Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

by Gordon Doherty

  Apion spun to the kursores and spotted the length of rope looped on the nearest’s saddle. ‘With me – bring your rope and stakes.’

  The three dismounted and followed Apion. He took a stake and rope offered by one rider, then looped the rope around the wood. Then he battered the stake into the earth with his heel. The earth was muddy and soft, but at a depth of half a foot it took to the drier ground below. He looked up to see that the three riders had read his plan and were staking the ground further along, connecting each one by a length of rope. He grabbed another rope and stake and edged onto the cliff-path. It was slick with rainwater and every step felt doubtful. He called out to the kataphractoi at the head of the column, only a handful of paces away but pinned where they stood for fear of falling;

  ‘Do as I do – if you can!’

  He squatted to tie and stake another rope into the inner edge of the path. The kataphractoi threw him one end of their rope and he tied this to the stake also. In the moments when the storm changed direction and the tumult hushed, he heard the dull thud of stakes being kicked and hammered into the ground likewise, all along the column.

  Then the storm grew ferocious once more. He beckoned the nearest of the kataphractoi, then cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed; ‘come forward!’

  The nearest rider guided his mount forward with one hand, while clinging onto the rope with the other, white-knuckled hand. Slowly, the column began to shuffle onwards.

  Apion helped the first of the riders to safety, onto the wide and flat path. Then he turned to help the next, when another streak of lightning tore across the sky. The flash illuminated the cliff face and the armour of the ironclad amongst the Byzantine ranks. But there was something else. High above, atop the sheer cliff. Something glinted.

  ‘Sir, did you see it as well?’ the rider nearest to him gasped.

  Apion did not answer as the next fork of lightning revealed the sight once more. A cluster of figures, less than forty of them. They scurried around behind row of eight large rocks – each as tall and broad as a man. The rocks were balanced at the edge of the cliff and directly above the emperor and the varangoi.

  Then, with a groaning of timber and snapping of rock, the first of the boulders tumbled. No! Apion pleaded, mouth agape. Romanus and his riders could only gawp as they saw it coming for them. Then, only feet away from their heads, one end of the boulder clipped the cliff face, sending the rocky mass spiralling away, towards the ravine. A thunderous deluge of rocks and debris showered the emperor and his men.

  Then the next rock wobbled as the figures up above strained at it.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ Apion roared at the nearest men of the column. Now they moved at haste, some slipping and sliding, but saved by the one hand they kept on the staked rope. Then the next rock fell, and this time it hit home, some fifty paces behind the emperor now. The gargantuan rock smashed down, crushing packs of skutatoi and toxotai of the Bucellarion Thema like ants. Black blood washed over the edge with the rainwater along with shards of crumpled armour and snapped limbs. Then the track itself let out a titanic groan, and a vast shard of it shuddered and then slid away, taking with it reams of skutatoi of the Anatolikon Thema. Their bodies spun through the air and their screams died in the next clap of thunder. The rest of the rocks fell and another two struck home with equal devastation.

  Apion clasped the hand of Romanus and helped him from the cliff path.

  The emperor twisted to look up, but the ambushers were gone. ‘Seljuks?’

  ‘I think so,’ Apion nodded as the floods of survivors stumbled to safety around him, falling to their knees on the wide path.

  ‘They knew we were coming this way,’ Romanus’ eyes narrowed. ‘Just as they knew we were coming through Lykandos.’

  Apion squared his jaw and looked up to the clifftop where they had been.

  His thoughts churned.

  ***

  Atop the dusty plateau that overlooked the Syrian plain, the weary men of the Byzantine campaign army worked in the last light of sunset to set up their tents and dig the last of the ditch that would mark out their camp for the night.

  Apion shivered by the campfire, still cold and sodden despite the temperate climate they had descended into. He lifted a pot from the fire and poured its contents into a clay bowl. The heated mixture of yoghurt, honey and nuts instantly warmed him and he washed it down with warmed sour wine.

  He looked out to the south, where the arid flatland of Syria stretched out; a golden infinity that seemed to blend with the deep red of sunset. From memory, even the autumn days there could still be as blistering as Anatolia in mid-July.

  He took a small round of bread from his rations, skewered it on his dagger and toasted it over the fire. The men who milled around him sneezed and shivered. Some chatted, some stared to the south while others warmed themselves in silence by their own fires. Six and a half thousand men had set out from Melitene, now six hundred of them lay broken and unburied at the bottom of that ravine. He glanced around the tents of the Chaldian ranks, heartened to see that few of his men had been struck by the falling rocks.

  He plucked the toasted bread from his blade and chewed at a piece absently, his gaze darting around the many unfamiliar faces. There was no doubt now that somebody was informing the Seljuks. That they had known the exact route through the mountains was not chance alone. Word had been sent out from the camp at Melitene, he was sure of it now. Sittas the sentry and Trolius the dekarchos had been slain to allow some traitor to steal from the camp.

  He caught the gaze of many soldiers. Many faces he recognised, many more he did not. Some looked weary, others wore dark looks. Then, through the sea of milling bodies he saw the emperor’s tent a short distance away. The strategoi and doukes were clustered there. Sha, Blastares, Procopius and Dederic talked with Igor. Then, right beside the emperor’s tent, Philaretos boomed with laughter, his face illuminated like a demon in the firelight. Gregoras sat by his side, his shifty eyes darting as always.

  It could be any of them, he thought as he thumbed at the pure-gold nomisma in his purse. Rotten to the core. Responsible for the deaths of all those men in Lykandos and in the mountains. Such dark-hearted individuals could be the death of the campaign. The death of hope.

  He looked to Syria again.

  The dimming land offered no answers, and he turned to his tent, tiredness overcoming him.

  ***

  Night descended over the plateau. Zenobius sat alone outside his kontoubernion tent, looking on at the gathering by the imperial tent. As a mere skutatos, he would never be allowed past the ring of varangoi that encircled the gathering. It was as life had always been for him, alone in the cold and dark, looking on at those who lived true lives. But this exclusion mattered little, he mused, his eyes following the movements of his accomplice, near the fire.

  The varangoi threw more kindling upon the fire and it roared in gratitude. With wine in their blood and warmth on their skins, they and the others clustered around Romanus became momentarily less vigilant, it seemed. Indeed, the pair of Rus guarding the imperial tent stepped forward to heat their hands.

  Zenobius’ breath stilled. This was the moment.

  His accomplice stole away from the fire, then slipped inside the imperial tent.

  Then Zenobius’ gaze sharpened as the two varangoi ambled back round to the tent entrance and one reached out to open it.

  Do not fail me now, you fool, he thought.

  Then, as if hearing his thoughts, the back of the tent ruffled and his accomplice slipped out from underneath just as the varangoi entered. Nobody had noticed.

  The gathering slowly dispersed and the fire died.

  When it was but a pile of embers, Zenobius heard footsteps approaching.

  ‘Well?’ he said without looking up.

  ‘I know where the emperor plans to march; I saw his maps and the markings he had made upon them,’ his accomplice whispered.

  ‘Excellent,’ Zenobius said flatly.
‘Then I will make contact with our Seljuk friends tonight.’

  19. Syria

  The column snaked down the winding path that descended from the plateau. The riders of the vanguard were the first to spill onto the Syrian plain, shimmering in the fierce morning sun. Apion rode near Philaretos, Gregoras, Igor, Sha and Dederic, with the emperor riding in their midst. To a man they marched in full armour. The lessons of Lykandos had been hard-learned.

  ‘Feel the warmth of the sun on your skin. It feels good, does it not?’ Romanus boomed, sitting proudly on his stallion and looking fresher than ever.

  ‘Like a salve,’ Apion forced himself to smile as he replied. For although he had slept a deep, dreamless sleep, and woken in the position he had lain down in, he still felt somewhat cobbled together. His bones ached from a light fever caused by the icy rainwater, and now the sun seemed to sear his sweat-soaked skin. Moreover, the neck of his klibanion and his scale aventail were chafing on his collarbone. And then there was the dust. The golden dust seemed to coat his skin and his throat in a matter of moments. He reached for his water skin and then hesitated, shaking his head. Not yet, he chided himself.

  Then Romanus leaned in closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘If it is any comfort, I also feel as if I have slept on a bed of cold rocks at the bottom of a cesspit.’ He flashed a grin. ‘But I fear the men would rather not hear this from me.’

  Apion chuckled at this. Then he noticed the signophoroi lifting their banners, readying to change the column’s direction.

  ‘You have decided on our destination, Basileus?’ Apion asked.

  ‘Indeed,’ Romanus nodded, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘We march for Hierapolis, Strategos.’

  Hierapolis. Apion shivered, despite the heat. It was as if someone had touched an icy finger to his heart. He glanced back over his shoulder to see that the retinue were just out of earshot.

  ‘Relax, Strategos. You are the first I have spoken to of this,’ Romanus said, pointing to the signophoroi. ‘Even the banner-wielders know only our general direction. I will only announce it to all in a few days’ time, when we are closer to the city.’

  Apion saw Romanus’ look darken as he said this. ‘A wise choice, Basileus.’

  The pair rode ahead a little so they could talk without being overheard.

  Apion thought of Hierapolis. He had skirted past the city once, over a decade ago. ‘The city is well-walled, with a strong citadel at its heart. From what I hear, the wells of the settlement never run dry – only a short distance from the broad waters of the Euphrates.’

  Romanus nodded. ‘Best of all,’ he glanced over his shoulder to see who was within earshot, ‘the garrison there is thought to be weak. Barely a few hundred line its walls according to reports from last year.’

  Apion frowned. ‘When I see few Seljuks, I tend to worry more about those who go unseen.’

  Romanus drummed his fingers on his saddle. ‘The Fatimid rebellion in the south still occupies the sultan’s main forces, and it is expected to remain this way until next spring.’

  ‘Then let us hope the Fatimids are dogged in their battles,’ Apion said, squinting into the strengthening sun.

  They trotted on in silence for some time. In that time, the intense morning heat grew into a midday inferno. A golden heat haze blended the dust with the sky in every direction. The popping of corks and gulping of water was becoming as rhythmic as the crunch of boots on dust. Romanus sent the Oghuz and Pecheneg riders on ahead to locate fodder, water and forage.

  Apion twisted in his saddle to see how the men of Chaldia were faring, a hundred feet or so back, behind the kataphractoi. He saw Sha, Blastares, Procopius and Dederic marching at the head of the ranks, their faces bathed in sweat. The sight of them fortified his resolve.

  Then, as he drew his gaze round again, it snagged on something.

  Just a few paces behind him, Strategos Gregoras rode slumped in his saddle, a foul look on his ruddy and sweating face as he cooked inside his armour. But he balanced something on his knuckles, rippling his fingers to move the object back and forth. The sunlight caught it.

  A nomisma.

  A pure-gold nomisma.

  ***

  The nights in southern Syria at this time of year were blessedly fresh, and the clear, star-studded sky overhead made it even more so. After nearly two days of ceaseless riding, Nasir inhaled a fresh breath and then slowed his mount as he approached the Seljuk war camp. For miles, the plain was awash with yurts, wandering akhi sentries, and ghazi and ghulam riders leading their mounts to the nearby oasis to drink and eat. The men were beleaguered, their faces smoke-stained and laced with cuts. But the Fatimid rebellions were over, or so he had heard.

  ‘I bring news from the north,’ he called out to the sentries, who waved him inside. He dismounted and handed his reins to a stable boy, then walked through the camp, bearing in on the sultan’s yurt.

  He wondered if this would be the time; the time when finally he could vanquish the past. He touched a hand to the angry welt of burns coating one side of his face, remembering how Maria had winced upon seeing him like that for the first time. Even after all these years, the Haga’s touch still wreaked havoc with his life. A growl startled him, then he realised it was his own.

  Then he slowed, hearing another noise. A weak moaning. Frowning, he scanned the tents and then set eyes upon the inhuman sight in the centre of a circle of yurts. A man lay, legs splayed out on the ground, impaled through the rectum on a thick, splintered post. The man’s bloodshot eyes gazed skywards and his mouth lay agape. Every heartbeat saw him shudder and wince.

  Nasir squinted, then realised he recognised the man. It was the captain who had been tasked with organising the rockfall in the mountain pass. So the man had failed Alp Arslan and this was his punishment.

  He turned from the sight then composed himself as he approached Alp Arslan’s yurt. He nodded to the two dismounted ghulam who stood guard there, their flinty expressions semi-concealed behind finely polished conical helms and gilded nose guards.

  ‘Bey Nasir!’ they bowed in unison then stepped apart, away from the entrance. One of them fired a furtive glance at Nasir’s ruined face and his eyes sparkled with fear.

  Nasir grunted, then brushed past them and into the tent.

  Inside, the floor was draped with a sheet of silk and the air was thick with incense. The aged Vizier Nizam sat cross-legged near the entrance, poring over papers; city plans, taxation calculations, deeds of ownership, trade agreements and placement of warriors, warhorses, livestock and grain. This man was the operational prodigy behind Alp Arslan’s military genius.

  Nizam looked up. ‘Bey Nasir? The sultan is not expecting you, is he?’

  ‘No, but he will be glad of my visit,’ Nasir replied.

  Nizam raised his eyebrows in intrigue, then motioned to the far end of the tent where a semi-opaque veil of silk divided the space.

  Nasir pushed through it, with Nizam following close behind.

  There, in guttering candlelight, Alp Arslan was kneeling, dressed in a light woollen robe, his thick, dark locks loose, dangling to his shoulders like his moustache. He twisted a silver goblet in his hand, near-full with a ruby-red wine. His gaze was intense as he studied the shatranj board set up on a timber stool before him. Nasir’s top lip curled at this. The pieces on the board had not been moved since the sultan had started a game with the Haga back in Caesarea. You treat him with too much respect – you could have had him in chains in Caesarea, then peeled the skin from his body and let the dogs feast on his flesh while he breathed his last.

  ‘Nasir,’ Alp Arslan spoke suddenly and without surprise, not looking up from the shatranj board.

  Nasir started at this. Then he felt the breath of another on his shoulder. His skin prickled with unease as he realised Alp Arslan’s rugged bodyguard, Kilic, had slipped from the shadows behind him. Nasir glanced over his shoulder and down to the big bodyguard’s boots; the dagger that had ended so many lives on
the sultan’s command would doubtless be tucked in there. He had been spared such a death twice already in recent times, he thought, his mind spinning back to his allegiance with Bey Afsin and then his failure to destroy the imperial column in Lykandos. The image of the staked man outside needled at his thoughts. This was surely his last chance.

  ‘Sit,’ Kilic grunted, gesturing to the other side of the shatranj board.

  Nasir knelt before his sultan and bowed. Nizam and Kilic looked on.

  Alp Arslan’s gaze remained on his shatranj board. He lifted one pawn piece and held it over a square that would block the opposing war elephant, then shook his head and replaced the piece. At last, he looked up. ‘I told you to return home, Nasir, to spend time with your family.’ The sultan’s brow knitted. ‘You have failed me once too often and I fear you need to rest. Yet now you come to me in my war camp?’

  ‘I rode from my home two nights ago and have not stopped since. I have swapped mounts all along our tracks to get here with the utmost haste,’ he stopped to nod to Nizam at this – the old vizier was responsible for the network of messenger ponies dotted around the Seljuk dominion. Then he locked his gaze back onto the sultan. He thought of the messenger who had come to him two nights ago. ‘I know where they are headed. The Byzantine army march for my home as we speak. Hierapolis is their first target.’

  Alp Arslan’s brow furrowed, his gaze igniting.

  ‘The emperor and the Haga,’ Nasir nodded, a rapacious grin forming on his ruined face. ‘They are just over two days from Hierapolis’ walls.’

  Alp Arslan shot his gaze back to the shatranj board before him. ‘Then the time is upon us . . .’