The camp ditch and palisade running along the bank broke for a short distance to allow access to the basic timber jetty and the pamphyloi docked there. The crew on the boats watched from the decks, mouths agape, as Emperor Romanus strode back and forth through the empty crescent of shingle, hurling objects into the bubbling rapids. He strode over to the thin wall of varangoi holding the crowds back, then shot a hand between two of the Rus to grapple the wrist of the nearest skutatoi, tearing something free.
‘A bronze bracelet?’ he gasped, holding up the trinket. ‘Nonsense! It will only slow you down, hold us all back.’ Without decorum, he turned to toss the piece into the river. The skutatos gawped, his lips twitching to cry out, his soldierly training only just keeping his ire in check. Igor and the varangoi struggled to keep the mass of men at bay with their shields as they cried out in a fresh wave of confusion and anger.
‘Hold us back?’ one voice said as Apion barged closer and closer. ‘Yet only hours ago he was all for remaining here to build a villa!’
Apion winced. So the kursoris’ report had been true.
He saw Romanus reach through the varangoi wall again to tear a silver-embossed shield from one skutatos. Clearly an heirloom this soldier’s forefathers had carried to war. The man’s hands remained outstretched, fearing the shield would be thrown to the depths as well. But Romanus eyed the shield, then shrugged, taking it instead to a wagon parked nearby, heaped with such goods. ‘Yes, this shield will make a fine addition to my collection. Without all the other litter to weigh the boats down, my wagon might just get across the river,’ he chirped, as if ignorant to the thousands of eyes burning upon him. Apion caught Igor’s eye just then. The big, haggard Rus’ face was blanched and weary.
‘It has been a grim day, Strategos. I prayed you might get here earlier,’ he called out over the baying crowd, putting his shoulder to his shield in an effort to keep them back.
‘Why has nobody intervened?’ Apion hissed, seeing that amongst the onlookers from the docked boats, the retinue of Philaretos, Alyates, Tarchianotes and Bryennios watched on, bereft of words or actions. And shaded beside them stood Andronikos Doukas, wrists in iron.
Just then, the emperor’s eyes sparkled and snapped onto something happening beyond the mass of onlookers. Apion twisted to see that, in the far corner of the camp, one Byzantine toxotes was being bundled along by a superior, who was berating him mercilessly. The cowed soldier led an ass by a tether.
‘You!’ Romanus cried. Like a parting sea, the mass of men at the riverbank split, the varangoi opening a channel to the pair.
The archer leading the ass looked up, startled. The superior, a komes, looked equally sheepish. ‘Basileus?’ he croaked.
‘What is this?’ Romanus boomed, then winced and pinched the top of his nose as if in great pain.
The komes’ eyes darted in confusion. ‘He . . . he stole this ass from a local farmer. I’m making him return it.’
‘And then what?’ the emperor spat.
‘And then he will be put on half-rations, latrine detail and double-watch for the next two weeks,’ the Komes said.
Romanus’ eyes locked onto the shame-faced soldier with the ass. ‘Bring him to me.’
Two varangoi took the man by the shoulders, shaking the tether from his grasp and then marching him to stand before the emperor, the corridor closing up behind them. The soldier fell to his knees in obeisance. The two varangoi took a couple of steps aside, eyeing the confrontation with a sense of dread.
‘Do you know what used to happen to criminals?’
‘Not the lash, Basileus, I beg of you,’ the man whimpered.
Romanus was oblivious to the man’s pleas. He plucked a dagger from his belt and held it up so the polished blade sparkled in the torchlight. ‘Rhinokopia. Once a thief, always a thief.’
Apion’s heart froze and gasps rang out all around, some men falling to their knees lamenting or praying. Was the emperor ill or utterly possessed? The punishment of slicing off a man’s nose had not been used in hundreds of years. In the blackness of night, a flicker of torchlight betrayed the nightmarish scene clearly for just a moment; Romanus lowering the dagger blade and pressing it to the bridge of the wretch’s nose. He pressed against the wall of varangoi. ‘Igor, we must stop this.’
Igor shook his head. ‘We obey the emperor’s word, be it good or loathsome.’
Apion shoved closer, so only the Rus komes could hear. ‘Let me through. Nobody will lose face, I swear it. If we let this happen then morale will be shattered.’
Igor beheld him momentarily, then nodded, nudging the varangos by his side. The pair parted briefly and let Apion through onto the crescent of shingle.
‘Stop!’ Apion cried out.
Romanus looked up, one cheek twitching, his eyes scouring Apion’s form with disdain. ‘Who dares to interrupt the emperor?’
‘The Strategos of Chaldia, Basileus,’ he replied, bowing a little and moving close enough to whisper. ‘Your friend.’
Romanus frowned, fixing his unrecognising gaze to Apion’s. It was then Apion saw just how lost and distant the emperor’s eyes were, how bloated and ruddy his sweat-soaked skin was – rashes now creeping across his neck from the collar of his armour. And the emperor’s hand trembled, ready to slice down with the dagger and cut off the kneeling archer’s nose. Apion stepped back at that moment, realising he would have to call upon a force long lost to him.
‘Then I cite the Intercession of the Holy Victory,’ Apion said, stepping back. ‘Bring forth the icon of the Holy Virgin of Blachernae.’ The gasps from all around fell silent. Then cheers broke out in support of this move. The Intercession of the Holy Victory could see any man spared such a fate. Moments later, a clutch of varangoi brought forth the blue-gold icon, holding it aloft for the gathered crowd to see.
Romanus looked to this and blinked hard, shaking his head.
‘Basileus?’ Apion whispered, hoping the emperor had come to his senses.
But Romanus now shook his head firmly. ‘No. The punishment will be carried out, as planned.’ His knuckles then whitened on his dagger blade. A rivulet of blood spidered from the bridge of the kneeling man’s nose and the emperor’s arm tensed to push the blade down through the cartilage. Apion grasped his arm before he could do so.
Romanus shot an animal glare at him. ‘Unhand your emperor.’
‘Basileus, it is not becoming of you to become sullied in blood. Allow me to do this.’
Romanus stared into Apion’s eyes as Apion prised the dagger from his grip. At last, the emperor stood back, nodding, somewhat bewildered.
Apion strode to stand before the kneeling skutatos. He placed the blade on the man’s nose, then looked up and met the eyes of the watching thousands. The gathered ranks of the skutatoi, the varangoi looking over their shoulders, Scleros and the first horsemen from the magnate armies just reaching the camp. He gritted his teeth . . . and swept the dagger blade down. It chopped through flesh. Hot blood spurted and bone crunched. Then the wretch fell back, clutching his bloodied face. ‘Take him away,’ Apion growled, throwing a strip of bloody flesh to the dirt.
The sea of faces gawped at Apion. Some in fear, many in disgust.
***
Apion cradled his hand in the dull lamp light of his tent. Sha, Blastares and Procopius looked at him, searching for the right words.
Just then, the tent flap rustled and opened. Komes Igor ushered the wretch who had stolen the ass inside. The man sat opposite Apion. His face was still encrusted in dried blood, his nose badly broken but all still there. Komes Igor sat next to the fellow, then nudged him.
‘God bless you, sir,’ the man said quietly to Apion.
‘God blesses foul hearts and fair with little distinction. I’d rather listen to a dog howl at the moon than take a blessing from God,’ he snapped in reply, cradling his palm and wincing.
The man’s head dropped at the admonishment.
Sha let a desert-dry laugh escape his lips. ‘He a
ccepts your gratitude, soldier. Now be off back to your tent before curfew begins, lest you end up in more trouble.’
‘Aye, sir,’ the skutatos nodded. He turned to Apion one more time as he left. ‘Thank you, Haga.’
Apion nodded silently.
‘Word is already spreading around the ranks that the man did not lose his nose,’ Sha said as the tent flap fell closed again. ‘The men know their emperor is unwell, but had that wretch been mutilated . . . ’ the Malian’s words trailed off and he shook his head. ‘Now let me see the mess you made of your hand,’ Sha insisted again.
Apion uncurled his cradled hand, revealing the red raw strip on the heel of the palm. When he had swept the dagger down, he had broken the skutatos’ nose with his knuckles and sliced this strip of flesh off his own hand with the blade’s edge. The blood had spattered over Apion and the man’s face, disguising the fact that the man’s nose was only broken and not mutilated, and the thrown-down strip of palm-flesh had diverted the eyes of the emperor and the onlookers.
The Malian took a rag doused in vinegar and cleansed the wound. Apion did well to limit his discomfort to a teeth-grinding grimace. ‘It’ll heal within a few weeks,’ Sha said, wrapping a length of linen bandage around the palm tightly. ‘But if you have to lift a shield in that time it’ll sting like fire.’
‘Then I won’t dwell upon it until I need my shield,’ Apion grumbled. ‘And in any case, I feel we have more important things to set our minds to.’
‘What has happened to him?’ Igor muttered aloud. ‘He was sharp, brash and noble until we arrived at Helenopolis. Even on the crossing to that miserable town, he cajoled the men amidst a grim a hailstorm, had them defying the hail and chanting his name.’
Apion looked up. ‘And what has changed since then?’
Igor’s eyes swept across the lamplit floor. ‘Much has changed. We have come far from the capital, through the verdant coastal trails and now across the dry inner plateau. Spring has become a foul and hot summer and . . . ’
‘No, what has changed about the emperor. His habits, his routines?’
‘An emperor on campaign follows a strict routine of sleeping, bathing, eating and riding.’ Igor looked up, his eyes glinting. ‘You suspect treachery, Strategos?’
‘I find it a suitable default stance, Komes,’ Apion offered a wry half-grin in reply. His mind flashed with memories of his night-visit to Prince Vardan’s hilltop town, to Hurik the poisoner. ‘Now, does anyone have access to his garments, his bathing waters or his food?’
‘A few men tend to his clothes and prepare his washing water, yes, but they are beyond suspicion, Strategos.’ The big Rus’ eyes were earnest, almost longing to believe his own words.
Apion cocked an eyebrow. ‘Such men make the best traitors, Komes. And his food?’
‘Ah, poisoning? Yes, I thought so too. But it is impossible,’ Igor said, his eyes narrowing and the vertical scar across one wrinkling. ‘Those who cook his meals are watched by the vigla sentries and the best of my axemen. No poison could make it past all of them.’
‘But if it did?’ Apion persisted.
Igor laughed aloud. ‘It simply could not, Strategos. And besides, even if it did, we have a man who tastes a small portion of every meal before it goes to the emperor. A humble eunuch by the name of Symeon. He would have fallen ill by now if the emperor’s food had been poisoned.’
Apion balled his good hand into a fist. ‘There must be something, someone . . . ’ his words trailed off as he remembered the one man on this march who had almost become a forgotten figure, shackled only feet from the cooking area by the emperor’s tent.
Igor’s eyes narrowed in realisation, then they hissed in unison;
‘Andronikos Doukas!’
***
Apion and Igor strode through the night, picking their way around the clustered pavilion tents and accepting muted salutes from the night watchmen. Up ahead, the emperor’s red satin tent glowed brightest of all, surrounded by a ring of torches, vigilant varangoi axemen and vigla skutatoi bearing grim and alert scowls.
The vigla sentries parted at Igor’s command, then the varangoi in the inner circle recognised their leader and saluted silently.
‘The emperor is asleep?’ Apion asked in a hushed tone.
‘Fitfully, but yes,’ the Rus by the tent flap replied. Through the canvas, Apion could hear Romanus’ dull moans.
‘And he has eaten tonight, I presume?’
‘Heartily,’ the Rus replied. ‘And he drank like a man who had been lost in the desert. Five cups of watered wine!’
Apion and Igor shared a narrow-eyed glance. ‘Bring me his wine jug,’ Igor ordered. The big Rus at the tent flap ducked inside then reappeared with the near-empty jug.
Igor took it, sniffed at it, shrugged, then tilted it to catch the light. There was nothing suspicious about it, it seemed.
‘The cooking area?’ Apion suggested.
‘This way,’ Igor beckoned, leading Apion round to the rear of the imperial tent. Here, a smaller set of tents were erected in a semi-circle. They all faced onto a blackened campfire, over which hung pots and kitchen implements. A squat, bald man ambled around the kitchen area, gathering up washed implements and stowing them away. ‘Symeon,’ Igor muttered to Apion, nodding to the food-taster. But Apion’s attentions had fallen on the only other figure in the space, sitting on a stool, irons shackling one arm to a post.
Andronikos Doukas gazed listlessly into the black remains of the fire before him, his flat-boned features sullen. Apion eyed the length of the chain, then the closeness of the kitchen area.
‘He has always been kept this close to the cooking fires?’ Apion whispered to Igor.
‘Yes,’ Igor sighed.
‘And when the emperor insisted on living in the hilltop hovel – his food was prepared here and taken to him?’
Igor sighed again. ‘It was. And in all that time this one has been but a few paces from the emperor’s meals. The chains are too long.’
Andronikos shot to standing, his eyes flashing with ire as he overheard them. ‘You assume I am responsible for the emperor’s madness?’
Symeon, ambling nearby, started at the outburst, dropping the pans he carried then apologetically gathering them up.
‘Convince me otherwise, boy,’ Apion snorted.
A silence ensued until the fire left Andronikos’ eyes and he slunk back to his stool, his chains clanking as he dropped his head into his hands. ‘I see. So you judge me on my father’s deeds. I should have expected as much.’
‘Men are fickle and I am no judge,’ Apion snorted. ‘All I know is that our emperor has fallen to some madness, and I find you within arm’s reach of his kitchen.’
Andronikos looked up, his eyes meeting Apion’s. ‘I care little for the emperor. Also, why would I care for the cur who calls himself my father?’ He snatched up the chains and shook them, teeth gritted. ‘His meddling has seen him cast into exile . . . and me brought along on this campaign, tethered like a rabid jackal.’ He shook his head, dropping the gathered chains. ‘So if you are looking for an answer to the emperor’s madness, look elsewhere.’
Apion watched Andronikos as the young man dropped his head back into his hands. Words were ever so cheap. He had seen some fine actors in his time. Was this young man another such?
‘What do you think, Strategos?’ Igor whispered beside him. ‘We will have him removed from the imperial tent area, that is for certain. But as to his punishment . . . ’
Apion heard little else of what Igor said. His eyes hung on Andronikos but, like a hunter, he noticed something flash in his peripheral vision. He looked over to see the squat Symeon waddling to and from a storage tent, humming some tune. Then he saw it again. A flash of silver. He saw that the man wore a bracelet on his wrist, with an amulet dangling from it – a tiny, silver cylinder with an asp coiled around it. As Symeon turned, the moonlight glinted on the tiny purple gemstones that were the serpent’s eyes. The sight stole Apion’
s breath away and the crone’s words hissed sibilantly in his thoughts.
Beware the serpent with the amethyst eyes!
‘Komes,’ Apion said, cutting Igor off. ‘I think we have our man.’
Igor frowned, following Apion’s gaze, then gawping as Apion strode over to stand before Symeon. ‘Symeon? Never! The man is as loyal as they come.’
‘A simple test will prove it.’
Igor shook his head, sighing. ‘Do what you will.’
The squat food-taster looked up to Apion, a pleasant smile spreading across his face.
‘You taste the emperor’s food, yes?’ Apion asked him.
‘Not a morsel goes to him without me sampling it first,’ Symeon nodded.
‘Show me,’ Apion said, gesturing for Igor to give the food-taster Romanus’ wine jug.
Symeon took the jug and a cup, pouring a little wine and then sipping at it. ‘It is a pleasant task,’ he grinned. ‘And I can assure you I have had no ill-effects in these recent weeks.’
Apion did not return his grin. ‘Now hand me your amulet.’
Symeon frowned, clutching his bracelet. ‘My amulet? Whyever would - ’
‘Just do as he says,’ Igor cut in, albeit reluctantly.
Symeon lifted the bracelet from his wrist and placed it in Apion’s hand. Apion eyed the piece. It was the size of his smallest finger and it was finely carved, the snake’s body etched with individual scales, the mouth open, fangs bared as if striking. Within the mouth was a tiny stopper. Apion plucked it out, then held the amulet over Symeon’s wine cup. As he tilted it, he watched the food-taster’s face, saw a bead of sweat dart down the man’s forehead. Finally, a glimmering, silvery globule dropped from the mouth of the amulet and splashed into the wine.
Igor gasped beside him.
‘Care to drink some more?’ Apion asked Symeon.
The food taster hung his head.
Strategos: Island in the Storm Page 22