“Bessas should be here,” Leo said.
“That he should,” replied his companion. They were silent for a time while each thought of their friend’s plight as an infection of his wounds took hold.
They sat talking and drinking quietly, as men do who have been through much together. The town fell silent around them and the moon rose higher.
Memories came flooding back to Leo: of long rides, touching stirrups and a winsome smile under a crumpled hat; of the nights waiting for a message from Derar al-Adin; the desperate cavalry fight on the plain and constant Seljuk assaults. He regarded the walls of Manzikert where they stood, pitted and scarred in the eerie light cast by the bright moon. “If the stones could talk,” he murmured. “Do you remember how pretty it was when we rode in, with its trees and gardens?”
Lascaris took in the present shabby appearance of the city, the untidy stacks of war stores pillaged by the defenders as they struggled to feed the people, repair walls, haul away their wounded and bury the dead. “And the lovely fountains and orchards. The strategos will be a long time cleaning up the district after this raid.” He took another long gulp and looked at Leo staring thoughtfully into the distance. “What will happen now?”
“Now? The strategos sent a courier to Taron, today, asking them to send any spare cavalry they have. If they arrive some time tomorrow, we will let them spell their horses a few hours, then get after the Seljuks. I had a last word from Derar this morning. He said there is a column of prisoners being driven towards Archēsh. We’ll harass the Seljuk rear guard to the point of panic and rescue the prisoners if we can. Derar said he’ll meet us just this side of Archēsh.”
“It’s not a trap?”
“I doubt it. We will be very damned prudent in any case, and we still have his nephew. Most importantly, the Sultan has been defeated—for the time being. Derar can hardly confess to him now and expect to get away with it.”
“The Arab never did find out the identity of the Sultan’s spy within the fortress, did he?” Lascaris asked.
“If he learned their identity, Derar isn’t telling. Bessas and Serena caught Bardas Cydones just in time. The imperial courier was about to discharge a ballista bolt into Guy’s back as he rode from the gate. Jacques had no choice but to shoot him with the crossbow. Even Joaninna Magistros couldn’t keep Cydones alive.” Leo paused. “Damn it! I needed him to live, and talk about Kamyates.”
“It is quiet, isn’t it?” Lascaris sighed. Turning, the centarch saw the strange new star that had formed before the siege. “It is still there,” he barely whispered.
Leo followed the direction of his gaze, thinking of the time he had first seen it, supporting the wounded Tzetzes during the dark night on the Vaspurakan steppe. Recalling the ambush in which Tzetzes was hurt, Leo said, “For a while I was half-sure Bardanes Gurgen was up to something. He and his man, Ananias, both died on the walls.”
“Gurgen? He drew attention to himself through pride,” Lascaris said.
“He did. I’ll always suspect Ananias was somehow connected with Cydones, but both are dead and we’ll never know now.”
“Very convenient for Ananias to get himself knifed on the walls one night,” said Lascaris.
“Very—for Kamyates and his cronies! Tigran Zakarian, I’m certain was one of theirs, the Seljuks I mean.” Leo took another sip from the goblet and moved his weight on the hard seat. The breeze grew cooler and he pulled his tunic closer around him.
“Zakarian? He’s disappeared,” Lascaris said. “Vanished.”
“Gone over the wall when the game was up, I should think.”
For a while there was a comfortable silence between them.
Lascaris broke it. “I couldn’t bring myself to hate either Gurgen or Zakarian.”
“Me neither,” Leo agreed. “Gurgen simply said what he thought. Zakarian? Well, in a land where the old Armenian aristocracy cleared out years ago with twenty thousand of their followers, Zakarian was just trying to hang onto his ancestral ground by accommodating each new master as they happened along. First us, then the Seljuks. It’s the scheming, treacherous, smug bastards in Constantinople I can’t stand. They will yet sell the empire down the drain from their curtained chambers.”
The distant night noises of Manzikert intruded into Leo’s thoughts. He listened, hearing a few drunks still wandering the cramped streets. A dog barked somewhere. In the heavy silence of its absence, the Seljuk camp seemed almost as oppressive now as had been the constant hum of its past life, punctuated by outbreaks of distant laughter and the strains of their unfamiliar music. A horse whinnied from the military stables.
“That was some ride, by D’Agiles,” said Lascaris. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. He should be a dead man a hundred times over. Lucky he had Zarrar.”
“More than the horse I think.” Leo smiled to himself as he thought of some of Zarrar’s quirks. “Did you see Zarrar fight his way out of that melee? I’m glad he doesn’t do that when I’m tacking shoes on him. No, I must say Guy d’Agiles had more than one good ride, as a decoy before the fight at the wadi and escaping Archēsh with Irene. He certainly knows how to get the best out of a horse.”
“Still—makes you wonder …” Lascaris said barely audibly, as though hushed by the majesty of the night and heroism of Guy d’Agiles’ feat against the mangonel. “I couldn’t have done it.”
“You don’t know until you try, I suppose. I’ve wondered, especially about that last ride when he knew what he was going into. With hindsight though, he didn’t. He thought he was going to certain death, which makes him even braver.”
“You’re right,” said Lascaris.
Leo stared unseeingly into the bright night. “Selth and I had talked about going together when we thought up the mad scheme. I’ll always wonder if I would have been up to it, desperate or brave enough to force my body and horse through the ordeal. And to my shame, it’s not lost on me, I did not volunteer when the moment came. We all thought that whoever went was a dead man. D’Agiles stepped straight forward—and not in the heat of battle either! It was a thought-out decision and he did not shrink back once he had spoken. He went out there by himself. He did it for the princeps’ daughter, Irene. And not even to possess her. For with his poor station—a wandering mercenary—he held little hope of winning her. That much you could read in his face. He made that ride to save her from …”
Both men were quiet. For the first time in months, Leo consciously noticed the breeze whisper through the trees. It reminded him of the night Martina had left Manzikert with despatches and the memory awakened the crushing emptiness now enveloping him.
Lascaris tried the bottle again, but it was empty. Disappointed, he looked at it, then at Leo, who returned his gaze. “For men who drink little, we have done commendable damage.”
“Yes, I fear,” answered Leo absently. He was silent for a minute, his mind tracing the intermingled steps of those whose paths had crossed his in the months since leaving Constantinople. He looked over the city, the valley and mountain, still under the moon. “So many memories here, Lascaris. This has been a good end to it.”
“Is this the end?”
“It’s the end of the siege—tomorrow—another chukka. It’s cool, and late, and we will probably have a long ride after sunup.” Leo looked at Lascaris. “Now, how do we get off here without breaking our necks?”
Lascaris got to his knees with a puzzled expression, and in a careful, ungainly crawl looked down. “Good question,” he chuckled.
* * *
70Coup de main—an overwhelming surprise attack.
Chapter Twenty
A Draught of Cool Water
Manzikert, Early morning,
20th September 1054
It was still dark on the thirty-second day since the siege began. Guy, restless and beginning to feel his strength return, was up by lamplight, att
empting to put into order the pile of tack and accoutrement his friends had placed in a corner. Jacques, also working by lamplight on the step outside, was repairing a worn strap on his saddle. Guy, without taking much notice, heard Jacques talk to some passer-by. Beyond that, there was the unmistakable feel of men and horses moving.
Guy, sensing someone in the room behind him, turned and saw a tall, handsome stranger in a corselet and cavalry boots. Straight and dark-eyed with curly black locks framing his youthful face, the newcomer looked at Guy for a moment, then broke into a broad smile, “It’s you.”
Guy remembered Irene saying the same words on the day of their first ride outside the walls. He grinned back. “Damian? I have heard much of you.”
“I hope it wasn’t all bad,” Irene’s brother laughed. “I thought you’d be older. You’re recovering well?” He looked doubtfully at Guy’s injuries.
“I am thank you. They look worse than they are.”
“Oh, you look quite heroic, but I’m sure you’re lying. I’ve come through without a scratch. People will think I have done nothing—close enough to the truth. That must’ve been some ride into their camp. It’ll enter the folklore of the Kelts. Justly so, I say.”
“There didn’t seem to be much choice at the time,” said Guy. “Were you attacked at Artzké?” Guy asked.
“I haven’t been there,” Damian admitted solemnly. “They looked at us and there was half-hearted probing. I was sent out with three hundred men to find out what was going on, but we were cut off and couldn’t return there, or get through to here. So we made our way to Mush. I was told when I got here last night that Artzké is now under great threat, since much of the Seljuk army withdrew by that way.”
Damian looked around the little room. “You’ve had a fight of it here. I’ve never seen such destruction. I was sick with worry about my parents and sister. Many times we sent scouts to try and find a way through, to see if we could assist or form a co-ordinated plan, but the entire area was always thick with Seljuk patrols. I came myself once and heard the sound of battle by night but couldn’t get through.” Damian fell silent for a moment. “I fear the devastation of Vaspurakan and Armenia has been widespread and severe.”
“So fear I,” agreed Guy. Then, seeking a more pleasant subject he enquired, “Are you looking for Irene? She isn’t here.” As an afterthought, he asked, “What are you doing here in Manzikert.”
“Irene’s sleeping at home,” Damian said. “I wanted to meet you. I never liked Ankhialou, though it should have been a most successful marriage—they were both in love with the same fellow!”
Guy grinned at the joke.
“Too full of himself—and his own wellbeing—to be of use to anyone else. I’m here because I brought despatches from the strategos of Taron. In answer to Basil Apocapes’ request, he has deployed mounted troops as a screen to follow up the enemy withdrawal along the shore of Bznunik. I’ve guided a regiment of Taron horse, to join your forces here, to pursue the enemy to Archēsh. I return to join our screen approaching Artzké as soon as my squire has arranged a change of horses.”
Except for the attack led by Alkan, Guy had been left out of things for four days to recover. As Damian spoke, Guy realised that Togol had been right, the campaign was not yet over.
When Basil Apocapes rode out in the first light of the following day leading fifteen hundred horse, Guy trotted close by him on Sira, at his right Jacques on brown Arzema. With Basil was his command-group comprising: an escort of a hundred Armenian irregulars, gallopers, duty-tribunes, scouts, clerks and his standard-bearer. Behind them rode the lead files of the Sixth Schola, Zobeir al-Adin amongst them on an indifferent garrison remount. Sallow from his months in captivity, the Arab was closely watched by Simon Vardaheri and David Varaz.
As soon as the force left the close environs of the fortress and crossed the low crest of lava country to the east, a tribune from the Manzikert garrison cut away and cantered south-east with Damian Curticius to join the troops from Taron. They bore the message of Basil Apocapes’ intent: that the Taron troops harass the Seljuk withdrawal along the northern shore of the lake and rescue any Christian prisoners without becoming decisively engaged. The two dispersed Roman groups would link-up on the steppe west of Archēsh.
All had seen the pall of smoke that rose in the direction of Artzké.
On command, Bryennius’ Sixth Schola cantered forward as the screen, each troop riding widely dispersed in arrowhead. The horsemen were soon lost to a lazy eye in the undulating folds and stony-rises that marked the countryside along the road to Archēsh. Basil kept the remaining thirteen hundred, Franks and Armenians, deployed in a diamond formation so they could quickly change front to meet any threat or opportunity. Alternately walking and trotting, the Manzikert horsemen followed the dust cloud of the withdrawing army.
In the mid-morning, a galloper on a sweating horse reined in alongside the strategos and spoke rapidly in Greek punctured with the army phrases Guy had come to know so well. “Strategos, Count Bryennius’ compliments, he’s halted on a rise four furlongs distant, from whence the barbarian’s rear-guard can be seen, as well as a column of prisoners. The count requests you move forward to his position.”
“John,” Basil summoned the princeps. “I’ll take half my escort. Bring up the main body steadily.” With a word to the closest of the duty tribunes, Basil motioned his big grey into a hand-gallop and shouted for Guy to accompany him.
Sira had seen the excitement of the galloper’s arrival and Basil’s horse collect itself in anticipation as half the escort wheeled out of column and cantered forward. When Guy gave Sira a signal, she stepped into an easy canter to clear the column. Guy urged her to a hand-gallop and they were soon moving with Apocapes across the hoof-pitted and denuded steppe to the rise ahead, with its lace of tiny cavalry waiting just this side of a crest, where they were able to peep over without being obvious.
Riding boot to boot with Basil, Guy saw the man. Straight in the saddle of the reefing iron-grey horse was Apocapes of Manzikert. Pious in his beliefs and usually his conduct, kind towards widows and orphans, loved and respected by those he commanded, Basil rode in a plain pot helmet with leather strips of neck protection, a mail shirt with drab cotton trousers tucked into riding boots. A mace nestled at his pommel and a sword by his side as he carried a spear at an oblique angle across his mount’s wither. On his bridle arm, he held the almond-shaped shield as easily as a letter and Guy noticed, in a caught memory, the way it rose and fell with the motion of the horse.
Guy beheld he who had defeated the shepherd king. Yet why did Basil Apocapes murder Alkan in the manner he did? Revenge? A calculated insult or outburst from a usually suppressed temper? An ordinary man driven to a mistake? Who was qualified to judge?
With glances towards the smoke plume in the south, they rode past the corpses of Christians unable to keep up with the forced pace of the Seljuk withdrawal. Enemy stragglers on foot, or leading broken-down horses, tried to steal away. The ground was littered with discarded bundles, armour and weapons. Here and there a cart had been pushed off the track because of a broken wheel or axle. Guy got the distinct impression of an army now hurrying away. It was not broken and in panic, but the evidence of a hasty withdrawal was more prolific than the tell-tale signs of a few dropped cloaks and scabbards left by a disciplined force feigning flight in order to draw their pursuers into a trap.
As they approached Bryennius’ advanced position, Basil and Guy saw the Scholae standard-bearer signal to them and they changed direction to rein-in next to Bryennius. Now the bulk of the snow-covered crest of Mount Sippane was behind their right shoulders. Guy drew rein below the rise and looked ahead into the lower ground, forcing from his mind dramatic images of the hunt with hawks, his lonely journey to Archēsh with despatches and the racing ride away from the doomed city with Irene.
“Report,” rasped Basil.
Bryenn
ius began. “By the dust and smoke, most of the Seljuk army seems to have passed through Archēsh already. The city has probably been subjected to another sack on their way through. If you look into the middle ground where the dust is thickest along the track there, you can make out a column of Christian prisoners, guarded by infantry. To their southern flank and behind them, is a rear guard of lightly armoured cavalry, sipahiyan horse. I make it about a thousand. They’d probably think that sufficient as a rear guard against us.”
“I see them,” replied Basil, studying the distant dust. “You’ve seen the smoke over Artzké.”
“I have,” said Bryennius, at times brutal in his assessments. “It started soon after first light. I fear the city has fallen and was fired as the shepherds departed. All the more reason for us to crack on. We’ve pressed them harder than they thought possible and their order is starting to break. D’you see the ridge with a knoll on it, a handbreadth to their northern flank?” Bryennius had time to study the ground and did not waste it.
Apocapes followed the count’s tactical descriptions and assessment.
Guy, listening, held a clenched fist out at arm’s length to identify the feature Bryennius had described. Basil grunted assent that he also had marked the ground.
“If we move rapidly around the left flank,” Leo explained, “and occupy that higher ground, the enemy rear guard might fear being surrounded and cut off—especially if pressed from behind at the same time. Our object would be to get their cavalry, in an attempt to flee the perceived trap, to desert their infantry. Our men on that high ground would secure against counter-attack on your left flank, while our main body disperses their infantry and rescues our people.”
Basil watched the withdrawing army on the lower ground and asked, “Is there no chance the prisoners could be bait, that what you propose is what the Seljuks want us to do?” The fate of Artzké so soon after the deliverance of Manzikert had obviously shaken him.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 66
