Strategos: Island in the Storm

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘What was it?’ Apion asked.

  ‘Quicksilver,’ Igor answered for him, snatching the amulet and tipping another drop from it. The silvery bead splashed on the ground and divided up into several smaller beads. ‘Symeon, why?’ he demanded, grabbing the little man by the shoulders and shaking him.

  ‘They told me to make it look like some sort of illness,’ Symeon confessed to the big Rus. ‘They have my wife . . . in the torture chambers under the Hippodrome,’ he said with a trembling voice, his eyes rimmed with tears.

  Apion knew there was no need to ask who. He closed his eyes and bowed his head as he tried to block the memories of those dark chambers where Psellos and his portatioi agents tormented and mutilated their political foes.

  ‘Now they will kill her,’ Symeon whimpered. ‘Unless . . . ’

  A rasp of iron tore Apion from his thoughts. He looked up to see that Symeon had stolen the sword from Igor’s scabbard and pushed back from the big Rus. The little man swiped out with it clumsily, slashing the Rus’ chest armour and sending him toppling backwards. The food taster spun round, his eyes wide, fixed on the red satin sides of the emperor’s tent.

  ‘No!’ Apion cried.

  ‘I have to,’ Symeon wailed, then made for the side of the tent, hefting the sword back to cut through and buy a chance to slay the emperor inside.

  Apion leapt to block him. Without shield or armour, he could only draw his scimitar, grappling it two-handed, readying to parry. But his raw, wounded palm stung like fire and the hilt fell from his grasp. Defenceless, he could only watch as Symeon’s wild sword strike swept down for him and the side of the tent.

  A stinging pain slashed across Apion’s cheek and he heard a sudden clanking of thick iron. He staggered back, blinking. He touched a hand to the spot on his cheek, where hot rivulets of blood trickled. The blade had only nicked it. And there, right before him, was a terrible sight. Symeon, gagging, eyes bulging, face reddening, Andronikos Doukas stood tall behind him, wrist chains wrapped tightly around the food taster’s neck. The little man thrashed like a fish trapped in shallow water. The sword toppled from his grasp and his face grew purple as Andronikos wrenched tighter and tighter. A moment later, and Symeon’s body fell still.

  Igor was back on his feet now and came to stand with Apion. They both watched as Andronikos set the food-taster’s corpse down, then settled back on his stool. He looked up with a sardonic half-grin. ‘Seems it was a good thing that these chains were long.’

  ***

  The campaign army had marched on into fine June sunshine and now they were at the eastern edge of the Charsianon Thema. Three days had passed since Symeon’s death, and Apion struggled to take meaning from what had happened. He thought over it as he rode. A seemingly good man had been outed as another of Psellos’ pawns – but then his motives were valorous. The grim truth was that the food taster’s wife was now doomed to die in those dark torture chambers. And Andronikos, the one he had suspected initially, had proved to be a noble man. Noble? By virtue of choking a man to death? And so the thoughts continued in this grey loop.

  At dawn on the fourth day after Symeon’s death, Romanus and Apion sat alone in the imperial tent, playing shatranj. The emperor was – for the first time in weeks – clean-shaven and freshly bathed, his flaxen hair still-damp and neatly swept back. More, the pink-red tinge to his skin and the copious sweat were gone. The poison was fading from his system. Apion had taken over as food-taster, and this morning’s meal of eggs, bread, honey and yoghurt was delicious and free from any uninvited ingredients.

  Apion watched as the emperor made to lift a pawn forward, a move that would expose his king within two moves. But Romanus hesitated, replacing the pawn. The emperor looked up, cocking a wry smile.

  ‘Proof enough that I have recouped my senses?’ he said.

  ‘You never lost them, Basileus. They were simply tainted by quicksilver.’

  Romanus sat back, gazing at the tent flap, beyond which the purple-orange of dawn was growing, promising another day of fiery heat. ‘Yet it seems I did my damnedest to dispirit the men. It is a wonder that they did not think to cut me down for my deeds. Throwing their belongings in the river, having them build some manor . . . and the fire at Malagina – I have little memory of how that started, other than a vivid recollection of walking through the flames, laughing like a drunk. My stallion, after years of charging bravely into battle, bearing my burden . . . burnt alive without an enemy blade in sight. The Armenians are better men than I – forgiving me for the slurs I cast at them shows they are noble allies indeed.’

  ‘I have explained what happened to Prince Vardan. And the armies are simply relieved to have their emperor back, Basileus,’ Apion insisted. ‘That is why none tried to depose you or relieve you of your post – because they need you to lead them, to make them believe.’ He cast his mind back over Romanus’ speech the previous day – the first time he had addressed the men since his poisoning. They had stopped at noon near a fresh spring and an orchard. They waited there for the rest of the afternoon until the majority of the column had caught up. The men unburdened themselves of their armour and sat in the tall grass, speckled with roses and lilies, nourishing themselves on cherries and icy-cold water. Romanus took that moment to stand before them and lay his soul bare.

  I will forever carry the guilt of my actions in these last weeks. That you still heed my word is a testament to your strength and will. Be angry not at me for my times of madness, but at the cur who poisoned my food and those who compelled him to do so. They have hurt us all, but they have not broken us. This campaign set out to march east and seize the Lake Van fortresses, and it will not be waylaid by treachery! I look over you and see nigh-on forty thousand faces. I listen and I hear forty thousand beating, noble hearts. I know we will be victorious. God is with us!

  The cheering of the gathered men had seemed to rock the land for miles. Apion felt a gentle smile creeping across his face at the memory.

  ‘But the rhinokopia,’ Romanus continued. ‘If I had actually went through with it I don’t think I would be able to face them . . . ’

  ‘But you didn’t do it, Basileus. I knew there was something else at play here. No man turns from a noble and brave leader into a mindless tyrant without a cause. Psellos. He is the one who forced Symeon to do what he did. He is the one who slew your stallion. He is the one who tormented the troops.

  Romanus sighed. ‘The dog still operates from exile, it seems.’

  Apion felt his dark memories surface again, remembering the many slain at the advisor’s behest. Old Cydones the most prominent. ‘Perhaps you should consider nullifying his threat more permanently?’

  Romanus shrugged. ‘And then what? Watch while another black crow flutters down to perch on the shoulders of the Doukas family? No, best accept the enemy I know and understand than some new force.’

  ‘True. The Doukas family and their supporters are widespread and entrenched in imperial lands. But not all of them are black-hearted. The one you have in chains, outside. He is no lover of his father’s scheming.’

  Romanus stroked his jaw in thought. ‘Andronikos is a decent man with a shrewd eye for the battlefield. He has led men in wars past and shown himself to be a strategos in the making. It does not please me to see him led with us in chains like some exotic animal. But he is John Doukas’ son, and as much as the young man despises his father, John covets the lad, sees him as a protégé yet to fall into line with his thinking.’ He toyed with the pawn again as he said this, then changed his mind, lifting his knight out over the pawn line and into play. ‘Yet I brought Andronikos along thinking it might stop Psellos and John’s attempts to dethrone or slay me. How wrong I was. It seems that John cares as little for Andronikos as he does for his father?’

  Apion swept his war elephant across the board, taking the emperor’s knight with a dry grin. ‘Still, be on your guard. Every man has it within himself to be at once noble and despicable.’

  Romanus grinn
ed. ‘You can be sure of it, Strategos. Andronikos will earn no sympathy until this campaign is over and the Lake Van fortresses are ours. Then, perhaps, I might offer him some respite from his vile father. Until that moment, he can ride in chains. And when we go to battle, he will remain in chains and line up within the magnate armies.’

  Apion whistled at this, thinking of the rabble of infantry and cavalry. ‘I would hesitate to send my darkest enemy into those ill-ordered ranks.’

  Romanus leaned over the shatranj board, his face stern. ‘I brought them along to swell our ranks and fend off the detractors who would otherwise say my army was far less numerous than I proclaimed it might be. Seven thousand men. Seven thousand men led by a clutch of self-serving dogs. Cut them and they would bleed avarice. That is why they will not be used in this campaign unless desperation overcomes us.’

  Apion nodded, thinking of the clutch of overly proud men who led these private militias. ‘They have taken to giving themselves grand titles. I’ve heard the one with the trident beard – Scleros – calling himself doux and strategos, when I’d wager he has never once been in battle – no doubt too busy sucking wine from a jug and growing fat as he watched his slaves toil over his crops.’ He lifted a pawn out in an attempt to lure the emperor’s chariot piece.

  Romanus swigged at his cup of watered wine, gazing out through the tent flap as the sun broached the horizon, casting his face in orange. ‘Always a balancing of risks, is it not? Who would have thought that upon assembling an army of this strength, we would still face such choices? We must not fail this time, Strategos. Manzikert and Chliat must be taken, at any cost. If I return to the capital without these prizes, the people will not support my reign any longer. Psellos, John Doukas and their many agents and sympathisers will pluck me from the throne like an overripe fruit.’

  ‘The Lake Van fortresses can be taken, Basileus. And done well, there should be no need for great bloodshed.’

  ‘I pray for better than that, Strategos. Our army is capable of taking the fortresses by force if needs be. But I have been thinking, thinking of a way to obtain the fortresses with no bloodshed at all.’

  ‘Basileus?’ Apion frowned.

  ‘I have taken a measure for the greater good . . . though it may rankle with you and some of my retinue. Ah, here they come,’ Romanus stood as a collection of men entered the tent. Igor came in first, still dressed in his pure-white armour having been on night watch. Tarchianotes entered next, wrapped in a woollen cloak and wearing an ugly scowl that accentuated his cheek-wart and suggested he had just been awoken from a deep sleep. The lithe and fresh-faced Alyates was dressed in his finely polished iron klibanion, tunic and boots, his chin freshly shaven and his lank, dark hair neatly combed as if he had risen early to be ready for this. Doux Philaretos entered next, halting only to hurl some volley of abuse at a soldier outside. Then he came in, his face sullen and inches from ire. Bryennios came in last, running his hands through his greying peak of dark hair to neaten it, then flashing his wolfish grin around the gathered men. The five sat around the table with Apion and the emperor. Romanus lifted the shatranj board away, careful not to disturb any of the pieces, then unfurled a yellowed, well-used map of the empire. He tapped the blue outline of Lake Van, sliding his finger between the two dots there that represented Manzikert and Chliat.

  ‘I summoned you five – and only you five – because I trust each of you with my life.’ Romanus said flatly. ‘I want our men to remain vigilant, but, should things go to plan, we may find that the Lake Van fortresses can be acquired without facing the sultan’s armies. Even without bloodshed.’

  Bryennios gasped. ‘Basileus, that is a fine aspiration, but - ’

  ‘I have not taken to the quicksilver again, I can assure you,’ Romanus cut him off with a raised hand and a firm grin.

  ‘But Alp Arslan will not relinquish his grasp on those fortresses without a struggle, Basileus,’ Alyates added.

  ‘No he won’t. Unless we offer him something more attractive than a fight.’

  Apion felt a warm glow in the pit of his stomach as he caught on to the emperor’s thinking. A trade!

  ‘The sultan is having difficulty in securing his hold on Syria. Just when the Fatimids seemed beaten, they have raised their heads again. I believe we have something in those lands that he covets.’ Romanus’ finger lifted from the Lake Van area of the map and swept down to the south, to Syria.

  ‘Hierapolis,’ Apion whispered, thinking aloud.

  Romanus flashed him a grin, his finger falling right on the city in the sands.

  Tarchianotes gasped. ‘You propose we trade the desert city? The city we fought so hard – and lost so much – to take?’

  ‘Unlike you, Doux, I was there. Memories of the fighting within those walls, and the faces of the many lost, do not evade me, nor my nightmares,’ Romanus said, an edge of terseness in his reply.

  ‘Yes, Basileus,’ Tarchianotes bowed his head in apology.

  ‘Holding Hierapolis for these last three years has allowed us some respite on those borders. Antioch and our coastal holdings in Syria have been strengthened. Fortresses have been constructed in the Antitaurus Mountain passes, and are now garrisoned by our Armenian allies. Edessa’s walls have been bolstered, the towers heightened and the garrison doubled. Indeed, I hear reports that the sultan has been bombarding the city with his war machines since the start of the month, but is unable to break the walls. Antioch, Edessa, and this line of mountain fortresses can be the basis of a formidable chain of defence for our southeastern borders. Hierapolis has served its purpose. Now it could serve another, of equal if not greater significance.’

  ‘We withdraw our Heirapolis garrison, and station them instead in the mountain fortresses?’ Apion suggested.

  ‘Exactly,’ Romanus swung round, pointing at Apion.

  ‘So Alp Arslan will walk into Hierapolis and suffer no opposition,’ Bryennios frowned. ‘Then what? We simply march east and take the Lake Van fortresses likewise?’

  ‘Perhaps. If the sultan sees sense,’ Apion mused.

  ‘Alp Arslan fought hard to win Manzikert from our hardy garrison last year. I heard he lost two wings of his finest veteran ghulam riders in the process,’ Alyates said.

  ‘And he fought even harder to establish Seljuk control in Syria,’ Apion countered. ‘The emperor is right. The Lake Van fortresses are more valuable to us than to Alp Arslan, and Hierapolis is more valuable to him than it once was to us.’

  ‘We are some six weeks away from reaching Lake Van, Basileus,’ Tarchianotes said, his morning scowl having relaxed a fraction. ‘Official parley and agreement of such a trade will take significantly longer, I would imagine. So do we halt the march, put the campaign on hold?’

  Romanus’ lips lifted in a wry smile. ‘Sometimes, in the name of expediency, decorum and pomp can be dispensed with. All we need is a fast rider. The fastest of them all. Someone who can hasten to the sultan and propose this trade.’

  Apion listened as they chattered over the possibilities. The warmth in his belly was an unfamiliar feeling. Powerful men discussing the real possibility of sealing Byzantium’s borders from attack at long last. But something nagged at him. If there was to be no confrontation with the sultan’s armies, then he would not face Taylan. Maria’s whereabouts would remain elusive. But I will not have to face my boy, he reasoned. A bittersweet swirl of emotion played with his heart.

  Then he thought of something. Words that had long hovered in his thoughts. The crone’s shrill tones echoed in his mind as his gaze fell upon the map. Lake Van and the two fortresses near its shores.

  I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The mighty Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud. Then his eyes drifted to the golden heart pendant Romanus wore around his neck. At dusk you and the Golden Heart will stand together in the final battle, like an island in the storm . . .

  The warmth in his belly faded, and a chill took it
s place.

  ***

  The burnt-gold Bithynian countryside basked in a serene summer’s day. A villa stood at the crest of a gentle hill, surrounded by orchards and crop fields. Cicadas trilled and a pair of nut-brown hares hopped across one orchard floor, nibbling at seeds, play-fighting as they went. Neither noticed the osprey perched on the branches above. Starved of its usual diet of fish, it swooped, scooping up the smaller hare in its talons, piercing the creature’s heart.

  John Doukas observed from a bench overlooking the orchard, heedless of the remaining hare’s keening for its lost partner. He watched the osprey rise and soar away with its prey, gliding off to the east. His hands flexed on the ball-shaped top of the knotted walking cane he had come to need, imagining it as Romanus Diogenes’ heart in his grasp. His mind pulled in myriad directions at once. He longed to stand and stride to the palace wing he had once called his home, to call together his shrewdest minds and plot their next move. He yearned to visit the Numeroi barracks and the dark chambers underneath, where the portatioi would doubtless have another foe in chains for him. He hungered to hear the crowd in the Hippodrome rise for him, cry out for the Doukas family, laud his every movement. Instead, he could opt only to stroll in this pleasant estate, or shuffle around the corridors of this white-walled villa, with the advisor, Psellos, his only company. The dusty lands beyond the orchard flashed momentarily, and he glanced to see the pair of white-armoured varangoi there, their breidox axes glinting in the sun as they let the bread boy into the estate – bringing fresh loaves from the bakery in the nearby village. And so it was every hundred paces; a pair of stony-faced, iron-willed Rus. Not just at the perimeter of their exile, but within the estate and inside the villa too. He saw another of the big Rus axemen from the corner of his eye, standing in a shaded villa doorway, studying him as the osprey had watched the hares just moments ago.

  They wanted none of his gold, none of his promises of riches. He had even given one of these surly wretches a purse-load of pure-gold coin – nearly all he had. The red-bearded cur had taken it too. He had revelled in the possibility that his games of power were alive again, only to return to his bedchamber that evening to find an ass tethered there, the empty purse lying on the floor beside it. Your coins will not tempt the varangoi, advisor! Redbeard had snorted, then the ass had started braying and the rest of the Rus nearby had erupted in laughter. And when he had told Psellos of this, the shrivelled advisor had worn a mocking glint in his eye too.