A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  “Have you seen her, the lady Curticius, these past few days? asked Vartanoush.

  “No,” Guy replied reluctantly and perhaps a trifle harshly, wondering if the maid had been speaking to Joaninna or Irene herself. “Is the lady well?” he asked uncertainly.

  “In body, yes. In spirit, perhaps not so.”

  “Why not?” He felt a wave of concern wash over him.

  “Some damned fool told her they had seen her friend from Archēsh with the Saracen army. That sort of thing upsets a woman who thinks that love is …” Vartanoush’s voice trailed off.

  Ankhialou again! Guy’s spirits sank, his face with them.

  “Be patient. She knows you are posted to the walls,” Vartanoush said to his eyes. “Stay alive and stay true.” The servant glanced towards her mistress, and looking back suddenly, saw Guy’s gaze had followed the direction of her own. “Too flighty! At least we know what Irene Curticius is made of.” Touching his arm briefly, she left with a sweep of her long black dress to continue her work.

  “Do we?” Guy said under his breath, looking after the two women as they made their way along the battlements.

  Dusk came and it grew cooler. Cloaked figures paced the rampart, speaking in low voices. There was no moon. Forward of their merlons they could see dim lamps here and there marking the fore-wall. Parts of the Seljuk camp were shrouded in darkness as the disciplined ghulams conserved fuel and sought rest, but campfires twinkled as the tribesmen gathered to drink and tell stories.

  It was a long quiet night through which Guy was puzzled by lanterns in the small churchyard behind them. People came and went. In the early hours when the world was still, he could hear the faint sound of digging. He sent a runner to Bryennius with the information.

  Seljuk Camp at Manzikert,

  Morning, 2nd September 1054

  Derar al-Adin woke in fright and lay still, his right hand closing on his sword hilt. Fighting the stupor of sleep and the exhaustion from want of it, he disciplined his mind to take stock of his surroundings. Outside it was barely light. The tent of woven black goat hair was shaking as one of the stake lines fouled. Comprehension and relief came quickly when Qurmul thrust his richly maned head inside and roughly nuzzled Derar’s cheek, as though to say, “Good morning. You’re lying on my breakfast.” These days all the animals were hungry. Somehow Qurmul had broken free of his picket and had been nibbling the wisps of grass at the side of the tent. Now he wanted Derar to move off the rest.

  Farisa woke. Qurmul acknowledged her with a sociable sniff. The woman rose on her elbow and stroked the horse’s forehead. “What are you doing, silly?”

  Derar waved the horse away, in case he pawed as they do when hungry. “Be gone! We’ll find something for you directly.” He lay back down and pulled his cloak over his shoulder. The ground was hard. Even in the dim light, he was aware of the dust and how they were unwashed and grimy from riding and living in the dirt. Like nomads, he thought.

  Farisa sat up with her tousled hair. She had on a white cotton tunic, which hung open at the front as she searched for the little bottle of ink and quill beside her. Then she marked the parchment pinned to the tent. It was the fourteenth day of the siege.

  Derar was glad she did this. They had been here for half a month. For him, the days were all marked by sameness: riding, councils, hurried meals, dirt, furious attacks and the never-ending fear of discovery. He knew he had to be more careful in his consideration of time. If he did not, he was apt to make a mistake; where wrongful advice to the Romans could cost his nephew’s life. They rose and went outside to where Zaibullah boiled water over a little dung fire. The day was cool and they hovered over the embers. Farisa and Derar had coffee. The lean bulk of Zaibullah partook heartily of camel’s milk, unleavened bread and spicy meat patties he had saved from the night before. Eventually Zaibullah pressed some food on them.

  “Today,” Farisa said, “I need to take our horses and camels and try and find some grazing in the foothills.”

  Derar recognised both truth and danger in this. The animals needed grass, but Armenian irregulars lurked in the most inaccessible terrain, falling on small parties or the herd guards. Still, these Armenian elements were operating mostly between Manzikert and Archēsh, or well to the south near the great lake. “Very well,” he said. “You may find something in the hills to the west, downstream. Take Zaibullah with you and be vigilant. I know there’s grain in the camp of the ghulams. I’ll try and buy some today, though it’s expensive.”

  Emren Dirse approached and sat. He called often, enjoying the company and conversation. Zaibullah poured him a small silver cup of scalding coffee.

  Emren swallowed and screwed up his face, juggling the hot metal in his hands. “Devil’s work. How d’you drink this stuff?” Nevertheless he gulped more and proceeded to relate news of the northern column, swearing to the truthfulness of his source, the Persian scribe, Ames. “Koupagan Bey had led his host northward, bypassing Kars to its west, proceeding thence to the river called Chorokh. Pillaging as he went, he followed this river downstream north-eastward towards the sea. Believing himself too far from the army, he then turned about and raided back up the valley, taking slaves and booty to a collection point near where they had entered. Then …” Emren Dirse swallowed the last of his coffee with a grimace and made to continue his tale.

  Derar was listening with interest, but allowed himself to be distracted by Farisa suppressing a smile at the way Emren juggled the hot cup as he spoke.

  “More,” she asked.

  The emir held out his cup with a knowing grin. “Then they pillaged further up the Chorokh River to the town of Baberd,” he continued. “But near that place, unbelievers from a mighty fortress caught Koupagan Bey’s men in a trap. The unbelievers—axe-wielding Vrangs, they call them—killed whoever led that detachment of Koupagan Bey’s horde and many of his followers. The unbelievers then mounted their horses, pursued our men for some distance, rescuing all the prisoners and booty. Then they returned to Baberd.” Emren looked at them expectantly.

  “Thank you, Emren. It’s good to know how the wider campaign unfolds. Crafty fellow—that unbeliever from the fortress of Baberd,” Derar said.

  Thus encouraged, Emren Dirse continued, tracing a rude map in the dust at his feet as he did so. “Koupagan Bey’s main body then fell back to near Kars, but was attacked by Armenians led by the princes of their king. Many Seljuks tumbled to the dust. Koupagan Bey sent for help and a wing of the Sultan’s column was despatched to help. They caught the Armenians in a pincer. Our men killed thirty of their wealthy freemen and a great many of their followers. The Armenians retreated to Kars, but not before we had seized one of their freemen, a very great fighter, Tatoul Vanantzi, the one who struck down the son of Arsuban.”

  Derar became even more interested. It was new intelligence to him that the Armenians could still mount a formidable army on the old caravan route from Tabriz to Karin. The news of the battle was something he might pass on to the Romans to keep them happy.

  “T’was the very next day,” Emren recounted, “when the main Seljuk army came up and Tatoul was brought before Tughrul Bey, who said to him, ‘If Arsuban’s son lives, I shall free you. Otherwise, should he die, I will order you made a sacrifice for him.’ But this Tatoul is a bold fellow and replied, ‘If I struck him, then he will not live, but if somebody else struck him, I cannot answer for his health.’”

  “That,” Derar observed wryly, “is one way to bring trouble upon yourself.”

  Farisa understood the structure of the campaign but was bored by the details. She was however, intrigued by the story of this formidable Armenian warrior. “I should like to see this Tatoul.”

  They looked at her in surprise. “So you shall,” Emren said after a pause. “For the Sultan’s army returns here and shall fetch him in chains, as they bring on a litter, Arsuban’s wounded son.”

 
“When will they get here?” Derar asked.

  “They say tomorrow,” said Emren as he swallowed more coffee and then obliterated the dirt map with the handle of his whip.

  All this Derar relayed to the Romans that night. After shooting his message, he visited many campfires, so men would recognise him as having been in the camp. Over wine and roasted mutton and beef, the tribesmen boasted of their plundering rides, great deeds of fine horses, killing and rapine, of the rich booty and bound captives stumbling in long trains to the slave markets. They spoke of the dark-haired beauty who fled Archēsh and was now surely beyond the walls where some were certain she had shot at them with a bow. Others related of another in the city, a lovely maiden, golden-tressed with porcelain skin and ruby lips. They debated, after mention of the strange new star, whether the fair woman be mortal or an angel sent to protect the city. Thus they drank and talked, thinking aloud on the ways of the perfumed women of the cities and bragging of what they would find and do when they broke into this place they called Malazgird.

  Manzikert, Before dawn,

  2nd September 1054

  Jacques returned to Guy some time later, whispering that a countermine was being dug in the church. He then moved along the wall handing out bowls, telling the men to fill them with water, place them on the ground by the walls and watch for tell-tale movement of the liquid that would betray enemy digging. Count Doukas had similar precautions taken around the circuit walls of Manzikert. By doing this, he maintained the secrecy surrounding Bryennius’ precise intelligence about the location of the Seljuk tunnel, while guarding against surprise or deception.

  Guy had heard of mines being pushed forward under walls. Enemy miners would tunnel to a point where the breach was planned. Large caverns were hollowed-out under the walls and reinforced with beams. The holes were then filled with brushwood and other combustibles, and then set alight. As the supporting timbers burned, the wall collapsed into the hole and an immediate assault into the breach would take place over the hot stones before the defence could reorganise.

  Guy reasoned that if Count Selth was digging in the nearby church, this section of wall was not as safe as he had at first thought. After a struggle with his conscience, he decided not to tell the men yet, lest he alarm them and compromise Bryennius’ spy in the enemy camp. Jacques, he reasoned, would not allow them to be at risk without warning. Nonetheless, he walked softly along the wall and encouraged the men to be still and keep a close eye on the bowls.

  At first cock-crow, Count Bryennius arrived at Guy’s post and asked him to report, instantly by runner, any unusual activity in the Seljuk encampment. Bryennius was particularly concerned with the return of large numbers of tribesmen and the Sultan himself. He said Guy should be able to tell the former from their numbers and the latter’s party from their finery and destination.

  Mid-morning, Guy reported the arrival of many horsemen; Seljuk tribesmen, he thought. They came from the south, with others appearing to return eastward along the Arsanias Valley. He wondered how the inoffensive little village of Sashesh had fared, becoming depressed at the thought.

  In the late afternoon, peering into the blinding glow of the low afternoon sun as it filtered through the dust and smoke of the Seljuk encampment, Guy could faintly discern large numbers of additional riders entering the valley of the Arsanias from the north. He sent another runner with the news.

  By the time this man had found Bryennius and brought him with his scouts, it was almost dark and little could be seen. Guy joined them.

  Simon Vardaheri observed quietly, “That’s more fires than they’ve had for about ten days. They’re back in large numbers and will be celebrating with lots of wine, food and storytelling. They’ll have brought back all the food, drink, fodder, firewood and women they could carry. I would say tomorrow, or the day after, will be good for what you have in mind.”

  The church bells started ringing at sunset and this night did not fall silent. Priests trod the ramparts, chanting and saying prayers. Many who were not on duty went to church and prayed earnestly. Few in Manzikert slept well. Throughout those dark hours, Guy noticed the men engaged in the little chapel were busy again at their doings. As day broke, the bells still tolled.

  With the shadows short in the forenoon, Guy observed a colourful group of horsemen ride into view from the north and sent a warning to Bryennius. Then, sensing something was going to happen, he rested his men after first satisfying himself that all was in readiness to repel a major attack.

  Throughout the day most of the strategos’ council walked the main wall opposite the Seljuk encampment. They looked over the sprawl of humanity and animals and spoke to each other in murmurs. Guy did not know whether he imagined it, but the tension within the fortress was palpable as people assumed the tolling of the bells was somehow connected to the swelling of the Seljuk encampment and increased entreaties by the city fathers for the Lord’s help.

  In the late afternoon of that day, the fifteenth of the siege, Balazun came along and ordered Guy to pick twenty good men, go to the chapel and report to Count Selth. As he left, Guy heard Balazun tell Charles to find all the Norman mounted men and report to the military stables.

  Guy waited outside the small chapel yard, which was guarded by ten Varangians. Finally a tough little Georgian miner—dirty, smelling strongly of rank sweat and faintly of naphtha—led him inside the yard to the smell of freshly dug earth, clay and chipped rock. Tools were neatly stacked beside a collection of bronze vessels and mechanical pumps. Heavy pottery urns contained the terrible Greek Fire and nearby several pairs of large blacksmith’s bellows had long hoses of waterproof oilcloth attached to them. Around the yard were the bundles, water skins and swords and spears of the men engaged in the mining.

  Guy’s attention was drawn to a small stand three handbreadths in height. From its crosspiece, silken threads suspended light and finely wrought metal tubes. He touched one and they tinkled softly. A miner told him the device was to detect the vibrations caused by the enemy’s digging. There were also caged birds which would be taken into the tunnel to warn if the air was turning toxic. The uncomfortable thought occurred to Guy this new task he had been given might entail going underground. He had a vision of himself in a cramped, dark tunnel, engaged in a face-to-face fire and knife fight with a Saracen sapper. The thought did not appeal to him.

  Karas Selth might have read his thoughts, for the cheerful Roman engineer emerged from inside the gutted chapel, grinned and walked over, wiping his hands on a piece of sacking. Guy was always impressed by the way engineers became absorbed in the technical details of their work. It seemed to overcome emotion, fear or doubt: Selth seeming as unconcerned now as if he had been laying plumbing in Phanar or setting flagstones along a street in Trebizond.

  “Good to see you, D’Agiles. Don’t worry, you’re not going into the hole. We think we’ve found the Seljuk mine. They’re still outside the fore-wall—had further to dig than we did—so once we found out the general direction of their tunnel …”

  Guy nodded.

  “We heard voices and saw a light,” Selth continued. “So we’ve gone quiet for the moment, but plan to give them a nasty surprise in the morning. But, to make sure they don’t use our tunnel for an unintended purpose, you and your men are here to guard this end. Not a difficult task—but one requiring diligence and silence.”

  Selth looked around the tiny church yard before speaking again. “Jacques has given splendid service. Seems to have done it before.” The engineer bent over, examining the bronzeware and iron tools at his feet.

  “Jacques seems to have done everything before.” Guy was in equal parts proud, envious and astonished.

  “Anyway,” Selth straightened to look at him. “In the meantime, wait. Have your fellows take their rest here. It only needs a couple at a time to guard the hole while we’re down there.”

  So they waited impatiently through the ni
ght. Guy, wishing the bell ringing would cease, emerged restlessly from the candlelit churchyard hours before dawn. Many men were moving, cataphracts and knights walking purposefully in little groups towards the stables. He looked for a face he knew who might have knowledge of what was happening. After a short time he saw Bessas.

  “Centarch Phocas, what’s happening?” Guy asked. “I should be with the mounted men. Why am I in the churchyard when others are saddling?”

  The centarch wore a severe expression Guy had never seen before. Bessas paused in his stride and turned to regard him sympathetically. “Jacques is risking his life down that hole and especially asked for you to be at the top to get him out if need be. It’s nothing anyway; we shall be done by noon.”

  “Done what?” asked Guy with a rising feeling of apprehension.

  “The dance under arms,” Bessas murmured, as he turned and walked on, shield over his shoulder, spear in his hand.

  The dance under arms? All done by noon? A breakout and escape? A desperate attack on the Seljuk camp? Or tunnel? Guy wondered irritably about the riddle. He returned to the chapel yard intending to complain to Selth. He found the Roman engineer sitting on a pew in the yard, drinking water from a grubby silver goblet and chewing on a thick crust of bread and cheese that Joaninna had brought. Selth was shaking his head while the woman was stubbornly refusing to leave, as a red-faced, grey-bearded man looked on.

  Joaninna hissed at Guy. “Don’t you even think of deserting your post and going out there, Guy D’Agiles. Jacques wanted you here and here you’ll be, with me.” She glared defiantly at Selth, who in turn looked at Guy and shrugged helplessly.

  The grey-bearded stranger looked at Joaninna with a bemused air. He introduced himself to Guy as Araxie Bagradian. This was his chapel.

  Guy entered the dimly lit church, sat on an overturned pail and sulked. The place had been gutted, flagstones torn up and pews taken outside. Dust coated the frescos of the saints. Steps hewn out of rock led down into an ancient hiding place. The entrance, large enough to fit four men standing abreast, looked like any timber buttressed mine site. It had a curtain of heavy felt draped across it. Talking and noise were forbidden.