As the attack stalled, Roman engineers, unseen in the dark, crept forth from the walls and knocked away the chocks holding the dammed waters of the moat. Water coursed down the ditch. Some Seljuks drowned under the weight of their armour, or because they were wounded and could not swim. A quick-thinking few threw lassos across for others to hold on to. Derar and Burla Dirse, dragging the grief-stricken Emren, plunged into the dark, turbulent water. With their armour pulling them down, they made their way hand-over-hand along a lasso looped around a merlon and held by a bold hand on the other side. Arrows struck the water beside them. Derar glanced back in fear to see that a skirmish line of Varangians had sallied from the fortress and was striking down the Seljuks on the open ground before the wall, shooting at those struggling in the flooded ditch. Many nomads risked their lives to pull the stricken out with them.
As they clambered up the counterscarp and beyond range and sight of the defences, sympathetic Daylamis assisted the chilled, defeated troops with hot broth, as well as improvised stretchers and dressings for the wounded. In the blue light of night, Emren’s people gathered behind the siege lines while their leader with solemn dignity thanked them for all they had attempted. His followers counted the cost, the leaders moving forward to clasp his clothing, conveying the unspoken message they knew the deed was not of his making.
Derar and Emren made their way to the guard tent near the Sultan’s pavilion to report. “The Sultan was resting,” Isma’il, the general, said in a tone that hinted at no surprise. The two men received no thanks. To their leaders it was just another futile attack in a failing siege. “The Romans have only bought themselves a little more time, while we drain all the ditches and divert the streams that feed them,” the general grunted.
They left without a word.
Not long before first cock-crow, Derar led Emren Dirse to his tent. Farisa leapt up when she saw them and bathed their hands and faces. Saying nothing, she offered them strong wine and food. Derar, who in his shock had not taken the water proffered by the Daylamis, was suddenly aware how thirsty the exertions had made him. He drank greedily of the wine and after a prayer, sank to his saddlecloth in the dark of their tent and could not stop the relief of the dry tears that racked his lean body.
The Barbarian House in Manzikert,
Late afternoon, 9th September 1054
Guy d’Agiles leaned back lazily in the hard wooden chair and savoured the moment. The sun shone warmly from the western sky while a light wind dried the ground. He was seated in the garden of the Barbarian House, nursing in his lap a crust of bread, a few slices of cheese and a goblet of red wine. It was his second day off the wall, after his second tour on it. He had shaved, bathed and changed his clothes, his washing now drying in the late afternoon breeze. The well water was pure and the apple tree still bore leaves, even if it had long been stripped of fruit. The untended garden seemed restfully remote from the fighting, even if crowded with saddled horses, piles of hay, stones, beams and other warlike stores.
Happenstance had brought many familiar faces to the garden where they now took their ease. Togol lay supine on a saddlecloth next to David Varaz. Arshak lounged close by, contributing to the conversation in his broken Greek. They looked up at the sky, occasionally rising languidly on an elbow to take more food or drink. Bessas sat near them, nursing his wounded shoulder in a sling.
There was no public shame amongst this group as they now took a few hours respite; though who could know what private humiliation any carried, or whether they alone knew of something for the common good they had failed to do, for want of time, strength, courage or presence of mind? This was each man’s burden.
Guy thought there could be nothing but pride here. All had fought on the walls and in the patrolling before the arrival of the Seljuks. The scouts had entered the enemy camp to spy and spread subversive rumours. There was an easy camaraderie and trust as they recounted stories of the past few months. Guy felt at ease in their presence. None mentioned it, but Guy had won his spurs amongst these men and was accepted as an equal by them. It occurred to him then, how long he had yearned in his youth to have faced and passed this rite of passage. In his ignorance, he had been unaware of its accompanying burden of terror and guilt at lives lost and taken. He knew this feeling would wax and wane like the moon, but ever lurk beneath the surface of his consciousness.
Jacques sat in a chair nearby. At the sight of him, Guy thought of their frequent visits to Charles Bertrum, still lingering in the nun’s hospital. Medical orderlies had moved quietly, with the nuns, or Roman and Armenian healers doing what they could for the patients. Many spoke highly of an Arab physician who also worked there. The scrubbed buildings of the temporarily converted monastery smelled of soap, vinegar, clean straw and the astringent and healing balms. They also smelled of fear. Strong men lay pale and silent. All must have contemplated their fate if the Seljuks broke in, and their ability in future to earn a living if they did not. Warfare and the wealth or want of Byzantium depended on the muscle power of people and animals. The disabled soldier, peasant or artisan faced a forlorn future.
Guy had first visited the hospital to see Charles, as soon as possible after the cavalry fight outside the walls. Bessas Phocas was also there with an arrowhead lodged in his shoulder. Guy had seen the centarch seated, waiting to be tended, Serena Cephala by his side, easing off his hauberk and attempting to staunch the bleeding with a cloth. Charles’ arms and armour rested in an untidy pile beside the table on which he lay. A crowd of people around him had been working bare armed around a pail of bloodstained, steaming water and many discarded cloths. Flora had come towards him, dry-eyed under her auburn hair. She looked Guy full in the eyes, wordless but without reproach, then stooped and gathered up Charles’ discarded clothing and equipment. “I’m in the way. I should see to his horse and clean these.”
Guy knew there was nothing he could do but pray. “I’ll take the horse,” he had offered. So he trailed Flora Asadian outside and watched her break down. The abbess comforted her with an embrace.
Carrying his friend’s weapons and armour, Guy had walked to the stables to find that someone had already unsaddled and cared for Charles’ brown mare. He lingered with the animal for a little while, stroking and speaking softly to her, counting her wounds that the veterinarians had dressed.
Five days had passed since the day of the fight in the tunnel and the battle outside the walls. In that time Guy had only a few fleeting conversations, almost satirical exchanges of stoic pleasantries, with Irene, except for that occasion when he had reluctantly and awkwardly told her of her being spoken of in the Seljuk camp as a bride for the Sultan. She had blanched and become very quiet.
Basil Apocapes, leaving the Barbarian House with Bryennius, Branas and Oleg, saw the little gathering in the garden and approached the lounging men. They made to stand, but Basil bade them be still and squatted on his heels amongst them. He looked exhausted, grey bags under red-rimmed eyes, hair matted and some days since he had removed his clothes. Guy wondered how the strategos could bear his burden. Basil greeted the group warmly and praised the work they had done, especially thanking those who had ventured beyond the safety of their comrades to scout in the enemy encampment.
“How goes the battle?” Togol asked.
“All is uncertain in war,” Basil replied, “But we’re actually doing well—twenty-one days into it now, and the first bit is always the hardest.” He looked at all of them briefly, as though wishing to make certain, before he continued, that their current ease reflected resolution, not resignation. “The first bit and the last bit. Though food and fodder need to be carefully rationed, the bishop has no fear of famine for the next two months and there’s plenty of water. That said, regardless of whether the Seljuks go or stay, the winter that follows will be hard. Although afraid, the people are loyal to their duties and are brave in them. Praise God we have been able to discern the Sultan’s moves and counter
them, but we’ve no reason for complacency and must be constantly vigilant. Nor should we forget all the people who have been massacred, impoverished and marched into slavery from the lands around.”
At this, they all looked at the ground.
Sensing the mood, Basil continued on a milder note. “As soon as the Seljuks raise the siege, we will pursue them most vigourously with what forces we can muster and try to rescue as many prisoners as we can, as the Varangians of Baberd are rumoured to have done.”
At the mention of the Varangians, Bessas looked at Oleg and asked about the fight on the north wall the night before last.
“With the strategos’ approval,” Oleg began, “there was no warning that time. But I suspected something was up after three of their princes spent some time observing us from the crest the morning before. This attack was more cunning—they approached silently, until one of them fell over and we heard the clatter of his arms. Then they were on us with fire and arrows. The heathen tried to burn us out of the tower and then batter down the sally-ports. But we were too fast for them.” Oleg leaned on his great axe and looked down at them.
“We need to do something about the two mangonels on that side,” said David Varaz.
“We have,” the Viking rejoined. “Or at least the presbyter, Araxie Bagradian is.”
Daniel Branas interrupted quietly, reminding Basil they had an appointment and that he needed to refresh and rest. With the good grace that marked the man, the strategos quietly apologised to Oleg for having to move on. They all stood and watched silently as the two left.
Bryennius lingered in the yard of the Barbarian House with his comrades of the march and the siege. He took his ease, sitting on a saddlecloth, his back propped against a low wall with his armour and weapons beside him. Within a short time, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Please Oleg, continue your account of the north wall. I have not yet heard the details.”
They all sat or squatted around and Oleg continued. “Yes! Now, we’d been wondering at how to deal with the Seljuk stone throwers, but their rocks had little enough impact on the walls so we grew lax about them. But last night when they used them to hurl firepots at us, that was a new and dangerous menace. It turns out the priest, Araxie Bagradian, was a military engineer and understands the mechanics of war. He’s been ministering to the men on the wall and they trust him, for he has a touch with common folk. He said there were still timbers in his church, the one you wrecked, Jacques …”
Guy and the others smiled at the joking reference to the tunnel.
“… Timbers stout and long enough to make a catapult of sufficient power to meet the enemy machines. There are builders and shipwrights among us, so they went to work with him and constructed an engine on one of the towers. With his first rock, Araxie struck close to one of the heathens’ stone-throwers. Then, praise God, his second rock struck their stone just as the infidel’s released it.” Oleg laughed at the memory of it. “The two stones shattered and covered the Seljuks with dust and flying stone chips. They will be days picking the shards out of their eyes.” He fell silent, looking at the ground, seeing the images of the fight once more in his mind.
“What happens now?” asked Bessas.
“This day?” Oleg asked, subtly seeking their approval to continue. “Seven rocks did the presbyter hurl at the heathen, until they ceased throwing their own rocks, to work on protecting their machines with cotton bales and other materials they have found. Now we watch them as they watch us. We offered a truce so they could get their stinking dead out of the ditch, but this was refused, so their emissary said, on the order of the Sultan.”
“Hmm,” mused Togol aloud. “He must be very angry.”
“We’ve held up the shepherd king badly,” remarked Vardaheri who was now regarded as an authority on the Seljuks. “He pillaged Berkri without trouble and subdued Archēsh in eight days. Manzikert has not been so easy and his people see it.”
“Twenty-one days! As the strategos said, we haven’t done too badly,” Vardaheri looked to Bessas. “How long did your three hundred Spartan’s resist the Persians?”
“Four days—a week perhaps. The Spartans and their allies—seven thousand men, perhaps, held the wall in the pass of Thermopylae.”
“Against how many?” asked Togol, always interested in tales of valour. Guy had spent an evening relating the story of Roland and Oliver to him.
Bessas shook his head. “I don’t know. Hundreds of thousands it’s said—Persians and their allies.”
They all sat in silence for a while, their curiosity aroused, trying to imagine the ancient battle.
Guy had seen sculptures and paintings of the ancients in his travels, but they seemed remote and mythical to him. “How long ago was that war?” he asked.
“About fifteen hundred years,” Bessas replied.
“Seven thousand men!” Oleg exclaimed. “What we could do with seven thousand men! We started with half that many soldiers.”
“It’s well that many townspeople have become soldiers,” answered Vardaheri.
“Were they the same Persians we fight now?” wondered Oleg aloud.
Bessas answered him. “Many use the names of other peoples imprecisely. We fight the Seljuk Turks and their allies. They overwhelmed the old Persian lands years ago, before coming upon us.”
They all fell silent, each considering the context of time that this gave them. Guy recalled Charles’ wondering in the mess on their first morning in Manzikert, whether anyone would remember their passing.
Simon Vardaheri broke the lull in conversation. “Somethin’ll happen soon. I can feel it.” There was a long silence as they all looked at him.
“So can I,” said Bryennius. Despite the Roman’s eyes being closed, Guy knew the Count had not been asleep, just stealing a few minutes of rest.
They pressed Vardaheri, but he could not tell more of his fears, for he did not know himself. It was some instinct deep inside the horse trader that warned him: perhaps some change in the movement and noise in the Seljuk camp that conscious thought did not perceive, but some part of his soul knew it for what it was.
Oleg recognised the return of a sombre mood and subtly changed the subject. “May I have some of your feast here?”
“Yes. Yes.” David started up, embarrassed on their behalf. “It’s poor manners from us not to have offered. Here’s a goblet.”
With the others, Guy leaned forward and took some more food, a crust of bread and some dry cheese from the blanket they had spread. He refilled his goblet with wine and sat back in the chair.
“John Curticius has done well for a man plagued with the unhappiness with his lot,” Oleg started. “I must confess I doubted the man before the siege, but there’s iron in him now. He’s always calm when the fighting is thickest. The daughter too, is unafraid. She carries food to the wall and tends the wounded and I’ve seen her with my own eyes shoot at the enemy during their attacks.”
Arshak, either unaware of or indifferent to Guy’s feelings, broke in. “It’s said the Sultan will make his bride of her if he captures the city.”
Several men looked furtively at Guy as he stopped chewing and looked at the ground. He had scarcely seen Irene through the siege. Their flight from Archēsh seemed a lifetime ago, and conversation during their brief meetings was unbearably reserved. Thought of Theodore Ankhialou being in the Seljuk camp always brought a flood of unwelcome emotions. Yet again, he blinked them away. The bread felt like sand in his mouth and he was aware of others watching him.
Bryennius snorted without uncovering his eyes. “The Sultan won’t get in. And that’s just talk, Arshak. Where’d you hear it?”
“Kamyates,” was the answer. “He’s the diplomat. I’m guessing he’d know.”
“Kamyates, eh?” said Bryennius, head relaxed back against the stones, eyes closed.
Simon
Vardaheri steered the conversation away, if ever so slightly. “Hey, what price old Maniakh, eh? Stealing off in the midst of a battle—to look for a dancer in the Sultan’s camp.”
“I’ll warrant he found her,” Togol grinned. “Maniakh was … is … like that.”
Bryennius’ squire, Taticus Phocas, sitting on the edge of the circle, spoke up, for he too had proven himself outside Manzikert’s walls. “Maniakh didn’t exactly steal away. He helped us in the battle, then told Count Bryennius he was going.”
“That he did. As did you, help me out of danger, that is,” the count said from behind closed eyes.
Taticus Phocas blushed as Oleg clapped him on the back.
Reminded of Maniakh, David Varaz recounted the detention, before the cavalry fight, of Kamyates and Cydones. He described in uproarious detail Maniakh’s feigned drunken rage and how he had stormed into the inn where the two courtiers had been whispering. “Then he grabbed them by their very clean robes,” David continued with exaggerated gestures and comical expressions to illustrate his tale. “Banged their heads together and dragged them off. The mistress Serena, outside, made sure the two miscreants saw her. She screamed and said she would fetch help, while really she acted as lookout. Meanwhile I’m trying to play the part of an innocent trying to calm Maniakh down, but I can hardly stop laughing.”
The men were guffawing now. Bessas, doubled forward in mirth, begged David to stop making him laugh because it hurt his wound.
“Kamyates was always complaining about not being paid enough to be out here,” David related. “I was mending a bridle by that door there, some weeks ago, and he was hanging around Isaac, trying to charm information out of him and complaining about his pay while he was at it. Isaac doesn’t miss much. He just said to Kamyates that he didn’t deserve to be paid at all since he did not do anything, never standing guard or scouting.”
Guy roared with laughter along with the rest of them, spilling some of his wine as he imagined the cheeky clerk identifying the raw parts of the haughty courtier and rubbing in salt.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 53
