He lifted his scimitar from the pile of his dumped armour, then walked back over to the kneeling Romanus, eyeing the sword. ‘The blade is still sullied with stains from the battle,’ he said, placing it on Romanus’ neck. ‘But I envy it, for while the blade might be cleaned this morning, I will remain tarnished.’
Romanus frowned, then started as the sultan flicked the blade up deftly, slicing through the ropes on his neck. With another lick of the blade, the wrist ropes fell away too. ‘Come, sit with me,’ he beckoned Romanus up then sat on his chair again.
Tentatively, Romanus rose.
Alp Arslan held out a square of silk. ‘Clean the blood from your lips, and know that I struck you only to appease my men.’
‘What is this?’ Romanus asked, sitting, his eyes darting as if expecting some sudden attack.
‘Did you mean what you said? Were the situation reversed, you would have me in chains with the dogs?’ Alp Arslan asked.
Romanus snorted. ‘Were the situation reversed, I can only guess at what I might do. Mercy, torture . . . what does it matter? I will never know now.’
‘It befits a man to understand that good fortune can swiftly be turned upon him. Allah alone knows how close I have come to falling to those baying dogs,’ he flicked a finger at the space where the audience had been standing, the eager acolytes who he knew secretly supported his rival, Yusuf. ‘Thus, I will not have you subjected to torture or punishment. Perhaps then fortune may spare me any such fate should I find myself in your position in future?’
Romanus nodded gingerly, the frown on his brow fading only a fraction.
‘You are confused?’ Alp Arslan asked.
‘I look around your tent and see a reflection of my own. I find myself at ease in your presence. Many of my courtiers – even the few noble ones – told me you were a mindless blood-drinker, a foul-hearted cur.’
Alp Arslan cocked an eyebrow. ‘I drink only dark wine, and too much of it. And as to the nature of my heart,’ he shrugged, ‘aye, at times, I have done foul deeds.’
‘Then perhaps that is the lot of any sultan, emperor or king,’ Romanus said, his gaze saturnine. A silence hovered as both men gazed into their own thoughts. ‘So what is to become of me?’ Romanus said at last.
Alp Arslan pulled the small table round between their chairs. He poured a cup of water for Romanus and pushed the dates, bread and yoghurt towards him. ‘In the years that have been and gone, I would have gladly kept you as a hostage, a trophy of sorts. A brave and noble ruler of Byzantium reduced to a mere slave at the sultan’s court.’
Romanus’ lips narrowed.
‘Then our great empires did battle yesterday after so many years of posturing, raiding, taking of cities and burning of homes. What did yesterday tell me?’ Alp Arslan leaned a little closer to Romanus. ‘It told me that you are indeed brave and noble. You stood with your men until the end, when you could have fled on your stallion and broken free of the carnage.’
‘I stood firm because I was the last source of hope to my men!’ Romanus insisted. ‘I stood my ground because I had nowhere to flee too. Yesterday was my last hope. You, Sultan, are a wily and powerful foe. But you do not know of the enemies who hover at my back like crows, waiting to swoop upon my failures. Even now, word will be on its way back to Constantinople, to laud my disaster. The lords and nobles who have long sought to depose me will rejoice.’
Alp Arslan held Romanus’ gaze. His sparkling azure eyes were earnest, resolute. In them he saw his own features reflected – as weary and battle stained as the Emperor of Byzantium’s. ‘Then despite our differing faiths, our opposing cultures, our clashing wills, we have much in common. I saw what happened yesterday. My armies did not win a great victory – the traitors in your ranks handed it to me. Your reserve was strong enough in number to have repelled or broken up my forces. Had they not turned from the battle and left you to your fate . . . I might well have been a prisoner sitting in your tent right now, under the walls of Manzikert.’
Romanus’ weary features cracked into a desert-dry half-grin that did not come close to reaching his eyes. ‘But you point out only a fraction of the treachery, Sultan. When I marched east, my armies numbered some forty thousand men. Yet half of those men forsook me before we even came to battle. I sent them to Chliat and never saw them again.’
Alp Arslan sighed. ‘We came to these plains, braced to face such a number. I am more certain than ever that, had they stood with you, then our roles would be reversed right now.’
Romanus chuckled mirthlessly at the notion. ‘And the treachery did not end there. In the battle itself, when I gave the order to retreat at dusk – some black-hearted dog spread the rumour that I had been slain. That is why my lines foundered and fell apart.’
Alp Arslan sighed and let his head drop. His thoughts drifted to his nightmares. The skeleton mountain and the gory rain. ‘Sometimes I fear we are blighted with a certainty of blood. Every summer when the lands grow lush and verdant, abound with life, we seem determined to march with our armies, to cut it down and soak the dirt in blood. What happened yesterday was grim indeed, and as I sat here alone in the night, I asked myself the same thing over and again: could it have been avoided?’
Romanus frowned at this. ‘Then tell me, Sultan . . . tell me one thing. Why did you reject my offer?’
Alp Arslan shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘When you were besieging Aleppo, I sent my fastest rider to you, with a scroll.’
‘I received no scroll, met no rider of yours. I merely had a threat passed to me from a rider of my own. He said you were set to seize these lands then march down the Euphrates valley and penetrate my heartlands.’
Romanus shook his head, sadness wrinkling his face. ‘There was a scroll. It outlined a peaceful swap: Hierapolis for the Lake Van fortresses.’
Alp Arslan’s eyes darted. He recalled the haze of the wine that had muddied his thoughts on the day that messenger had come to him. The wine and the anger at his failed sieges of Edessa and Aleppo had catastrophically clouded his judgement.
Romanus dropped his head into his hands. ‘What use is it complaining about dice that have already been cast? Their willingness to betray me is a sign of my weakness as a leader. Had they believed in me then - ’
‘Had they believed in anything other than gold, Basileus,’ Alp Arslan cut in, ‘then they might have stayed loyal.’
Romanus looked up, frowning. ‘You know of Psellos and his scheming?’
‘I have heard of the rogue that festers in your capital like a boil.’
‘He is in exile now – though not for much longer, I suspect,’ Romanus shrugged, a cheerless laugh escaping his lips.
‘Regardless, his ilk are well known to me. Did you know that this year, I have escaped two attempts on my life and narrowly averted a coup by jealous emirs and beys? And it is but August – so I fear another is due soon,’ he chuckled dryly. He saw Romanus’ gaze was studious, as if trying to uncover some hidden agenda. ‘My point is this, Basileus; once my forefathers spoke to me of their dreams of conquering all Byzantium. I know now this will never happen – not in my lifetime anyway. Thus, the game we must both play is one of balancing power. That balance can be fierce and sweeping, swinging to and fro and leaving tracts of dead in its wake. Or it can be stable. You are a tenacious foe, but a virtuous one. I fear that should another usurp your throne, then I will have a far less noble opponent on my borders. So you will return to your capital, and secure your throne.’
Romanus’ eyes widened.
Alp Arslan shrugged. ‘There will have to be some token tribute, of course. Ten million nomismata, shall we say? And give me Hierapolis, Edessa, Antioch and, of course, Manzikert.’
Romanus’ face paled visibly, even through the soot and dirt of the battle. ‘Sultan, you overestimate the health of the imperial treasury greatly. Barely a million nomismata lie in the vaults, and much of that is owed to the mercenaries in the armies.’
‘Then we will come to some form of arrangement,’ Alp Arslan ceded. ‘But the cities – they must be sworn over to the sultanate.’
Romanus’ brow knitted. ‘Such concessions would mortally weaken my hold on the imperial throne, Sultan.’
‘To fail to achieve those prizes would severely weaken my hold on my own throne, Basileus. What would my people say if, having achieved victory over Byzantium, I let you walk away and keep all of your holdings?’
Romanus nodded, stroking at his jaw in thought. ‘Perhaps we can defer the transfer of the cities? Allow me to march back to Constantinople and see that my throne is safe? Then those great walled settlements can be given over.’
Alp Arslan felt instinct nag at him. ‘Some men make grand promises when faced with the tip of my blade, only to spit on their word when they are far away,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. But Romanus’ gaze was unerring, resolute. ‘But you are not one of these.’ He picked up the water flask and supped from it. ‘Let it be as you say.’ He held out a forearm to Romanus.
Romanus clasped it. ‘A balance of power it is. Perhaps the most wretched thing about today, Sultan, is that it has taken until now for us to speak like this.’
They talked on for the rest of the morning and on into the afternoon. Romanus spoke of little Nikephoros, and Alp Arslan of his own baby boy. They talked of their homes, their lives in simpler times, their wishes for how things might be.
It was late afternoon when at last they grew short of conversation. Alp Arslan stood. ‘Now, Basileus, you should bathe and wash the grime of battle from your skin. Then you can eat and rest here until you are ready to travel west. I will assign a wing of one hundred ghulam riders to see you and the remnant of your army safely back into your own lands.’ He clapped his hands.
A pair of akhi entered the tent to escort Romanus. As he left, Alp Arslan’s eyes fell upon the shatranj board. An earlier thought came to him again and he called after Romanus. ‘And what of the Haga?’
Romanus turned round. ‘The Strategos of Chaldia? He stood with me until the end.’
‘I expected nothing less,’ Alp Arslan laughed. ‘But did he survive?’
Romanus’ face fell into a curious expression of sadness and fondness. ‘He lives. We have spoken since – in the prison pens. It seems that he lost more than most in the fray.’
***
In the prison pen, Apion sat wearing his bloodstained, faded red tunic, head bowed, his amber-grey locks dangling over his face and the afternoon sun burning his neck. He stirred only to fasten the bloodied bandage wrapped around his torso then scoop water with his good hand from the brook over the blunt fracture in his arm. It was bruised and swollen, and the arm was still numb and hanging limp. Still, the water stung like vinegar, and his body shuddered at the sensation. He looked up and around those seated with him; of the seven thousand who had not fled in the chaos of the ordered retreat, some twenty six hundred men had survived. A few hundred varangoi, Bryennios and maybe a third of his cavalry wing – stripped of their mounts, weapons and the best of their armour – plus Alyates and a hundred or so of his riders. Apart from that, there were clusters of themata infantrymen, most of them mortally wounded. They sat with their heads bowed, faces filthy. Some sobbed, some prayed, others gazed into the dust before them. It had been this way all the previous night and today. Mercifully, the bodies on the nearby battlefield had been cleared away and the crows had nothing left to scavenge on. Only clouds of flies remained, buzzing in the late afternoon heat over the remaining blood stains. Some four thousand Byzantine men had fallen there in the dusk light, and probably the same number of Seljuks. The blood stains were drying. Time would see new grass sprout and mask the red earth. In just a few seasons, would anyone even know what had happened here?
He saw the faces of his trusted three behind his closed eyelids. Sha, the diplomat, one of the few who could see reason even in the heat of battle. Blastares, the big infantry lion who had helped Apion develop the callous skin of a soldier in his early days in the ranks. Old Procopius, the artillery master. The wily old bastard who could prize open any fort or city like a clam. Each of them friends, brothers. All gone. He felt his heart swell with emotion. ‘I should have been by your side.’
Then he thought of gruff Igor, the loyal varangos axeman who had fallen in his duty, protecting the emperor to the last. ‘Had you been given a choice, you whoreson, you would not have had it any other way,’ he mouthed with a sad half-grin.
Then he thought of the Chaldian ranks. Many hundreds of them dead, having suffered the worst of the casualties. Sha’s baritone words echoed from memory then; many widows we make of waiting wives, with so little thought we squander men’s lives.
And his memories came round – as he knew they would – to Taylan. What a foul mixture of confusion and pain the memory of the lad’s dying moments brought to him. Taylan had confronted him as he swore he would. But something had changed in the lad since their first confrontation outside Mosul. At the last, it seemed, the boy understood. Apion closed his eyes, desperately trying to block out the image of that scowling old bey who had cut his son down. ‘If we had been afforded time, in some place far from this war, then things might have been different.’
He looked up into the sky, wondering if the crone was listening to him. But there was nothing.
Just then, a crunch-crunch of boots shook him from his thoughts. He looked up to see a pair of akhi hauling the rough timber gate of the prisoner pen open. One carried a basket of bread loaves and began handing them out to the prisoners. The other was scanning the sea of faces, then stopped, staring straight at Apion. ‘You, come,’ the man beckoned.
He walked numbly, barely giving thought to what was to happen to him. When he was led inside some vast tent, he drew his gaze up and across a familiar sight. A shatranj board. Behind it sat Alp Arslan. The sultan offered him a weary smile.
‘Sit, Haga,’
‘I will sit, but please, do not use that name,’ he said, taking a seat, ‘I am dog-tired of it now.’
‘I understand,’ Alp Arslan replied. ‘To a young man, war is like a pretty young lady. He chases her. Only when he has her in his grasp does he see her for the hag she is, and by then it is too late,’ his words trailed off and he shook his head.
‘That may be the case for some, Sultan. For me, there was no chase. War consumed my life when I was a boy.’
Alp Arslan nodded in acquiescence, then tapped the shatranj board. ‘Remember when we started this game?’
Apion frowned, seeing that the layout of the pieces was familiar. ‘You preserved the board from that night, after the taking of Caesarea?’
‘I do not like unfinished business. It irks me. Drives me to drink too much wine,’ he chuckled dryly. ‘Though after yesterday, I feel I am finally tired of the lustre of all things red.’
Apion shrugged and moved a pawn with his good arm, taking the sultan’s war elephant. ‘Then let us end our dealings, Sultan. I find that most of my affairs are winding up before my eyes, so let us be done with this game.’
Alp Arslan’s eyes narrowed. He lifted his Vizier out from the back line. ‘You are not known for acting in haste,’ he said, eyeing the path this move had opened to Apion’s king. It would take several moves, but it was there.
‘What am I known for, Sultan? What are you known for? The Haga, the Mountain Lion. Bitter soubriquets indeed. Merchants of death, that’s how they will remember us,’ Apion said, lifting his war elephant out and across to strike at the sultan’s knight. He lifted the sultan’s piece off the board without ceremony.
‘That was something of a reckless move, Strategos,’ the sultan frowned. ‘Perhaps you should take more care?’
‘Why? All that mattered to me has crumbled around my feet. All those I cared for have been slain. I told you this before and it is ever more true now. The empire I fought for is at your mercy. My comrades are dead. My son . . . ’ he stopped, the words choking in his throat.
Alp Arslan stood, m
oving over to a small chest at the side of the tent. He produced from it two sets of armour. One was Apion’s own, stripped from him upon his capture. The other was equally familiar. A scale vest and a fine conical helm with an ornate nose guard. Nasir’s armour. Taylan’s armour.
‘You may want these things. I had them found and brought to me.’
Apion eyed Taylan’s armour. ‘You know that Taylan was my . . . ’
‘I found out only too late. At least it allowed me to understand the boy.’
Apion nodded, a weak smile failing to disguise his sorrow.
‘Now take them, Strategos,’ Alp Arslan thrust the garments into Apion’s good arm. ‘Our battle is over,’ he waved a hand across the shatranj board as if dismissing it. ‘This unfinished game will irk me no longer.’
Apion stood too. ‘And what is to become of me, the army and the emperor?’
‘Your emperor will ride from here in a few days. He plans to gather his armies and secure his throne.’
‘You are not keeping him in bondage?’ Apion frowned.
Alp Arslan shook his head. ‘I have discussed this at length with him. Suffice to say that territories will be ceded, but it is imperative that he remains on the throne. I have suffered nightmares of blood fields and skeleton soldiers since I was a boy. Now I find them a waking reality. Together, your emperor and I can change this. We can oversee an era of peace. No more border raids, no more war in these lands. I am tired of it, Strategos.’
‘I hope with all my heart this comes to pass, Sultan. But do you realise the enormity of your victory. Are you aware of what will happen now, back in the imperial capital?’
Alp Arslan’s gaze grew weary and distant. ‘The snakes of Constantinople will come out to feast, or so I understand.’
‘They will. The emperor’s next moves will be crucial. Unfortunately I will be of no use to him as a soldier, not for some time,’ he gingerly clasped a hand around his shattered arm.
Strategos: Island in the Storm Page 38