A Dowry for the Sultan Read online

  Martina struggled to see her place in this. “And my …”

  “Your dreams,” Theodora answered, “might mean nothing, or a very great deal. If they turn out to be prophetic, it is the end of everything. We, here, think this is very possibly our last chance, this summer, to stall the onslaught. Cecaumenus …” She looked softly at him as though some old trouble between them was over. “Our Cecaumenus,” she reeled off the sanguinary battles, “of Messina11 and Diacene12, of Kapetrou and of Stragna, believes, and he would be right, the weight of the Seljuk attack will fall on Vaspurakan13, our most-exposed Armenian province in the southeast. The governor there has only about five thousand troops. A few years ago, sixty thousand defended the same frontier. If warned, he might be able to hold a fortress or two, shelter as many as he can, and delay the Turk just long enough for us to scratch an army together. If he cannot, nothing lasts forever. The abbess tells me you have read some of the classics, so you will know collapses come very quickly. So! We brought you here because we wish you to carry despatches to Armenia and pass them to the patrician, Basil Apocapes, commander of the fortress at Manzikert, and effectively deputy commander of the Vaspurakan Theme.”14

  Martina held her breath.

  “It will be dangerous,” Theodora said. “If the Sultan’s spies here get even a sniff of your mission they will surely hunt you down.”

  “But why me, to carry despatches to Armenia, I mean?”

  Cecaumenus looked into her eyes. “You’ve chosen yourself. After all, you had the dreams and you come from restless stock, it seems. After the Hellespont, your mother took you to a border region near Syria, where you learned something of the Muslims, their religion and culture. We know you can read, write and converse in Arabic as well as our Greek, so you have a gift for languages. You’re hardy and know horses. The translations you do for the Office of Barbarians give you knowledge and insight, without showing your face around too much. Nor, forgive me, will your accent describe you as from any particular place. In short, you do not look or sound like the usual military or diplomatic couriers, nor one of the merchants or priests we use for other little jobs. Our enemies know to look for them. We believe you can slip through unnoticed, pass your message and bring back Apocapes’ despatches. An Armenian scout, a good fellow who knows the way, will accompany you—you can masquerade as a travelling couple. If you accept, you’ll depart tomorrow night and make best speed, changing unbranded mounts at the military posts on the way.”

  “You can ride the distance, child?” Theodora looked almost fiercely at her.

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “It’s well you know horses,” the Empress-Elector turned, her gaze lingering on the map. “I don’t. They are too big and frightening. For this, though, knowledge of them will stand you in good stead. Out there people depend on their horses for their very lives. Militarily, cavalry is our most important arm—our enemy’s also, so your estimates of the relative strength of the armies and how they fight will be most useful for me.” Theodora turned to her again. “To understand open warfare on the steppes, one needs to know horses.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Cecaumenus allowed the moment between the women to pass. “We have this day, tonight and tomorrow to set in motion a cover plan to ensure you get away.”

  Martina stepped close to the map, what they asked becoming apparent. “Where is Strategos Apocapes?”

  Cecaumenus thumped the fabric, the flat of his hand on Constantinople, then drew his reins-grimy paw eastward, past the famous cities of the Greeks, Macedonians, Romans and Persians, over the forgotten ruins of the Lydians, Cimmerians, of Midas the Phygrian, Trojans, Hittites and Assyrians. His hand moved over the Euphrates and Tigris to the highlands of the Armenian plateau. “Karin, and several days’ march beyond that, the fortress-city of Manzikert.” The general tapped the map. “Vaspurakan is the province around the great lake. You see, virtually surrounding Vaspurakan, the Muslim world—Dvin, Her, Tabriz, Mosul, Baghdad: cities populated by Arabs, Kurds, Turks, others.”

  “Far away,” Martina whispered, searching Cecaumenus’ eyes. “Is the threat of which you speak not remote?”

  “You had the dreams and as the Empress-Elector has said, every fallen civilisation has thought catastrophe far off.”

  Martina looked closely at the map a moment. “Why Strategos Apocapes at Manzikert? Van, at the eastern end of the great lake, is the capital of Vaspurakan?”

  Cecaumenus glanced at Theodora. “You chose the right courier, Mistress.” He stabbed Manzikert with a finger. “Nominally, yes. Van has a strong fortress and is the capital, with the Vaspurakan Theme commander, strategos, catepano, call him what you will, currently located there. But Van is too exposed to the frontier and too easily bypassed, strategically irrelevant if the Seljuks advance north of the lake. Manzikert, in contrast, is a powerful fortress well-sited to guard the invasion routes and has more secure routes back into the depth of the empire—hence its use at various times as the effective capital of Vaspurakan. Most importantly, although he is subordinate to the fellow at Van, I have faith in Basil Apocapes.”

  Three days ago her life had been fairly ordered and simple. “My husband?”

  They glanced down and remained silent.

  Martina struggled to remain composed as she read her fears into their gestures.

  “Leave us please, gentlemen,” Theodora said, “and complete your preparations.”

  The two men made for the screen, shrugging off their robes to reveal riding clothes. Cecaumenus turned to Theodora. “You understand that as soon as we set things in motion, the circle of knowledge grows?”

  “Thus our deceptions and our prayers.”

  As the door closed, Martina sank to the divan, pinpricks of tears in her eyes. She looked up at Theodora.

  “Don’t ask me, child. I’m the last one that would know—another betrayal in an empire of betrayals.”

  Martina shook uncontrollably. At length, she steeled herself for the journey, to ride away and not look back. “I’ll need some things.”

  “Of course. You’ll go home now as you came. No messages to anyone. You will return here tonight, meet your guide, rest and leave tomorrow after dark. So that your husband does not draw attention to your absence, we have arranged a special duty for the troop he is in—a routine patrol for a few days—until you are well away.”

  “Is that where he was last night?”

  Theodora shook her head slightly.

  Martina looked down.

  Advancing a step, Theodora placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. “The past is a small place. Try not to dwell on it.”

  Martina looked up to the older woman. “Is the future a small place also?”

  Theodora turned and walked to the window. “The sun is just up. I have always loved this time of day.”

  “It’s just ride there, deliver the message and bring back the answer?”

  Theodora turned again to Martina. “When Apocapes sends it. You may need to wait awhile at Manzikert. I especially want you to go, Martina, because I need to know what feeling you get while there, what is in the air, and whether you have the same dream again. I have been too cloistered in my life. Like many city-dwellers, I do not know how to judge the seasons, tell the state of crops or ride a rough horse. Nor are we wise in the ways of dangers like serpents and wolves. You have these skills amongst many others, hence you will be able to tell me much. The whole thing has me uneasy. Cecaumenus also. I have just met you, but you seem to be a young woman of spirit and loyalty. You will be well paid and just perhaps, your husband will realise what he might lose if you disappear for a few weeks.”

  Martina knew for the moment anger sustained her. That would pass, then she would welcome the sedatives of fatigue and distracting danger.

  It was as though Theodora read her thoughts.

  “Mistress?”

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p; “I fear for you, Martina, but also envy you. You will journey to our far frontier—the crossroads of the world where the very future for a thousand years is at stake. Strife, heroes and cowards, good and wicked will cross your path.” She stepped close and placed a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “Forgive me, child, I talk too much, once I like someone. I must trust Cecaumenus on this, but he has banned even my closest eunuch from knowledge of it.” She sighed to herself. “The people need this. Can you do it?”

  “I will.”

  In silence, they searched each other’s eyes until Theodora said, “Beware of one man in particular, if his path crosses yours, though it should not. A courtier and diplomat named Michael Kamyates. Remember it. He is very powerful and dangerous. Some months ago he departed on an embassy to the Abbasids in Baghdad to determine the state of their relations with the Seljuks. He should have returned by now. If we, here, have heard rumours of trouble, then he surely must have. It is his bounden duty to hasten back and report what he knows, but we have heard nothing from him. We hear rumours he is alive and well, but anything else is a mystery. One of my advisors mistrusts the man, believing him to be too fond of the Seljuks.”

  “Mistress, who can I trust?”

  “No-one!” Theodora’s lips tightened. “You can only decide that for yourself.” She stared far away. “But, I venture, Count Bryennius, of the Scholae. And it may be you will see him in Vaspurakan.”

  “Is he there now? Or should I meet him before I leave?” asked Martina, rising.

  “He’s here, but there will be no opportunity as he has much to do.” Theodora again gripped her arm. “Tell no one of your dream, not even Apocapes. And get out in time. Make sure of it, any way you can. You do not need to experience for yourself that Roman girls are favoured for the harems, nor do we need them taking you and learning of your dreams. Also we hear the Sultan is childless and now intends a captured Roman bride to provide him an heir.”

  “Not me?”

  Theodora smiled softly. “You undervalue yourself. You’re quite lovely.”

  They stood and Theodora leaned forward and kissed her on the cheeks. “Go now, return as soon as you can and talk to me.”

  “Mistress.” Martina bowed her head, moved to the door, drew down her veil and tapped the hardwood.

  “Martina.”

  She turned.

  “The future is a big place, Martina. God’s speed.”

  The door swung open to reveal her escort. The officer, his face obscured beneath the helmet’s low rim, smelled of iron, leather and horses like her husband, but he drew her cloak around her with surprising gentleness. Then Martina followed them into the passage of shadows, grateful the fine black netting of the veil concealed her tears from the world.

  Constantinople,

  Dusk, 19th April 1054

  Another wrong road, thought Guy d’Agiles.

  Distinguished by the two inns, a stable and a smithy amongst sparse houses and streets, this was a natural meeting place for those with swords, secrets or favours to sell. He turned in his saddle to face his two companions, also mounted on hired horses. “Charles, Jacques, I am sorry. I’ve dragged you both on another wasted day’s search. It’s getting dark and we should eat. Let’s try this larger inn. It’s perhaps better served than the other and I shall be glad to pay.”

  “One’s as good as another and I’m hungry,” agreed manly Charles Bertrum, looking around the crossroads not far from Byzantium’s Golden Gate.

  “There will be hitching-rails around the back,” said Guy’s servant, stubble-faced Jacques.

  Turning down a side lane they entered a cobbled courtyard overlooked by the shadow-wreathed loft of the stables next door and hitched their horses to a rail. Guy cast an eye over the other six horses in the yard. Useful rather than well-bred, even these would be beyond his means to replace the mule he had ridden after the death of his old horse on the journey from Provence. Stepping past a wine-reeking barbarian sprawled by the doorway, they approached the inn’s rear entrance.

  Charles and Guy were childhood companions who had grown up playing, riding and training at arms together. Guy’s servant, Jacques, followed them with the reserved dignity of his class and the less common authority of an experienced wayfarer. Guy and Charles were younger sons of the landed military class and stood to inherit nothing, birthright being the privilege of the eldest. Seven months earlier without so much as a parting note and carrying all they needed on their saddles, they had ridden from the estates of their sires: log-palisaded clusters of rude stone buildings dominating some miles of countryside and the peasants who lived there. Guy’s ageing father held his lands with two elder sons, given their spurs and dubbed knights, a handful of paid men-at-arms and the local peasants, reinforced by an alliance with the nearby Bertrum estate.

  Guy, Charles and Jacques entered the inn where oil lamps cast grotesque shadows across the ancient brick walls. A front door led directly to the street. The inn’s other customers comprised two-dozen men, outwardly artisans, soldiers from the city’s walls and labourers from the nearby orchards and fields. No one seemed to heed the three, for unemployed mercenaries were common here. Guy led them to a table with bench seats near the back door.

  Jacques took in the scene. “We’ve chosen the wrong inn. There’s something in the air.”

  Guy and Charles paid him cursory attention and tried to attract a serving woman. She approached, looking over their swords, rough-spun tunics, fitted riding pants and worn shoes. Patrician once, perhaps, she spoke Greek with an unfamiliar accent and wore a patched but clean dress covered by an apron. Guy noticed her lips move and the soft lines of her neck and arms where sleeves were immodestly rolled to the elbows for her work. They struggled with the order—stew, bread, wine.

  Recalling Jacques warning, Guy’s sweep of the room took in two men at the next table; a middle-aged priest of the Greek Church with a younger companion. Seated so they could observe both doors, their furtive study of the three Franks aroused Guy’s attention. Jacques nudged him with a foot under the table and shook his head imperceptibly.

  Charles, waving fair hair from his face, made light of their long day’s ride in search of a suitable horse in the villages, monasteries and estates that nestled by the impregnable triple land-walls of Constantinople. “They all asked too much and there will be a better mount by and by. There always is. Though it has to be said, who seeks a wife or horse without blemish, for a mate or mount will surely famish.”

  Guy shot his friend an irritated glance. “My money runs low, Charles. I can’t afford a mistake. We must soon find work as men-at-arms and for that I need a suitable horse. Constantinople is a worthy city, but it costs a fortune to live here idly.”

  “And heiresses are hard to impress from the back of a mule.” Charles was disarmingly open about his desire to marry well. “For warring or wooing, a fellow needs a suitable horse.”

  “True enough.” Guy stared at the bench top, struck by the sudden realisation there was no place to go back to without humility. A hollowness in his chest enveloped him. “If only I’d been more careful with the one I had.”

  “Your father made you horseman enough,” said Jacques. The paunchy groom was twenty years older than Guy’s nineteen. He had long ago vanished from the estate, to reappear only three years before, grey-haired, faced lined and so skilled a horseman Guy’s father had employed him as head groom. They seemed close and often went on long hunts together. Jacques, on foot, had caught up with Guy and Charles on the road a week after they left. He travelled light: his bundle, a few gold coins, a cheap sword and crossbow with which he was very skilled.

  Guy wondered, but never asked, if one of his parents had sent Jacques after him, or whether the groom had simply wished for adventure and the chance to improve his lot in foreign lands. He looked up as Jacques spoke and memory of his father returned. When the time comes—the old w
arrior had said—you will know when, you must go quickly and not look back.

  Jacques waited until Guy re-focussed on him. “T’was no fault of yours the mare died of colic. Don’t be ashamed of the mule, it was the best deal that could be done and the beast has carried you this far. I know of rough work in other lands where the mules outlasted the horses.”

  Guy suppressed an instinct to look sharply at Jacques, suspecting the peasant was speaking from more than hearsay.

  The woman returned with bread and stew. “Kelts? Looking for work?”

  Guy replied in halting Greek. “Yes, Franks. And work, if it’s suitable.”

  “Come by the day after tomorrow. Some of the bands’ recruiters will be here. Do you wish to go north or east?”

  “Which is better?”

  “Neither. In the north, the pagan Patzinaks of Tyrach, though there is a truce. To the east, Tughrul Bey’s shepherd hordes. Muslims. False truce there.”

  The east seemed far away from Guy’s present problems. “A shepherd king?”

  “Don’t mock me!” she snapped. “They’re shepherds the like of which you’ve never seen in your lands. Two hundred thousand well-mounted and armed barbarians answer their Sultan’s call. They are the wolves of the steppes, unwashed, unlettered, forever raiding, plundering and occupying the lands of Muslims and Christians alike, usurping the rule of any prince imprudent enough to employ them.”

  “We’ve come from the west,” Charles said, spoon halfway to his lips. He fell silent at her stare.

  Guy recounted the exchange for the benefit of his companions. A momentary seriousness crossed Charles Bertrum’s handsome features.

  The woman gave him a motherly look. “If you wish the north, a Flemish man is hiring, but is untrustworthy. If east, join the Norman band that picks up men here. And if you go to the east…” she leaned closer to them, “…and I wouldn’t, do not go beyond Caesarea or Melitene, it’s too dangerous.”