It was done and Derar placed his hands in his lap. “Thank you.”
Leo gestured as if it was nothing more than courtesy warranted. “The Sultan?”
“Yes. The Sultan and his main force will come through Berkri and Archēsh into Vaspurakan—isolating Van and keeping the Seljuk strength to the north side of the Sea of Bznunik.” There may be secondary incursions, along the valley of the Araxes, for example. The Sultan will lead in person.”
“So it is Manzikert? The Sultan commanding?”
“Yes. At least Archēsh, and I would suggest Manzikert, with the Sultan there.”
“What strength?”
Derar shrugged. “The bulk of it is a mix of Seljuk regular troops and irregular tribesmen. Also Kurds. He brings a siege train, with mostly Persian engineers—troops from every quarter, Daylami infantry from the northern provinces and Prince Alkan with the men of Chorasmia. Counting all, perhaps thirty-five thousand. The Sultan Tughrul Bey has such influence over the Abbasid lands now.”
Martina interpreted in hushed tones and looked to Leo.
He showed no emotion. It was more or less what he expected. “When?”
“It would have been already, but there was a fire in the engineer’s camp in Tabriz,” said Derar.
Neither Togol nor Leo batted an eyelid. “Fire is an unruly servant!” Leo said while wondering whether Simon Vardaheri and Maniakh had a hand in it.
Martina conveyed his deadpan observation.
“So it seems,” Derar agreed without showing emotion.
“When, Derar?” Leo asked again, sounding almost disinterested, as though he knew anyway.
“Another moon, perhaps sooner!”
“You will be with them? With the Sultan?”
Martina glanced at Leo before she interpreted, as though she guessed what was coming.
“If I live past this day and return.”
There was a long silence as Leo looked at the ground between his sweat-streaked, dusty boots. Then he stared straight into Derar’s dark eyes. “I know the rider of the black mare is in a Roman dungeon. A handsome boy. Uninjured. Zobeir al-Adin is the one you seek.”
Derar’s eyes flickered. “The father?”
“Dead on Roman ground where he spied.”
Derar clenched his jaw, but with effort recovered his composure. “My brother was at the battle at Azaz, where you Romans were defeated. You’ve done for him at last. Was it proper?”
“He died facing Mecca,” Leo said gently.
“Thank you. The son is in health?”
“For the moment.” Leo wondered whether Derar would be determined on revenge, which could be consuming and come in many forms.
“For his return? What do you ask?”
“There is no ask about it. You will be my spy in the Sultan’s tent and you will give me Manzikert.”
Derar suddenly made to leap up but slumped instead. “You don’t know what you ask,” he spluttered. “It’s impossible!” Then in a voice so low, so pleading that Martina could hardly hear, “You don’t know the Sultan.”
“You have no choice, Derar. I have Zobeir and Manzikert is my price. If the city falls he dies. If you lie to me, he dies. If you die, he dies. Regardless of whether Tughrul Bey is dead or alive, only when his army retires defeated from the walls of Manzikert and beyond Vaspurakan, will I deliver Zobeir al-Adin to you.” He read the comprehension in Derar’s eyes as Martina interpreted. “Think well on it. If I am safe, you are safe. Who are the Sultan’s spies in the Roman lands? I presume he has some. It would be unthinkable that he did not. If the Sultan’s spies hear about Zobeir and our link with you, and it gets back to the Sultan … you need only imagine.”
As Martina finished interpreting, Leo thought Derar now wore the countenance of a man deeply distressed.
“I do not know who the spies are,” Derar protested. “Or if there are any. A once minor emir by the name of Bughra Dumrul is the Sultan’s spymaster, and he keeps all such things to himself or one or two trusted subordinates.”
“Bughra Dumrul?” Leo repeated the name after Martina had interpreted.
“Yes! That is the name of your opposite!” Derar ventured, exploring Leo’s true role with the baited question
Leo said nothing as both Martina and Derar looked at him. Not taking the lure, he gazed at Derar. “Seljuk spymaster, eh? What’s he like?”
Derar collected his thoughts. “Dumrul is hardy and cunning. He’s made a deliberate attempt to refine himself, affecting Persian robes and learning spoken and written Arabic. It shows the direction of their interest and attentions, I think, towards the caliphates in Baghdad and Cairo.” Derar looked down for a time to mask his discomfort with the treachery. “A magnificent horseman and famous with weapons, he has taken on a preference for the softer, perfumed women of the settled areas. They in turn have encouraged him to bathe and learn something of the arts—the barbarian masquerading as a civilised man. He works closely with the Sultan’s vizier. Don’t underestimate Bughra Dumrul. He’s ruthless. He caught one of your own men in Tabriz.”
It was another baited hook from Derar, seeking to determine Leo’s position in the Byzantine hierarchy and ascertain what scouting resources had been deployed into the Sultan’s lands.
Martina gave Leo a warning glance.
He did not react to the Arab’s searching comment about spies in Tabriz, merely remarking, “In times of strife, any innocent man can be persecuted. How long ago did this occur?”
“Six weeks, perhaps,” Derar shrugged. “Before the last full moon.”
Inwardly, Leo was relieved that it was unlikely that the man caught was one of his, but Basil Apocapes would no doubt be troubled when told. He shrugged, suggesting the subject was of little concern to him. To show further interest would only confirm the Arab’s obvious suspicions. “What of the Sultan?”
“He was born of the steppes,” Derar answered, obviously thinking himself on safe ground, “and …”
“I know all that shit! What goads the murdering bastard? What is in his heart?”
Derar paused, surprised at the anger and penetrating question, searching himself for the answer. “What drives him? I have never considered. Religion, perhaps …” He paused again, brows knotted. “He has no children—children, especially male children are very important to the Turks. His brother, Chagri Bey, pushes the Seljukian Empire to the east, to Ghazna and Hind, with his sons, especially Alp Arslan, at his side. Tughrul has followed with his administration the forays of Ibrahim Inal and Kutlumush, both of whom have sons and heirs. Tughrul doesn’t. Envy perhaps … might explain …”
“Wives?”
“Several, apparently. He is known to dance the Turkish dance at his wedding. It is said he will take a bride from amongst the captive women this summer, and that he plans to marry the daughter of the caliph, al-Ka’im, and give his own sister in return to cement control of Baghdad.”
“So the Sultan fancies a bride, does he? And empire? Derar, what of this pious, unquenchable thirst for conquest? Where does that spring from?”
Derar paused again. “Heartfelt, perhaps. He may believe he is the salvation of his people. Or more. A Seljuk prince I have some trust in has told me the Sultan spoke of the need to unite the Seljuks—if world dominion is to …”
“World dominion?” Leo’s glare bored into Derar.
“… be achieved. So one said, the Sultan said.” Derar paused. “Who can know? Perhaps he desires the winning of fame, admiration and status amongst the Muslims—to prove manliness in ways that the meanest tribesman feels no need.”
Leo was silent, listening, staring at the ground between his feet. At length, he looked up. “Derar, it is always a pleasure to converse with one interested in the arts. One can learn many things.”
Derar bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment that was
perhaps mocking.
Leo looked on in silence.
The Arab broke it. “How am I supposed to get messages to you?”
Although Derar al-Adin’s last statement might signal a collapse of his resolve, Leo was still cautious. “When at the fortress of Manzikert after the Seljuks come, attach them to an arrow and shoot it by night during the third watch—if not then any time you are able—against the interior side of the second tower, north of the main gate, on the western wall.”
“Western wall, second tower north of main gate. And word from you?” Derar asked.
“There is a prominent, charred tree stump, a furlong from that tower. When I desire to contact you, I will attach a message to an arrow and shoot it into that stump or the ground very near. You can retrieve it by night.”
“Do not use my name!”
“Of course not. I will address it to Prince.”
“What do you want to know?” Derar asked, undermined by his own lack of power in the unfolding events.
“You must tell everything, especially the Sultan’s personal movements and their plans of attack, at least one day ahead. I want to know about engineers, engines, fire, mines and miners. Tell me also their wider campaigns and the identities and discords of their leaders. And I particularly want to know about their damned spies, Derar.”
Derar nodded sombrely. “If good sense prevails and there is no war, how do I secure the release of Zobeir al-Adin from Manzikert?”
“I never said he was at Manzikert. However, you can simply ride there with a ransom, after the campaigning season but before the snow comes. I will then arrange for his return to you.”
“I must know where he is.”
“When I choose to tell you.”
“If I have something to give before?”
“Come, or send a messenger to the Barbarian House in Manzikert,” Leo answered.
“Barbarian House?”
“Yes.” Leo replied nonchalantly. “They will pass the word. Your messenger should state they seek a blind man on a pale horse. That way my men will know the message is from you.”
“Barbarian House,” Derar repeated. Then he looked at Togol and David in their flamboyant dress, and comprehension came to his eyes. “A blind man on a pale horse,” he repeated. “It is done, then?”
“One more thing,” Leo countered, before agreeing any bargain had been struck. “Do you know anything of a dark-haired woman on a black stallion—a Roman-Armenian woman, a beauty, who may have gone to Archēsh?”
Derar looked blankly. “No. Is she important to you?”
Martina scrutinised Leo as she interpreted.
Leo smiled inwardly at Derar’s attempt to find any lever he might use at some future time. “No,” he replied blandly. “It is done. You are free to go.”
“My horse?”
“Take him.”
“He’s a dog, not worth stealing anyway,” Togol interrupted with an obvious mistruth, to a look of fury from Derar. “Broken down … sickle hocked …”
Derar, realising he had only been taunted, calmed himself. “The boy’s horse?”
Leo smiled at the insolence and shook his head. “It now belongs, fairly won, to another.”
Derar shrugged.
They all rose gravely and leading their horses, scrambled from the wadi before mounting. Derar looked sombrely at the evidence of the fight as Togol peeled off and rode over the ground, reading the signs of the skirmish.
Derar turned to Leo. “One never gets used to it. I hope the murdering bastards, as you say, that set these ill-fated stars in their courses think it worth it!”
“On that we can agree, Derar. Farewell.”
“Roman, I ask once more, who are you?”
Leo shook his head and motioned Derar into his journey.
Derar spoke over his shoulder to Martina as he rode by.
Leo looked to her.
She hesitated. “The Arab said one could buy all your feelings for the lowest coin of the Romans. His last words were, until next time, Horse-archer, and bay horse.”
Martina passaged her mount sideways that her knee brushed Leo’s. She leaned forward and caressed the bay horse’s neck. “Be careful, Zarrar,” she whispered. “The Saracens know you now.”
The Arsanias Valley, East of Sasesh,
Late afternoon, 28th June 1054
Those who fought were buoyed for a while by exhilaration, then they carried on by will alone, moving their emotion-drained selves mechanically. They slumped in their saddles under the brazen sky, covered by the dust of the slow moving herd: two slain troopers lashed over their own saddles; four others held hunched in theirs only by the efforts of their friends and the regiment’s mounted stretcher-bearers.
The relieved citizens of Sashesh had collected a thousand head of the best cattle, the Seljuk weapons and horses as well as the little gold found on the slain. Leo had them send messengers to Mush with warning of the presence and intentions of the Seljuks as he sent two pairs of gallopers by different routes to Basil.
Leo had watched Jacques mount his newly won horse and noticed the quiet pride Guy had shown in assisting him. Like Guy before him, Jacques had souvenired the bow and quiver of his fallen foe. Leo wondered whether some woman from beyond the Oxus would feel something in the wind this night—that her love would return no more, his horse and weapons now the trophies of a stubble-faced Kelt from beyond the Bosphorus.
In the late afternoon, Togol rode near. “Horse-archer. How come Sunni and Shi’ite amongst the Muslims?”
Leo looked at Togol and wondered why the question.
Togol saw his look. “Your people argue with the Latins about God, the Saracens argue amongst themselves about God. I am confused.”
“A reasonable question, Togol. Long ago, some four hundred years past, Mohammad, the Muslim Prophet, had a few key deputies, the four caliphs—Abu Bekr, Omar, Othman and Ali. The last married Fatima, the Prophet’s daughter. After the death of Mohammad, it’s said Ali claimed a dynastic succession based on kinship by marriage, but was opposed by the others. Ali acquiesced, ensuring a Muslim unity that conquered an empire stretching from the Oxus River to the Pillars of Hercules and the Frankish lands.”
“That’s where Jacques fought the Muslims then,” mused Togol. “You must draw me a map when we halt. For the Kelt, Jacques, he has spoken of the wars between the Christians of …” he fumbled for the words, “… León and … Castile who fought the Muslims.”57
Leo looked full at Togol, the question in his mind about Jacques’ horsemanship perhaps partly answered.
“The difference?” Togol prompted.
“Ah, yes. United, the Arabs conquered vast lands, but the intellectual split between the followers of Ali and those of the other three dogged them. Now the Abbasid caliphate of Baghdad is the centre of Sunni power where they honour the memory of all four caliphs, giving last place to Ali. The Fatimid caliphate in Cairo is the centre of power for the Shi’ite, who remain true to the memory of Ali. The two branches of Islam are mutually antagonistic, something that has worked in our favour.”
“And the Allah of both is the same as your Christian God?”
“In general, yes, except the Muslims believe there is one God. Christians have complicated the matter with the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. At worst, the Muslims think us unbelieving polytheists,” Leo said with a wry smile. “At best, they probably think us confused and ignorant.”
“So why this endless fuss and conflict?”
“Because they can agree on nothing, even though the major religions of our world have three things in common,” said Leo.
Togol looked at him, brows furrowed.
“First, they are all led by old men who tell everyone else how to live, and live very well off the proceeds themselves. Second, they all have a history of the conquest of other peoples�
�� lands, of sacked cities and massacred victims.”
“Third?” pressed Togol.
“I’ll think of something.”
“Horse-archer,” Togol chuckled, “you know too much. How do you rest your head or your heart?” He mused on his own question for a while and was then drawn into a discussion on his own beliefs that lasted long into the ride.
Leo found himself having some sympathy with Togol’s animism, the notion that animals have their own spirits and that other things making up the natural world, have their own aura. Leo had noticed the morbid fascination of cattle with their fallen kind and the way trees wilt when their neighbours are cut down. He drank from the tepid water of his goatskin. “Tell me of sorcery, Togol.”
Togol looked guardedly at Leo. “There is little to tell. If all—the sorcerer, and their victim or patient, and the wider clan—believe in the sorcerer’s magic, the sorcerer will have power over his fellows. If any do not believe in the sorcerer’s magic and can sway the others, or enough of them, the sorcerer will have no power.” After a time he said, “Perhaps we should cast a spell on the Sultan?”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
In the late afternoon the regiment halted for the night. After bedding the cattle down and posting pickets, the men ate a cold supper of double-baked bread—hardtack—in small groups while holding the reins of knee-hobbled horses. It rained a cold drizzle and the force spent a miserable night on the steppe sheltering under their cloaks beside shivering horses. First light crept slowly, then dawn, followed by the red sunrise gleaming on the high clouds as the light rain lifted. Breakfast was a double handful of boiled barley, a little grass and a drink from a rivulet for the horses while the men had last of the hardtack and a sip from the water-skins.
They pushed wearily forward during the morning, leading their mounts much of the time and halting occasionally to graze them. Late in the afternoon, John Curticius, with an escort of cavalry, met them on a rise within sight of Manzikert. “Well done, Leo!” he said, eyeing the cattle.
Leo turned his head slightly, once.
Curticius bowed his own. “Thank you. I didn’t expect … wrong direction. But, thank you.” The princeps straightened in his saddle. “There has been no further word of hostiles, save from your gallopers. You have wounded, I understand.” He turned in his saddle and bellowed for the medical orderlies. “Marcus,” Curticius continued, indicating the quartermaster at his side, “and his assistants will look after the herd. Take your men to barracks, Leo. I’ll ride with you. The strategos will want to speak with you on your return.”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 28
