Leo, his spear useless in the close combat, dropped it and grabbed the dun’s bridle, hitting the horse hard around the head with his fist to cast it off. The dun rolled its eyes in terror while Leo heard the rasp of its breath and felt the sharp edges of bit and buckles through his gauntlet. The Seljuk, momentarily blinded by the way he carried his own shield on his left arm, had not yet dropped his spear to seize a weapon better suited for close quarters.
Leo knew he had a moment. As Zarrar and he were falling, he kicked his feet from the stirrups and dropped his shield to avoid becoming entangled in them. With a swift, practiced movement, he grasped his mace from its case on the pommel. In a fearful frenzy, he hit the dun horse again and again about the head, hoping to drive it off Zarrar and make it fall, so the Turk might also become pinned and helpless.
Both men and horses fell heavily. Leo felt a sharp pain in his left foot as the bay horse went down. While Zarrar heaved up onto his forelegs, Leo thought about remounting as the horse rose, but he was too unbalanced and could not get into position. Relieved that he was not hooked-up in the stirrups as Zarrar trotted off, Leo rolled onto a knee to face his antagonist. All was terrible trained reason now, without pity or quarter: guilt and penance could come later, if he lived.
The big Turk, still holding his spear and round, silk-bound cane shield, was also struggling to his feet. Protected by his shield, the Seljuk could parry Leo’s mace and still thrust at him with the spear. Leo could not see his own shield which was somewhere behind him. There was no time to pick it up anyway. Seeing his spear laying behind the big Seljuk, Leo hurled himself at his antagonist, raining blows on the man. The Turk backed off in surprise. Leo dropped the mace and retrieved his spear, seizing it two-handed like a pike.
They were together in this lonely duel on the crowded field. Adopting a bent-kneed fighting stance, Leo felt a strange calmness as the years of drilling under arms took hold. He breathed steadily and put the fall behind him. That was then. This was now. He moved forward, left foot leading, the spear point forward with his left hand. The Turk wore a corselet of fine mail and Leo was surprised that he noticed how the man’s helmet dehumanised him, the spike adding to the impression of height while the low rim and narrow nasal drew attention from the flesh beneath. He glanced around, checking for other immediate threats. Horsemen were fighting near them but none were close.
He advanced aggressively on the big Seljuk, thrusting at the man’s eyes with his spear point: hard and fast, once, twice, moving forward each time. The Seljuk covered himself with the shield. Again Leo stabbed with the point in an arching slash at his antagonist’s eyes. The Turk raised his shield higher to better protect himself from the repeated strikes. Leo noticed the Seljuk’s left leg became exposed as he lifted the shield. Leo struck again, high at the emir’s eyes and saw the man’s defence shift more to Leo’s left. He stabbed again on the same line for good effect and was rewarded when the Seljuk unbalanced his defence further to meet the attacks.
Instantly Leo switched the direction of attack to his right by bringing the haft of his spear hard against the side of the Seljuk’s knee. The man grunted in pain and fright as the leg gave way and he dropped to his left knee, thrusting out the shield arm to save himself. Exploiting the opening he had created, Leo sprang forward and plunged the point of his spear into the Turk’s throat above the corselet, driving him over onto his back. Checking that his victim was disabled, Leo wrenched out the spear.
Gasping for breath after the physical and emotional demands of the last few seconds, Leo quickly looked around. He was not immediately threatened but the regiment was a short bowshot away to his right, in the last stages of driving off an attack by Seljuk irregular horse. The rush of the Seljuk charge had carried Zarrar a spear cast to his left. Leo could tell from the horse’s head carriage, the way he was looking behind him, Zarrar was searching for him. In a crouching, feeling, backwards shuffle, Leo retrieved his shield and tucked the mace in his military belt, calling and beckoning to Zarrar as he did. The horse saw and turned towards him.
Four mounted Seljuks, seeing the lone, unhorsed Roman, closed on Leo with their spears aloft. He knew as soon as he faced one or two, the others would seek to get behind him. Two charged. Leo jumped aside, thrusting ineffectually at one with his spear as the rider passed. Glancing quickly behind, he saw them wrench their horses to a halt and turn back towards him.
Another flurry of Seljuk riders swept past, preventing Leo from reaching the regiment, or them from supporting him with archery, even if they could see him in the dust and confusion. He knew mobility was his only salvation and he had to catch and mount Zarrar before the battle bore the horse away. More Seljuks appeared between Leo and Zarrar. With rising desperation Leo made to run to his horse when a lone cataphract on a mail-barded chestnut rammed through the press up to Zarrar and caught the bay horse’s reins.
To his mixed relief and surprise, Leo then recognised Maniakh on Speedy with the lone cataphract. The Patzinak gashed open an arm of one of the four men attacking Leo. Screaming in shock, the nomad desperately pulled his horse away. Maniakh calmly put spurs to Speedy, the big horse bounding forward and knocking over a second. The lone cataphract galloped up and passed Zarrar’s reins to Leo, who swung to the saddle and was grateful and astonished to find his rescuer was none other than his youthful squire, Taticus Phocas, riding Ruksh. The three trotted to the protection of the regiment.
“Am I glad to see you two,” Leo grinned in relief. “Thank you.”
Maniakh looked solemn.
Leo took in the rolled cloak, water skin and saddlebag on Speedy. David Varaz appeared and passed the reins of Maniakh’s blaze-faced mare to him. He looked at Leo and shouted, “I couldn’t stay away—owed them for Kapetrou.”
Leo clasped Maniakh’s bridle hand in a gesture of understanding and gratitude. “Farewell, friend. Though it’s far away, if you pass by my father’s place, leave Speedy with him. He’ll give you another in exchange—a good one. And tell the old man I am well.”
Maniakh looked to the fight surging around them. “Tell him you’re well?” the Patzinak repeated with a faintly bemused air. “Farewell, Horse-archer. Good luck to you.” He turned his horses to leave and said over his shoulder, “Tell Cecaumenus I am sorry.”
“You tell him!” Leo returned as Maniakh, Speedy and the blaze-faced mare melted into the swirling dust.
Leo’s brief encounter with the big Seljuk emir and his rescue had occupied a few minutes. Some of his escort and the standard-bearer rode up, shaken at having been separated in the melee. Collecting his thoughts, Leo shouted to nearby Lascaris to inquire what was happening.
The centarch looked around, but could not make out the words over the din and shouting. His face clouded with concentration, Lascaris rode closer and cupped a hand to his ear.
Leo shouted again, “Antony, report!”
Lascaris, breathless and sweating under his helmet, drew alongside Leo. “I lost you, Count, and feared you dead. We’re all right. The pressure from their light horse seems to have abated. Many of them are now drawing off to something on our right flank, and they haven’t got behind us in strength. I’d say Bessas has struck their left.”
“The Franks?” Leo shouted, as Zarrar wheeled impatiently.
“Don’t know,” Lascaris admitted, irritably quietening his own wilful mount as he indicated with a straight arm the Frank’s location. “Cloud of dust—horses with empty saddles coming out.” The centarch’s description was as accurate as brief.
A glance around satisfied Leo the regiment was well formed and master of its immediate tactical environment. He turned Zarrar for a better view to the north, where dense clouds of black and grey smoke indicated that Bessas had carried the Seljuk animal-lines and baggage. As Lascaris had said, the movement of Seljuk horsemen was predominantly to the north where their leaders sensed the greatest danger now lay: the threat to their animals
and precious fodder.
Leo peered once more in the direction where Balazun was most likely to be and decided that they would have to move forward to support the Franks and at least give any survivors a chance to escape. To Aspietes, he said, “Send two gallopers to the strategos, in person, and tell him I intend to move two furlongs forward—to the lava step—to try and bring out the Franks. I do not intend to become decisively engaged. I request infantry support to guard the ditch crossing and fore-wall gate as we come back in.”
Aspietes repeated back the message before briefing a pair of cataphracts and sending them galloping off. Tribune Balsamon trotted up. Leo relayed his plan, to move rapidly to the front with Lascaris leading. Balsamon’s hundred were to follow on in close support with bows. Thus the Sixth Schola hand-galloped forward, brushing the light opposition from the crest of the lava step where they halted defensively: trumpeters sounding the recall and standard-bearers signalling urgently.
Leo sensed a battle-moment of opportunity. Unable to disengage from the close-quarters fight with the Franks, bluffed by the brazen appearance of the Roman cavalry and fearing many more might be hidden by the crest of the lava step, the mass of Seljuks hesitated. Amongst the Franks, some seemed to sense the change in the temper of the Seljuk attack.
Leo thought he saw Charles Bertrum tear down his mail coif so he could be recognised and through the furore rally his comrades. Standing in his stirrups, Leo yelled and waved his spear high above his head, gesturing deliberately with the point for the Franks to withdraw past his left flank. Charles seemed to wave back with his sword. Then putting spurs to his exhausted horse, he charged into the surrounding Seljuks. He appeared to be in great pain, as though hit in the chest with a mace and there were two arrows caught in the back of his mail hauberk. A dozen Seljuks sought to bring him down. Thrice wounded and bleeding from other grazes and blows, he cut down two and burst through, followed by the expanding torrent of still mounted Franks who slashed their way out after him. Galloping free and turning in his saddle to check that others followed, Charles acknowledged Leo gesturing urgently with his spear. Understanding the Roman’s intent, the wounded Frank led his companions in a desperate, strung out gallop past the cataphracts on the lava step and across the flat for the safety of the fortress walls.
“Let’s get the hell out of here, Antony!” grimaced Leo, and to Lascaris’ staccato commands, the Roman horse released a storm of arrows into the flank of the Seljuks as they confusedly tried to harry the fleeing Franks and belatedly change front to attack the regiment.
The Seljuk camp before Manzikert,
Early morning, 4th September 1054
“Oh, nicely done,” Derar al-Adin murmured to himself as he saw the surviving Franks cut free and escape past the supporting Roman cavalry that was toppling dozens of un-armoured tribesmen from their horses. Before the nomads could reform and reorient the direction of their attack, the Roman horse also withdrew. Fighting all the way, the Sixth Schola retired stubbornly, showering the pursuing Seljuks with arrows and menacing any who came close with counter-attacks. Finally, still screening the rear of the Franks, the regiment reached the protection of the infantry who defended the approaches to the gates from behind portable wicker mantelets and the scarp breastworks: allowing the horsemen to enter the city without being ridden down by the numerically superior Seljuks at their backs.
Dust and smoke obscured the battlefield. Mounted Seljuks galloped towards the northern flank of their camp, Derar with them on Qurmul. After a short, unpleasant ride on his stirred-up, bounding, prancing horse, Derar saw all was destruction and confusion in what had been the well-ordered animal lines of the great encampment.
Reining into a canter, Derar saw a Christian lying on the ground and recognised him by his clothing and accoutrements as an Armenian irregular. An arrow had found its mark under the armpit of the wounded man’s sword arm, a vulnerable part of his lamellar cuirass. Derar supposed it had happened as he raised the arm to strike. The Christian, his iron pot helmet fallen from his head, grimaced in pain under the beard and curly brown hair. He writhed slowly on the ground, his eyes watching Derar as he rode past. Several others lay wounded or dead nearby, but Derar knew after a quick look that the Romans had achieved this devastating blow to the army’s animal transport and fodder with remarkably few casualties.
Belching clouds of acrid black naphtha smoke mixed with the distinctive blue smell of burning grass, as the army’s precious stocks of hay and bags of grain glowed brightly in a crackling roar. From the intensity of the heat, Derar knew little could be saved. Camels struck by arrows ran in blind terror, smashing into groups of horsemen who even now were trying ineffectually to douse the flames. Baggage carts had been pushed together and were afire. What an hour before was the tent street where farriers, veterinarians and horse dealers had plied their trades, was now a flaming ruin.
Picket lines of horses and mules were hopelessly entangled, horses down with the lines cutting through muscle and sinew. The sight of them—white eyed, entwined in the ropes and making it worse by trying to kick and struggle free—cut at Derar’s sympathies as he gave Qurmul’s bit a slight tug to slow him back into a trot. Thus far the horse had been held back for the entire course of the fight. Now mad with cheated excitement, Qurmul was irritated with Derar and he in turn was vexed with the horse, as they fought against each other.
Ghulams and tribesmen galloped up and throwing reins to the horse-holders, bounded on foot into the chaos to try and cut the precious animals free and save any of the irreplaceable fodder. There was shouting and gesturing as a thousand opinions were voiced on what should be done.
Isma’il rode up roaring and bellowing on his jaded horse, trying to galvanise an immediate attack on the Armenian cavalry, still withdrawing in good order towards the fortress. Derar saw the dust, sweat and blood on Isma’il and the crazy, excited stare in his eyes. His horse, an open slash-wound in its shoulder, threw its head up and opened its jaws, trying to avoid the next, inevitable jerk on its blood-flecked, foaming mouth by the overwrought general.
It was late afternoon before any semblance of order was restored to the Seljuk camp. Derar rode back to the scattered wreckage of their tent and belongings to find Farisa already there. She knelt, close to tears that flowed freely when she looked up and saw Derar. He dismounted from the fractious Qurmul and kneeling beside her, placed an arm around her shoulders. They remained that way, until he could no longer stand the horse dancing on the ends of the reins. He rose and tied the horse to a high branch of a surviving poplar tree and knee hobbled him.
They gathered their trampled possessions and sat amongst them, silently drinking strong wine. At length, Derar gathered himself, dusted off their tent and re-erected it. Farisa found enough twigs and dry dung to light a small fire on which she cooked noodle soup and warmed some bread. Knowing Zaibullah liked it, she also boiled some of the coffee berries while Derar tended their unharmed animals. Determined to save the little barley Derar found in the sack on the cantle of Farisa’s saddle, he brought it back to the fire where it would not be stolen or broken into by stray animals. Around them, people were similarly engaged, no one in the camp having had time to eat since the previous evening.
Emren Dirse and Zaibullah approached, leading their horses. Emren had found the time to saddle-up and don his iron helmet and cuirass of polished horn lamellar before joining the battle. He had been searching for his brother and sister, but having found neither, was hungry and disheartened. Farisa offered him coffee and a little of the bread she had warmed. He took it politely and sitting next to her, devoured it hungrily. Now Emren Dirse spoke of the fight against the Franks, in which he had been engaged. A glance at his worn-out horse confirmed it had been much galloped that day, for it hung its head in exhaustion and a hind shoe had come off. The suddenness and violence of the battle was at the forefront of Emren’s mind. “I was looking for the Frank on my father’s mare, but I coul
dn’t see him. Nor was he amongst the hundred slain or eighty-one prisoners.”
“Perhaps he didn’t dare come out,” Derar suggested.
“Lucky for him. I was not the only one searching. I saw Theodore Ankhialou in the fight and he looked like he was seeking someone as well.”
“Did Ankhialou live?” asked Derar.
“As far as I know,” Emren replied tiredly. “Unhappily for the Frank who took his woman, eh!”
The little group sat quietly in the dust for a while, staring at the few little embers and curling smoke of Farisa’s fire. There was much to discuss but little said.
They watched Isma’il approach on his exhausted horse. Seeing them look at him, the haggard general stopped and asked if they had seen Hurr. They replied they had not, though Derar had indeed seen the dancer in the company of a fine looking man riding a carthorse and leading a blaze-faced Turkmene mare. For some reason Derar thought back to the fracas in Tabriz after the fire in the engineer’s camp—and the subsequent hunt for a few travellers—but he said nothing, merely looking into the fire as though his thoughts were far away.
Derar glanced up to check his horse. Still saddled and bridled, Qurmul now stood quietly under the tree, boredom and tiredness combining to make his head and eyes droop as he rested one hind leg.
“Silly!” Derar said, mimicking Farisa that morning. The horse moved an ear and then turned his head to look at Derar.
“Good horse,” he soothed, wondering why Qurmul had acted so strangely that day. He suspected his own indecision and contrariness—galloping around but not joining the fight—had transmitted mixed signals to the horse. He rose and walked over to Qurmul, giving him a hug around the neck. “We will be in our own lands soon.”
With the sun still two hands breadths from the horizon, they heard the kettledrums summoning them to the Sultan’s tent. Emren, who had been watching Derar comfort his horse, listened without moving. Then he moaned, “Will there be no end to this cursed day.” With a resigned grunt, he rose and walked with Derar to the summons where they found a council of the emirs arguing and gesturing about the blame and deeds of that day.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 50
