Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (25 page)

Apion nodded, shuffling to sit forward. ‘The Seljuks employ more than one style of warfare,
Basileus
. When they muster the armies of Persia, they present spearmen, archers and cavalry – a mix not unlike our forces. But the core of the Seljuk armies is and always has been their mounted archers. The steppe cavalry that swept across and seized all of the lands that they now possess are still the beating heart of their forces. They ride their sturdy steppe ponies like centaurs, and they only ride mares – always mares. They can fire an arrow for every heartbeat, so while one is being
nocked
, another is in flight and another is punching into its target.’ His gaze grew distant. ‘Like flies that can be beaten off but not driven away. They call themselves ghazis now, but they are the jewel in Alp Arslan’s hordes. He knows this and that is why he is a master of the feigned retreat, employing the ghazis as the lure and the Persian might as the snare. It is vital to disarm to lure first.’ He leaned forward and plucked a war elephant piece and had it shoot across the board, taking the emperor’s vizier.

Romanus rubbed at his temples, ignoring the loss. ‘Tell me though, Strategos; I am walking into hell in the east, yet I fear more for what is going on in my absence, in Constantinople. Why is that?’

Apion’s mind flashed with images of Psellos, John Doukas and the Numeroi, then of Eudokia and her boys. A trace of guilt
spidered
through Apion’s veins as the image of Eudokia stayed a little longer than the others.

‘You fear for Lady Eudokia?’

Romanus burst out with laughter. It was mirthless. ‘I fear more for any who would try to harm her – Eudokia is very capable of defending herself.’ His face fell sombre. ‘I do not wish her to come to any harm, Apion, but there is no love there. Yes, we rut. It is often fraught and frantic. But it is never with the passion of lovers. It serves its purpose, as does our marriage.’ Romanus leant forward, his eyes bloodshot and weary in the torchlight. ‘It is the presence of Psellos writhing like an asp in my palace that troubles me. He has been quiet for some months, yes, but I see him as a wounded wolf. I know he will never accept my reign.’ He shook his head, punching a fist into his palm. ‘That is why this campaign must succeed, Apion, at all costs. Failure will see him prise me from the throne and the Doukids will reign once more.’

Apion nodded. ‘Then let us fix our minds on the east,
Basileus
. Let us take victory in Syria. The people of the empire will never accept a coup against a victorious leader.’

Romanus’ sour look dissolved into a grin. ‘Leave the rousing homilies to me, Strategos.’

Apion found the grin infectious. ‘Gladly,’ he said, sitting back, crunching into an apple.

Romanus chuckled, then stifled a yawn and tapped the shatranj board. ‘My body is telling me that it is late, and that I should retire. But we will finish this game one evening soon.’ He swigged the last of his wine and readied to stand. ‘But the east is indeed where we must focus. Firstly we must look at the march that will take us there. Lykandos lies in our path. Our touldon is light and so we must march through the heart of that torn land and the supply points I have organised. I hear that the valleys there are notorious?’

Apion nodded. Lykandos was one area of the borderlands that he particularly loathed visiting. Ostensibly it was a Byzantine Thema, but, pressed against Seljuk-held territory, it was even more permeable a border than Chaldia. ‘The valleys are stifling, even in this month. We must take the widest of those valleys, but even that is long and winding. The sunlight blinds you as you ride, and you hear only the echo of your mount’s hooves. It can feel like you are the only man alive after a while, and that is when it is at its most dangerous.’

Romanus stood, then clasped a hand to Apion’s shoulder. ‘Then that will be when I need my finest men by my side. Until tomorrow, Strategos.’ With that, he turned and spoke with the varangoi, before entering his tent.

Then Apion stood and stretched. He stepped over to feed his apple core to Dederic’s stallion. ‘Feed him well, for the march to come will be arduous.’

‘Aye, sir,’ Dederic nodded, busying himself brushing the stallion’s coat.

‘And don’t wake me when you come back to the tent,’ he grinned.

Dederic flashed a smile in reply.

Then Apion turned to the campfire. Philaretos and Gregoras were in a whispered discussion there. He offered his half-full wine cup to the pair. ‘Any more of this and I’ll be in a foul mood come the morning.’

They fell silent instantly. Gregoras shot a prickly glare up at him. Philaretos looked up too; the sleepiness in his eyes from moments ago was gone. Apion noticed the whetstone in his other hand had barely been used. Then, in a heartbeat, the
Doux’s
features melted into a smile and took the cup. ‘Aye, it would be a shame for Paphlagonian red go to waste.’

Apion nodded to the pair. ‘Savour it . . . and let it wash the tension from your mind,’ he said, trying to disguise a frown.

Then he wandered over to where Igor and the varangoi stood. ‘Until morning,’ he said.

Igor offered him a warm grin. ‘Sleep well, Strategos. Tomorrow is the start of a long journey.’

‘As is every day, Komes,’ Apion smiled. ‘As is every day.’

As he walked through the
torchlit
camp, he glanced back to the campfire and wondered at the mood of some of the men. The tension of the campaign was building, it seemed.

***

Zenobius knelt in his kontoubernion tent, hands on his thighs, his eyes closed. In the darkness, he was truly alone. Just like those days he had hidden under the floor of his father’s house. Four winter days without food or water, insects crawling in his hair, rats biting at his flesh. Meanwhile the villagers searched for him outside, baying for his blood, sure that he had been responsible for the death of a newborn baby. That the baby’s corpse bore the scratches of a wildcat meant nothing to them. They wanted his blood. Father seemed happy to let them have it and even helped the mob in their quest. That was when he had first killed, emerging from beneath the floor late on the fourth night, then clubbing to death the sot who had spawned him. The power had first flowed through him in those moments as the blood spilled.

His memories were wrenched away when he heard footsteps approaching. He glanced around the circle of nine unoccupied sets of bedding in the tent. Was it one of the nine fools of his kontoubernion he had been forced to endure? Then the tent flap was pulled back gingerly. His glower melted into a cold smile as he recognised the shadowy figure stood there. It was his accomplice, the one in the emperor’s party who had signalled him on their approach to Ancyra.

‘Ah, you have something new for me at last? You had better or I will see to it that you never receive the gold my master promised you.’

‘I heard everything. The emperor is to march the column through Lykandos,’ the figure said, flatly. ‘Through the central valleys.’

‘Good, good,’ Zenobius mused. ‘Then they will come to the Scorpion Pass on their journey.’

‘What is to happen there?’ The shadowy figure asked.

Zenobius stared at him. ‘Do not plead ignorance to the consequences of your actions. You know well what will happen.’ Then the albino leaned forward, just far enough for the moonlight to dance in his ghostly silver eyes. ‘They will come to the Scorpion Pass . . . and they will die there. All of them.’

16.
The Scorpion Pass

It was a baking-hot morning when the imperial campaign crossed into the golden, steep-sided valleys of the Lykandos Thema.

Apion rode alongside Igor, Dederic, Romanus and Gregoras. He found plentiful excuse to cast a look over his shoulder and take pride in the spectacle of the column. Over seven thousand men, snaking out for miles behind them like a silvery asp. In the few weeks they had been stationed by the Halys, the army had been transformed.

At the tail, Doux Philaretos had been entrusted with the rearguard. He along with five hundred kataphractoi – a mixture of riders from the themata and the Scholae Tagma – and a large detachment of toxotai were on the lookout for ambushers and deserters. Fortunately, since the bolstering of the column’s fortunes, there had been few of the latter.

In front of this rearguard, and forming the bulk of the column, the much-improved infantry banda of the themata marched, sixteen abreast. Those who had previously been filthy and unarmed now possessed a shield, spear and sword. The majority were clad in quilted vests and leather klibania, and the select few who would fight on the front ranks had been afforded iron klibania. The medley of bright, clean banners identifying each of the banda bobbed on a sea of vertical speartips as they strode, bulging around the centre to protect the supply touldon. Equally rejuvenated, the toxotai marching with them each had a bow, a full quiver and a wide-brimmed felt hat to keep the sun from their eyes, affording them a truer aim.

Leading the thematic infantry were the all-iron-garbed skutatoi of the Optimates Tagma. Then, heading up the column were the rest of the Scholae Tagma; twelve hundred riders on muscular mounts. The priests marched before these riders, carrying the bejewelled campaign Cross. The
signophoroi
flanked them, carrying their purple Chi-Rho campaign banners with pride. Then, at the head, the emperor rode, surrounded by his white-armoured varangoi.

Since leaving his Chaldian army behind almost a year ago, Apion had felt short of a limb. This sight, however, was a fine comfort. Having equipped the men well, their self-belief and attitude had lifted also – just as old Cydones had always preached.

‘A well-tempered anvil, indeed,’ Romanus spoke in a hushed tone, ‘probably the finest I have led in some years.’

Apion turned to see that the emperor was grinning at him.

‘Not quite; wait until we rendezvous with the men of Chaldia . . . ’ Apion grinned in reply.

Romanus frowned momentarily, then threw his head back and boomed with laughter.

***

The mood of the march had been buoyant for the next few days. The priests had led prayers and chanting as the column wound its way deeper into the valleys of Lykandos. Apion had dropped back from time to time, offering words of encouragement to the marching men. He had noticed to his amusement that, when the priests were well out of earshot, some of the men struck up more ribald songs. Indeed, the further away the priests were the more bawdy the men became.

At the end of each day they would set up a vast, palisade-ringed marching camp, with each thema and tagma forming smaller camps within for their own ranks. After evening prayer, the men laughed as they ground their grain, cooked their porridge and sipped their soured wine by the campfires. The nights passed without incident and the soldiers awoke refreshed in the mornings, ready for another days’ march.

Vitally, each man had set out from the eastern banks of the Halys with two full skins of water, knowing that the heart of Lykandos was notoriously dry. Those skins had served them well for those first few days. Indeed, they should have been enough to see them to the first well and the supply dump the emperor had arranged.

But then, on the fourth day, things changed.

They came to the wide valley with the well at its centre, the column had slowed to a standstill and looked on in silence, the ribald tunes and prayer falling away.

There were no wagons, no sacks of grain, fodder or water skins. Likewise, the group of skutatoi they had expected to find guarding the well was nowhere to be seen. The valley floor was deserted. Romanus had sent a clutch of kursores scout riders on to the end of the valley to check for signs of the men or even for ambush. But the land was deserted in every direction. Then they approached the well, but it yielded only sand. The mood had understandably darkened at this. But out in these parched valleys, they could do little other than carry on to the next well with only the emergency water rations on the touldon wagons to fall back on.

Two days later, they had approached the second well in weariness, the men bearing dark lines under their eyes. Again there were no supplies and no guards. They were apprehensive as they moved to the well, then spirits soared as the bucket splashed into the darkness at the bottom. The cheering and expectation plummeted though, when the bucket became wedged. Apion had tossed a flaming torch into its depths, and then recoiled at the rotting body of the skutatos that lay down there – his neck and back snapped at absurd angles and the water slick with his putrefying flesh. Again, they had little option but to move on.

Now, another three days on from that second well, they trekked in silence, all water long gone. As if to mock them, the noon sky was pure azure and the heat in the valley was relentless, the air stale and dry. The bulk of the kataphractoi had taken to riding only in their tunics, boots and
swordbelts
, their weighty armour stowed in the touldon. Many of the skutatoi had done likewise, now marching only with their packs, spears and shields. Even the usually hardy mules of the supply train brayed in exhaustion.

Apion too rode in his light linen tunic and boots, with a felt cap on his head to shield his scalp from the worst of the sun. His hair hung loose around his face and neck. His mind was foggy, having slept fitfully the past few evenings, waking
unrefreshed
. His throat was as dry as his tunic was damp with sweat – he had drained the last of his water the previous day.

Damn, but this land is dryer than the wit of a Cretan.

He felt guilt at his own discomfort, wondering how the infantry behind him, largely from the more temperate north-western themata and unaccustomed to this parched land, would be faring right now. Then he looked ahead to the vanguard of three hundred kataphractoi, riding a half-mile in front of the main column. Their role required them to remain in full armour, and they were but a shimmering dot of iron on the horizon.
Poor bastards
, he sympathised,
no doubt cooked through by now.

Gregoras, the Strategos of Thrakesion, rode nearby in silence, his ruddy skin dripping with sweat. Apion noticed how his eyes seemed to be alive though, combing the
valleysides
, taking everything in. He felt both reassured and unnerved by this.

In contrast, Dederic rode with his head down, his eyes on the dust before him. The Norman was shorn of his weighty mail hauberk. His neck was burnt red.

‘I’d cut off my cock for a skinful of water,’ Igor croaked beside him. The Rus’ face was the shade of cooked salmon, giving him a demonic appearance.

‘It is enough to drive a man to madness,’ Romanus observed, frowning slightly at Igor’s choice of words. ‘The echo of boots and hooves grows spellbinding, and all my thoughts are fixed only on when we will next enjoy a modicum of shade.’

‘Aye,’ Apion straightened up on his saddle, ‘yet thirst and heatstroke are but a few of the dangers out here.’ He took to scouring the valley sides as he said this. In their discomfort the vigilance had ebbed, he realised. ‘We must keep the men focused,
Basileus
.’

At that moment, a clopping of galloping hooves rang out. Doux Philaretos slowed alongside them, having rode from the rearguard. ‘Fresh water would focus the mind like nothing else right now,’ he suggested, then cast his narrowed eyes around the emperor’s retinue. ‘Perhaps we should stop here and find a source?’

Romanus punched a fist into his palm, then swivelled his gaze along the valley sides. ‘But if we stay on our route, the River
Pyramos
is, what, just over a day’s march from here?’

At this, Gregoras’ eyes shot to the emperor. ‘A day’s march for well-watered men, perhaps. I would agree with the doux,
Basileus.
Let us stop here and find a closer source.’

‘It seems that the River Saros is but a short distance from here – just over two miles,’ Philaretos continued, squinting at a dog-eared map. ‘Look, there,’ the doux said, tapping his map then pointing at a narrow crevasse a few hundred paces ahead in the southern valleyside. A finger of rock jutted into the sky from one side of the opening, curving round like a half coiled finger, the tip weathered to a fine point. ‘That’s it, the only passable terrain to the banks of the Saros, by the looks of it. It’s called . . . the Scorpion Pass.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Igor muttered.

Apion looked to the jagged opening, struggling to hear anything other than the trickling of water in his mind. He rubbed at his eyes and examined the fissure again. It was narrow, and even from here he could see that the ground was uneven and littered with rockfall. The men would have to march two abreast at best, and the horses in single file. ‘That valley is narrow and treacherous underfoot – we could only send a few men through it to bring water to the column and it would take many trips to slake the thirst of our ranks. It would mean halting here for some time. I feel we should press on to the east,
Basileus
.’

Romanus mulled over a response. ‘Yes, we should not be distracted from our course . . . ’

Before he had finished his sentence a groan came from behind them, followed by a thudding. They twisted in their saddles to see that a pair of skutatoi at the head of the Thrakesion Thema had crumpled, one to his knees, the other flat-out, face down. The one on his knees panted, his eyes like slits, his limbs trembling, his face pale.
Ghostly white,
Apion thought, seeing a lock of pure white hair hanging from the felt cap the man wore. It was the albino recruit he had noticed before.

‘Clearly, we must stop here,’ Gregoras raised his eyebrows at this as if to underline the point. The other banda of the thema looked on, their faces a sea of weariness.

‘
Basileus
, morale is low,’ Doux Philaretos agreed. ‘At the rear of the column, we have had to ride down deserters – it started this morning.’

Romanus swithered. Then he looked to Apion. ‘I can’t let morale fall away, Strategos. Worse, I can’t afford to have them perish. They need water.’ His gaze darted from his weary men to the silent, shimmering valley sides.

Philaretos and Gregoras shared a shrewd glance then looked to the emperor with narrowed eyes.

At last, the emperor nodded, heeling his mount round to face the head of the column. ‘Down your burdens and rest,’ he boomed. ‘We will remain here until the midday heat relents.’ He motioned to the blanket of shade that had formed on the northern side of the valley as the afternoon begun. ‘Keep your weapons close and maintain a stringent watch. But know that your water rations will be replenished before long.’

As the news filtered back along the column, a chorus of relieved sighs broke out and then escalated into a raucous cheering. Like a silver asp, the body of men moved from the centre of the valley into the shade at the northern edge. Then a clatter of helmets and shields hitting the dust filled the air. The vanguard trotted back to join their comrades.

‘Kursores!’ Romanus barked.

A pack of thirty scout riders trotted over on their lithe mounts. Their leader was Himerius, an aged man. His crisp bald pate was an angry shade of red from the sun. His face was fixed in a sour and puckered grimace, as if he had been sucking on a ripe lemon. ‘
Basileus!
’ the rider barked.

‘Load your saddles with water skins, as much as you can carry when full. Make your way to the Saros then ferry the skins back to the column. It will take many trips, but know this;’ Romanus’ cobalt eyes sparkled, ‘today, you can be our saviour.’

***

Zenobius stepped away from the collapsed skutatos and moved into the shade. Here, he offered a furtive nod to his accomplice, mounted by the emperor’s side. Then he abandoned his pretence of feebleness and watched as the skribones tried in vain to revive the fallen man he had been marching alongside. Perhaps if the man merely had heatstroke then they would be able to bring him round, Zenobius thought. Then he reached into his purse and thumbed at the small pewter vial in there, half of its contents gone. No, there would be no reviving of this one, he grinned. Then his eyes drifted to the Scorpion Pass.

Perhaps I have offered him a small mercy, given what is to come . . .

***

Atop a sun-baked plateau in the north of Lykandos, Sha chewed on a strip of goat meat as he eyed his weary men. There were nearly four
thousand
of them. They were gathered round small cooking fires, munching on their rations of hardtack, slurping at their stew of honey, almonds and yoghurt, stopping only to slake their thirst with their plentiful water supply. They needed every last drop, for up here they were exposed to the mid-afternoon sun that baked them as they ate. Their necks were angry red and their faces slick with sweat. He considered giving the order to move out, then hesitated.
Give them a little longer,
he affirmed,
after all, it has been a long and tiring march.