A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Branas rubbed the horse’s head. “Oh! You’re nice, and very forward too! How d’you do?” While Branas’ manner appeared to conform to Byzantine dicta against too much public laughter, his eyes twinkled with humour. He did not wear armour but a sword swung by his leg. “And I introduce Reynaldus, one of our senior Normans.”

  A stocky, brown-haired and angry-looking knight grimaced a greeting.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” Branas continued, “though I do confess we were hoping for more cavalry. We’ll not press upon your time tonight. Get your men settled and we can discuss the final arrangements for your quarters and duties in the morning when you meet with the strategos. There is no immediate threat, so your men will be excused military duties allocated by us for seven days. Do you need medical or veterinary support?”

  “No, thank you. We are in good shape. Except, we have a prisoner who seeks the hospitality of your dungeon. And we—I—misplaced an imperial courier, Bardas Cydones, who seemingly tired of our company at Baberd. He was to meet a fellow named Kamyates here. Also, two … ahh … others should have arrived some time ago.”

  Leo noted Reynaldus’ sudden interest and the way he moved closer to overhear.

  Branas observed the glance at the mercenary and he smiled secretly to Leo. “All’s well. A prisoner? One of your own or someone else?”

  “A wandering Arab.”

  Guards opened the inner gates and through them Leo observed the final stronghold, the citadel, on the eastern side of the city.

  Branas looked intently at Leo for a second then summoned the sergeant of the guard. “Unlucky for him! Trouble on the road?”

  “A Seljuk scouting party,” Leo replied. “We killed two and captured a third. I think that was all of them, but cannot be sure. The prisoner has not been properly interrogated yet.”

  “So it has started.” A sombre look crossed Branas’ features.

  “Yes. I suspect it has. The Arab is technically your prisoner now. But no torture, please. And we need a plan to properly exploit him first.”

  “A man after my own heart.” Branas watched as Zobeir al-Adin was marched to the citadel. “I look forward to his story.”

  “As one can’t keep secrets forever,” Leo said, “subject to the strategos’ approval, it is probably now safe to let the word out that we have the Arab as prisoner. And three of their horses: one captured alone by a red-headed Kelt who prevented its rider’s escape.”

  “All of Manzikert and beyond will know the secret by tomorrow!”

  “I’m grateful, Daniel. You realise I do not command the Kelts now the journey from Karin is over. The strategos there placed them under my command only for the march here. This is Robert Balazun, their leader.” Leo beckoned the hook-nosed Norman forward.

  Balazun stepped up and gripped Branas’ hand. Leo, watching closely, thought the two got along to a good start.

  “Robert Balazun. We’ve heard well of you and regret you were kept so long at Karin. Welcome to Manzikert. I trust it will be a comfortable and enjoyable home for you and your people.”

  Leo watched Branas look straight at Balazun’s eyes as he spoke. Balazun beamed.

  “We have some Kelt horse here already,” Branas continued, “and we’ll link you and your men with them. The foot will be placed under the command of the Count of the City, as defending the walls is the most likely action for them.”

  As the men discussed the immediate arrangements for the first night, restive horses looked with pricked ears at the unfamiliar sights as they moved to better view these new affairs and surroundings of the world of humans. Balazun’s stallion lashed out viciously at a local’s donkey which skidded out of the way, as though being kicked at by horses was nothing unusual.

  “Missed!” some wag of the guard laughed.

  Balazun, pulled off balance, irritably gave the horse a whack with the reins. Sharing the joke, he turned to the man. “He aims better at people!”

  There was returned laughter which Branas observed with amused detachment. “Best we get out of here. Go now to your quarters and good night to you. Two of my runners will be with you for the night and will fetch me if needed.” Using the pretext business was concluded, he moved aside with Leo. “My billets officer tells me your regiment arrived without orders.”

  “That is right,” admitted Leo, hoping the breach of military procedure was not going to present problems. “I marched here at the, ah, personal suggestion of Cecaumenus. But he gave me no written orders.”

  Branas whistled under his breath. “It’s a long ride without orders. We shall sort it out with the strategos in the morning.” Then, fishing, he remarked, “I’ll say this, your arrival is interesting! Our little district seems to have become quite popular amongst travellers—unauthorised Scholae, Arab spies, returning diplomats, couriers civil and military, the list goes on.”

  Leo grinned. “As you say, we shall sort it out in the morning.”

  The newcomers to Manzikert followed the guides to their quarters. Horses and mules were unsaddled or taken from harness, groomed, watered, fed, watered again and put away for the night. Personal kit from carts was dumped in piles on the ground while men with oil lamps searched the shadows for their own belongings. A late meal had been prepared in the soldiers’ mess and men filed though with their spoons, cheap goblets and wooden bowls to take the soup from cauldrons. Servants moved among them, passing out water, wine and more bread. The soldiers felt safe now, behind stout walls and housed in adequate quarters. They drank, talked, wrestled and fell over in boisterous release. Franks and Norsemen from the other barracks wandered in to greet the newcomers and trade news.

  Leo, Bessas, Lascaris and the lean, bearded Sebēos, after moving into their quarters and discarding their armour, dined together. Leo gave directions on the administration of the regiment for the following morning. Relieved of responsibility for the Kelts, he could now concentrate on his own men, learn the nature of the fortress and surrounding terrain and solve the riddle of the threat from the Seljuks. Would it be nothing at all this summer, another severe raid, or a far more serious penetration?

  Bidding them goodnight, Leo wandered alone through the town, coming at last to the main wall. He climbed the stone steps to the battlements and looked across the silvery valley of the Arsanias. Far above the full moon reflected brilliantly on a bank of high, white cloud: beyond it the star-filled midnight-blue of forever. A hint of warm breeze caressed the oilcloth covers of the engines crowded on the cool stone. He touched a ballista—the working parts slick, silent and deadly on their oiled mountings. Heavy iron bolts were stacked against the embrasure and Leo was reassured by the careful preparations of this far-flung fortress.

  He wondered idly what fortune had led him to this place, and what lay in store now. Would the Seljuks come? Would there be fighting? He felt no particular fear. There had been gnawing tension before leaving Constantinople—held in check by the pace of preparations and weight of responsibility. A moment’s private nerves on the fourth day of the voyage had been fleeting and all but forgotten. Was the gnawing fear there still? Would it return: sudden and overwhelming like a death stroke, or like disease, putrefying from the inside? He was committed now. All that mattered was doing the job, one foot in front of the other.

  He indulged himself in melancholy thoughts of Agatha and the fair woman in Trebizond, wondering if he would hear from the beauty, a note perhaps, if she safe in the comfort of the fortress-harbour, either heard or heeded about what passed in the light brown craggy hills of Vaspurakan.

  A soldier has to think someone cares when they ride away.

  The distant hum of the late-stayers in the mess carried through the still air. Throughout the rest of the city, there was silence. Here and there, a soft yellow light glowed through a curtained window or open doorway. One showed from an upper level window in the citadel. Leo wondered whether someone was
bent at a candle writing, or being romanced by wine and poetry. Perhaps they enacted the rituals of marriage: the ablutions and desultory phrases before retiring.

  Leo heard a sound that seemed out of place. A cloaked figure moved along the ramparts towards him. At first he thought it was a sentry and made to greet the man, but the cloaked figure carried no spear and did not pause to look out over the wall or at the city as a sentinel should. Instead, they continued methodically, as though searching for cracks in the stonework where water had weakened the works, or counting the engines and their stocks of stones and darts. Despite the hood covering their head, Leo thought something about the figure seemed familiar. Instinctively, he lowered himself into the shadow behind an engine and held his breath as the cloaked figure passed, sword scabbard scraping on the cover of the ballista.

  Leo stepped out behind him, “Halt! Who goes there?”

  The figure exclaimed in surprise and turned. “It is only I, Tigran Zakarian.”

  “What are you doing here?” Leo was equally surprised.

  “I come to Manzikert often—have a town house here. Now? Taking the night air, like you. It’s a beautiful evening.”

  “Very good. So it is, but I was just on my way back to get some sleep, so I bid you goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Count Bryennius. We must break bread again before long?” Zakarian hurried on his way.

  Leo remained in place and looked long at the moon. Did Zakarian’s presence mean something or nothing? There was so much to learn of this place and its people.

  Manzikert,

  Evening, 24th May 1054

  Irene Curticius rolled onto an elbow and watched moonbeams flitting with the curtains playing in the breeze through the open window. She had ridden her black stallion, Shahryād, for two hours that afternoon, enjoyed an unhurried massage and bathed luxuriously before dining with friends who nonchalantly discussed the arrival of more troops. Normally, she would have drifted off to sleep and was irritated she could not. Perplexed and vaguely thirsty she sighed, rose and slipping on a robe, took an oil lamp and went downstairs. Entering the pantry she was startled by the gnarled face of the family’s Bulgar servant.

  “Cook! I didn’t expect to see you. What are you doing?”

  The woman waved a poker. “It’s not that late, dear, and I’m after a mouse that has left little messages.”

  “It would be a male mouse then.” Irene grimaced to her confidant, nurse, lookout and often spy of many years.

  The servant grinned. “No doubt. And why’re you up? Can I get you something?”

  “I came down for some milk. I’m thirsty. I can get it.”

  The woman took a goblet from the shelf and turned to a timber lined bronze box of packed snow in which a jar of milk was stored.

  Irene drank, her roving glance taking in the substantial earthenware urns and jars that contained much of the household’s store of foodstuffs. They reminded her how close to the land they all were. “Father has stored enough for years. We could survive the flood.”

  “The princeps is a prudent man.”

  Irene looked at the old woman who had been with the family since before she was born. The daughter of a Bulgar prisoner of war, she had been drawn into servitude as well. “It’s not fair, Cook.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “Well. You a slave and your father before you! When Aaron, a hero of Kapetrou, was the son of a defeated Bulgar king. And the grandson, Theodore Vladislav, now is strategos of Taron, our neighbour.”

  “Child, you’ll learn that life is about wealth and power, opportunity and convenience. Besides, if I were freed, which I’ve been offered I have to say, where would I go? What would I do for food and a roof?”

  Deflated, Irene sat on a bag of barley and lifted her bare feet from the scrubbed stone floor. “But it’s still not fair.”

  “More?”

  Irene held out the goblet.

  “Why so thirsty?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep—even after I went riding today.”

  “Your first day out in a while?” The old woman knew the answer.

  “In five weeks! I’ve been a prisoner. No wonder he keeps so much food! It was so good to get out of the house. But in a way I felt like a bird when the cage door is opened—reluctant to leave, to go too far.” How different the scene at the hut could have been if Theodore Ankhialou had asked for her hand within the hearing of the soldiers. Instead there was just the memory of his parting glance soliciting her to come to Archēsh.

  “Your father’s worried about you, and about his household’s reputation. And it has taken the abbess this long to still the tongues of the city’s matrons.”

  Irene blushed as the cook continued.

  “The household is the most important thing in your culture. John Curticius is the head of this household. It all seems to run smoothly enough, but think of the decisions he must make, the sacrifices to keep his career and thus the money coming in.”

  Irene looked down and pouted. “Everyone sees things differently.”

  “He’s not the only husband who discourages friends from visiting their wives while they’re away and locks up his daughter. Perhaps your parents think Theodore Ankhialou isn’t the right match for you.”

  “But we get along. And he’s dashing and handsome and … rich.”

  “So it’s said. But rich in what? The cook paused. “If I were you, I’d look for a husband not quite so close to the frontier.”

  “Why should I? Irene sulked with the vanity of a young woman who knows she does not lack for suitors.

  “These’re troubled times.”

  “The Saracens? Theo said he would deal with them if they come as far as Archēsh.”

  “Bold words, easier to say than do. You were in Constantinople with your mother and her family during their last raids. Here we heard of the terror of Artsn and saw the men leave, and return after Kapetrou, some dead, many wounded. And the time before that when Aaron and Cecaumenus trapped Hasan at Stragna. My friends here remember when Kutlumush defeated Stephen Lichoudes of Archēsh and either—we don’t really know—tortured him to death at Her, or sold him as a slave at Tabriz. Is it any wonder your poor mother wants to get you all out of here?”

  “She’s never said.”

  “No. She is too good a wife to make a public row of it. Even in the house.”

  “Is that why father drinks? Is that why he had me learn the bow and took me hunting?” She thought back on the lost days of childhood.

  “Only he can answer that.”

  “Will there be trouble?” Irene wanted the world to be wonderful, to find a mate who would satisfy the empty reaches of her yearning. The last thing she needed were the hoof prints of apocalyptic nomads coursing across her life.

  “I don’t know, dear. But more soldiers came today. Kelts and Scholae.”

  Her friends had not mentioned the Tagmata troops. “Scholae. From Constantinople?”

  “Only three hundred,” the servant said with a twinkle in her eye. “Perhaps you may find a nice young tribune amongst them. Twice that many Kelts.”

  “Pshtosh! I saw one of your Kelts this evening when I was riding. He did not look very impressive with his worn out shoes and dirty clothes.”

  “Well one of them, a redhead my friends in the market tell me, killed a Saracen armed with a bow, then captured his horse and brought it in alone across the steppe. And the same Kelt defended a lady being attacked at Arknik.”

  “Well. It wouldn’t have been the Kelt I saw today! What kind of horse?”

  “They say a chestnut, an Arabian mare. And if your Kelt today was that feeble you wouldn’t have noticed him!”

  “I don’t like chestnuts—too temperamental. Anyway …” Irene’s voice trailed off as she thought back, “He wore a crumpled old hat, like an engineer’s.”
/>   “No,” the servant smiled to herself. “You wouldn’t want temperamental.”

  * * *

  46Nummi—a Byzantine coin of minor value.

  47Scarp—the inner side of the ditch around a fortification. See diagram p.vii.

  48The higher parts of castellated battlements. See glossary.

  Chapter Six

  Irene

  Manzikert,

  Evening, 24th May 1054

  Michael Kamyates led Bardas Cydones through the moonlight to the civilian stables where they kept their horses. “It’s an innocuous enough place to meet,” he explained. “At this hour there will be few here and people have a reason to come. Meeting here, the sound of running water in the fountain outside masks conversation from anyone not standing close to you.

  Wineskins slung over their shoulders, they gave their horses a cursory check and exchanged simple courtesies with the attendant. Kamyates was careful to pay heed to those whom he really regarded as menials. Many people made the mistake of neglecting or being rude to those they considered unimportant, for the seemingly invisible people in life were often observant of their surroundings and could form a like or dislike of people; something that could come back to bite the unwary in the chess game of life.

  They moved outside to the fountain, where Kamyates remarked, “In the open is often the best place to hide. See, there are a few others hanging around simply because it’s a fairly pleasant place in itself, for Manzikert.” The two dallied, playing with the water, swigging wine and talking of old times and faces in the capital.

  “Have we come for any particular reason?” Cydones asked after a time. “There’ll be an early start for the strategos’ council in the morning.”

  “I’ve arranged to loiter here occasionally in case one of my Armenian contacts wants to talk. It’s a natural meeting place, for they use the stable—they’re from out of town. That inn over there is another.” Kamyates watched as a tall local entered the single storied stone building.