A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Leo cut the string with his dagger and unfolded the shirts to examine them. Two sheets of parchment floated free. His brow furrowed in bewilderment at the neat lines of meaningless Greek characters in Martina’s hand: a coded message. As to the keyword that would unlock it, he had no clue. In frustration he replayed in his mind’s eye every conversation, every look he had shared with Martina trying to recall a word that would have significance for none but them. He stared at the candle flame for long minutes. Finally he took up a sheet and wrote down a coded alphabet using the keyword “Kasia”. That failed and he tried again with “cattlelifter”. The messages came forth.

  Count Bryennius,

  I had to leave with Count Doukas before your return, but something has happened and I do not know who else to tell.

  At the fair I was followed by Modestos Kamyates who pinned me against a stall and caught my arm until it hurt. He was very menacing and demanded to know what took place between you and Derar al-Adin at the wadi. He did not use his name, only referring to him as the Arab. He also wanted to know why you let him go.

  Kamyates only stopped when he saw Yūryak approaching, looking threatening as only Yūryak can. Kamyates threatened to kill me if I told anyone.

  I told him nothing.

  How did he know? So few do. Someone must be talking.

  Leo, working by candlelight, bent to the second sheet where Martina’s message was continued in a more personal vein.

  Leo,

  I dreamed last night that Kamyates was chasing us down a long dark street in Constantinople. We ran around a corner and there was a blue mosque where the barracks of the Scholae should have been.

  Isn’t it silly?

  But be careful.

  M

  He straightened thoughtfully and burned the decoded pages, folding the originals and tucking them into the leather pouch at his belt.

  * * *

  58Windrows—rows or lines of hay exposed to the wind to dry.

  59This was the supernova, the Crab Nebula, observed in North Asia and the Middle East.

  Chapter Nine

  From Archēsh

  Manzikert,

  Afternoon, 6th July 1054

  Guy walked slowly towards the Barbarian House, his last conversation with Count Bryennius a raw scar across his soul. It had not been the count’s fault. He had found Guy the previous evening at the stables grooming Sira. Bryennius, bareheaded, wearing a blue tunic, approached and leaned against the rails. Guy had climbed out of the yard. “You’re back?”

  “I looked for you last night.”

  “I went out with a hunting party and we didn’t return until late. I searched for you then. I suppose we’ve been moving in circles. Did you see the new star? It’s there yet!”

  Bryennius was silent: both knew he had not come seeking Guy’s opinion on a star. They had leaned against the rails, looking through them at Sira.

  “I spoke to Irene in Archēsh,” Bryennius had started after a long pause. “Twice. The first time she was with Theodore Ankhialou. It was evident to me that he maintains a close control over her and she was not free to speak freely. He at first tried to prevent us from seeing her …”

  “Us?”

  “Togol and Gabras were with me. It was in the turmarch’s chambers.”

  Guy had tried to imagine the meeting: Irene with her formal face on, standing beside an indistinct Ankhialou with the count staring him down and Togol glaring from the side.

  The count had lifted a booted foot to the lowest rail, sword swinging from his hip. “Irene assured me she was well and asked after her family. Togol in his style asked her to return with us, but Ankhialou was having none of it.”

  Guy listened, staring at a wisp of hay in Sira’s yard.

  “Later she came,” Bryennius had continued, “and spoke to me, alone, at the stables. She asked after you and I think regrets her conduct towards you.”

  Guy had looked at the count. “Was there any message?” his words as though his mouth was full of sand.

  “I asked. No message.”

  It had cut like a knife.

  Another long pause. “She merely said she’s in a good place and doesn’t want to mess it up.”

  “A good place? Not mess it up?” There was another silence. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, Guy. Who can say?” Bryennius had let out a long breath. “You should be happy she’s at least physically safe and not being led off to a slave market somewhere. I can tell you though, she—I thought—was not glowing with happiness and her visit to the stables was apologetic. She seemed … diminished … in a way. But, Irene has made her choice—wealth and status—and being under his power.” The count had stood back from the rails and looked at him. “I know it’s not what you wished to hear. If you and your companions want to leave and never give her another thought, I will release you. You’ve all got some pay coming and have done as much as we asked—more. Take some time, and let me know.”

  Walking with his recollections, Guy drew near the Barbarian House, with its well and apple tree in the stone-walled yard, to revise the map Isaac had given him for the hunt. He was surprised when Kamyates and Cydones shouldered wordlessly by him on their way out.

  Isaac looked up as Guy entered. “The wandering Kelt returns! How was it? I’ve wanted to get out that way, towards Archēsh. Did you get that far? Was the map all right?”

  “What did they want?” asked Guy. “I didn’t think they were allowed in here.”

  “Hello to you too! They’re not. They bluffed the sentry. They’re after maps and any information a lowly clerk might inadvertently divulge,” Isaac mimicked the superior courtly tones of Kamyates. “Arseholes,” he huffed in barrack room Greek. “Eyes everywhere. I gave them an old, rather inaccurate map I keep here—just in case—to keep them happy and ignorant.”

  “I am sorry. I had something on my mind.” Guy grinned and spread the map Isaac had given him before the hunt. He explained the approximate position and extent of the swamp, noting that when riding the terrain, it seemed further away from the road than how it was represented on the skin. “Anything happening here?” he asked.

  “No. It’s been quiet,” mumbled Isaac without looking up.

  “Are Martina and Yūryak here?”

  “Yūryak’s around,” Isaac mumbled again, still studying the marked map Guy had brought. “Martina left this morning with the count and some scouts on a ride around the south and west. They’ll be gone days I suspect. The strategos sent them with orders for the garrisons and men in the hills.”

  “Count Bryennius?” In Guy’s mind, Bryennius was “the Count”. “He sure gets around!”

  “No,” Isaac said, looking up and staring unseeingly at Guy for long moments. “Not Bryennius, Doukas. But, now that you mention it, I noticed something yesterday morning.” He paused, his brow furrowed as he recalled in a new light the meeting he had witnessed. “Martina came in before she left and found a small package on her table. She opened it, read a note inside and then examined a small bottle, smiled a little to herself and seemed suddenly more alive. I sensed she was going to look at me, so I quickly stared down at my work.”

  Isaac looked away as though recalling the scene. “Then, after a while, Count Bryennius came downstairs, he must have been working up there—we hadn’t recognised his new horse, Dido—and he gave us an offhand wave on his way out. Martina ran after him. I could see them outside.” Isaac looked through the open window as though reflecting on the past event. “He was about to mount when Martina approached him. She was smiling and there was lightness, a fire in her. Count Leo, also, was smiling. They must have spoken for a while because it was some time before I heard him ride away. Martina said nothing when she came in, just got her things and left with Count Doukas and the others.”

  Guy and Isaac looked
silently at each other. Guy pictured Bryennius with Martina, and thought back to her familiarity with Yūryak outside the inn four nights past and Jacques cryptic remark at the time. Irene—all that passed between them, yet she had left without word to join Theodore Ankhialou.

  “Are you all right? You look very sad.”

  Ashamed he was so easily read, Guy made an effort to brighten. “I’m fine, just hung-over. Two people talking means nothing.” He was silent for a moment and then changed the subject. “What sort of name is Dido, anyway? Another queen I’spose?”

  “Don’t worry,” Isaac laughed. “Centarch Bessas Phocas says Carthaginian, not Persian! Now, about your spider’s scrawl on this map?”

  Manzikert,

  Afternoon, 12th July 1054

  Apart from Bryennius’ departure on a visit to Ani, Guy noticed nothing significant after the hunt. There were more travellers’ tales, training at-arms, work parties, guard duty and further drilling of the local levies and townspeople. Then on the eighth day, a stranger rode to the western gate and asked for someone from the Barbarian House. A runner was sent and soon Bessas, Guy, Togol and a cataphract trotted down on the duty horses.

  Togol looked at the newcomer. “Seljuk, I’ll wager.”

  They dismounted before the stranger who, they noticed, was furnished with an excellent highbred steed and weapons to match.

  The Seljuk spoke first in Turkic. Togol interpreted. “I seek a blind man on a pale horse.”

  They took care not to exchange glances. Bessas turned to Cosmas Mouzalen and said audibly, “Water and feed his horse, please.”

  Togol interpreted courteously for the stranger who relaxed a little.

  Guy knew the squire would lead it by the other captured horses, to see if any recognised another.

  The group walked out the gate and conversed, sitting on the low rail of the bridge over the ditch.

  “I must talk with the Horse-archer, a count who rides a bay horse,” the Seljuk demanded.

  “Alas, he is not here. He has tasked me to assist you in his absence,” Bessas answered.

  What a time for Bryennius to be away, thought Guy. He was staggered at the leagues the count had ridden since his arrival at Manzikert. Guy once asked him how he managed it. Bryennius had merely smiled something about a good saddle and said it was better to get the riding done early. A person could take one’s ease on the walls later.

  “I can speak only to the count with the bay horse,” the newcomer insisted.

  “He is not here,” maintained Bessas.

  Togol broke in to a fleeting look of annoyance from Bessas. “Who sent you?” The Cuman glared at the Seljuk.

  The stranger considered Togol’s blunt approach, his eyes dark in the shadow of his round felt cap, taking in the ditch and the walls, the little wooden town, the houses and rich gardens of the valley. “One who was his guest.”

  “You’ve already been told he is not here for several days more.” Togol interpreted what had been said for Bessas. “But he has entrusted us.”

  The Seljuk looked at them for some time and then broke his silence. “I am Zaibullah and I cannot wait several days. I have instructions to see one held here to determine his condition and offer ransom. You understand?” he replied.

  “We understand, Zaibullah.” Togol replied, telling Bessas in Greek, “He wants to see the prisoner. They offer ransom. Derar al-Adin wants to make sure he isn’t being tricked.”

  “Very well,” Bessas said. “But he must submit to the blindfold when inside the fortress.”

  Togol made a sign and Zaibullah acceded to the blindfold.

  The dungeons of Manzikert instilled a sense of foreboding. Poorly ventilated and shielded by their depth from the intense summer heat and deadly winter cold—despite scrubbings and changed straw—they retained the smell of unwashed people and fear. Most of the few prisoners now held were members of the garrison, confined for minor offences, drunkenness or fighting. Guy had heard that a couple of Armenian rebels and a priest—blasphemous by the doctrine of Constantinople—were also detained and he hoped that the strategos’ reputation for piety and justice were warranted.

  “Wait there,” the fair-bearded Varangian commanded, pointing to a cell illuminated by a distant shaft of sunlight. An empty latrine bucket and earthenware water jar comprised the only furniture in the cell. Guy could see where hundreds of names were scratched into the walls with last messages or drawings, some quite elaborate, of the Virgin or a saint.

  A Norseman disappeared, scratching his head, boots scraping the flagstones, to fetch Zobeir from his more comfortable detention.

  Guy could see Zaibullah straining his senses through the blindfold to ascertain the whereabouts and condition of the dungeons. “You keep here the one I seek?” he asked, sniffing the dank atmosphere.

  Some part of Guy, not far beneath the surface, was glad the Turk felt a similar discomfort. He longed to be out of the place, away from the confines of its dark, ringing silence. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to disappear into a fortress dungeon.

  Bessas gave the lie. “Tell him, of course. It’s the dungeon. Where else would we keep a prisoner?” The centarch motioned to Guy and said quietly in Latin. “Go to the strategos. Tell him, and no other, what happens here now.”

  It was Guy’s first time inside the citadel. He was awed by its size, the sophistication of defences and luxury of construction. Nor had he appreciated until now just how many Varangians were concealed inside its massive walls. The cunning of the garrison dispositions dawned on him. Reliable Varangians were posted inside the citadel, where imperial power would be held to the last. The less trustworthy Franks were quartered in the city outside with still more Varangians. The Latins could defend the circuit walls, but were for the moment subtly denied access to the citadel in large numbers, lest the ever land hungry and opportunistic Franks attempt its capture. Bryennius’ Sixth Schola was quartered in the town to show that the imperial troops would fight for the people. Theme militia and armed townspeople were also located inside the city. The garrison was thus subtly and finely balanced under the firm hand of Basil Apocapes.

  “D’Agiles?” Basil greeted him. “This is unusual?”

  “Yes, Strategos. Centarch Phocas’ compliments.” He lowered his voice before continuing. “We’ve a Turk, who came looking for the Arab prisoner, Zobeir, with the avowed intention of determining that he is alive and to offer ransom—five hundred dinars.”

  Basil leaned back in his great chair and sucked in a breath. “Zobeir is a fine chess player and interesting conversationalist. It would be a shame to lose him.”

  Guy smiled. “He, the Turk, is at the dungeon with Centarch Phocas now.”

  Basil looked out for a moment through the open window—latticed, glazed casements opening inwards, the shutters thrown open—then back at Guy. “You don’t say?” From below came the sound of a sentry pacing the citadel ramparts—the rhythm of slow steps and the spaced tap of a spear haft on stone. Basil waited until the footsteps retreated. “Does Centarch Phocas request or require my presence?” The strategos’ blue eyes bored into Guy; not critically Guy thought, but inquiring.

  “Centarch Phocas knows what he’s doing—fishing—showing the emissary from the prisoner’s uncle that Zobeir al-Adin is alive and wriggling. And confusing the Turk about the Arab’s exact location within the fortress.”

  “So, no? What sort of Turk?”

  “Togol thinks a Seljuk. He says his name is Zaibullah.”

  Basil shrugged. “A Turk working for an Arab who has access to the Seljuk Sultan’s tent?” the strategos said slowly, looking Guy up and down.

  Guy wondered about himself: a Frank, nominally paid by a Norman, working for a Greek who called himself a Roman, both of them commanded by a half-Armenian, half-Georgian loyal to the Greeks. Then he thought of Togol, a Turkic Cuman
, working for a Roman, commanded in turn by a half-Armenian-half-Georgian who fought for the Greeks against the Seljuk Turks.

  Their eyes met, as though they had read each other’s thoughts. “Interesting, eh?” Basil laughed. “Give my compliments to Centarch Phocas and tell him all is good and to carry on. Five hundred dinars is barely enough. It would be nice if we got some token of good faith from the Turk.”

  Guy made to leave.

  “Before you go.”

  He halted and turned.

  “You haven’t been up here before?”

  “No, Strategos.”

  “It’s quite a view. Come. Look out the window.”

  Beneath them the city nestled inside the circuit walls and beyond them, the town, village and gardens.

  “Your mare goes well and is sound?”

  “She is made of fire, Strategos.”

  Basil was looking out of the window with a far away expression.

  Guy’s gaze followed, drifting out to the low spur beyond which he had first spoken to Irene. On that point it lingered.

  “Your fair riding partner is in Archēsh, it seems.”

  There was silence but for the unseen sentry’s returning steps.

  Guy was speechless. Then he understood. His trysts with Irene had not gone unnoticed by Basil who even at that far distance would have recognised the horses and patterns and timings of their rides. He looked in embarrassment at Basil who smiled sympathetically.

  “I need a messenger,” Basil confided abruptly, “to carry a despatch to Archēsh. It may be dangerous and can only be entrusted to … a man of some daring with a good horse. It will be a lonely ride. If word comes that Seljuks are on the move, the turmarch at Archēsh must be informed. When most would want to flee the advancing Seljuks, you would be riding toward them. Are you interested? No private heroics. Just go there, deliver the despatches and return.”

  “Of course.”