A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Guy sat and removed his helmet and belt. “You’re right, I’d want to know. And it doesn’t change anything.” He started to tug the mail byrnie over his head.

  “There’s another thing. Ankhialou’s with the Sultan.”

  Guy finished pulling off the byrnie and slumped. “I’m in the way of both of them, aren’t I?”

  “Yes. And Irene would be aware of it too.”

  “Does she know?”

  “No. Perhaps. I do not know. You should tell her,” said Bryennius.

  “Me! She hardly speaks to me.” A thousand irrational fears and schemes were coming to mind: going over the wall one night with Togol to guide them through the enemy camp, a fight to the death with Ankhialou, or a confrontation with the Sultan.

  Bryennius looked at Guy as though he could read his thoughts. “Nothing has changed, Guy. By defending the city, you defend Irene, and all the people. Just keep your head down doing it.” Bryennius looked closely at Guy. “Just do as you’ve been doing.” Then the count of the Scholae left.

  Guy lay down with a great sigh. “What to do?” Images of Irene during their flight from Archēsh came to mind, but no plan suggested itself to him before he fell into a restless, dream-laced sleep.

  Manzikert,

  Morning, 30th August 1054

  Centarch Bessas Phocas had noticed Bryennius’ relief when cataphracts found Derar al-Adin’s second message arrow. Bessas had shot the answering arrow into the stump at first cock-crow that morning, instructing Derar to report whether there was only one Seljuk tunnel and verify when it was timed for completion. He then ensured the cataphracts intercepting the message arrows were not disturbed by the changes on the wall as Guy d’Agiles’ men were being relieved.

  Bessas then joined Bryennius at the strategos’ council in the citadel. By his reckoning it was the eleventh day of the siege. Basil Apocapes no longer tolerated any self-important posturing in council. After hearing brief reports, he dismissed all but Branas, Doukas, Selth, Bryennius, the clerk Isaac and Bessas. They poured over a chart of the fortress and its environs.

  The engineer, Selth marked where the Seljuk tunnel would be. “We’ve done some preparatory work but didn’t know exactly where to dig, until this morning. The little church, here, close to where the Seljuks mean to breach, has a garden wall around, providing a good base to start counter-mining. We can get the tunnelling well advanced before it becomes too widely known.”

  The last statement, they all knew, was a reference to the possibility of a Seljuk spy in the city.

  With a booted foot on a chair, Basil said, “Karas, pick your men and do it quietly. Start counter-mining immediately. The priest there is a good man. He once was an engineer himself, but left the army to seek a quieter life.”

  There was subdued laughter at the unintended humour.

  The meeting broke up in the late morning. Bessas and Bryennius walked, unconsciously in step, towards their quarters. They had been up all night and intended to rest through the day while large-scale activity in the Seljuk encampment would be visible. They did not talk much. It was hot, more so under the weight of armour and weapons they now wore routinely. From the foot of the citadel, Bessas could see hills in the distance, the sweep of the river through the dust haze and campfire smoke. “It is a wonder there is anything left to burn,” he reflected.

  “Dung, mostly, by now,” Bryennius said. “And they have plenty of that.”

  Bessas remembered how green the valley had been when he first saw it, rich with trees, gardens, grazing stock and the picturesque town outside the walls with hamlets up and down the valley.

  He thought of Serena Cephala and the inner ease he felt when with her. Before the siege, Bessas had been invited to visit her parents’ villa in the upper part of the city. He had stayed late that night, and felt a remarkable sense of wellbeing in her household. There had been something about the easy conversation and the ambience of the house: aromatic food, the rich carpets and exotic objects collected in the family’s travels. Bessas had spent long hours that night, unchaperoned even after the house went dark, talking in the moonlight flooding Serena’s upper floor chamber. The clean, refreshing breeze had played with the silk curtains as they held hands and planned their future.

  Bessas now looked sideways at Leo. The older man, his head bowed in thought, was carrying his helmet by its throat lash. Most of the regiment were now usually clean-shaven and close-cropped in imitation of him. The count now wore several days’ stubble and grey bags underscored his sleepless eyes. Bessas was glad the man was here, for he thought the count the thinker of the fortress.

  It was Bryennius who had the idea of ambushing the Sultan as he followed the bridle path around the walls on the second day of the siege. Bessas had been on the walls with Bryennius and Doukas, waiting for the group of Seljuk nobles to pass by the rocky outcrop. After the first flight of arrows and bolts were released with obvious effect, Doukas punched a merlon in excitement so hard that he grazed his knuckle and did not notice the blood. Bardas Cydones had been there with a face like thunder. The crack of ballistae and twang of bowstrings had scarcely fallen silent before the imperial courier had hurried away.

  Within an hour of the attempt to despatch Tughrul Bey, Isaac had told Bessas that Modestos Kamyates had berated Apocapes about the perfidy of Bryennius, accusing him of reckless disregard for diplomatic propriety in attempting to take the life of a foreign sovereign whose name was cited in the khutba66 at Constantinople. Kamyates had also alleged Bryennius was a Saracen spy because of the Arab name of his warhorse and a host of other transgressions, real and imagined, against the Byzantine church and bureaucracy. As Isaac had reported the tone of their conversation, Apocapes could not afford to upset Kamyates’ powerful friends if he wished to reach high office. “Very well, Modestos,” Basil Apocapes had replied wearily, “I’ll speak to the Count.” Whether he ever did or not, only the strategos and Bryennius knew.

  There was something odd about Cydones, Bessas thought: always too friendly, too eager to engage in conversation and find out what was occurring. With his flat denial that he had been in Archēsh, despite the fact that Bardanes Gurgen had confirmed it, Cydones had simply deepened suspicion of the dispossessed Armenian falconer’s loyalty. Despite his charm, Cydones’ outrage over the attempt to kill the Sultan and end his campaign had seemed indicative of his true sympathies.

  Bessas was intensely suspicious of the courtier, Kamyates, from the first time they had met. It was common knowledge that Kamyates had been an emissary to the Abbasid and Seljuk capitals and had remained in Vaspurakan, awaiting he said, instructions from the court. Yet, when Cydones had arrived, the imperial courier bore no written orders for Kamyates, not that anyone had seen anyway. Kamyates simply dismissed the discrepancy by saying, “When it’s between conspiracy and confusion, I’ll wager on confusion every time.” Who knew what was said between them? And what of the strange meeting in the stables that Serena and he had witnessed?

  His thoughts returned to Serena, her powers of observation, blue eyes, tumbled hair and the rise and fall of her breast as she breathed. He looked around and wondered what would become of them. A sick, empty feeling came over him and he turned his mind once more to the work.

  Arknik! Bessas turned to Bryennius as they walked and said, “The note from Derar said Arknik was not destroyed and had a picket of ghulams on the orders of Dumrul himself? And Tigran Zakarian is still in the city. I saw him yesterday.”

  “What was he doing?” Bryennius glanced at Bessas as he spoke.

  “Talking to that merchant who came out from Karin with us.”

  “The fat one? Or the one with the wife that’s too good for him?”

  Bessas was surprised that Bryennius had noticed the woman. He looked quizzically at the count. “The latter, Taronites.”

  “He’s black marketeer. She’s working in the hospital. Tzetzes is doin
g well, by the way.”

  Bessas wondered what the count thought about Zakarian. He asked.

  Bryennius looked at him. “I don’t know. It’s interesting that his castle hasn’t been plundered. Could mean that he’s dealt with the Seljuks for protection. But by the same token, there have been plenty of occasions when we have, when raiding the Muslim lands, left untouched the estates of the very ones we wished them to be suspicious of.”

  “Bardanes Gurgen, our falconer, is also in the city,” Bryennius continued. “David has been keeping track of him. I’ve asked Derar whether we have a rotten apple inside the walls.”

  They walked past the Barbarian House. Although the scouts still lived in it, the place now served an additional purpose. The strategos, Branas, Doukas and Selth used it as the temporary headquarters for conducting the battle for the city. As he walked past, Bessas saw Bryennius glance at the familiar wall and untended garden with its well and trees. He thought the count might have been about to speak, but Bryennius said nothing.

  They reached their quarters and parted.

  * * *

  66Friday prayers in mosques.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Laced with Intimacy that Gesture

  Manzikert,

  Midday, 1st September 1054

  At noon of the second day after their relief from duty, Guy led his men onto the main wall. After a briefing from the Norman he relieved, he posted his men, instructed them on their duties and asked after their well-being and circumstances. After duties, including the maintenance of the engines and checking on the stocks of water, stones, missiles and other defence stores, he allowed them, except sentries, to rest behind the wall for a time. Guy visited the neighbouring towers, both manned by Franks: Normans and men from Flanders with whom he had felt more affinity. They acquainted him with their preparations of mangonels, ballistae and equipment for projecting Greek Fire. He was reassured by how they could support his section of wall by the discharge of bolts or fire across its front, even if the enemy managed to capture the fore-wall.

  Barely had Guy sat down when Balazun came along and told him the engineer, Count Karas Selth, had asked for Jacques.

  “Do you know what it’s about?” Guy asked. He had come to appreciate Balazun more during the siege. The man had risen to the work and was more human for it.

  “No. Some cunning scheme to do with ropes and pulleys and pickaxes I imagine,” Balazun grimaced good humouredly. “Doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  Jacques received his orders with a shrug and undertook to inform Guy what it was about when he found out himself. He slung his bundle and weapons over his shoulder and walked off.

  It was hot so Guy sought the shade of a tower and sat with his back to the stones. He wondered about Irene and made many excuses for why she had not met him while he had been off duty. He brooded on their relationship for a while—their rides together, her disappearance to join Ankhialou at Archēsh, that flight from the captured city and talking until first cock-crow afterwards. Irene had seemed friendly when she, in the company of other women bearing refreshments, had visited him on the wall. Perplexed by her manner, he recalled her squeezing his hand at the strategos’ speech in the square on the first day of the siege. How laced with intimacy that gesture had seemed.

  To relieve his thoughts, Guy rose and walked the rampart, impressed by its strength and the commanding view it offered of the sprawling Seljuk encampment.

  Balazun dawdled towards Guy. “I’ve only been here half a day and I’m bored scratchless already.”

  Guy laughed humourlessly and returned the hope that it stayed that way.

  Balazun sniggered through his big, hooked nose. Looking past Guy, his countenance took on a serious demeanour. “I wonder what those bastards want?”

  Guy turned and saw Reynaldus and Kamyates, absorbed in conversation, walking towards them.

  “Who told you to be here?” Reynaldus spat.

  “Doukas,” Balazun returned disdainfully. “Take it up with him.”

  Kamyates stood smirking as Reynaldus, rebuffed by Balazun, switched his attention to Guy. “Where’s the ugly peasant that’s always with you?”

  From that moment, Guy hated Reynaldus. After a long, insolent pause, he replied, “Looking down his crossbow at some evil one, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Reynaldus flamed and exchanged glances with Kamyates, who said, “Come on. We’ve important things to do.”

  “Well done, D’Agiles, you’ve made an enemy for life,” Balazun laughed.

  “As have you.”

  They stood slouched either side of a merlon for a while, looking towards the Seljuk camp, until Balazun heaved a sigh. “I must go and see if the rest of my bit of wall has changed since I last checked it.”

  Guy grinned as the big knight left.

  Shortly thereafter, Aram Gasparian approached and offered to relieve Guy, so that he could rest before the night. Guy slept soundly for a few hours until the cool of late afternoon woke him. He sat up in his corner of the rampart near the tower and remembered it was the first day of autumn. His glance dropped to his bundle and he was glad he had brought his cloak up to the wall with him this time. He stood and looked around. Nothing appeared to have changed and Guy felt as though he had woken in a dream where danger was remote rather than immediate.

  Daylight was fading. Down on the fore-wall he could make out Joaninna and a group of women with baskets of food and urns of water. It made him hungry and he thought about raiding the stock of dried meat and fruit in his bundle, but decided to wait for the meal being delivered. One could never tell when some personal reserve of food would be needed and he determined not to waste it.

  The Seljuk camp was stirring to life, animals being fed and people lighting fires to squat in the dust and cook their evening meal. Guy wondered if their mounting casualties, increasingly hungry men and animals and imminent change of seasons would force the nomads to raise the siege.

  He could not guess whether the defenders could hold for that long. The Christians too had suffered heavy losses in the fighting. Guy had heard figures of three hundred killed and many more maimed. No longer did Apocapes try to hold the scarp breastwork; there were not enough men and it was risky duty. Instead, the scarp merlons were used, very effectively, to shelter sorties of archers who would harass the Seljuk siege engineers and pick off those attempting to fill the ditch. The bishop’s judicious administration of the food supply ensured the rations, despite scarcity of some items, were still adequate if not abundant. Most of all, there was the question of the city’s fighting spirit in the face of such a formidable foe. The unknown but obviously ghastly depredations inflicted on the surrounding communities also weighed heavily on people.

  Within the fortress, the squires were exercising the warhorses by walking them in strings of four around the track inside the main wall. The training kept the mounts fit without working too much condition off them. If the siege persisted, there would not be enough fodder to feed them all and many would be slaughtered. It was a melancholy thought for Guy who respected the innocence of animals. He thought of Sira and was glad that Taticus Phocas was looking after the mare for him.

  Seeing the horses exercised, Guy turned his thoughts to his men. He determined to continue something he had heard Bryennius and Bessas discuss, the training of the ancients: training, training, training, so their drills were bloodless battles and their battles bloody drills. Accordingly he collected his men on the ramparts and they thrust and parried with spear, sword and shield, singly and as teams.

  Just before dark, a group of nuns arrived with some women from the city. Led by the Abbess, they passed out food and drink and tended the dressings of those who had been lightly wounded. Few of the women doing this work were veiled: it was difficult enough in the heat to carry the heavy baskets and urns to the walls and up and down stairs and ladders. Guy was surprised
to see Maria Taronites.

  She approached tentatively.

  “You’re still here?” he greeted. “I thought your husband would have gotten you away at the first sign of danger.”

  “Would you have?” she asked playfully.

  “In his shoes, yes, I would. In fact, thinking on it, I would not have brought you east of Karin. Or myself for that matter.”

  “Well, we’re both here now,” she said more seriously. “I work in the hospital with the abbess. She’s a great inspiration—she and Joaninna Magistros both.”

  “They are,” Guy agreed.

  The married woman seemed friendlier now, as though the siege had broken down the usual social taboos. Guy wondered if his acquaintanceship with Irene had made Maria more relaxed with him. He was enjoying her standing close, with her brown eyes and quick smile, the cool air causing goose bumps on her soft neck above the collar of her thin dress. Guy was struck by how differently she looked clad in cheap linen instead of the rich riding habit she had shown off when he had first seen her at Karin. For a moment he wondered whether it was wiser for a woman to be richly clad or poor, beautiful or plain, married or unwed, during the sacking of a city. With a blink, he stopped the line of thought.

  Maria’s maid, Vartanoush Norhadian, approached Guy and offered cold roast lamb and bread from a basket. “There is a soldier over there whose bandage needs attending.”

  Seemingly embarrassed, Maria smiled and excused herself to go to the man.

  From their first meeting on the track, Guy had thought this middle-aged, stout woman with the greying hair disliked him. Thus he was a little surprised when she praised him for rescuing Irene Curticius from Archēsh and his work on the walls since.

  He protested modestly that Irene and he had fled together and everyone on the walls had tried their hardest. “All I did was run like hell and …”