Strategos: Island in the Storm (44 page)

‘The blackest of souls will reap the darkest of harvests,’ she said solemnly, her words cutting through the vision.

Then he saw the throne room again. Now there was just the white-robed eunuch standing by Michael’s side, more vulture-like even than Psellos and Doukas.
Nikephoritzes
, a sibilant voice hissed in his mind. The eunuch and Michael’s imperious look faded, however, when an angry babble echoed from outside their chambers along with the smash of iron, the crackling of flames and the bash of doors being barged down. Both men adopted looks of utter panic. The vision swiftly changed. Now it showed a black-robed Eudokia on a verdurous island in the Propontus, standing over two tombs – Romanus’ and that of their son, Nikephoros. She gazed beyond the tombs and across the placid turquoise waters to the distant walls of Constantinople. There, men cheered from the battlements as the Doukid banners were torn down. In their place, golden standards were raised. They bore an image he refused to believe. A double-headed eagle, talons-sharp, wings extended – identical to his stigma. A cry rang out from within the capital’s walls. Kom-ne-nos! Kom-ne-nos! Kom-ne-nos!

The crone lifted her hand from Apion’s, and at once he was drawn back to the present – the stillness of the Chaldian hilltop, the chattering cicadas and the crisp November air. His mind raced over myriad thoughts, then settled on one. The boy on the dead man’s horse. The lad from the mustering fields of Malagina. ‘Alexios? Alexios Komnenos will oust the Doukas family? Or is this another of Fate’s games?’

‘Fate is a powerful beast, but he cannot dim the light in a man’s heart,’ the crone smiled. ‘While good men stand firm and refuse to buckle under tyranny, corruption or lies . . . there is always hope. Always.’ She smiled. ‘Your words, Apion. With those words you have sown a bright seed. Just as Mansur and Cydones guided you, Alexios now strives to achieve all you hold dear, to one day realise Romanus’ ambitions of ridding these lands of war. He talks of the legend of the
Haga
, the one who stood with the emperor at Manzikert to the last . . . then vanished from history. You went to war, Apion, you faced your boy – when it would have been so easy to take another path. Your choices gave you those last moments with Taylan, this last year with Maria, and they have fired the heart of the boy, Alexios. Had you chosen differently, then none of this would have come to be.’

His mind danced over the fading flashes of the vision, then his breathing and heartbeat slowed again. ‘Then all that has gone before has not been in vain.’

‘No. It has been a savage road to walk, but it has been the right one,’ the crone said. ‘And now your journey is almost over.’

Apion eyed the approaching brow of the hill, then clasped Maria’s hand. It was colder than ever.

‘Now, I must leave you. I have a journey to make. Someone needs me to lead them . . . through the grey land,’ the crone said, dropping back a little. Apion twisted in his saddle, offering her an earnest nod. ‘I have often talked of choices,’ she called after him. ‘Shortly, you will have another to make. Once again, the right choice might seem the hardest.
I know you will choose well. Farewell, Apion.’

The lone eagle screeched, unseen, high above.

He rode on, clasping Maria’s waist tightly. He guided the pony over the brow of the hill, then on at a walk down the hillside, towards the tumbled ruin of Mansur’s farmhouse on the valley floor. The fields were overgrown and long untended, and the tracks were thick with weeds, but to Apion it was finer than any palace or villa he had set eyes upon before. He squeezed Maria’s hand, but she did not respond. He realised the faint whistle of her breathing had faded away, and the weak thud of her heartbeat had stopped too.

‘We’re home,’ he whispered.

The sun was halfway set when Apion put his spade to one side. He had buried Maria beside the old mound marked as Mansur’s grave. He sat before the graves, cross-legged, his pony nuzzling into his neck in search of attention – and fodder no doubt. He reached up absently to stroke its muzzle, the distraction welcome and helping to fend off the ferocious waves of sorrow that clawed at his chest. They came again and again, like a crashing tide. He glanced over to the ramshackle ruin of the farmhouse, and wondered what his next steps might be. It would take some months or years even to repair the place. He looked to the pile of his armour, crimson cloak, helm and Mansur’s old, ivory-hilted scimitar and reasoned that he might be able to sell the set for some coins to aid the restoration. In his mind’s eye he heard Mansur’s gravelly voice bark in protest, and this brought a pensive smile to his face.

It was then that he heard a snorting of distant mounts and a jabbering of voices. Seljuk voices. He looked up. There, on the hillside, three ghazi riders trotted down towards the farmstead.

‘Ride on,’ Apion muttered under his breath, ‘there is nothing for you here.’

But they came closer. The leader was mean-eyed with a cold grin. His two comrades looked over Apion and the ground nearby, clearly keen on any sort of plunder to be had.

‘Give me your armour, grey dog!’ the leader snapped in broken Greek, flicking a finger at the heap by Apion’s side.

‘Like me, my armour is old and in dire need of repair,’ he scoffed in reply using the Seljuk tongue.

The leader’s eyes narrowed at this. ‘Regardless,’ he replied in Seljuk now, ‘you will hand it over.’ Bows creaked as the two other riders sought to underline their leader’s threat, taking aim. ‘You have moments, dog. Make your choice!’

Apion looked up, seeing the greed in the lead rider’s eyes. He realised then it would be the easiest thing to let these curs slay him, to be free of his sorrow, to be unburdened at last of the struggles of this land. Perhaps somewhere beyond this life he might find Maria? But the crone’s words would not leave him be.

Once again, the right choice might seem the hardest.

At that moment, something else came to him. Something almost forgotten. A dark, arched doorway, hovering in the blackness of his mind’s eye. No flames, just darkness and utter silence. He looked to the hilt of the scimitar and the handle of his battered old shield, each just an arm’s length away. Then he beheld each of the archers, his emerald eyes shaded under his dipped brow. Finally, he flicked his gaze to the lead ghazi, and offered just a crooked, mirthless half-smile.

Epilogue

It had been over two years since the Battle of Manzikert, and by late August, Anatolia had suffered one of the bloodiest summers ever known. Civil war between the reigning Doukids and their opponents had torn the empire apart. Sultan Malik had capitalised on the chaos, his armies swooping in to seize almost all of the Anatolian heartland. And the sultan had rallied to his cause the many mercenary steppe riders employed by the warring Byzantine factions. Nearly every inland city and fort now bore a golden Seljuk banner. Only Doux Philaretos’ splinter empire in Melitene held out against the Seljuk tide, and only the fortified coastal cities remained in imperial hands – Tarsos, Sinope, Antioch . . . Trebizond.

On one blistering hot, late afternoon, the gates of Trebizond swung open to let a party of scout kursores race inside. Sha watched from the battlements as they dismounted at haste. The lead rider called up to him.

‘Sir, the sultan’s siege army is gone from our land. I am sure of it. We did not sight them anywhere along the route of our patrol,’ the rider yelled. Relief was etched in the man’s face and danced on his words.

‘Then we are likely to make it until winter without the threat of another siege,’ Sha replied. ‘Take your riders to the barracks. I have set out six skins of wine for you. You have earned them.’ The riders broke out in a cheer, drowning out their leader’s formal reply. In moments, they had dissolved into the barracks.

Sha turned back to look beyond the battlements and out over the green hills and cliffs of northern Chaldia, only now expelling a sigh of relief himself. He thought of the previous summer when a thick horde of Seljuk riders and siege engineers had camped outside Trebizond’s walls. Only a network of pottery-filled pits had put paid to the advance of the rams and siege towers and spared the city. He looked up to the skies and mouthed a silent thank you to the spirit of old Procopius who had taught him that ruse some years ago. He drew out his dagger and examined his reflection in it, seeing the many white hairs now dappling his stubbled scalp, and the thick scar welt that ran across the bridge of his broad nose. ‘Cah – as old as Procopius and as ugly as Blastares,’ he chuckled, his heart swelling at the thought of his lost brothers. He looked in over the city. There, under the shadow of the citadel hill, Tetradia and her children had lived through their grief. ‘I’ve looked after them well,’ Sha whispered, imagining big Blastares by his side. He made to walk along the battlements, but winced, his leg twisting awkwardly. The wound from the Battle of Manzikert had healed and allowed him to ride well, but had left him weak in his stride. He grappled the stick that he loathed and used it to support his weight as he walked. ‘Ha – and I have the limp of the
Haga!
’ he chuckled dryly, remembering those early days when Apion had first enlisted, hobbling with the aid of some iron brace on his knee. Suddenly, as if conjured by the mention of the name, a flash of ginger startled him as Vilyam leapt up onto the crenelated wall top, purring and butting his head against Sha as he walked with the Malian.

Sha stopped and stroked the corpulent cat’s ears, looking to the south and wondering what had become of his old friend, unseen and unheard of in those two years since the great battle. ‘Sometimes it is best to live in wonder,’ he mused, pushing away logic and reason. A gentle breeze bathed him then and rippled the petals of a poppy growing in a nook on the battlements. The sight conjured a forgotten memory. The Chaldians on the march. He, Apion, Procopius and Blastares at their head, resplendent and fearless. Blastares in a mischievous mood;
Hold on. Are you calling me a bloody flower?
The four of them erupting in belly-laughter. Sha could not fend off a smile as the memory faded.

Just then, a scuffling of boots stirred him. It was the lead kursoris rider. Sha shot him a confused frown. ‘The wine is no good?’

‘It is like nectar, sir. But there was something else I wanted to tell you. I didn’t want to shout aloud. When we were on patrol, far to the south near the old Chaldian borders, we did sight one small Seljuk warband – fifty or so ghazis. They were heading northeast, most probably to plunder the farmlands east of these walls.’

Sha’s shoulders tensed. For all Trebizond’s walls could hold out against the Seljuk armies, those vital farmlands were easy prey. Immediately, he began thinking over how to organise the few men at his disposal to cope with this incursion. But the kursoris continued before his thoughts could fully form.

‘We tracked them for hours, but we lost sight of them.’ The kursoris’ eyes narrowed and he shook his head. ‘But when we saw them again, they were in flight. Some bore arrows in their flesh. Each wore a look of terror.’

‘Fleeing? From whom?’ Sha asked. ‘Your riders were the only imperial soldiers outside this city’s walls.’

‘I don’t understand it either, sir. All I know is they were turned away by some foe before they made it to our farmlands.’ The rider shrugged. ‘Then, later in the day we came to a Seljuk village even further south – unwalled, without warriors. They were just farmers. They offered us salep and bread. We saw that they had acquired Norman war horses to plough their fields. When I asked where they got them, they said they had taken them from the Doukid Norman mercenaries who sought to sack their village last month.’ The kursoris shrugged. ‘
How?
I asked, seeing that they had only hoes and hunting bows by way of weapons. The village leader smiled when I said this, told me how a man had helped them, shown them how to defend themselves. He showed me caltrops and spike pits hidden in the ground around the village. Then he showed me how the farmers had been taught to stand in a spear wall, each of them bringing tall, sharp lances from their homes – weapons they had made under the direction of this man.’

‘One man?’ Sha asked.

The kursoris shrugged. ‘Just one man. A haggard sort with pale skin and the tongue of both a Greek and a Seljuk. It made me think of . . . ’ the rider’s words trailed off and he shook his head. ‘It just reminded me of the past.’

Sha’s breath halted in his lungs and he considered his next words carefully. ‘Do not trouble yourself with it. These lands are vast and full of surprises. Now go, return to your comrades and enjoy your wine.’

‘Thank you, Strategos,’ the rider beamed.

‘Don’t call me that,’ Sha said softly, shaking his head. ‘The themata have fallen and the age of the strategoi is over. They are all gone.’

‘Yes . . . sir. It’s just old habits, you know?’ the kursoris grinned, before turning away to hurry back down into the city and to his men. A ribald tune soon erupted from the barrack blocks.

Sha turned back to look out over the Chaldian landscape, tears gathering in his eyes, a broad grin lifting his face and a spark of hope swelling his heart.

‘All gone,’ he whispered into the ether. ‘All but one.’

THE END

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

Writing Apion’s tale has been a massive part of my life for these last four years. In that time I’ve immersed myself in Byzantine history, travelled to parts of the old empire and even taken up running in an attempt to understand the hero of the tale and the world he lived in. Apion, of course, has lived only in my imagination (and hopefully now, yours too), but the world I had him endure was very much based on my historical research. As always, I feel it is my duty to discuss the main areas where I have deviated from fact or speculated where detail has been thin on the ground.

Emperor Romanus Diogenes granted the Black Fortress at Mavrokastro to a mercenary Norman general, Crispin, around 1068. Crispin’s brief was to protect the border doukate that encompassed Chaldia and the lands immediately east of it. Instead, he took offence at something – possibly lack of reward or title from the emperor – and began hoarding the imperial tax levy and harassing any who tried to bring him to heel. I have exaggerated his brutality (the eyewitness historian, Michael Attaleiates, states that Crispin did not harm any Byzantines until they tried to attack his men), but there is no doubt he was a rogue. After a few failed attempts, he was finally captured and sent into exile, only to be recalled by the Doukas family in 1072 for the civil wars against Romanus. Indeed, Attaleiates attests that Crispin personally saw to gouging out Alyates of Cappadocia’s eyes with rusty tent pegs, before dying of poisoning shortly afterwards. Incidentally, my depiction of Apion instructing his men to use the menavlion (a weighty, extremely lengthy spear usually made out of a sapling tree trunk) against Crispin is little more than a nod to his understanding of past military tactics – the menavlion was a vital part of the 10
^th
century military machine engineered by Basil II.

The 1069 campaign saw Romanus Diogenes set off for Lake Van, crossing the Euphrates near Romanopolis with the intention of taking Chliat from Seljuk hands. He was but days from achieving his goal when he heard news of the arrival of a Seljuk army at his rear and of the fate of Philaretos Brachiamos and the rearguard he had left stationed at the river’s western banks. Thus, he had to swing his campaign army round and pursue and harry the marauding Seljuks around inner Anatolia. The Seljuks made it as far west as Iconium, besieging that city before swinging back round towards Cilicia. It was here that the Byzantines managed to finally strike back at their foe, calling upon Armenian allies to pelt the fleeing Seljuk horde from the heights of the Cilician mountains. Anatolia was free of the raiding army, but Romanus’ stock was low with the people of the empire. They had watched their taxes being poured into the armies, while the cities were neglected. Thus, Romanus elected to remain in the capital the following year, in an attempt to remedy the situation.

In 1070, I have depicted Romanus selling off his lands and possessions in order to stage games in the capital and appease the people. This is speculative, but I think it helps illustrate the man’s desperation. He knew he needed to buy time in preparation for a future campaign that could bring lasting victory and security. Part of his plan was to despatch Manuel Komnenos on an intermediary expedition in his stead, to fend off any Seljuk incursions while he stabilised affairs at the capital and prepared for the next year’s campaign. The disaster which befell Manuel Komnenos’ army near Sebastae is all too true, though history has it that Manuel actually escaped captivity (with the aid of a turncoat Turkic commander by the name of Yunus), as opposed to being freed to bring word of Sultan Alp Arslan’s taking of Manzikert. But Manzikert (and effectively all of the Lake Van region) did fall into Seljuk hands that year, and this only fortified Romanus’ convictions that a decisive campaign to seize those holdings was essential.

1071 began with the exile of John Doukas and Michael Psellos – sent from Constantinople to some remote villa in the Bithynian countryside (note that the suggestion in the story that Psellos or his minions burnt down the Palace of Blachernae is purely this author’s imagination). With the city clear of his greatest foes, Romanus now set out on his grand campaign to finally seize the Lake Van fortresses.

From the beginning, the expedition was riddled with ill-omens. The blood-red comet, the grey dove on the sea voyage across the Hellespont and the snapping of the imperial tent pole at Helenopolis all sparked fear in the hearts of the army. Perhaps, for once, they did not have God’s blessing? Worse, something seems to have happened to Romanus after they set out from Helenopolis. He began acting very oddly. His hovel camp on the hills above Malagina, his sudden bursts ahead of the imperial column and his outrageously provocative behaviour at the banks of the Halys must have come close to destroying morale. My only thoughts were that he was either maddened by the pressure of the campaign, or that he had been poisoned. I chose the latter as it seems he was suddenly ‘himself’ again after they crossed the Halys – more in keeping with a poisoning that had been stopped than some chronic and worsening mental state. That said, the rhinokopia incident happened not at the banks of the Halys as I have described, but at Manzikert itself, many weeks later, so perhaps poisoning is too simple an explanation.

Regarding the make-up of the 1071 campaign army, I have tried to juxtapose the various accounts of what regiments of tagmata, themata and foreign mercenaries were present. The numbers in each corps are a best estimate to fit my choice of the forty thousand who set off from the mustering ground at Malagina. The murkiest aspect of the campaign force was that of the magnate armies. The term itself is the best fit I could find to describe the men who formed the treacherous rearguard. Some sources identify them as the Hetairoi, a pseudo-tagmatic corps composed of mercenary or non-imperial troops. The historical sources describe Andronikos Doukas leading these forces. Andronikos was a proven military man, but I simply could not overlook the fact that he was a member of the Doukas family, and so I had to portray him as riding in shackles.

The campaign route through Anatolia is as true as I could ascertain, passing the imperial cities of Dorylaeum, Amorium, Ancyra, Caesarea, Sebastae, then taking the northerly pass into Armenia via Theodosiopolis (you can see the full map on my website). Here, or shortly after they left this abandoned city, the army split in two, one half going to secure the lands around Chliat, the other to take Manzikert. Alp Arslan’s movements at this time are also as close to the history as I could determine, with the exception of his siege of Edessa – the sources state that the siege took place in April, not June as I have suggested.

Romanus Diogenes’ offer to Alp Arlsan of a swap of Hierapolis for the Lake Van fortresses might have fended off battlefield conflict that year, but it seems that something odd happened. History has it that Romanus offered the exchange once, then again in a somewhat demanding, insulting tone. I opted to modify this, instead having the messenger Leo Diabatenus (a true historical figure from the events of 1071 – though almost certainly not a Hippodrome champion), poison the message and ensure that Alp Arslan, already enraged – the anecdote of the black veil around the tower at Aleppo is quite true – would march to Manzikert and to war.

Friday, 26
^th
August 1071 is a date that is scorched into history. Some believe the defeat at Manzikert was the single event that broke the Byzantine Empire. Others reckon the battle was a bloodbath that saw the empire’s armies reduced to nothing. In fact, it was neither of these things. But it was a grievous blow to the image of imperial invincibility and a catalyst for the disastrous sequence of events that followed.

The battle was a fraught clash indeed and many lives were lost – though not as many as some estimates once suggested. It is thought that the Byzantines lined up on Manzikert’s plains with anything between 20,000 and 40,000 soldiers, and the Seljuks faced them with a similar number. I have adopted the lower end of this scale as I find it more feasible given the lack of manpower available at the time (considering the 1070 disaster and other recent military losses). Modern estimates show that probably only as much as 20% of each army fell or were captured in the battle. But the Seljuks won and won well. How? Well, the telling factor was treachery rather than the tactical nous or ferocity of the sultan’s army. The perfidious behaviour of Joseph Tarchianotes in his flight from Lake Van (though there is much debate over whether he had an ‘innocent’ reason for fleeing back to imperial territory without telling anyone) left Romanus Diogenes with just half of the army he had set out with. Still, Romanus’ numbers matched the sultan’s on the day of the battle. It was only at dusk, when the call for an ordered retreat descended into chaos, that the tide turned. The false cries of the emperor’s death sent the lines into panic and flight, exposing huge gaps to the onlooking, probably dumbfounded Seljuk army. The loyal regiments who stayed with the emperor and tried to repair the collapsing retreat were swamped by masses of ghazi warriors. If Andronikos Doukas had come to the emperor’s call, the day could yet have been saved. Instead, he calmly led the Byzantine rearguard from the field. The battle was lost at that moment.

History details several days before the battle, where the Byzantines were camped outside of the newly-taken Manzikert. I have omitted some of this time period to keep the narrative (hopefully) flowing and engaging. In particular, on the day when Apion, Bryennios and their riders go south, across the plains and into the valleys in search of the Seljuk raiders who shot upon their foragers, the sources tell of a secondary advance in aid of Bryennios, led by an Armenian horseman named Vasilakes. Unfortunately, it seems Vasilakes had been in the sun too long that morning, for he charged blindly at a feigned Seljuk retreat. His cavalry were cut to pieces in the southern valleys near Mount Tzipan and he ended up in captivity. Also, the sources have it that there was a day in between the Seljuk night attack on the Byzantine camp and the battle itself, whereas I have the battle coming the morning after the attack.

Moving on to the days after the battle: it seems that most of the Byzantine armies (those who fled or deserted and those who stood) survived to fight on in the ensuing civil wars between Romanus Diogenes and the Doukas family. And it was these civil wars that truly broke Byzantium. Romanus fought with what forces he had left and after his ignominious death, Philaretos fought on against the Doukas family, carving out a rebel empire around Melitene – it is even thought that he might have converted to Islam at this point! Bryennios fought on against the Doukids also, albeit politically (at first, anyway). Determined to seal his place on the throne against these men and others, John Doukas welcomed mercenary Seljuk hordes into Anatolia, promising them riches if they would support his cause. Instead, when the Byzantine factions had exhausted each other, the Seljuks decided to claim the imperial heartland for themselves. Worse, having deposed Romanus Diogenes, the Doukas family dismissed the peaceful handover of land and cities that Romanus had agreed with Alp Arslan. This incited Malik Shah – after he had acceded Alp Arslan to the Seljuk throne – to urge the many Seljuk warbands from his lands and into Anatolia, firing their blood with the following rhetoric;

All of you be like lion cubs and eagle young, racing through the countryside day and night, slaying the Christians and not sparing any mercy on the Byzantine Nation.

I have described Malik Shah’s conquests occurring in the first few years after Manzikert – mainly to tie in with Apion’s journey home. In reality, they were spread over the next six to eight years.

Certainly though, by 1081, Byzantium had lost her heartland and Anatolia was a largely Seljuk dominion. It was the start of the decline of the empire. But, as the crone showed Apion, the age of heroes was not quite over. Alexios Komnenos (the lad who, as the sources have it, turned up at the 1071 mustering camp at Malagina, eager to fight, only to be turned away by Romanus Diogenes for his own safety) led what has come to be known as the Komnenian Restoration, halting the Norman advance into the Balkans and stabilising the losses in Anatolia. The following centuries would be bumpy indeed for the empire, especially with the arrival of the crusades at the end of the 11
^th
century (something the Byzantines welcomed . . . at first), but Alexios Komnenos is thought to have strived for the ideals of secure borders and a strong army once held dear by Romanus Diogenes. Regarding my description of Alexios Komnenos ushering in the use of the double-headed eagle as the icon of the empire; this is speculative, although the symbol did grow in prominence in this period and was firmly in use in the centuries that followed. One theory is that the symbol was adopted from the many ancient Hittite rock carvings of the mythical
Haga
found throughout Anatolia.

As for the delightful pairing of John Doukas and Michael Psellos (both of whom I have admittedly painted in an extremely unfortunate light); their time hovering by the imperial throne came to an end when an even more noxious individual – a eunuch by the name of Nikephoritzes – managed to gain the favour of Emperor Michael Doukas, poisoning the young emperor against Psellos and John.

John ended up in exile once again, dying there without the power that he had coveted for so long. Psellos’ end is uncertain. One theory is that he died of a grotesque illness in throes of unearthly pain. This fate seemed fitting for the loathsome and clandestine kingmaker I have portrayed him as.

Regarding the Seljuk Sultanate: in the first volume of the trilogy I depicted the expansion of Seljuk territory as inexorable and the peoples within unified. The previous volume and this one try to examine the reality of the situation: Alp Arslan faced many of the domestic challenges his Byzantine counterpart did, including opposition factions, assassination attempts, tensions amongst an ethnically diverse people and a constant need to prove his worth as the leader of this great world power.