Strategos: Island in the Storm

by Gordon Doherty

  At last, this rider dismounted and strode through the teeth of Byzantine blades, coming nose to nose with Crispin. ‘I should cut out your heart and throw it to the forest dogs, cur, but I fear your blood might poison them.’

  ***

  They marched the disarmed Norman prisoners back through the forest, ignoring their foreign curses. When they reached the Seljuk village, Apion thrust his boot into Crispin’s back, sending him sprawling, his helm tumbling from his head. Only sixteen of the Norman’s fellow riders had survived the menavlion snare and they too were bundled along unceremoniously at spearpoint. The fifty Byzantine skutatoi he had sent on ahead were already working tirelessly with the surviving Seljuk villagers, hoisting bucket after bucket of water from the village well and fighting the myriad fires that roared in the houses. The stench of burning flesh wafted over him and he fought the urge to retch. Once more, he longed for the satisfaction of slicing this dog’s head from his shoulders, or forcing him to walk into the nearest blaze, to be burnt alive. But the brief was for Crispin to be taken alive, lest the many other Normans in imperial service took umbrage.

  ‘How does the scavenger feel, returning to the ruined corpse?’ he hissed as Crispin scrambled to his feet once more.

  ‘They’re only bloody Seljuks, what do you care?’ Crispin snarled, swinging to face Apion, his blonde hair dangling in his eyes. ‘You’d rather fight men in imperial pay and protect the enemy?’

  Apion snorted. ‘I hear you’re very much in imperial pay – helped yourself to wagonloads of taxes. And this village is part of the empire. Seljuk blood in a man’s veins does not make him an enemy. Black blood pulsing round the body of a so-called imperial mercenary, however . . . ’

  Crispin’s fleshy jaw squared at this, as he and Apion glared at one another.

  All around them, the fires began to dull, and the weak, exhausted coughing of villagers and skutatoi rang out. Komes Peleus and big Komes Stypiotes, faces soot-blackened and dripping with sweat, jogged up to Apion and threw up their arms in salute. ‘The fires are quenched, Haga!’

  At this, Crispin’s pale, rounded face creased in a cold smile. ‘So it is you?’ He laughed with a ferocity that belied his predicament. ‘The Haga dares to lecture me about virtue. I know of you, I’ve heard what you’ve done in your time. A slayer of souls, a burner, a death-bringer. You have no right to judge me.’

  Apion felt shame coil around him like the cold hands of a wraith. Well used to its grip, he shook it off, grasping Crispin’s collar, pulling him nose-to-nose. ‘I have carried out some dark deeds in my time, aye,’ he spat. ‘I have even plunged a blade into my blood-brother’s heart.’ Memories of his last moments with Nasir stained his thoughts. ‘So do not think I would hesitate to do the same to you!’

  Crispin’s smile vanished, his eyes darting. Apion could feel the man’s heart pounding through his hauberk. Then the pace of the heartbeat slowed and a calmness fell over the rogue Norman once more.

  ‘Your threats grow weaker with every repetition, Haga. If you wanted me dead it would be done by now. You have been ordered to take me alive, haven’t you?’

  Apion growled then shoved Crispin away. Two skutatoi quickly corralled the Norman at spearpoint.

  ‘There is another option,’ Crispin cooed, waving a hand in the direction of the Black Fortress. ‘There is enough coin in my vaults now to keep a soldier in luxury, even a strategos like you.’

  Apion’s nose wrinkled. ‘When the rest of your riders are prised from that hill, the money will go to the treasury, as intended,’ he said flatly then turned away to survey the state of the village. ‘To strengthen the border armies, to repair the forts and bolster the garrisons.’

  ‘Ah, so you have no interest in such diluted metals,’ Crispin shrugged.

  Apion’s glare hardened at the implication.

  ‘But what about pure-gold?’ Crispin continued.

  Apion ignored the man, instead accepting a tearful thank you from one old Seljuk woman. He switched to the Seljuk tongue to reply; ‘I am only sorry my men and I could not intervene sooner.’

  ‘ . . . pure-gold, and there is plenty more of it coming from my paymaster in Constantinople,’ Crispin’s haughty tones caught his attention once more. He swung round, one eyebrow cocked. The Norman was holding up a small purse from his belt, and had plucked a single, untainted, gold nomisma from it. When the coin caught the light, Apion strode back over to Crispin and grappled the man’s wrist, transfixed by the piece.

  ‘Ah, so pure-gold is the key to controlling the Haga?’ Crispin purred, sensing victory.

  Apion prised the coin from the man’s grasp, then drew his dagger and cut away Crispin’s purse. He gave both to the Seljuk woman. ‘Psellos’ gold serves only to weed out the jackals,’ he growled, sheathing his dagger. ‘Now shackle him,’ he called to his nearest spearmen. ‘Ready him to be transported west, where he can answer to the emperor in chains.’

  Apion barely noticed Crispin’s face fall. The Norman was dragged away and Apion gazed at the spot where the man had stood, eager to flush the black truth of it all from his mind. Duplicity and treachery were still rife, it seemed. He thought of Romanus, the Golden Heart, the first emperor in living memory who promised to restore the empire’s broken borders and bring peace to Anatolia. The emperor had yet to set out on the long-awaited campaign to capture the fortress of Chliat and secure the Lake Van region, yet already, Psellos had sowed the seeds of destruction in his path. He thought again of Eudokia’s plea.

  I beg you to muster your men then hasten to my husband’s side on his campaign to Lake Van. Only there can you shield him from Psellos’ further ruses . . .

  2. Blood River

  It took several months for Apion to fully muster his Chaldians, but by late August they were together, marching under a baking sun as they trekked. Their hooves and boots crunched in time to the cicada song as they marched along the dusty track that wound across desert-dry Mesopotamia – the brink of imperial territory. There were fifteen hundred men in all: fifty kataphractoi riders, a smattering of more lightly equipped kursores scout riders plus three vastly-understrength tourmae of skutatoi spearmen and toxotai archers.

  Apion tilted his drinking skin back and enjoyed a mouthful of cold spring water. Mercifully, there were plenty of brooks, wells and springs marked on his map of this eastern land. Mesopotamia was not like Chaldia or any of the other themata. There was no strategos here, no levy of land workers for the empire to call upon – indeed, even the populace was desperately meagre. Instead, this land was ruled by the imperial border doukes and patrolled by the mercenary tagmata raised by those men. It was just a few miles more to the southeast and the banks of the upper Euphrates where they were to rendezvous with Emperor Romanus and his campaign army then finally strike out eastwards, to Lake Van. The sister fortress-towns in that distant land were the prize. Apion had never ventured as far east as that much talked of region, yet he was well aware of the delicate balance of power there: a scant Byzantine garrison already held the northerly fortress of Manzikert, but the lakeside fortress of Chliat was thought to be well guarded by a Seljuk warband. Each faction had long sought to hold both. He heard some of his kataphractoi riding behind him sharing their hopes and fears on the matter.

  ‘Sultan Alp Arslan and all his iron hordes lie in wait by the lake,’ one said. ‘Many thousands of ghulam and ghazi riders.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ another scoffed. ‘I hear that barely a thousand Seljuks man Chliat’s walls. We will have that fortress in our grasp in good time.’

  ‘Pah!’ another surly rider countered. ‘Why so much attention on Lake Van anyway? The land is bleak and far from the hub of either empire.’

  Apion fell back a little, listening, eager to see how his men reacted to this. He saw one rider dab out his tongue to dampen his lips. It was Kaspax, a young rider who had recently taken the place of his slain father, Atticus, in the ranks of the precious Chaldian kataphractoi. The young man had an answer but was afraid
to speak out against the grizzled veterans. Apion caught his eye and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘Because,’ Kaspax started, his eyes darting uncertainly, ‘because the broad tracts of land that run north of the lake are like a weak spot in our flank. They present an unspoilt path from enemy domains in the east, right into the heart of our lands, our ancient themata. The Gateway to Anatolia, they call it.’

  Apion met each man’s eyes with a stern gaze. ‘And what an apt moniker, for a stronghold is only as strong as its weakest gate. The Antitaurus Mountains sweep along our empire’s southeastern borders and the Parhar Mountains dominate the north and the east,’ he nodded to that hazy range, ever present in the horizon, ‘like great ramparts that armies cannot traverse without enormous difficulty. But the Lake Van pass is a chink in the armour, a long, flat, broad and snaking route that opens inner Anatolia to all and sundry. The outposts of Manzikert and Chliat serve as fine watchtowers from which to guard the mouth of that route. While our garrison holds the former and the sultan’s men the latter, neither side has the advantage. But should the sultan seize Manzikert, then he will be master of the Gateway. He will be free to pour his armies into these lands,’ he swept a hand back in the direction from which they had come, ‘and upon our homes.’ His men fell silent at the thought. Even the surly rider had paled.

  ‘That is why our emperor summons us and the rest of his armies to march east at haste, to seize Chliat from Seljuk hands and to make Lake Van our own.’ He clenched a fist and met each of their eyes. ‘So when the sultan comes calling, he will find only a wall of steel and sharpened spears – and the gateway closed to him and his hordes!’

  They cheered at this, rapping their spears on their shields. Just behind, the ranks of the infantry joined in for good measure. ‘Ha-ga!´ they chanted.

  Apion rode ahead again, satisfied that he had quelled their doubts and fired their hearts. He started to think ahead, glancing to the sun and judging how far they had to ride before they would be at the Euphrates. Just then, Sha ranged level with him, Kaspax coming with the Malian.

  ‘We should probably form a vanguard, sir,’ Sha suggested.

  Apion squinted into the shimmering golden mountains that lay before them. ‘True, we are at the edge of the empire.’

  ‘Kaspax here reckons he’s ready to lead the van,’ Sha motioned to the lad.

  Apion looked Kaspax over. His tanned features and curly, dark locks were reminiscent of the lad’s father. But the similarities ended there: while everything about Atticus’ demeanour had cried boldness, Kaspax’s taut lips and wide eyes reeked of apprehension. He considered sending Sha on to lead the vanguard instead, then wondered what it might do to the lad’s confidence. Maybe confidence, that delicate flower, is all that is missing? he mused. ‘Take ten riders and stay vigilant,’ he flicked his head forward.

  Kaspax issued a stiff salute and set off, waving a clutch of ten horsemen with him.

  ‘He’s a good rider, sir,’ Sha said, reading Apion’s thoughts. ‘He just needs to understand that. Keeps comparing himself to his father.’

  ‘Understandable. Atticus was a boisterous big whoreson,’ Apion chuckled, recalling the time the hulking soldier had challenged Blastares to a bout of wrestling after several skins of wine. That had been a messy evening.

  With impeccable timing, a snorting noise sounded from behind them. Blastares, leading the infantry there, spat the contents of his throat to the ground then struck up a tuneless chorus to rouse the march-weary men;

  ‘So I woke in a byre one morning,’

  The men perked up and joined in. So I woke in a byre one morning,

  ‘With me what I thought was a whore,’

  With me what I thought was a whore,

  ‘But when I opened my eyes, I got a mighty surprise,’

  But when I opened my eyes, I got a mighty surprise . . . the men continued albeit a little more uncertainly.

  ‘When I saw that I had screwed a boar!’ Blastares roared in a joyous crescendo before falling silent, realising he was singing alone.

  The column slowed just a fraction, all the riders looking at Blastares in horror. Apion and Sha shared a bemused glance as the big man reddened in shame.

  ‘Eyes front!’ Blastares barked to the riders, then twisted to the infantry who had let him down. ‘And you lot, stay in line!’ Red-faced, Blastares ranged forward to join Sha and Apion, cricking his neck this way and that in an overly-vigorous manner. ‘Just trying to lift their spirits. Ungrateful bast - ’

  ‘How is Tetradia?’ Sha cut in.

  Blastares’ mood lifted at once, his humiliation of moments ago forgotten. ‘Wondrous,’ he beamed.

  Apion chuckled, recalling the curvaceous and ‘lively’ woman the big soldier had met at Melitene in the previous year’s campaign.

  ‘Wondrous, aye?’ another voice added. Old Procopius rode level too now, barely suppressing a roguish grin. ‘And I’m sure the wedding will be too.’

  While Apion and Procopius grinned, big Blastares seemed to clam up at the mention of his impending marriage. ‘Eh?’ he frowned. ‘Nah, nah. It’ll be a simple affair. One or two guests, that’s all. A few amphorae of wine, maybe.’

  ‘For you to still your nerves?’ Procopius cackled. ‘Though you’d better leave some for me.’

  Blastares cocked an eyebrow. ‘Who said you were invited?’

  Procopius looked shocked momentarily, then smiled, winking at Apion and Sha. ‘Tetradia did. Said she’d need me to bolt the door at the church – stop you fleeing like a slinger at a swordfight.’

  ‘Did she say that?’ Blastares replied a little too quickly, his face paling.

  Procopius, Sha and Apion shared an intrigued glance, then the old tourmarches cocked an eyebrow and replied; ‘No, but perhaps I should come along, just in case.’

  Spirits high, they came to the golden mountains and a winding valley that led down towards the Euphrates. They enjoyed some shade here, and neither heard nor sighted a single threat, only the recent spoor of a lion in the dust giving cause for caution. Moments later, they crested a saddle of land and a great cheer rose when they saw what lay downhill and beyond: the tumbling blue waters of the Euphrates and the vast Byzantine camp hugging its banks. A sea of tents, serried ranks of steel and a forest of fluttering banners. Apion could not suppress a broad grin as he saw the tall purple imperial banner and the bejewelled campaign cross in the centre, where Emperor Romanus’ red satin tent had been set up. Psellos’ manoeuvrings had been troublesome indeed, but the Golden Heart had marched east, unperturbed.

  ***

  The camp was a hive of activity. Soldiers milled by their kontoubernion tents in groups of ten. They stood or sat by their campfires, cooking and chatting, some painting their shields to match the banners of their regiments, others grooming their mounts. Apion noted the vivid banners of the themata that had mustered here. The green of Charsianon, the sky-blue of Opsikon, the orange of Thrakesion, the tan of Colonea. A good twelve thousand spears and bows in there, he reckoned going by the number of tents. In the centre, he recognised the vivid gold banners of the Vigla and the pure-white standards of the Varangoi axemen. These two cavalry tagmata were sworn to protect the emperor at all costs. And then there were the slate-grey banners of the Scholae Tagma, one of the oldest and strongest imperial regiments. Nearly two thousand of these crack kataphractoi had been mustered, it seemed – many new horsemen had been recruited since the near-destruction of that tagma at Hierapolis the previous year. Including Apion’s Chaldians, there were possibly as many as twenty thousand soldiers perched on this river’s edge camp.

  ‘Strategos!’ a familiar voice cut across the babble.

  Apion scanned the sea of faces, then broke out in a broad grin. ‘Komes!’ he laughed, sliding from his saddle to clasp forearms with the scarred figure sporting braided, greying locks. This was Igor, Komes of the Emperor’s household Varangoi. Clad in shell-like, pure white armour, the purity interrupted only by a black s
pider motif on the shin greaves, a shield strapped to his left shoulder and a huge breidox battle axe hanging behind his right, he was a fearsome sight.

  ‘I heard you had ridden on ahead to take Chliat yourself,’ Apion jested.

  ‘Pah!’ Igor swiped a hand through the air as if cutting with his axe. ‘Given half a chance, I would have! But you know how these marches are – slower than a week in Helenopolis. And apparently we had to wait here . . . for you!’ Igor donned a look of mock-rage then cackled. ‘Now come, the emperor awaits you,’ he beckoned Apion to the imperial tent area.

  Apion turned to speak to Sha. The Malian had already pre-empted him, taking the reins of his Thessalian. ‘I’ll have the men set up our tents.’ Then he grinned and added; ‘Seems like we got here just too late to help fortify the camp . . . what a shame.’

  As the Chaldians moved off to the eastern section of the camp demarcated for them, Apion and Igor strode on towards the ring of Vigla guards, who parted their pristine golden shields and let them into the emperor’s tent area.