Plains Parley with the Red Hand Chieftain
On the plains, I faced the Turkic chieftain. Gazing at him, I introduced myself.
"I am Rogerius Uranus, Strategos of the Eastern Frontier. Who are you?"
I wasn't sure if Greek would work, but I used it anyway. The Turkic chieftain seemed to understand, replying immediately.
"I am Arslan, leader of the Red Hand tribe."
"You speak Greek."
"My ancestors were nobles of the Khazars. They traded with East Rome. That's how I heard about your guild."
It made sense. Not all mercenaries in Constantinople were Greeks, but most used the language, so anyone wanting news had to know it.
"So you're the Rogerius leading that famous guild?"
"Yes."
Arslan eyed me appraisingly. Then he gestured behind him.
"You might not care, but we come from near Urdun Bayka—the Sacred Lake, in our tongue."
It sounded like Lake Sevan.
"We grazed sheep, horses, and cattle there, selling meat and furs to live."
"Why have people like you come here?"
Arslan answered without hesitation.
"Heaven's wrath, perhaps. One day, the lake began flooding relentlessly, ravaging our homes."
Sudden climate shift. As I recalled, this era was the Medieval Warm Period—overall mild weather that even let Vikings settle harsh Greenland. The south, though, suffered frequent floods. These nomads had clearly been hit too.
With the land turning to swamp and pasture vanishing, they had no choice but to flee for new grounds. East Rome's territory caught their eye. They might be genuinely interested in the guild, but really, they needed a new home—and this place fit.
"We have nowhere to return. Behind me are about three thousand tribesfolk who follow me."
Arslan's eyes suddenly gleamed. At that moment, Halvar drew his bow and loosed an arrow at a spot not far off. The shaft flew swift and true, embedding in the ground before a man on horseback holding a lasso.
"Best not try anything foolish."
My warning made the tribesfolk glance nervously at Arslan. He raised a hand, signaling them to fall back.
"With no retreat, seizing that fortress doesn't look too hard. What do you think?"
"Does it?"
Arslan watched me closely, then sighed deeply and shook his head.
"Doesn't seem easy."
"Wise choice."
Thankfully, the chieftain avoided all-out war—the worst option. Instead, he tried persuasion.
"I've heard about your mercenary work. We ride and fight better than Alans. No thought to hiring us?"
"We don't hire those who've shown us hostility."
I knew they'd charge again if refused. But I couldn't reveal weakness. These nomads lived like Vikings—I understood their ways better than most. So I pushed back hard, deliberately.
"I'm deeply sorry for that. I'll send my son as a gesture—forgive us."
A hostage, essentially a slave. It was the utmost courtesy from a nomad's view, so I bowed slightly and proceeded.
"Very well. Is employment all you seek?"
"Employment, yes—but also a place to live."
Now they wanted land too. Infuriating from our side, but outnumbered by these bandit-like hordes, outright refusal was risky.
"If you want a home, how about near the walls? Stay till the floods ebb and the ground firms, then return."
Arslan shook his head. No intention of leaving.
"No return. We want to settle here."
Impasse. Arguing endlessly wasted time—better to stall.
"Understood. But this is the Emperor's purview, not mine. I'll send a letter and await reply."
"How long?"
"Over a week."
Arslan nodded.
"We'll camp near the walls while waiting."
"Permitted. But first, send your son as proof of good faith."
Arslan pondered, then called out in their tongue. A mature-looking youth rode forward on horseback, posture steady and composed.
"This is Chaur, my brother's son. He died, and his sons follow me—like my own."
Levirate marriage. Nomad life was brutal; early deaths common. Brothers often took in families, wedding widows and raising nephews as sons.
Knowing this, I accepted.
"What's your name?"
"Ebu Sheleyman Chaur Bey Daour ibn Mikhail ibn Seljuk."
Seljuk. Hearing that name etched in history, I couldn't hide my surprise.
Seljuk Turks. Nomads from Khazar lands who migrated south to Khorasan, founding a realm in Persia. They expanded, toppling the Ghaznavids and Buyids, seizing Persian hegemony. They conquered Baghdad, claiming the Abbasid Caliph and unifying long-fractured Sunni Islam.
Later, they influenced the Rum Sultanate and Anatolian beyliks, paving the way for the Ottoman Empire.
Chaur was one of the founders. The great general who led victory at Dandankan.
I regarded him with keen interest.
"Chaur, was it?"
"Yes."
More courteous than expected. Less wild nomad, more refined noble youth. His father Arslan's polished speech had clearly shaped him.
Anyway, I wanted to confirm if this was the Chaur from history.
"Where does your band hail from?"
"The steppes. Under the Khazar Khagan."
Khazar nobility confirmed. But many nomads served the Khazars—no snap judgment.
"Why come here from Khazar lands?"
"Just following my grandfather's orders. Details unknown."
"I see. Then why settle near Lesser Armenia?"
Chaur hesitated, gauging me, then explained.
"We meant to aid my father and move the tribe to Transoxiana."
Transoxiana: modern Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan—a vast expanse.
In real history, Chaur—the true founder—grew up in Jand with brother Tughril, merc-ing there. Yet here he was near East Rome's borders.
Twisted history. Hauteville ages differed; facts warped everywhere.
"Storms, floods, wars—various woes kept us in Armenia long. We ended up staying at what was temporary shelter."
Evading. I wanted details, but probing risked suspicion—best hold back.
Key point: this was my Chaur. Now, where was Tughril, the other founder?
"Arslan mentioned more sons. Where's the other?"
Arslan hadn't—but Chaur couldn't check, so he answered straightforwardly, like a background check.
"You mean Bewda and Tughril? Bewda's with brother Tughril, merc-ing in Khorasan."
Originally, Tughril and Chaur's Dandankan win over Ghaznavids birthed the Seljuks. Here, brother Bewda filled Chaur's role.
Would the Seljuk Empire even form? If Bewda outshone Chaur, a greater realm; else, none at all.
Ironic fate. Either way, I'd snagged a talented general as hostage—profit.
"One more question."
"What?"
"Heard you're Varangian. How'd you become an imperial commander?"
Chaur's eyes lit with ambition—natural for my age, hungry for glory.
"The Emperor gave opportunity. I proved myself."
Crindge-worthy line. More would've sounded boastful—restrained.
Chaur's eyes sparkled; it resonated. Fitting a future empire-builder, ambition burned bright.
"Could I earn that chance from you, Commander?"
"Will you serve me?"
He nodded promptly.
"Father sent me hostage. My life is yours. To succeed, I serve you faithfully."
Rational, appealing words. Pleased by his flattery, I nodded.
Days passed in talks with Chaur. Exactly a week and three days later, a letter arrived from the Emperor.