditions in the land. Not the sort of thing the average incidental traveller or merchant would secretly record.”

  “As I thought,” said Bryennius. “Translate it in full later. We seem to have three horses and three men out of that lot. I wonder if that was all of them, and whether any will come looking for them?”

  Zobeir was staring at the ground in front of him.

  “He was interested in Manzikert,” said Bessas.

  Togol spoke through a mouthful of food. “He’ll be even more interested now.”

  Leo grinned without humour. “Bessas, as soon as the Arab’s had a little to eat and drink, get him mounted on a mule and up to the column. Chain him on a cart and contrive to have d’Agiles ride by on the chestnut mare he captured to see if Zobeir recognises it. After he starts, let him go for a while, then get Togol to lead the other Arab’s horse past. See if that elicits a response. Did you notice the reaction when you mentioned his mother?”

  Bessas glanced at Leo. “I did.”

  North-west of Manzikert,

  24th May 1054

  It was the mid-morning of a lovely day. A pleasant breeze played with manes and tails, bearing the dust away from the line of march. Guy and Charles rode on the flank of the column, Jacques accompanying them on the mule.

  Jacques had changed since they left Constantinople and it struck Guy how little he really knew about his companion. Some fire, hitherto unobserved by Guy, seemed to have come to life within the servant. The weight had fallen off him and he had developed a ruddy, tanned complexion together with an easy confidence and commanding presence. Guy suspected that his years missing from the village had not been spent cloistered in a monastery.

  Guy removed his felt hat and could feel the coolness in his hair. He ran his fingers through the unfamiliar scrub and felt the itchy sensation of sweat and body oil.

  Charles did the same in unconscious imitation. “I’m looking forward to a bath. I got used to it in Phanar—a bath and clean clothes. I rather miss Cons …” His voice trailed off.

  Guy rubbed his stubbled jaw. “We look like pigs, brigands or such.”

  “Where will we live in Manzikert, d’you suppose?” Charles wondered aloud as he urged his horse to keep up with Guy’s mare.

  “Billeted with some hapless family who can’t understand our language. The stables? A storehouse? Tents even? The troops already there will have the best accommodation. And horses the same.” Guy had been wondering himself about these small but consequential aspects of their future home. Thus they passed the time.

  Guy had observed as they broke camp that morning, a group trot up from the rear with a blindfolded, bound figure who was pulled from his horse rather roughly, briefly questioned fed a little then blindfolded again and chained on one of the carts. Guy wondered about this little drama. Rumour had it Togol and George had captured the fugitive from the skirmish. Later, Guy watched with interest as David rode to the captive’s side and leaning over, pulled down the blindfold.

  Togol, leading horses captured from the Seljuk party, appeared from behind him. “Guy, you come,” Togol motioned with his broken Greek. “We liven up Arab. See what he makes of us riding his damn Saracen horses.” The scout seemed bemused by what he was about to do.

  Togol and Guy drew closer to the track and urged their horses into a faster walk to overtake the cart. As they drew abreast of the captive Guy watched the Arab look closely at the captured horses, angry comprehension in his eyes. The Arab’s stare rose to meet Guy’s. Then he spoke in a language Guy did not understand. He looked inquisitively at Togol.

  “He wants to know where the owners are? Don’t tell.”

  Guy favoured Zobeir with a superior shrug. “Does it matter?” he asked in Latin, thinking the other would be unlikely to understand.

  Zobeir returned a hateful stare, speaking angrily in Arabic. Guy did not comprehend the language, but discerned the intent of the look well enough.

  Togol laughed dismissively and interpreted. “He said, enjoy the mare while you can, Frank. You won’t for much longer.”

  The Cuman laughed but the Arab had spoken with such vehemence that Guy wondered at the truth of it.

  Zobeir lapsed into a sullen silence. Nothing more was to be gained, so David slipped languidly from his horse onto the cart behind the Arab and retied the blindfold as Guy rode off to report the exchange to Bessas.

  In the mid-afternoon the column halted on high ground. Sitting on a grassy verge with Charles and Jacques, Guy saw Bryennius, riding Zarrar, approach from the rear at a slow trot. Some way behind him the regiment halted in low ground. Bryennius joined Balazun with Bessas and the scouts at the head of the column. They dismounted and led their horses to the highest part of the crest, where they conferred. Bryennius then glanced at the prisoner, looked over the column and rode back, nodding to Guy as he passed.

  Real leaders are different from the others, Guy thought. When ordinary people rest, they are constantly moving, checking, thinking. He wondered what force drove them: higher duty or maniacal ambition. Watching Bessas, still on the crest and looking beyond it with evident concentration, Guy asked Charles, “What wells sustain them?”

  Charles looked up blankly. “What are you talking about, Guy?”

  He clambered to his feet. “I’m going to have a look around.” Leading Sira, he made his way to the crest. Jacques rose and pulled the mule with them.

  It was warm now and a blue haze shimmered in the distance. The ground, Guy observed, was quite open and fell away gradually to a distant shallow valley where sunlight gleamed on a river or stream. Some twenty miles beyond and dominating the scene, was the massive snow-crested bulk of Mount Sippane. Far to the northeast, other snow-covered peaks could be seen on the horizon. Becoming aware that his gaze was darting all over the scene, Guy recalled Togol’s advice: take in everything, closest first because that holds the nearest danger, then the middle ground and finally the distance. Study the ground from right to left, the opposite way from which you read, that way the habitual stare in straight lines of literate people will be less likely to miss things.

  Guy looked more deliberately at the scene. “Jacques, shepherds,” he nudged, pointing a short distance to their left where a rudimentary hut stood in a hollow with men, dogs and a flock of sheep nearby. He followed the track with his gaze, taking in more houses, sheep and goats. Some were substantial dwellings with stone walls—the houses of the wealthier landholders of the district.

  In the middle distance was the river valley, which wound from Guy’s left or northeast, to his right, the southwest. He could make out the green of trees following its course and the patchwork of cultivation along the valley. “It looks rather cool and peaceful,” he said to Jacques.

  “It has the look of prosperity,” the other agreed. “Inviting and easy. I daresay that is how the Saracens would perceive it. Another valley seems to split off from the main one and go …”

  Guy looked at the sun and their shadows. “South?”

  “I see the walls,” Jacques cried. “We’ve arrived. The fortress! Manzikert. See! Beyond the village, in the trees.”

  Guy looked and could only make out the dim outlines of tiny dark shapes amongst the foliage in the distant valley floor, before picking out the dark outline of the citadel and forward of that, the circuit walls. “I see it,” Guy said, a hush in his voice as they stared in silence at the place they had both longed and feared to reach.

  “We
ll,” said Jacques, “It looks peaceful at least.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “No smoke plumes. The blue haze of peace is different from the black plumes of war,” Jacques mused distantly as Guy looked sharply at him.

  They returned to the column as Guy reflected that, through the morning’s ride he had missed the evidence of their approach to a city. The road had been better marked by use, and had secondary tracks leading from it to other towns or villages. There had been dwellings, wells, and copses of tended trees with domestic animals and shepherds looking on from distant hillsides. Now he watched carefully as a party of horsemen assembled around Bessas. He recognised the column’s quartermaster and reasoned they were an advance liaison party that would ride ahead to inform the garrison of their approach.

  The main body of the column consolidated under Count Bryennius and people became excited with the expectation of their journey’s end. Soldiers and citizens craned their necks to see if they knew any of the advance party. Their expressions betrayed envy in which they imagined their companions soaking up the luxuries of Manzikert while they still toiled along the last miles of the track.

  Balazun rode up. “D’Agiles. Bertrum. Go with those Greeks. Make sure they don’t rob us or end up lodging us with the hogs. And make sure I get the best quarters in the citadel—and the best looking whore.” He laughed amicably into his stubble.

  Charles chuckled and grinned at Guy as they rode to Bessas who departed with forty men including Roman and Frankish officers, a dozen cataphracts, as many mounted Normans and the servants of the wealthy. They entered the wide, shallow valley of the Arsanias River, crossing the stream by an arched stone bridge. The water beneath, clear and swift-flowing with spring’s flushing by melting snow, looked to be between knee and girth deep where the bridge stood: perhaps a horse’s wither in depth either side of it. The valley floor was densely cultivated and the little wooden and stone houses were closer together. The road was better formed here and small herds of horses, cattle, sheep and goats grazed in rudely fenced fields, or under the care of shepherds outside the enclosed areas. Birch, oak, maple and poplar trees grew more thickly ahead and as they approached the main village, Guy could now see the stone walls of the fortress with the imperial standard flying above the highest tower of the citadel.