“That’s me,” said Basil. “I’ll take care of them.”
Kamyates was prepared. “If we cannot see your despatches, perhaps we can see your orders. Show us what you’re doing here and on whose authority.”
“Orders, also, are for the strategos!” Leo caught Kamyates’ stare and glared back until the courtier looked away.
“He’s right,” said Basil.
Kamyates conceded darkly and resumed his seat.
“Daniel,” Basil ordered. “Fetch these despatches, please. Let’s hear the wisdom of the palace.”
Branas, who had been standing as of stone in a corner, left to get them.
Curticius attempted to smooth over the tension. “What news from Constantinople, Count Bryennius?” I seek to know especially of the disagreement between the churches of the Patriarch in Constantinople and the Pope in Rome.”
Leo began. “I don’t, of course, know the last news you’ve had. The capital is quiet. The thirty year truce, concluded with the Patzinaks last year, seems to be holding, though many troops are kept on that front in case the treaty and bribes we paid fail.” In the mixed company, Leo chose to ignore the Norman defeat of the Pope at Civitate in Italy, Byzantine troops avoiding battle and contributing to the defeat. “The Seljuk emissaries in Constantinople hear blessing called for their Sultan in Friday’s prayers in the mosque, such is their influence now. Their embassy has access to the court but has failed to achieve the Sultan’s demands that the Emperor offer tribute.”
Basil’s jaw hardened. There was a collective grunt of disapproval from the table. “How dare the barbarian,” uttered one.
Kamyates remained aloof.
Leo continued. “As we left by sea in the early spring, the schism between the western and eastern Churches had become much worse. There was talk of …”
“What has happened?” asked the bishop as the abbess gasped.
“The Frankish Pope Leo IX died in April, but the Patriarch in Constantinople, Michael Cerularius, and the visiting envoys of Pope Leo seem likely to excommunicate each other.”
There was an angry murmur.
Gently spoke Basil, but with iron in him. “There will be no such schism in this command. We’re all Christians here. One God! And by God, there will be a united front to the infidel from this place. I ask unity of no man based on ignorance. Count Leo, if you please, what do the presbyters quarrel about?”
Such trust was a compliment Leo could have done without as he sensed Basil’s purpose. Looking at the expectant faces turned towards him, he took a breath. The grasp for power—who would control the souls and purse strings of which people—was the key issue, as was the celibacy of Rome’s priests in contrast to the Orthodox approval to wed. But there was more, including the Greek philosophical underpinning of the Orthodox Church and the ancient Latin legal basis of the other, in their relation to state and society. It had to be simplified and diffused in this room.
“Thanks, so much, Sir,” Leo smiled, getting a laugh from Basil and a nervous titter from the gathering which helped reduce the tension. “I’m no expert on church doctrine, but I understand there are four main unresolved differences. First, the theological issue of the Procession of the Holy Ghost. The Latin Creed states the Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father and the Son, our Orthodox Creed states, solely from the Father.”
The bishop stared ahead, his eyes unfocused.
“Second, is the issue of the use of leavened bread by we Romans or unleavened bread by the Latins during the sacrament. Third, there is disagreement over our Roman prayer invoking the Holy Ghost at the consecration of the Host, a prayer omitted by the Latins. Finally, there is no agreement over the Latin desire for primacy of the pope of Rome over the patriarch in Constantinople.”
“There! Nothing for us to worry about. Right Bishop?” Basil did not wait for an answer. “Greater minds than ours can fix this. We can just concentrate on our duty to the people of the district and their safety.”
No one disputed his point, but there was a heavy silence as each considered the gravity of the religious split and the implications for their higher loyalties.
Branas returned and paused as he entered the room, conscious of the change of mood.
“Read them, Daniel. A summary will do,” Basil said, trusting his military secretary to omit any contentious points.
Branas opened the parchment and gave the gist. “No immediate threat to the capital.” He skipped the aggressive moves by the Normans against Byzantium’s increasingly tenuous hold on Italy. “Truce with Patzinaks holding. Black Sea quiet. So on. Harvests good. So on. Southern frontier with the Fatimid Caliphate, quiet—famine persists in Cairo. The Emperor is sending grain. Possibility of light summer raiding by Saracens into Armenia.” Branas paused after the reference to Armenia.
Leo noticed that the imperial despatch referred generically and misleadingly to Saracen rather than Seljuk raiding.
None wished to question the conventional wisdom from the capital in public, particularly with Kamyates present.
“Light summer raiding, eh? That seems positive.” Basil glanced at Leo, as if inquiring whether he agreed with the assessment.
Leo remained silent, seeking a more discreet time.
Basil sensed it. “Very well, Abbess, gentlemen. We’re almost done. As you know, I travelled to Baghesh and received assurances from Marwanid emissaries that we’ll have no trouble from the emir’s subjects at Baghesh or Khlat’. If there are no questions, let me release you to your duties. Count Bryennius, remain.”
“I will stay also,” Kamyates insisted.
Basil blinked quickly out the window to conceal his irritation, then looked back into the room with a smile. “Of course, Modestos.”
Oleg punched Leo playfully in the shoulder on his way out, but he whispered a warning. “Watch your back, for you have made an enemy.” The Viking took a step back. “See you around,” he said loudly enough for the others to hear.
Basil, Kamyates and Leo were soon alone.
“May I see,” Kamyates demanded.
Basil handed the document over. “Do you agree with the assessment in the despatches, Count Bryennius?”
“No. It was an adequate description of the overall situation, but I believe they are wrong in their interpretation of the main threat and have underestimated the danger from the Seljuks.”
“How dare you question the wisdom of the court?” Kamyates flamed.
Basil silenced him with a gesture and looked to Leo.
“It is true, the Patzinaks are the more immediate threat from the perspective of Constantinople, but they are not the most dangerous to the empire. Truce aside, the Patzinaks have long lines of communication from north of the Black Sea and around into the old Bulgar lands. Also, the Rus harass their flank and rear to some degree. Moreover, should they penetrate to Constantinople, they will come to nothing against the walls, as has happened before. They have no state power to speak of, no siege capability, nor can they gain any since they have no alliance with the Kelts or the Arabs. Even if they besiege Constantinople, they cannot isolate it from resupply by sea. The Patzinaks have no navy, so they cannot cross the Bosphorus in sufficient force to conquer the vital heart of the Empire—Anatolia and Cappadocia, our heartland and grain basket, where we breed remounts and from where we raise our armies—are beyond their strategic reach.”
“So?” Basil enquired.
Leo continued, “There are credible reports indicating Tughrul Bey is planning something much greater than summer raids this time—more a permanent shift in the balance of power on the frontier. The reports indicate that the Sultan is assembling a powerful army, including a siege train …”
“I never saw it,” interrupted Kamyates.
“… to move against our frontier fortresses. Moreover they now appear to have virtual control in Baghdad, giving them access to the
state power of the Abbasids. The Seljuks are a formidable new force …”
“We have beaten them before,” Basil said.
“True. But now they combine their own strength—and confidence—with the administrative wealth of the Abbasids, as well as the obedience of the different Kurdish emirates around Armenia. And the Sultan is angry that his embassy has been unsuccessful.”
“Hearsay,” interjected Kamyates. “How can Bryennius know what the Sultan thinks?”
Basil shot a look at Kamyates, “You have made a fair point, Michael.” He looked back to Leo. “But, if what Count Bryennius says is correct, even partly, it alters things here completely. We have not prepared for a siege by a professional army. Nor has a major invasion been foreseen, though I have concerns about it—which my superiors at Van do not seem to share.” He walked to the window, stared out for a time, then turned to look at them. “Even if their intentions are short term, it will make little difference to those who are slain, robbed and enslaved.”
“The count is wrong,” Kamyates sneered. “He has been here not a day and thinks he knows everything.”
Basil looked long at Leo. “I had one of my s…” He stared out of the window for a long time, then turned once more to the others. “Anyway, enough! I will take your views under advisement. Count Bryennius! I am told you have a swift chestnut. I have a grey that is unbeaten in a five mile gallop and it is my sin—one of my sins—to love an occasional wager. I will meet you at the military stables after lunch and we shall try them.”
Kamyates glared at Leo as they left.
Manzikert,
Morning, 25th May 1054
A shaft of morning sunlight woke Guy as he lay with a blanket drawn loosely over him. He had slept late like many others weary from the journey. Across the cramped room Charles was curled under a blanket.
Jacques saw him awake. “Rest up. I’ve fed our animals. It’ll be a warm day, even if last night was cool.”
Embarrassed, Guy thanked him. He had never quite overcome his shyness at having a servant. Partly it was an independent streak, but the natural human dignity of Jacques did not sit well with subservience. Guy thought of Balazun and his expectation that someone would feed him, clean his equipment and wash his clothes. In return, his servants would receive no recognition or gratitude, simply a beating for their own meagre needs for rest, food or shelter. Yet Balazun never seemed to care nor be penalised for it.
That thought led Guy to again ponder the notion of good and evil and the nature of God, a mental journey that took him almost immediately to the dead Seljuk. Again there was that cold, empty feeling of guilt and loneliness in an enormity of time and space he could barely imagine. He rose and prayed, kneeling on the folds of his cloak, seeking the peace of mind that did not come easily.
Charles awoke, looking more refreshed than Guy felt and glanced disinterestedly at his act of penance. “Why worry? He’d have killed you without a thought.” Charles rolled over and looked at their companion. “Where’s breakfast, Jacques?”
“The cooks have a late breakfast on in the mess. It’s good! A rich beef stew. Also bread, milk and fruit aplenty. The water is good and they even have some of that boiled coffee berry drink Simon Vardaheri has spoken of.”
“Excellent. I am hungry,” said Charles as he sat up, ran his hands through his hair and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He pulled on his shoes, leaned his shield and spear over his saddle, which rested in the corner, rolled up his hauberk and drew his folded cloak over it. “Will our things be safe here?” he asked doubtfully, looking at Jacques. The theft of expensive armour and accoutrements would be an economic and martial catastrophe for a warrior.
Guy rose to his feet and looked with the same question at Jacques.
“Robert Balazun has arranged a picket, to keep an eye on our band’s belongings,” Jacques informed them. “There are no certainties but it will be safe enough, I believe. Otherwise we must guard it ourselves.”
After a shave and other ablutions, Charles and Guy breakfasted leisurely. Jacques accompanied them, having developed a taste for coffee. Other small groups also enjoyed the unhurried meal. The stone buildings seemed less imposing by day: cracks in the flagstones were visible and years of passing feet had worn the thresholds. Guy could see where generations of soldiers—Armenian, Roman, Arab, Rus, Norse and Norman—had scratched their marks in the walls and on the wooden tables.
Charles drew his dagger. Guy noticed the look on Charles’ smooth, shaven face. It struck him how, despite the rough company and precedence of the scratched tables, Charles made some effort to conceal his minor vandalism. The knight had quite small, white hands. Guy watched, fascinated that the same hands, so skilful and strong under arms, should mark the surface so delicately.
“Guy, no sign of Swordleader or Bowman?” asked Charles.
“No, though I have looked twice at many people.”
Charles looked up and saw Guy staring, smiled and bent down again to his task. “D’you think anyone will remember we were here?”
Guy was distracted, looking through the open doors at the battlements as he reflected on the whereabouts of his assailant from the inn by the Golden Gate.
“Guy?” Charles was looking in earnest at him. “Will anyone remember we were here?”
“If you keep scratching that table they will.” Guy looked back at his friend, surprised at Charles’ sudden despondency. “I don’t know. I suppose it depends on what deeds we do.”
“Deeds?” Jacques spluttered coffee over the table. “Speak no more of deeds. Deeds are for fools.”
Guy, surprised and a little vexed, looked at Jacques for a moment, then turned his attention back to Charles. “Does it matter?”
“I’ve a feeling this is going to be different from seeing-off an untrained rabble from the next landholding, or wooing maidens in some dell.” He spoke with an air of such gloom that Guy and Jacques looked at each other.
“Enough. Enough! I go to sell your Tusk’s corselet52,” Jacques laughed.
“Mail is expensive. Ask four nomisma,” Guy stood as well. “If you cannot get a good price, try swapping it for a set for yourself.” He was aware he was being generous and that Charles had noticed.
Jacques nodded and left.
“Come, Charles.” Guy said. “Let’s inspect our horses. Vaspurakan must be filled with rich damsels in distress, but to save them you’ll need a sound horse.”
Guy was struck by the order of the stables. They were designed to keep a cavalry force of some hundreds in a state of order and health for weeks, if not months. The main stable was a two-storied stone building that could be made defensible for a short period. Designed along a cobbled central lane with the floor sloping inward to a shallow drain, the stable had thirty comfortable stalls on either side, the end spaces occupied by rooms for veterinarians and blacksmiths. Access to the ground floor could be barred by closing massive doors at either end. The upper stories comprised rooms for grooms, tack and a large loft for fodder. There was also an interior well. The building was dry, light and airy, well ventilated but without draughts.
Behind the main building were several compounds, each comprising three long rows of looseboxes faced inwards to enclose a square. The main compound contained hitching rails, some shade trees, a well, a few wooden bench-seats and wash-points for horses. This provided a natural meeting point for warriors, squires, farriers, veterinarians, grooms, healers, traders, saddlers and armourers. An enterprising local had set up a small shop selling food and drink. The square was a place of enthusiasm and knowledge, humour, gossip, ready assistance on all matters equine and dogged opinion on most other subjects. A number of cats and small dogs were encouraged to live around the stables as defence against pests.
Beyond this were yards for breaking in and exercising horses, an obstacle course for advanced mounted weapons training, an open riding area leading
out to the track around the inside of the circuit walls and small spelling-fields with their shelters. There were birch and plane trees in the area to shield the animals against the summer sun. The wealthier warriors had rented some of the small fields for their own horses; Balazun’s black Castilian stallion ran in such a field which had been double-fenced for the purpose.
An efficient Byzantine official, an old soldier, ran the military stables. Guy had already observed that considerable effort had been made to conserve the natural grazing inside the fortress by keeping much of the horse herd outside the walls under a strong mounted guard. He had heard of a similar but much smaller stable for wealthy citizens, on the other side of the fortress and he wondered if the beautiful rider from the previous evening kept her mount there.
Labourers were mucking-out stalls and sweeping the cobbled lanes with stiff-bristled yard brooms, carrying the manure in hessian sheets to a central pile from where it was carted away by the wagonload to fertilize the valley’s gardens. As the two Franks walked past such a wagon, the locals on top of the load of straw and half-dried manure nodded respectfully. Nearby a trickle of wagons and carts unloaded hay, barley, millet, oats and wheat into sheds and silos near the yards and other storage areas near the commissary. Still more carts rumbled on their spoked wheels towards the citadel. Groups of men sweated with pitchforks or bag hooks to drag fodder from the wagons into neat stacks, some under hard cover, others secured off the ground on low platforms, to be covered against the elements by heavy oilcloth.
Guy watched a group of women bring lunch to the men: bread, cheese, cold meat, fruit, water and milk. Horses or oxen were quickly unyoked and tied up while the workers rested in the shade of nearby fruit trees. Against the background of everyday conversation, children took apples from the baskets and skipped to some favoured horse and offered the fruit to the grateful dipped heads and kind brown eyes. Guy saw a young couple seated together watching their child take a slice of apple and approach a restive young carthorse. The father cautioned, “Be careful of that horse. He’s only young and doesn’t know he could hurt you.” The child paused, looked back, smiled a happy, confident smile and went on to the young horse, which gently took the fruit and sniffed the youngster as the child in turn stroked its forelock. Guy wondered if the conversation of the parents followed the danger that approached from afar, or wished it away? How could they ignore the nomads if the unthinking actions of a carthorse would concern them? Did they discuss the child’s abilities, hopes or happiness? Or live for the moment; watch that the child was not trampled and concern themselves only with the everyday affairs of food, work and shelter? Did they consider spiritual things? Guy found himself contrasting the imagined simplicity of the family to the reticent calculation of Bryennius.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 22
