Strategos: Island in the Storm (8 page)

‘I can only liken this campaign to a shipwreck,’ he said, his fist coiling and uncoiling as he gazed through the shatranj board. ‘Last year, we set out to secure a foothold and a safe border in Syria. We achieved what we set out to. We took Heirapolis and that city still stands firm against the Seljuk threat.’

Apion’s mind flashed back to the brutal siege and counter-siege of the desert city. He closed his eyes to block out the memories. The thousands of faces who had fallen there, never to return home. But in the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw one other face. One of the fallen he could never forget.
Nasir.

‘Our losses were great – almost Pyrrhic,’ the emperor continued as if sharing his thoughts. ‘But when I returned to Constantinople, there was no leverage for my enemies to act upon, for I had achieved what I set out to. This time, I must return to the capital with some tale of woe: routing a Seljuk warband in our own lands instead of taking Chliat and securing the Lake Van region as I proclaimed I would.’

The torch crackled and spat, as if daring Apion to speak. Philaretos and Igor had been present until a short while ago, but the emperor’s mood had seen them make their excuses and depart. ‘It is vital to the people of the empire that the Seljuks are not allowed to maraud in her heartlands. You achieved all you could and that is venerable. It is futile to brood upon what might have been.’

‘I know there is wisdom in your words, Strategos, but I also know you think as I do. I, like you, will lie awake every night, seeing our tenuous hold on Manzikert weakening with every passing month that we do not reinforce the meagre garrison there. Notions of taking Chliat are now secondary – first, we must ensure we do not cede the toe-hold we have on that vital land. And in the west, the heel of Italy is on the brink of falling from imperial control; the city of Barion has been under siege by the Normans of Robert Guiscard for over a year – yet I cannot spare a single regiment to send in relief.’

Apion looked to the shatranj board. Each of them had made just a few moves. Pawns had been advanced, and of the powerful pieces, only Apion’s war elephant had been developed. It was then that he spotted the emperor’s folly – so plainly visible and unexpected that he had missed it. Romanus’ king lay in line to be taken by the elephant on Apion’s next move. The emperor’s next move would be vital, he thought, then suppressed a shiver as he thought of the reality of the sentiment. He looked up, seeing that Romanus was more focused on the surface of his wine than anything else.

He looked for some crumb of comfort. ‘By running down that horde, the heartlands of Anatolia were spared. Psellos and the Doukids cannot twist that reality.’

Romanus stirred from his thoughts at this. ‘Psellos? The man has a way with words, as you well know. His grip on power may have diminished in this last year, but he still carries the weight of the Doukas family and all those who sponsor his wiles. The grain and wine magnates of the richer themata bow before me, call me
Basileus
, pledge their private armies to the imperial cause – yet it would be a dark day if ever I was driven to levy those forces . . . but it is all just a veneer. Worse, some of the strategoi of the imperial themata even still lean to the Doukid cause and heed Psellos' word. And while the tagmata armies are mostly loyal, the Numeroi Tagma still dance to the advisor’s tune . . . and they garrison the capital, their barracks an arrowshot from the chambers in which I sleep!’ Romanus thumped a fist on the table, causing the shatranj pieces to jump. ‘I rule an empire under the constant shadow of a coup!’

Apion sought words to encourage the emperor, but found none suitable.

Romanus picked up another pawn to move it forward, leaving his king unguarded. Apion winced. He had watched some courtiers play against the man and deliberately avoid advantageous moves so as not to offend their emperor. The thought crossed his mind to do likewise, but he swatted the moment of weakness away. ‘Checkmate,’ he said quietly, lifting his war elephant piece over to take the emperor’s king.

Romanus’ eyes widened at this, and he glanced over the board as if in disbelief. The torch crackled and spat as it began to die. ‘And in barely a handful of moves,’ he muttered.

‘Sometimes it serves a man well to be reminded of simple things. Do not let your guard drop,
Basileus
. Psellos might well be planning some intricate coup, but if you return to the capital distracted and melancholy, he might see a far simpler route to achieving his goals.’

Romanus shook his head as if to rid it of the wine’s fog. ‘I have already doubled the Varangoi presence in the palace and I will do so again on my return,’ then he pinged a finger on his wine cup, ‘and I would do well to stay clear of this poison.’

Apion’s heart lifted as Romanus took to sitting upright, his broad shoulders squared once more and his eyes sharp.

‘Now, Strategos, once again after only a short spell in each other’s company, we must part. Come the morning, the campaign army will be disbanded. A fleet of imperial
dromons
will arrive at the port-town of Mersin some forty miles south of here. They will ferry the tagmata riders and I back to Constantinople. The soldiers of the themata will be free to return to their lands. You should take your riders home, to Chaldia.’

The pair rose from their seats at the same time. ‘Then next spring, we will set out for Lake Van?’ Apion asked.

Romanus’ brow furrowed. ‘Perhaps not, Strategos. If this campaign has taught me anything, it is that a clear and decisive move will be required if we are to seize the Lake Van region. An army so vast in number that it will not be weakened or diverted by the presence of raiding Seljuk hordes. Sixty thousand men or more. Such a venture will take time to organise.’

‘So there will be no campaign next year?’ Apion asked, masking his unease at this strategy. It was only the tireless campaigning of the last two years that had beaten back the Seljuk incursions.

Romanus seemed to sense Apion’s qualms. ‘I have told no one of this,’ he leaned in closer, ‘but I plan to remain in the capital next year, both to appease the citizens and to raise funds to bolster the poorest of the themata. But I will despatch a campaign army eastwards on my behalf. A defensive campaign this time, perhaps stationed in Sebastae to fend off any Seljuk incursions. I plan to appoint Manuel Komnenos as
kouropalates
– leader of the campaign army in my absence. While I sort out affairs in the capital, I will be relying on Komnenos and the few men I trust to protect the empire’s lands. Men like you, Strategos.’

Apion nodded. His eyes traced over the pieces on the shatranj board and he recalled the unfinished game he had once played with the Seljuk Sultan in Caesarea. He thought then of the many armies that Alp Arslan could call upon. The innumerable marching spearmen, the heavy lancers and the siege technicians of Persia, the hardy desert warriors of the emirs and the swift and deadly steppe cavalry of the native Seljuk people. He felt fear dig its claws into his shoulder like a hungry crow, then swept the emotion away effortlessly. ‘I will do all I can,
Basileus
.’

The pair locked forearms, shared a knowing look, then parted.

Apion slipped from the tent, saluting Igor and the cluster of varangoi guarding the tent entrance. Philaretos was there too with a clutch of the vigla night guardsmen forming a perimeter around the emperor’s tent – resembling an iron palisade of sorts. ‘Sleep well, Strategos,’ Philaretos nodded.

Apion nodded in return, accepting the salutes of the vigla sentries, then walked off through the sea of tents – brightly coloured bandon standards hanging limp in the still air over each regimental cluster. The chatter and celebrations of earlier were absent now that the night curfew was upon them – only the night sentries were to be seen. He reached into his purse to unconsciously thumb at the sleek lock of Maria’s hair as he walked, and eventually came to the small, irregular bunch of four tents set up for the Chaldian detachment, near the eastern edge of the camp that watched over the mouth of the Cilician Gates. A steady, rhythmic ‘
hic!
’ came from within one tent, followed by a low, painfully serrated and watery belch. This was followed by the thudding of a fist into flesh.

‘Blastares, enough!’ he heard Procopius hiss, his tone thickened by wine. ‘Tetradia’ll not stand for your bloody belching.’

‘Eh?’ came Blastares’ groggy reply. Moments later, another hiccup and an accompanying, lasting and forceful emission of wind from an unidentified orifice. ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ the big tourmarches grunted.

Apion half-smiled at Procopius’ muffled gagging and clearly incensed tirade, then slipped into his tent, tying the flap shut with the laces dangling there. While the others shared a kontoubernion tent, with their bedding laid out head-to-toe around the centre pole, armour and weapons by their heads and rations by their feet, this tent was smaller and held only one set of bedding. Isolation was one privilege of a strategos. He wondered what might come to him tonight: dreams of Maria, or the dark nightmares of long-past battles. He lifted a hand to pull the tent flap back when he heard a set of footsteps rushing up behind him.
After curfew?
He swung to the sound, braced, then relaxed when he saw it was just Kaspax.

‘Sir, one of the gate guards gave me this.’ He handed over a tightly rolled sheet of paper. ‘They said some cloaked rider came to the gate just a short while ago and handed this to them. They said the messenger fled before they could question him.’

Apion frowned, then nodded to Kaspax. ‘Thank you. And Kaspax, you fought well today.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Kaspax nodded and hurried back to his tent, from which a droning snore tore through the air.

‘And shove a roll of cloth in Blastares’ mouth, will you?’ he called after the lad.

‘Yes, sir,’ Kaspax chuckled.

He turned away, unravelling the scroll, sure this was some jest from the men. But when he unravelled the scroll, his stomach fell away.

It was Seljuk script.

You seek Lady Maria? Then ride east, Haga, to northern Persia, to the silk market in Mosul . . .

Part 2: 1070 AD

5.
Lure

A pack of thirty Seljuk
ghazi
riders thundered across the late winter plains of northern Persia, throwing up a shiver of morning frost in their wake. When they swept across the path of two unusual, woollen-cloaked riders who ambled eastwards, the leader of the Seljuk pack turned to scowl at the pair, the cool January breeze whipping around him. The pair were pale-skinned, one sharp-eyed with amber-silver hair plaited into a tail and an iron-grey beard, the other much younger, with dark locks dangling over his eyes, barely disguising fear.

‘Ya!’ the ghazi commander yelled, bringing his riders round. He drew the composite bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow to it.

From the corner of his eye, Apion saw the riders come round. He noticed Kaspax’s knuckles whiten on his reins. ‘Ride steady, lad,’ he spoke under his breath, his lips barely moving. ‘As if this was your home.’

‘But they’ve drawn their weapons, sir,’ Kaspax croaked.

Apion risked a glance over his shoulder to see the scowling Seljuk rider scowling behind his bow. The thirty that came with him were armed with scimitars, spears and bows and armoured in quilt vests and leather helms. Surely primed for a skirmish. Perhaps even looking for one, and two troublesome travellers might make fine melee-fodder. He nipped the budding fear in his belly and leaned a little closer to Kaspax. ‘We are two western traders, that is all. No armour, no military garb, save our swords and daggers to protect ourselves with. These riders will see that and be on their way.’

Kaspax’s face was riddled with doubt, sweat spidering from every pore. Then the lad jumped as a jagged voice called out from behind them.

‘State your business, riders!’ the lead Seljuk snapped in his native tongue, his eyes shaded under the rim of his conical helm, his bow creaking.

Apion twisted in his saddle, taking care to do it slowly. He affixed the Seljuk rider with a look of annoyance. ‘We come to bargain for saffron and almonds at Mosul,’ he said in the Seljuk tongue with a shrug. ‘If we can ever find the east road to the city!’

The rider relaxed his bow at this, his scowl melting and a faint look of disappointment replacing it. ‘Ride south until sunset. When you come to the twin hills, sleep there then set off eastwards at dawn. You will be at the city by mid-morning tomorrow.’

Kaspax expelled a deep sigh of relief as the Seljuk scouting party thundered away.

At dusk, Apion and Kaspax arrived at the twin hills. They stopped at the base of the easterly one, beside a rock pool ringed with soft, green grass. There they tethered their mounts to the desiccated remains of a tamarisk trunk and gathered up the fallen branches to use as kindling. Soon, the chill of night arrived and the fire provided a welcome heat. Above, bats flitted from the caves pockmarking the twin hills, betrayed only by the starlight and the dancing orange of the flames.

Apion skewered a piece of mutton on a twig and held it over the fire. As the meat charred and bubbled, he cast his mind over the last few months. When the campaign army had disbanded at the Cilician Gates, he led his Chaldians north, each of the riders chatting eagerly about returning to their homes within the walls of Trebizond and on the farms across Chaldia. But he had found that he could not sleep. Night after night he had thrown the words of the mysterious letter around in his head. By whose hand was it penned? How did they know where he was? It was over breakfast on the fourth day of their journey home that Sha had come to him. The Malian was one of the few who knew the full story of Apion’s troubles.

‘You should do what you must, sir. The thema will be in good hands over the winter.’ Then Sha had clasped a hand to his shoulder and insisted; ‘Go, find her.’

And so he had parted from his Chaldians, their farewell chant of
Ha-ga!
ringing in his ears as he set off southeast, through the Antitaurus Mountain passes, alone. He had only been riding southeast for a few hours when the clopping of hooves alerted him to a follower. Kaspax had ranged alongside him, offering a stiff salute. ‘Tourmarches Sha decided you should have a squire. I volunteered.’ Apion smiled at the memory. For all his self-doubt and awkwardness, Kaspax was a good rider, a fine swordsman and a valiant soul.

Their journey had been arduous at first. The heights of the Antitaurus Mountains were unforgiving in November and early December. They wore furs and sheltered in caves from the winter blizzards that besieged those lofty peaks, eating hard-tack biscuit and strips of salted mutton as they tried to stave off the cold. After a few weeks, they had descended onto the Syrian plain and turned east, into the Seljuk dominion and on into this ancient land. Both men were now saddle-sore and weary.

The bats flitted overhead again, stirring Apion from the memories. Kaspax sat down across from him then, his hair wet and swept back, having washed in the rock pool. He shivered and pulled up close to the fire, and Apion noticed his lips move;
I’ll be back to protect you. Until then, let God stay by your side.

The same words he had noticed the lad mouth every night of their journey. Apion felt a question burn on his lips. A question he had stifled so far, for Kaspax seemed uncomfortable with familiar conversation. Indeed, much of their chat on the journey so far had been focused on matters of the thema, the logistics of their trek and the plans for their return route. Even in the lonely mountain caves. ‘Who do you yearn to return to lad? I thought you were without family?’

‘I was just praying, sir.’ Kaspax said, shrugging, shaking his head then gazing off into the night.

‘Come, lad. I can be your Strategos again in the morning, but for the sake of keeping us both sane, speak to me as a friend for now.’ Apion said, throwing a wineskin across the fire.

Kaspax caught it, licked his lips, then melted into a grin before taking a long pull on it. He let out a contented sigh and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed the skin back to Apion. ‘I have no family. I was speaking to Vilyam.’

Apion cocked an eyebrow.

‘My cat,’ Kaspax grinned. ‘That’s my life. My horse, my armour, my home within the walls of Trebizond . . . and a well-fed ginger tom.’ He gazed into the flames. ‘The strange thing is that I pray for him every night, yet he barely needs my help – he gets fatter when I’m away. Those who live nearby say he is a menace, raiding their stores and stealing from the market. But when I’m there and I keep him indoors they complain the mice and rats are running rampant and I have to let him out again. I think his system is a fine one,’ he said with a chuckle and a fond look into the darkness.

Apion grinned at this, thinking of the affection he had once had for the old grey mare on Mansur’s farm, and now, for his Thessalian. ‘Animals often make the truest companions.’ Then he cocked his head to one side. ‘But Vilyam is a Slavic name, is it not? Did he come from a northern trader?’

‘No,’ Kaspax replied with a blank look.

Apion frowned. ‘Then why the Slavic name?’

Kaspax shook his head and held up his sword hand – laced with old claw marks. ‘Because he’s a vicious bastard,’ he shrugged, deadpan.

Apion said nothing for a heartbeat, then roared with laughter, steadying himself at last to take another swig from the wineskin; ‘Then we’ll have to see you back to Chaldia safely, else Vilyam will be running the backstreets of Trebizond.’

Kaspax grinned, taking the skin for another drink. ‘Ha! The
Tyrant of Trebizond
, an apt-’ his words caught in his throat as a scuffling sounded from the darkness nearby.

Apion’s hand swept round for his swordbelt and scimitar, but halted when he saw the yellow eyes of a desert fox flash and then disappear again into the darkness. ‘At ease,’ he said. ‘Now we should try to get some sleep – we need to be sharp for tomorrow.’

Kaspax let out a tense sigh, then rose and drew two woollen blankets from the packs by their tethered mounts. ‘How do you do it, sir?’ he asked, throwing one blanket to Apion. ‘How do you rid yourself of fear?’

Apion frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I long to be a fine and brave rider like my father, yet I tremble at the thought of battle. At the Cilician Gates, I thought I would vomit before we even sighted the Seljuk horde. And here, I almost soiled my tunic at the approach of a fox . . . a damned fox! But you have lived at the edge of death on the battlefield for years. You do not pale or flinch in the face of an enemy. Fear must be a distant memory for you. It would be a fine thing if it could be for me also.’

Apion shook his head with a mirthless laugh. ‘Fear has never left me.’

Kaspax frowned, sitting again and throwing his blanket around his shoulders. He hung on Apion’s words.

‘It rides with me, watches me when I sleep, counts my every breath, waiting for the opportunity to harness me with its talons. If anything it has grown throughout the years.’

Kaspax cocked his head to one side. ‘How do you live with such a monster perched on your shoulder?’

Apion prodded the fire with a twig. ‘I accept its presence. I accept that fear alone cannot hurt me. I understand that my choices must be truly mine and not guided by fear. And sometimes, just sometimes, fear can be of use – it can hone your senses like a whetstone.’

Kaspax nodded, throwing his blanket around his shoulders and rubbing his hands together for warmth. ‘My father used to say that he had never tasted fear. He said that I would be the same when I became a man.’

Apion winced at the lad’s words. ‘Atticus was a good man and a lion in my ranks . . . but he didn’t half talk horseshit at times.’

Kaspax laughed, taken aback yet trying to mask a spike of grief at the memory of his father at the same time.

‘I miss the mottled whoreson too,’ Apion assured him. ‘But like me, he felt fear. I know. I stood with him on the battlefield many times. I felt the tremor of his spear arm, pressed against my shoulder as we awaited the enemy charge. Perhaps he thought he could set you a fine example with his words. It seems he might instead have left you an unattainable ideal.’

Kaspax still seemed unsure.

‘There is always someone who seems braver and stands taller than you. Always,’ Apion said. ‘You remember old Cydones, don’t you?’

Kaspax nodded, a fond smile touching his lips. ‘It is hard to believe that frail old goat was once the Strategos of Chaldia before you . . . a warrior!’

‘Oh, but damn, he was. Never a bolder fellow have I met. I swear his balls were made of iron,’ Apion smiled. ‘Yet even he used to yak on for hours about the heroics of men who had gone before him. The great John Tzimices was his favourite; warrior, battlefield leader then emperor. Could leap over four horses, apparently. Could shoot an arrow through a thumb ring. Could make a ball leap from a vase with a swipe of his spatha – the vase remaining unbroken, of course,’ Apion snorted. ‘I’m surprised he couldn’t shoot Greek fire from his cock!’

Kaspax roared with laughter, rocking where he sat.

‘But you see my point?’ Apion said. ‘Cydones was a hero. He inspired men. He didn’t realise how many hearts he touched. He didn’t appreciate all that he was, instead he spent his days obsessing over the few things that he was not. Don’t waste your life comparing yourself with others. Be all you can be and be proud of your efforts.’ Apion met his eyes across the fire. ‘You volunteered to come here with me ahead of all the others, into the heart of Seljuk lands. That shows an iron nerve, lad.’

‘It is my duty, sir, that is all.’

‘You know very well I don’t come here on imperial duty,’ Apion replied promptly.

Kaspax at first made to deny this, then sighed and nodded. Apion knew that rumours of his nightmares had spread amongst the men. Some had even heard him calling her name, his cries echoing from his chambers in the citadel of Trebizond.

‘I knew only that you had some trouble from the past that you had to address. Tourmarches Sha told me about her – Lady Maria. I would be honoured to help you find her, sir.’

He beheld the young rider once more. ‘Your father would have been proud of you, Kaspax.’

The fire glinted in Kaspax’s eyes as he thought this over. ‘Instead I’ll have to make do with Vilyam’s tepid regards on my return home,’ he said with a smile.

‘That’s if the Tyrant of Trebizond is not too busy ransacking your neighbours’ larders,’ Apion said with a glint in his eye.

They finished the wine and chatted on until both men felt tiredness weigh on their eyelids. Finally, they lay back on the soft grass, each drawing warmth from their woollen blankets, finding sleep easier to come by than of late.

***

They rose at dawn to a crisp, cool morning and the sound of a passing Seljuk trade caravan. They bartered for fresh supplies from the friendly wagon drivers, then enjoyed a light breakfast of olives, toasted flatbread and a little honey, washed down with cool water from the rock pool. Replete and refreshed, they set off on the lonely east road to Mosul.

Not long before midday, the road was lonely no more. Silk traders, cattle farmers and grain-wagon drivers joined them as they ambled east. Finally, the outline of the Seljuk fortress-city emerged from the hazy horizon; vast, sun-bleached walls studded with the fluttering golden bow emblems of the sultanate, wrapping the jutting palaces and domes within. The city was perched on the near banks of the River Tigris, and a thick traffic of trade cogs slipped gently up and downriver through the sparkling turquoise waters, bringing silks and spices to the city’s markets and leaving laden with coin.