Guy placed his men behind the cover of the low garden wall, instructing Aram Gasparian to watch him for orders as he went forward with Jacques and the archers. They had agreed on two hand signals: “come to me and make a stand here”, a simple beckoning with a hand then pointing at the ground; and “make for citadel”, by tracing a circle in the air and indicating the direction with a straight arm. Such were the symbols of one’s destiny.
Lugging four quivers each, Guy, Jacques and ten men moved towards the wall. Cataphracts of the Sixth Schola led by Bryennius and Varangians commanded by Egin, were pressed behind the main wall, prepared to be committed to the fray.
“Guy!” the count called.
Guy went to him.
“They’ve moved it,” Bryennius grimaced, his tone betraying the depth of his fears. “The big counter-weight mangonel, their baban. Screens have appeared in front of all the other walls—deception. It could be behind any of them!”
Guy gasped. “We’ve got our hands full here.”
“You are right. Someone else will have to worry about the engine for the time being, but be ready to react quickly.”
Guy deployed his archers along a short section of the main wall overlooking the breach. A mix of Varangians and townspeople manned these walls here, with the Franks of William de Chartres defending the breach. On the fore-wall near the collapsed section, someone had prepared a long timber arm on a fulcrum, to which a rope and closing hooks were attached. The device was designed to snare an attacker and haul them over the wall; a useful means of capturing prisoners. Guy had seen how the heavy iron claws clasped a man, who concentrating on the fight to his front, would not see the three-clawed device drop from above. The sharp points would catch on armour and belts, making escape impossible when the rope was jerked tight and the hapless victim was swung up over the battlements. The Varangians called the practice “fishing”.
With a touch on his forearm, Irene joined Guy, who was at once glad to see her but concerned for her safety. His look must have been disapproving, for she responded, “They want women and booty. I will not have the fate of the Trojan women.”
Guy was uncertain of her meaning; something else to ask Bessas about. “Where’s your father?” he asked, mindful of her previous statement about needing to be with her family.
“The south wall.”
Then battle was joined and there was no time to say more. Dipping into their quivers, drawing and loosing, Irene, Guy and the archers supporting the ballistae-men, maintained a steady rate of bolts and arrows against the attackers until their thumbs felt cut to the sinews from the bowstrings and shoulders ached from drawing with all their strength.
The storm of the first assault hit the walls. A deafening buzz like that of angry bees, punctuated by the distinctive slaps of ballistae, engulfed the fortress. Incoming arrows clattered on the merlons around the defenders, to be picked up and fired back. Hails of missiles arched both ways. Many of the poorly protected Seljuks fell transfixed. Surging up the scarp, the tribesmen pulled, hacked and cut at the mantelets. The barrier gave way with a groan and collapsed, some of the defenders falling after it to be slashed to pieces in the frenzy of the close combat.
Scores died in the stream of trampled, bloody bile that marked the breach and the scarp leading to it. Seljuks, eyes staring with fear, clawed over the corpses, their lungs gasping in the air after the mental and physical exertion of running through the assault, stepping through the bodies that paved the ditch and up that terrible climb where the dropped swords of the fallen alone were hazard enough. Those in the lead had no breath for anything but laboured, painful sobs. The supports, pressing on their comrades ahead, screamed in unison, “Fight. Fight. Paradise. Paradise.”
In the breach, the levelled spears of townsmen and peasants met the nomads. The strategos had taken pains to have as many of them as possible equipped with lamellar cuirasses, pot helmets and the characteristic Byzantine iron strip iron greaves and vambraces to protect legs and forearms. They fought for their families and home, their city and religion. Having no place to hide, they struck with desperate courage, blow for blow, life for life. Despite basic training in the skills and drills of close fighting, they were not professionals and paid dearly the price of a place in the front ranks.
The fight lasted for an hour, perhaps more, with both sides locked so tightly there was no room to swing a sword. Gasping, terrified men could not even withdraw a shield to protect themselves from the short dagger thrusts. Thus they remained upright, even when mortally struck, there being no room in the press of bodies to fall, until the sway of battle bore them down, to impress its fury on their upturned faces. They bit, stabbed, kicked, and punched. In their hearts and heads they knew no choice; the invaders wanted their women, goods and lands, their lives forfeit in the age-old process. Before this fight, as over and over in the weeks before, these incidental soldiers alongside the professionals had uttered the warriors’ prayer of Byzantium, “Lord Jesus Christ, our God, have mercy on us, Amen.”
They believed and stayed in that inferno, killing and killed, until the tribesmen, who did have somewhere else to go, drew back to enable the Sultan’s professional warriors to start forward against the beleaguered wall.
East of Manzikert, Early-morning,
15th September 1054
Within earshot of this battle, outlined against the low morning sun, Derar al-Adin sat astride Qurmul on the low ridge to the east of the fortress where he rode once more with the black tents of Emren Dirse. His friend’s followers were sullen and angry that they had this lowly task of cutting off any Christian deserters or units that tried to escape or cut their way from the trap. Burla Dirse had spoken the truth when she said the probable cause of their being here was Emren’s disagreement with the Sultan over the recovery and burial of their dead after the failed night attack.
Patrolling and watching in a wide arc, they had intercepted no Christian troops attempting to break out. Either the unbelievers had resolved to die in place or were confident they could hold out. “Or,” remarked Emren to Derar, “they’ll defend as long as possible, then those who can will try and flee in the confusion of street fighting.”
“Yes,” agreed Derar. “It will be difficult to keep order when the looting and ravishing start.”
He turned in his saddle and thought of the miserable people they had caught during the night: two lovers barely out of their teens who had come over the wall, and a family with their aged parents and three children that had slipped out unnoticed amongst the citizens repairing the breach. The language barrier had prevented questioning until the renegade, Theodore Ankhialou, had ridden by. The man was alert to any news of his woman who fled Archēsh or the Frank on a chestnut horse who accompanied her. Ankhialou questioned the captives, denounced them as spies and ordered they should be instantly killed.
Emren had forbidden it, explaining angrily when Ankhialou had threatened to tell the Sultan of the unwarranted leniency, “Killing is simple enough when the time comes and it is necessary. But the easiest way to encourage a trickle of refugees to become a flood, out into the open where they are easy prey, is to lead them to believe there may be a way out. That is much easier than fighting your way into their lair.”
Ankhialou retorted. “Their city will be trap enough when the Sultan makes a second breach this day.” He had ridden off to the south, with the evident intent of completing a lap of the fortress environs back to the Sultan’s pavilion by the river. After the traitor had gone, Emren Dirse released the captives into the night.
Derar was glad. He had enough debt with God already for his unremonstrative part in the killing, rape and ruin of the last months. To his surprise, he felt a sneaking respect for the garrison of Manzikert. Alone in the wilderness, hopelessly trapped with no prospect of relief, they had held together, fought every battle and shown great tenacity and skill. No doubt he had helped them. Just two nights ago, h
e alerted them to the plan to dig another tunnel under the southern wall. He had, seemingly long ago, ceased to hate the bay-horsed count and would not object to meeting one day to recount their experiences. Nor would he object if the Roman’s pretty interpreter was also there. His lascivious feelings towards the young woman had ceased as his closeness to Farisa had grown. Nevertheless he wished her no harm and would keep his private vow to protect her if he could.
As the sun rose to mid-morning, he remembered Ankhialou’s parting words about a second breach that would seal the fate of the fortress. This day was the day for which he had planned and long laboured. He had already instructed Farisa and Zaibullah to be ready to pack up their belongings and to wait for him at their campsite.
Somehow, he had to get into the city close behind the storming troops and find Zobeir al-Adin. The problem of overpowering his nephew’s guards in time and thwarting Bryennius who had sworn to have Zobeir killed if the city fell, now loomed large in Derar’s thinking. He needed Zaibullah close by, for while the Turk had been blindfolded when led into the city, he had been confident that Zobeir was imprisoned in the citadel which, despite the fate of the city, was unlikely to fall this day. Derar hoped some instinctive memory of Zaibullah’s, the combined memory of senses other than sight, would lead them to the hostage youth.
Once the obstacle of finding the boy had been overcome, others presented themselves. Derar would not be able to stay around. Christian prisoners might confess under torture to the identity of the spy or spies in the Sultan’s camp. Who knew what Zobeir would say when freed? His nephew may even incriminate him through ignorance of his plans and actions.
Derar wondered where Bryennius would be stationed in the fight. If he commanded the only Tagmata troops there, and only a few hundred at that, would he be in the thick of the fighting in the breach, or withdrawn early to the citadel? Derar thought the latter notion unlikely as the Romans had shown every indication of wishing to hold the circuit walls. He had been keen enough to ride out last night with Emren Dirse on the hunch that the mounted men of the garrison might try to flee in the dark. Nothing was lost by the deed, but now it would be foolish to remain here longer. Deciding to rejoin the Sultan’s court, Derar prepared to excuse himself.
With so many imponderables troubling him, Derar looked down at his bridle hand resting on his saddle and with great weariness, closed his eyes, pressing the thumb and forefinger of his free hand against his eyelids.
“Are you all right?” asked the tireless Emren Dirse.
“Yes.” Derar opened his eyes. He looked around, away from the fortress, at the vast land around him. The snow-covered peak behind seemed to reflect its own brilliance onto the surrounding landscape. Low ranges stretched away to the west, flanking the course of the river, which for Derar symbolised escape. At times, when the rescue of Zobeir seemed beyond possibility, he had scarcely been able to contain the desire to just be done with Manzikert and its perils and ride off down the valley with Farisa, following it to the Euphrates and home.
This land was beautiful in its own austere way. Brown hills, that had been light green-tinged when they arrived, were now mostly eaten bare. The bright sunlight was somehow mellow in the clear air of the distance; the lightest breeze, like the breath of a woman’s kiss, pleasantly soft and cool. Whispering this hour from the northeast, it did not bear the stench of decaying corpses of men and beasts that hung heavily over the city.
He focused on the black-walled fortress with the green outline of trees inside among the domed roofs of the taller buildings. A column of brown smoke, from the smouldering stable fire of the day before, rose high into the light blue sky—with its thin, high white clouds—as though to mark for all the universe the scene of the battle. Low over the walls hung a pall of dust accompanied by the sounds of fierce fighting and the throb of Seljuk drums.
Derar had a sudden, overpowering feeling of unreality. At this place, so far from any of the famous cities of east or west, or any indispensable trade routes, such a great army had come and now fought to overwhelm ordinary people who struggled for their very lives. Just months ago he had never heard of Manzikert, long settled and venerable as it was. When he returned home, if he ever did, his family and friends would not have heard of it either. Nor would they care.
Qurmul moved suddenly, as though in response to Derar’s subconscious impulse to be away. “Steady, my beauty,” Derar whispered as he drew on the reins. “It’ll soon be over, one way or the other.”
Emren Dirse had been silent. “You’re off?”
“Yes. I was hired to be a linguist and interpreter. There may soon be need of my services, therefore I must go.”
So saying, Derar cantered off to the north, skirting around the low seams of exposed lava stone and wide of the thousands of Daylamis now forming up to assault the north wall. Qurmul slid on his hocks down a dusty gap in the lava step and cantered along the flat river valley bottom to camp, where regiments of dismounted ghulams waited on their shields. The counterweight mangonel, the baban, had been moved into a position where it threatened the western walls. The engineers were preparing defensive works around it from cotton bales and other material found in the area, to prevent the Romans engaging the machine or its crew with fire.
Riding up to their little camp, he found Farisa, expressionless, looking towards the plume of smoke rising from the city and at the dirty dust cloud over the combat at the north wall.
“They are my people, Derar. How do they bear it?” she murmured.
Manzikert, Morning,
15th September 1054
Despite heavy losses, the Seljuk tribesmen had successfully worn down the defenders of the north wall and were to be replaced by the Daylami heavy infantry. The mantelets in the breach had been smashed to pieces and the substantial casualties amongst the nomadic clans were at the cost of the destruction of the hundred led by William de Chartres and the death of that gallant knight.
To a deliberate drumbeat, the Shi’ite Daylami regulars formed up to assault. Large, brawny men they were recruited from their harsh mountain homeland in north-western Persia. Unafraid of the Turks or any other peoples, they had often brawled in Baghdad and elsewhere with the better paid Sunni Turkic ghulams, the latter receiving more than four times as much, almost forty gold dinars. There had also been ugly fights in the Seljuk encampment around Manzikert, where the unequal distribution of the coins minted by Tughrul Bey resulted in similar resentments. Well-equipped from the Abbasid arsenals with mail or lamellar corselets and protected by large round shields, their main offensive weapon was the spear. Each soldier carried at his belt, a sword or other close-quarter weapon, an axe or mace. Their own numerous archers supported them.
They started forward in long assault waves against the fortifications, with a deep column in the centre to force the breach. Heavily bearded infantry, hair curling around their ears from beneath their pot helmets, the Daylamis jeered at the Seljuks who withdrew past them. They were led by their own prince, a just and courageous man who well understood the ways of war, as he knew the cool gardens, plum trees and shimmering domes of the Abbasid capital. He could march all day on foot, ride and shoot, wield pen and sword as well as recite the Quran. Lightly he carried the heavy shield and spear as his gilded helmet flashed in the sun.
Through the ditch and up the scarp the Daylamis surged as the Varangians in the breach braced to meet them. Fifty-four Vikings and Rus fell at the first shock. Like scythed barley, both sides went down as the mound of bodies over which they battled grew. Valiant and skilled at arms as Oleg’s men were, there were ten fresh Daylamis for each of them. The Norsemen wavered. Their line bent back as they were almost forced from the rubble of the fore-wall.
On the wall as he shot his arrows, Guy saw this with clarity and horror.
In the front rank leading the defence of the breach, Count Branas glanced around between blows, reading the ebb and flow of battle. Be
tween bowshots, Guy noticed Bryennius with Togol, David Varaz and a hundred cataphracts, crouched under their shields on the wreck of the main wall and collapsed tower. Basil was kneeling next to Bryennius, judging the moment to hurl the heavily armoured Scholae down the short slope into the Daylamis.
“D’Agiles,” Basil shouted, “bring your men up, now.”
Guy looked around and waved on Gasparian and the others who started forward like people hunched against sleet. Guy threw his quiver and bow to Irene, who with townsmen and peasant archers, maintained a steady stream of arrows into the packed attackers. With terrible fascination, Guy beheld the murder as ranks of Daylamis and Varangians pushed and plunged at each other with spears while the arching arrows rained down on the supports. He felt something intangible first, then in a fragment of a moment, sensed Branas about to glance around again. He uttered an involuntary, “No.”
“No!” he screamed, launching himself forward.
A heavy spear caught Count Branas in the throat. The honoured officer staggered, dropping his own spear and grasping the Daylami’s haft in his right hand as his legs buckled. Like a bull stunned in the slaughter yard he sank to his knees with a terrible understanding flooding his eyes, like that of a gazelle seized by lions. With a triumphant shout, the Daylamis strove forward and tore at his shield. Branas, wavering on his knees, held it against them, until they tore it away, one of their champions driving a spear through the mail corselet and lamellar cuirass into his chest.
A Varangian battle-axe split the helmet, head and chest of the Daylami as Branas slumped sideways into the trampled bloody dust and shattered masonry. The Varangians gave a pace as Daylamis, surging around Branas, made to drag him away.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 58
