Leo glanced at Zarrar. The gelding was looking at him, head up and ears pricked with excitement, as though he found it all thrilling. “Whoa there, Zarrar. Good boy,” he said.
The frightened cataphract loosened the rope and leapt back as the Arab’s black horse flailed to its feet in a cloud of dust and rattling accoutrements. It nickered gently as an answer came again from Togol’s black mare.
Leo observed this and saw David Varaz walking forward to pick up the lasso and re-coil it, without conscious thought, just long, prudent practice. He saw the prisoner cock his head at the whinnies. “David, these captured horses know each other—interesting!”
Turning again to the group he rattled off more steadying orders. “Lay some cloaks over the horses, and get under your shields, men. The next thing we can expect is a few arrows.”
“At least we will have plenty to shoot back,” Togol announced happily.
They all laughed, the black humour settling their nerves a little.
“After that they might charge,” Leo thought aloud. “But I think there’ll be a lot of crawling around and trying to take us with arrows first. Our main purpose is to keep them distracted so Bessas can take them unaware.” He made his way to Zarrar, giving the horse a hug around the neck. He pulled greedily from the water skin and unstrapping his cloak, dragged it in loose folds over the saddled horse.
There was a shout of triumph from Jacques, “Count! Another down.”
“Very good. Keep down! What are they doing now?”
“Dragging the last one I hit out of range.”
“Horse-archer,” Togol said. “I can converse some with the prisoner. He says his name is Derar al-Adin. He wants to know if we are brigands.” Togol was looking at Leo across the ordered confusion in the wadi bottom.
“Brigands, eh? I guess after a morning of cattle lifting that’s debatable. Tell him, yes. Why?”
Togol spoke with the prisoner. “Ransom,” Togol called back. “His friends out there are carrying gold.”
“Say nothing!” Leo wished to prolong the captive’s agony of uncertainty.
There was a period of tense inactivity while the men in the wadi waited, fidgeting with weapons or calming horses. Some prayed. Leo noticed the rough line of stunted bushes growing on both lips of the wadi or just below it and thought to put them to use. “David,” he said. “Grab your lasso, and Togol’s.”
The Georgian scout sensed his intention and together they hurriedly strung the twisted greenhide ropes along the edge of the wadi, making them fast to the bushes a foot above the ground. “Well,” grunted David. “That’ll be a nasty surprise for them if they charge us.”
“Look out!” cried Jacques. “Arrows!”
A dozen shafts buried themselves in the rear wall of the wadi. There was a pause and more arrows, fired at a higher trajectory, plunged down. Like everyone else, Leo cowered under his shield. Another arrow shower came. Then another, the shafts rattling like armfuls of dropped sticks. Leo felt two thuds into his shield, saw one plunge into Togol’s saddle and heard the Cuman swear. A cataphract screamed as he took a shaft in the thigh. Arshak’s gelding had a bloody weal on its neck and Zarrar half-reared and lashed out dangerously as an arrow grazed his rump.
Men were looking uncertainly at Leo and he knew they had to hit back. “Aspieties,” Leo ordered. “You and two others—up there with Jacques. The four of you, pick any exposed target and concentrate your arrows against it until it is killed, wounded or driven off. Then move onto the next. I do not want them shooting at us with impunity.”
“Togol. We can’t depend entirely on Bessas, he may have trouble we do not know about. We must be ready to make a run for it. If so, we’ll try and induce the enemy to give chase. If they do, and get foiled on these ropes, all, except you Togol, will double back at my command and slip it into them—close range archery. Be ready to get the Arab mounted.”
Dragging his shield and spear to the edge, Leo set them down, propping the shield against his knee in front of himself. He drew his bow from its case and while studying the Seljuks on the plain, selected an arrow from his quiver.
“Count! That small thicket, half a furlong in front,” Aspieties indicated calmly, “There are two of them hiding in it.”
Guy and David had joined them on the lip. A desultory scatter of arrows clattered around them, many of the feathered shafts lodging into the wadi well down from the area occupied by his group. “On my command,” Leo ordered, “give the thicket two arrows each. Jacques, you and me—we shall take them when they move. You take the right one. Make ready! Now!”
Five arrows sped to the thicket. Another flight followed closely, slicing through the thin branches. Two figures rose and started to run. “There they go,” someone shouted.
Leo breathed in deeply, quickly drawing back the bowstring to his cheek. He sighted along the shaft and over the protective bracer strapped to his left forearm. He felt the tension in the bow, the strain in the tendons of his right arm and the thumb-ring biting into the flesh and pressuring the knuckle. Relaxing the tension a little he let out a slight breath, then in again and marked the running figure. Squinting along the shaft, he let out a little air, held his breath, marked the man and released the arrow. At that moment he heard the jolt of Jacques’ crossbow. The figure threw up its arms and collapsed. Jacques shouted in triumph. They all loosed at the other running figure which fell and lay still.
“Same again,” Aspieties called, warming to the tactic. “A hand’s span to the left and another half-furlong further distant. Behind that dark bush—two more there.”
They all looked. Leo saw many of the Seljuks were now moving uncertainly towards their led-horses. Would they withdraw or charge? “Give them a few arrows and be ready to mount quickly and withdraw,” he called, catching Togol’s eye.
“Horse-archer,” David spoke calmly. “Half-left. Spear points beyond the rise. It’s Centarch Phocas, by the pennants.”
A hundred mailed horsemen topped the low rise: as skirmishers at the gallop, levelled spears in the first rank, busy bows in the second. With shouts and exhortations, the armoured cataphracts crashed into the surprised nomads, scattering their led-horses, piercing the tribesmen with arrows or spitting them on spears. A handful of their quarry managed to mount and flee. The remainder fought without hope.
Martina peeled off and galloped towards Leo.
He remembered the strung out lassos and walked towards her, waving her to pull up. “David,” he called over his shoulder, take down the ropes.”
Martina checked her lathered horse, took in Leo at a glance, looked into the wadi and back at Leo. “You’re still alive—I was …”
Leo heard Bessas in the distance roaring, “Rally on me! No pursuit, damn your eyes! Demetrius, control your men.” The plain was filled with dust as cataphracts reined in wild-eyed, reefing horses—despatching the remaining nomads who did not surrender while the decarchs yelled for their own men in the confusion.
“Martina, thank you. You did well.”
She stepped from the saddle and looked at him. They did not speak until Leo asked hoarsely, “We have a prisoner. Can you talk to him?”
Glancing at his party to ensure all were still living or being attended to, Leo watched while Bessas re-organised his men. Pickets were posted and a troop told-off to screen to the south, the most likely direction of approach by hostiles. Decarchs accounted for their men, and ordered the dead, wounded and all prisoners searched, weapons collected and any loose horses caught with one badly maimed animal destroyed.
Bessas cantered slowly in a wide circle, alert to any new threat and ensuring actions were completed to his satisfaction. Something caught his attention, for he dismounted, picked it up from the ground and dashed it against his leg to remove the dust. He then led Hector over. Leo could see the black skin under the horse’s grey coat, the foam around the leather brea
stplate and the pink inside the distended nostrils as Hector sucked in air after the gallop and rubbed his head against Bessas in the shared exhilaration of the charge. Bessas pulled off his helmet and ran a dirty hand through his handsome hair.
Leo suddenly became aware of how hot and uncomfortable his own head was. A great weariness came over him and he felt unsteady. He moved quickly to keep his balance, blinking the feeling away. Undoing the throat lash of his helmet, he eased it off and ran his own grimy fingers though the iron-grey scrub, feeling the cooling breeze. “Report?”
“Two dead,” Bessas reported. “Four wounded. Some horses hurt, none seriously. I saw a dozen or so enemy get away, a few loose horses with them. We hold eight prisoners, five of them wounded.”
“Who is down?” Leo asked.
Bessas replied without hesitation. “Sergios and Niketas. The cousins, Stoudites.”
“Damn! Good men. We will take them with us. Well done, Bessas. Perfect timing. Detach a section to help the peasants gather up the herd, but keep your men and prisoners away from my group. I also have a prisoner I wish to keep quiet about for the moment. Screen me to the south, please.”
“Martina did very well,” Bessas said. “We saw the sudden dust and were moving towards you anyway, but she found us and brought us around your flank by the best route. You had their attention and that allowed us to surprise them.” The centarch paused as he looked past Leo. “Hey, d’Agiles!”
Guy peered over the lip of the wadi as Bessas spun his dropped hat through the air. “Don’t be so casual with your gear,” he ordered with mock fierceness.
Guy caught the hat and after a brief examination, looked up and smiled broadly.
“Don’t know what’s been on his mind,” Bessas remarked sympathetically, “but I will warrant he has not been giving it much thought in the last little while.”
“Had their attention, eh,” Leo mused as he turned back to the wadi. “Let me tell you, being the bait does not have much to recommend it. Whatever was on his mind, Guy did well.”
The prisoner in the bed of the wadi was as silent as death. He had heard the tumult of the charge and the Greek cries of the rally. Around him, he felt the exhilaration of those so recently threatened with extinction. He awaited fate with trepidation.
Leo, together with Togol and Martina stood over the prisoner. “Let’s have a look at him.” The blindfolding turban was removed and checked to reveal no writing.
The Arab blinked up into the sun at Leo, comprehension growing in the Arab’s eyes. “You are no brigand. A Roman! The one giving the orders.”
“Arabic,” said Martina. “I can interpret.”
“Your horse survived its fall,” Leo spoke in Greek, Martina interpreting.
“Allah, the merciful, the compassionate, be praised.”
“What do I say?” Martina glanced at Leo.
The Arab looked from the captured horses to Leo and spoke first. “Who are you?”
Leo ignored the question, asking his own. “Who are you and why do you ride with the Seljuks?” Leo observed the Arab closely as Martina distracted him by interpreting. “Mercenary?”
“I am Derar al-Adin,” the Arab flamed insolently. “I ride for no other man’s gold. I have fine estates. I am a patron of poets and painters. I hunt and write poetry. A famous stable I have, and a sumptuous harem.” He stared at Martina, standing in the dust, reins in her hand.
Martina glanced down, then at Leo.
It needed no translation. Leo glared at Derar and roared, feeling oddly cold inside, but acting the role of a man genuinely outraged and capable of violence. “Look at me! And I have you.”
Martina took it up.
“And someone else probably has your harem,” he sneered. “It seems a common enough practice in your lands.”
Derar was downcast. The truth spoken had touched a raw nerve. He rattled off more Arabic.
They both looked to Leo. “He asked again who you are?”
“I am a Roman soldier and my name does not matter, not now, not forever more. I ask the questions and, Derar al-Adin, I want straight answers from you, or I will leave you stretched out in the dust with your friends, for the carrion eaters.”
“I ride with the Turkoman because I seek one who has travelled far away,” Derar finally admitted.
Leo remained silent.
“My sister-in-law’s son, and his father.”
Leo looked on unsympathetically, wondering why Derar would refer to a sister-in-law rather than brother and nephew.
“Her son’s mare,” Derar continued, “the black one, you have there. The father was riding a dun. They accompanied a Seljuk emir on a chestnut mare from the city of Her.”
“Why did they do that?”
“The Seljuk is a trader.”
“Spy!”
Derar remained silent.
“And you have come for a horse?” Leo asked as though puzzled.
Derar turned his eyes to Leo’s and discerned no misunderstanding in them. “No. Not for a horse. For my nephew.”
Leo and Togol exchanged meaningful glances, then sat comfortably on the side of the wadi facing the kneeling prisoner. “And what will you do when you find this far-riding son of your sister-in-law’s?” Leo asked in a very relaxed, conversational tone of voice.
Martina noticed the change in Leo and Togol and matched her manner as she also sat.
“I will return him to his home,” Derar murmured.
“Are you of the Abbasids or Fatimids?”
“I owe my allegiance to the Commander of the Faithful in Madinat al-Salam.”
“Sunni?”
The Arab showed some surprise, for the unbelievers were notoriously ignorant. “I am Sunni, although hailing from close to Fatimid lands.”
“The Seljuks are Sunnis also.”
“They are nomads.”
“Who have exploited their considerable military prowess and the corruption of the Abbasid Caliphate to their own ends.” Leo continued, searching for Derar’s feelings and allegiances.
“That is true,” returned Derar, evidently seeking to fathom Leo’s game, to both engage him in conversation and make some room in which to negotiate; men were less likely to kill out of hand those with whom they had conversed. “The Seljuks are now the pre-eminent military power in the Muslim world.”
To Leo’s satisfaction, it seemed Derar considered him to be a difficult and prickly Roman whom he did not wish to antagonise. “You risk much for this duty you have assumed?” he asked pointedly, seemingly returning to the matter of Derar’s missing relative.
Martina, noticing the slightest edge returning to Leo’s tone, kept her tone neutral, allowing Leo to convey the emotion, or lack of it.
“Against a sister-in-law’s wishes and the entreaties of the boy’s grandmother, what can be done?” Derar spoke with an air of resignation.
“What exactly was this group you were with?” Leo asked, seeking to prolong the conversation until he found a way to better exploit it.
“A Seljuk raiding party,” Derar admitted, now evidently a little more comfortable that he would not be executed on the spot. “Two hundred, perhaps more, scouting the road to Sasun to test the Roman defences. This group had peeled off to forage. As I was searching for the boy, I came with them. The survivors will soon bring relief.”
“Good. Let them,” Leo retorted with a display of aggressive confidence. “What position do you have with the Sultan?” He turned the interrogation back to the question of Derar’s access to the Seljuk court and his allegiances.
Derar hesitated, sensing the danger. “None.”
“None?” Leo knew the Seljuks used Arabs and Persians to administer their growing empire. He glared in disbelief at the prisoner.
Derar grew afraid he would be killed on the spot and his nerve faltered. “I have s
ome access … to his court.”
“More than access, I think,” Leo accused in that misleading conversational tone he slipped back into. “Were you not here to spy out the Roman lands, under cover of searching for the missing boy?”
There was a long pause, after which Derar drew a breath. “No! Though some might accuse it.”
“And is it not true that the Abbasid caliphate would wish to know the mind of the Sultan and would not be distraught at his misfortune against the Romans?”
Derar remained silent, unmoving.
Leo, letting the question linger, studied him. “Which way will they come, Derar?” he asked quietly.
The questioning was becoming more conversational again; the Roman relaxed because he clearly had the upper hand, while the Arab became accommodating because he sensed the hint of achieving both freedom and the object of his journey. Derar would look at Leo as he spoke to determine the mood, then at Martina as she interpreted.
The young woman sat to one side, watching Leo as he spoke in Greek, then at Derar as she interpreted into Arabic. She might stumble over a word occasionally, traces of perspiration on her upper lip, booted feet in front of her, bow case at her hip. If Derar did not understand, he would look to the others and then back to her. Togol might intercede in Turkic from time to time. Leo was struck by how quickly they adapted to this form of communication, having all done it before in other circumstances.
“Their army assembles at Tabriz,” offered Derar, beginning to provide details, “with the advance guard already forming at the city of Her. The Sultan …”
Leo held up his hand to signify a pause. “Togol, you may release our guest’s bonds, please.”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 27
