A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  They watched the smoke for a time until Farisa asked, “Will they be able to save it?”

  “I think not.”

  She turned and looked up at him with her beautiful eyes. “Derar, the Sultan will be very angry. Take care.”

  But distance could not be kept. Derar was summoned to report with horse and arms to the Sultan’s council, where he appeared a short time later hoping the mask of serenity he tried to weave was successful in covering his almost unbearable tension. Riding to the Sultan’s pavilion, he fell in with Emren and Burla Dirse, also mounted and looking worried.

  “What’s happened?” Derar asked.

  “An unbeliever rode from the city and by a ruse, got close to the baban, doused it with the Greek Fire and burned the thing to ashes,” Burla said.

  Derar had supposed this. “Why did no one stop him?”

  “The Greek Fire was concealed on his person.” Emren said. “He had a letter tied to his spear which he carried reversed. He rode calmly and said he was a messenger.”

  In the distance, the dust and din of another fruitless assault against the walls was underway. In his annoyance, the Sultan had ordered the planned attack to go ahead anyway.

  It was a short ride. They were ordered to halt some distance from the council’s pavilion. Emren Dirse and Derar handed their reins to slaves who stood by for the purpose. As they did this, a large group of the grim faced officers of the hassa ordusa shouldered their way from the pavilion. A thousand of their men stood ready, black-mailed on dark horses. There were shouted commands as the officers mounted and they rode off towards the smouldering wreck of the baban.

  Glancing at each other, Emren and Derar walked to the council pavilion situated beside the vizier’s own. The vizier’s tent was distinguished by five horsetail standards: black, red, white, green and yellow, hanging limply on their staffs in the stifling air. There the two friends were made to wait outside with many others. Both were worried, Emren Dirse for speaking his mind and Derar on his own account.

  “There’ll be reckoning this day,” Emren muttered under his breath.

  Derar bade him be silent as the vizier emerged purposefully from the Sultan’s tent and looked around the uneasy throng. His hard gaze came to rest on Derar and he walked towards the Arab. Derar’s heart thumped and he fought the desire to run into the crowd. The certain knowledge that he would have been caught stayed him and instead he made an appropriately subservient greeting to the high official of the Seljuk state.

  As always, the vizier was impeccably polite. With such power he could afford to be, as the intimation of consequential violence for disobedience carried its own persuasion. Of all things, he started to quiz Derar on the Quran and interpretations of it. Then it occurred to Derar that it was a test. The vizier was examining him to ensure he was Sunni—they were looking for Fatimid spies who might be sympathetic to the Romans. He passed this interrogation and al-Kunduri moved on to other Arabs in the group.

  They waited, as the attack on the walls failed and the roughly handled Daylamis dragged their maimed away from the jeers of the Christians. Some time later, one of the Daylamis’ senior princes, wounded and hollow eyed from shock, came and forlornly stood close to Derar, waiting to be summoned to the Sultan. Two Arab mercenaries Derar knew only vaguely and from whom he had taken pains to distance himself, were dragged away and not seen again.

  In a cloud of proud horses and self-importance, the contingent of hassa ordusa returned, driving on foot before them fifty pitiful creatures who had been appointed to guard the baban that day. They too waited until, a short time later, the Sultan appeared. The catapult guards were unceremoniously pushed to the ground. Tughrul Bey walked the length of the line looking fiercely at them. Then he turned his back and returned to his tent. The prostrate men looked at each other in fear and bewilderment.

  From the door of his tent, the Sultan simply said, “Behead them.” Swords were drawn. “No!” commanded Tughrul Bey. “Away from here. I don’t want to look at them.”

  Derar watched as the hapless men heard their fate with reactions of either fortitude or fright and were led away by the black horsemen. Meanwhile the rest waited.

  After a considerable time, Derar was summoned forward with Isma’il and Dumrul. “Take the Arab as interpreter,” the vizier commanded. “Convey the Sultan’s message that it will be his pleasure to receive the Frank who made this ride. The Sultan admires such courage and wishes to meet this far-riding soldier and to give him gifts. Go tell them.”

  They mounted and rode to the western gate. There, where the parley had taken place on the first day, they halted with the horsetail standards. Derar rode forward under a reversed spear, hailing the ramparts in Persian. There was a reply in a tongue he could not fathom, so he waited. After a time, a plain Roman pot helmet appeared in a crenelle of the fore-wall and shouted in Arabic after their purpose.

  “Parley, in the Persian tongue,” Derar called back.

  “Wait,” came the response from the wall.

  “How long?” rejoined Derar.

  “Not long,” the voice from the walls responded. “It’ll take a few minutes to assemble the proper officers.”

  So the Seljuk party sat their horses nervously, for the day had become one of impatience and retribution in the Sultan’s camp.

  The gates opened and three horsemen rode from the city: a Roman officer with his arm in a sling, a peasant-looking fellow on a well-saddled chestnut gelding of fine Bedouin stamp, and a standard-bearer holding aloft the pennant of a Byzantine general.

  Derar recognised the wounded officer; he had seen him at the wadi and sensed the shadow eyes under the Roman’s helmet flicker at him.

  The peasant opened the conversation in badly accented Turkic. “We do not have a Persian speaker available right now. We must talk in your own tongue.”

  “That’ll do,” Bughra Dumrul replied politely. “We don’t have much to discuss.”

  “On the contrary,” the peasant said provocatively. “We’d be obliged if you would again remove your dead. They foul the air.”

  Surprised at this deliberate rudeness, Derar thought at first the peasant was merely ignorant of the courtesies required, but there was deeper insolence that made him think the fellow knew Dumrul and was baiting him.

  Dumrul replied in a similarly provocative vein. “Are you all that’s left—a wounded Roman and a peasant?”

  “Not at all,” the chestnut rider responded. “Indeed there are many troops and horses in Manzikert and we want for nothing.” Then to Derar’s astonishment, the peasant started questioning Dumrul about members of his family and tribe. He sensed that Dumrul knew the man, but could not yet place him.

  The Roman officer watched closely.

  Suddenly Dumrul changed the subject. “We’ve the Sultan’s business to discuss. The Sultan, Tughrul Bey, Client of the Commander of the Faithful, wishes to meet the one who rode from the fortress and burned the engine.”

  “Why?” The peasant could not conceal his surprise.

  “The Sultan, wishes to meet him and give him gifts. He’s impressed with his audacity and skill. We offer safe conduct.”

  The peasant and the officer conferred. “Very well. We’ll ask him.”

  The Roman rattled off a command to the standard-bearer who walked his horse back to the fortress. They settled down to wait, the peasant astounding the four in the Seljuk party by saying, “You don’t know me, do you Bughra?”

  There was a long silence before Dumrul exclaimed, “Vardaheri! ‘Tis you! I swear I wondered. What’re you doing here? The last I heard, you escaped and fled Samarqand with a Song woman from beyond the steppes. They hunted you both and brought her back. It’s said you returned many months later and burned the house of her master—with him killed inside.” Dumrul had the air of a man who had met an old friend. “You weren’t in Tabriz recently were you? There
was a fire there as well, you know?”

  Vardaheri ignored the searching jibe. “The woman lives?”

  “She does, still, in Samarqand and—different master,” replied Dumrul in a friendly tone with the hint of amusement about it.

  “Well. Well! I may have to return,” laughed Vardaheri, looking thoughtful and walking his horse forward to converse with Dumrul.

  After a few minutes, the Roman spoke, in Arabic, as if practicing his command of that language and motioned his grey horse towards Derar. Both acted as if they had never seen each other before, speaking softly to avoid being overheard.

  “Derar al-Adin?”

  “Yes. And you were at the wadi fight where Count Bryennius … entertained … me?”

  “I was. Centarch Bessas Phocas.”

  “Zobeir al-Adin lives?” Derar asked quietly while the others were distracted by Vardaheri, thinking he may as well get to the point.

  “He lives.”

  “You’ve been hurt?”

  “I am recovering quite well, thank you,” Bessas said. “How is the Sultan’s army?”

  Derar was mildly surprised at how easy it was to hide in the open. “It has its problems, but they aren’t beaten yet. They may attempt another tunnel under the south wall. I don’t know where.”

  “It’s very stony there?”

  “They’re following a fissure in the rock.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Bessas.

  “Your Arabic is quite good,” Derar said loudly enough to be heard by the others. “Where did you learn?”

  “I served some years on the southern borders of our lands—the frontiers with the Mirdasid and Noumayrid emirates,” Bessas replied in similar vein.

  Derar lowered his voice again. “The Sultan has several spies in the city, but I have been unable to find out who they are.” He leaned forward as though checking a buckle on his bridle. “They speak of being frustrated in their attempts to learn your governor’s battle plans.”

  “Indeed?” said Bessas with evident interest and a hint of pleasure.

  “In the Sultan’s camp they suspect some,” Derar continued. “Two Arabs may have been executed this day because the Seljuks feared they were working for the Fatimids. The Sultan also suspects members of his own extended family whose ambition overrides their prudence.”

  “Power and glory are wonderful destroyers.”

  “The Horse-archer, he is well?”

  “Very well. I’ll tell him you asked.”

  “Good. His interpreter, is she well also?”

  The Roman looked blankly at Derar, then recalled. “She’s long gone.”

  Derar feared for the woman. “Gone? Away?”

  “Yes. Away. Before you got here,” Bessas said.

  “Safely?” asked Derar.

  “Yes. Safely.”

  Derar reflected gratefully on this. “She is well away from this place. Was that the Horse-archer’s mount ridden today?”

  “It was.”

  “Did he ride it?”

  “No. Another.”

  “Another? Most skilled, as though the saddle was his throne,” Derar said, looking at the walls. “But what would move a man to take such a risk?” Derar asked.

  Bessas shrugged.

  “On the subject of horses,” Derar continued, “the chestnut mare that was stolen by your Frank and ridden from Archēsh, she’s precious to a friend, a good man. Can a trade be arranged?”

  “The Frank is a friend and a worthy man also. I will ask.”

  “Is the Frank that has the horse and escaped from Archēsh, the same man that was your decoy at the wadi fight and has now burned the mangonel?” Derar asked, having a warrior’s interest.

  “Yes. The same.”

  “Aiee! He’s caused the Sultan big trouble,” Derar said. “But what moved him to such a deed. It must be duty or great love?”

  Bessas smiled. “A detail of our fight here—a story for the ages. I will also ask him, one day.”

  The Roman standard-bearer returned and spoke to Bessas and Vardaheri. Bessas turned in his saddle to listen in silence, merely looking at the Seljuks as the peasant interpreted to them. “The one who rode forth this day thanks the Sultan, but must regretfully decline, as he has many duties to attend to.”

  Dumrul and Isma’il did not seem surprised, but were dismayed. With trepidation, they returned to Tughrul Bey who reacted to the snub with quiet anger, ordering the second tunnel to be pushed forward.

  Manzikert, Midday,

  17th September 1054

  Guy woke in fright from his nightmare in which the second Seljuk tunnel had led to the fall of the city and to his and Irene’s imminent capture. He was in his sleeping space in their room in Manzikert. It was daylight and all was quiet. With effort he rose to an elbow. Jacques was sitting on a stool looking earnestly at him. Guy heard the sound of water and looking to his other side saw Flora Asadian wringing out a cloth into a pail of water. He realized then she had been bathing his face and grazed temple.

  “You had a bad dream,” she said in her accented Greek, soft rays of the autumn sun slanting through the open door and playing in her auburn hair.

  “The tunnel? The city?” Guy asked, feeling weak. “What day is it?”

  “What do you remember?” asked Jacques.

  “I rode from the fortress and burnt the catapult. Then we went to the cathedral where there was a great deal of celebration—and wine. The Seljuks attacked again. Then the Sultan wanted to see me. Bessas found out there was another tunnel. I had dinner at Curticius’ place—the princeps was very friendly. After that I must have slept.”

  “Slept!” exclaimed Jacques. “You came back swaying on your feet last night. And you left out several important things. First, you’re a hero. Second, you’re rich, for the strategos had promised gifts, gold and largesse and an audience with the Emperor. But to answer your question, it’s Saturday and twenty-nine days since the infidels arrived and invested the city. The fortress is safe. The counts, Doukas and Selth, found the infidel’s tunnel this morning. They gained its direction from the tapping of picks on rock. Just this morning they broke into it, dragging out the enemy with iron hooks and killing them all.”

  Guy looked at Jacques, while trying to imagine through his headache how the tunnel fight had played out in those dark spaces under the ground.

  “My head hurts,” he said limply, sinking back.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Flora. “You took a hard knock and should rest awhile.”

  Guy rose on an elbow, looking around their cramped quarters with its armour and weapons, saddles and cloaks and little bundles of spare clothes. Irene was not there. He slumped back.

  “Irene’s gone for food,” Flora said quietly. “She’ll be back soon.”

  “I must get up,” Guy moaned, struggling to rise.

  Irene entered carrying a basket of food. The fold of her black dress gathered as she knelt near him, placing the basket on the swept floor. She said nothing at first, but her eyes sparked with affection as they roved over him.

  Flora and Jacques stood back and turned away.

  “You’ve awoken at last,” Irene smiled.

  Guy could not take his eyes from her. “It were no shame,” he whispered to himself, “that Trojans and well-greaved Achaeans should suffer pain long time for a …”

  Irene blushed. “I didn’t know you had read Homer?”

  It was Guy’s turn to flush. “I haven’t. At least not yet.”

  “You heard the words?”

  “Yes. Count Bryennius spoke them one day.”

  “He was quoting from Homer. Who was he looking at when he spoke?” Irene asked, caressing Guy’s forehead with a light touch.

  “No one,” Guy said, thinking of that day in the garden of the Barbarian House. “He was laying
down taking his rest and had his hat over his eyes. He could see no one.”

  “Count Bryennius?” Irene mused to herself looking at the floor with a far-away expression.

  “What of him?” Guy asked, trying to sit, his curiosity aroused by her tone. “I have sometimes wished I were like him, without feelings.”

  Irene looked away. “I should have listened to him when he tried to convince me to leave Archēsh.” She fell silent then, staring pensively at the hem of her dress and biting her lower lip softly in recollection.

  “Did he?” Guy watched her for a while. “A copper coin for your thoughts?”

  “They’re not worth one,” Irene replied, looking up quickly with a smile. “He mystifies me, that’s all. When the last dove came from Karin, Count Bryennius was in the room when they brought its message to the strategos. There was a cryptic note at the end of the despatch. No one could fathom its meaning. But I saw the slightest smile on the corner of the count’s lips.”

  “What was the secret message?” Jacques asked.

  “It said,” Irene recalled, “something like, ‘Cattlelifter well. On. Take care.’” With a searching stare at each of them in turn, she asked, “What did it mean?”

  Guy and Jacques looked blankly at each other. “Another one of Manzikert’s little mysteries,” Jacques mused.

  Guy laid back, looking at Irene and feeling at ease. She smiled at him and touched his forehead lightly. “You’d better eat and drink something.”

  “Goat’s milk for you, wine for me,” Jacques grinned, raising his goblet. “Would that Charles Bertrum was here,” he added seriously.

  “Would that he was.”

  The Seljuk camp before Manzikert,

  Afternoon, 17th September 1054

  Derar al-Adin could taste the stench of defeat in the hollow looks in the soldiers’ eyes and the sullen undertones about the Sultan’s generalship. He was sitting in the shade of his tent, taking in the scene and dreading another summons. In this moment of private tension, he was glad Farisa and Zaibullah were off tending their horses and camel—he did not wish to have to explain again the headaches and loss of appetite. He looked at the marks Farisa made on the tent wall—denoting the twenty-ninth day.