A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  “Kamyates’ a fool as well,” David said. “He threatened to have Maniakh’s eyes and was close to being killed on the spot. But he’s a damned smart fool who has charmed many people.”

  They laughed again, but without humour. “It would have been a good thing if Maniakh had killed him,” said Togol, suddenly pensive. “I wonder if he ever found his dancer.”

  “Was it Maniakh,” Oleg asked, “who wrote that on the garden wall—‘One love and one death?’”

  Images of Irene’s smiling face, another of her tears at the start of the ride from Archēsh, suddenly flitted to Guy’s mind’s eye.

  “No one knows,” Simon Vardaheri said. “One of Manzikert’s mysteries.”

  Some instinct made Guy look towards the gate, to glimpse Irene passing on foot with her mother. Looking their way, she gave a shy wave. He was certain no one else saw the two richly robed women.

  Then he heard Bryennius murmur pensively beneath his hat, “T’were no shame that Trojans and well-greaved Achaeans should suffer pain long time for a woman such as she.” Guy looked suddenly at the lounging form of Bryennius. He knew the count could not have seen Irene and he wondered of whom he spoke.

  There was another moment of silence while the men thought on the count’s words and of those on the garden wall.

  In the distance, faintly from the Seljuk camp, came the human cry of the faithful being called to prayer. Jacques rose, saying, “It is time to feed our horses.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Guy, also rising.

  The two Franks left. Once outside the gate, Jacques said, “I’ll care for them. Go after her.”

  Guy jogged after the two women. He saw the swing of Irene’s long dress and her shapely neck as he drew abreast of them. She smiled at him through the light veil. Thus encouraged he walked with them some little way, but the conversation seemed strained. They were dressed-up and on their way to the Orthodox Church with obvious purpose. So Guy, feeling forlorn and moved by some disquiet he could not fathom, took his leave.

  Manzikert, Early evening,

  9th September 1054

  In the mellow light of early evening, Guy walked once more to the hospital to see Charles, hoping he would not again be ushered away. Outside the door, he met the abbess.

  The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. It is fortuitous you’ve come—he’s called for you.”

  Guy found Charles white-faced on a paillasse, the angry welt of infection spreading from the cut to his neck. Flora Asadian was by his side, holding his hand, which was as pale as her own. She placed his hand down gently and stood. “You should have some time.”

  Guy thought Flora needed to get outside quickly, to breathe in fresh air, control her grief and compose her thoughts. He was so shocked by Charles’ sudden falling away he was concerned that it must have showed on his face. As Charles looked up, Guy tried to mask his feeling with a smile. “Charles?”

  His friend made to speak but no words came out. With effort, he cleared his throat. “You look terrible, Guy. You should get some sleep.”

  Guy knelt and took his hand. “People keep telling me that. I’ve slept and bathed.”

  “She’s a good woman.”

  “Flora? Yes. She’s nice.”

  “Be kind to her, Guy, for plenty of people haven’t. Look after her—if you can. Don’t let the infidels capture Manzikert and if you can’t, get her away.”

  “Come! You’ll be saving her yourself. Also, you had no need to ask.”

  “From you, that’s enough. How is your heiress?”

  “Irene? Well enough. Why do you smile, Charles?”

  “You. And horses.”

  “Horses?”

  Charles wheezed and was silent for a time, his eyes moving. “Yes. We were looking for a horse for you when our lives took this course. You worried about your hired hacks when you should have stayed in the inn. You went outside and …”

  “Two inns by the Golden Gate, and I chose that one,” Guy said half-bitterly and half in wonder at fortune’s turn. A terrible guilt hit him like a battering ram, knocking him breathless. He had chosen that inn and wanted to go on when the others would have turned back.

  “Don’t look so sad, Guy. We were penniless and did not know what was around the next corner. Besides, my wound was not your fault. It was Balazun and Reynaldus who got me. And Balazun’s dead … but I lost my thought. Ah, yes. Horses brought you to Manzikert and you found Irene. I came along looking for an heiress and instead found something more.”

  “Charles, what does it feel like?”

  “When we fought our way out of the trap Reynaldus schemed us into, all I could think of, was being with her. And when I got through the gates, she was there, waiting. And now, Guy, I don’t want to leave. But if I must, it was worth everything, just to feel that alive.”

  Guy thought Charles was going to cry. “I should have been with you out there.”

  Charles laughed weakly. “You were sent to your duty elsewhere—and had to be ordered to it. We haven’t driven the Seljuks off, yet, so your chance will come soon enough. Anyway, what could you have done other than be struck down as well?” Charles closed his eyes, as though thinking back to the fight. He stayed that way for a long time and Guy was unable to discern if he was asleep or not. At the strains of the Muslim prayer from outside the walls, Charles opened his eyes. “Guy, it’s just after sunset.”

  “How did you know?”

  “They always have that fourth prayer just after sunset.” Charles closed his eyes, listening. “Fetch me a priest, Guy. I’ve killed and not repented my sins, even if they were infidels.”

  Battle or not, killing was sinful for Christians before the notion of crusade, so Guy slipped a youth some copper coins to fetch any priest he could find, preferably a Frank; Araxie Bagradian, if not.

  As they waited, Geoffrey de Rouens and Isaac entered. On seeing Charles Bertrum, they knelt by him with obvious emotion and took his hand. It was a shock to Guy. He had noticed Charles and Isaac joke when they met around the city, but he had missed the friendship develop.

  Charles looked long at Isaac. “Promise me, Isaac. Swear to me that you will write what we have done here. What Balazun did. What Guy has done. The deeds the strategos has wrought. And Count Bryennius. The abbess. Togol. All who played honourable or despicable parts. People should know. We’re far from home, but in our land they should know what was done by Franks and Greeks and Norsemen at Manzikert in far off but Christian Armenia.”

  “I swear it,” vowed Isaac. “And I’ll write of what you did, for that also shall be remembered. And I shall scribe it into Latin as well, for Guy d’Agiles to take back to your land and your people.”

  Both priests came and administered the salvation of Charles’ soul. Guy went outside, for he did not need to hear the details of his friend’s confession. Then Araxie Bagradian came outside and told Guy he was asked for. Guy entered the darkening hospital with its smells and flickering lamps and sat by his friend. Charles did not waken—Guy did not get to say farewell for the journey. With Jacques and Flora beside him, he held his friend’s hand, willing him to awaken and praying that he would. In the small hours the abbess came, examined the still form and shook her head.

  Flora howled in a grief Guy could not console. The abbess and another nun came and gently led her away. Guy rose and stumbled outside looking for a private space, but there seemed none in that beleaguered place. He walked slowly as if in a dream to the horse yards and stepped in with Charles’ mare to give her a treat, passing another to Sira through the rails. Careful not to touch her wounds, he put his arms around the mare’s neck and gave her a hug. He felt like crying, but no tears came to relieve the grief for the friendship and journey, the loss and loneliness.

  Irene found him there. “Guy, I heard. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t think where else you would be. Now that I’m here, I
don’t know what to say.”

  Guy shook his head. With Irene near, he recalled what Charles had said about how alive he felt riding back to Flora. Guy thought of the flight from Archēsh and the tumult of emotions he had felt then. “When we rode from Archēsh we should have kept going.”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “It was something Charles said.” They stayed with the horses for a while, playing with their soft muzzles, their thoughts their own.

  Charles Bertrum’s friends buried him in the city before dawn, so the gravediggers and quicklime could not claim him. Jacques set Charles’ sword in mortar, the cross of the hilt the knight’s marker. They agreed to sell his spare horse and arms and to give the proceeds with his horse and saddle to Flora Asadian, so that she might journey to Trebizond as she had always wished. Isaac undertook to escort her. No one reminded the other that their promises to the woman depended on the outcome of the siege. Of that there was no need.

  * * *

  68Rum—the Seljuk term for Romans. Thus the modern city of Ezurum (old Karin) is a derivative of “Artsn of the Romans”.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Lonesome Dove

  Manzikert, Morning,

  10th September 1054

  The next day dawned warm and sad after they buried Charles Bertrum. Guy trudged to the stables, carrying his armour in a roll over his shoulder, spear in hand and weapons and shield slung from his shoulder. A dry wind blew in from the southern deserts with the promise of even hotter weather. Except for a few persistent grey puddles, the ground in the city was now dust.

  The siege had become a force of its own, as though the sheltering walls trapped those within. Guy felt ensnared by decisions taken months before, years even. At times he felt bitterness towards Bryennius for bringing him to Manzikert, but he knew deep inside he had come and stayed of his own accord. Wild thoughts came to mind: of taking Irene with him and going over the walls one night, thieving horses from the enemy camp and stealing away. Instead, the improbability of success and the day-to-day ordinariness of this life, bound him in his fate to the destiny of all.

  Guy fed and cared for their animals as he listened to the stabler’s depressing description of a high official’s role in grain shortages and the black market. Guy sympathised with the elderly Armenian veteran who held his position as a stipend.

  “Apocapes is a good man, but can’t fix it,” the stabler explained. “He’s a thousand things to worry about. They have only one, themselves. Say a Greek merchant conspires with a corrupt official, and they skim off a bit. Then an honest citizen reports them to an honest official. The miscreants are confronted and deny everything. The person who reports them is reproved. The honest official is damned and will be lucky to escape blinding or imprisonment. Apocapes knows it only needs a courtier to whisper—hero and rebellion, in the same breath—and the Emperor’s butter in their hands.”

  Guy returned to breakfast and overcome by a sense of futility, sat down opposite Bessas for breakfast. The portions of his boiled egg, crust of bread and cup of milk had grown smaller as the weeks had gone by and it was goat’s milk, but better than nothing.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” said Bessas. “This wind. It’s relentless and turning hot. I heard …”

  “Last night.”

  “I am sorry. Has everything …?”

  ‘Yes,” Guy said.

  They did not talk much but the familiar company was welcome. With his arm in a sling, Bessas found eating difficult; his wound bothering him more than he was prepared to admit. Soon Togol and Vardaheri entered and joined them. The scouts had scarcely sat when there was a shout of such urgency from the western wall that they all ran to the main wall ramparts. Guy looked over the battlements, expecting to see another assault bearing down on them, but the Seljuk encampment was quiet with no discernible movement, except for two horsemen galloping in the distance.

  “Patience, friend,” Guy calmly commanded of the peasant who had sounded the alarm. “We don’t want to scare the horses. What is it?”

  “See there,” the sentry pointed, “beyond the river. I’ve watched them hawking in the mornings. They must do it to try and catch game for their table.”

  Guy looked beyond the sprawling Seljuk encampment, now shrouded in the thin blue smoke of its morning campfires with ribbons of horses and camels being watered at the river. “What’s so different this morning that you must call the alarm?”

  “Something has stirred them up. They’re different.”

  Guy watched the riders and then observed excitement spreading through the Seljuk camp. A horseman dashed close across their front, a bowshot away from the watchers on the walls, scarcely moving in his seat as he threw off a falcon. Silently they gazed, trying to identify the cause of the activity amongst their foes. Others of the garrison, sensing or seeing the upset, flung themselves onto the ramparts to stare. In the fortress, one might have heard a workman’s cap fall upon the ground.

  “Look,” cried Togol in admiration. “There’s a huntress for you, straight above the shop tents near the lines of the ghulams. See, two hand spans high and climbing.”

  Leaning his shield and spear against the rampart and thankful they had the morning sun at their backs, Guy located the shops, extended his arms to the full, thumbs together, fingers out-spaced. Sure enough, a black speck ascended rapidly. Guy thought back to the hunt and knew it for a female hawk.

  “By the saints!” cried Simon Vardaheri so loudly the soldiers crowded on the ramparts heard him. “It’s a dove.”

  “It may be from Karin,” said Bessas.

  Guy marked the pigeon, a white fleck against the pale morning sky with its thin streaks of cloud. The bird had been flying high and was now coming in low to her home loft in the citadel of Manzikert. But the Seljuk hunters, ever watchful for a dove, had seen the bird and cast off their raptors in pursuit.

  “Come on, my beauty,” roared Togol, fitting an arrow to his bow.

  The dove was still three furlongs from the walls when the rising female saw her and turned, beating fast to get high enough for the plunging attack. A tiercel was behind the dove, striving to overtake the messenger. As people on the walls watched, terrified for the little bird, some sense held them in silence lest they frighten the dove. With one voice, the Seljuks cheered on their raptors. With his heart in his mouth, Guy watched the dove crest low over the merlons, and joined with the rest of the soldiers in shouting and waving their spears to drive off the pursuing tiercel. Arrows arched upward, but the brown bird was untouched.

  Guy looked up while thunderous cheering broke out along the western wall. The startled tiercel, still in pursuit but distracted by the sudden fracas on the walls, veered away in alarm and lost distance. The lonesome dove still had a long bowshot to fly before reaching the sanctuary of the citadel. The falcon above folded her wings and started the long, oblique glide that became a plunging dive.

  “The dove’ll never do it,” Vardaheri predicted mournfully. “The poor things panic when they’re attacked.”

  The dove winged for a small window in the upper level of the citadel, the hawk all the while dropping like a stone. It seemed all of Manzikert stared silently upward at the frightful competition, while outside tens of thousands peered blindly into the sun and wondered at the outcome.

  There was suddenly a great roar from the fortress. “By a hair’s breadth the dove made it,” shouted the exuberant Togol, jumping for joy. He turned and with the others crowding the wall, roared exhilaration and abuse at the besieging Seljuks.

  Hours later, Guy searched out Bessas to learn any news. The centarch confided that the strategos at Karin had sent a message. While the large walled towns and cities of Armenia and Iberia were safe and the Seljuks had been defeated near Baberd but triumphed near Kars, the countryside was devastated with many scores of thousands killed or carried off. Such was the ruination,
no cavalry could be sent to relieve Manzikert, if indeed as it was hoped, the fortress still stood.

  Manzikert was alone with the host of shepherds before the gates.

  Manzikert, Pre-dawn,

  15th September 1054

  Guy woke suddenly in the dark, cool night and lay still, listening. A wind blew: an urgent, secretive, speaking wind, pregnant with the hint of a hot day. Restlessly it rustled the leaves on the tree outside the drab grey stone of their barrack block. Slowly, Guy moved a hand under his cloak to close on the hilt of his sword.

  “You awake?” Jacques whispered.

  “Yes,” replied Guy quietly. “Something’s up. I can feel it.” Guy fumbled in the dark, sliding into boots, armour and weapons. He rolled his cloak and gathered his water skin and saddlebag containing food. Tying them in a bundle he could carry over one shoulder, he waited while Jacques finished similar preparations. A curtain moved in the corner where Charles had slept. Joaninna and Flora now occupied that space and the urgent, kneeling preparations of the men awakened them, if they had slept at all. “What is it?” Joaninna asked.

  “I don’t know,” replied Guy. “But I fear something is afoot. It occurs to me now, that we didn’t notice the enemy were strangely noisier last night. Saddle the horses and take them to the churchyard where the tunnel was. It’s hidden by a wall and looks abandoned, so it may not look like it’s worth looting …” Guy broke off, but they understood his meaning. “If anything happens we’ll try and meet there. At least we’ll have ready mounts and a little food and water for whatever comes.”

  Jacques and Guy then stepped into the night. “Which way?” Jacques asked.

  “The north wall.”

  Reaching it after a hurried walk, they made to ascend the stone steps to the rampart, but were blocked by a Varangian. The dark forms of Bryennius, Togol and Vardaheri pushed past them, the count saying to the sentry, “They’re with me, let them pass. Thank you.”