A Dowry for the Sultan

by Lance Collins

  Guy could see the weight on Apocapes’ shoulders and the agony in his face. What if he had realised the threat to the lakeside city and pursued immediately? What if the Sultan had then turned and counter-attacked, with his full army, the small Manzikert force in the open?

  “I’ve considered it,” Bryennius replied, “but I don’t think so. The Sultan withdraws because he has other priorities, with the caliphate most important. Affairs at Manzikert had collapsed to the point where Tughrul Bey was having trouble keeping his army together. It looks as though he has salvaged his vanity by threatening to return next year, and delivered some booty to his army at Artzké. I’d say his aim now is to get away in good order. His rear guard is expendable, as are the prisoners.”

  Basil studied the situation, tugging at the ends of his moustache as he grappled with the doubt and decision that mark the loneliness of command. “Salvaged his vanity, eh? How many souls has that cost us?”

  Guy considered the scene and stared intently at the strategos, thinking as he did, that Bryennius was right—go with him.

  “It’s a risk,” Basil said, “but we’ll take it. As you say, possession of that higher ground is vital. Hold here and give your orders while the main body comes up.”

  “There’s something else,” Bryennius said. “I’m supposed to find my, ah, friend, out here somewhere. We need to ensure he’s not killed when he approaches.”

  “I’d not forgotten. Word’s been passed, but I’ll remind the other officers,” assured Basil.

  Guy sought the strategos’ permission to ride with the Bryennius, receiving it on condition that the count was happy to have him. Guy and Jacques dismounted with the others while the centarchs assembled around Bryennius for orders.

  As the advance guard of the main body began to arrive and deploy, the remnants of the irregulars commanded by Seranush Donjoian rode in from the north. He nodded towards Guy in recognition and reported thus to Basil Apocapes. “Praise God you’ve held Manzikert. I have lost a third of my men in running fights over the past month, but in return we have ambushed their patrols in the foothills, killed their couriers on the road and destroyed as many of their supplies as we could. I have a hundred dead and another fifty maimed. I bring a hundred. What d’you want me to do?”

  Basil listened to Donjoian’s account, thanked him and his men, then bade them retire to Manzikert with their wounded. They had played their part.

  Guy joined Bryennius as the troopers were tightening their girths, leading their horses into ranks then mounting. “The Seljuks will be looking at us into the low sun and through their own dust—that’s good,” Bryennius said, as he placed his helmet on his head and fastened the leather throat lash.

  The Sixth Schola moved forward at a smart trot, armour clinking, horses champing the bits and iron shoes striking the scattered lava stones that lay upon the trodden earth. The ranks were thinner now than when they had marched into Manzikert. All had cropped their hair and shaved away their beards on account of the heat of the season and filth of the campaign. Their faces were gaunt with strain and under the helmets, eyes that had seen much, took in all before them with experience and calculation.

  Squadrons of the Seljuk rear-guard, had discerned the intention of the Romans and were forming up to seize the decisive knoll before the Sixth occupied it and threatened the road to Archēsh. There was no time to lose.

  “As flying wedge,” Bryennius roared, “gallop, march!” Zarrar sprang forward and was already four lengths ahead of the first rank.

  Breaking into a hand-gallop, the well drilled cataphracts re-organised into the flying wedge, the most heavily armed lancers and horses in the lead ranks, mounted archers behind ready to shoot over their heads.

  “Charge!” signalled Bryennius.

  Couching his spear and shield in the front rank of eight men, Guy saw Bryennius draw his bow. His shield already hung from the high wooden pommel and his spear was slung behind his right shoulder. For two furlongs they flew with reefing horses and wild yells. Sira pulled and snatched the bit, so that Guy’s world was filled with the flying chestnut mane and grunting breath of the mare’s head in front of him. “Steady, Sira. Steady, girl,” he spoke as he drew back on the reins to keep his interval in the knee-grinding, stirrup-grazing pace.

  Before them, Zarrar’s powerful rump bounded up the side of the yellow-grassed hill, Bryennius drawing his bow on something the other side. Then both horse and rider were lost to Guy’s sight. Togol went over with Bryennius.

  Guy let Sira race on reaching the top of the hill and plunging down the other side. Perhaps a hundred ghulams were there, flogging their mounts up the slope towards the crest to where the Romans had just beaten them. Guy noticed a Seljuk dead on the ground, an arrow in his throat just above the lamellar cuirass. Sira jumped the corpse with Guy scarcely feeling the action.

  Five ghulams were down before the bows of Bryennius and Togol when the charging front rank of cataphracts reached them and racing past, cut down another six before Tribune Balsamon bellowed for the racing horsemen to rally. The Seljuks, now at the tactical disadvantage, shrunk back from the iron avalanche.

  Guy joined in the chorus of, “Steady—whoa, there,” that sounded around him as the cataphracts controlled their excited horses.

  Bryennius bellowed for them to fall back and reform. “Get back up to the crest line, men. Stand your horses side-on to the enemy and hold every spear up straight. Make it look like there are a thousand of us.”

  Guy, with Jacques close by, kneed Sira back to the crest. He sought out Bryennius who was watching the action unfold on the lower ground where Basil led the main body of Christian horse forward against the rear of the withdrawing army.

  In the valley, ribbons of dust rose from the officers riding in front of the charge. One led by a half a furlong, the horse’s head and tail stretched out flat, charging straight for the straggling Daylami footmen who were starting to run in panic across the steppe. Guy could see Seljuk horsemen of the sipahiyan start to group in squadrons to counter the charge, but these men also hesitated before melting away to the east.

  Guy watched—with an impassiveness that perplexed him—the charging horsemen sweep past the abandoned carts. Christian prisoners making the sign of the cross threw themselves onto the ground. The horsemen rode over the straggling Daylamis, cutting them down without mercy and racing among the fleeing Seljuk cavalry, hacking left and right with swords or spitting on their spears those unable to flee fast enough. With audible whoops and shouts, the rolling dust cloud enveloped those on foot.

  “Pull them up. Pull them up!” Bryennius cried. He turned to Guy. “That’s the useless thing about cavalry. They get too excited and go chasing after things—scatter to the winds—ripe for the counter-attack which they are too disorganised to resist.”

  They watched in silent relief as the dust slowly cleared. The charging regiments halted and reorganised, two of them forming a strong front to drive off any Seljuk threat. Cataphracts were dismounting and freeing the prisoners. Even from the crest, Guy could hear the weeping and lamentations as those saved when almost beyond hope broke down and wept on the armoured chests of their rescuers.

  A dust-caked, sweating Thracian on a dun horse, rode up and relayed an order from Basil. “The strategos’ compliments. He requests you to screen to the east of the main body and form an outpost line for the night, on advantageous ground short of Archēsh. Tonight we’ll start back the people rescued. Tomorrow, we re-occupy Archēsh.”

  “Tribune, any word from the right flank column out of Taron?” Leo asked.

  “Some. During their withdrawal along the shore of the Sea of Bznunik, the infidels came upon the city of Artzké. The people had placed their faith in the waters and wall around them and were unconcerned, but the infidels found a shallow way to the city and put their swords to work, killing almost everyone.”

  “It’s that bad
?”

  “So it’s said,” replied the tribune, “but I didn’t see it with my own eyes. It’s also reported the two Seljuk columns have joined around Archēsh.”

  “Thank you,” said Bryennius.

  “Was there someone dear to you, at Artzké?” asked the tribune.

  “No one. But all. Thank you. You should return to your post. Kindly tell the strategos we move off within the hour.” He clapped the tribune on the shoulder by way of an apology for his usual curt manner. “You might suggest, having now seen the ground, that he replaces us here with a flank guard before we move off.”

  The regiment rode forward in the early evening and before dark had trotted to a position along a low crest. From there a few sharp eyes could make out, amongst its trees in the growing darkness to the east, the taller buildings of Archēsh. They loosened their girths a hole and fed a little grain to their horses. A rivulet ran behind them. It was one of the unforgettable sights of Guys life, to see the lines of saddled, unbitted horses with their heads down, a foreleg bent for most, as they drank greedily of the clear, stony stream.

  At last light a picket challenged two strangers. A decarch informed Bryennius that a small party of Saracens had approached under a reversed spear.

  “How many?” Bryennius asked, sitting on the ground, his helmet on one side, Togol on the other.

  “It looks like a man, a boy and three horses,” the trooper replied.

  “Did they say anything?”

  “They asked after a blind man on a pale horse.”

  “Very good. Bring them here,” said Bryennius.

  Guy saw the count glance at Zobeir al-Adin, who sat in the churned dirt watching a slender Arab in his late thirties approach leading a warhorse of Bedouin type.

  “We meet again, Horse-archer,” Derar greeted in quite good Greek.

  “How now, Derar al-Adin? So you speak Greek after all?” replied Bryennius, getting to his feet.

  “I thought it necessary to keep something back—I didn’t have many chess pieces in hand at the wadi.” Derar did not acknowledge Zobeir’s presence, although the nephew’s relief at his uncle’s presence was evident.

  “Still, it seems to have worked out in the end,” Bryennius said warmly enough.

  Derar recognised Guy and acknowledged his presence, “Are you the one who rode with the woman from Archēsh and destroyed the Sultan’s mangonel at Manzikert—and his heart with it.”

  Guy glanced at the ground, then up, to notice the beautiful youth looking at him with dark eyes.

  “It’s him,” Bryennius said. “Please sit everyone.”

  Derar looked long at Guy. “My compliments—a feat worthy of record.” He turned to Zarrar to give the suspiciously snorting gelding a pat. “And on your fine horse, if I am not mistaken.”

  Zarrar, at such familiarity from a stranger, gave Derar one of his quizzical, “Who the hell are you?” sorts of looks, which so amused Guy. Since the stranger was talking amicably to Leo, Zarrar did not seem to mind Derar after that and the tough warhorse positively bent his head to the Arabian youth who stepped near, caressing softly with fine fingers under his jaw and whispering in his ear.

  “Thank you,” Guy said. “But there were many deeds worthy of record at Manzikert.”

  Derar turned from Zarrar. “On both sides. I befriended the Seljuk emir, Emren Dirse, through all this strife, a brave man and good.”

  “We know him,” Guy replied as they all sat on the ground around the fire.

  Derar paused politely. “He was able to save two children, a brother and sister, from slavery. They’ve been taken to his aunt’s house in Tabriz for safety. Emren Dirse appreciates your offer of a filly. It’d be well if you are able to keep your promise one day soon and return the children to Christian lands.” He was silent for a time, looking down. Finally he gazed into Bryennius’ eyes. “All war is horrible, but in my days, I’ve never seen the like of this campaign. And I have no wish to see another.”

  “Are you certain of the numbers killed and carried off?” asked Bryennius.

  “As certain as the scribes.”

  Guy wondered if the Arab mused on the personal cost of trying to rescue just one such life, tossed around in the maelstrom of the shepherd king.

  Bryennius was silent and pensive as he looked searchingly at Derar.

  “What happened to your Turk?” asked Guy.

  “Zaibullah? We lost touch in the confusion of the withdrawal today. He rode ahead with our camels to find a campsite for us.” Derar glanced at Zobeir, sitting away from the fire.

  Bryennius stared at Derar. “Will he come looking for you? I hate loose ends.”

  Derar shook his head. “He was well paid and was owed nothing. He’s also a practical man who will attribute his good fortune to the vagaries of war and get on about his business. Moreover, he has two camels and their baggage to profit by it.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Bryennius. “Did the Sultan ever tumble to your, ah, game?”

  Derar thought on it. “No. There were plenty of people in the camp upon whom suspicion might fall. I don’t particularly fear being hunted.” Then he rose and walked to Zobeir, rattling off something in Arabic.

  Guy, Bryennius and Togol looked at each other.

  Simon Vardaheri interpreted. “Derar said that when Zobeir gets home, he should say nothing to anyone of his adventures and seek a quiet life as a scholar or healer.”

  Togol suppressed a laugh. “It’s good advice for everyone, except wanderers and horse thieves, eh, Simon?”

  Vardaheri merely looked into their little fire and said nothing.

  “Is there anything else you need to tell me before we move on to more pleasant conversation, Derar?” Bryennius asked as the Arab resumed his seat.

  “One thing only,” Derar responded. “The Sultan has sworn to return to Manzikert next year. It is not over for you, though some of his advisors are encouraging him to move on Baghdad instead—to his destiny.”

  “Destiny.” repeated Bryennius, as if far away.

  “The Sultan was furious about the pig … his … umm … dowry … catapulted into the Seljuk camp. That was a mistake by your strategos.”

  Bryennius rose and walked a few steps along the crest, to stand looking away from them to the sunset, his outline dark against the redness in the west. “The spark was the Sultan’s intention to take as a bride the most beautiful woman in the city. But, it was not Apocapes who ordered it,” Bryennius said over his shoulder. “The deed was inspired by a rabble-rousing courtier named Kamyates.” The count turned sharply on his heel to see if the name had provoked a response from the Arab.

  Derar al-Adin arched his eyebrows. “A name to remember I suspect, though I haven’t heard it before. I’m glad it was not Apocapes.”

  After another penetrating stare at Derar, Bryennius asked, “Do the names Cydones, Gurgen or Zakarian mean anything to you.”

  “Cydones? No, nor Gurgen. Tigran Zakarian was working for the Sultan. He narrowly missed execution a few days ago and was kicked out of the camp immediately afterwards.”

  “Ah ha,” acknowledged the count.

  Guy wondered why he did not ask about Ankhialou.

  Instead, Vardaheri asked on Guy’s behalf. “Theodore Ankhialou?”

  Derar looked to Guy. “Executed, for encouraging the Sultan to besiege Manzikert.”

  “Did you see it?” Guy asked, aware of conflicting feelings: empathy for the renegade’s misfortune and a desire to be free of his revenge.

  Derar looked at the dirt.

  “Guy needs to know if he has to sleep with an eye open,” Bryennius explained.

  “I didn’t see it. But I have no doubt.” Derar looked at Guy. “I know he hunted you over a woman. I don’t believe you need fear.” Derar switched his gaze to Bryennius who was still standing. “Did this Kamyates or
der the beheading of the Sultan’s vassal, Prince Alkan?”

  “No. That was a mistake.”

  “A mistake?”

  “Have you never made a mistake?” said Bryennius in the curt manner of command.

  “Ahh!”

  “Anything else we can assist you with?” asked Bryennius.

  Derar paused, his brow furrowed as if in doubt. “There is—a somewhat delicate matter. My companion, here, is one of you, a Roman, a woman …”

  Guy looked in surprise as the youth suddenly stood and regarded Derar, wonder in her eyes.

  ‘… Farisa was captured as a child in the 1048 raids by the Taghlibi Arabs out of Resaina—captured I think from near the city you call Mush. I bought her at the slave market at Amida and have promised her freedom if she helped me in this quest.”

  Derar rose also. “Farisa, though it seems long since I regarded you as a slave, I made a promise. It is often easier to stay with what you know, or have become accustomed to, but when I returned to camp the day the baban made the first breach, you said whilst looking at the dust and smoke of battle—‘They are my people, Derar. How do they bear it?’ You said, my people. Thus you are free and I will give you gold and a horse. You must go with these Romans, whom I believe trustworthy and find your home and heart.”

  Farisa made to speak, but Derar held up his hand. “If you should wish to return, you will always have a place of honour in my house, a free woman.” He turned to Bryennius. “You can see to it?”

  Farisa looked uncertainly at the count as he spoke to Derar. “I shall furnish an escort for her to the abbess tomorrow, and from there to wherever near Mush she wishes to travel.” He turned to the woman. “Welcome home, Farisa. You are among friends.”

  There was a pensive silence for a time, until Bryennius said in a lighter vein, “Derar, Farisa, you must stay with us tonight. There’re too many stragglers, freed prisoners and excited Roman troops behind us. You’d not get through and even a written safe conduct might not be enough protection with patrols of illiterate men around. Tomorrow, Derar, I will send an escort with you to the Arsanias River beyond the battlefields, then you can make your way downstream towards Amida and thence to your home. Now, we have more pleasant things to discuss.”