The hunting party galloped for miles after the darting deer: strung out, thoughtless, spears ready and with reefing, racing horses crashing over the loose stones in the foothills. Gurgen galloped with them, his subtle hunt lost from his control, the startled, hooded falcon with its talons deep into the padded leather of his gauntlet. He laughingly cursed them for indiscreet, barbarian hunters, but Guy could see he too was caught in the exhilaration of the chase. The deer, fleet, terrified but on her own ground, escaped by plunging down an impossible ravine.
Bessas spoke for all when he said, “She deserved to run free.”
The group walked their horses for a time, then lunched under some trees before pressing on as the sultry afternoon became overcast. The long ride and rest in the shade had calmed the most unruly horses and tired the men. Beyond their own perspiration they breathed the salt-sting of horse sweat and the thick dark odour of lathered woollen saddlecloths and braided hair girths. They were moving northward off the mountain’s slopes when light brown clouds reflecting the summer-scape crept around them in the still afternoon, the sun searing through the opaque cover, making the day overcast-bright without casting shadow. Guy realised they were now down off the stony higher ground and skirting the edge of the marsh.
“We can cross here where this rivulet enters the swamp,” Gurgen said as he kicked his horse into the water.
Five riders plunged in before Guy urged Sira into the muddy water. Another nine followed. The afternoon stillness was replaced by the sound of horses splashing up to their girths. Guy knew he would never forget the sight of grey-brown water reflecting the overcast sky merged together in a close, horizonless world. On this natural canvas, the sharp dark outlines of the mounted figures loomed large. Hard men they looked, straight in the saddle, sombrely dressed, mostly bearded and their rakish caps or wrapped scarves low over searching eyes. Bow cases and swords nestling against booted legs. They rode in good saddles, craftsmen made and well-used, each with its rolled cloak behind the high cantle and saddlebags splashed with muddy water. The horses were alert, tough and confident, enjoying the cool water churning around their legs.
They crossed near the edge of the swamp to emerge, girths dripping, on the other side. Gurgen dismounted to check his horse for any injury caused by an unseen snag in the water. Most followed his example. All the while, the dispossessed Armenian nobleman stroked and whispered to the falcon on his arm. A breeze sprang up through the rocks and yellow grass, sighing through the leaves of the scattered pines. The men paused, checking girths and shoes, taking a swig of water or whatever else might be concealed in a skin. A gust of wind crossed their cheeks and clear sky showed through the dispersing cloud to reveal a solitary heron lifting from the water, suddenly blue in the clear light. As she rose, the heron was sharply outlined against the backdrop of brown hills becoming visible through the shifting vapour.
Only Bessas had yet seen the bird and he caught Guy’s eye with a silencing glance. Standing next to Diomed and looking across his saddle, Bessas was watching Gurgen while keeping an eye on the heron.
“Ananias,” exclaimed Gurgen. “Look, a waterbird. Let’s go.”
The two falconers mounted awkwardly, birds balanced on their gloved arms, lures of dead hares swinging by their mounts’ shoulders. Quickly they kneed their horses along the bank in the same direction as the slowly ascending heron; the white bird remaining over the seeming safety of the water. Guy quickly mounted and trotted after them, Bessas and the others following. He could see Gurgen and Ananias peel off the leather hoods and cast their birds. The female climbed higher and faster, winging into a wide, searching circle. Guy watched her mark the heron and change direction, striving to rise above and behind the fleeing water bird. The male tiercel rose steadily to shadow behind and beneath the quarry—in the heron’s blind spot.
The men rode swiftly, boots home in stirrups, all eyes on the deadly contest above while the horses plunged through washouts and leapt the stunted bushes. Already the birds were far ahead, the heron flying hard in panic now. The raised faces of the galloping riders were flushed with the excitement and lust of the chase and Guy wondered if his expression mirrored theirs.
The falcons attacked, the female dropping like a stone to assail the unprotected back of the heron, the rush of talons and beak forcing the waterbird down towards the gliding tiercel, which in turn struck from underneath and behind. So calculated and skilful was the assault, it was quickly over. The maimed waterbird fluttering to earth with the raptors winging close overhead.
The falconers galloped up to the vanquished heron, lying grey-white on the ground, flecks of blood on the neck and wings. Gurgen remained mounted, looking to his hawks, both of which remained intent on their quarry. With a speed that belied his stout build, Ananias dismounted and roughly grabbed the heron, breaking its wings to prevent escape, pinning it to the ground by driving its own beak though a wing. He then ushered the crowd of mounted spectators away from it. Foaming horses sucked in air as riders ducked in their saddles away from the circling raptors. Ananias soothingly called to the hawks which glided, wings outstretched to the ground very near the weakly quivering waterbird. Folding deliberately, the hawks stalked towards their quarry, to tear on it before the hushed riders.
Guy turned away and saw Bessas, wooden faced, masking his distaste. The remainder were watching silently. Guy sidled up beside the centarch. “Gruesome effective are they not?” Guy said, surprised at the croak in his own voice. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Me neither.” Bessas looked at Guy. “And thus they call Tughrul Bey, The Falcon.” It was the warrior in Bessas, Roman soldier in every fibre, which finished the hunt by observing in his clipped tones, “You had better gather up your birds, Bardanes. It seems we have company.”
Following the direction of Bessas’ gaze, Guy could see no one. He searched the distant low rise with the brush-covered ridge behind it. Then there it was, a slightly darker shape—the head of a man. As Guy watched, a stranger who had been observing them using the ground to shield himself and his mount from their view, rode to the skyline.
“He’s not much concerned about being seen now,” Branas said to Bessas as the two quickly mounted, looking around.
“So I see.” Bessas replied.
Branas signalled the men to shake out in arrowhead and ready their weapons. “Reynaldus. Send two of your men after him. We’ll follow at a distance.”
Resenting the Armenian’s authority but powerless to refuse, the Norman motioned two knights forward at the walk. The distant horseman waited until they approached within bowshot, then calmly turned his horse and walked away.
Bessas swore resignedly. “Here we go.”
“Follow him—at a trot,” Branas hailed in accented Latin to the two Normans in the lead of the hunting party, which had now changed significantly in character to become a fighting patrol. The two knights broke into a trot. The stranger did the same. Soon all were holding their horses back in a quick hand-gallop. After a couple of winding miles through open country, the galloping lone horseman attempted to induce them over a rise.
Bessas urged Diomed forward and caught the two Normans in the lead before they started to descend the other side. “Pull up. Pull up.” Ahead lay a long, narrow valley, open in the middle with thickets and stunted trees lining the walls which were steep sided enough to make riding difficult: a perfect place for ambush. “Halt!” commanded Bessas. They all paused on the crest and observed the retreating figure stop teasingly. Bessas stood in his stirrups and cupping his hands to his bearded jaw, yelled abusively in lurid, gutter Greek, punctuated with similar Armenian phrases.
The lone horseman hesitated, then waved them on. Bessas motioned on the two Normans. It made little difference that the stranger now allowed them to approach, for he had lured them within range of his patrol’s concealed bowmen.
‘Well done, you rogue!” Bessas laughed when he joined them.
At length, the hunting party was led some miles to one of the screen’s hidden camps in a high valley. Hobbled horses grazed near a few stunted trees where other mounts were tied and crude bowers provided shelter. Riding and pack saddles were hidden in the shadows where an almost smokeless fire smouldered near blackened utensils. Men took up their weapons as the unexpected group rode in.
The newcomers unsaddled, leaving their horses to graze under guard while they were entertained with a meal of braised pork and vegetables. Glad of the food and rest after the hard ride, they accepted an invitation to stay the night. Most retired early to their cloaks, but with the inquisitive nature and energy of youth, Guy used his standing with Bessas to sit in on the conversation, taking place a discreet distance from the camp, between Branas and the leader of the irregulars. Centarch Seranush Donjoian had been a cavalryman when Armenia was its own country. The years since working his small holding had kept him fit with the unmistakable stamp of a warrior.
Bessas listened from a nearby stump.
Branas was reinforcing the screen’s role in the defence of Vaspurakan. “When you and your four hundred men get a hint of the arrival of the Seljuk screen, or their vanguard, send us word by galloper, immediately. Then get out of their way. Your main task is to provide early warning, stay alive and then to harass the nomads’ rear without being decisively engaged. Fall on small detachments. Kill their couriers. Run off their herds. Burn every blade of grass, so there is no feed to sustain their animals, especially in the lowlands and valleys where the Turcoman main columns will move. Kill anything that looks like a siege engineer or engine. They will hunt you with a ferocity we can hardly imagine. If pursued, split up so they have no firm target, but forever themselves run the risk of ambush—as you did to us this day.”
All the while the tap of a riding whip on Donjoian’s bootleg betrayed the moral pain and physical tension the man felt.
“Do you have any questions of the centarch or me?” Branas asked, glancing at Bessas.
Bessas, still seated on the stump, asked, “How are your men?”
“They are good men,” Seranush Donjoian said with quiet confidence. “The armies of the Armenians are not as we once were, as abundant and colourful as wildflowers in spring.” It was a rebuke for the two Romans. “But these men know what is at stake. The people of the outlying districts will flee to the hills if they have time. Am I to protect them?”
“Only as you can without prejudice to your orders,” Branas said. “If we try and defend everything, we’ll end up saving nothing.”
Bessas then spoke up. “Aggressive offence is the only real defence, Seranush. As the main fortress of Manzikert draws them like honey, that will give you some freedom of action and you must use it to strike them hard. If you can hit the Seljuks, as they seek out those hiding in the hills, that’s good. But no heroic last stands, that is what they want you to do. Every action of yours must be directly aimed to trouble the personal thoughts of the Sultan.”
“If they withdraw?”
“First get word to us. Mindful of your inadequate strength,” Bessas suggested, “try to slow and worry them while we, together with any field forces that come to our support, harass their flanks and rear. That’s much to ask, I know.”
Donjoian nodded, pursing his bearded lips. Branas asked him how he was deployed and planned to fight. The man spoke with conviction and clarity for some minutes, describing an outpost line thinly spread across the Archēsh-Manzikert approach, with the main strength of his squadron, about two hundred cavalry, held back in secluded places, ready for use. Finally Donjoian asked, “How long will we need to be here?”
Branas shrugged. “Three months, four, perhaps. Until they’re defeated or they leave. That is, if they do come.”
“Can you hold Manzikert?”
Branas was silent with doubt.
Bessas rose, sensing something was at stake. “The Turk will bleed to death before the walls of Manzikert. My word on it.”
“Pray God you are right, Phocas,” Donjoian replied. “For my wife and child are in Manzikert.”
“As is my love.”
Guy saw a bond form between these two, but turned quickly so they did not see the look he knew crossed his own countenance as he thought of Irene.
The hunting party stayed the night in that place of overhanging branches lit softly by the coals, the restless breeze amongst the trees and the stars winking through the cloaking foliage.
Guy awoke in the dim light of a crescent moon, to an awed gathering around the low fire. Men knelt in prayer, one of them having observed a bright new reddish-white star in the constellation Taurus59. Some thought it was a good omen; others voiced their terror of things to come. There were doubters who thought the constellation looked no different, and still more who did not bother with such things as the night sky. Guy thought it looked different but was not sure. He too fell to his knees and with the great mystery of the depths above him said a prayer.
Later he wrapped himself in his cloak. His mind wandered restlessly across Irene, the raw mating of Jacques’ mare with Balazun’s stallion, hawks tearing on the dying heron and the strange new star. It seemed as though nature itself had taken a darker turn and Irene was lost to him. Sometime not long before dawn he fell asleep, to be woken a short time afterward to return to Manzikert.
A hamlet west of Archēsh,
Late afternoon, 4th July 1054
Leo cursed under his breath after abandoning the fruitless pursuit of the attackers who, having wounded Tzetzes and the others, had escaped the skirmish. He led his five weary companions on their jaded horses into the hamlet where his men tended the wounded. As they approached, Loukas Gabras was already directing those in the village to provide food and drink for the returning horsemen and their mounts.
“Tzetzes lives?” asked Leo, dismounting.
“Yes, Count. But he’s poorly,” Gabras replied. “A woman has given him opium to ease the pain, but the infection is spreading. We need to move him back to proper care as soon as we can.”
“Alright, Loukas, we’re empty handed and have lost a day. Our horses were too tired—have them cared for, will you please—and the miscreants knew the country too well. Did you learn anything from the captives?”
Gabras motioned nearby villagers to look after the horses just ridden in and gestured to the wounded attackers who sat bound in a group with bandages covering their wounds. “They’re merely hired thugs from Archēsh and know nothing.”
“Very good,” said Leo. “Detail some of the villagers to assist Ankhialou’s guide to escort them back to Archēsh for handover to the turmarch.”
Grabnas waved two nearby cataphracts to the task then turned to Leo. “For moving Tzetzes, we have made a horse-drawn litter from two poles. The village smith has given us a pair of small, iron bound wheels and an axle padded with leather to keep the rear off the ground. We’ve prepared food and water for the horses you have ridden in. We can move any time you say.”
“Good man. I’m sure Tzetzes will be grateful for your forethought. We will move as soon as men and horses have had something to eat and drink and we have changed saddles to the spare mounts.”
Day turned to a long night. It was the cataphract, Aspieties, who drew their attention to the unfamiliar light in the heavens. None had seen it before and the sight of it prompted fear and doubt. “A new star?” one wondered aloud. In the dark, lonely expanse of Vaspurakan, with their dry-sweated horses and wounded comrades,
most prayed. So busy was each man then with his private fears, only Vardaheri noticed Leo, unmoving in the saddle, studying the blemished sky, his thoughts his own.
Tzetzes was incoherent and writhing in pain when the group reached Manzikert, where they carried the wounded man to the hospital and roused the nuns. Leo gave Ruksh to his squire and rode a duty horse, one of a small number kept saddled for official use, to the citadel. Basil questioned him about the ambush and they agreed that conjecture did not amount to proof against Kamyates and Cydones. Before they parted, Basil asked if Leo had seen the celestial display. He admitted to seeing it after it occurred and simply shook his head when asked if he had a view on its significance.
Then Leo sought out Curticius to relay the news of his daughter, pleading fatigue to avoid a long drinking session. He paused at the Barbarian House to leave the wrapped bottle of scent on Martina’s desk.
There remained Guy. The young Frank was not at the Barbarian House, nor his quarters. Near the end of his endurance, perplexed by the new star, depressed by the wounding of Tzetzes with its implications, and the melancholy duty of his last call, Leo went to the stables to visit his horses and perhaps find Guy. None of the few at the stables had seen the young Frank. Leo still did not know what or how to tell him.
Leo finally retired to his quarters where he lit a taper from the oil lamp outside and touched it to the wick of a candle in his room. The fragile flame threw shadows on the whitewashed wall and Leo noticed his. It struck him what an ageless thing it must be, a soldier returning to a room far from home, candlelight and the sound of arms laid to rest. Dropping his hat on the bed, he pulled the mail shirt over his head.
He noticed his squire had wiped his saddle then saw the neat little pile left on the chair: a tan shirt as he had asked for and another of similar pattern, but in rich blue cotton, both tied in a neat parcel with string. On top of them was a small leather bag. Leo emptied into his hand a set of flints, such as Togol had used to light the grassfire on the cattle raid, and some coins. By his reckoning, too much had been returned.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 32
