The emperor had asked for the fastest rider amongst the ranks of the army to carry this scroll to the sultan. From the Scholae, the Vigla, the Stratelatai and the Hikanatoi, one name had echoed: Diabatenus, Champion of the Races! He smiled, thinking how times had changed since that thundery, grim morning in his slum-hovel back in the capital. It seemed that fortune had befallen him once again.
Then he heard hooves rounding the hilltop. A lone Seljuk scout was racing downhill for the sultan’s siege camp, unaware of Diabatenus’ presence in this nook. Diabatenus looked to the rider, then to the scroll once more, weighing it again. ‘Such a shame,’ he smiled as he pressed it into the embers of the fire. He didn’t wait to see it blacken and burn, instead he stood tall and hailed the rider.
The Seljuk scout swung his mount round and drew his sword. ‘Byzantine?’ he snapped, his eyes flicking this way and that, wary of more enemy soldiers.
Diabatenus held up his hands. ‘At ease, I am alone!’ he pleaded as the rider ranged around him, sword levelled. ‘I come only to pass on a message to your sultan.’
The rider eyed him in suspicion.
Diabatenus noticed the rider’s tatty garb and the poor welding of his blade. ‘A message that he would be glad to hear. I’m sure he would reward you well for it.’
The rider flicked his head up briskly. ‘Very well. What?’
‘The Emperor of Byzantium is on the move. Right now he marches east . . . and he means to take the Lake Van fortresses. He plans to slay the Seljuk garrison there to a man, and then to march down the upper Euphrates valley, striking directly into the heart of your realm. His goal is to seize your capitals and lay waste to your lands. He spoke at length of it. He regaled his men with promises that they would soon be dining in the halls of Tus and Isfahan, their boots wet with Seljuk blood and their seed in as many of your women as they wished.’
The Seljuk rider’s eyes widened. ‘You bring this news to us . . . why?’ he snarled
Diabatenus grinned. ‘Because I will be rewarded for it also,’ he said, plucking a pure gold nomisma from his purse, flicking it up and catching it mid-air. He thought back to that grim day when he had joined the Vigla for a paltry rider’s wage. Then he recalled the rap on the hovel door one morning that had changed everything. While all others had forgotten him, Michael Psellos, advisor to the imperial throne, had not.
The rider galloped on down to the camp and he settled to watch. From here he could make out the area where the sultan sat with his courtiers – at a row of chairs near the north of the camp by a grand yurt. The sultan seemed to be gulping down vast quantities of wine.
The Seljuk rider dismounted before Alp Arslan, and there was a hiatus as he bowed and relayed the message. Alp Arslan seemed cast in stone for some time afterwards as the rider backed away, his step faltering. Then, like a demon awakened, the sultan stood, hurled his vase of wine to the ground and bellowed a primal cry into the ether.
***
Taylan slid off his mail vest and unbuckled his swordbelt, handing them to his attendant. He crouched and frowned, examining the cracks in his mare’s hooves, then stood tall to stroke her mane. ‘Many months of war take their toll on us all, do they not?’ he whispered to her. All around him, the men of the akhi force sat slumped, gratefully devouring their bread and cheese rations. Felt and mail vests had been cast aside and spears and shields lay in piles. War was the last thing on the minds of these men. Taylan’s thoughts too turned to his growling belly, his eyes flicking to the large terracotta urn of yoghurt and the small pot of dates laid out for him on a blanket nearby. He sat to eat, resting his back on a sun-bleached rock. The sweet, sticky fruit and the cooling yoghurt felt like an elixir to his tired flesh.
His comfort faded when he saw in his mind’s eye the scarred, pale face of the cur who had sired him. The Haga, the poison-filled boil yet to be lanced. Anger licked at the sides of his heart.
He clasped his hands to his temples and thought then of Mother. Thinking of her brought a cooling calm to his mind. He vowed to visit her as soon as the sultan disbanded this army. It had been some months since last he set eyes upon her pale and emaciated form. He prayed he would be able to return to her soon, before . . .
The crunching of boots and a sudden flurry of murmurs snapped him from his thoughts.
The sultan strode towards him, eyes ablaze, his long dark locks flowing and his flowing moustache tied back, the ends knotted at the nape of his neck. A sure sign that the Mountain Lion was readying to ride once again.
‘Sultan?’ Taylan cocked an eyebrow.
‘Pick up your armour, Bey. Ready your mount.’
‘We are to ride?’ Taylan asked, seeing the sultan’s eyes drift to the northern horizon.
‘Aye, we are to ride,’ Alp Arslan replied. ‘Byzantium’s armies have marched east and must be tamed.’
***
‘You had best be getting back to your bed, Lady Maria, the sun is weakening,’ the physician said.
Maria clasped the sun-warmed marble balcony edge at the top of the tiled hospital roof, closed her eyes and inhaled again as the zephyrs licked at her greying locks. ‘And when it drops, the stars will be revealed. Why would I hide from such beauty?’
The physician shuffled awkwardly. ‘We have talked of this before. You must not stay on your feet for too long. You are not strong enough. You may only have days - ’
‘My limbs may be weak, but my heart is strong,’ she cut him off. ‘Give me more time. And take that foul paste you call medicine with you.’
‘Very well,’ the physician sighed, surreptitiously placing the clay bowl of chalky paste he carried down nearby. Maria noticed this, but felt too weak to argue. ‘But I will be back before twilight,’ the physician added as he turned and descended the stairs into the hospital building.
Alone at last, she savoured everything around her. The sprawl of tiled palaces, mosques and the timber slums filling Mosul’s walls. The dull orange light bathing the dusty plain beyond. The hazy sky, stained with streaks of purple. The sweet scent of cinnamon from some nearby kitchen. The gentle babble and laughter of unseen families. The soothing mix of the day’s heat and the coming night’s chill, dancing on her skin. Each and every detail beautiful to her. She felt at peace, without pain. Then a dull ache in her abdomen called her back to reality. She touched a hand to the hard, jutting growth there – almost the size of a melon. The ache became a lancing pain. She winced, clutching at it now, staggering back from the edge of the rooftop, her robes suddenly awash with a tide of cold sweat. She stifled a scream of agony, sure that the physician would hear and take her back to the lonely ward and never let her leave again. But the pain came on again like a dagger, driving into her core. She opened her mouth to scream out, but the noise was drowned out by a screeching eagle passing overhead. At the same time, a deep, healing warmth touched her, dissipating the pain like a morning mist.
She blinked, realising she was prone on the rooftop. And she was not alone. The old crone who was with her held a warm hand over her growth. ‘You?’ she stammered, recognising the withered, hunched old woman. The milky, sightless eyes were unforgettable. She had come to her in the moments after she had learned of Nasir’s death.
‘I comforted you then and have come to do so again.’
She helped Maria to her feet.
‘You refuse your medicine?’ the crone inquired, nodding to the untouched bowl of paste.
Maria almost smiled. ‘The last time I was up here, I watched a crow with a broken wing. It stood just paces from the fouling corpse of a hamster. It could have eaten and prolonged its suffering. It chose not to.’ Her eyes drifted to two small piles of bones on the far side of the roof.
‘Then you may not thank me,’ the crone said, backing away and lifting her warm hand from the growth.
Maria frowned and touched it. A wave of disbelief washed over her – the growth was half the size it had been moments ago, and she was sure she could feel it shrinking further. ‘It’s diff
erent. Smaller. What did you do?’ she said, her eyes brightening with hope.
‘Ah, not enough. Never enough,’ she waved a hand dismissively. ‘I merely staved off the inevitable, gave you a handful more sunsets like this. It seems I am not as wise as the crow.’
‘But you did not come just to soothe my cancer, did you?’ Maria realised.
The crone’s face sagged, the deep furrows of time magnifying. ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I came to tell you that they will meet. Of that there remains no doubt.’
Maria frowned, then she understood. ‘No,’ she shook her head in denial. ‘Apion and Taylan? They cannot. Taylan will not rest until he spills Apion’s blood. Yet he is but a boy, blinded to his own weaknesses. If he faces his father then . . . ’ she broke down in a chorus of sobbing.
The crone cupped an arm around her shoulders. ‘But then, if he did not face his father, imagine what he might become. Remember what happened to Nasir? A spark of hatred left unchecked can become an inferno given time.’
Maria clasped her hands to her heart, following the crone’s sightless gaze, off to the distant north. ‘What will become of them?’
The crone shook her head in resignation. ‘Fate sharpens his blades and grins at his own reflection. The hearts of men are all that stand against him now, Maria.’
13. Field of Bones
The column marched on into the Sebastae Thema. The mid-July heat was intense, and this dry and dusty land offered little respite as they trudged through the endless valleys to the cicada song, the taste of dust and the absence of moisture on the tongue.
Apion tucked his sweat-slicked hair back onto the nape of his neck and shuffled to adjust his equally sodden tunic. Relieved of his task of monitoring the rearguard of the magnate armies, he now led his handful of Chaldian riders at the head of the column alongside the tagmata cavalry. And the emperor was always in sight – something that gave him great comfort, especially as the Golden Heart was at all times surrounded by a thick ring of varangoi riders, Igor leading them, eyes vigilant. Even his retinue of Philaretos, Alyates, Tarchianotes and Bryennios were not allowed to ride within this protective circle of Rus riders.
Only the Varangoi and the vanguard, some half a mile out in front, wore armour in this heat – much to Igor’s annoyance. Apion and all the others carried just their spears, shields and swords – all helms and armour stowed on the lumbering touldon of mules and wagons. He glanced back over his shoulder, over the winding body of the serpent. The heat haze offered up a shimmering sea of faces, bobbing helms, spears and banners, and melted into the horizon many miles short of where the rearguard would be riding.
For the next few weeks, the march through Byzantine lands continued without incident. They moved at the planned ten miles per day, drinking vast quantities of water as they went. This water came from natural springs, wells and imperial supply dumps marked out on the emperor’s route map.
One morning, they went some three hours without a stop. But when the route took them past the banks of a small freshwater lake, the purple imperial banner was at last raised for a halt, and sighs of relief rang out. ‘Fill your skins, slake your thirst!’ A cry rang out from the signophoroi wielding the banner and was echoed back down the miles of the column.
Apion slid from his saddle with a groan, waving the Chaldian ranks from their marching positions, over to the lake’s shores. He looked west along the lake’s banks. The rest of the column hugged the shore for miles like a great herd. He watched as the men enjoyed the chance to quench their thirsts fully and splash themselves with the cool water. Some filled their skins and then emptied them into the collars of their tunics to soothe their tired bodies. Apion waited his turn to fill his water skin. He had seen countless barrels of water drained in the space of an hour on previous campaigns, with ten or twenty thousand men, but these forty thousand men and nearly twenty five thousand mules and horses drank so much that he was sure the waterline of the lake visibly dropped as he waited his turn.
‘Half a pint of water per hour for every man?’ Sha croaked, draining his own water skin by the lake’s shores and filling it again. ‘This lake will be a puddle by the time we’re done.’
Apion nodded as he saw a space and stooped to fill his skin. ‘That’s at a minimum too – a pint per hour when we leave imperial lands and have to march in armour.’
‘Pah!’ Procopius snorted, throwing water across his wrinkled face then blinking it away. ‘Onagers and trebuchets need no water!’
‘Aye, but the poor mules pulling the carts they are laden on do!’ Apion laughed.
Procopius shrugged, then looked over his shoulder and grinned. ‘Talking of mules . . . ’
Apion and Sha looked to see Blastares, hobbling to the lakeside. The big man had the look of a shaved mongrel that had accidentally bitten into a lemon, his shorn scalp and skin glistening with sweat and his eyes like slits. ‘This is brutal, sir. Every year, I swear that it will be my last campaign,’ he grumbled as he crouched stiffly to dip his water skin into the lake. ‘That I’ll buy up a good farm and settle down with Tetradia. Get fat, get old, I tell myself. Though not as old as this one,’ he jabbed a thumb at Procopius and roared at his own joke. His laughter faded as Procopius’ face wrinkled in a scowl of indignation. Then the old tourmarches’ face bent into a mischievous scowl, and he started prising his boots off.
Blastares continued; ‘But every year I find myself at it again, cooking in the midday sun, wandering through the dust, breathing the scent of stale tunics and sweaty arses.’
‘It could be worse. You could be marching with the infantry, Tourmarches,’ Apion pointed out.
Blastares’ face puckered just a little more. ‘Seems like a distant memory – no, a nightmare! Still, riding is hard work. March and get blistered feet. Ride and suffer sore balls and a raw backside.’
Apion chuckled. ‘Anyway, to ride in just tunics and boots is luxury. Soon we’ll be in borderland territory. Then we’ll have to ride in full armour, our bodies cooking and our brains baking inside our helms.’
‘Thanks for the encouragement, sir,’ Blastares grunted sarcastically. The big man gulped his skin of water dry, then made to fill it once again. But he halted, glancing to his side. ‘What the? You filthy old bugger!’
Procopius looked up with an air of innocence, pausing only momentarily from lancing the next of the blisters on his gnarled, dirt and sweat-coated feet with his dagger, only inches away from the water Blastares had been drinking from. He flexed his toes a few times, prodding at one angry-looking blood blister. ‘Ah, this one’ll have to go as well. What’s wrong? Not thirsty?’
Sha stifled his laughter as best he could as Blastares stomped away to find another drinking spot.
Apion cocked an eyebrow and patted Procopius’ shoulder. ‘What need for artillery, old horse, when your feet can send a soldier like Blastares running?’
It was in the third week of July when they came to an area that Apion recognized, but he couldn’t quite place it. ‘Tell me,’ he said absently to Sha, riding by his side, ‘we are in the eastern reaches of Sebastae. The sun might be playing tricks on my eyes, but is this - ?’
‘I fear it is,’ The Malian sighed, then pointed to the heat haze before them. ‘See the ripples in the land up ahead? That is the route to the gorge, I am sure of it.’
Apion’s blood chilled. Memories of the gorge and the wall of fire from the previous year were but an echo. Worse, that meant that somewhere near here was the grim flatland where Manuel’s army had been massacred. He tried to blank out the thought.
‘That field will have long since been cleared and planted with crop,’ Sha said, his thoughts attuned to Apion’s, his lips taut. ‘The garrison of Sebastae will have come from their walls to tend to the dead . . . surely.’ The doubt in his tone battled with the words. Apion knew as well as he did that the garrisons of these eastern cities were thinner than ever, and were not prone to wandering the countryside in such scant numbers.
When they
rode up and over a gentle range of hills. A series of laments rang out. All heads twisted to the right. There, just a stone’s throw to the south, lay a terrible sight. The field of the massacred, untouched since the previous year. Bones, stripped of every last morsel of flesh, bleached pure-white by the sun. The bloody, staring eyes of that day were now empty, gaping sockets, sprigs of rye grass sprouting through rib cages, trembling in the delicate breeze. The mouths locked in death cries were now lolling white jawbones. The vicious flesh wounds were absent – now just brutal scores and holes in the skulls and limbs, some with semi-rotted arrow shafts still lodged where they had struck. Rusted spathions, faded shields and crumbling fragments of armour speckled this grim sight.
Up ahead, the imperial banner rose, swishing twice, and a series of buccina cries confirmed it. ‘Time to don arms and armour,’ Apion said, reading the signal. He had been in the discussions where it was agreed that they would march unencumbered until they reached the unstable lands of Theodosiopolis, still several days away. The bones, it seemed, had served to highlight how far inside Byzantine territory the Seljuk scimitar could swing. With a rustle of iron, leather and felt, the men of the column dressed as if for battle.
They rode on in sombre silence until late afternoon. The next voice they heard was a sharp cry. A jagged Norman twang.
He and Sha twisted to the sound. Two riders hared from the east, coming for the head of the column at pace. One was a Norman of the vanguard. The other a tagma horseman in a fine iron klibanion, no helm and armed only with the spathion strapped to his swordbelt. And he wore an eyepatch, purple veins shuddering from its edges. The emperor, Apion, Igor and his clutch of varangoi were quick to react to the shout, coming forward to intercept the pair. Romanus sat straight in his saddle. ‘It is Diabatenus, my rider. The exchange!’ he gasped.
Strategos: Island in the Storm Page 25