Not until they turned Tzetzes over did they find the dart caught in the folds of his mail where it had caused a deep puncture wound close to the neck opening. Maniakh examined the dart. “Majra!” he exclaimed, referring to a grooved piece of wood held in the hand, so an archer could shoot short darts from an ordinary horseman’s bow. “See the long thin iron head of the dart—for piercing mail. The work of a hired killer, made to look like brigandage.”
Togol knelt close to Leo and whispered harshly. “The attacker aimed at a well-equipped Roman, riding a bay horse near the head of the group. They were after you. The dart may have been poisoned. Don’t tell Tzetzes—to know might kill him.”
As they tended the wounded and mustered the stray horses, a rider galloped towards them from the direction of Manzikert. It was Bessas’ squire, Cosmas Mouzalon, who slowed his mount on seeing them and trotted in to dismount before Leo. “The centarch’s compliments, Count,” the young man said quietly to Leo while brushing straight black hair from his eyes. “He heard part of a conversation between Modestos Kamyates and Bardas Cydones and feared you were at risk. I see he was right and I am too late.”
Leo and Togol glanced at each other, then at the stricken Tzetzes.
“I have just ridden past a hamlet,” Mouzalon said. “They might be able to aid him there.”
Leo considered the idea. “That is the best we can do. Togol, Simon, two men and you with me. We’re going after them. Cosmas, guide these men to the village then return to Manzikert and inform the strategos.” He turned to the decarch, Gabras. “Loukas, remain with Tzetzes in the village until we return. Take the wounded brigands as well. Tend them and see what you can learn. If we have not retuned by sunset tomorrow, return to Manzikert and brief the strategos.”
Leo conferred with Togol and Simon Vardaheri. “What price Ankhialou’s guide?” he asked.
“He’s with us, I believe, Horse-archer,” Togol answered. “I saw him turn and strike down him in the blue tunic.”
“And I noticed him wound that youth wearing brown,” said Vardaheri.
“He can come with us. Let’s get after their friends,” suggested Leo, giving Ruksh a quick check-over before mounting.
Manzikert,
Afternoon, 2nd July 1054
Already deeply upset by the news of Irene’s leaving, Guy felt drained from the emotional and physical exertions of the cattle raid and was grateful for the two days’ rest awarded to the regiment by Bessas. The men tended their horses, checked their weapons and equipment, rested, ate and then scattered in groups of friends to whatever took their fancy in Manzikert and its immediate environs.
Much as he wished to see Irene, Guy had been glad not to have to leave with Bryennius for Artzké. It would have piqued him, had they continued to Archēsh, to see Irene with Ankhialou. He had never felt like this before, as if a blade had sliced into the heart of him. That night after he had learned of her going—that blackness before the cattle raid—had been long and empty, ending with the pre-dawn saddling up, girth straps clammy-cool to the touch. The first day’s ride had passed as a blur, but his sudden flight from the Seljuk scouting party and the fight at the wadi had brought his existence sharply back into focus—riding and fighting for his very life, crouched in the dust, skulking from the arrows of the infidels with fear clenched in his chest.
Irene Curticius! Now she dominated his thoughts again as he waited impatiently for Count Bryennius to return from his reconnaissance with news of her.
He reflected on what had brought him to Manzikert; of the hunt for the traitors who had attempted to stop the couriers, the latter rumoured to be Martina and Yūryak. As for their pursuers, Guy had seen none that he could swear was Swordleader who had escaped him near the Golden Gate. In Karin, he had once felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, but had recognised no one around him. Of the new faces that filled his life, most were good fellows, some were boors, others bullies and braggarts. Only the seemingly friendly attentions of the imperial courier, Bardas Cydones, made him uneasy; there was something slyly manipulative about that man. Despite all the faces he should have studied more closely, he had been captured by Irene’s. His melancholy returned, accompanied now by self-reproach.
Guy sought solace in the company of friends and a score of distracting little tasks. The three Franks had idled at the fair earlier this day, but Jacques was impatient to check his newly won mare. Guy had not seen anyone who might have been their quarry and he was too introspective to enjoy the outing, so they returned to the fortress.
They looked over Jacques’ captured bay mare, her new master petting and brushing, speaking softly and giving her occasional treats. They had been perplexed for a name for her, Jacques adding the complication that she should also be named after a Persian queen, to uphold the newest if widely unknown tradition of their native district. They apprehended Bessas who passed by to visit his own horses. Joined now by David and Arshak, they all peered through the rails at the bay that looked back at them.
“Nice mare. A Persian queen, eh?” Bessas pursed his lips in concentration. “Arzema!”
Jacques glanced at Guy, then at Bessas. “Arzema,” he echoed doubtfully.
“I’m running out of Persian Queens,” said Bessas.
There was another flicker of glances. “Arzema, it is then!” announced Jacques happily.
“She’s in season,” Bessas observed, “and would leave a good foal by Balazun’s black Castilian stallion.” He then left, waving away their gratitude.
“Very in-season I would say, and she would, by God,” said David, with Arshak mumbling agreement through his grey beard.
They all looked at Guy and Jacques, then at Balazun’s horse in his enclosure at the end of the lane. Their steady stares then turned to Guy.
“Robert Balazun would never agree,” he protested. “And we could never pay the service fee.”
“Balazun doesn’t need to know,” quipped David. “It would be a well-bred foal, out of the field by moonlight!”
That night, they—with the willing if noisy assistance of Balazun’s stallion and the distraction of his groom—potentially doubled Jacques’ herd. He returned Arzema to her yard and the four conspirators assembled in their triumph. Smug at stealing a march on the arrogant Norman and grinning to each other, they set out for their barracks by a longer, less obvious route. On the way, they tarried at a crowded inn, stuffy with the smell of stale wine and ale.
“Balazun’s horse is just like his owner, by God,” David grinned. “I thought he was going to wake the whole city.” Roaring with laughter they drank more wine. Sometime later, they emerged into the darkened street to see Martina and Yūryak passing by. The couple nodded a greeting and went on their way.
“She’s nice,” Guy remarked.
Jacques said nothing so Guy turned to look, as though the groom had not heard him.
“I have eyes,” Jacques muttered.
Guy could not fathom his meaning, but meant to ask later when they were alone. “Then keep them sharp, for look who comes.” Guy switched to his rustic Greek as Bardanes Gurgen approached with his servant and the scowling Reynaldus. “Bardanes?”
“How now, P’rang?” the Armenian replied, a hooded falcon perched on his arm. The raptor turned its head towards Guy as he spoke. Gurgen’s man, Ananias, shorter, swarthy, stubbled and silent, stood behind him.
“Guy d’Agiles, it is.”
“D’Agiles,” Gurgen corrected himself.
The knight made a dismissive greeting, but Guy thought his expression more definitive. It was little wonder his Normans referred to Reynaldus as Poo Face.
“Buying or selling?” Guy asked, looking at the bird.
“Bought. A Peregrine falcon,” Gurgen answered socially with obvious pride and expertise. “You’re interested in hawking?”
“I know little of it,” Guy said, taking in the Armenian
’s tall, well-proportioned frame that was accentuated by his belted tunic and long boots. Guy found he grudgingly admired the physical presence of the man and his courage in speaking his mind that night at Arknik. “You must come out with us some time, Guy d’Agiles?”
“Thank you, Bardanes. That would be interesting and a quiet ride for Jacques’ new mare,” Guy replied, wondering if it was mere coincidence these three had been so close to Martina and Yūryak.
Reynaldus and Ananias sniggered. The hint of a smile played around Gurgen’s lips as he exchanged glances with his servant. Guy was unsure whether it was evidence of malice, a practical joke or their simple amusement at his inexperience.
“When are you planning to go?” Jacques stepped in.
“Tomorrow,” Gurgen smiled. “To the east—there’s a marsh there and we might land a waterbird. There will be a hunting party, leaving early and it will be a long day, so bring lunch.”
Guy hesitated. The Armenian seemed well intentioned and friendly relations with the locals and a better knowledge of the terrain were both desirable. “So soon? It sounds interesting, but I must seek the approval of Centarch Phocas.”
“Does he really need to know?” said Gurgen. “A man cannot move for meddling Greeks.”
“Bah!” Reynaldus sprayed. “Why does Balazun let you mess around with the Greeks and their damned scouts anyway? What good is it?”
To the Armenian, Guy replied, “He’ll notice I’m gone and want to know where. To blindside him would be discourteous and would draw more attention.” Then turning to Reynaldus he reasoned, “We, that is all of us, must know what the Seljuks are doing. How many there are and if and when they will attack.”
Reynaldus regarded Guy condescendingly for some moments, then asked with genuine wonder, “Why? We just kill them when they get here.”
Guy was stunned by his wilful ignorance and opened his mouth to reply, but he recalled Bessas’ satirical advice: never argue with an idiot or they will reduce one to their level. “Perhaps.”
Gurgen waved a hand in acquiescence.
That night before the hunt seemed airless. Guy lay awake next to his cast-off blanket for much of it, thoughts drifting from Irene to the fight in the wadi and the wounded cataphracts from the skirmish there. He flinched at their suffering, recalling the agony of their journeys back to Manzikert. Most of all he wondered whether the forthcoming hunt would take them to Archēsh; if he would see Irene, or be able to bear doing so.
He rose early, grateful a breeze had cooled the night and a few hours rest had finally been possible. His melancholy returned and he was anxious to escape the confines of Manzikert, even for a day.
Guy and Jacques breakfasted and while the latter saddled the horses, Guy walked to the Barbarian House to collect the map Isaac had promised and to fill his goatskin from the sweet water of the well there. Isaac was his own age and wore, beneath his dark curls, the grin of irrepressible optimism. He was known for fiendish practical jokes, particularly on Oleg, who would shrug them off with a laugh and the promise of awful retribution. Isaac handed Guy the map and he sat at his table to study it. He noticed Isaac working on something else and asked what it was.
“Tell no one,” Isaac started uncertainly, as though debating whether to share his secret. “I am writing the story of these times—of Manzikert and deeds done, of you capturing a horse, Togol apprehending Zobeir al-Adin and of the fight at the wadi.”
Guy was grateful but embarrassed that his desire for a horse threatened to become a steppe epic. He rose and clapped his hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me, Isaac, but don’t leave out Kamyates and make sure you tell your own part as well. That would only be fair.”
“But I haven’t done anything.”
Guy waved Isaac’s self-doubts away. “It’s not over yet. I once heard Bessas say, we are heirs to all that has gone before—that were it not for Homer and Dictys there would be no Trojan War, no Helen or Hector, Achilles nor Agamemnon. This just seems life for us, but only a fool would not feel something in the wind. Perhaps someone, one day, might learn something of value from how well, or badly, we here now face our ordinary lives. That can only be if it is known, and for that someone must tell the story.”
The hunting party, fifteen strong, assembled two hours after dawn and started along the dirt track to Archēsh. It was a capable looking party of men who were irked by life behind the walls, or were drawn to the hunt by the promise of something new.
“We’re going to the swamp that lies to the north west of Mount Sippane to look for waterbird,” Gurgen explained from his saddle “It is about twenty miles to the swamp. A third of the way to Archēsh, but well south off the road.”
In addition to the two falconers and Reynaldus, the hunt comprised a mixed group of Normans, Varangians and Armenians. Guy was surprised to see Bessas, his squire and Count Branas there.
“The strategos ordered us out,” Bessas explained in answer to Guy’s look. Branas can check his outposts and I am to learn the lay of the land, and …”
Guy knew he meant to keep an eye on Gurgen.
They rode from Manzikert with its fountains, trees and many gardens, crossed the lava strewn crest a mile east of the town and jogged through cultivated land, much of which was now being harvested by peasants wielding scythes and sickles. A few, tunics sweat soaked and beards matted, stopped to look at the horsemen riding by.
Guy had spent days on his father’s holding and knew a little of how the days passed for the harvesters: the sky and aching shoulders, back and legs, the constant swishing of the crop as it wavered and collapsed in windrows58 behind the blade. Water and a crust for lunch, blistered hands and aching back had been his memory of it. He waved to a peasant but the man ignored the gesture and continued working.
“I’d lay the whip on him!” snarled Reynaldus as he made to ride at the man.
“Leave it,” snapped Oleg. “A peasant has his pride, and his work. We’ll need both if the Seljuks come.”
Reynaldus glared at the formidable Viking but said nothing.
The hunting party left the Manzikert-Archēsh track and followed a bridle path. Further from the fortress and its environs, stock grazed in the harvested fields and on the lower slopes. They too lifted their heads at the horsemen. Then through the warm air came the pungent, unmistakeable smell of an abattoir. Here were carts laden with freshly flayed hides. Salted meat, covered over with linen to keep it clean, was laid out on racks to dry in the warm breeze. Oleg, observing Guy’s interest, rode close on a brown gelding. “Part of the herd you brought in, slaughtered to provision the garrison. The hides can be used to pad the walls against rocks. When soaked with vinegar, they are proof against fire, or can strengthen a wooden palisade, God forbid, if we need to repair a breach in the walls.”
After some discussion of siege techniques, Guy asked after Oleg’s plain horse.
“It is just a garrison horse,” the Viking explained. “The Romans provide them to us to use. Unlike them, we don’t have much of a cavalry tradition—we’re sailors, preferring to fight on foot. Have you ever tried to use a battle-axe from the saddle? Impossible? Not impossible,” he grinned. “Nothing with an axe is impossible, just damned hard. Yet,” the Viking continued amiably, “horses or mules enable one to reach the fight more quickly. If one can’t sail to battle, riding is next best. Walking is undignified and after a while your feet hurt.”
“Oleg, where do you come from?” asked Guy.
The Viking laughed. “Everywhere and nowhere. From cold lands far to the north west. Viking lands. My people travelled down the rivers and made our way to Kiev on the Dnieper, Novograd and other settled places where we established trading posts. They intermarried with the locals and eventually converted to Orthodox Christianity. A new culture has formed, Kievan Rus. Viking, Varangian and Rus, all mixed up.”
Gurgen led the hunting party a
t a ground-covering walk. A broad, yellow-green plain stretched in undulating folds before them. In the distance were hills with mountains behind. The watercourse to their north, a tributary of the Arsanias, was hidden in a thin smudge of distant green to their left. Beyond the stream was a prominent range of bare, brown hills with patches of thicket and a few hardy trees. Towering in its conical bulk to the southeast stood snow-capped Mount Sippane.
“It’s a good landmark,” Oleg explained. “It dominates all and you can’t mistake it. Immediately beyond it, to the south, is the Sea of Bznunik.”
For future reference Guy noticed how the bare ground to the south sloped gradually away in a tangle of steep gullies and washaways before rising to the lower slopes of the mountain. He also saw also how the Manzikert-Archēsh track swept to the north in a wide bend around the broken terrain.
A whoop from the front heralded a chase, two of the Normans galloping south towards the rough country in pursuit of a deer. Sira bunched and snatched the bit, wanting to race away, but with her ears back the mare steadied and listened for Guy’s word.
“We’re off,” Oleg beamed as his horse leapt away. “I hope we find one of these famed Asian lions,” he called back over his shoulder.
“That’s the way,” Bessas said, watching Guy keep his mare to a measured pace. “But we’ll need to keep up with them—without letting our horses learn bad habits of rushing along fighting the bit.” Picking his moment, Bessas waved his squire back towards the Archēsh track with a message for Bryennius.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 31
