A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  “Daniel,” Basil waved Count Branas over. “Guy and his men will defend the fore-wall breach, if the Seljuks succeed in making one, which seems likely. You get back into town. Find Doukas, who should be near the cathedral organising theme troops and townspeople, now out-of-battle, into a semblance of order. Get yourself a regiment—a short one, even fifty men if necessary—and return here as quick as you can. Go straight in to support Guy.”

  Basil turned to Selth, who crouched nearby. “Karas. Get work parties up here to start forming barricades on the main wall. Bring up any mantelets we have left—barrels of soil—anything. The fore-wall will go and we need something to break the impetus of their assault.”

  Guy heard Basil’s orders and thus learned of his place in the desperate plan. He was aware of an immediate foreboding, countered by a sense of now being in so deep, he had no power over his own destiny. Reading similar thoughts in the faces of his men, he placed them in cover behind the main wall, where they made what personal preparations they could for the sudden rush into the breach. Jacques and Gasparian watched over them, but none attempted to slink away from that awful wait, even when they went a short distance away to expel their watery fear by a garden wall.

  Guy stayed by the crumpled tower. He saw more dismounted Seljuks come up, but had seen enough attacks now to know that this one was fragmentary, hurriedly organised by the nomads to exploit an unexpected advantage. On an adjoining tower, the bobbing heads of the Varangians bespoke Araxie Bagradian attempting to increase the range of his mangonels, so the defenders could at least interfere with the terrible machine the Seljuks had dragged from Baghesh.

  “There is a fire in the town,” cried one of the townsmen behind Guy.

  “Steady. Stay fast,” ordered Guy crisply over the chaos and shouting as several men half rose. “Someone else must take care of it.”

  An ear splitting crash rent the air. “There it goes,” someone shouted as a section of fore-wall collapsed under the concentrated weight of rocks hurled against it by the Seljuks. For the length of three spears laid end-to-end, it had crashed down, much of it disintegrating into a heap of shattered rubble. This impeded movement in the space between the walls and made a rough ramp leading to the breached tower. A great shout of triumph came from the Seljuk lines.

  “Come on,” Guy shouted without looking back as he clambered over the smashed stones of the main wall and scrambled to the breach, towards which hundreds of Seljuks were sprinting.

  Manzikert, Morning,

  15th September 1054

  Bessas woke as Bryennius, Lascaris and Sebēos roused and hurried off. The pain of his wound had denied proper rest and he lay for a few minutes, wondering what caused his companions to leave so early. There had always had been a coming and going amongst them, but this morning had a different feel to it. He struggled up, calling for a trooper to help him don a cuirass of horn lamellar, the mail shirt being too painful to get on past his strapped left arm. As the soldier buckled on his sword belt and he stamped his feet into riding boots, Bessas heard the great crack from the direction of the north wall. He hurried towards it.

  In the streets all was confusion as the worst terrors of the people rose like bile in their throats. Some rushed bewildered and half-clothed to join the crowds. Others, who had in their fears rehearsed the moment a thousand times in their minds, dressed carefully, preparing little bundles with which to seek to hide or flee, should their nerve or makeshift weapons fail them.

  Bessas walked as rapidly as he could to where the regiment was assembling, squires taking the reins of the saddled horses while the cataphracts formed in ranks under the decarchs. Cosmas Mouzalon, had already saddled both Bessas’ mounts. Bryennius rode up and Bessas asked for orders.

  “We are saddling to fight, not run,” the count said, looking pointedly at his bandaged arm. “And you cannot fight in that condition, Bessas. Seek out Doukas and support him in readying the city for the battle.” Bryennius rattled off orders to Lascaris and Sebēos, then returned to Bessas. “But first, make your way to the Barbarian House and ensure Isaac has taken all his records on the enemy to the strategos’ rooms in the citadel.”

  Bessas knew the importance of the task: the papers contained all that was known of the enemy and their scouts, spies and ways of war. They also included maps and information on the strengths and dispositions of Byzantine forces in Vaspurakan and Armenia, as well as what the enemy evidently knew of them. He left and made his way up a crowded, rushing thoroughfare, wincing as passers-by bumped heedlessly against his wound. Togol found him and taking Bessas under his care, cleared a path.

  They entered the Barbarian House silently from the rear, finding Kamyates, Reynaldus and Bardas Cydones, with their backs to them, confronting Isaac. The clerk saw Bessas and Togol enter, but gave no sign.

  “Pray, hand over the papers,” Cydones was saying in the bullying fashion he had with people of lesser rank. “We’ve a task from Count Branas to take them to safety.” Kamyates stood behind his manlier subordinate’s shoulder.

  “That may be, but I have had no such orders,” Isaac replied.

  “You don’t need them. You’ll do you’re told,” Reynaldus spat. His right hand, covered from Isaac’s view by his shield, reached behind his waist along his belt towards his dagger. The hand stilled as a cataphract unexpectedly came downstairs holding a large, rolled skin, which might have been a map. Reynaldus made a pretence of adjusting his sword belt as the second of the two guard cataphracts, always posted to the Barbarian House, entered at the sounds. Seeing Bessas, this second trooper saluted.

  Bessas stepped forward as though he had just entered the room. In a glance, he took in the annoyed look Isaac shot the well-intentioned cataphract and the expressions of Reynaldus and Cydones, as they passed from astonishment through hatred to self-control.

  “What’s going on?” Bessas asked, aware that his own account of the incident, even backed by the big Cuman beside him, was not sufficient proof to throw the two courtiers in the dungeons or run them through with his sword on the spot—not against the power Kamyates possessed in Constantinople and how its influence reached this far-away place.

  Cydones attempted to maintain the bluff. “We’ve orders to take the Barbarian House papers to safe-keeping.”

  “Indeed,” Bessas feigned surprise. “Whose?”

  “Branas,” the imperial courier purred.

  Bessas looked at him evenly. “I hardly know about that,” he countered. “I’ll have to ask him. In the meantime, I have my own orders regarding the papers.” Without taking his eyes from Reynaldus and Cydones, Bessas instructed Isaac, Togol and the two cataphracts to take the bundles of notes immediately to the citadel. As they passed by him, Bessas murmured to Isaac, “Give the officer of the Varangian guards at the citadel gate my compliments. Tell him not to admit Reynaldus or any other party of Normans before the cathedral bells ring, signifying the town is lost.”

  As Bessas faced the three, Serena Cephala entered, calling his name and giving them a smile. With a dark blue scarf binding her hair, she wore—over men’s riding clothes—an unbleached, loose cotton dress, such as a peasant woman might wear. At first they did not recognise her, but Serena’s crisply enunciated Greek quickly ended their confusion. “Reynaldus!” she exclaimed in mock bewilderment, “I am surprised to see you here, so far from the fight. I am sure your troops need your knowledge and valour right now, for they are sorely pressed on the south wall.”

  Sensing themselves foiled, Kamyates, Reynaldus and Cydones scowled at her and left hurriedly.

  Serena turned to Bessas and moving closer, scrutinised his face before quickly examining his shoulder where a circle of fresh blood stained the bandage. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said. “A fire started at the citizen’s stables. I met Irene there. She said she thought she’d seen Bardas Cydones near the stables before the fire started. She wasn’t sure
—it was dark.”

  “It is well time we flung Cydones somewhere we can keep an eye on him,” Bessas said as he ran out into the street looking for the three plotters, but they had vanished into the early morning confusion of a city under attack. “Come on, we must tell Count Leo and Doukas. I’ll have a section of my men search for Cydones, though there’re many places he could hide in the city.”

  On their way, they hurried by the blazing stables. Among a crowd holding terrified horses and such gear as could be rescued from the flames, they found one of Serena’s servants holding her horse amongst others, while the other searched for their saddles and other tack through the pile on the ground. Her man, recognising Bessas, explained excitedly: “We were able to rescue most of the horses and much of the tack. Some fodder was pulled out, but most of it burns as you can see now.”

  “Did anyone see how it started?” Bessas asked.

  “No. They’d have been torn apart had they been seen.”

  Bessas could hardly hear Serena’s man amongst the turmoil as the crowd pressed around looking helplessly at the fired stables. Seeing the signs of emerging panic, Bessas called for calm, but on foot and in pain when he tried to yell or raise his arm, he could not make himself heard.

  Suddenly in the smoke shrouded light, the crowd parted before the mounted figures of the abbess and Count Doukas. Two Armenian irregulars from the Vaspurakan theme rode behind them. At the sight of the abbess, a hundred voices clamoured to tell of their fears. She held out her hand as if to speak and the crowd hushed in a moment, for the abbess was much loved in the city. “Good people, go to the churches as you have been taught, for rushing into the streets impedes those defending the city.”

  Much as people trusted her, so great was their fear that they looked to Doukas, for the redoubtable fighter was also well known and respected.

  “Friends,” he called, “the abbess is right. Go to the churches and wait. If called upon to fight, move quickly to where you’re directed by the messengers. In the meantime, remain quietly in the houses of God and pray for our success.” The crowd swayed uncertainly and broke up, moving off to the appointed churches. Seeing Bessas, Doukas rode over. “My God, Bessas, you’d better go to the hospital.”

  “Count Bryennius sent me to you.”

  “Good! I’m sending you to hospital.”

  “There’s no time. We found Michael Kamyates and Bardas Cydones trying to get hold of the Barbarian House papers,” Bessas said. “The papers are safe now. But Cydones seems to be in league with Reynaldus and Kamyates. And Irene Curticius has reported seeing Cydones near the stable when the fire broke out.”

  Concern clouded Doukas’s face.

  “I think we should detain Cydones awhile,” Bessas suggested.

  Doukas frowned for a moment. “Damn right. I just saw Reynaldus slink back to the south wall and I wondered what he had been up to. De Gaillon’s dependable enough—I’ll warn him to keep an eye on Reynaldus, for his own good.” Doukas looked around in silence for a moment as he read the distant sounds of the battle. “Bessas, set ten or twenty of your men after Cydones. Find him and throw him in the citadel cells. Not near Zobeir, though. And go to hospital. I’ll tell Leo that I’ve given you such orders. Are you up to it, until I can find another officer to relieve you?”

  “Yes—it must be done.” Bessas winced, having determined to act already but grateful for Doukas’s support.

  Doukas rode off towards the tumult on the north wall.

  “Bessas,” Serena said, taking his good arm, “I’ll take you to where the regiment is. Place Loukas Gabras in charge of the search. He’s a good man and true, you have said so yourself often enough.”

  Together they moved northward through the chaos of the city to where the regiment was formed, waiting for the order to be committed to the fight. Many of the cataphracts prayed.

  Men, women and children surged past Serena and Bessas. The citizens carried stones, arrows, darts, water, food and spare weapons. Others returned from the tumult, clutching empty urns or utensils, or bearing the maimed. One woman helped a wounded Varangian who had crawled from the fight, blinded by his own blood, his mind gone. Another, a dying Rus, was propped up with his back against a wall. His face a mask, only the soldier’s eyes moved as he watched them pass. From somewhere in a building close to them, they heard screams of agony. As Serena and Bessas moved on, that terrible sound was lost in the thunder at the walls and the shouting.

  Manzikert, Mid-morning,

  14th September 1054

  Reaching the breach in the northern fore-wall, Guy found a red-bearded Rus shouting orders to the survivors to form a shield wall. Some of the stonework had tumbled onto the peribolos, allowing the attackers to scramble up. Red Beard turned to Guy. With a commanding presence and no sign of alarm, the Rus ordered him to form a second line of defence behind them. Guy waved his bowmen and slingers to his rear and the walls on either side of the breech and formed up his spearmen behind the three ranks of Varangians now being pushed into place. While the hasty Seljuk attack came upon them at a swift run, the defenders covered themselves with their shields as the darts rained amongst them.

  A cheer from the tower to his right alerted Guy that Araxie Bagradian’s mangonel had scored a hit on one of the smaller Seljuk engines, breaking the tie beam. Enemy figures milled in confusion around their damaged mangonel.

  To Guy’s front, beyond the iron lines of pot helmets covering bearded faces and hair bunched on hunched mail shoulders, hundreds of Turks charged on foot in a great mass. Behind him, Oleg was still shouting orders and encouragement. A deluge of the defenders’ arrows, bolts and stones struck with crippling effect just as the Seljuks reached the far side of the ditch. The attackers were not stopped, those in the rear pushing forward and spilling around the flanks into the ditch, making for the rough scramble up to the Christian line formed above them. The sound of their shouting, clashing of weapons and the thud of their drums was deafening.

  A Seljuk ballista bolt tore into the people crowded into the breach, slicing through shields and mail, killing a front-rank Varangian and another man behind him. The bodies were shuffled back into the fortress; their bloodied and holed mail shirts pulled from the dead, hurriedly rubbed in the dirt to clean them before being donned by townsmen who had none. Arrows sped into the momentary confusion in the Christian ranks and some found their mark.

  Guy, who was braced on his feet behind his long, kite-shaped shield, took one look around before the battle closed on them. Basil Apocapes, having satisfied himself that the rest of the defence was in order, strode towards them, sword and shield in hand, to take his place in the breech. Oleg was forming a second line on the rubble behind them where the main wall tower had stood. Guy saw his archers and slingers maintaining their efforts against the enemy, rising to shoot, hunching a little as they fitted another arrow or stone to their weapon, and shooting again. Then he was shocked to see Irene loosing arrows from a crenelle of the main wall behind them. She wore her mail corselet and a Norman helmet over her tied-back hair. Jacques noticed Guy look and with a quick motion, angrily urged him angrily to watch his front.

  Guy looked forward, just as the arrows ceased and the first wave of moustached, long-haired Seljuks arose from the scarp to grapple with the Varangians. Around him, Guy could hear the prayers and shouts of the men now facing oblivion as they braced forward to meet the shock.

  The first assault wave comprised lightly armoured tribesmen, breathless from running, yelling and the steep scramble up the collapsed wall. A score of them died at the top of it, spitted on the spears of the Varangians, to then crumple backwards where their comrades trampled over them in their eagerness to grapple with the Christians. Hands reached out to grasp at the shields and spears of the first kneeling rank of Norsemen, attempting to pull them out of line. These first Seljuks died on the spears of the defenders behind. Some spears broke, the soldiers draw
ing swords to slash at the sea of blades and limbs, or thrust into the press of bodies coming against them.

  Basil Apocapes eased into the midst of the Varangians at the breach just as the first Seljuk assault reached the Christian line on the shattered fore-wall. Guy had a glimpse of him hacking away the arm of a big Seljuk emir who grasped the fountain stump and stumbled backwards to be trampled by those behind. He lay there, covered over by others for a long time, only to be later exposed as the weight of the slain shifted and slid down the reeking, crimson slope.

  It seemed as if the first mass attack would fall away repulsed. The lightly armed warriors appeared to be losing heart, knowing their attack was only to wear down the defence, before the ghulams of the hassa ordusa and Daylami heavy infantry were committed after the Christians were sufficiently exhausted.

  Suddenly, two lassos snaked out from the Seljuks ranks. Immediately another rope with a grappling hook was thrown into the ranks of the Varangians, snaring a man of the front rank who was pulled forward off-balance and instantly killed. For a moment, the Varangians were distracted, slashing at the lassos so as not to be entangled in them. Seljuks hurled themselves at the gap from where the Norseman had been torn. A big, heavily armoured emir struck left and right with his shield and mace. As more Turks leapt into the whirling, hacking mass, three Varangians fell. A fourth was flung down across them by the violence of the assault, his shoulder stoved in by a mace, against which mail was no protection.

  Basil was knocked aside and staggered against another man, holding his shield aloft to ward off the rain of blows that followed. A Varangian of the third rank stepped forward, smashing down with his axe upon the strategos’ assailant. He pulled Basil to his feet.

  Hundreds of Turks boiled up out of the ditch and peribolos pushing into the breach. “Fight. Fight. Paradise. Paradise!” those behind them shouted as they surged forward into the press of their kinsmen struggling for purchase on the bloody stones.