A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  “Yes, Count.”

  “Pass on my intentions to him. Think on it. We will discuss it tonight.”

  Bessas smiled. In Leo’s parlance that had entailed some robust debates in the past, with rank having no privilege.

  Leo turned Zarrar. “I’ll tell Sebēos.” He cantered forward in Zarrar’s matchless, rocking stride until he reined in alongside Martina. Their horses swung their heads together for a step in equine greeting.

  “Do you feel like some cattle-lifting tomorrow, Martina?”

  She turned her face to him and laughed, teeth gleaming and her eyes alight beneath her hat. “It’s a while since I’ve heard that.”

  Leo smiled. That is why he had used it, referring to the virtual cattle theft practiced by many of the Empire’s irregular troops to supplement their paltry incomes. The crime had been so widespread that many of the irregular troops were called by the derogatory term, cattle-lifters. “Yours is a fine horse. Did you get him out here or ride him here?”

  “I rode another out here but it needed to spell after the journey, so Count Branas found him for me. He reminds me of a horse I rode years ago, so I named him Little Zarrar.”

  “Zarrar is this horse’s name,” Leo said.

  Zarrar’s ears flicked back.

  Martina looked at Leo’s horse and their stirrups touched as they drew together. “Why did you name him after an Arab champion of the Yarmuk54?”

  Leo looked at her, surprised by her knowledge of history. She was close to him, in sharp outline against the sweep of steppe and sky, bridle hand easy with loose reins, her tanned forearm resting lightly on the bow case. Their stirrups touched again. He smiled into her eyes. “Well! When he was a youngster, Zarrar here was none too pretty and no friend of the Romans.”

  She laughed, the corners of her mouth alive with vibrant humanity. “He is now a fine horse and friendly to one Roman at least.”

  Leo blushed under his helmet and glanced at her again before looking once more at the southern horizon. He turned to her. “You obviously love horses rather than use them merely for duty—perhaps we should go for a ride when there is some free time?”

  “That would be lovely. There are some quite beautiful tracks out of Manzikert. I could show you,” she offered.

  “Splendid. I’m planning to buy another horse, a brown mare—she’ll need some quiet work. In the meantime we should enjoy this ride.” He was aware of having spoken beyond decorum again and the familiar feeling of impropriety encroached. Making an excuse, he motioned on Zarrar. The horse did not respond, as if reading Leo’s real wishes. He touched Zarrar with his heels and the bay leapt forward, ears back in momentary irritation, as though thinking, Make up your mind!

  It was always the same when soldiers approached a village. Such was the recurrence of conquest, civil war and outright banditry; the poor lived in a continual state of apprehension. It was no surprise to Leo that after he sent in the van and enveloping flankers, there was a familiar pattern of dogs barking, mothers calling, pale-faced children looking out from half closed doors while the men, surprised in the open fields, looked on helplessly.

  “Clear, no hostiles,” Sebēos called before seeking out the headman in the fading light to explain that the regiment would stay overnight.

  “Look,” the elder pleaded, “we all know the game is up out here. Either Basil Apocapes gets the cattle or the Persians do.” The man looked Leo in the eyes. “But leave us something.”

  Leo thought before speaking. “We muster in the morning but will not take your horses, sheep, goats or grain. I’ll sign a requisition for the cattle. Take it to the strategos. He will pay you if he can. Mount some men and I will allow you to draft out two hundred head of your best breeding stock and an ample number of killers. We will pay for the food and fodder consumed tonight and your women are safe. Then you should conceal your stock somewhere in the hills and hide the money when we leave. Now, come, share a jug of wine and tell me of this place.”

  The headman showed his relief and accepted the offer.

  Lascaris deployed mounted pickets from his squadron and posted sentinels on foot around the perimeter as horses were kept saddled with girths loosened. Men removed the bridles for feeding and watering, then knee-hobbled the mounts for the night, with spare blankets and cloaks thrown over them for some protection against arrows. The village men spit-roasted a number of sheep and pigs, while the women brought platters of bread and clay urns of soup. As this was underway, the decarchs supervised the drawing of water from the well.

  Leo called the officers over. They talked long with the Armenian scouts from Manzikert and local peasants who described the terrain to them; the locals sketching a rough map on a piece of parchment. By their drawing, a shallow, dry wadi cut the plain, east to west. “It is easily crossed,” the peasants concurred.

  The regiment breakfasted, Leo noticing, in the way of such trifles, Martina’s interest in the silver spoon he had picked up at Artsn. The unit mounted and moved off when it was light enough to ensure they were not riding into an ambush prepared through the night.

  Leo led half a dozen mounted peasants and as many cataphracts to muster, accompanied by Guy, Togol, David and Martina. Alternately walking and trotting in a wide sweep to the southwest of Sashesh, they started the smaller herds back towards the river to be collected later. All knew they were the thinking bait and controlling mind in the trap. After crossing the wadi, Leo estimated they were at the furthest limit of a useful sweep for cattle, so he swung eastward.

  Riding dispersed, a spear-cast between riders, they soon had a herd of some three thousand, the cattle bunched in the bellowing of separated cows and calves, or mournful lament of bullocks dimly recalling other days of fear and pain at the hands of men. After the first couple of herd-like rushes forward, or away from the breeze, the cattle forsook escape and settled down to a stolid walk in the face of the shouting, whistling riders.

  Leo had more than cattle on his mind. Often he drew away from the dust to look around at the lay of the land and for any sign of the raiders whilst enjoying a gentle breeze from the south.

  Mid-morning, he motioned Guy and Togol to him and indicated a low, gentle sided ridge spotted with scrub-oak about two miles distant. “Guy, take a slow trot to that high ground to the south. Ride its length a mile or so. Let yourself be sky-lined on it. Then come and tell me what you see. If there are hostiles there, circle your horse twice, then come quick. Hold your spear high up parallel to the ground if you think they know there are more than just a few cows and drovers here. If you get chased, ride like a fiend and look for me, then do as I direct. Togol, Jacques—if Guy gets chased back, we will make a fight of it. One of the pursuers will be out front, faster, prouder and hungrier than the rest. I want to capture him. Then will come one or two, perhaps three others on better horses. Jacques, I want you to take the second, as far out as you can, with your crossbow. And the third if you are able. That should give the others pause. Then we hope Bessas comes quickly.”

  They all looked grim as Guy trotted off on Sira, jamming his floppy hat on more securely.

  “Where’s his helmet?” Leo asked.

  “He didn’t think he would need it chasing cows,” Togol replied.

  Leo looked at Togol who shrugged. They watched until Guy was a speck on the ridge.

  The morning turned hot under a cloudless sky. They rode on until the watchful silence was broken by Togol. “It’s damned far to see, but something is happening with Guy. He’s circling his horse. Now he is leaving the ridge. Pretty damn fast too!”

  Leo could make out the dust of many riders crossing the ridge in pursuit. He snapped into action. “Get the herd moving, north,” he ordered, flinging an arm out, “that way!” Then he put Zarrar to the gallop, drawing alongside Martina.

  From her expression she had guessed something serious was afoot as their horses grabbed the bits
in excitement.

  “Martina, message for Centarch Phocas! Probable hostiles to our south. Small band. Twenty or thirty. Could be others. They are in pursuit of Guy d’Agiles and probably do not know the regiment is here. Ride to Bessas and tell him to come quickly from the west. His object is to relieve us and to inflict maximum casualties. No pursuit. Make sure you tell him no pursuit. Stay with him and report to me after he engages.”

  Martina’s face clouded with concentration and she glanced past him through the dust. Little Zarrar was already bunched in anticipation under her as she calmly repeated the message.

  “Good. Like the wind, Martina.” Leo reined in Zarrar after the bay made to dart after Martina’s mount. Leo watched her gallop away, reproaching himself for endangering her by allowing her to accompany the raid.

  Then he turned Zarrar on his hocks and galloped to Togol and Jacques. Togol was mounting, having just set fire to the grass. The drovers were shouting on cantering horses amidst the leaping flames, smoke, dust and confusion. The herd took on a startled rushing momentum of its own, with the peasants of Sashesh driving it in flight across the dry watercourse.

  “Into the wadi,” Leo roared.

  Togol, David, Jacques, Arshak and five cataphracts rode plunging horses into the wadi which was just deep enough to shelter a mounted man from sight.

  “Dismount, men. Spread out. Take post. Give d’Agiles room.”

  Two cataphracts grasped the reins. The rest drew bows and scrambled up the sides to crouch below the lip of the wadi. Jacques lay panting on the ground at the edge of the channel straining the crossbow arms against his feet while hauling with all his might on the string. He nocked a dart, placed another between his teeth, gulped two breaths of the smoky, dusty air, then waited behind a concealing tuft of rough grass.

  Leo, straight and stern, sat the excited but obedient Zarrar above the wadi. He needed Guy to see him. Below him, David and Togol shook out lassos.

  Guy closed at full gallop, head bent beside Sira’s neck, but he was not holding his spear up to indicate that the pursuers knew of the presence of Roman troops. Leo saw him look up and wipe his eyes. Leo waved his spear and shouted. Guy changed direction toward them with the first galloping pursuers two bowshots behind him. Leo rode into the wadi, dismounted and threw the reins to a cataphract. He turned just in time to see Sira pause in a half rear at the lip.

  “Keep going! Keep going!” he shouted and gestured urgently at Guy to ride through the wadi and on, to give the appearance of continued flight.

  Guy, white-faced with his hat gone, leapt his mare into the channel and scrambled up the other side into the lifting dust made by the disappearing herd.

  Drumming hoof beats signalled the arrival of the first pursuer close behind. Too late he saw the wadi, held horses and crouching Romans. The rider, an Arab by his dress and equipment, jerked the black horse to a halt and tried to turn. Lassos snaked out from both sides and the Arab, still mounted on his black horse, was snared and dragged screaming into the dry watercourse. The horse, unbalanced by the turn, fell in with him. Leo glanced back at a confusion of plunging horses and struggling men. Togol jumped on the Arab and dealt him a hefty whack. The black horse lay struggling in a tangled lasso.

  Leo heard one of their horses nicker.

  Quickly he looked at the approaching riders, then back into the dry watercourse and saw Togol’s black mare peering over her shoulder, with pricked ears and nostrils distended in recognition of the Arab’s horse. The black was struggling to rise and a cataphract made to grab it. They were about to fight for their lives so there were more concerns than a loose horse. “Leave it,” shouted Leo. “Watch your front.”

  David knelt beside him, uncasing his bow. “Seljuks, alright.”

  “Hostile Seljuks, men. Cataphracts—take the second. Jacques—the third.” There was a seemingly long pause, with the men crouching dry-mouthed in the heat and dust. Leo settled his troopers for the shock of contact. “Hearts up. Make ready. Shoot!”

  A big Seljuk on a grey mare crashed to the ground a spear’s length from the wadi, two arrows buried deep in her chest. Her dazed rider crawled behind her for cover. Leo heard the jolt of Jacques’ crossbow and saw the third horseman grasp uselessly at his breast. His bay mare galloped on, the rider slumped forward, fingers entwined in the bloodied mane. A spear-cast from the wadi he collapsed down the near side, dragging the horse into the fall with him.

  The other pursuers reined up and retreated a little.

  Jacques sprinted forward, flung himself on the fallen bay horse’s neck and seized a front leg, preventing the animal from rising.

  “That fool is going to try and have the horse,” Togol exclaimed, half in astonishment, half in admiration.

  Jacques, lying awkwardly, struggled to hold the terrified horse down while reloading his crossbow.

  Togol uttered something unintelligible and he too rose and walked almost casually, mace in hand, to the downed grey where he dealt a fatal blow to the bowman hiding behind it and another to the wounded horse. With an almost disdainful glance at the milling riders two furlongs55 away, the Cuman walked to where Jacques lay. Togol slid the mace into his belt, from which he took a length of rope, slipping it around the horse’s front legs. Jacques rose and together they dragged the struggling animal by the rope and bridle to the wadi. Despite its trying to rear away, the ropes around its legs always brought it down closer to safety. They pulled the struggling beast bodily into the hole after them.

  Leo thought about calling them for fools, but decided that no harm had been done. Indeed their coolness might indicate to the enemy that the wadi was held in greater strength.

  “Kelt! You are surely the prince of horse thieves.” David declared.

  Guy cantered back from the dust cloud and joined them. The colour had returned to his face, which was red with effort and excitement.

  “Aspieties,” ordered Leo. “Take a man and a handful of spears each and make it look like a hundred men are here. And do a lot of shouting.”

  He peeped over the lip of the wadi. The Seljuks were still milling in confusion two furlongs distant. He could see no sign of Bessas through the dust of the distant cattle, but took some comfort from the fact that it would obscure Bessas’ presence from the Seljuks.

  Togol crouched next to Leo. “Horse-archer, we must have got the leader.”

  Guy crawled up, breathlessly. “You captured the first one? He seemed to know my horse for he kept calling out. He would trot toward me, and I would trot away. He would walk, so would I. When he cantered. So did I. When he stopped. So did I. When he galloped in pursuit, I galloped in flight.”

  Togol, his brow knitted at Guy’s broken Greek, discerned the meaning and roared laughing. “No wonder he was browned-off by the time he got here.”

  “He knew your horse, you say,” asked Leo. “Togol’s mare definitely thinks she knows the black horse that he was riding.”

  Guy allowed a foolish-looking grin of triumph mixed with relief. Then his face grew serious. “As long as they don’t get him back now.”

  “That is right.” Leo looked across the plain. There was no sign of Bessas, but despite it seeming like ages, little time had elapsed. “C’mon, Bessas, damn you,” he muttered to himself. “It all depends on you now.”

  A few bolder nomads were drawing near, still mounted, trying to discern what was ahead of them.

  “Jacques, see if you can get that fellow in black,” Leo said. He now examined the wadi more closely and found by happy chance, that should the Seljuks enter it further along, his patrol had taken cover in a slight bend that gave them some protection from enfilading missiles.

  Jacques, his crossbow charged and shield slung over his back, settled at the lip for the shot.

  Leo reckoned he had a few minutes to take stock for fight or flight. Hoping Martina was safe and with Bessas, he slid to the bott
om of the wadi and approached the dazed prisoner who was looking around in confusion. The captive’s glance lingered on the horses captured during the taking of Zobeir al-Adin: Guy’s chestnut, Togol’s black and David’s dun. Guy’s mare whinnied. The Arab, dust from the fall over his clothing and in his beard, glanced at the mare, then looked silently at Leo. Leo tried to converse in Greek and his few words of Latin. The prisoner did not respond, except with a flicker of the eyes at the Greek question about his name.

  Arshak tried the local Armenian dialect but the Arab gestured that he did not understand.

  “Togol, try the language of the steppes on him. And blindfold him, please. He’s seen enough.”

  Togol scrambled down from where he had been kneeling and glaring at the prisoner, roughly blindfolded him with the Arab’s own black turban.

  Leo made a mental note to check the turban for secret writing later. He returned to the lip to face the enemy.

  Jacques shot. There was a yelp of pain and the black horseman’s mount reared uncontrollably and threw its rider as Jacques readied another bolt.

  “Well done, Jacques. I’d say you hit his leg and fixed him to horse and saddle both.” Leo observed the milling, shouting riders draw off. “That gives us a bit more time.”

  He turned to the men in the wadi. They looked at him and he was surprised to see the pale, frightened face of one cataphract crouched in the dirt, clutching his bow, an arrow nocked to it. Leo was suddenly conscious that he felt no particular fear and supposed in a reflective moment that he had been too busy. “Well done, men! First chukka56 to us. We’ll make a fight of this, now. They look like tribal horse-archers so it will take a while for a leader to organise them. Swallow some water while you have the chance.” He looked at the fearful cataphract and knew he had to give him something to do. “Quieten those horses if you can,” Leo ordered gently, clasping the man by the shoulder. “And get that black one up on its feet.”