A Frankish Ruse

The water rippled faintly in the torch-light. Muffled sounds emanated from beyond the end of the tunnel. The noise grew louder and louder. Those of us inside the tunnel sat silent, breathing through our mouths in fear of the faintest whisper. Daggers and chainmail glinted in the soft orange light. After an eternity, a pick sprouted from the clay at the end of the tunnel and startled voices followed the fire-light that appeared from the hole. With a great shout we burst through the thin clay and into the enemy tunnel. The man wielding the pick caught my dagger in his throat and gurgled frantically as he fell. Robert felled the man next to him with quick jabs to the stomach. The bloody scene at the front of the tunnel consumed any remaining will to fight amongst the surprised sappers, and seeing their helplessness, argued little when we dragged them out of the tunnel. We emerged in a small pasture in the first circuit of Manzikert’s walls. The men grumbled in a mixture of Persian and Turkish as they were brought to their knees in the cropped grass. 

“Eight tunnel rats. A fine haul,” George remarked.

“Basil will be pleased,” Robert nodded.

The full moon illuminated seven grubby men, one stood out from the rest. His hair was golden and shone in the light, his robes were clean and dyed in rich hues, jeweled rings decorated his long fingers.

“This one doesn’t look like a sapper,” I said, pointing at the blonde man. 

“You’re right…” George responded.

George approached the man and began berating him in broken Turkish. The man hissed back at George defiantly and spat after finishing his curses.

“The man claims to be Osketsam, the Sultan’s father-in-law, and he says the Sultan will have us flayed tomorrow when he takes the castle.” George said, stunned, “Tancred, wake the Strategos and tell him of our good fortune. Robert, pull down the supports in the enemy tunnel and take the men to fill ours. Be quick about it!”

I ran through the narrow, winding streets of the town and through the gates of the second and third walls, finally finding myself in the courtyard of the stalwart castle. Vladimir stood watch at the keep’s heavy wood and iron door and walked toward me as I breathlessly ran to him.

“Tancred! What happened?”

“The tunnel… we found it.. Sultan’s father-in-law… captured,” I managed between gasps.

Vladimir rushed inside, yelling in Russian and Greek to alert the officers of the news. I sprawled on the cool cobblestones of the courtyard and gazed up at the silent stars.

*

Vladimir woke me from my dreamless slumber in the gray predawn. 

“Wake up, Basil wants you with the rest of the men from last night up on the eastern gate,” he said in heavily accented Greek.

I rubbed my eyes and groaned as I sat up from the straw bed, picking a few lice off my tunic as I composed myself. I slid my mail shirt over my head and fastened my belt, my left hand resting on my pommel, my right cradling my helmet as my boots squelched in the muddy lanes of the lower town. As I approached the imposing gate, I saw George and Ranulf speaking animatedly with the Strategos at the bottom of the gatehouse. The prisoners stood sullenly on the battlements, five Varangians watched them carefully, their dreaded axes resting on their shoulders. 

“Tancred, I hope you slept well,” George greeted me. His black-rimmed eyes told me his duties had afforded him no similar luck.

“I did, sir, thank you.”

“George told me you were instrumental in defeating the enemy sappers,” the Strategos added. 

The Strategos, Basil Apokapes, was a tough, seasoned warrior. Middle-aged with a mind and body worn from a soldier’s life, Basil was revered by his men. Although strict, Basil could sometimes be seen sitting at the many campfires of the army’s grunts, telling tall tales of Basil II’s great victory at Svindax. Apokapes, son of a great Georgian noble, claimed he witnessed the battle as a young boy and that he stole a gold bracelet from the Emperor’s own tent before the tide of battle turned. At the end of the story he would produce the exquisite piece to his incredulous audience.

“Yes sir, I have some sapping experience from Italy,” I replied.

I silently chided myself for my honesty and reminding the Strategos of the war my compatriots continued to fight against the Romans.

If Basil was bothered he showed no sign and smiled with a slight nod.

“Well we are all certainly in your debt, Tancred,” Basil turned to Ranulf, “You and your men have been of great value here.”

Ranulf nodded, “the pleasure is all mine.”

“They are here!” A Varangian called down from the battlements.

We climbed up to the platform above the gatehouse and looked across the plains. Seljuk tents stood in clusters in a loose camp, arrows and abandoned siege equipment ringed the walls. Fallen warriors unlucky enough to die close to the walls lay bloated in the churned mud, eyes plucked by crows and adding to the stench of the crowded town.

A small band of warriors rode toward the gate under a white flag of truce. The men cut an imposing figure. The Seljuks rode swift, white stallions and wore shirts of scale armor, feathers and plumes of horse hair decorated their helmets. The group slowed to a trot and then stopped fifty paces out from the walls.

“His Royal Majesty, Abu Talib Muhammad Tughril ibn Mika'il, King of East and West, The Pillar of The State, King of Kings, wishes to congratulate you on your most noble defense of the city,” a herald called out in his sonorous, Persian-accented Greek. “Your continued resistance is futile in the face of the Sultan's most wondrous and powerful host. You, Romans, have proved yourselves worthy of honor and praise. You have kept true to your oaths and defended the city against all odds. The most-merciful servant of Allah finds you worthy opponents and promises you, and all who wish to leave, safe passage to Roman lands. The Sutan only asks that you never return to raise your fist against his most benevolent rule and that you yield all the treasure, weapons, possessions, and prisoners in your city as is the Sultan's right to demand by conquest.”

“Your Sultan forgets that these lands are Roman and he has no right to trespass on the Emperor’s realm,” Basil replied, “your master must take his army back to his realm and I will return his father-in-law unharmed, I swear it.”

The herald looked back to a man in the center of the group and they conversed quietly.

“Do you think Tughril is very fond of his father-in-law?” George asked.

“I hope so,” Basil replied.

The herald finished his conversation with the man and turned back to the walls, “His majesty will consider allowing you and your men to ride out with your swords, horses, and banners should you return Osketsam to his majesty unharmed, today.”

“I don’t remember such entreaties being offered to the people of Berkri, your Sultan slaughtered even the women and children of the city!” Basil shouted, “Here is what I think of Tughril’s supposed mercy!”

Basil yanked Osketsam up to the battlements and, like lightning, his sword flashed from its scabbard and Osketsam’s head fell to the ground with a dull thud. The Varangians followed Basil’s example and beheaded the rest of the sappers, some moaning or making whispered prayers to their god before being silenced, blood pooling in the flagstones of the platform.

The Sultan rode out from his retinue, wheeling his horse about excitedly. He shook his spear and screamed curses in Turkish before riding swiftly away, his companions struggling to keep his pace.

“Do you think that was wise?” Ranulf questioned.

“We have just given the Sultan a reason to invest his whole might in this siege. He will bloody his horde against our walls until they are exhausted. By soaking up their energy here, we can stop them from moving farther west. Osketsam has just ensured the safety of all of Romania,” Basil replied.

“And if we can’t hold out?” George asked.

“Then I’ll drill you useless dogs in Hell until you can hit one of those devilish horse archers,” Basil chuckled.

*

The next few days were quiet and we passed the time drinking wine and playing knuckle bones. Some of the officers organized games to keep our minds and bodies sharp and the men wrestled, boxed, and raced against one another. The Varangians, northern giants famed for their strength, trounced any man who challenged them to wrestle and Vladimir pinned a particularly boisterous Greek to the cheers of the crowd. Robert won the footrace and a small pile of silver coins for wagering on his impressive speed. He had made sure to limp past the Greek barracks for two days to elevate the odds.

The morning after the footrace, and a few too many drinks, Robert and I stood on guard duty, looking over the sleepy Seljuk camp.

“What do you think they’re doing back home?” Robert asked.

“Hmm… salting the pork, Guiscard is probably driving mother mad by cutting bits and throwing them into her stew.”

Robert laughed, “remember how she hit him so hard with that wooden spoon it snapped?”

“Yeah, father almost died, he laughed so hard.”

“I miss it, I think I might go back after this.”

I turned to Robert, “Why? Guiscard gets the farm, what would you do?”

Robert shrugged, “I should have some money by the end of this. Ranulf has been talking about our final payout once our contract with the Romans is up and it should be enough to pay my way back and buy a decent amount of land.”

“But why leave? The wine is cheap, the pay is good, and the women are beautiful. We have had good fortune fighting in Ranulf’s warband.”

“It's just not home. I miss our people. It's so hot here I feel like I’m melting and you can’t find a decent mead to save your life.”

I laughed, “Well, I’ll hate to see you go. Ranulf will too.”

Robert nodded and looked back out over to the hazy horizon, “You should come back too. I don’t want to leave you alone in a strange land.”

“I don’t know. I think this life suits me.”

“Well, mother will not be happy to listen to me list the vices you’ve fallen into,” Robert teased.

“Maybe I won’t let you leave then,” I punched Robert in the arm.

Robert’s laughter stopped abruptly and he squinted as he looked toward the distant coast of Lake Van.

“What is that?”

A brown smudge grew in the south until we could make out the convoy of oxen and wagons carrying huge stones and massive beams.

“I have no idea, go tell Ranulf.”

By the time Robert returned with Ranulf and Basil the wagons had begun unloading in the Seljuk camp and dozens of men were assembling the massive contraption.

“Looks like a catapult, big one too,” Ranulf said.

“Yes, it must be the one from Baghesh. Basil II built it to defend the city. It didn’t slow Tughril much,” Basil replied.

“What can we do?” Robert asked Ranulf.

Ranulf shrugged, “nothing to be done. We wait for them to run out of things to throw and patch the walls where we can.”

The next day a grave mood swept through Manzikert. Stones thudded against the walls and towers. A few stones flew high and pockmarked the ground within the walls, crashing through homes and storehouses and sowing panic in the civilian populace. Fearing an assault, Basil doubled the sentries. Low thuds rang out over the castle throughout the day in a constant barrage. In the evening, I returned to my pitiful bunk to rest before my next shift when Vladimir burst in the room.

“Tancred, come quickly, it's Robert,” Vladimir said breathlessly.

Although frighteningly muscle-bound, Vladimir was a swift runner and led me to a tower on the eastern walls, my head swimming with fear for my younger brother. When we emerged from the labyrinthine alleys we were greeted by a scene of chaos. Dust hung suspended in the dying sunlight and people ran about frantically, pulling stones from a rubble pile that was once a tower.

“No, no, no, no, no.”

I raced to the rubble and flung stones until my fingers bled, Vladimir lending his considerable strength to my efforts. Soon, mangled bodies began emerging. A flattened hand, an arm bent in four places, bone splinters jutting out of punctured skin. Lord, please not Robert. Lord, spare my brother. Three men were pulled from the rubble before I saw his hair. The shaven back of his head and tuft of brown hair were unmistakably Norman. Breathlessly, I moved the stone covering the man’s face and saw my brother. His head had been left untouched by the stones and he wore a calm expression, as if he was sleeping. I moved my face to his cold forehead and sobbed shamelessly. Vladimir put a hand on my shoulder and guided me away from the scene so that the others could extract his broken body. 

The next morning the town priest buried my brother and the three other men in the churchyard. Vladimir had spent the night carving my brother’s burial cross, deftly marking the Latin letters with the help of Ranulf. I had Robert buried in his armor, with his sword on his chest, his hands laid gently over it. We had both bought small bronze crosses at the Hagia Sophia on our journey East and buried him with mine around his neck. I thumbed Robert’s cross as the men shoveled dirt over his face, a sly smile on his lips.

“I am sorry about your brother,” the priest told me, “he would often come to Liturgy and play backgammon with me afterwards. I enjoyed his company.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“I do not want to bury anyone else because of this catapult. This morning a young girl was crushed in her sleep by a stone. With your help, I think we can do something about it.”

“What do you mean, Father?”

“When I was a young boy I was an apprentice at the siege workshops in Constantinople. I could build a catapult and we can lob these stones right back at the Turks, crush their catapult and end this barrage.”

“But why tell me, Father? Go tell the Strategos yourself.”

The priest waved me off, “Basil won’t take the word of some old man and tie the hopes of his army to it. But I swear to you, Tancred, if you get me the wood, nails and rope, I will build you a catapult.”

“I will, Father.”

That night I spoke with Ranulf. Ranulf saw value in the plan and we went into the keep to see Basil. Basil stood over a worn table, reading dispatches and scribbling figures in the candlelight.

“And this priest, you’re sure he knows what to do?”

I handed Basil the rough schematics the priest had provided me.

“I trust him, lord.”

“I have worked on catapults before,” Ranulf added, “the schematics seem accurate to me.”

“Then we start building tomorrow, tell your priest he will have the men and materials he needs,” Basil answered.

After a few days of sawing and hammering under the watchful eye of Father Nektarios, we had a catapult assembled in a grassy spot behind the ruined tower. Hundreds of soldiers and civilians lined the battlements to get a view of our defiant response to the Turkish bombardment. Vladimir set a heavy stone in the bucket of the catapult.

“Is everything ready, Father?” Basil asked, anxious to see if the contraption could break the siege.

“Yes, lord. I believe I have the calculations right,” Nektarios responded.

With a whispered prayer and a sprinkling of Holy Water, Father Nektarios put a gnarled hand on the lever and pulled. The arm of the catapult slammed into the crossbar at a frightful speed, the thudding of wood echoing from the thick stone walls of the fortress. The stone cut a high arc and sailed across the dry grass before the city walls and toward Turghil’s machine. The stone arced down to the catapult and a booming crack erupted as it hit its target. The crossbar of Turghil’s catapult had been turned into a splintered ruin and a great shout rose from Manzikert’s walls as its defenders rejoiced at their turn of fortune. Seljuk soldiers hastily dragged their catapult back to camp and there was no further fighting for several days.

One morning, the early Sun’s rays brought a sobering sight to the sentries on the walls. The Seljuk army had repaired their catapult and built wooden walls around it. Father Nektarios commanded the men operating our catapult and launched stone after stone at the enemy but it was useless. The stones bounced harmlessly off the thick trunks of the fortifications. Even pots of Greek Fire made little impression, fizzling out on the damp pelts the Turks had stretched across their palisade. Dread spread across Manzikert. Those inside resolved themselves to their fate and boulders crashed into the weakening walls and fragile buildings beyond. One stone hit a soldier in the chest as he patrolled the battlements. Before supper we buried his legs and viscera. 

The Normans and Varangians had been billeted in adjacent storehouses near the keep and often shared meals when the Greeks seasoned the nightly meal with garum, a putrid fish sauce. Ranulf and Vladimir were engaged in a heated conversation on the supposed superiority of Ranulf’s sword or Vladmir’s heavy Dane Axe when a young messenger burst into the room.

“Sir, the Strategos has called for all the citizens and soldiers in Manzikert to assemble in the courtyard of the castle for an announcement.”

Ranulf waved him off and looked at Vladimir curiously. Vladimir shrugged in confusion. Whispers spread that Basil had lost his nerve and was preparing to announce the surrender of the city, with grave consequences for all trapped within. The streets were flooded with people slowly shuffling into the spacious courtyard of the immense castle and torches had been lit in the twilight. Basil stood on a platform flanked by his officers, all wearing their expertly crafted armor, reflecting the orange glow of the torches that ringed the area. Once the people had been assembled, Basil loudly cleared his throat to silence the crowd’s nervous murmuring.

“Friends, comrades, fellow Romans. I do not intend to trouble you unduly, I must be honest. Our situation is growing grim. Although we have enough provisions and water to outlast any siege, this wicked catapult is in danger of bringing down our walls. You all have already seen it collapse one of our towers, and it is only a matter of time before it begins to bring down the walls themselves, and permit the enemy’s entry into the city.”

Nervous chatter began amidst the crowd, Basil silenced the people with his hand.

“I do not tell you this to explain a surrender, or to cause you to fear, I only wish to communicate the gravity of our situation, because what I am about to ask is no small task. I need a brave man to ride out to the catapult and burn it.”

The soldiers whispered to one another about the suicidal task that had been offered to them.

“The man who can accomplish this feat will receive 7,000 Nomisma and four war horses from my stables. He will receive undying glory and praise and I will see to it he is given a promotion to a higher station with the Emperor’s blessing. If the man should fall in the execution of these duties, the reward will be given to his family or son.”

An uneasy silence stretched across the crowd. No man wished to ride out alone against the whole of the Seljuk host. We had seen countless of our comrades quilled by their arrows and gutted by their lances. Some of us had been unlucky enough to see the twitching corpses of men the Turks had flayed on their many raids into Armenia.

“I will go.”

Ranulf turned to me in shock and Basil locked his eyes with mine.

“I will burn the catapult, and shed my blood for all the Christians trapped here in the city. I am alone. I have no wife or children, my brother Robert lies in the churchyard, and I do not wish his grave to be desecrated by the pagans. I only ask for a swift and brave horse to ride tomorrow.”

Basil nodded solemnly, “and you will have it, Tancred.”

The Strategos dismissed the gloomy crowd and summoned me to follow him to his chambers.

“This is a brave thing you are doing, Tancred. I will give you my mare, Artemis, she is fearless and fast.”

“Thank you, lord.”

Basil nodded, “Tomorrow at noon you will ride out. The Turks will be lethargic and resting in their tents to escape the midday heat, so I am expecting fewer men guarding the catapult than usual.”

Basil moved to the window and looked out to the Seljuk camp.

“Tomorrow morning go down to the armory in the cellar, you will be given three pots of Greek Fire to smash against the catapult. When you’re done, ride as if your life depends on it, because it will. I will have archers on the walls to cover your return.”

“Yes, lord.”

I saluted him, and turned to leave.

“Tancred.”

“Yes, lord?”

“Good luck.”

*

In the morning I walked down to the cool, damp cellar and found the siphōnarioi responsible for the fortress’s store of the volatile Greek Fire. Their leader showed me the way to a large crate filled with sand and plucked three small, clay jars from it. The jars were stopped with tar and a small wick protruded from the black mass.

“The jars are filled with Greek Fire. Before throwing them you need to light the wick, make sure you throw them hard so the jars shatter and the Greek Fire ignites properly. Keep your distance, the flames will be intense, and since you are on horseback, you will need to watch your mount. Horses often spook when we use the Greek Fire.”

“How will I light the wicks? A torch or candle will be difficult to manage while galloping.”

The man put up a finger, “don’t worry, we’ve been at this for a few centuries and have a solution.”

The soldier produced a thick rope from a bag.

“Light this and carry it close to your body, it will smolder for hours and ignite the wicks when you touch them to the embers. Be careful not to get it close to the jars before you are ready to light them.”

I thanked the man and carried the jars and rope out of the cellar and into the light of the courtyard.

“Tancred!” George called out to me as he crossed the cobblestones toward me.

“George, how are you?”

“Fine, fine. Managed to buy some eggs from a woman in town for breakfast. What’s with the jars?”

“Greek Fire, for the catapult.”

“Ah, how do you plan to get that close?”

“Ride fast, I guess.”

“You’re the luckiest man I know, but I don’t think you could outrun Seljuk arrows.”

George was right. The Turks would know that something was suspicious the moment I rode out of the gate. If I galloped to the catapult their suspicions would be confirmed and they’d feather me with arrows before I could even light a jar.

“I… I guess I’ll have to think of something.”

“Bah- Don’t worry, I have the perfect idea.”

George led me into the keep to a clerk’s desk and stole some parchment and a quill despite the protestations of the bookish administrator. George sat down by the window and motioned me to come towards him.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, Turghil knows we are getting desperate. Shit, even I thought that assembly last night was going to have to do with surrendering to his army.”

“So?”

“So, a courier with a message for parlay or terms would not seem suspicious to him. The Turks might not even look twice as you ride toward them.”

“George, you’re a genius.”

“My brilliance is astounding, isn’t it? Now, what to lead with? ‘To the most sublime Sultan, your mother was a goat…”

*

I rode down to the western gatehouse on Basil’s mare. Basil and his core of officers stood next to the gate to wish me luck on my mission. Archers lined the walls as Basil had promised. Curious soldiers and townsfolk crowded the street for a better view of me as I rode to what many thought to be my certain death.

George stepped out from Basil’s retinue and presented the letter to me, spearing it with my lance so that the Turks could distinguish me as a courier.

I signaled to a soldier standing nearby to bring me a torch and I delicately lit the rope, shielding the embers in the left side of my cloak, a satchel containing the three jars of Greek Fire hung at my right. I wore my chainmail shirt and iron helmet and had slung my kite shield behind my back, proudly displaying my family’s blue dragon to friend and foe. Robert’s bronze cross dangled at my neck.

“Open the gate!” Basil bellowed.

Six soldiers obliged and unbarred the great oaken doors, straining to move them.

I rode slowly through the gate and across the dry moat. Artemis trotted across the dry grass, the catapult shimmering in the midday heat. The letter fluttered on my spear and sweat beaded on my brow from the oppressive Anatolian sun. The Seljuk camp was still. Men lounged under shade and milled about their tents, riding out the midday heat. As I neared the catapult I could finally appreciate the sheer size of the machine. Stones half the size of a man sat in piles around its imposing figure, the bucket that held them was carved from a single trunk roughly six feet across, the beams hewn from colossal trees. 

As I looked around I noticed that there were no soldiers guarding the catapult, the walls around it being abandoned for the comfort of the camp beyond. A few men watched my approach but, seeing the letter fixed to my spear, assumed I was a courier and went about their business. I stopped Artemis beside the catapult, threw my spear on the ground and hurriedly touched the match to the cord in the stopper. The cord burst into flame and I hurled the jar at the bucket of the catapult. The jar burst on impact and the bucket ignited into a raging fire. Artemis reared in shock and I wheeled her around the catapult for another pass.

Unencumbered by my spear I lit the second jar at a trot and slung it at the crossbar of the catapult, the new wood crackling in the flames. The commotion and flames had thrown the Seljuk camp into pandemonium and soldiers rushed toward me on foot and horseback, lances, swords, and bows in hand. I spurred Artemis to run faster and ignited the last jar as we circled the catapult for the second time, angling right and homeward. I launched the last jar down at the arm of the catapult, flames spread quickly across its length of dry wood.

I rode Artemis hard toward Manzikert, a great chorus of cheering rising to meet me. As we raced across the plains I could hear the thunder of hooves and whooping warriors behind me. An arrow raced past my head and then another. The hooves grew closer. I felt an arrow thud into my shield, the force of the impact bruising my back. The open gates grew in my vision as Artemis galloped toward them, George stood in the entrance waving me on.

Move arrows sailed towards me, one glanced off my helmet, another cut Artemis’s flank, extracting a pained roar from my mount. We approached the dry moat, archers on the walls now firing at our pursuers. Artemis dove into the moat and then up into the gate, George and a dozen other soldiers closing and barring the doors quickly.

As Artemis slowed and my breathlessness receded, I removed my helmet to see the cheering crowds of Manzikert’s people and defenders. 

“Tancred! Tancred! Tancred!”

Friends and admirers thronged around me, Ranulf and Vladmir cheering loudest of all through beaming smiles. I wrapped my brother’s cross in my fingers and smiled.

Notes:

The Siege of Manzikert in 1054 was one of the largest confrontations between the Seljuk Empire, recently founded by Turghil, and the Byzantine Empire before their fateful battle on the plains outside the city in 1071. The Seljuks had begun to make raids into Byzantine Anatolia from their new lands in Azerbaijan and Iran and the Byzantines sought to defeat this emergent threat. Imperial armies, local levies, and mercenaries (many Frankish, Norman, Norse, and Rus) all fought the Seljuks in the high mountains and river valleys of the region. I have relied on Matthew of Edessa’s Chronicle and John Skylitzes’s Synopsis of Histories to recreate the siege in an entertaining and accurate manner. 

Matthew of Edessa recounts Basil Apokapes’s valiant defense of the city and Turghil’s many attempts to breach it in the eventful 30-day siege. Matthew tells us of a Frank who volunteers to destroy the great catapult Turghil’s army dragged from Baghesh with three jars of Greek Fire. After the Frank successfully destroyed the catapult, Turghil was so impressed by his courage that he asked to meet him and give him gifts! The anonymous Frank refused and Turghil restarted his sapping operation, which the Byzantines stymied by pulling the sappers out of their trenches with iron hooks and killing them. The citizens of the city then launched a pig from their catapult and into the Seljuk camp, chanting “Take this, Sultan, for your wife, and we shall give you Manzikert as a dowry.” Shamed and frustrated, Turghil lifted the siege and returned home. 

As for the heroic Frank, he was awarded gifts for his services and met the Emperor Constantine IX Monomachos, who promoted the soldier. Though the Frank’s name has been lost to history, his deeds live on.

Read more here:

https://archive.org/details/ChronicleMatthewEdessa/page/44/mode/2up?q=part+2

https://archive.org/details/JohnSkylitzes.ASynopsisOfByzantineHistorytrans.ByJ.Wortley2010/page/n397/mode/2up?q=torgul