“Our mysterious horse trading friend?” Basil interrupted.
“The one,” confirmed Leo. “Vardaheri gave me a potion he learned in the Arab lands, the contents of which are his secret. But it’s very effective. The hair is growing back over Zarrar’s wound already.”
“Arab potions! Vardaheri!” mused Basil. “Another I’ve been warned about. Who’s on your list of people not to be trusted, Leo?”
“I have no proof, only suspicions. But I do not trust Kamyates, Cydones, Reynaldus, Zakarian or Gurgen.”
“Trust? Or like?”
“Trust, Sir.”
“Quite a list for a small place like Manzikert!” Basil mused. “Cydones was in Archēsh when you, um, when you … when your group was attacked.”
“He was seen there, with Gurgen.”
“Speaking of Archēsh,” remembered Branas. “We’ve had no word from there.”
“No we have not, now that you mention it.” Basil looked at Branas, alarm flashing across his features. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I’ll send someone with despatches, probably Guy d’Agiles, if you can spare him. And I need to get there myself as soon as I have made final arrangements here.”
“Good man for the job,” agreed Leo. “He has an independent mind though, so give him clear orders.”
“Be assured of it,” said Basil with a secret smile between them. “The cataphract, Tzetes, is it? He lives?” Basil had an enviable talent for remembering names. “Gurgen is in the city, isn’t he?”
“Gurgen is. Tzetes lives and is grateful for it,” Leo reported. “Joaninna Magistros is a skilled healer and has been of great assistance.”
“Been warned about her too,” Basil said with a twinkle in his eye. “Sorceress evidently!” He thought for a while. “Word is, Cydones is diplomatically friendly with the Seljuk ambassador at court, as is Kamyates. And rumour has it Reynaldus is in communication by letter with Hervé, whom one hears it is best to have in front, of rather than behind you.”
Leo knew of the Frankish mercenary—everyone did—and thought he was at Kars or Ani, but was not sure.
“Kamyates is the centre of quite a social swirl. He’s seen with Zakarian, Cydones, Reynaldus—quite a network when you extend it. Leo, Zakarian is cultivating a friendship with your young officer, Balsamon. Cydones also pays a great deal of attention to the princeps and his wife. Watch your backs, both of you. It’d be well if we were a united band on our side of the walls. But I fear we are not.”
Leo left the citadel and walked alone to the inn where Martina was farewelling her friends and admirers. She looked happy and in the press of the crowd proffered her wrist. Leo breathed in the scent he had brought her from Archēsh. Threading his way to the bar, he bought two drinks and they stood amidst the loud bustle of a soldiers’ inn. No private word could be had and others wished her attention, so after an interval, Leo drained the goblet of wine and made to go, saying, “Martina, if I do not see you before, I will see you off tomorrow night.”
The next day began for Leo as most days did at Manzikert. He rose early, dropped in at the Barbarian House and visited his horses. This morning he checked Little Zarrar. Martina’s horse looked well and seemed content. A half-full pail of water, empty feed bin and leftover hay from the previous night indicated Martina had prepared him well. Recently shod, the dun looked fit for the journey.
After a solitary breakfast, Leo spent most of the morning with Basil in the citadel, writing the despatches that Martina and Yūryak would carry that night. These outlined the situation as it appeared to them, noting that the enemy host had not yet been reported before Archēsh or even near Berkri. They discussed it and decided to refrain from any written mention of their spy in the Turkish camp—leaving it to Martina to tell Cecaumenus in person—although a description of Kamyates’ actions was included.
A detailed tour of the city’s defences with Doukas and the engineer, Karas Selth, occupied the remainder of the day. Leo knew how drained he felt at the end of it and could tell his companions were similarly affected, for they bore the burden of their appointments heavily. Beyond his weariness, he was glad of the exertions, for they kept his mind from that night’s farewell.
The goodbye came soon enough.
Manzikert was dark and quiet when Leo, wearing his sword but no armour, collected the despatch pouch from Basil’s clerks. Tucking the package into the folds of his tunic, he walked down to where Martina and Yūryak were saddling their horses by torchlight.
She looked up and smiled. “It’s a good night for it,” she said, continuing her preparations. “Not too bright but enough light to get by.”
“It is a little cooler as well,” Leo replied. He did not mention it, but had noticed that there was just enough breeze to carry away sound, an advantage if trying to remain discreet when out at night. It was a double-edged advantage though, for it could mask pursuers as well.
“Yes.” She ran the surcingle through and felt that her saddlebag, water skin and cloak were securely strapped to the saddle.
Leo passed her the despatches. Without a word she belted them around her waist underneath a felt jerkin.
Yūryak talked softly with Ruben as he finished saddling. The latter held a blazing oil torch, its light flickering over Little Zarrar’s saddled back.
Martina turned to Leo who stepped closer so he could better see her face. Hesitating a moment, he passed a package wrapped in a silk scarf. “I’d like you to have this for your journey.”
“Will I open it now?”
“It’s for your journey, so, yes,” he said.
In the torchlight Martina undid the bow and held up the silver spoon she had seen Leo use at Sashesh and had admired several times since. “But this is yours!”
“I have another. It’s a handy spoon for a journey.” Leo spoke quietly, self-consciously, a voice somewhere inside him warning—say nothing, say nothing.
“Thank you. It’s lovely. I will take care of it.”
“Make sure you look after yourself, and keep a spurt in your horse.” In his mind all the while—say nothing, say nothing.
“You have our address in Constantinople?”
“Yes,” he said evenly, as the deliberate whisper continued inside his mind—say nothing, say nothing. “You had better make a start,” he said.
Side by side, Little Zarrar at her shoulder, reins slack, they followed the two Armenians to a tower in the main wall. Cataphracts of Leo’s Sixth Schola saluted and allowed them through the sally-port, which was locked behind them. Passing through vegetable plots, they made their way to a nearby fore-wall tower where more of Leo’s troopers waited. There was a softly spoken exchange of passwords: the challenge and whispered countersign. No torches were exposed, though an oil lamp gleamed dully through the crack of a partly open door into the tower. The decarch of the guard unlocked the iron sally-port door and swung it silently inward on its greased hinges.
Leo nodded. Yūryak bent and passed through into the starlight, his horse ducking its head and following. The cloak strapped over the pommel scraped against the low stone arch. Ruben stood off to one side with the soldiers.
Leo followed and waited outside the wall as Yūryak mounted and turned his horse onto the narrow, steep path down the scarp into the ditch. Leo heard them clamber out the other side. A low hiss signified that all was clear.
Say nothing, say nothing—repeated silently over and over in Leo’s mind as he quietly called Martina.
Leading Little Zarrar, she appeared in the night-gloom outside the wall and mounted neatly, leaning down from the saddle toward him. “Farewell, Leo,” she whispered.
Leo clasped her proffered hand and was surprised at her strength. In his mind all the while, the commanding thought—say nothing, say nothing. “Keep well, Martina,” he whispered.
They shook hands, the gesture more eloquent in it
s reserve than any embrace might have been. With a last look back, she motioned her horse down the scarp.
Peering intently into the gloom, Leo could just see her climb Little Zarrar from the ditch and glide like a fairy tale into the dark. There was the touch of a horseshoe on a stone, then nothing but the night and the whisper of the breeze. Like a statue, Leo stood and listened for a long time, ears straining until the night was deafening. How much he had wanted to say. He waited for a time, but no distant sound signalled anything but a stealthy getaway by the pair. He sighed long.
Slowly, Leo returned through the sally-port and paused while the guard locked it. He led Ruben to the minor gate in the main wall through which they had passed earlier. A low whistle, challenge and countersign and they re-entered the fortress. Ruben asked if he was needed further. Leo shook his head and thanked him.
Then, alone in the dark he deliberately picked his way across the empty, littered space towards his quarters. He was aware of a deep sense of relief that Martina was leaving before the fortress was engulfed in its destiny, but something else … His steps slowed and stopped. He sighed deeply and sank to the stones in an unguarded moment of deep missing, the dim night moon washing blue over him. Suddenly, he felt like crying. He remained motionless, head bowed on his sword hilt, eyes open, staring yet unseeing, not knowing how long passed, until the warrior inside stirred, to rise and go on because there was nothing else to do.
Manzikert,
Midday, 6th August 1054
Three weeks after that stormy meeting of Basil Apocapes’ council, Kamyates chanced upon Cydones on the north wall. Few moved in the midday heat, the nearby battlements being deserted but for a bored Rus sentry watching over the valley’s village, hamlets and gardens. The two lingered over trivialities, taking in the scenery for some minutes.
Kamyates sighed, lost in his melancholy thoughts. He missed the luxury and stimulation of big cities, Constantinople or the Muslim capitals, and wondered how much longer he could endure this drab garrison town. Expecting Tughrul Bey’s invasion in early summer, he had hurried along the barren journey from Isfahan in late May. All should have been concluded by now. Dejection turned to anger when he recalled Zakarian telling him that Apocapes had despatched two more couriers without telling him. There was nothing to be gained by raising it with Apocapes, other than a face-saving show of knowledge. The evidence was in itself useful; Apocapes had, either wittingly or not, demonstrated that he did not trust him. Since the last formal council meeting, the strategos had completed another inspection of the theme’s forward defences. To Kamyates’ satisfaction, Apocapes had been unable, due to lack of military and financial resources, to do more than exhort his commanders to more strenuous efforts and vigilance.
“That’s unusual!” Bardas Cydones exclaimed.
Kamyates disinterestedly followed his gaze to the point where the track to Archēsh wound out of sight over a low crest a mile east of the fortress.
“A rider!”
“I see that,” Kamyates sniffed. Their relationship had become tense. Cydones’ henchmen had failed in their attempt to kill Bryennius as he returned from Archēsh and Petros Doukitzes, who led the attack, had not been heard from since he obviously feared being murdered for his failure. Kamyates had similarly been foiled when he tried to elicit information from Martina about the prisoner taken and released after the skirmish at the wadi. He wondered whether she had told anyone. Cydones had, in that infuriating manner of subordinates volunteering to make up the shortfalls of a superior, offered to seize her and make her talk. Kamyates had assented, but she was never alone and vulnerable, as though someone had seen to it. Neither of them had seen her for days before it dawned that she had left Manzikert and had too much of a head start to bother pursuing.
Cydones glanced in irritation at his companion. “See, he’s flogging his horse and it can scarcely trot. He’s ridden far and fast.”
Kamyates’ heart leapt. Cydones was right. Someone had ridden in great haste from the direction the Sultan’s army would come. “Who guards the north gate,” he asked, motioning to the gate towers near them.
“Rus and Varangians.” Cydones was observant and having once served in the army, had an eye for military affairs that were a mystery to Kamyates. Suddenly they heard a warning shout from a sentry.
“Let’s get down there.” Kamyates moved with an urgency that had Cydones trot down the steps after him. The two silken-gowned officials arrived at the gate as the rider stumbled from his horse.
“What’s going on?” Kamyates demanded in patrician tones of the lone Varangian who had come from the guard room.
“A messenger,” the soldier said, wiping flecks of chicken and breadcrumbs from his red beard and wiping greasy fingers on his striped trousers. “Sire.”
“Messenger from where?”
“I don’t know.”
Kamyates glanced at the wiry, sparsely bearded youth who had ridden in with his boots, riding pants and loose tunic all sweat-soaked. Having sacrificed weight for a speedy ride, he was protected by a felt jerkin and carried only a sword. Incoherent with fatigue and excitement, he was uncertain as to whom he should convey his despatches. His lathered horse sank to its knees with a groan and lay down.
Perfect, thought Kamyates and seized his chance. “We’ve been expecting you,” he said with a show of authority. “Come! We’ll take you to the citadel.”
The Varangian stepped forward uncertainly. His orders were to escort all messengers immediately to the strategos or princeps.
“Do not interrupt your lunch, my friend. We have the authority to take him to Basil Apocapes—the strategos—but do have your men take care of that poor horse.” Turning away, Kamyates motioned the youth and Cydones to follow. He quickly reconsidered, realising the presence of an unexplained horse might raise unwanted questions. “On second thoughts, you’ve enough to do with your duties—we’ll return and take care of the horse. Look after it in the meantime.”
The Varangian hesitated and gave in.
As they walked along the thoroughfare, Kamyates flicked a meaningful glance at Cydones. He wanted the imperial courier to gain the youth’s confidence and lead him to a quiet place—the narrow lane they had identified as the site where troublesome people could be accosted or killed with little chance of being seen.
“Trouble?” Cydones asked.
The youth nodded, overawed by their rich garments and brusque official manner. “Berkri has been stormed and the populous massacred,” he sputtered. “The turmarch at Archēsh sent me to warn …”
It had begun. “It’s well he chose such a plucky fellow,” Kamyates said to the despatch rider. “But you look done in. To be truthful, you look a sight. Get a grip of yourself. Apocapes hates garbling messengers. He chews them up, I’ve seen it. There’s a little inn down this lane. You might like to have some food and drink and order your thoughts. It’ll only take a minute, a few steps, just to get your breath. One gets few chances in life to make an impression with a strategos. It’ll be worth it. Then we’ll take you straight to him. And take off that hot, sweaty jerkin, it stinks. You’ll not be allowed to wear it in the presence of the strategos anyway.”
The youth, relieved at such kind assurances, removed his soft armour and followed Kamyates into the lane where Cydones struck him many times from behind with a slender dagger. Together, hearts racing, they pushed the limp corpse into a cellar. They checked their clothes for blood stains and the imperial courier dashed a pail of water over the spots on the cobbles.
“Good work.” Kamyates spoke partly in truth, mostly as a gesture of comradeship and shared peril. “That’s one warning Apocapes won’t get. Get rid of the horse and the corpse as soon as you can.”
The Archēsh Track,
Morning, 16th August 1054
In the early morning light of a new day, Guy cheerfully rode alone from Manzikert along the Archēsh track, the
despatch belt under his drab linen surcoat. He whistled softly to himself, glad to be free of the unease in the fortress. Carrying his spear and shield, Guy wore helmet and byrnie, boots, sword and bow. On his saddle he carried a cloak, water and food enough for two days. He planned to travel steadily to save a burst of speed in the mare and intended a stop at the camp of Seranush Donjoian, which might furnish some intelligence of the road ahead and would provide a convenient respite, ensuring grain for his mare and a measure of security while they rested.
Basil Apocapes had summoned him in the first dark watch of this new day. Guy had entered the strategos’ chambers to find the princeps, Bryennius and Branas already there. Basil had looked grave in the lamplight. “You know why you’re here, D’Agiles. The counts have been pointing out to me that we’ve not heard from Archēsh for some time—the routine courier is overdue two days. Worse, the gate sentries report hearing rumours of Saracens in eastern Vaspurakan. We’ll send a mounted patrol out after sunup to establish contact with the screen and learn something of events at Archēsh. I will leave tomorrow or the day after to again reconnoitre as far as Berkri, but I want you gone well before first light. Take the despatches—being written now—to the commander at Archēsh, ascertain the situation there and report back to me or these men. Be quick and be careful, you may encounter Seljuk patrols. Any questions?”
“No questions.” Guy had made to leave when Curticius grabbed his arm, his face a vacant, pleading hollow. Guy had given the princep’s hand a squeeze—a promise.
“John, that’s enough!” Basil said. “D’Agiles, I told you—no heroics.”
Guy had left in the dark. At a smart walk until first light, later broken by short spells of trotting and cantering, horse and rider passed sights at once familiar yet changed. The harvest and much grass hay had been gathered and peasants no longer toiled at this work. Cattle, sheep and goats grazed under the care of bored shepherds. With the morning sun still low in his face, Guy turned off the road to be a less obvious traveller. He knew if he stayed south of the road, he would be between it and the Sea of Bznunik and therefore could not become lost. Although Mount Sippane was an excellent landmark, even by night, if there was any doubt, Guy would find Archēsh where the Manzikert track met the lake.
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