Emperor Romanus Diogenes was there, in the stretch of dust beside his tent. He wore a simple white tunic and boots as he stretched and aimed a composite bow at a target some sixty paces away within the tent area, left eye screwed shut, the open cobalt eye narrowed as he took aim. Beside him was a tall, lean man with bronze skin, a hooked nose and flowing dark locks that hung to the chest of his rough, black tunic. This one was coaching the emperor on his archery technique, it seemed. Apion and Igor sidled up behind, taking care not to distract Romanus from his shot.
‘Exhale and then hold your breath. Nock and raise the bow, begin your draw as you lift. Remember – two fingers and the thumb, no more, no less,’ the dark one demonstrated this as the emperor carried out the instructions. ‘Draw until your fingers near your face, then roll your shoulder back to stretch a little more until the string is almost at the corner of your lips. The air is dry and the arrow should fly true, so do not aim too high. Now . . . loose!’
Thock!
Romanus allowed a smile to creep over his face, lowering his bow and admiring the arrow quivering near the centre of the target. The dark man threw up his hands in delight. ‘And that, Basileus, is the thumb draw – the draw of the Seljuks.’
‘A steadier shot, a faster nock, and even a more powerful release,’ Romanus mused, running a hand through his swept-back flaxen locks, his gaze lost in the target. ‘If we can understand our enemy well enough, then he cannot surprise us.’
‘Exactly,’ the dark one said.
Apion spoke at last; ‘Wise words, but who will teach the stubborn Greeks to abandon their traditional draw?’
Romanus and the dark one swung round to see who had spoken. ‘Strategos!’ Romanus beamed, his cobalt gaze flashing in the sunlight. Casting decorum aside, he strode forward and embraced Apion. ‘It has been hard work keeping my men focused while we waited on you, but I insisted that we would not cross the river until the Haga was with us.’
‘The ranks are eager, I hear?’ Apion said.
‘They are hungry to march on to Lake Van, to bolster Manzikert, to take Chliat and to seal the eastern borders. And tomorrow, Strategos, we will set off,’ he gestured to the timber jetty on the section of riverbank that formed the camp’s eastern perimeter. A fleet of eight round-hulled pamphyloi ferries bobbed there.
Apion noticed the dark one by the emperor’s side eyeing the red-ink stigma on his arm. Romanus saw this too. ‘Ah, permit me to introduce another of my finest officers. Manuel Komnenos, Protoproedros, a fine tactician . . . and a master archer to boot.’
‘I have heard many tales of your efforts in these borderlands, Haga,’ Manuel smiled.
Apion nodded curtly. Bitter experience had long ago taught him to withhold judgement and err on the side of caution whenever he met some new member of the imperial retinue. He managed a smile. That would do for now.
‘Perhaps you can share some of your drills with the strategos?’ Romanus suggested.
Manuel nodded. ‘Certainly. Come, the men are still on the training field,’ he said, stooping to feed a clump of hay to his nearby tethered mount – a fine, muscular grey stallion with a white blaze on its face.
The three made their way through the northern sector of the camp, trailed – as ever – by a clutch of varangoi axemen. A tangy scent of stewing goat meat and a waft of baking bread greeted them as they made their way past the tents of the Thrakesion Thema. Men rose from around their campfires to salute their emperor, some even recognising Apion too.
Next, they came to the workshops, a series of tents where the tink-tink of hammers and sawing of timber filled the air. A small furnace had been set up and the blaze seemed to distort the air around it with its ferocious heat. A smith worked to pattern-weld a spathion, a technique that would give the blade a supple core but a hard edge. A pile of recently crafted weapons lay stacked nearby. This army was indeed well-prepared and eager.
‘So we are to leave in the morning?’ Apion asked.
‘As soon as dawn breaks. I have arranged for Doux Philaretos to remain here as a rearguard.’ He pointed to a figure standing atop a small wooden dais by the riverbank, barking his riders into formation.
Apion squinted and spotted the unmistakable doux there. Philaretos had the look of some villainous, murderous type, his face red and scowling under his close-cropped, receding hair. This and his somewhat testy and firebrand nature had troubled Apion when they first met, but he had proved himself valorous and noble in the taking of Hierapolis and Apion had been more than happy to judge him on those deeds during that fraught campaign.
‘He will stay at the camp with a third of our forces, protecting us from any attack on our rear as we march east and blocking any westwards Seljuk push into Anatolia.’
They came to the camp’s north gate then climbed a ladder to the top of one of the watchtowers flanking it. From this vantage point, he could see the spearmen and archers of the Opsikon Thema going through their manoeuvres on the flatland outside. They worked under an incessant barrage of orders from the kampidoktores – a squat, bald man who swished his cane around as if batting the soldiers into line whenever they strayed. The space was overlooked by the towering Mount Taurus, its lofty summit dusted with snow, as if mocking those toiling in the oppressive heat below. Apion imagined himself up there, looking down. His lips played with a smile as he imagined the men like pieces on a giant shatranj board, just as old Mansur had taught him to.
Manuel Komnenos called down to the kampidoktores mid-tirade, halting him. ‘Have them practice the square variations,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir!’ The kampidoktores yelled, then flicked a finger at the buccinator by his side. Moments later, the buccina cry sent the ranks of men scurrying back and forth. Their flat line dissolved and they reformed in a square, hollow in the centre.
‘A fine square. It protects our men, and dilutes the front of our enemy,’ Apion observed.
‘Indeed, Strategos. A square, but with a difference,’ Manuel countered.
It took Apion a moment to notice, then he saw it; as usual, spearmen formed the outer layer of the square, three ranks deep. They protected the smaller square of archers inside, again, three ranks deep. This way, the toxotes could loose upon outlying enemies without fear of attack. But there was also another layer of three spearmen inside the square, ringing the backs of the archers and framing the small hollow centre. ‘Insurance should the square be compromised?’
‘Exactly!’ Manuel said. ‘Should a pack of Seljuk lancers break inside, there will be no easy slaughter of our archers, just a nest of spears!’ He pressed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘A hardy formation like this could be the key to staving off our enemies and keeping our borders safe.’
Apion felt a smile touch one edge of his lips, seeing Manuel’s eyes sparkle at the notion of bringing peace to the borderlands. An earnest fellow, it seemed. But something troubled him about the square. ‘Yet this lessens the number of spears on your front.’
‘It would, but should we need their number then-’ he stopped and waved to the kampidoktores. Another buccina cry. Another stampede of boots. Almost faultlessly, the spearmen inside the square hurried through the ranks of archers and into the outer ranks of spearmen. In just a few heartbeats, the outside of the square had been bolstered by some three hundred spears.
Apion smiled fully now. ‘This is a play on the formations of the past,’ he realised.
‘Indeed,’ Manuel nodded.
Apion scoured the square one more time, then his eye snagged on something. Three spearmen on the front ranks of the square wore mail shirts, and another two donned felt coats, while all the rest on the front were clad in iron lamellar klibania.
‘Speak, man!’ Romanus chuckled, seeing Apion’s eyes narrow. ‘Manuel was eager to hear your advice.’
Apion pointed to the mismatched men in the front. ‘You should keep your front uniform at all costs. The square will only be as strong as its weakest point. These five should be afforded iron kliba
nia like the men they stand with.’
‘Mail is a sturdy armour,’ Manuel countered.
‘For a sword slash, maybe.’ He patted his own klibania-clad chest. ‘But the overlapping iron plates on a klibanion help to spread the blow of Seljuk arrows more evenly than mail or felt. And believe me, even then a single arrow can still feel like the kick of an angry mule.’
Manuel nodded with a grin. ‘Then the smith will be busy tonight. Is there anything else, Strategos?’
Apion cast his eye across the square again. ‘Have the men had a chance to use these manoeuvres in anger – and in particular, against the Seljuks?’
Manuel shook his head. ‘That is one part of their training I cannot provide. The lash of a drillmaster’s tongue and swish of his cane can only do so much. And I too have yet to face them in the field.’
Romanus clasped a hand to each man’s shoulder and looked to Apion. ‘That’s why we need men like you, Strategos. There is plenty of bread and wine in my tent, not to mention a shatranj board. You should use the rest of today to share your knowledge of our foe. Then tomorrow, we will march, strengthened by it.’
Apion beheld Manuel, Romanus and the sea of serried ranks throughout the camp. For that moment he experienced an odd feeling. All, for once, felt right.
***
The sun dipped behind the western skyline of Constantinople, bathing the lofty heights of the Imperial Palace in its last light and casting a shaft of deep red inside one set of tall, open shutters there.
Michael Psellos leaned back in his chair, his belly full of lark tongues and falcon eggs and his skin bathed in the fiery sunset. He swirled his cup of well-watered wine, inhaled its sharp, fruity aroma, then took a deep gulp to wash the meal down. He smoothed at his tightly curled, short grey locks, adjusted the purple felt cap on his crown and looked around the grand dining chamber, shivering with delight at the possibilities. The palace was devoid of its emperor. Then he glanced through the tall shutters, his gaze trawling across the Hippodrome, the Forum of Constantine and the forest of marble columns, statues and fine domes. The city was at his behest. He flexed his gem-ringed fingers on the collar of the gold brocade robe he had taken from the emperor’s chambers that morning. With a tailor’s skilled hand, this could be a fine fit, he mused.
A watery belch from the far side of the table stirred him from his reverie. His age-lined, pinched features creased even further in distaste. John Doukas, tall and black-bearded, simply wiped a hand across his mouth and continued eating, unperturbed. This oaf was to be endured only because he held the key to the imperial throne – the Doukas family having long insisted that they should be returned to the helm of the empire. He wondered who else from that family line might make a more suitable pawn. Anyone? He concluded, bitterly.
Just then, Psellos noticed movement at the main chamber door. The two numeroi spearmen standing guard there stepped aside. Before Psellos could rise from his seat to berate them, a figure strode in and stood at the head of the table.
‘I bring news that will sweeten your banquet,’ the tall, elegant lady said. She wore a dark blue robe that clung to her lithe figure, and her silvery locks were swept together in a swirl atop her head. Her fine-boned features were alive with a smile that was at odds with her cold stare.
John twisted only to glower at her.
‘Ah, Lady Eudokia,’ Psellos purred, rising now to bow as if in deference. This woman was the widow of the last member of the Doukas family who had held the throne. By wedding Romanus Diogenes and supporting his rise to power, she had broken the Doukid line and caused the rift in power.
Eudokia ignored John’s glare and continued as if Psellos had not spoken. ‘The rumours we heard have been confirmed; the rogue mercenary of Colonea, Crispin of Normandy, was taken captive by the Strategos of Chaldia some months ago. He now languishes in exile and will trouble my husband’s campaign no longer.’
Psellos held her defiant gaze as long as he could, until he felt an incessant itching on his chest. ‘That is good news, indeed,’ he said, his top lip quivering in suppressed ire.
With that, Eudokia swept from the room and Psellos slumped back to sitting. He glared at the spot where Eudokia had stood, his mood black, the itch on his chest growing ferocious.
John threw down a duck bone and sighed. ‘We can eat and drink and pretend we are kings. But when the morning comes, we will wake as mere courtiers.’
‘You are unhappy, Master?’ Psellos asked through taut lips.
John snorted. ‘You spent much of my family’s money buying off those useless curs in the border tagmata – and what of them?’ he roared with a mocking laugh. ‘Crispin languishes in exile, and the others you bought were little but an annoyance to Diogenes’ march east. What reason have I to smile?’
Psellos issued a terse smile. Without my wits, oaf, you would already be in exile or dead. He sucked in a breath through flared nostrils and held John’s gaze. More, the itch on his chest stung like fire. This often happened when he became vexed. He scratched and scratched at the coin-sized spot there. Well, it was coin-sized at first, when that crazed old crone had inflicted the mark upon him – with some hidden brand, he guessed – last winter. But in recent weeks it had grown. Now it was the size of a small plate. Angry red, the flesh was blistered and it wept when he scratched at it too much. He felt the skin split as he scratched at it now and this broke his semblance of calm.
John leaned forward and repeated in a flat tone; ‘I said; what reason have I to smi-’
‘Diogenes is at a critical juncture,’ Psellos snapped, grabbing a cup of cool water and holding it against his chest – this seemed to calm the itch. ‘He has withdrawn all but the scantest of funding from the cities. Almost every coin from the treasury goes to the armies. The people are unsettled,’ he gestured to the Hippodrome, lying empty and unused as had been the case for some six months, ‘they need their races and their games!’
John shrugged at this. ‘This will not tip the balance. We need Diogenes to fail at the head of his army. When the people and the army give up on him, only then have we won.’
Psellos smiled coldly, sensing an opportunity to toy with his puppet. ‘Yet the balance might yet swing against us, Master. If he succeeds in strengthening the imperial hold on Manzikert and in seizing Chliat, the eastern passes will be protected and the borders will be safe, the spending can be balanced once more. The people will love him and the army will revere him . . . and his legacy as emperor will be assured.’
John’s jaw dropped, strings of meat dangling from his teeth and a foul look in his eyes. ‘If you are trying to encourage me, advisor, then you have failed. Remember, it is your job to ensure that the balance tilts in our favour.’
Psellos ignored the overbearing rebuke. ‘If I was to guarantee you that Diogenes will not take Chliat this year, would this calm you?’
John frowned. ‘What? No man can make such a guarantee.’
‘Oh, but I am no ordinary man,’ Psellos smiled. His thoughts flashed to the numeroi scout riders he had despatched some months ago. Ride into enemy lands. Spread word amongst our foe of the emperor’s planned route.
‘What have you done?’ John whispered, a savage grin rippling across his lips.
Psellos simply reached out to pour more wine into their cups. ‘I will explain all as we eat and drink, Master. As kings!’
***
Doux Philaretos stood on the edge of the timber jetty as the last of the pamphyloi fleet returned from the far banks to be re-moored here. He ran a hand over his sweat-soaked scalp, burning in the morning sun, then looked across the river and off to the east, watching the last silvery flashes and plumes of dust dissipate at the tail of the departing campaign army. They moved with a broad front towards Lake Van. When they slipped into the heat haze and could be seen no more, he issued a contented grunt, then swung round to look over the camp that would serve as the rearguard’s headquarters.
Six thousand men had been entrusted to him. The sixtee
n hundred toxotai loosed arrow after arrow at a practice range outside the camp’s western gate, by the saddle of land in the shady valleys. The rest were inside the camp. Some four thousand of them were skutatoi; the majority of these men had laid down their weapons and iron jackets and now milled about their tents, jabbering, cleaning their kit or praying. Meanwhile, the bandon of three hundred kursores riders busied themselves grooming and exercising their mounts. They were content in their activities in this still and warm land, and rations and water were plentiful. He squinted up at the sun. ‘With a little shade, this place will make a fine home for the next few weeks,’ he surmised.
When an odd rumbling noise sounded from the north, he instinctively swept a suspicious eye around the camp’s mountainous surroundings, then squinted at the shaded face of Mount Taurus. A shower of rocks tumbled from the heights there, the noise echoing across the riverbank. He chuckled and shook his head. Then he remembered the advice of the tourmarches, Procopius, who served under the Haga. Before setting off with the Chaldians in the emperor’s column, the prune-faced old officer had implored him;
Decrease the size of the camp. Fill in the ditches and throw up new ones that will be more easily defensible for your reduced numbers. You can rebuild the original camp when the emperor returns. And keep a strong watch at all times.
Philaretos snorted at the notion. ‘Perhaps, old man,’ he spoke into the ether, then turned back to look across the river and east, shading his eyes from the sun. He imagined the emperor’s army moving along the broad, winding tracts of land that led to Lake Van. ‘But you should first concern yourself with your own marching camp – for it will likely be you who encounters any Seljuk foe.’ Then he smirked, drawing his gaze in across the tumbling torrents of the Euphrates. ‘And unless they bring ferries of their own, any invading riders from the east might have to content themselves with watching our fine camp from the far riverbanks.’
He jostled with laughter at his own joke, then turned away from the river and strode towards the heart of the camp, where his tent now stood in place of the emperor’s. A cup or two of wine? he mused as his guards parted. He made to sweep his tent flap open, but his hand froze. He noticed his mount, tethered nearby, scuffing its hooves in agitation. Then it snorted, its ears pricking up.
Strategos: Island in the Storm Page 4