A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Leo thought on that for a moment. “Room for manoeuvre around Archēsh, at first glance, seems very limited. I am told if the army was to concentrate here the Turk could easily outflank us by going around beyond the high ground to your north. A main defence at Manzikert would seem to provide better possibilities for manoeuvre and keep the Turk ensnared and vulnerable to one of our relief forces.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, but it’s a gamble. And personally, I wouldn’t rely too much on relief columns! They take troops, money, time and preparation. And there are none. Everything has been sent west to the Patzinak front or, in the case of the old Armenian regiments, disbanded so they can be more efficient taxpayers.”

  Leo knew the man was right. “Can you hold here?”

  “I think we can defend the city, Bryennius, but only for a short time.”

  While the town seemed better prepared than Artzké, in Leo’s quick estimate it fell far short of the preparations Selth and Doukas had been making at Manzikert.

  Completing their tour, the turmarch led them to his official suite and waved them to divans.

  Leo said nothing of Simon Vardaheri and Maniakh, though they were never far from his thoughts. The other matter, he had to raise at some point. “I seek also to speak with Irene Curticius, the princeps’ daughter from Manzikert.”

  “Ah! She is here. I sent Curticius a message, y’know.” The turmarch rose and called into the void beyond the drapes. Boots sounded in a stone passageway, and a well-cut, handsome fellow with long black hair and mustachios soon emerged. “This is Centarch Theodore Ankhialou.”

  Although without armour, Ankhialou was instantly recognisable as a soldier with his sword and knee-high black boots. A white scarf wrapped loosely around his head, in the manner of many on the frontier, was worn almost as a turban. The young man managed a social smile at the saddle weary trio in front of him. “You ask of Irene Curticius. She is quite safe and does not wish to be disturbed.”

  Leo remained seated and let the silence hang, breaking it in that quiet, do-your-duty tone he had for presumptuous or incompetent people. “I will see her nonetheless. Now go do as you’re told.”

  The young man’s eyes blazed at Leo, then at his commander who assented with a flick of his head. Ankhialou left.

  “Curticius is an old friend,” the turmarch said as he looked out the arrow slit at the crowded marketplace below. “Bad business.”

  Servants brought food and drink as they spoke of the military and commercial affairs of the district. Reluctantly but dutifully, Leo raised the weaknesses—unrepaired walls, poorly maintained engines and slovenly soldiers—he had observed in the city’s defences.

  “We do what we can,” his host exhaled. “Most of the few troops are concentrated in Manzikert and Van. I need more men and the money to pay them. But thank you for your advice. I’ll look to it.”

  Suddenly Leo sensed they were being watched.

  Irene appeared in a shimmer of crimson silk from behind the drapes with Ankhialou behind her. “Count Bryennius,” she greeted graciously.

  The men rose and stood, silent.

  “As you can see,” Ankhialou sneered. “She’s …”

  Leo interrupted. “I am sure Mistress Curticius can speak for herself.”

  With a fleeting glace of irritation at Ankhialou, she met Leo’s eyes. “It is very kind of you to come this far enquiring of my safety. As you can see, I am well.”

  Ankhialou moved a step closer to her and placed an arm possessively around her.

  “Are my family well?” Irene asked.

  “Well enough. We did not see your brother at Artzké, but believe he’s also fine.” Leo responded as though it was an everyday social call in Constantinople.

  “Thank you.”

  No one knew what to say, until Irene smiled. “You have all ridden very far and must be tired—your horses also. Are you resting here the night?”

  Leo wondered if she was searching for an opportunity for a more discreet meeting.

  A darkness crossed Ankhialou’s face as he realised too much information was being passed.

  “They will stay in the citadel stables. I offered the count accommodation here, but he wished to get away early,” the turmarch said, missing the black look from Ankhialou.

  Togol, neither fooled nor intimidated by the polite exchange before Irene’s suitor, stepped forward. “Mistress, none of us have ridden the direct road to Manzikert, by which we must return. A guide would be useful, if you should ride with us?”

  Ankhialou took a step before Irene could answer. “The road’s easily followed, even by stupid people, but I’ll furnish a guide.” He paused in the room’s heavy silence. “Was there something else?”

  Their business finished and welcome worn, Leo turned to the turmarch, “With your approval, we shall retire to your stables and leave at first light.” This gave Irene a few hours to re-consider and confirmed where to find them. Leo was not particularly prudish, but he recognised Ankhialou’s manipulative control over Irene and it offended him.

  “If you have some time before your journey, the market in Archēsh has many fine wares,” she suggested.

  Leo thanked her before she was ushered out by Ankhialou.

  “Let me know if there is more I can do, but it looks like rest is your main need,” the turmarch offered after the pair had gone.

  Leaving the citadel they found an inn with cheap but worthy refreshments. Fatigued from the exertions of the cattle raid and a day and night’s riding since, they returned to the stables and rested on clean straw in an empty stall. Propped against his saddle, Leo watched Ruksh lay down with a contented groan and the horse’s ear move to the sounds outside. Lazily, unguided, his thoughts turned to Martina. He remembered the fair and her offering to get him anything—a kindness he should return. He sat up. “Togol, I’m going for a walk, for I cannot sleep.”

  “You want me to come too, Horse-archer?” said Togol, though the scout did not stir.

  Leo grinned. “No. I will not be long and it’s merely a stroll.”

  “You damned Romans and your walking!”

  Unarmoured in grimy riding clothes, Leo strode to the bustling market beneath the citadel walls. Irene had been right, the market was well stocked—saddles and carpets from Persia, silver, copper and tin from Armenia, gold, iron, paper and silk from Bukhara, sugar and spices from Baghdad and the wine of Shiraz.

  For no apparent reason, his hackles rose. He turned a corner and waited but no one suspicious seemed to be following. Still alert, he turned into another crowded aisle where half a dozen tongues competed as one. There he found a few stalls selling perfumes and other gifts.

  “For a lady?” one handsome, dark-eyed stall-keeper asked in her accented Greek.

  “Yes! A lady.”

  “A lover?” She plied him with samples.

  “No. More a…”

  “Something more subtle?”

  “Yes, subtle.”

  “You’re far from home?” she ventured, turning to him with another vial.

  “As are you. What accent do you have?” Leo asked her as Vardaheri unexpectedly caught his eye from the crowd.

  The woman had not noticed. She smiled, intent on Leo. “I’m Arab from Baghdad, but Christian and have lived here many years.”

  Vardaheri sidled up. “Is it good perfume, stranger?”

  Leo hid his pleasure at seeing the horse trader. “I’m no judge, friend, as this good woman now knows,” he replied with the air of someone wishing a meddlesome stranger to move on. He saw Maniakh mingling in the crowd.

  “See you at the end of the next row of stalls,” whispered Vardaheri, stepping away.

  From the corner of his eye, Leo followed the direction they took. The woman presented him with another vial to sample, dabbing some on her own wrist and holding it out for him. “Yes
, this one,” Leo decided.

  “Nine follis. One solidis from you, thank you,” she said, taking his Roman gold coin. “Your change.” She handed over the perfume and a few unfamiliar silver and bronze coins. The woman saw him examine them doubtfully. “Kurdish coins,” she explained. “They’re common around here. People will accept them.”

  Leo thanked the woman and left. Surprised at the scant change, he realised that Byzantine currency was in decline throughout the Empire’s easternmost cities, another reason why it would be so hard to defend Vaspurakan.

  He found Vardaheri. “You’ve ridden hard, Simon?”

  “There was a most deplorable fire in Tabriz and we had to lay low for a while,” Simon grinned and they both laughed. “We left two days ago and ended up being chased much of the way. Praise the hosts that we were well mounted.”

  “I heard of the fire and wondered if it was you.” Leo did not have to embarrass them with gushing praise.

  “How did you hear?” the horse-trader gasped.

  “A story for another time.”

  “It wasn’t as destructive as we hoped,” Vardaheri volunteered with satisfaction, “but it’ll slow them down a little. We got into Archēsh and thought someone familiar would show up eventually. Then we saw you and one who seemed to be watching you. He ducked out of sight and left when you turned around unexpectedly. I don’t think he saw us, but I swear I have seen him in Manzikert.”

  Leo was perplexed and wondered who it would be. He doubted their interest was benign, or they would have shown themselves. “Simon, this town seems to be full of eyes and ears. We leave tomorrow with a guide provided by Irene Curticius’ suitor. At dawn we take the direct route back, the right hand fork, away from the lake. So be on our trail by sunup and follow just like other travellers until a few miles away from this place.”

  Leo had to complete one more task at Archēsh. With the falconer, Bardanes Gurgen, and a farrier from Her on his mind, Leo returned to the citadel stable and told his men of his meeting with Vardaheri. Then he inspected the horses’ shoes. Setting down the leg of a light bay mare, Leo remarked, “Manuel, your mare could use shoeing and I need an excuse to visit a blacksmith.”

  “I can take the horse, Count. Or do you wish me to accompany you?”

  Togol opened an eye and then stood. “I feel like a walk.”

  Leo and Togol, leaving their armour and keeping only a commoner’s knife at their belts, took the horse by a simple halter with no Roman military trappings to draw attention to it and asked directions of locals.

  “Kavadh, Farrier and Blacksmith,” Leo read the sign. “Hello. Anyone there?” he called.

  A strongly built man with dark eyes, a shock of curly black hair and greying beard entered through a doorway in the rear. “Yes, sirs?”

  Leo’s glance took in the man’s leather overlapping-split apron. “Will you shoe a horse, please?”

  “Of course. Of course.” Kavadh approached their mare and picked up a front leg. “Passing through? Yes. She needs it—been ridden a way. Nice little mare. You can’t do it yourselves? You have the stamp of fellows who could.”

  “Normally, yes,” Leo returned in a countryman’s casual tones. “But we don’t have tools with us. She is about due for a proper shoeing anyway.”

  “She’s been properly enough shod. Army farrier, Roman!” Kavadh looked them over. “Do you want to leave her here awhile? Lots of people are getting horses done in case they want to leave in haste!”

  “We’ll wait,” replied Leo.

  “Is she quiet?”

  “A pleasure to shoe, ordinarily,” answered Togol with a comical sideways grimace to Leo.

  Hoping Togol was right, Leo shot an irritated glance at him. The Cuman held the mare while Kavadh got to work.

  The farrier was sociable and forthcoming, discussing the town, Normans and his journey from Her because of the disruption caused by the weakening caliphate. They let the blacksmith carry on with his work, getting to know the horse, pulling off the first shoe and selecting one he had pre-forged to shape and fit. Time went by, horse and blacksmith both at ease and the task progressing quickly while three hooves were done.

  Leo looked casually around the shop, as any visitor might. Amongst a pile of rusted used shoes in the corner were a few solid horseshoes with round holes in the sole. “Interesting shoes,” he observed.

  Kavadh, sweating in the rhythm of his trade and looking to Leo, replied between breaths in the staccato manner of workmen. “You’re new around here then? Persian we call them. Take a bit of work to fit and put on. Can cause contracted heels if overused. Good for a soft footed horse in stony country though.”

  “Do any use them hereabouts?” Leo asked.

  “That is why I keep a few.” The blacksmith, holding a coal-red iron shoe by tongs, belted it into shape over an anvil by the forge. “Bardanes Gurgen gets me to do one of his horses that way.” He plunged the hot shoe into a tub of water, placed it on the anvil, put down the tongs while taking up a pritchel and forced the point into a nail hole with a heavy hammer. He moved to the horse, lifted the foot being shod and lightly tested the still hot shoe for fit. Acrid smoke came off the foot as Kavadh continued speaking, “Sometimes Bardanes journeys far—to Karin I think he said—sick sister or something. I suggested he try them when he brought the mare here stone-bruised one day.”

  Interested, Leo stooped and picked up one of the Persian shoes to examine it more closely. “Seems I’ve heard the name. What’s he do?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, and Gurgen is a good customer,” said Kavadh without looking up. “He’s nothing to hide from honest folk. Buys and sells livestock, I think. Sells a few falcons for good prices—he has a knack with them.” The blacksmith was quiet for a moment, concentrating on rasping the underside of a hoof flat. “Word is, his family used to be well-to-do, but some Roman stole their land.”

  That seemed to confirm Gurgen’s own story as told at Arknik, Leo thought, noticing a sheepskin-covered saddle over a rail. It looked familiar and lifting the skin, he saw it was a fine Roman military saddle, worn but well cared for. “Is the saddle yours?”

  “No. Though I wouldn’t mind if it were!” Kavadh said, dropping the rasp and the near hind leg. “It’s a good’n. Too good for the arse who brought it in this morning. Wanted his horse shod on the spot and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I had a few to do and she was a bitch—must have learned it from him. I told him to leave her and come back later. She’s out behind learning some manners.”

  Leo looked out of the back door to the shop and saw an unfamiliar horse tied in the shade of a tree. Leo lifted the saddle flap and made out a name carved faintly into the worn leather. “Bardas Cydones,” he read aloud. “The imperial courier,” he said under his breath to Togol. They exchanged glances. “Have you seen the owner of the saddle with Bardanes Gurgen?”

  Ready for the nailing, Kavadh picked up the foot again and glanced at Leo as he reached into an old felt hat for a nail. “I have—with a few people—this morning—having their breakfast,” Kavadh went on, his friendly, conversational tone concealing his curiosity. “You interested?” He continued with his work, carefully driving nails through the shoe and both quarters, before picking up the cadence after the shoe was set on the foot.

  Almost subconsciously, Leo listened to the rhythm of Kavadh’s hammer work: three spaced tentative taps to start the nail on the correct course until the nail head showed through, three confident double-taps to drive it home and finally two hard hits to force weld the nail head into the grove of the shoe. Then the dangerous nail-tip was twisted off with the hammer claws. “Not really,” Leo lied. “Always on the lookout for a good horse or saddle though.”

  The blacksmith tapped over the nail points and rasped the hoof wall and clenches to acceptable smoothness. His work done, Kavadh stood. “As your quiet friend said, a good mare to shoe.
” Togol gave Leo an exaggerated look of relief behind the blacksmith’s back. They paid Kavadh and led the mare away down side lanes.

  “I think the blacksmith of Her is as he seems, Togol,” Leo said. “But I did not know our imperial courier, the constant companion of Modestos Kamyates, had business in Archēsh.”

  Back at the stables, they settled down to sleep. A cataphract soon roused Leo with the news that a lady was asking for him. He rose, tugged on his boots and went to her.

  At the main door, Irene Curticius passed him a basket of food for the journey and expressed gratitude for his concerns, with assurances of love for her parents and disquiet at their distress. “Guy d’Agiles, is well?”

  “Well enough, considering you left so suddenly.”

  Irene was silent for a moment biting her bottom lip. She looked at him briefly and then dropped her gaze to the flagstones with their dusting of dried manure and windblown straws. “The fair was coming around again.” She raised her gaze to meet his. “That’s where I met Theodore, last year. I hadn’t heard from him for some time so I came to Archēsh. To know how he felt. I’m reassured.”

  “Reassured?”

  She looked at him, saying nothing.

  Leo nodded impassively. It was not his business and he had no wish to become involved. Reluctantly, he hinted at his doubts about the defensive preparations of the fortress and relayed her father’s concerns.

  She looked down throughout and bit her lip softly.

  “Any messages?”

  Tears almost came as she glanced down again, then shook her head and looked at him. “I’m in a good place. I don’t want to mess it up.”

  Leo noticed she said nothing of love. Too tired for excess etiquette, he took his leave and thanked her again for the food. He did not know what or how he would tell Guy.

  Early the next morning Leo and his party left Archēsh, followed the track westward across the steppe and after a few miles entered a patch of brush. The bold cataphract, Tzetzes, had allowed his swift-walking bay horse to draw ahead. Riding just forward of Ankhialou’s guide, Tzetzes gave a strangled cry and slumped in the saddle. A dozen armed men burst from the undergrowth and the little party was hotly engaged with spear and sword for several moments until the sudden, violent intervention of Maniakh and Vardaheri surprised the ambushers. After a brief, bloody skirmish, the remaining assailants fled back into the thicket. Four of the others writhed wounded on the ground. Of Leo’s party, Tzetzes was badly wounded, one cataphract nursed a slashed forearm and another a stab wound to the thigh.