Now thoroughly aroused, Basil turned on the trembling Kamyates. “Stay next to Oleg and do not move, or speak, or make any gesture—because if you do, Oleg will cut off your head upon my order, given now before God and these men.”
Striding to the edge of the ramparts and looking down on the crowd, Basil thundered, “Men and woman of Manzikert. We’ve fought great battles together. I now send a message to the Sultan—there will be no surrender here. Now go to your places and keep your spear points to the enemy. Take post!” He turned and with a sweep of a mailed shoulder, summoned his council.
With a remarkable coolness after such passion, the strategos lowered his voice, speaking only to those grouped closely around him. “Whoever is able to go forth and burn down that catapult will receive much largesse of gold and silver and many horses and mules from me and honours and high rank from the Emperor. If he is killed by the infidels and has a relative or son, all that will go to him.”
Basil looked for an answer at the circle of faces around him.
No one moved or made to speak. All looked at the ground, seeking in their souls to know if they could face personal annihilation for the public good.
Guy gazed down, seeing his own worn boots in the circle of dirty footwear on the flagstones. He stole a look sideways at the Seljuk lines and the bulk of the baban with its guards and the groups of mounted pickets taking their confident ease. Basil asked certain death: one chance in a hundred of getting to the machine, less of returning alive from the hornets’ nest that would be stirred up. Even the act of setting fire to the engine from horseback with Selth’s untried device was a forlorn hope.
Guy saw Bryennius and Selth glance at each other.
Basil looked around the silent group. “T’was my mistake. I’ll go myself.”
“You will not,” Bryennius and Selth chorused. Bryennius continued for them, “We need you—until the last spear is shattered and sword broken—we need you.”
After an agonised silence, Basil acquiesced. “It need not be any man here? Is there no one who can do this?”
Guy exhausted and filthy, watched all of this. With the others he was motionless in his byrnie and helmet and shield, weapons by his side. There was silence in the group as one by one they looked up, fear in their faces. He knew these men, understanding they had wives and families and something to live for. All had risked death many times over. Not a few were at the end of their tether. Guy thought of Irene. He had come, a penniless would-be warrior to Manzikert for pay and found Irene.
“Is there no one in the city?” Basil asked quietly. “Then I must.”
Guy swallowed and stepped forward. “I will.”
They all regarded him as though he was a dead man already and Guy felt another deep stab of fear. “I will go forth,” he said, steeling his very self, “and burn down that catapult, and today my blood will be shed for all the Christians, for I have neither wife nor children to weep over me.”
Silence sealed the contract.
“You cannot ride your mare, Guy,” Bryennius said, his voice the shadow of a choked whisper. “The Seljuks know her, and her former master’s kinsmen will try and have her back.”
“Name what horse and anything else you want,” said Basil.
Guy looked at Bryennius and asked: “I’d like to ride Zarrar. He is strong and swift and not frightened.”
“Take him. Is my saddle all right?”
“Yes.” Guy had not given the detail of a saddle much thought. “I’ll try and return it to you.”
Basil smiled a secret smile. “I dare say, Count Leo will pursue you to Oleg’s Valhalla and beyond if you do not return his best horse and favourite saddle. Count Selth, we’d better try out one of your infernal devices behind the stables before we let Guy go.”
As they departed the wall, Basil turned to the nearby defenders and ordered defiantly, “Maintain a close watch on the infidels, men. It might look like they’re having their noontime sleep, but they are damned tricky rascals. Keep your spear points to them.”
The soldiers laughed with a show of boldness.
Guy did not smile with them. He was the loneliest man in the world.
Chapter Eighteen
Fairest Fame
Manzikert, Midday,
15th September 1054
Bardas Cydones’ survival now depended on the swift fall of Manzikert. For a day, the imperial courier laid in the dark loft of the churchyard stable with the body of his victim. The stench of death had permeated Manzikert for so long now that even proximity to the murdered monk did not trouble him. Several times he had seen parties of searching soldiers pass by. Late on the previous day, the Cuman and Patzinak scouts with the detestable little Georgian, David Varaz, had entered the very churchyard in which he hid, but in their haste had found nothing. Instead the Armenian monk had stumbled upon him and paid the price: a cut throat.
Cydones had realised his game was up when Bessas Phocas had surprised Kamyates, Reynaldus and him at the Barbarian House. Phocas, with his tame barbarian, the meddling Cephala woman and two cataphracts, had foiled their killing Isaac and taking what papers they wished. Suspicion had been deep in Phocas’ eyes and contempt evident in the crisp diction of Serena Cephala. Cydones had earlier seen her speak with Irene Curticius. He knew the latter had observed him near the scene of the stable fire, for their eyes had met. He would have killed her then, but there had been too many people around.
As the three plotters had left the Barbarian House in the dark hours of the previous morning, Cydones read the glances exchanged between Kamyates and Reynaldus. He thought that both of them would subsequently distance themselves from him, making him the lone scapegoat for any recriminations. Not having Kamyates’ highly placed friends at court, or the backing of the Norman soldiery, he was alone and hunted, unless the city fell.
His thoughts drifted as if they bore his physical being with them. He reflected bitterly how the plan had gone awry with the fight at the inn and unravelled further when he found his journey to Manzikert shared by a regiment of Scholae. The officers, suspicious of the labyrinthine nature of power and treachery in Constantinople, had been infuriatingly guarded and curious. When they had left the route-of-march and hunted down a Seljuk scouting party in the enormity of the harsh Armenian plateau, Cydones had scarcely believed either their fidelity to duty or luck in securing a prisoner. Nor had he counted on the stolid determination of a mercenary, meddling Frank, whose desire for a warhorse seemed to play some part in the trust that had emerged between Basil Apocapes, the officers of the Scholae and some of the garrison. He had not caught the couriers on the road, nor had he been able to get to them at Manzikert because they were never alone and unprotected.
Most unsettling of all had been Apocapes’ closely held and exacting ability to predict what the Sultan would do next. Cydones knew Apocapes had at least one spy in the Seljuk camp. Some nights ago he had stumbled over an arrow with a message tightly bound to the shaft. He had barely concealed it in his robes before cataphracts rounded the corner as though looking for something. In his room he had read the Arabic script of the message. It had detailed the discord over the handling of the campaign among the Turkish leaders and the divisions growing between the Shi’ite Daylami infantry, Sunni professional Turkic cavalry and Seljuk tribesmen. The note related that someone, in a heated discussion between the Sultan and a gathering of emirs, had asked rhetorically and bitterly whether the bride was such a tempting trophy that the bride-price was worth the cost.
Cydones assumed that the person who wrote or dictated the note was a Turkish prince, for it described the inner circle in a direct and confident tone. He burned the paper in his room and now wished he had not spoken of its message to Kamyates, for he now knew, too late, that the bureaucrat simply abandoned those of no further use to him. Looking glumly at the limited view of the city visible from his hiding place, he remembered when he ha
d first arrived the city had some slight appeal. Now it merely appeared beleaguered and squalid. His head slumped in despair.
“Manzikert! A dowry for the Sultan,” the imperial courier sighed.
He had, on Kamyates’ orders, attempted to have Bryennius slain during his return from Archēsh, but the dart launched by the killers hired by Petros Doukitzes, using Bardanes Gurgen’s unknowing servant as the go-between, had found the wrong mark. Doukitzes had then disappeared and Cydones wondered whether he had been captured and interrogated. Cydones hated Bryennius and thought his planned demise no more than the arrogant soldier deserved.
The servant, Ananias, had made his way back to Manzikert, but Cydones had been able to silence him one dark night on the south-wall, making it look like just another battle death in this place where hundreds had died. Bardanes Gurgen, attracting attention to himself through his outspoken hatred of the Romans, had proved a useful distraction until killed on the walls fighting with the people he hated.
Cydones knew, if he were caught, Kamyates would denounce him as traitor or madman, if not murder him before he could disclose the courtier’s own treachery. If the Seljuks broke in, Kamyates had told him, Dumrul’s ghulams would make straight for the cathedral, securing anyone who wore a black scarf and prostrated themselves. Thus spared from the immediate orgy of killing, they would be taken away, questioned, offered conversion and employment perhaps, or paid and freed to make their way back to Byzantium.
In his day of forced reflection, Cydones had learned much of Manzikert: its smells, the sounds of battle joined and fading away as yet another attack was beaten back by defenders too tired to count them anymore, tattoos on the flagstones as couriers galloped with urgent messages, church bells announcing prayer and the majestic hymns accompanying them. He saw the light too, in the rise and set of sun and moon and the shadows they made.
As the clamour of the morning’s fighting faded towards the noon quiet, Cydones heard a different sound, a single shod horse and a group of men in quiet discussion. He crept forward and placed his eye to a narrow window and found himself looking down on the yards of the military stables. As he recognised Bryennius, Cydones felt a surge of hatred that eased to yearning distaste as he saw Guy d’Agiles mount the count’s bay horse.
Cydones quite liked the young Frank. The young man had pluck and ambition, both qualities he admired. At times, when he had encountered him in the city, Cydones had freely given advice or assisted him in learning Greek. He was aware, he remembered with rare self-awareness and a trace of shame, once suppressing a physical attraction to the Kelt that shocked him for its unexpectedness. He thought then of his wife and children, and how he missed them. A tear wet his cheek.
His thoughts turned to the fight at the inn and a Kelt with shoulder length hair who had challenged him at sword point. “Cross me again, Kelt, and die,” Cydones had hissed. Constantinople was far away and he had not thought of the youth again. He dwelt for a time in his mind’s eye on images of the encounter at the inn by the Golden Gate. Things had gone wrong from then on. They had escaped from Bryennius’ trap only because some blundering Kelts … Guy d’Agiles! Of course! The thought hit Bardas Cydones like an axe in the gut. And Charles Bertrum and the groom, Jacques—with Bryennius all the time. How could he have failed to notice?
Cydones rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling, his fist pushed against his bearded mouth to stifle the involuntary groan. He lay there for a time feeling hatred for d’Agiles wash over him. He wormed onto an elbow and stared at the group through tears of fear and desperation.
The strategos and Selth were standing close to Bryennius and d’Agiles who were with the count’s bay horse.
Perplexed, Cydones watched as the Frank mounted then walked and trotted a few laps of the small field the squires used for allowing the horses a run. The Frank cantered two laps, then a few figures-of-eight, getting a feel for the horse. Cydones knew the way riders try a new one, whether to buy as a spare at polo, or a restive post-exchange remount during a long ride.
“What the devil?” he wondered under his breath.
The Frank trotted up to the men who had been watching him closely. The engineer, Selth, took a small pan of coals from a brazier and poured them into a rope-netted vessel, gently tapping something into the top when he had finished. The Frank accepted the object and hanging it gingerly by the handle over his wooden pommel, drew his surcoat across the vessel, took up his spear and reversed it. Turning the bay horse gently, he rode two laps at a swift walk. At a command from Bryennius, the Frank collected the horse and plunged the spear point into the ground. D’Agiles grasped the rope handle and held the vessel out beside him, lifting the horse into full gallop straight at the cart. On reaching it, he pulled the horse to a halt on its haunches and heaving the rope-handled object twice around his head, dashed it against the cart on his near side. The alarmed horse leapt sideways from the explosion of flame and smoke. The Frank never shifted in his seat urging the bay to a gallop again. They made three tight turns around the fiery cart, the rider taking from his breast two more empty pots, which he dashed onto the flames.
Having completed this unusual ritual, the Frank rode the prancing horse up to the group and dismounted, the bay turning on the reins to give the fiercely burning cart an astonished stare. With a quick movement, the horse turned to his master, Bryennius, as if seeking reassurance. The count gave his blazed face a pat and slipped an arm around his neck while the horse snorted with great interest at the Frank holding his reins.
There was a discussion among the men for some minutes, then they adjusted something under the surcoat of Guy d’Agiles. Cydones thought it must have been some sort of sling to hold the pots. Interesting as the little playlet was, he could attach no significance to it. “At a time like this,” he whispered again to himself. Then the Frank tied what looked like a letter to the haft of his spear. A letter? Reversed spear? Surrender? Parley? Deception! Cydones suddenly understood. The garrison meant to send d’Agiles out as though a messenger, a ruse enabling him to get close enough to the mangonel to set it alight. If they succeeded, the fall of the city was uncertain.
Alarmed, Cydones rolled over onto his back, looking at the vaulted stone ceiling a few feet from his head, turning over in his mind and discarding the first wild schemes to foil the Frank. Although the group had conducted the rehearsal with the desire of it being witnessed by as few people as possible, their obvious haste had overruled total secrecy. He deduced that the attempt would be made soon. Since it was likely the Seljuks would drag the baban to another point of attack to create a second breach and the western wall seemed most logical, Cydones reasoned it would be the best place to execute the plan now forming in his mind.
Kicking off his boots, the imperial courier donned the rough sandals and black cowl of the slain priest and stole through a back entrance to the main-gate towers of the western wall. On the way, he took a basket of food and an urn of watered wine from a nun, telling her he would deliver it to the troops and she should return to the kitchens for more.
Cydones’ constant poking around the defences now paid off and he planned as he made his way. He had been in the main-gate towers before where the weapon chambers were cramped to allow room for the gate and portcullis mechanism. There was a secluded ballista gallery there. Cydones knew that if he could overpower the man or two men on duty, he would have a perfect opportunity to send a dart into the Frank’s back as he rode from the gates. Cydones hoped he could get away before startled bystanders worked out where the missile had come from. If he were seized, he would bluster loudly that Apocapes was trying to surrender the city and make his escape in the ensuing furore.
It proved easy to gain the tower, entering and shutting the stout wooden door after him. Inside were a Flemish mercenary and an Armenian peasant who could barely communicate with each other. They saw Cydones with the basket and as the enemy camp was quiet, moved to receive their
victuals. As he passed out the bread and drink, Cydones noted with satisfaction that the ballista was already loaded with a heavy dart. The Armenian said he needed to find his relief, so he asked the priest to stay as he went in search.
The imperial courier locked the door after him, turned to the young Flemish man and smiled.
Manzikert, Early afternoon,
15th September 1054
Bessas Phocas understood that Bryennius and Selth had wanted to get Guy’s ride to the mangonel underway with as little attention as possible being drawn to it. Standing in the crowd, he thought that was impossible and the time needed to ensure such secrecy unavailable. The dull throbbing in his wounded shoulder was a constant companion and he worried that it heralded an infection, but this was no time to be slinking off to hospital.
Observant townspeople, reckoning on something happening, had followed the group leading the saddled horse. More people had joined until an audience had assembled to which others were drawn.
Despite the heat, this anxious throng gathered near the gates as Bryennius, Selth and Guy led Zarrar into the cobbled area by the towers. Taticus Phocas had groomed Zarrar with loving care and even now walked behind, brushing out his tail. The bay horse, knowing something was up, nonetheless walked nonchalantly on the ends of the reins, ignoring the crowd but noticing with raised head and pricked ears, a troop of the Scholae drawn up with his mates in their ranks. Ruksh, saddled, was held by a squire. The chestnut whinnied to Zarrar who looked back with interest and recognition, but did not answer. He was like that, his own horse.
The crowd parted respectfully around Bessas, a wounded centarch of the Scholae being a figure of authority and respect in the beleaguered city. There was something else mixed with their well-intentioned looks. They sought some sign from him that this was no ending; that this night also they might sleep in their beds or whatever bower they claimed in the crowded tenements of Manzikert. Such was the restless, inquisitive, frightened crowd in which Bessas stood. Sensing this, he tried to show outward calm, wearing the uniform both as a crutch and a mask. Inwardly he was agitated and would have been more optimistic about the desperate venture to be undertaken if they had accounted for the imperial courier, but Cydones had evaded capture. Cataphracts moved through the crowd, having combed the walls and towers already that morning.
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