Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (13 page)

Konstantious ran to her, throwing his arms around her waist. ‘Mother!’ he sobbed.

Apion’s ears perked up at this. So this was Lady Eudokia.

She wrapped an arm around Konstantious then stabbed a finger at her elder son. ‘You will adhere to my rules, Michael. Until the new emperor arrives, you will obey my every word.’

‘What if Uncle John contradicts your word, Mother?’ Michael spat back. He glared at Eudokia, Konstantious and then Apion in turn, then stormed off into the main wing of the palace. Apion watched him go, frowning. He felt only sympathy for the young man. Snared in some power-struggle like a butterfly in a web, anger seemed to be Michael’s only way of venting his frustration.

‘And you,’ Eudokia spoke in an accusatory tone.

Apion spun back
round
and looked up at her, wide-eyed.

‘I can only congratulate you on your success in putting on clothes this time!’ She barked.

Apion felt the beginnings of an embarrassed smile creep onto his face, only for it to fall away as Eudokia’s face twisted further in scorn.

‘And stand up, you fool. There is no true emperor in this palace.’

He stood and her gaze narrowed on him for a heartbeat as he rose above her.

Then she nodded to her guards, turned and swept back towards the palace, taking Konstantious by the hand. As she disappeared under the shadows of the brightly-painted colonnade, she raised a hand and snapped her fingers.

At this, the two varangoi grinned, then one of them motioned with his axe, beckoning Apion.

‘Come with us – Lady Eudokia requests your presence.’

***

Apion stood in the magnificent rooftop portico, the pinnacle of the imperial palace. A circle of narrow, finely sculpted marble columns supported the red-tiled dome overhead. This offered him a pleasant shade from which to enjoy the almost unbroken vista of the magnificent city. Young Konstantious played with wooden blocks and carved soldiers on the polished floor. A pair of the omnipresent varangoi stood guard by the top of the marble stairs that led back down into the depths of the palace. But it was Eudokia who held his attention.

She had not spoken a word since they had come up here, preferring instead to prepare herself a drink of iced water and crushed petals. Then she had moved to the edge of the portico, sipping from a silver cup, her eyes darting across the western city skyline, lost in thought as she traced a fingertip along the sun-warmed balcony edge. Her fine-boned face was bathed in the hue of sunset, and this washed away the lines of age and gave her hair a fiery-golden sheen.

Apion glimpsed the nape of her neck. His unease faded a little as the delicate skin there conjured up a lost memory of Maria. Of kissing her there, his arms around her waist, her scent dancing in his nostrils.

‘It is for the simplest of reasons that you are here,’ she spoke at last, shrilly and suddenly. ‘Absurdly simple.’

Apion snapped to attention. ‘
Basileia?
’

‘I am no empress,’ she replied flatly, ‘do not address me as such.’

Apion felt her rebuke sting like the lash. ‘Very well . . . my lady.’

She turned to him, her face expressionless. ‘The reason I had you brought up here,’ she reached out to clasp the fabric of his tunic, ‘is because of this.’

Apion frowned.

‘Earlier, when you were bathing, I had the silk robe sent to you. I wanted to see how quickly you would accept such finery. But instead you chose to keep your filthy, worn tunic. That tells me something about you. You may yet turn out to be an untrustworthy snake, but I can afford you a sliver of doubt. And,’ she looked away, sipping her drink again, ‘I was not watching you for any other reason, and certainly did not expect your vulgar display of nudity.’

Apion’s skin burned in embarrassment again. ‘I can only apologise, my lady. I have spent so long with my armies that sometimes I forget myself.’ A memory barged into his thoughts uninvited: Blastares strutting through the barracks in the nude, cupping his testicles, breaking wind every few paces and grunting the words to a song about two whores smearing each other with honey. His eyes widened and he quickly shook the thought from his head.

‘Well, I suppose much about this place must be unfamiliar to you,’ she conceded. ‘The border themata . . . I hear those distant lands are rife with warfare. Life there is brutal and short, is it not?’

‘For many,’ Apion agreed.

Then she frowned at the red-ink stigma on his arm. ‘What of this – is it some symbol of your army?’

Apion shook his head. ‘This is the
Haga
. An ancient Hittite myth. My men laud me with this moniker as if it represents only glory. But for me it is a constant reminder of all that I have lost.’

Eudokia’s eyes darted across his face. Apion braced for another abrupt and awkward question. ‘What is your name, Strategos?’

Apion felt the tension ease from him at this. She was the first person to ask this since he had arrived at the capital. Indeed, she was the first to ask this for many months. To all others he was simply the Strategos of Chaldia. ‘Apion,’ he replied.

‘So tell me, Apion, this loss, does it bring you sadness?’ she asked, gazing into the horizon once more.

Apion’s expression turned grave as dark memories surfaced. ‘Sometimes, my lady. Sometimes it brings only anger.’ He saw her flex her fingers on her cup, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips, her fine neck swelling a little as she gulped. The sunset betrayed a hint of glassiness in her eyes. He felt a question tingle on his lips.

‘You have something to say, Apion?’ she said, sensing his hesitation.

Apion braced himself. ‘Do you miss your husband, my lady?’

She raised her eyebrows at this, as if taken aback. ‘I hated him with all my being.’

Apion nodded, dropping his gaze. ‘You can still yearn for someone, even if you did not like them.’

Her lips trembled as if to reply, but she simply looked away, falling silent once more. She paced around the edge of the portico, one hand tracing the marble balcony.

‘Perhaps. But I did not bring you here to talk of loss, or of the past,’ she said at last, her gaze falling on the waters to the south, bathed in shimmering crimson as the sun slipped behind the western hills of the city. ‘I wanted to speak of the dark intrigue that hangs over this city like a thundercloud.’

Apion felt a wave of relief at her frankness. ‘I would welcome such talk. For I came here in search of hope, hope that might see my homelands free of the strife that plagues its peoples. Yet since I stepped onto the harbour this morning, I have heard nothing but insinuation, uncertainty and barely veiled swipes at those who occupy this palace in the interregnum. Tell me, my lady, what is afoot? Who can I trust? Who must I be wary of?’

She pointed to the south.

Apion looked to the grand vessel anchored just outside the Theodosian Harbour. The hull was painted brilliant white and the lip of the vessel was gilt and sculpted. It had three banks of oars and its crew scurried up and down the network of rigging on its broad masts, unfurling two vast, white linen sails, each adorned with a purple Chi-Rho emblem. On the deck, there were silk awnings shading an area ringed with cushions and padded seats. Slaves dashed around this area, carrying platters of food and amphorae of wine. Anchored around this vessel were ten dromons, utilitarian in contrast. These smaller war galleys were utterly free of finery, each deck studded with a glimmering square of fifty numeroi.

‘Now I understand why the imperial fleet lies in such ruin – if such funds have been poured into the decoration of this one vessel and its escort,’ Apion said. Then he turned to her. ‘I mean no offence . . . ’

‘The offence comes not from you, Apion. The opulence lavished on the imperial flagship is but one of the follies of my dead husband.’ Then she stabbed a finger at a small white rowing boat cutting through the still waters towards the flagship. ‘The greatest of his follies, however, was his failure to shed the malignant leech that clung to him throughout his reign.’

The tiny boat drew alongside the huge vessel, docking with a timber staircase that led to the decks. The figures on the rowing boat boarded the larger vessel. Apion made out a clutch of six numeroi and a pair of slaves amongst their number. But one central figure was the focus of attention, slaves dashing from below deck to hold silken canopies above his head and to offer silver platters laden with jugs and fine foods. It was Psellos, the shrivelled adviser.

‘I have met with this one already,’ Apion said.

At this, Eudokia balked, glancing to the varangoi. The nearest of the Rus axemen shook his head. ‘They spoke only for moments, my lady.’

Apion pinned her with his gaze. ‘My lady, what is this?’

Eudokia composed herself. ‘I have to be sure of you, Apion.’

‘I can offer you only my word.’

She searched his eyes, and he wondered what she found in there.

Finally, she nodded. ‘Psellos is a parasite. He rose to prominence after establishing the University of Constantinople. He used that leverage to
worm
his way into the political sphere. From there, he attached himself to the emperor’s court, and that was over twenty years ago. The man has sponsored the rise of the last three emperors, feeding from them during their reign and lurking at each of their deathbeds. It is he who conjures the thundercloud over this city. The continuation of the Doukid dynasty is his only hope of retaining control. He has my late husband’s brother John on his side, and already he poisons the mind of my eldest boy against my designs to break the Doukid line.’

Apion watched as the purple robed Psellos reclined on the cushions and took bread from the slaves. Then another figure emerged from below deck. Tall and dark-bearded. He greeted Psellos heartily, then took to gulping at a cup of wine.

‘John has always aspired to the throne,’ Eudokia said, ‘yet he is a wrathful and short-sighted man – even more so than his brother was. It took little for Psellos to tether him. Indeed, Psellos calls him master without a hint of irony.’

Apion’s gaze hardened as he watched. John Doukas pushed away a young slave who offered to water his wine, then took to punching the cowering, screaming boy. He stopped when the slave collapsed to the deck. Then he took up a baton and proceeded to thrash at the slave’s head.

Cold memories of Apion’s days as a slave surfaced. ‘Then you have chosen well in contesting their push for power. Equally, from what I hear, you have chosen well in summoning Romanus Diogenes to be the new emperor.’

Eudokia looked to him with an expression of mild shock. ‘You believe my choice to be wise and well thought out? Are you aware that I had Romanus Diogenes exiled, only days after my husband died?’

‘My lady?’ Apion frowned.

‘He could have been executed on my word. There were strong rumours that he planned to seize the throne in a violent coup. Had he done so, my sons would have been blinded,’ her voice hushed a little and she darted a glance at young Konstantious, ‘or killed.’ Then she turned her gaze back upon the flagship, and her face wrinkled in fury. ‘Now, in those intervening months I have found out that those rumours were fuelled by those they served best.’

Apion nodded. ‘Regardless of what journey brought us here, my lady, we are here now.’

Eudokia nodded. ‘Yet Romanus Diogenes is still engaged in campaigning on the
Istrian
frontier and will not arrive in the capital until December. Much can happen in that time. Can I count on your support until then, Strategos?’

Apion nodded. ‘The promise of a new emperor spirited my men and I here all the way from Chaldia, my lady. I do not intend for that to be a wasted journey.’

‘That pleases me,’ she replied.

The pair gazed bitterly at the scene on the flagship. Now the slave lay still and lifeless, a crimson pool forming around his head as John Doukas poured another cup of neat wine. All the while, Psellos looked on, reclined and sipping from a goblet.

Eudokia’s shoulders tensed, and then she clicked her fingers. At once, the two varangoi rushed to flank Apion. ‘That will be all, Strategos,’ she said, her gaze fixed on the boat.

Apion bowed, then turned with the varangoi and walked to the staircase.

‘Apion,’ she called out, just as he was about to descend the stairs.

Apion turned. She wore a wrinkle of concern on her face, the iciness in her eyes gone momentarily. ‘My lady?’

‘My guards will protect you as they would me,’ Eudokia replied. ‘But sleep lightly. Trust no one.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

10.
Affinity

Summer seemed reluctant to give way to autumn, and the Ides of October saw a muggy heat settle over Constantinople. While the city streets, harbours and forums swarmed with crowds on this particular day, the Hippodrome was deserted. Until Apion and Dederic emerged onto the racetrack from the shade of the western tunnel. They were both barefoot and wore only light linen tunics.

Apion squinted into the mid-morning sun, shading his eyes with one hand as he swept his gaze along the vast, empty banks of seating that hugged the arena. The gilt copper statue of the four horsemen mounted at the north end gazed back at him lifelessly. In the narrow strip of raised land marking the centre of the arena, an eclectic line of obelisks, columns and monuments jutted skywards. Some of these were crowned with statues of great chariot riders of the past and of immortal heroes and the old gods, Heracles and Apollo being the finest.

But it was not to admire such finery that they had come here, he thought, running his eyes around the lengthy sides of the track and the tight u-shaped bends at either end. The surface was even, though the tracks of the last chariots to have raced here were still marked in the dust, along with splinters of wood, shards of bronze and dark patches where blood had been spilled. But after a week of confinement within the palace, this was a meagre hardship to endure in return for the freedom of an open piece of ground and the chance to run.

He glanced around once more as he swept his hair up in his hands and knotted it atop his head. They were definitely alone. Igor had been reluctant to let them come here, and so they had slipped out here when the big Rus left them to attend to the Doux of Mesopotamia’s arrival.

Beside him, Dederic dropped his water skin and a hemp sack by the trackside, then contemplated the length of the racetrack. ‘How many laps of this did you say we should run?’

‘Three laps is roughly a mile. So I’ll be running thirty of them. You just do as many as you wish.’

Dederic wiped at his brow and nodded to the Imperial Palace, the tip of which peeked over the eastern terrace. ‘I wonder that old Cydones had the right idea?’

‘Sleeping through the midday heat?’ Apion gasped sarcastically. ‘Nonsense – where’s the fun in that?’ Then he shrugged. ‘Aye, we’ll do this at dawn in future, but let us not wait for tomorrow. It is as I said, when you engage your body,’ he tapped a finger to his temple, ‘it frees your mind of troubling thoughts.’

Dederic’s gaze grew distant and he fell silent. Then, at last, he nodded. ‘Aye . . . aye, I’ll go with that.’

They walked to the northern bend in the track and then stopped in a patch of shade. ‘We’ll start from here,’ Apion said as he stretched his calves and hamstrings. Dederic followed his routine. ‘This’ll keep you limber and stop you from aching quite as much later on.’

They set off at a light jog, side-by-side. Apion noticed Dederic’s breathing growing laboured before they had even reached the southern bend.

‘Feels like my heart is going to burst from my chest,’ the Norman gasped between breaths.

‘That will pass quickly, it is just your body over-reacting to the stress. It is akin to battle, is it not?’

‘Aye,’ Dederic panted, ‘but this feels somewhat . . . more deadly!’

Apion roared with laughter at this. ‘Take a breath over two strides, then exhale on your next. Find a rhythm and your heart will settle into it. Also, keep your shoulders back – this will increase your intake of breath.’

They came round to the northern bend and past their starting line and then Apion picked up the pace into a run. Dederic kept up, breathing faster to do so.

‘The physical battle is easily won,’ Apion spoke between strides as they came round to start their third lap. ‘After that comes the battle of endurance – a test of the mind.’

‘Aye,’ Dederic panted, ‘All I can . . . think of . . . is one word. Stop!’

‘You will stop,’ Apion replied, ‘but only when you choose to. The negative thoughts won’t have their way.’

They fell silent after this, both men utterly focused. Apion felt his heart pounding in his chest and the blood throbbing in his ears. By the sixth lap his skin was slick with sweat and, blessedly, he realised he was thinking of nothing other than the track ahead and of his stride. Past and present troubles had been shed somewhere in those first few circuits. He glanced to Dederic and hoped the Norman had found similar peace.

The sun was rising towards its zenith when they started their fifteenth lap and the heat was fierce. At this point, Dederic fell back and then stopped, slumping down in the shade of the western tunnel, gulping hungrily at his water skin between heaving breaths.

Apion continued until he came to the northern bend for the thirtieth time. His thighs were on fire, but now it seemed more of an effort to stop and break the rhythm than to keep going. But he did slow gradually as he rounded the southern bend. Then his breathing calmed as he came to a halt by Dederic. After stretching his muscles once more, he sat and wiped the worst of the sweat from his brow, then took up Dederic’s offer of the water skin. He could manage only sips, but it instantly cooled his chest. After a short while, the Norman rummaged in his hemp sack and brought out two eggs and a small loaf of bread. They ate swiftly and washed the meal down with the last of the cool water.

Apion pushed up, readying to stand, when Dederic’s words stopped him.

‘Sir, does it last longer if you run more?’ he said.

Apion looked to him. The Norman’s brow was furrowed as he studied the dust before him. ‘Longer? The silence in your mind, you mean?’

‘Aye,’ Dederic looked up. ‘It is as you said it would be; I thought nothing of the fat lord while I ran nor while we ate. Emelin and the children were a warm glow in my heart and their troubles seemed distant, conquerable.’ He scratched a line in the dust with his finger. ‘But now those troubles clamour to return to my mind.’

‘Running only staves off my troubles for a short while, Dederic,’ Apion settled back down cross-legged once more. ‘I understand the torment.’

The pair shared a lasting silence, each man gazing into their own past.

‘I’ve heard things, sir,’ Dederic said at last, tentatively, ‘the men in the Chaldian ranks spoke of what happened to you. To those you loved.’

Apion tensed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Dederic waved a hand, ‘I didn’t mean to bring your attention to that which you seek to forget. I can only pray that the same fate does not befall my family.’

Apion nodded. Then he leaned forward and clasped a hand to the Norman’s shoulder. ‘Then don’t let it happen, Dederic.’

Dederic frowned.

‘Back then,’ Apion said, gulping back the gall of sorrow and bitterness, ‘I should have saved those I lost. But I failed. Not a breath passes without the question gnawing on my thoughts like a pox; what could I have done differently? The answers come thick and fast, mocking me. But there is only one answer that I know to be true,’ he held Dederic’s earnest gaze. ‘If I was back in that time now, I would do whatever it took to save them. Whatever it took.’

Apion felt a stinging behind his eyes and he saw the same glassiness in Dederic’s gaze.

‘Whatever it takes,’ the Norman nodded. Then, at last, his familiar smile reappeared. ‘In the meantime I think I will run until my heart bursts!’

Apion chuckled at this. Then he looked to the Norman earnestly. ‘Something else may well help to set your mind at rest, Dederic.’

‘Sir?’

‘The Chaldian ranks are bereft of leaders. Without Sha, Blastares and Procopius I would be lost. Indeed, I need more of their ilk. I could use a man like you to lead a tourma for me, when we return to Chaldia. It pays better than a mercenary purse – some two hundred nomismata for a year’s service. Within a few years you would perhaps have enough to pay off the fat lord of Rouen? What do you say?’

Dederic gawped for a moment, then his face split with an earnest smile. ‘I look forward to serving Chaldia, sir.’ He stood and held out a hand. Apion clasped the Norman’s forearm and rose.

The pair grinned, then walked into the western tunnel. But there they halted, the breath freezing in their lungs.

They were not alone.

A pair of numeroi approached, emerging from the shadows of the tunnel. The spearmen were fully armoured in their iron klibania, and they wore baleful grimaces under the rims of their helms. One had a broad, stubbled jaw and the other a drawn, sickly pallor. They flexed their grips on their spears as they approached.

Apion’s heart shuddered once more, this time with the anticipation of battle. The dark door surfaced in his mind as he saw the pair level their spear tips.

He swept a hand across Dederic’s chest, pushing him back. The pair stepped back from the tunnel and into the sunshine-bathed racetrack once more. A glance around the sweeping banks of the Hippodrome revealed no further aggressors. But the pair of numeroi were light on their feet and they split as they came from the shadows to flank he and Dederic.

Instinctively, Dederic and Apion pushed together, back-to-back, twisting round as the spearmen circled them silently. Apion pinned the one nearest him with his gaze.

‘Why do you hesitate?’ he said flatly, ‘two unarmed men should not pose any difficulty to you.’

At this, the stubble-jawed numeros chuckled gruffly, then lunged forward, punching his spear towards Apion’s chest. The tip tore Apion’s tunic and scored his chest as he leapt clear, pulling Dederic with him. Then he lurched forward and clasped his hands together to bring them down upon the numeros’ neck. The stubble-jawed spearman roared at this, his helmet falling to the dust as he staggered back, clutching at his neck, his face boiling red. But the spearmen were quick to come for them once more. Apion and Dederic edged away until they backed against the stone wall that ringed the racetrack.

‘I was going to make it quick,’ the angered numeros growled, drawing a line across his throat with one finger, ‘now I think I’ll just spill your guts and let you bleed out while I watch.’ His sour glare bent into a shark-like grin. He fired a nod to his colleague and the pair lunged forward like wolves.

Then a crunch of iron upon bone was accompanied by a splatter of hot fluid and a foul stench.

Apion blinked through this mess and stared at the sight before him. The stubble-jawed numeros stood, spear extended, frozen like a statue. A battle axe rested in his forehead, cleaving his brain, and a bloody soup of grey matter pumped from the wound. The man’s eyes rolled up in his head and then the body crumpled.

Apion spun to see Dederic gawping at the other numeros. The man flapped his lips wordlessly as he contemplated the axe embedded in his chest, before he, too toppled to the ground.

‘I told you not to come here alone, Strategos,’ a voice boomed from above. ‘The Numeroi watch your every step.’

Apion twisted and looked up. Igor of the Varangoi stood some twelve rows up on the western terrace, flanked by a pair of his men. Each of them wore their pure-white armour and robes.

The big Rus hobbled down the steps and thudded onto the track. He placed a foot on the chest of the dead numeros and wrenched his axe free. Then he gazed at the bloodied iron and sighed, stroking the blade as if it was a pet. ‘And I only sharpened you this morning.’