“Tell no one except Count Bryennius and Centarch Phocas. Take two days to prepare yourself and your horse, then be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
When Guy returned to the dungeons, Zobeir and the stranger were face-to-face with the blindfolds off. The young prisoner was joyful that he had not been forsaken. His relief was replaced by cries and lamentations when he realised that he was not being released. Both were blindfolded again and the men parted.
They rode with Zaibullah some miles from Manzikert. Guy could see them look each other over, in case of a more fateful meeting in the future. Zaibullah stared hard at Togol, then made to ride away.
Bessas did not let go of Zaibullah’s reins. “A word from your master?” he asked.
“The Sultan will move by the next full moon,” the Seljuk said defiantly. “The southern route, Berkri, then Archēsh.”
“That’s no secret,” snapped Togol, handing him a linen bag of food for his journey and another of grain for his horse.
Zaibullah slipped the drawstrings over his shoulder and nodded in gratitude.
“You’ll be unaware—though ‘tis no secret—the Sultan has gone to Gandja to impress his suzerainty upon the Shaddadid emir, Abu’-Aswar Shawur. All the Kurds are with the Sultan and the Georgians are sworn to neutrality. You’re alone.” Zaibullah smiled coldly. “Until we meet on the battlefield.” He turned his horse and cantered away.
Togol followed the Seljuk with a long stare. “Told us nothing we didn’t know or couldn’t work out,” he remarked, spitting into the dust. “Well. The shepherd king is on his way.”
Guy looked after the retreating figure and realised his mouth was very dry. An aching loneliness touched his heart. Provence suddenly seemed very far away.
Manzikert,
Afternoon, 14th July 1054
Leo’s interest overcame his weariness during the hard seven day round trip to Ani, during which he detoured to reconnoitre the northern bypass around Archēsh. For this trip he rode Speedy and swift-walking Dido while Zarrar and Ruskh rested at Manzikert. Each man of his small escort led a spare horse to enable a faster journey
Evidence of past Seljuk and Kurdish raids was everywhere with the damage done to agriculture and commerce already incalculable. Further north in Armenia proper, where the open persecution of the Armenian Church by that of Constantinople was a running sore, the populace was even more resentful of Roman rule.
At double-walled Ani, protected on two sides by deep defiles, Leo had delivered Basil’s descriptive letters of the situation around Manzikert to the local commander, with a request to pass them on to the strategos, George Drosus at his headquarters in Karin. The officers at Ani thanked Leo for the warning, saying the same level of Seljuk activity was not evident in Iberia and Ani. He thought they were over confident and probably missing something. The news supported his theory that the main enemy blow would fall on Manzikert, but he could not persuade Ani to spare troops to assist with the defence of Vaspurakan.
Hastening back by way of fire-scarred Kars, Leo and his escort travelled rapidly, snatching a few hours’ sleep on the ground occasionally and eating quickly in wayside inns or in villages. During the ride north Leo had noticed the group chatted happily about the unseen lands and new sights. They were quiet during the return journey, partly from fatigue, mostly because every man’s thoughts played on the maelstrom into which they felt they were riding.
Leo talked of military affairs and horsemanship with his companions but kept his lonesome thoughts to himself. He was relieved when he saw Manzikert at peace. Alerted by the sentries, Isaac, breathless from running, met him at the main gate. The clerk informed Leo of a meeting with Apocapes that evening. In the meantime, Isaac continued, the strategos desired Leo to bring himself up to date with the scouting reports and get some rest. Isaac did not offer any advice on how Leo might do both.
He threw Speedy’s reins to Isaac and rode Dido to the Barbarian House, meaning to go over the reports first. He was taking the almost empty water skin from his saddle to fill it from the well when Martina rode in on Little Zarrar. She dismounted with a friendly smile.
Circumstance had thrown them together.
“Just back?” they asked in unison, and laughed while they tied their horses to the hitching rail.
“This is the best water in Manzikert, isn’t it?” she exclaimed, leaning over the well as he dropped the pail on its rope, to a splash below.
“It certainly is that, and the coolest.” He pulled the pail to the surface and filled their waterskins. Each took a mouthful and slung the bags over their pommels before untying their mounts and leading them to a nearby trough. They stood holding the reins and watching the horses drink: sucking the water through their teeth, then pausing, heads down with dripping muzzles companionably close, to drink again.
Saddle weary herself, Martina had come to the Barbarian House to see if there were urgent duties, before looking to her horse and lastly to her own needs. It was that quality in her that had led them to relate to each other, about matters apart from the city and the Seljuks.
“Good trip?” he asked.
“Interesting. Hot! But I wanted another ride around the district, so got my wish.”
Leo looked at her, his expression a question.
“I’m to take despatches to Karin and Constantinople.”
Circumstance was pulling them apart.
“Good for you,” Leo heard himself say. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow night.” Martina revealed, looking into his eyes.
“We must have some wine before you go,” he ventured, seeing at once her dark hair tied back, bewitching eyes and the smile dancing at the corners of her mouth. Leo felt uncomfortably like he was staring, studying, needing to etch every detail of her onto his memory in case their paths never crossed again. Finally, fearing she could see through him, he glanced away into the distant blue of the valley.
If Martina noticed, she did not betray it. “That would be nice. Tonight at the inn near the stables, some of us are getting together. That will be the last chance, I think.” She looked away, then back to him. “When you get back to Constantinople, you must visit … us.”
Watching her smiling and chatting with him, his own replies seemed far away. Suddenly the real world and its cares were distant, as though he was this moment in a fairy tale. Never before had Leo felt quite like this, pausing, smiling, speaking of horses and books and other unwarlike things. They dallied in the shade of the apple tree and raided its bounty; Leo reaching up with his bow while Martina held out her hat to catch the falling fruit. It felt like they were two children in an orchard, laughing as a few apples fell to ground while they scooped them up for their grateful horses. For a brief, enchanted interlude, it seemed as though they were far from Manzikert and not bearing arms.
Little Zarrar nipped at Dido and Martina’s hand was brushed accidentally against Leo’s. She turned suddenly as if she would say something but both remained silent as their eyes met.
Something inside said—say nothing. “We never did get to have that ride,” he murmured.
“No. Time went too fast.”
A horn sounded from the citadel. He glanced towards it. “That’s for me.”
“The story of your life! There are rides around Constantinople—with even more prying eyes,” Martina smiled. “When you return?”
“When I return.”
They tied their horses to the hitching rail and buoyed by her closeness, Leo followed her through the back door of the Barbarian House to collect his notes.
Martina greeted Isaac and walked to her table.
Isaac proffered Leo a sheaf of maps and papers. “There are more on your desk, Count.”
“Thank you, Isaac. Will you send a runner to my squire and ask him to care for Dido, please. I do not know how long I will be.”
Tuck
ing the bundle under his arm and with a parting glance at Martina, Leo started upstairs, pausing a moment at the third step as Isaac’s look struck him.
Later that afternoon, the key members of the council gathered: officials in their robes, soldiers in shirtsleeves and boots around the large table in Basil’s big room, an almost orderly line of weapons and mail shirts on the floor near the door. Leo told them briefly of his journey and gave his best advice. “A major Seljuk offensive along the approach, Tabriz—Her—Berkri—Archēsh—Manzikert, is likely in the near future. It will be the full moon in a week.”
“Surely if the Sultan has been recently in Gandja, then that would indicate the northern route to Ani and Karin,” Kamyates proposed. “If at all, I hasten to point out, in the midst of all this conjecture.”
Leo foiled Kamyates’ attempt to lull the council into a false security. “Indeed the Sultan may have been in Gandja to shore up his alliances. But as far as we know, his main force has remained at Tabriz, with some elements deploying forward to Her. The Sultan has to move now, or he will run out of time before autumn.”
“They have moved in the snow before,” Kamyates interrupted scornfully.
“Not with an army like this,” Leo countered. “Not with Daylami infantry and Abbasid siege engines. Not with heavy cavalry, and carts, and women to populate the areas they intend to make vacant.”
Kamyates glowered. “You would know. You who have been here but weeks and you who release Seljuk prisoners and …”
“Enough!” roared Basil. “I believe Tughrul Bey is moving already. A host advances at the speed of the slowest machine. The screen and advance guard will ride far ahead, searching for the weak places. Thus we could be subjected to immediate assaults for up to a week before the siege train arrives and the real fun starts.”
“Are you sure they are coming?” Doukas asked gloomily.
“Yes, Theophanes,” Leo said gently. “They are coming—later than we might think, because this is no cavalry raid as in previous years. Tughrul Bey means to make a major change to the balance of power on the frontier and to this end is assembling a serious invasion force. The roads have dried after the spring thaw so they can now move their baggage and heavy equipment and their tribes’ horses unshod hooves will have hardened. We have gathered most of the harvest for their taking and have no significant field army within striking distance of the frontier. It is perfect for them.”
“And we’ve heard nothing from Van?” Doukas asked.
“Nothing,” said Basil. “In the absence of intelligence to the contrary, I must agree with Count Bryennius. We’d better make our final preparations and I need to do a ride-around of the forward defences, especially Berkri and Archēsh. Daniel, prepare an escort and two pack-mules for me please. Princeps, get the last of those who intend coming inside the city ready to move. Identify some place for them to stay and useful work to do. See to it that those who want to take their chances in mountain, cave and forest are also ready soon.”
“The men in the hills know what they have to do,” Branas said. “I told them not to fire the grass until they know the enemy is upon us, otherwise our own stock will perish next winter for no reason.”
Leo added his thoughts. “We need to warn Archēsh and send despatches to Karin, so they know to press for a field army to come to our aid, or move against the Seljuk main host. If troops from Karin, Kars and Ani can screen away the Sultan’s light horse and we can all combine to hit the main body of Tughrul’s army while it is encamped around Manzikert, we may really hurt them.”
“You’re right,” said Basil. “Though I doubt we have enough cavalry to accomplish that. And …”
Reynaldus and Bardas Cydones pushed past the sentry and entered the room. The knight, through ingratiating himself with the Norman leaders, had risen to a position of considerable power in the Frankish ranks, second only to de Gaillon himself.
Reynaldus, Leo thought, would lose an army out of his own vainglory and ambition. Cydones whispered to Kamyates.
“Messengers? To where? With what news?” Kamyates demanded.
Kamyates, Leo thought, would do the same to an empire.
“The official despatches have gone already,” Basil said. “I sent couriers to Karin two days ago. They left at the same time as the party taking our messenger doves there.”
“You did not tell me.” Kamyates’ voice unconsciously pitched a level higher than usual.
“I could not find you.” Basil said before continuing to issue orders. “I wish preparations to be made so I can address the garrison and the townspeople, all at once in the square, so that I can convey to them the importance of this battle and how we will fight it. Princeps, arrange it and let me know the where and when. Make sure interpreters are placed throughout the crowd.”
Curticius nodded and wrote a note.
Basil looked around the gathering. “Remember, friends—we have met them in open field before and beaten them, outsmarted them, outfought them. Hearts up! If there are no questions, that is all. Thank you.”
They rose to go. Basil motioned Leo to remain. Reynaldus stared with hatred at him as he left.
“Wine, Count Bryennius?” Basil offered.
Leo accepted.
Basil poured one for each, then sat with a sigh. “It’ll be soon?”
“I think so.” Leo replied, taking a seat.
“Get as much rest as you can. I need you to keep working as you have been. Centarch Phocas has briefed you on the visitor we had who was asking about the Arab prisoner?”
“He has, Strategos.”
Basil seemed about to speak. Instead his head slumped forward to rest on a hand, elbow propped on the chair-arm. He massaged his temples for long moments, goblet balanced in his free hand. With a sigh he looked across at Leo. “Apart from you and a few others, I have never felt more alone. Before this, it had never really occurred to me that we would need to face the enemy without completely trusting some of those around us. Sometimes the burden weighs heavy.”
Branas entered by another door, poured himself a drink and pulled up a chair.
Basil, having thought through what he wished to discuss, began. “Leo, I asked Daniel to join us. We’re in for a real fight and I fear we cannot do it, if it’s just a case of slugging it out with them. We have to have an edge somewhere, and your spy in the Sultan’s camp is our best crack at out-thinking them. But, and speak plain, do you think they have a similar advantage—a spy in our midst? Close to me, even?”
Leo had never seen Basil this tired or morbid. The evening light streamed through the arched window, the shadows of the latticework falling as an uneven pattern across Basil’s features. Leo considered his reply—treachery was a sensitive topic. “I think they probably do. More than one, possibly, and working at different levels.”
Basil looked sharply at him, eyebrows raised. The brown moustache twitched slightly, but he said nothing.
“We would be rash to assume they do not,” Leo continued, “and foolish to sow discord amongst the citizens by over-reacting. At the lowest level, a number of people might earn a little gold and safe passage by leaving open a sally-port, a tower unguarded or some such thing. These we have already covered, by placing the most reliable troops on the vulnerable places, and never singly. There is also close supervision by junior officers.”
Branas nodded. “It’s done.”
“Make sure of it, I beg you,” murmured Basil. “It might be low level treason and difficult to police, but it is potentially catastrophic.”
Leo continued. “For the most part, the lower ranks do not have enough grasp of our order of battle and plans to be able to pass that to the enemy in sufficient detail or accuracy for it to be of use to them. The world of ordinary soldiers is the world of their immediate comrades and work. They are mostly loyal to their standards and what they represent. There is little to fear from t
hem, I think. Above them, though, are a range of officers, clerks, merchants, priests and the like who have education, ambition and the knowledge to pass on, for favours, gold or simply to save their own skins. That is based on opportunity—the risk of treachery increasing with their doubts about our success. It decreases with reduced opportunity and confidence in their leaders and situation.”
Basil thought on this a moment. “Do you have any hard evidence of the Seljuks recruiting such people?”
“No,” said Leo slowly. “Not since we killed that scouting party on the march out here. The Seljuks may not know of their fate. Nor would it be in Derar al-Adin’s interests to enlighten them. Zobeir has not been able to cast much light either. He was horseholder and lookout—not a very good one at that. The most dangerous category of spy …”
Basil fidgeted in his seat.
Leo paused.
“Go on.”
“… are those near the top, the ones who can pass on detailed information and identify our greatest weaknesses. Or they may seek to have us adopt plans which would actually aid the enemy. They may have been enlisted as spies by the Seljuks or their allies long ago and far away. Their commitment may be blackmailed, philosophical or financial, but whatever it is, there will be cunning and self-interest involved.”
Basil grinned. “I’ve had a couple of people tell me you must be a Saracen spy because you named one of your horses after an Arab champion. You’re also not deferential enough towards the bureaucracy and you are slipshod in your prayers. Grievous faults all, y’know.”
“Hmm,” Branas broke in. “Perhaps Leo should have given Zarrar a good Greek name like—Epialtes.”
Basil laughed. “Tell that to that fop, Kamyates. Zarrar is too good a horse to name after the traitor of Thermopylae anyway. How’s his wound from the wadi fight? I saw him the other day—his usual self. Low self-esteem is not one of his problems. Your danger is that your squire will kill him with love.”
Leo, with a sense of relief he kept to himself, took Basil’s words as an order not to tell Kamyates anything. “Zarrar is well,” he replied in a lighter vein. “The wound has almost healed. Simon Vardaheri …”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 34
