STRATEGOS
ISLAND IN THE STORM
by Gordon Doherty
First Kindle Edition 2014
© 2014 Gordon Doherty
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.
www.gordondoherty.co.uk
Also by Gordon Doherty:
STRATEGOS: BORN IN THE BORDERLANDS
When the falcon has flown, the mountain lion will charge from the east, and all Byzantium will quake. Only one man can save the empire . . . the Haga!
STRATEGOS: RISE OF THE GOLDEN HEART
Stay strong, Haga, for the Golden Heart will rise in the west. In the morning, he will wear the guise of a lion hunter. In the afternoon, he will march to the east as if to conquer the sun itself. In the evening you will stand with him in the final battle, like an island in the storm.
LEGIONARY
Numerius Vitellius Pavo, enslaved as a boy after the death of his legionary father, is thrust into the border legions just before they are sent to recapture the long-lost eastern Kingdom of Bosporus. This sees him thrown into the jaws of a plot, so twisted that the survival of the entire Roman world hangs in the balance…
LEGIONARY: VIPER OF THE NORTH
In the frozen lands north of the Danubius a dark legend, thought long dead, has risen again. The name is on the lips of every warrior in Gutthiuda; the one who will unite the tribes, the one whose armies will march upon the empire, the one who will bathe in Roman blood . . .
The Viper!
LEGIONARY: LAND OF THE SACRED FIRE
When Optio Numerius Vitellius Pavo and a select group of the XI Claudia are summoned to the Persian front, they leave Thracia behind, knowing little of what awaits them. They know only that they are to march into a burning land of strange gods. They whisper tales of the mighty Persian Savaran cavalry and pray to Mithras they will see their homes and families again. But for Pavo, the east holds the greatest mystery of all . . . the truth about his father.
For William.
We’ll never forget you.
Table of Contents
Title & Copyright Page
Maps & Military Diagrams
Prologue Manzikert Friday 26th August 1071 AD
Part 1: 1069 AD Two years earlier . . .
1. The Rogue of the Black Fort
2. Blood River
3. An Elusive Foe
4. The Cilician Gates
Part 2: 1070 AD
5. Lure
6. The Lion’s Pride
7. A Dagger in the Dark
8. Field of Carrion
Part 3: 1071 AD
9. Ruthless
10. Adnoumion
11. The Strangeness
12. The Lion’s Fury
13. Field of Bones
14. The Gathering of the Horde
15. City of Echoes
Part 4: Manzikert
16. The Taking of Manzikert
17. The Lion Circles
18. Into the Fray
19. Island in the Storm
20. Amongst the Dead
21. Home
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Glossary
The Byzantine Empire circa 1069 AD
Note that a full and interactive version of this map can be found on the ‘Strategos’ section of my website, www.gordondoherty.co.uk
The Byzantine Themata and Border Doukates of Anatolia circa 1069 AD
Constantinople circa 1069 AD
The Battlefield of Manzikert
Structure of a Typical Byzantine Thema
The Byzantine Tagmata
Prologue
Manzikert
Friday 26th August 1071 AD
A lone tamarisk tree stood upon a deserted hilltop, bathed in dawn light. The cicadas nearby chattered as if today was just another day. Then the clopping of hooves sounded, scattering a pair of song thrushes from the tree. A lone rider galloped up the hillside, his iron lamellar armour shimmering, his crimson cloak and the black eagle feather plume of his helm flitting in the breeze. He came to a halt near the tree and removed his helm. A gentle wind whipped his silver-amber locks across his face. It was a face furrowed with age and determination: deep-set and saturnine emerald eyes looming under the heavy shade of his brow, a nose battered and scarred across the bridge and taut lips guarded by an iron-grey beard.
Apion slid from the saddle and led his war horse to a trickling brook by the tree. ‘Slake your thirst, rest your legs. She will come to me soon,’ he whispered, glancing up at the sun-streaked sky as he smoothed the chestnut Thessalian’s mane. The gelding snorted in appreciation before gulping at the water. Apion strode over to the tamarisk tree, then sat back against its gnarled trunk and took a long pull on his water skin. Pensively, he looked back to the south, down the hillside from where he had come.
The breeze conducted the tall grass of the slope into a rhythmic dance and at times, when it stood tall, he could see nothing of the plain below – only the Anatolian sky and the snow-capped peaks far to the south. When this happened, his mind wandered in the echoes of the past: those lost days tending the goat herd on the Chaldian hillsides overlooking Mansur’s farm. Trapped in a vice of darkness and pain before and after, those few years were the light, the force that kept him holding on, the reason he had wielded his sword to this day.
‘Yet it’s all . . . gone,’ he mouthed, his whisper carried away by the breeze. He lifted a dark lock of woman’s hair from his purse and stroked at it absently. Her name rang in his thoughts. Maria. His search for her had been fruitless, and today would surely end any lingering hope.
The shriek of an eagle stirred him, and he realised he was no longer alone. From the corner of his eye he recognised the shrivelled, white-haired crone sitting by his side. ‘Wiser men might have kept riding, and fled this land,’ she said, her milky, sightless eyes fixed upon him. Then she turned to look downhill with him, extending a bony finger towards the waving curtain of tall grass. ‘Look, Apion.’
As if quelled by the frail old woman’s words, the breeze died and the grass fell limp, revealing the plain below and the two opposing masses of shimmering warriors there, red dust and woodsmoke pluming above them like a low-lying storm cloud. Romanus Diogenes, Emperor of Byzantium, the Golden Heart, was to lead his armies against Sultan Alp Arslan, the Mountain Lion, and his Seljuk hordes. The hillside trembled as the last few regiments of Byzantine spearmen filed from their camp and the Seljuk cavalry wings rumbled into place. The air reverberated with the Christian chanting of the Byzantine ranks. Swords, spears, bows, shields and bright standards were held aloft by both armies. The shatranj board was all but set. This was the clash these lands had feared for so long. Destiny would be forged on this plain.
Apion glanced from the opposing armies to the nearby, black-bricked fortress of Manzikert by the foot of this hill, and then to the snow-capped mountains far to the south – Mount Tzipan the tallest of them all. These great slopes masked all but a glimpse of Lake Van, sparkling in the sunlight, and the speck on the shore side that was the sister fortress of Chliat. The crone placed a hand on his shoulder, and he recalled something she had foreseen, years ago.
I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars.
The meaning, Delphic then, was all too evident now. His gaze passed across the plain once more, drawn to the heart of the Byzantine ranks where Emperor Romanus sat proudly astride his stallion, defiant in the face of all that had happened in the preceding months. Across the battlefield, behind the Seljuk lines, he could just make out the Sultan’s command tent. The rest of the crone’s augury came to him;
A
t dusk you and the Golden Heart will stand together in the final battle, like an island in the storm. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud.
He turned to the old woman, wishing to ask her if this meant victory lay in store for Byzantium’s forces today, and dreading both possible responses.
But the crone spoke before he did. ‘The storm is almost upon us, Haga. The answers you seek dance within its wrath.’
Apion felt a stinging behind his eyes, an invisible hand grasping at his heart. ‘Do they?’ he replied through taut lips. ‘All I know is that a vast Seljuk horde awaits, blades sharpened. Alp Arslan, his armies and . . . ’
‘And your son,’ the crone finished for him flatly.
The truth chilled Apion’s blood. He scanned the forming Seljuk lines, unable to discern any of them at such distance but knowing that his boy, Taylan, was there – his heart aflame with a desire for revenge, his sword eager to spill his father’s blood. Apion let his head loll back against the tamarisk bark, his eyes shut tight. Death had hunted him for years. Today, death would take him . . . or Taylan. How had it come to this?
‘Perhaps you were right – I should have kept riding,’ he snorted. ‘Then I would not have to clash swords with my boy.’
‘Yet Taylan would still seek you out on the battlefield, unaware of your absence. Still he might fall. Still you would be without knowledge of Maria.’
Apion dropped his head into his hands. ‘Tell me, old woman: what wickedness has brought today about? Is it Fate, the one you curse so fervidly?’
She shook her head, her face lengthening. ‘It is the black hearts and venal curs in the courts of Byzantium and the Sultanate that have brought about this day. Yet it is noble men who will perish down on that plain.’
‘Then what hope is there?’ Apion said, numbly.
She leaned a little closer. ‘While good men do what is right, hope can never die.’
He traced a finger over the faded red-ink Haga stigma on his forearm. The effigy of the mythical two-headed eagle there had all but become him and he it. ‘You seek good men? Then why do you come to me, old woman?’ He turned to her. But she was gone. He was alone once again.
Suddenly, the Seljuk war horns snarled down on the plain. A shiver of finality prickled on his skin. A great empire would be humbled today. All that lay undecided was which.
He stood, walked from the shade and into the sunlight, resting his sword hand on the worn ivory hilt of old Mansur’s scimitar. The iron lamellae of his klibanion vest chinked rhythmically with each step. He took his gelding’s reins and vaulted onto the saddle. From horseback, he could see that the opposing battle lines were almost ready, their destiny ever closer. He closed his eyes to clear his mind, inhaling the sweet scent of jasmine before what was to come.
It was a fine day to die.
Part 1:
1069 AD
Two years earlier . . .
1. The Rogue of the Black Fort
Psidias the tax collector was an eternally sullen man. The kind of man who would scowl at the sun for being too hot, then curse any cloud that came across it for blocking out the light. In his twenties, he had assumed he would become more at ease with himself as he aged, but now – at forty – he was more irritable than ever. He swept his cloak across his rounded shoulders in an attempt to stave off the chill February wind, his shapeless nose wrinkling in discomfort as the reins chafed on his palms and the juddering wagon pummelled his already numb buttocks. The rugged valleys and mountain passes of Colonea usually made for tedious progress on the route back to the west, but this time they seemed to be making better ground. He laughed bitterly at his momentary optimism. Almost certainly, their swiftness was down to the scant takings and the lightness of the wagon, he mused, glancing over his shoulder from the driver’s berth at the half-empty coin sacks. The populace was thin and scattered in this eastern thema of Byzantium, many of the taxpaying farmers and townsfolk having deserted the region for areas less prone to Seljuk raids.
He wondered how the poor takings might reflect on him, and his belly began to churn as he imagined his beaky-nosed superiors scrutinising him, questioning him. He looked up to his escort of four kursores, riding a few feet before the wagon, wearing felt caps, iron klibanion jackets and carrying spears and shields. These imperial scout riders had performed their jobs, they would receive no scorn when they saw the wagon safely back to the imperial treasury. His anxiety turned to jealousy and he scowled at the riders, only for the hooves of the nearest mount to throw up a cloud of dust that blinded him and coated his mouth with grit. Retching and wiping at his eyes, he made to roar at the rider. But the cry caught in his throat. For the offending kursoris had galloped ahead, his cap falling off as he hoisted his spear. The other three riders rushed ahead with him, all four looking up at the nearby scree-strewn and shrub-dotted rise.
Psidias squinted, leaning out from the driver’s berth to look up with them. A shadow loomed up there. No, many shadows. A wall of figures. Iron horsemen. Psidias gulped, his guts at once melting. ‘Seljuk raiders? No!’ he wailed.
But then the kursores before him relaxed their spears and broke out in relieved laughter. Psidias frowned, then noticed the garb of these unexpected horsemen: iron conical helms with broad nose guards. Mail hauberks and kite shields. Norman mercenaries in Byzantine service. Men who were paid handsomely to protect the outlying themata. Twenty of them. One led them down the rise. This one was assured-looking, with wisps of blonde hair licking from the lip of his helm. A confident smile grew on his round, red-cheeked face, and his cerulean eyes fell upon the wagon.
‘Crispin, of the borderland tagma, Lord of the Black Fort of Mavrokastro,’ the rider introduced himself to the kursores in his western twang. His tone was haughty but his voice carried well, as if amplified by the walls of the pass. Psidias noticed how his eyes darted back to the wagon as he spoke.
‘You are escorting the tax levy from Colonea?’ Crispin asked.
‘Aye,’ the lead kursoris replied.
‘Then you can return to your homes, your beds, your wives,’ Crispin grinned. ‘My men and I will see the taxes safely to the west.’
Psidias heard these jovial words and frowned. They curdled with the ice-cold glint in the man’s eyes.
The lead kursoris shared a similar frown with his three men. ‘I . . . I’m not sure we can do that, sir,’ the kursoris replied. ‘We have orders to see the wagon through to the Thema of Cappadocia.’ He held up a wax-sealed scroll.
‘Ah, I understand. But if you give me the scroll I will see the wagon safely to that land and I’ll make sure that your commander knows you acted appropriately.’ Crispin held out a chubby hand, waving his fingers in expectation of the scroll.
Psidias felt his throat dry as he watched the kursores’ faces darken. At the same time, the Norman lancers with Crispin exchanged furtive glances. And Crispin himself lost his hearty demeanour. Now his face matched his glacial eyes. He reached out and snatched at the scroll. But the lead kursoris held onto it. The pair grappled at an end of the scroll each, noses inches apart. ‘You know what disobeying an order from a superior entails, don’t you? You bloody fool? The lash will lick every last morsel of skin from your back!’
The lead kursoris’ face had drained of colour, but he did not let go. ‘An order to commandeer tax revenue would come in the form of another scroll, sir,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘And I see no such thing.’
Crispin glared at the rider, then, like the passing of a storm cloud, his face relaxed and he let go of the scroll, leaning back in his saddle with a guffawing laugh. ‘Ah, the simplest of misunderstandings!’ he beamed. His riders laughed with him. The kursores did not. ‘My orders, of course. Here,’ he said, rummaging at something under his cloak.
Psidias saw what happened next in a blur. Instead of a leaf of paper, Crispin pulled out a curved dagger. The blade swept up and across the kursoris’ neck, and a hot, crimson spray leapt from his torn t
hroat. Gawping, Psidias heard the panicked cries of the other three riders as they were skewered and punched from their saddles on the end of Norman lances. There was a moment of near-silence, with just the skirling afternoon wind and the fading clop-clop of the fleeing, riderless kursores’ mounts. Then the Norman riders looked to the wagon. They eyed Psidias like ravenous gulls.
Psidias grappled the wagon horses’ reins and tried to lash them into a gallop, only for something to flash before him and shudder into his chest. A Norman spear shaft. He looked at the blood haemorrhaging from the massive wound. There was pain for just a few moments, then a numbness raced around his body. He lifted his head with great effort, seeing Crispin dismount and approach, a broad grin etched on his face.
Ah, he thought as his life slipped away, I should have learned to smile more often.
***
Apion hauled himself up and onto the highest branch of the pine, needles showering him, their sharp scent spicing the warm May air. He cocked an apologetic eyebrow to a nestling woodlark disturbed from its slumber, then shaded his eyes from the morning sun to cast his gaze across the land. Here, at the edge of this clearing, he could see for miles. The forest roof – a verdant jumble of ash, poplar, walnut and pine – stretched for some distance. The woods were surrounded by the craggy, burnt-gold and shrub-dotted lands of Colonea and overlooked in the east by the sheer, black-basalt hillside that stood taller than any other. It was practically a pillar of rock, with just a narrow, winding path offering a route to the top. Perched up there, like a rotting but defiant tooth, stood the Black Fortress of Mavrokastro.
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