Strategos: Island in the Storm (6 page)

‘What have you done?’ John whispered, a savage grin rippling across his lips.

Psellos simply reached out to pour more wine into their cups. ‘I will explain all as we eat and drink, Master. As kings!’

***

Doux Philaretos stood on the edge of the timber jetty as the last of the
pamphyloi
fleet returned from the far banks to be re-moored here. He ran a hand over his sweat-soaked scalp, burning in the morning sun, then looked across the river and off to the east, watching the last silvery flashes and plumes of dust dissipate at the tail of the departing campaign army. They moved with a broad front towards Lake Van. When they slipped into the heat haze and could be seen no more, he issued a contented grunt, then swung round to look over the camp that would serve as the rearguard’s headquarters.

Six thousand men had been entrusted to him. The sixteen hundred toxotai loosed arrow after arrow at a practice range outside the camp’s western gate, by the saddle of land in the shady valleys. The rest were inside the camp. Some four thousand of them were skutatoi; the majority of these men had laid down their weapons and iron jackets and now milled about their tents, jabbering, cleaning their kit or praying. Meanwhile, the bandon of three hundred kursores riders busied themselves grooming and exercising their mounts. They were content in their activities in this still and warm land, and rations and water were plentiful. He squinted up at the sun. ‘With a little shade, this place will make a fine home for the next few weeks,’ he surmised.

When an odd rumbling noise sounded from the north, he instinctively swept a suspicious eye around the camp’s mountainous surroundings, then squinted at the shaded face of Mount Taurus. A shower of rocks tumbled from the heights there, the noise echoing across the riverbank. He chuckled and shook his head. Then he remembered the advice of the tourmarches, Procopius, who served under the
Haga
. Before setting off with the Chaldians in the emperor’s column, the prune-faced old officer had implored him;

Decrease the size of the camp. Fill in the ditches and throw up new ones that will be more easily defensible for your reduced numbers. You can rebuild the original camp when the emperor returns. And keep a strong watch at all times.

Philaretos snorted at the notion. ‘Perhaps, old man,’ he spoke into the ether, then turned back to look across the river and east, shading his eyes from the sun. He imagined the emperor’s army moving along the broad, winding tracts of land that led to Lake Van. ‘But you should first concern yourself with your own marching camp – for it will likely be you who encounters any Seljuk foe.’ Then he smirked, drawing his gaze in across the tumbling torrents of the Euphrates. ‘And unless they bring ferries of their own, any invading riders from the east might have to content themselves with watching our fine camp from the far riverbanks.’

He jostled with laughter at his own joke, then turned away from the river and strode towards the heart of the camp, where his tent now stood in place of the emperor’s.
A cup or two of wine?
he mused as his guards parted. He made to sweep his tent flap open, but his hand froze. He noticed his mount, tethered nearby, scuffing its hooves in agitation. Then it snorted, its ears pricking up.

‘What’s wrong, boy?’ he cooed, stepping over to the piebald stallion.

His question was answered by a chorus of panicked cries from the western valleys. His eyes widened as he saw the archers out there break into a reckless run, racing back towards the camp. He licked his lips and felt his throat shrink as he saw a dust plume and dark shapes cresting the saddle of land in the shady valley. An instant later, the thrum of loosing arrows sounded, and the air behind the fleeing Byzantine archers darkened as a storm of arrows plunged down upon their fleeing backs. Hundreds fell and hundreds more stumbled over the fallen.

‘Ghazis!’ Philaretos gasped, clutching at the pole of his standard in disbelief, seeing the Seljuk riders swoop like raptors over the saddle of land and down towards the camp. Spiked, conical helms. Iron, horn or leather armour. Nocked bows, levelled spears and raised scimitars. His eyes swept over them once, twice and again. Still, more poured over the saddle. Five, six, no – seven thousand, he realised.

The ghazis unleashed a howling war cry as they caught up with the fleeing toxotai. Without armoured spearmen to protect them, the fleeing Byzantine bowmen stood no chance, falling to the flashing curved blades and sharp lances of these swift riders. Blood spouted and puffed up through the still heat, screams were cut short and the archers were felled like wheat. Those who tried to break away were punched to the ground, backs peppered with arrows.

‘Close the gates!’ Philaretos roared, pulling the standard from the earth and waving it frantically to and fro as the ghazi mass raced for the open western gate. The skutatoi were in disarray, men tripping over each other as they hurried to find their armour and weapons. Just sixteen guarded the open gate in arms and armour. They threw down their spears and shields in an attempt to close the timber gates. Philaretos rushed to aid them, throwing his shoulder to the stubborn gate. It was inches from coming into line with the locking bar, when his world was thrown upside down. He and the sixteen were cast back through the dust as the gates were barged back open. The tide of ghazis poured inside the camp and spilled across the sea of tents. The unprepared skutatoi threw up what defence they could, jabbing spears, swinging burning firewood or hurling rocks at them. Those who had taken up their shields and spears in time tried to gather together, but the swooping ghazis gave them no time, breaking apart these determined clusters of men and cutting them down. Philaretos, dazed, slumped and unseen by the open western gate, blinked again and again at the rout that ensued. For the first time in his career he was utterly lost. He saw his six thousand fall, limbs shorn, skulls crushed, chests pocked with arrows. Some Byzantines splashed into the shallows of the Euphrates, only to have their skulls split by pursuing Seljuk riders, and soon there were hundreds of corpses drifting off downriver in a crimson wash. One ghazi was the most ferocious of all. A scale-vested rider crowned with a stud-rimmed spike helm. His face was a mask of shadow, with just green eyes glinting, scouring the fray. He cut one man down, then another, swiftly turning to find the next at haste as if searching for the one death that would satisfy him.

Philaretos watched this one, numb with fear. When a gawping Byzantine head bounced past his feet, and a mizzle of blood settled upon him, something changed. He looked up, seeing some other ghazi who had beheaded the soldier. At once, the shame of his folly turned into anger. He leapt up, ducking the thrown spear the rider aimed at him, then drawing his spatha and hacking it through the rider’s thigh. Flesh cleaved and bone shattered, the rider fell from the saddle in gouts of blood. Philaretos leapt onto the riderless mount and heeled the beast this way and that, parrying, hacking and ducking a storm of blows as he tried to find some hope of a counter attack. But there was nothing, he realised. He set his eyes upon the western gate. Most of the ghazis had spilled inside the camp’s walls now, indulging in the slaughter. The land outside was free of enemies. He filled his lungs and bellowed to all who could hear.

‘Retreat!’ he cried, helping one skutatos into the saddle behind him. ‘Abandon the camp. Head for the Mountains!’

***

A dust plume the size of a colossal thundercloud billowed up in the column’s wake. Apion rode with the emperor and his retinue amidst the cavalry head of the column, while Sha led the Chaldians in the infantry body. So far, he had enjoyed high spirits with the rest of the column, chuckling as riders of the Vigla Tagma mocked Igor when the big varangos used his axe blade like a mirror to apply black smudges of kohl on his lower eyelids.

The morning’s march had seen them gradually ascend into the Armenian plateau where the air was thinner but still excruciatingly hot. They stopped at noon to eat a hearty meal of fresh bread, mutton and berries. He had seldom seen his Chaldians and the rest of the army quite as eager, yet as the day wore on, a nagging sense of doubt settled upon him. He couldn’t quite place it, but he felt something was wrong.

‘You look glum, Strategos. Something on your mind?’ Romanus asked, his face uplit from the fine silver and white armour jacket he wore.

‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Not a thing. This campaign has been impeccable so far, and we are but a week away from Lake Van. Chliat might soon be ours.’

‘Then I’d loathe to see you on a bad day,’ Romanus chuckled, his white stallion snorting as if in agreement.

‘Perhaps it is the absence of struggle that perturbs me,
Basileus.
’

Romanus’ brow knitted. ‘Aye, not a single Seljuk blade . . . nor a Doukas snake to be seen.’

Yet.
Apion thought. He shook his head, hoping this might cast off his doubts. ‘Maybe I seek trouble when there is none,’ he offered.

Romanus made to reply, when the pained screeching of an eagle sounded. The noise was so shrill that it cut through the dull thunder of boots and hooves. Indeed, the column slowed just a fraction, all heads looking up and around. The screeching continued. When Apion saw that the sky was azure and marked with neither bird nor cloud, he knew his dread was well-placed. As the cries rang out unabated and the army continued to look to the skies, Apion felt his gaze drawn to the east. There in the dancing heat haze he saw a solitary figure standing in the army’s path. Her silvery hair and white robes fluttered in the gentle breeze and her sightless eyes pinned him. She held up the palm of one hand as if barring their way, and shook her head, her features drawn and riddled with sorrow. An instant later and she was gone, as if swallowed by the rippling heat haze.

‘What is that infernal-’ Romanus started, searching the skies for the absent eagle. But he stopped, hearing the rapid thudding of a galloping horseman approaching from the rear of the column and twisting to look.

Apion tore his gaze from the spot where the crone had been, then turned in his saddle to look back with the emperor. A chorus of chatter broke out, as if conjured by the lone kursoris who swept towards the emperor. The man was wearing a dented helm and a white tunic that was stained brown with dried blood, one arm was clumsily looped around the reins, the hand hanging limp and the tendons of his wrist lacerated. Igor and the Varangoi bunched up before Romanus as the injured rider slowed and stopped before the emperor. The column drew to a halt as the rider tried to dismount but instead he fell, panting. His skin was pallid and slick with sweat, and his eyes were black-rimmed.

‘
Basileus
,’ he
gasped, righting himself with his trembling good arm, ‘A Seljuk host roams in imperial lands. They came at us from the west. They must have breached the southern borders.’

Apion realised what had happened before the scout could recount the tale.

‘They fell upon our camp this morning. Doux Philaretos and the rearguard have been driven into the hills. Scant few survived the attack and now the Seljuk riders have ridden on into our heartlands, to raid the themata.’

The chatter of the ranks rose into panic.

Romanus was silent, his gaze growing distant. Apion saw the sparkle of hope in his eyes fade. In that instant, the promise of the campaign had been snuffed out. ‘Raise the standards,’ he said to the
signophoroi
by his side, clutching the great purple imperial banners. Then he cast his gaze over the vast ranks of the column. ‘We must hasten back to our heartlands, to quell the threat there and avenge our fallen brothers.’ The babble died at this. ‘God is with us. Let us march with haste!’ he cried. The column cried out in approval, the desperate cheer sweeping back across the miles of silvery warriors and vivid banners. Then, like a writhing serpent, they set about turning to face back to the west.

Romanus waited where he was, taking a moment to turn east once again, gazing to the heat haze that blended sky and earth in the distance, to the wide route they would have taken to Lake Van. Desperation and despair danced in his eyes now.

‘We will return next year,
Basileus,
’ Apion offered.

‘A year is time aplenty to see an emperor cast from his throne, Strategos.’

Apion nodded, knowing there was no reply that could sweeten this acrimonious truth.

‘What troubles me most, Strategos, is . . . ’ Romanus said, turning to him, his face suddenly gaunt and drawn, ‘ . . . how did they know we were here? Seljuk warbands coming from the south and raiding the rich lands of southern and eastern Anatolia I can understand. But for them to come here, to this dry, dusty no-man’s land and fall upon our rearguard? That is no coincidence.’

Apion sighed. ‘I regret that I can only agree,
Basileus.
’

Both men instinctively turned their eyes back to the west, beyond the horizon, thinking of the distant imperial capital and the vultures who nested there.

3.
An Elusive Foe

Apion crouched in a myrtle copse at the southern edge of a vast green-gold plain in northern Cilicia. The cicada song grew intense as he scoured the features of the shrub-dotted lands ahead, part-obscured in a gentle heat-haze. A few miles to the east there was a small Byzantine village. He saw the handful of felt-armoured garrison skutatoi standing at the gatehouse of the town’s weak timber walls. Half a mile north across the plain was another grove like this one. To the west, there was nothing but open flatland. His eyes scoured the horizon there.
Come on.

It had been a fraught month since the disaster at the Euphrates. They had returned to the riverside camp to find a carpet of dead and wounded. They had spent the rest of that day and the next burying the fallen. It was on the second night that Doux Philaretos had come out of hiding, leading the pack of nine hundred or so survivors down from the safety of the mountains. The doux had been a sorry sight, his face caked in dirt and blood, and his eyes heavy with shame. The weeks since had been spent chasing the rampaging Seljuk army throughout Byzantine lands. They had hastened through western Colonea, only to find ruined villages littered with corpses and burnt-out forts strewn with mutilated garrison soldiers. The story had been the same as they pursued the enemy riders south through the border themata of Sebastae and Lykandos, then on to the west, into the inner themata of Cappadocia and Anatolikon, where they arrived too late to save the city of Iconium from the raiders’ wrath. Indeed, the city walls were blackened with soot by the time they came within sight of it, and the battlements lined with severed Byzantine heads on spikes. This had enraged the emperor. But even when Romanus left Manuel Komnenos and the infantry behind, leading the far swifter cavalry ahead in an effort to intercept the Seljuk raiders, they were still too slow and so the pursuit continued. Just a few days ago, the chase had led them here, to the southern Thema of Cilicia.

He clutched a shard of polished silver in his palm, then shot a glance to the early autumn sun. It was well past noon, and heat and frustration prickled on his skin. The Seljuk host had been sighted a few hours ago, some way to the west, heading in this direction. And this timber-walled village was the only settlement in miles. It had to be where they were headed.
Yet surely they should be here by now?

‘Something’s wrong,’ Blastares whispered by his side.

‘Not necessarily,’ Apion hissed, staving off his own doubts. ‘We wait.’

Just then, something moved. In the western emptiness, a puff of dust kicked up. All his senses sharpened and he held his breath. When he saw a racing deer, his heart sank. Then, as he made to exhale, his gaze snagged on a lone rider chasing the deer. A ghazi, cutting across the plain on a dark steppe mare, drawing and loosing his bow, his long, braided dark hair billowing in his wake. The rider howled in glee as his arrow punched into the deer’s side, felling the animal.

Apion looked behind the lone rider. The horizon rippled in the heat haze. Green and gold danced together. A heartbeat later he felt the ground judder and a blotch of colour appeared, then spilled across the horizon. Thousands of Seljuk riders rumbled into view. Iron helms, brightly painted shields and speartips glinting in the sun. He twisted to Blastares. ‘Ready the men.’ The big tourmarches rose and scuttled away to the rear of the myrtle copse. Apion shuffled forward, careful not to break cover, then cupped the polished silver shard in his palm. He tilted it up to the sun and caught its rays then flicked it just a fraction. Once, twice and again. He watched the far wood keenly until the three flashes of reply came, then he turned and followed Blastares’ path through the undergrowth to meet with the serried wedges of cavalry hidden just behind the grove – some fifteen hundred thematic riders, including Sha, Blastares, Procopius, Kaspax and the fifty Chaldian kataphractoi, the riders stroking their mounts to keep them still and silent. All for this moment.
Mount
, Apion mouthed as he leapt up onto his Thessalian, slipped on his plumed helm and took up his lance. Then he flicked a hand up and forward in silence.

The Byzantine riders broke forward at a walk, moving round the eastern edge of the grove in three fang-like wedges. From the northern wood, another three such fangs rumbled forward – the best of the Varangoi, the Vigla and the Scholae riders with the emperor amongst them. The Seljuk mass spilled along the plain between these two unseen cavalry wings. The jaws of the trap were set, ready to close on the marauding horde. Although numbering only three thousand, the Byzantine cavalry were more heavily armed and armoured than the seven thousand ghazis. And if they could catch them by surprise, fall upon their flanks . . .

A buccina blared from the emperor’s riders across the plain.

‘Charge!’ Apion roared, kicking at his Thessalian’s flanks. At once, he and his three wedges of riders broke forward in a gallop onto the plain. From the northern wood, the emperor’s men charged likewise. Apion lay flat in the saddle, levelling his lance, eyes trained on the Seljuk horde. They slowed momentarily, heads switching between the two Byzantine cavalry wings coming for them from north and south. At that moment, Apion was sure the snare had succeeded. So certain was he of coming battle that he saw in his mind the image that had followed him since his earliest days;

A dark, arched doorway, the timbers desiccated and ancient. He heard the striking of flint, saw tongues of flame shoot out from under the door, licking like a demon readying to feast. His grip tightened on his lance and his heart pounded like a battering ram against his ribs.

But in a heartbeat the fire in his heart was extinguished as the Seljuk horde shot apart before him like a flock of birds evading a predator. They split into two groups. The foremost riders bolted forward at a gallop, slipping clear of the two sets of Byzantine riders, and the rearmost riders wheeled away, back to the west. Apion reined in his mount, seeing that the snare had failed, seeing the two jaws of the trap slow to a canter, lances and blades unsullied. Before he had time to look to the emperor for direction, he heard the thrum of Seljuk bows.

The hail was thick but inaccurate, arrows punching down all around the two slowing jaws of the failed trap. It was not meant to be a lethal strike, merely a means to give the fleeing Seljuk horde an extra few moments to make their break. Most of the missiles landed in the dust, but a fair number glanced from the iron coats and helms of the riders, and he heard a thin chorus of cries and whinnies where they found their way in between the iron cladding of horse or rider. As soon as the hail passed, Apion pulled on his reins to swing his mount round. He watched as the ghazis who had turned to flee westwards arced round the southern edge of the plain, behind the myrtle grove, to join with their comrades in the east. Reunited they rode on to the eastern horizon, mercifully subjecting the timber-walled village to just a shower of arrows as they passed.

A wedge of Scholae riders burst away from the emperor’s side, haring after the fleeing Seljuk pack.

‘Come back, you fools!’ Romanus roared, tearing off his purple-plumed helm and throwing it to the dust. ‘You will not catch them. Have you learned nothing in these last weeks?’

A buccina keened to convey this message and the galloping Scholae riders slowed and returned, while the Seljuk horde became but a glint on the horizon. A nauseatingly familiar sight, Apion thought as he joined the emperor.

Romanus was surrounded by Igor, the Varangoi and Doux Philaretos.

‘Like a whore in oil,’ Philaretos grunted, watching the Seljuks slip away.

‘It worked at Hierapolis,’ Romanus hissed through clenched teeth, punching a fist to his palm as he looked to the northern and southern woods from which his two cavalry wings had sprung.

Apion recalled the move, when he and Romanus had led two wings of cavalry, bursting from the cover of the northern and southern walls of the desert city to ensnare the Seljuk ranks amassed by the western gate, pressing them onto the hardy Byzantine spearmen standing firm there. ‘But then our enemy was already engaged with what infantry we had. Those riders,’ he flicked a finger to the horizon, ‘have never stayed in one place long enough to let us draw up our spearmen and archers.’

Romanus looked north. Somewhere beyond the horizon, Manuel Komnenos and the infantry section of the weary campaign army were marching at haste to catch up, but still nearly a hundred miles behind, going by this morning’s report from the scout rider. ‘Then we have to find a way to bring our spears to bear.’

‘We could try to lure them northwards, onto our infantry?’ Philaretos suggested.

Apion shook his head. ‘They will not follow us. They mean only to evade us, to sack towns and cause as much disruption as possible.’

‘Then we should continue the pursuit. We can only hope that they will slip up soon, surely?’ Philaretos grumbled.

‘Hope is a fine thing, Doux, but it is not a strategy,’ Apion replied as gently as he could manage.

‘You are adept at revealing the weaknesses in the suggestions of others, Strategos,’ Philaretos snapped. ‘Perhaps you might offer an alternative solution?’

Apion looked to the red-faced doux and the rest of the retinue. His thoughts swam as he recalled the terrain of this southern thema. They needed two things; a choke point and a regiment of infantry to block it. There were many choke points to the east, where the Seljuk horde were headed, but no infantry bar a few sparse local garrisons. Then he thought of something else, high up in the Antitaurus Mountains. His eyes glinted and a crooked smile pulled at one edge of his lips. ‘This may not be to your liking . . . ’

***

Apion pulled his crimson cloak tighter around his shoulders as they rode up the winding mountain path. It was mid-September and dark, clear nights like this brought with them a biting cold, especially at this altitude. He wore a long-sleeved tunic both for warmth and to hide his red-ink
Haga
stigma – figuring it might distract those he was to parley with. With him were his trusted three, plus the young rider, Kaspax. They had set off from the imperial army and ridden hard for a day, moving due east to these mountains while the Seljuk horde busied themselves terrorising the Byzantine settlements in the lower foothills just a few miles south.

He glanced to the mountaintop above. It glowed orange, silhouetting a stocky timber palisade wall, watchtowers and sentries. Philaretos’ reaction to his plan rang in his thoughts once more.

The Armenian hill princes? Have you lost your senses, man?

Apion chuckled dryly at the memory. The doux was bound to rubbish whatever plan he put forward – the man was still pickled with shame over being routed at the Euphrates camp. As they rounded the last section of path leading up to the hilltop town’s gatehouse, he saw the four sentries standing before the gates brace. One of the sentries called out to challenge Apion and his night visitors. Momentarily, Apion wondered if Philaretos had been right. For it was a feral cry, a challenge.

‘Apion of Chaldia,’ he replied. ‘I come on behalf of Emperor Romanus Diogenes.’

The torch near the gates guttered in the chill breeze and for a moment, the lead sentry’s face was illuminated: dark-skinned, scarred, with a rich green headscarf on his scalp and a thick beard on his chin. His nose wrinkled and he spat on the ground. ‘Byzantines,’ he growled, his mail shirt rustling as he squared his shoulders. ‘You come to speak with Prince Vardan?’ The men beside him laughed. ‘I see no reason why I should let you keep your lives, let alone open our gates to you.’ As he said this, twelve shadows rose up from behind the palisade walls accompanied by the tune of stretching, creaking bows. The dancing torchlight revealed something else. On either side of the gates, two limp bodies dangled, impaled through the chest on roughly-hewn spikes, throats cut, flesh grey, their eyes gone to the crows. It looked as if one of them at least wore the battered armour of a Byzantine spearman.

Apion kept his gaze on the lead sentry. ‘You have family in these mountains and the surrounding plains?’

The sentry lost his steely gaze for but a moment, then the scowl returned. ‘What is it to you?’

‘I come to offer your prince a deal that will see all in these lands, Byzantine and Armenian alike, spared the edge of the Seljuk sword.’

The sentry frowned. ‘You speak of the horde? They are some way west of here – I heard they sacked Iconium?’

Apion held his wavering gaze. ‘They tore the place apart but we drove them off. I saw the blackened ruin they left behind. Now they are here, only miles away, and they are not yet tired of slaughter and plunder. All I ask of you is that you let me speak with your prince.’

The lead sentry’s scowl faded and his shoulders slumped just a fraction. A time passed then, wordlessly, he nodded to his comrades, who hurried forward to strip Apion and his men of weapons. When one of the sentries tried to take the hemp sack from Apion’s saddle, Apion clamped a hand over it. ‘That is for your prince alone,’ he said with the barest of smiles. Next, a creaking of timber rang out and echoed around the Cilician mountains as the gates swung open.

Escorted closely, they trotted along the hay-strewn dirt path that led through the close-packed town. It was a jumble of stone-walled huts and larger villas, clinging to the rounded mountain top, with a sturdy, high-walled and fortified manor at the apex. Torches sputtered and flickered, lighting their way, and he saw the wide-eyed looks of children and adults alike who peeked from the doors of their homes, eager and anxious to see who had come to their lofty settlement. Towns like this were dotted all across the Parhar and Antitaurus Mountains. Collections of loosely affiliated but notoriously fickle Armenian tribes and federations – more often at war with one another than working together. Again, he heard Philaretos’ mocking words.