Before Guy struck a serious blow the fight was over; the last four Turks tripping in panic back up the stairs. Balazun, wild eyed, glanced around and shouted, “Geoffrey, Charles, downstairs! Guy, with me!” All around men gasped for air, like so many horses at the end of a race.
Guy was aware of his friend plunging downstairs, knights and footmen after him, tripping and slipping in the stained, dark space. Guy turned and followed Balazun into the fray. He would never forget the image of Balazun’s coif beneath the iron helmet; the expanse of his mail back, linked iron-ring skirts of the hauberk swinging wildly over cross-gartered trousers, as step by step Balazun lifted the Seljuks upstairs on his shield in a struggling, stabbing mass. There was a deafening roaring and shouting, clanging of sparking steel on steel in the confined space. A Seljuk, cloven through the skull, threw his arms out awkwardly and gurgled horribly as he collapsed. A black arm reached out and grabbed at Balazun’s battleaxe arm. Guy, loosening his grasp on the leather handgrip inside his shield, seized the Seljuk’s wrist and jerked the ghazi forward off balance, so the Seljuk cavalryman sprawled down the stairs. Guy slashed at his exposed forearm and cried out to one behind him, “Seize him, seize him!”
Balazun, Guy, Jacques and others boiled up the stairs, forcing open the trapdoor against the men above trying to close it on them. Squinting into the sunlight, they fought, their demonic inner selves drawing on some wellspring of strength and power until the observation platform was theirs.
Charles appeared from below, stating that all floors had been cleared. Thus ended the fight for the southern tower. Balazun, heaving under his mail coif as he gulped in air, his face, arms and armour basted with blood, signalled Doukas on the main wall that the tower was secure. Jacques, tore off his helmet, peeled back the sweat-soaked leather coif from his neck and looked over the side of the wall. “Open the gates!” he shouted. “Let the Greeks in. Clear this tower. Strip the infidels of their weapons.”
As the mayhem in the northern tower also died away with the violent deaths or capture of the ghazis, Bryennius’ horsemen entered through the gates and gallopers were despatched to recall the Armenian screen.
Doukas ran up and supervised the reorganisation. The dead were cleared from the tower and walls, with trotting cataphracts dragging the slain ghazis away from the fortress. The Christian dead were carried inside the city for later burial, the priests uttering prayers over their shrouded figures, while women and friends wept over a few. As the concentrated carnage of the towers was cleared, someone called for water to wash away the bloodstains. Half a dozen traumatised and rightly fearful prisoners were bound and blindfolded, then marched off to the citadel for questioning. Guy could read the shock in their blank faces and tried to imagine their thoughts, for they were powerless, not knowing whether they would live for minutes more. Balazun sent him to report to Apocapes.
With the sun now well up, Guy found the strategos on the main wall with his military secretary, Count Branas; the two looking at each other with mixed relief and concern, as the clamour beneath them fell into order, signalling that Manzikert had survived its first test in the coming battle. “That was too close, Daniel,” Basil whispered as he donned his armour.
“I fear God is not with us,” Branas replied. “All were at their posts. Doukas and I were walking the walls, neither of us at the threatened place at the right time.”
Manzikert,
Morning, 21st August 1054
Shaken by the ease with which the Seljuks had surprised and almost penetrated the defences, the strategos ordered more townspeople, stiffened by Normans and Varangians, to the fore-wall. What people had dreaded for so long had come to pass and ordinary citizens moved forward with their own fears to repel an assault now only hours away.
Balazun placed Guy in command of sixty men to defend a section of the fore-wall half a furlong north of the western gate towers. Normans manned the tower on Guy’s left, one section of wall removed from the western gate. Varangians held the tower on his northern flank to his right. Many of the men under his command were townsmen, young and old, Armenians mostly, with two Kurds and a handful of Arabs, their culture lingering in the south-western parts of Vaspurakan and Taron. Some wore the characteristic Byzantine-Armenian armour of irregular troops, predominately lamellar cuirasses with plain pot helmets and round shields. Others wore the standard raw silk coats padded with cotton wadding, their heads protected by long strips of linen or cotton, wound turban-like around felt caps. They were armed with swords and spears and the occasional mace, but a few also carried more familiar instruments, such as sickles and axes. Guy’s little command included ballistae-men in their galleries beneath the banquette, with Frankish and local archers. Stones, arrows, and darts were stacked against the parapet, along with the water skins or jugs and small personal bundles brought by the men. Braziers glowed under blackened pots of scalding water or oil, ready for pouring over the wall.
Behind Guy, the main wall was crowded with bowmen, slingers and ballistae-men, ready to shoot over the heads of their comrades on the fore-wall. Looking to the plain, Guy could see to his half-left, the road from the western gate and the yellow-grassed fields beyond. To his front and extending to his right was the southern edge of the nestling village of timber dwellings.
Along the wall faces were turned towards him and Guy suddenly felt very young and inexperienced. The men were silently judging him, waiting for orders. Amongst them, Guy noticed a wan-looking Leon Magistros.
“Get a grip of them, now,” Jacques urged quietly while seeming to point to something in the distance. “You fought already this day and they will follow you. Tell them what to do.”
Guy stepped forward and removed his blood-spattered helmet. “Soldiers,” he called clearly in his rudimentary Armenian, trying to portray confidence without arrogance.
“Good start,” Jacques whispered. “Keep going.”
“I am Guy d’Agiles. Can you hear me? Do you understand what I am saying? We are here to defend this wall, between these two towers.”
Charles, by Guy’s side, interpreted the gist of his words for the Franks amongst them. Understanding, the men nodded.
“We have been brought together by circumstance and God’s will. There will be no withdrawal from this place except by my command, for the lives of all in the city depend on us holding it. Stay with me at all times. I will get to know your names by and by, but for now, let me see you and your weapons.”
“Inspect arms!” called Jacques. The men stood with their backs to the battlements and held forth their weapons.
Guy went down the line in imitation of Bryennius, inspecting their arms, exchanging a word with each, seeking to know their expertise, asking after their story or loved ones. Thus Guy learned he led few professional soldiers; five Frankish knights and a dozen Frankish archers and spearmen. A number of the Armenians had previous military experience in the Roman or Armenian armies and others had trades such as cobbler or blacksmith. There were several minor merchants, shop-keepers and local peasants. Guy was surprised to learn he also commanded a Kurd who had travelled with the caravans far into the Saracen lands and a couple of Arabs. With some pride he noticed they addressed him as “centarchos” or “centarch”.
Guy appointed as his deputy, Aram Gasparian, once a free landholder and officer of Armenian cavalry before the regiments were disbanded and his lands stolen by Romans with connections at court. Gasparian’s fluency in Greek and Armenian together with his grasp of their plight and physical presence made him an obvious choice.
Gasparian, Jacques, Charles and Guy gathered in a knot.
“Aram,” Jacques began, “you know these men. May I suggest,” he turned to Guy, “that Aram trains the men to fight and supervises their guards, rest and other work. Aram can teach them what to do. You must know what to do and lead them in action.” The brown-bearded Armenian agreed.
“You,” Jacques went on, a
ddressing Guy, “must know Apocapes’ plans and how the battle is to be fought. The men must know how and why they fight, and trust that if the fore-wall is breached and there is no way to recapture it,” he paused meaningfully, “they will not be abandoned—that they have a good chance of getting back inside the city to fight again. Hope! They do not ask certainty of you, but they must have hope.”
“All right,” said Guy. “We’re agreed on how to do this. The other matter is that we have a handful of infidels amongst us. Keep an eye on them until we are certain of their loyalty.”
As they talked, it occurred to Guy where Jacques might have been for all those silent years. The peasant knew too much of war for him to have been sequestered in a monastery. Guy waited until they were alone, as they sat on the warm flagstones, their backs to the parapet. “Jacques?”
The groom gave a vague grunt of acknowledgment, as though his thoughts were far away.
“Where did you go when you left my parents’ estate?” Guy asked. “The first time—years ago?”
Jacques hesitated for a time, as though remembering, or trying not to. “Does it matter?”
“Perhaps not, though now we are here, I’d like to know. There is no reason beyond that. I would not compel a comrade to talk, but you seem to know about this work and I must know how skilful you are. I heard that … you fought against infidel people called the Moors.”
Jacques looked sideways at Guy. “I was in Castile, with Ferdinand the First—the one they call The Great. I learned some hard lessons there, fighting Christian and Moor alike.”
They were silent for a time after that, though Guy was now even more curious about the other man’s experiences, but refrained from further questions and turned his attention to washing the dried blood from his helmet, face and hands.
In the late morning, the observers on the ramparts could discern many groups of horsemen approaching from the northeast, the dust behind them betraying the presence of a large army. Word was passed along the walls for every second leader of the troops to attend the main square of the city to hear the strategos speak. Balazun sent Guy as he was the most likely of the Franks to understand what was being said. Hoping to see Irene, Guy strode to the square and shouldered his way amongst the citizens and soldiery. The Sixth Schola were drawn up afoot in precise ranks as local Armenian troops, Varangians and Franks mingled with the citizens.
There was great tension in the air as the thoughts of all were drawn to their fate. For many, the unexplained creation of a disorderly new star, coupled with the coming of the Seljuks, seemed like the Creator’s punishment for some unknown sin. A few looked at their neighbours in fear and condemnation. Others, consciences pricked by some small but shameful transgression, concealed their thoughts. Even the wasted illumination of the moon in daylight seemed against them. Thus they waited, many praying silently, to hear the strategos speak to them, looking in their fear towards a strong leader.
In this the people of Manzikert were well served. Basil Apocapes, wearing the armour of a common theme cavalryman, mounted the steps leading to the main cathedral in Manzikert. The crowd occupied every vantage point around him.
Guy looked for Irene but could not see her in the host of long garbed, mostly veiled women. He had not seen her since they parted after the ride, both being busy in different ways with the last minute preparations for the coming battle. Then, with a hint of perfume, she was standing next to him, lifting her veil and smiling. Guy saw her look quickly at his rumpled, grimy attire under the mail with its brown stain on the shoulder. Her smile faded when she saw the fatigue and strain evident in his countenance.
Her mother, Anna, an attractive Armenian woman in her late forties—patrician, reserved, her eyes looking like the touched up aftermath of tears above an aquiline nose—smiled at Guy. He read it as reserved approval, the sort that parents show a favoured, if not entirely longed-for suitor. “How now, Guy d’Agiles?” Anna Curticius greeted warmly enough. “You’ve been hotly engaged already. Praise God you’re all right. Let us pray you do not need to ride from this place with my daughter.”
“Let us pray, indeed,” Guy agreed. It had not occurred to him what might be done if the fortress fell. He had no wealth to buy their freedom, nor could he imagine in the chaos of the city being carried and sacked, being able to find Irene and get her away though swarms of Seljuks. Those considerations were all secondary to the mere matter of surviving the fury of any assault that breached the walls.
Irene moved closer to him, quickly took his hand, gave it a squeeze none could see and stepped apart a little. She was scrubbed and perfumed, her clothes smelling of the dried wildflowers placed in the cupboard. In her green eyes, he read pleasure and trust. “You’re well?” she asked.
“Quite. And you?” He was embarrassingly aware of the people around whispering and staring. They were not ill-intentioned but news of the couple’s escape had become widespread in the city, so when together they attracted attention. “Our horses are well also, I believe.”
“Yes. I was worried about them.” Irene was careful to keep her apparent orientation away from him. “Charles and Jacques have been diligent in their care.”
Doing the same thing, he tried to speak on what lay between them. “I wanted to come and talk to you, but the first attack was this morning …”
“I heard they captured a tower, but were driven out by the Kelts, you amongst them.”“I’m now posted to the fore-wall …” He paused as he heard Irene catch her breath, “…very near that place, so we’ve had no chance to talk before …” Unsure how to finish, he fell silent.
“I know … the battle. It might be prudent if we delay any talk beyond … pleasantries … until after it is done. Until we know what will become of us.”
“Perhaps. But know if I can be of service to you, you have only to ask.”
Irene glanced down at the flagstones, her long lashes blinking once, twice, thrice. “I know,” she murmured. Then she looked directly at him, a determined expression in her green eyes. “I will pray for you. Have no fear.”
As they spoke the high sun glared down on the stillness, the air haze-blue with smoke. Guy could see Reynaldus, Kamyates and Cydones lurking in the group that flanked Basil. A less contrived but more forceful presence by the commander’s side were Branas, Selth, Oleg and Doukas, all in subdued discussion over a chart. They put it away when a hush descended on the crowd as Basil stepped forward.
Irene moved imperceptibly closer so her robes brushed against Guy. “The strategos is about to speak.” He could see her biting her lower lip softly in concentration.
“Soldiers, men, women and children of Manzikert,” Basil began in his great, clear voice. Speaking Armenian, he paused between the phrases so interpreters standing on crates and shouting to the different contingents could relay his words in their various languages. “I know not whether it is necessary to impel you to be of good courage, for enthusiasm is upheld by circumstance, I think.”
There was a nervous titter from the crowd, but it was an improvement on the deep gloom that had prevailed minutes before.
“We know why the Seljukian come—women, slaves, death and theft. No one in the whole world gives way to those who are seeking by violence to rob them of life, or virtue, or possessions. And you are not ignorant that nothing but valour and strength stops the Seljuks when they bring war to their neighbours. The struggle with them is not a hard one, my friends. We’ve grappled with them before and prevailed over them in open fight and a familiar task entails no difficulty whatever. Consequently, we shall be obliged to despise the enemy as having been defeated in previous combats and having no such grounds for courage as ourselves. All perceive the necessity in which we are involved. All know their duty. Remember that, where safety is despaired of, the safest thing to do is to not court it, for an over-fondness of life may bring on destruction.”
Basil paused and swallowed to e
ase his throat, already hoarse from the shouting of the fight that morning. The crowd was as still as death.
“Let us be resolute against the enemy, calling to our aid assistance from above, for God is wont to save above others, those who find hope of safety in themselves. Take heart, my comrades and brothers, take heart and fear not, for this is a simple matter for God. As they come upon us with their carts and horses, oxen and elephants, let us recall the name of our Lord, be proud of God eternally, and confess His name that He gives strength and steadiness to His people is blessed for all time. Hearts up. Hearts up!”
The strategos knelt in prayer, “Lord, I fear no evil, for thou art with me. I fear not the myriads of their soldiers which surround me.”
At that, the crowd, citizens and soldiers all, knelt and prayed as the tonsured priests moved among them, carrying crosses and dispensing blessings. Guy knelt in the silence of the smoke hazed air, broken only by the chanting of the religious men. The strategos then walked among the crowd. As often happened, orphans for whom he was a benevolent father figure followed him in adoration. Widows reached out to touch his clothes, so did he also care for them. The ordinary people of Manzikert, their ranks swelled threefold by the refugees from the surrounding district, knew their greatest test yet was upon them. None hoped for a more able or inspirational leader. As the solemn prayers died away the applause started, beginning within the ranks of the Scholae who stamped their spear hafts on the flagstones and roared as one voice, “Manzikert! Manzikert! Manzikert!”
The strategos waved to them with a smile as the rest of the crowd took up the great shout, clashing weapons on shields and stamping their feet. Echoing through the square and the alleys, streets and public buildings, the low-pitched roar sounded across the walls so the sentries there looked inward in wonder. Across the plain the great shout rolled, “Manzikert. Manzikert. Manzikert.”
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 39
