A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Tughrul sat impassively, but Derar thought Tughrul Bey was seething. He initially thought the Sultan’s cold rage was because the army had suffered a devastating reverse with the destruction of the tunnel, engineers, half the siege engines and much of their fodder; all in little more time than that taken over a game of polo. But there was more, for word was soon whispered around the sombre gathering that Osketsam, the Sultan’s father-in-law, had been captured by the Romans, murdered and thrown from the walls.

  “March out the prisoners,” commanded the Sultan.

  At his word, the eighty one captive Franks were forced at spear point to kneel before Tughrul. They had been stripped of their armour and weapons, but not their pride. Offered conversion to Islam, all but three declined with haughty countenances. They might have hoped for ransom or slavery. Alas fate was in no such mood this day and many of the Christians blanched when it was decreed they would be decapitated within the hour and their severed heads catapulted into the fortress.

  Then the Armenian, Tatoul Vanantzi, was dragged in, one of the Sultan’s courtiers saying soothingly, “Your majesty may choose to deal with this unbeliever as well this day, for the son of Arsuban has died of his wounds.”

  The Sultan looked resignedly at the chained Armenian. “Cut off the sword arm and give it to Arsuban with this message—your son was not slain by a weak arm.”

  Tatoul struggled free of his guards and made for the Sultan as if to kill him with his own dagger, but alert youths of the elite gulâmân-I suray sprang forth and dragged the captive to the ground. Tatoul cursed them for heathen as he was held down; an overturned camp pail used as the chopping block. It took ten men to subdue Tatoul and hold that mighty arm on the pail.

  Derar, looking away from the blow, determined to inform the Romans of the fate of their ally. They would know soon enough of the fate of the Frankish captives.

  Manzikert,

  Morning, 4th September 1054

  Barely back inside the fortress himself, Leo waited with his squire at the north gate as Bessas’ men returned. Mounted on Zarrar, he counted them in like stock through a draft as they rushed past in threes and fives. A small crowd of women, Serena amongst them, were also there, scarcely able to breathe as they awaited longed-for faces.

  “Well done! Well done, men!” Leo encouraged as the excited troops drew up inside the gate. Commanders shouted for their troops, trying to determine how many had been lost and who had returned maimed. Sweat ran in rivulets down horses’ legs to drip on the flagstones that rang with the clamour of their shoes. Dismounting, the riders slumped against their hot saddles for support, or sank to their knees beside their horse’s legs in prayer.

  Anxiously, Leo looked for Bessas and was relieved when the centarch—the last man in—cantered over the wooden bridge and slid off dun Diomed, leading him through the arch of the gate towers. Bessas, walking in a sideways half-crouch, patted the dun’s neck and checked for any wounds. Leo saw the arrow shaft in his subordinate’s shoulder and hoped against hope it had not penetrated his armour.

  Serena ran up to Bessas, threw her arms around him and kissed him through tears of joy at his return. She felt the arrow shaft and shrank back, staring at the blood on her sleeve.

  “You’re hurt,” Leo said dismounting as he glanced at nearby Taticus Phocas who dropped Ruksh’s reins and ran to fetch a medical orderly. Leo looked at Bessas’ face for tell-tale signs of shock or distress.

  “It’ll be alright,” Bessas winced to Serena.

  She had tended enough wounded men in the last sixteen days to know differently. “You’ll need the doctor.”

  Bessas managed a weak grin as he put an arm over Diomed’s neck to steady himself. Then he looked around to check the well-being of the troops he had led from the walls.

  “Never mind that. Your men are being taken care of,” Leo said. “Just rest, until the orderlies bring a stretcher.”

  Bessas said nothing. He smelled of smoke, dirt and horse sweat and his grubby face bespoke the shock of battle. Dropping his shield, he clapped his free hand on Leo’s shoulder in mute greeting and salute. Leo and Serena took his weight and the three stumbled a short distance and sat on the edge of a stone water trough, allowing their horses a short drink. “No more, Diomed, old friend,” Bessas grunted with pain through closed teeth. “Later when you’ve cooled down.”

  Leo saw Bessas’ squire approaching. “Cosmas. The centarch is hurt. We’ll get him to hospital. I’ll have soldiers take charge of his horse, but you see to it when you can.”

  “He’s saved my life this day, Cosmas,” Bessas said.

  “Fear not I shall look after him,” assured the squire, kneeling by his master. Then he looked to Leo. “Zarrar and Ruksh as well, sir?”

  “Until Taticus can, thank you,” said Leo. “I’ll send him after you when he returns.”

  Leo knelt by Bessas as Serena held his hand, composing herself for the care to come. “By thunder, you’ve done well. Few men lost, and I saw from outside the gate the smoke and flame of your passing. The Sultan’s grievously hurt this day. Just be calm while we fetch help.”

  “Yes,” Serena echoed.

  They were silent for a time. Then Bessas asked, “How did you go?”

  “We’ve had reasonable success. Karas Selth broke into the tunnel and captured the miners.” Leo removed Bessas’ helmet as he spoke. “And we did well enough in the engineer’s camp, but something seized Balazun and he allowed himself to become trapped in a big fight with the ghulams of the palace and imperial guards. Charles Bertrum, rallied the survivors—cut their way out.”

  Leo placed Bessas’ helmet on the flagstones by the trough. “We went further forward than we should have to assist the Franks and came back under a lot of pressure. But Doukas was ready and led out six hundred foot to stand off the Seljuks while we got in. We lost thirty-four from the regiment.”

  “Who?” Bessas asked, hunching forward.

  “I saw Aspieties go down on that little mare of his. Three ghulams took him on and he could not shake them off. Choniates, also, I saw with my own eyes, killed by arrows. The rest? I don’t know yet?”

  “Balazun himself?” Bessas asked distantly.

  “Charles saw Balazun go down under a mass of ghulams, but does not know if he was killed or wounded. I am sure Reynaldus put Balazun up to it, appealed to his vanity, damn his eyes. Guy warned me something was afoot between them. I repeated the orders … Balazun said he understood.” Leo clasped a hand gently on the wounded centarch’s good shoulder, trying to keep him coherent until assistance arrived.

  Bessas was attempting to keep his mind from the pain. “What did Reynaldus have to gain?”

  “Balazun was the only threat to Reynaldus’ rising star amongst the Kelts,” Leo ventured. “I do not think he, Balazun, was a fellow traveller of Kamyates.”

  An Armenian infantryman jogged up awkwardly in his iron lamellar cuirass and strip greaves. He had removed his pot helmet and held it by the throat-lash in his spear hand. He looked uncertainly at the crowd of dismounted cavalry and called, “Count Bryennius?”

  “Here.”

  “The strategos’ compliments, Count. He would like you to come immediately to him on the fore-wall, at the western gate tower. I’ll take you.”

  Leo glanced from the soldier to Bessas and Serena.

  “Go,” she said. “I’ll tell Taticus.”

  “Thank you,” Leo said to the soldier. Then he turned to a nearby cataphract saying, “Take care of the centarch until the medical orderlies get to him please and mind our horses until my squire returns.”

  Leo looked into Bessas’ eyes. “I have to go, but Taticus is on the way with help. Hearts up.” To Serena he said, “Look after him. I fear this day is not yet done.”

  Leading Zarrar, he strode with the Armenian out through the main gate and handing the reins to a soldier resting b
ehind the wall, climbed the stone steps to the fore-wall, meaning to walk along it, enter the tower and meet Basil Apocapes on the observation platform at the top. As he made his way along the ramparts, people whispered and made way.

  Leo could make out Varangians ahead, guarding what he supposed were the Seljuk tunnellers. Suddenly there was tumult in the group and Leo, sensing something wrong, started to run. He saw Guy d’Agiles pulling at Kamyates and pleading with the Varangians to stop, as a welter of stabbing erupted. Then the bodies were pushed through crenelles to the concourse below.

  “Stop that,” Leo roared with such authority that the Varangians halted before the last two bleeding corpses were heaved from the ramparts. “What’s going on?” he demanded angrily in Greek as he approached, glaring savagely at Kamyates.

  “Count,” the leader of the Varangian detail protested, “This man,” he indicated Kamyates, “walked up and stabbed one of the prisoners. Killed him and told us to despatch the rest and throw them off the wall.”

  Leo’s glance flickered to Guy, standing behind Kamyates.

  “That’s what happened,” said Guy.

  “He had a knife,” Kamyates said evenly, “and was about to stab at me. The guards should not have been so careless. So I acted in self-defence. I couldn’t do else …”

  Leo noticed Guy’s mouth drop open with disbelief at this lie.

  “… and I have sufficient rank, as you well know, Count.” Kamyates uttered Leo’s rank as an insult. There was the spittle of indignation on his beard. “I have sufficient rank to have the prisoners taken care of...”

  “Taken care of? Without consulting the strategos? A source of information and hostages and you decide … You!” Leo was furious enough to be intemperate.

  Kamyates shrugged. “Basil can make a court issue of a dead infidel if he likes.” With that threat, Kamyates and Cydones in their rich robes walked off leaving Leo seething. “What happened, Guy?”

  “Count Selth caught three prisoners in the tunnel. We brought them up here and were waiting for the strategos to speak to Osketsam. As …”

  “Osketsam? The Sultan’s …”

  Guy nodded. “As those two came close, Osketsam seemed to recognise Kamyates and was about to speak angrily with him. Kamyates just plain stabbed him in the throat and breast about four times and started screaming at the guard to kill the others. The Varangians didn’t know better and followed the orders.”

  Basil Apocapes appeared, looking angry. “Well done out there, Count Bryennius,” he said formally. Then to those around he ordered, “The council will meet in my rooms, immediately.”

  Guy stepped forward as if to speak.

  “I saw it,” the strategos said grimly, passing on.

  Balazun’s was the first of the Frankish heads to be hurled over the walls by the remaining two Seljuk mangonels. The priests retrieved the grisly messages of terror and tried to comfort relatives and friends.

  Apocapes’ council endured a long and stormy meeting. Kamyates and Cydones used their rank to rail against the attack, alleging that it had threatened the very lives of all in the fortress by sacrificing a part of the cavalry to achieve nothing more than antagonising the Sultan. Thus encouraged, Reynaldus, still covered in dried blood and fright from the battle, widened the disquiet by alleging in his petulant fashion that the Greeks had deliberately sacrificed the Franks to get them out of the way.

  Leo thought Basil was close to having the three of them thrown into the dungeons. It was also a gesture, he understood, which would have long-term consequences if they ever got out of this. Given the manner in which Kamyates and Cydones had cultivated key citizens in the fortress and become well known as charming and distinguished guests; it would be impossible to act openly against them and survive afterwards. Their friends at court were powerful and had many spies.

  It was the softly spoken William de Chartres who salvaged something from the tense situation. Helmet on his knee, he looked around the gathering with his pale blue eyes. He spoke to the Franks. “I followed my friend, Charles Bertrum, from the press of Saracens. What happened was no fault of any of the Romans.” He had used the term deliberately, instead of the Latins’ usual derogatory name “Greeks” when referring to the Byzantines. “I’ll not speak ill of the dead,” William shot a withering and challenging look at Reynaldus, “or the living. But I’ll hear no man say that this day’s sacrifice of Latin blood was the fault of the Roman Army. Had they not moved forward to support us at much risk to themselves, none of us would have got out.”

  All eyes turned to Reynaldus, who remained silent, glaring with hatred at William, who had just emerged as his rival among the Franks.

  Basil finished by reminding them gently of the providential role of God in the battle that had allowed them, with relatively small loss, to destroy the greatest threat to their walls. Then the strategos led them to kneel while the bishop said prayers.

  Leo walked with Karas Selth from the room. They were silent. He took Zarrar’s reins from a Varangian sentry. The horse gave him a tired rub with his head, to ease the dried sweat itching under his chamfron. Saying farewell as Selth walked off, Leo made to mount when he heard his name spoken behind him.

  “Count Bryennius!” It was William de Chartres. The Norman took the reins from his waiting squire. They mounted and rode together out of the citadel gate, stopping at the fork in the street, each motioning they were going in different directions. It was late in the day and quite still as the sun settled low and red through the dust, smoke and the distant wailing.

  “Count Leo,” William said before they parted, “some people don’t like you or your methods. I had doubts myself at first. For what it’s worth, I would ride with you any time.”

  “Thank you,” replied Leo, touched. They parted and Leo rode down the street that led to the military quarter to speak with his men. Citizens were out and some hailed him, suspecting he may have been involved in the fight that day. Zarrar and he were both weary beyond words. The warhorse, sensing his master’s distraction and day’s end, walked slowly, his shoes ringing dully on the cobblestones. Leo’s mind was full of the images of the battle and the weeks that had preceded it. Zarrar slowed and stopped indecisively outside the Barbarian House.

  Preoccupied with his musings, Leo looked up and saw bold Greek lettering on the garden wall, “One love and one death.” Without warning Martina’s face came to his mind’s eye. For long, introspective moments, Leo sat silently in the saddle. Zarrar’s ears switched back to him, but the horse did not move.

  Leo dismounted slowly. Taking the reins from around the horse’s neck he said gently, “C’mon, Zarrar”, and together they walked down the cobbled street.

  Chapter Fifteen

  One Love and One Death

  The Seljuk camp outside Manzikert,

  Afternoon, 6th September 1054

  In the aftermath of the cavalry fight, the armies eyed each other warily: Seljuks in their camp, Romans behind their battlements. Both tended the wounds of people and horses and committed their dead. The slain emirs of the Seljuks were burned in mounds or wrapped and carried on camels to their homeland for entombment. Their perished poor were heaped on funeral pyres on the western side of the river. Within the city, the remains recovered during the chaotic battle were interred in mass graves under quicklime. Soldiers and citizens of both sides salved their maimed souls, in their churches, or on their prayer mats.

  The sky became almost as black as the lava stone as the weather turned bitterly cold. Many thought it would snow. Instead it rained a steady drizzle. Sentinels on the walls drew sodden cloaks around them and watched the besieging army sheltering in their black tents.

  Late in the afternoon of the eighteenth day of the siege, Derar al-Adin looked gloomily out from under the dripping goat hair of his tent at the sea of pockmarked, reeking mud that now marked the Seljuk encampment along the river. Where thous
ands of animals and men had trampled and eaten bare the ground, they now churned the rain-soaked soil into malodorous ooze with their hooves, boots, urine and manure. Tucked-up, hungry horses shivered on their picket lines or in restless, scrounging mobs under the care of the herd boys. Derar observed that many horses had their manes and tails chewed off by hungry neighbours and was proud of the care he and his companions had afforded their animals.

  Derar lounged on a damp saddlecloth that smelled of wet wool and horse sweat, yet mitigated a little the cold ground of the tent floor. Pulling his cloak closer around him, he looked through the stripped poplars by the rocky stream bank and beyond them to the black-walled fortress. With a sigh that caused Farisa and Zaibullah both to look at him, he sank back against his saddle. Silently cursing himself for any display of emotion, Derar concealed it. “The rain—it vexes me.”

  Without reply, they went back to their work: Farisa preparing their evening meal, Zaibullah repairing his saddle, which had been slashed in the fight against the Franks.

  Recalling the Sultan’s stormy evening council after the battle, Derar felt again the cold clutch of fear. For two days his mouth had been dry with the thick taste of it. He had trouble drifting to sleep, instead lying awake and staring at the banks of clouds washing across the stars beyond. There had been recriminations that night. The Sultan had asked coldly, looking directly at Bughra Dumrul, how many more surprises the fortress of Manzikert had in store for them. Dumrul, flustered, muttered the excuse that his “spies in the fortress” had not warned him. Realising his mistake, Dumrul had corrected himself by saying “scouts”, but Derar had noticed. A number of others in the pavilion had also looked sharply at the spymaster. Derar knew that Dumrul’s sources in the Christian ranks posed a real threat to him. Eventually, one of them might draw the connection between Zobeir al-Adin, held prisoner in the fortress, Derar’s own access to the Sultan’s plans and the misfortunes in battle of the Seljuk host. Derar’s nonchalant demeanour had masked his inner turmoil that night as he had gazed around the gathering. He saw the Sultan do the same and was relieved that there was fertile ground for Tughrul Bey’s many suspicions: renegade Christians, Muslim mercenaries and rebellious Seljuk emirs. Many of the latter were battle-hardened, widely admired, ruthless, younger and ambitious. Tughrul also would suspect that they might wish to profit from his failure to capture Manzikert, or, slowness in doing so.