A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Time passed and they made small talk, Kamyates noticing that Cydones was bored and too lacking in self-discipline to hide it. The tall figure emerged from the inn and made for the stables, deviating towards Kamyates as he neared.

  “Pleasant evening for a social wine.” Tigran Zakarian greeted the pair.

  “Tigran, what a surprise!” said Kamyates. “Let me introduce you. Bardas, the landlord of Arknik, Tigran Zakarian. Bardas Cydones is our most trusted courier from the palace. He’s borne despatches for the strategos and me. You’re both former soldiers of a sort and have an eye for a horse, so you should have much to talk about.”

  Zakarian listened impatiently to the preliminaries, but his frequent, furtive looks around betrayed tension. He looked at Kamyates with a fleeting sideways glance at Cydones.

  “He’s one of us.” Kamyates answered, his look to Zakarian hinting that he had reservations about the imperial courier.

  Zakarian hesitated, looked at Cydones and smiled guardedly.

  Cydones smiled too, seemingly unaware of the exchange.

  “Sorry to be so blunt about this, but my estate has been quite busy lately. Seljuk, er, travellers. Kelts, Bryennius’ regiment. Two more travellers, Yūryak and Martina …”

  Kamyates saw Cydones grimace in the moonlight.

  “ … and they returned three days ago.”

  “Interesting! What’s this Bryennius like?” Kamyates asked. “I don’t know him—too far below me in the pecking order.”

  “I’ve never met anyone more ruthless,” Zakarian said, staring into the water of the fountain as though hoping to see someone’s soul reflected there.

  “Really?” Kamyates smiled indulgently. “We’ve already decided to do something about him.”

  “Well, be careful. You wouldn’t credit it—there were a few skiffs of rain the day before he and his troops arrived at Arknik. From what I can gather, some Seljuk travellers crossed the road and left imprints of their Persian horseshoes. Someone noticed them and Bryennius was onto it—gave chase himself with thirty men. I was doing my rounds when this Kelt from Karin shows up with a chestnut mare the Seljuk emir rode. Then I see them, the Scholae, burying a body in my stockyard. They obviously hoped the grave would be obscured by morning …”

  Kamyates blanched. “Did you retrieve it? Were …”

  “I didn’t bother. I’m certain it was the emir and they would have searched him thoroughly anyway.”

  “But he might have had secret writing on him …”

  “In which case, it’s still secret or buried in my yard.”

  Kamyates muttered an expletive. “What of the others in the party? Bryennius and his men only got here this evening and there are already rumours of a prisoner, a handsome young Arab.”

  “I don’t know about any others.” Zakarian answered. “I’m sure they buried the emir. I think the chestnut horse was his. The young Arab might be a prisoner. The older Arab, his uncle I think, I can’t account for. Bryennius was very guarded about it when he stopped over at my place. Come to think of it, he was in no hurry to get here. He stayed a day at Arknik—to attend the festival he said—and …”

  “Camped a night on the steppe I’m told,” Kamyates added, “as though waiting for someone to catch up—like a patrol.”

  “Hence,” Cydones ventured, anxious to join the conversation, “a prisoner or two? As you said, the town is flush with rumours of an Arab spy caught by someone, Bryennius’ men, I think.”

  “Who might know altogether too much,” grumbled Kamyates. “Now, to take care of Bryennius? It seems he is here without orders.”

  “What?” It was incomprehensible to Cydones that someone would act without orders, the cover of superiors and the cocoon of the protected.

  Kamyates smiled. “I’ll make sure this puts Apocapes in a bind.”

  “One of his, Bryennius’, officers,” Zakarian offered, “a Joshua Balsamon, seems ambitious and, er, open minded. That is, he will listen to other views.”

  “If we can learn where Bryennius is and what he’s up to, that will be helpful,” Kamyates said.

  “I buttered him, Balsamon, up at Arknik. I’ll keep the association going.”

  “Good, Tigran. At the appropriate time, let him know I’m not without contacts in the Sacred Palace and could arrange a promotion for him in one of the other tagmata formations, the Excubitores, perhaps. Better still, introduce us when the time presents itself.”

  Zakarian nodded. “That would be a useful lure. If we can’t convince Apocapes to surrender the city and it comes to an assault, there are a couple of places on the north and west walls where there is water damage that has been superficially repaired but not properly fixed—lack of money, I suppose.”

  “Excellent work.” Kamyates was concerned lest they be noticed, their familiarity being too evident for a chance meeting. “We should move on before we’re noticed.”

  “One other thing,” Zakarian lingered as if staring into the fountain. “Bryennius had a disagreement with one of our hotheads, a dispossessed Armenian nobleman called Bardanes Gurgen. He shot his mouth off at Arknik and Bryennius arrested him after he called him a blacksmith.”

  “Who did?”

  “Gurgen. Bryennius shod his own horse at Arknik. Gurgen must have seen”

  “Bryennius arrested him for calling him a blacksmith?” Cydones made a show of being affronted.

  “No! For speaking treason. Bryennius had no choice.” Zakarian favoured Cydones with a superior stare. “Let him, Gurgen, go the next morning though. Bryennius doesn’t have the killer in him. But an idea would be to steer clear of Gurgen. He’s attracting attention, proving the perfect diversion and may well be a useful scapegoat.”

  “A blacksmith!” Kamyates wondered aloud.

  Manzikert,

  Early morning, 25th May 1054

  Leo rose at daybreak and mounting Ruksh, toured the city. The chestnut gelding would arch his neck and prick his ears at new sights as though to say, “Just you look at that now!” Leo loved the sound of the iron shoes on cobbles or tanbark, and the quick rhythm of a swift walker. The western gate was already open, and despite the early hour a trickle of people went about their work. Leo left by the gate and cantered a lap of the bridle track around the walls. He paused at a substantial stream-fed lagoon outside the south-eastern corner. It had been included into the defensive scheme and could be used to flood part of the ditch. In addition to the township by the western wall, a village could be seen a quarter mile from the north wall.

  Re-entering by the north gate and riding down one of the main avenues lined with oak, beech and plane trees, he noticed the market quarter was quiet, but saw that men toiled at warehouses and granaries. Bundles of cut hay were already being unloaded from carts into neat stacks. Some shops were open and riding past a forge, he saw men stripped to the waist toiling in leather aprons over the firestones. Close by, there was a small, fenced field with a few horses grazing. They were well-bred and Leo wondered who owned them. Wherever there was space, away from the fences so the animals could not reach them, were vegetable gardens and orchards of apricots, quince, pomegranate and other fruits.

  With the villas of the wealthy higher up the rise, the blocks of little stone apartments were crowded close together in the residential quarter. Looking back down from the town to the lower parts of the market and military areas, Leo calculated the fortress was a lop-sided oval shape with the north and south walls each a thousand yards long, the others perhaps seven hundred. It was no crowded place as Karin or Trebizond, but was clearly an important cultural, administrative and military centre with a sizable population, perhaps thirty thousand, that in times of trouble would be swelled by those from outside the walls, unless the gates were barred against them. Leo had observed four main gates at the compass points in the circuit walls.

  He rode back to his quarters in t
he military district, which had now come to life as men tended horses, exercised in arms and occupied themselves with the rituals of garrison life. Leo had given most of the regiment a day’s local leave to explore the fortress and town outside, after which there would be a program of reconnaissance and training, as well as whatever tasks the strategos might give him. The men could already be seen in pairs or small groups, exploring their new environs.

  Count Branas arrived to escort Leo to Basil Apocapes’ rooms. Leo wore armour, helmet and sword for the occasion. Together they stepped up the gentle gradient to the citadel, Branas passing on all he could in the time they had. “Apocapes is truly sorry he couldn’t see you yesterday. He went to Baghesh, by way of Khlat’, to talk with the local representative of Abu Nasr Ahmad Nasr ad-Daulah, the Marwanid Kurdish ruler of Amida. Abu Nasr is friendly—enough—and we try to keep him that way. Indeed, six years ago he used, at the Emperor’s bidding, the Arab Banu Numair tribe to capture the notorious raider, al-Asfar al-Taghlibi.”

  “I heard of that,” Leo recalled. “The Taghlib’s captured so many of our people that a slave could be bought for a pittance. I’m glad Abu Nasr is friendly, but it gives him a tight rope to walk with Tughrul Bey, doesn’t it?”

  “It surely does, and he knows it.” Branas nodded to a sentry as they passed into the citadel. “This Sultan holds sway over many lives.”

  Inside they entered a courtyard that branched off to stables, armoury, dungeons, commissary, infirmary and the other functions necessary to a last bastion. The smaller area, solid walls and commanding towers meant the citadel could hold out longer if the city fell.

  The two men stepped through another smaller iron gate into the donjon49, well-covered by positions for archers and cauldrons of boiling liquid. A forced-entry there, Leo reflected, would not be pretty. A clerk with ink-stained fingers met them and led them up several flights of stone stairs and along a passageway. While waiting in the outer chamber Leo observed, through an arrow slit, the city and bend of the river and was struck by what a commanding position and excellent view the citadel afforded. The Arab influence showed in the light and airy interior design. There was something more to the feel of the place than one would expect from the starkly functional Byzantine military architecture, although the Roman strengthening of thirty years had made its mark.

  A guard admitted them into the room. In the corner close to a cold fireplace was a crowded writing desk with a stand of arms and armour nearby. A panel on the wall behind the desk displayed maps of the area and plans of the fortress. On the other side of the large room, a dozen men and a woman were seated around a long table. As Leo and Branas entered the room, a well-built man in his late thirties walked towards them.

  “It is the strategos of Manzikert, the patrician, Basil Apocapes,” Branas whispered.

  Leo saluted and advanced.

  “Welcome, Count Bryennius.” Basil extended his hand.

  They clasped palms.

  Leo removed his helmet and placed it under his arm. This was not the first time he had walked into a gathering of men with whom he was to campaign.

  Apocapes wore ordinary riding clothes rather than the robes favoured by high officials. Leo noticed his boots with their wrinkles at the ankle, washed-over marks of old saddle grease and grey stains of dried horse sweat in the worn leather. Half-Georgian, half-Armenian, whose family held extensive estates in Georgia, Basil was the son of the frontier legend, Michael Apocapes, a tent guard of the once Georgian ruler, David of Taiq. Simon Vardaheri had already told Leo of the commendable role of Apocapes’ father in the ill-starred Syrian campaign of Emperor Romanus III that had culminated in the disaster at Azaz near Aleppo. The stamp of the father was on the son. Apocapes spoke deeply in deliberate Greek with the confident air of command, backed with experience of war. His demeanour bespoke a keen intellect and willingness to listen. Instinctively Leo liked him.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” Basil continued, “but were hoping there would be more soldiers with you. I am sorry I was unable to meet you last night, but Daniel has no doubt seen to your immediate needs. I hope you have been made as comfortable as possible.” Basil lowered his tone as he stood close to Leo, “Daniel tells me you brought a prisoner, an Arab?”

  “Yes, Sir. I would like to talk to you about it privately, if I may?”

  “Of course. After this.”

  “Also, you know I am here without written orders?”

  “Daniel did mention it. Don’t worry about that.” Basil turned and raised his voice slightly. “Now you must meet your brother officers.” To the wider group Basil continued, “Gentlemen, let me introduce to you, Count Leo Bryennius of the Sixth Schola. He will remember all your names, of course!”

  There was a ripple of laughter. Basil then steered Leo by the people who were now significant in his life. “First our Princeps, John Curticius. John does the hard work of coordinating the overall military affairs of the city and wider district.”

  Curticius had a red nose with small broken blood vessels near the eyes and smelled faintly of stale wine. Curticius in turn scrutinised Leo and formally greeted him.

  Leo recognised the next face.

  “Oleg, commander of our Varangians and Rus50.”

  Mutual and pleasant recognition flickered between the Viking and Leo, for they had known each other in Constantinople years before. Large framed and ruddy, Oleg grinned cheerfully, “What price this? What fool errand brings you?”

  “A fool’s errand.”

  “It’s good to see you, my friend,” Oleg boomed through his blonde beard. In his rich scarlet tunic, the Viking was not seeking to hide.

  “We’re fortunate,” Basil continued, “to have two regiments of Varangians, mixed Norsemen and Rus. A turma of Varangians were amongst the troops sent out after Artsn. Most have since returned to Caesarea, but we are lucky to have retained Oleg and his men. Thus we have in our company Oleg’s wife, the beautiful Olga. Invite yourself for dinner!”

  They moved on.

  “Raymond de Gaillon, Leader of the Kelts. There are a handful at Artzké and more at Archēsh.” Basil said. “You know of course, that two of the five frontier corps are Kelts. Raymond spent some time at their main garrison at Melitene, but now has the fortune to see the Christian frontier beyond the Euphrates. And blessed are we for it. He has, with the addition of the Kelts who came with you, five hundred horse and a thousand foot.”

  Raymond, swarthy and dark haired, greeted Leo in halting, accented Greek. Leo detected only professional courtesy from him.

  “Theophanes Doukas!” Basil’s trust in the man was evident. Stocky, olive complexioned, brown bearded with the serious expression of things on his mind, the Greek-Armenian nodded a welcome to Leo.

  “Theo is a sort of Count of the City, as we call him, for he is charged with its tactical defence. For this he controls most of the troops in the fortress, including Varangians, Kelts, the theme infantry and armed townspeople. It’s the worst job in Manzikert. He has to be diplomat, soldier, builder, fire fighter and many other things as well.”

  Leo liked and sympathised with Doukas.

  Basil took a step to halt before a man in his late thirties of middle build with straight, brown hair worn shorter than the usual Roman fashion. “Our chief engineer, Karas Selth.” The engineer, with his clean shaven smile and sparking blue eyes, seemed at first impression, to be likeable and cooperative. “If you have a problem,” Basil smiled, turning to Leo, “with fortifications, siege engines, miners, tunnels, Greek Fire51, or plumbing, Karas is your man. But steer clear of him when he’s in his experimental frame of mind.”

  There was a good natured chuckle from the others in the room.

  Moving on and glancing back at them, Leo felt he could trust Selth and Doukas.

  “The Bishop of Manzikert.”

  A tall, austere, grey-bearded figure rose from his seat a
t the table.

  “His practical role in the defence is to oversee the distribution of food and shelter to the populace and refugees.” Basil was known as a kind and pious man and the public respect he accorded the bishop appeared heartfelt, but ever the practical soldier, he would also have respected the deference of ordinary people to organised religion.

  “Ah! Abbess!” Apocapes’ regard was apparent for the charming woman in her middle years who smiled warmly at Leo. “No doubt you’re surprised to see a woman in this council. The monastery will provide additional hospital space when … if needed, and as a refuge for the homeless. The abbess, along with the bishop of course, is my window to the fears and aspirations of the ordinary people of the area. She knows everybody and everything. Out here the people place great store in faith. They trust and confide in the men and women of God, especially those of their own Armenian Church.”

  Basil and Leo paused before a stout man richly dressed in silks of the east, with a thin social smile and cold eyes above his brown beard.

  “D’you know Modestos Kamyates, from the Court?” Basil asked as Leo locked eyes with Kamyates.

  The courtier rose, “I am most surprised to see you here, Count Bryennius. No! I do not believe we have met.”

  Leo could tell Kamyates was both furious and uneasy at his arrival. “No. I would remember if we had.”

  Basil looked intently from Kamyates to Leo.

  “You have despatches from the Emperor?” Kamyates stared rudely in a failed attempt to intimidate. He had an air of aggressive confidence: the mark of a man accustomed to being feared by others and for good reason.

  Though unsurprised, Leo was glad he had entrusted the despatches he carried to Branas’ safekeeping the previous evening. “There are despatches for the strategos.”

  The courtier’s smile did not change, but his eyes flickered narrower for a moment. “Perhaps I can have them, given my post at court.”

  Leo had not expected this test to come so soon or so openly. “Perhaps not. They’re already with the strategos’ staff.”