Island in the Storm

Part 3: 1071 AD
9. Ruthless

It had been a bitter winter, with a thick blanket of snow clinging to the rooftops and domes of Constantinople in the coldest months. Statues of emperors past stood proudly on column-tops draped in a jewellery of icicles. Sentries paced the city walls, shivering, breath clouding in the chill and shoulders wrapped in thick woollen cloaks. Citizens hurried to and from their homes, sharing whispered tales of the Seljuk capture of the eastern fortresses.

Just before dawn on the first morning of February, the snow was joined by a thick and icy shroud of fog. At the tip of the peninsula, the Imperial Palace and the surrounding streets were deserted at this early hour, until the fog swirled and the sound of boots crunching on frozen snow pierced the air. Two figures were being marched by a pair of varangoi, down from the palace towards the Prosphorion Harbour on the north edge of the city.

John Doukas’ shoulders trembled with rage, feeling the sword point of the varangos marshalling him resting at the small of his back. Psellos stumbled as the other gruff varangos’ axe blade pressed against his back, knocking his purple cap to the ground. The advisor stooped to sweep the hat up again, then swung to face the Rus axemen. ‘You are already dead, redbeard,’ he hissed, his clouding breaths coiling around the axeman’s face. The varangos feigned disinterest at this, twirling his axe, half-grinning and looking on past Psellos’ shoulder. ‘But not before you have watched your family being torn apart like hogs under a butcher’s blade. They live in the south of the city, do they not, by the Forum of the Ox?’ Now the Rus’ face steeled, his eyes betraying a glint of fear. It was Psellos’ turn to grin.

‘Onwards!’ Igor cried, emerging from the mist behind this party.

Psellos turned and continued down the gentle sloping flagstones, swept clear of snow and glistening with frost, towards the sea walls. Now he felt the dark glower of John Doukas on him again. The man had insisted on instigating a coup as soon as Romanus’ plans had come to light earlier that week. Rally the Numeroi from their barracks, seize the city and mount Romanus’ head on the palace walls!

Psellos glowered at John. A coup might well have taken the city, but the outlying strategoi and doukes that still supported the emperor would have rallied their themata and tagmata armies and come to the city’s walls. But then the delicacies of their situation had always been lost on John.

The walled harbour emerged from the fog like a tombstone, the iron gates keening as they swung open, shards of ice and snow toppling from the movement. A pair of spearmen glowered down on them from either side of the gates. Men from the Numeroi Tagma, Psellos realised. Until a week ago, his men. Since then, the Numeroi commanders had been sent into exile, with the emperor’s men taking over the city garrison. Now it was his turn, Psellos realised, seeing the half-rotted dromon that bobbed in the swirl of fog at the wharf side where another group of varangoi awaited them. He and John were to be cast from the city like beggars. They were to be taken across the Hellespont and cut adrift from imperial affairs with immediate effect. Of the Doukas family, only Eudokia’s children by her past marriage to Constantine Doukas would remain in the palace. Young Michael Doukas — one Psellos had long hoped to harness — would now be but a pawn of Diogenes and Eudokia. His thoughts began to churn.

They stumbled aboard the vessel closely followed by the varangoi escorting them, then turned to look back across the harbour. There, emerging from the fog of the palace hill, was the white-robed emperor and his harridan of a wife, ringed by more of their varangoi dogs. Romanus’ steely blue eyes were fixed on Psellos, as if John was merely an afterthought. With a ghostly moan from an unseen buccinator somewhere on the harbour walls, the dromon parted from the wharf side, the oars lapping at the waters under the carpet of fog. Slowly, the emperor and his retinue began to fade into the mist too.

‘And the last chance of power slips away in utter silence without a blade being drawn,’ John said, his voice trembling with rage. He gripped the edge of the ship with wool-lined mits as if trying to throttle the timbers.

‘You do not see it, do you?’ Psellos replied, never taking his eyes from the emperor’s fading form.

‘See what? All I see is a bleak future. I will take to my villa in the countryside of Bithynia, and I will no doubt live in luxury. But what good is luxury when my heart and my every thought are cloaked in shame. . shame!’ he thumped a mitted fist on the vessel’s edge.

A trio of the fifty varangoi escorting them looked round at this, alarmed for an instant, then melting into gentle and mocking laughter.

‘And these curs will guard my lands. Not to protect me, but to pen me in like a dog!’ John panted, then poked a finger at Psellos, wide-eyed. ‘And you too, advisor. This is your fate too!’

Psellos did not flinch, refusing to let John’s panic take him. ‘We have struggled for nearly four years to establish support enough to overthrow Diogenes and reinstate your family dynasty.’

‘Aye — four years! You seek to remind me of your failures? Not a wise move, advisor. Remember, at my countryside estate I have a company of slaves. They may only number twelve or so, but they will heed my beck and call. One word from me and they will dispose of any soul who displeases me.’

‘So already you seem keen to make plans for this countryside empire of yours — a few vineyards, a paltry household slave-guard and a pile of bricks?’ Psellos scoffed. ‘Will a swarm of cicadas and a field of barley stalks be your army?’

John grappled Psellos’ purple collar, lifting him to his toes. ‘You know I would give anything to have my rightful throne back, Advisor!’

Psellos felt the shower of spittle fleck his face. ‘Then you will listen. . Master.’

John set him down, nodding, his chest still heaving in ire. ‘Speak.’

‘For four years we have tried to garner support to oust Diogenes,’ he repeated, ‘and for four years the balance has always been too delicate to risk the coup you have long sought.’ Psellos leaned his elbows on the lip of the dromon, staring into the dark waters visible through the swirling fog. John joined him. ‘Now, it seems, we have pressed the emperor into making this rash move. Sending us into exile will instigate a backlash amongst our supporters. . your supporters,’ he swiftly corrected himself. ‘We have a righteous cause, Master. And matters are coming to a head, both concerning the throne and the long-anticipated clash with the sultan and his Seljuk hordes. Romanus has no money and his plans to gather a vast army are listing. Yet he now has no option but to march east, to Lake Van, at the head of what forces he can muster. He must expel the sultan’s forces from Manzikert and Chliat. Only a final victory and an end to the Seljuk threat can steady his trembling grip on the throne.’

Psellos’ own words rang in his ears for a moment. And for a moment, his chest lesion began itching furiously again. He recalled the night of that winter storm when the old crone had attacked him. Her words from that night now mixed with his own.

On a battlefield far to the east, by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars, blood will be let like a tide. . and it will be your doing.

The words seemed to usher the chill air in under his robe and across his skin. He shivered, drawing his garment tighter, feeling the glutinous fluid weep from the pitted, bad flesh there. This morning, to his disgust, he had even found a maggot writhing in one of those pits, and when he had plucked it out, he saw just the whiteness of his breastbone underneath.

It was then that something moved in his peripheral vision — along the deck from where they stood. It pulled him from his vile memory. He peered along the deck. A shape swirled in the mist; milky, sightless eyes, grey, web-like hair and one finger outstretched, pointing at him. Her lips were rolled back, her teeth like fangs. Then she swept towards him. With a yelp, he swung to face the approaching shape, only for a cloud of deathly-cold mist to sweep over him. Nothing.

John frowned at Psellos’ sudden jumpiness. ‘A hazardous campaign awaits Diogenes. Yet what influence can we have upon its fate when we languish in exile?’ he sighed.

‘Probably more than ever before,’ Psellos grinned, brushing away the thought of the old crone.

John scowled at this. ‘How so?’

‘We first heard of the emperor’s intentions to exile us a week ago. Do you think I used that time to pack my belongings?’ Psellos purred.

‘Advisor?’

‘I have made arrangements. This time, they shall not fail.’

The corners of John’s mouth played with a dark grin, his belief returning. ‘Tell me what you have planned.’

Psellos looked up and into the murky wall of fog, back in the direction of Constantinople. He stroked his gold rings, his eyes narrowing. ‘When Romanus marches east, he will find that his ranks are peppered with traitors, and his initiatives will be thwarted at every turn.’

***

The fog cleared from the capital later that day, leaving the air crisp and cool air and the sky unblemished. Romanus stepped out from the red dome atop the palace and onto the balcony ringing it. Out here, the snow-covered roofs glistened and the noise of the streets below was faint, contested by the crying of gulls and the lapping of icy waves against the sea walls. He gazed off to the east, across the choppy waters of the Bosphorus Strait to the shores of Anatolia. He needed strength now more than ever. Yet his people were in sedition once more and his armies were in tatters. And the winter had claimed another of his thin band of allies. Manuel Komnenos, shamed yet unswervingly loyal and eager to redeem himself after the disaster at Sebastae, had perished not on the battlefield but in his bed, overcome by a foul ear infection that soon consumed the rest of his body. ‘So few good men left to stand with me,’ he muttered into the ether. ‘And this is truly my last throw of the dice.’

There had been a modicum of respite, however, with the arrival of an offer from Alp Arslan. An offer of temporary truce. It seemed the sultan aimed to stabilise his hold on Seljuk Syria and wanted to have the spring to seize and garrison the rebellious cities of that baked land. He shook his head and sighed. It was an offer he could not refuse, despite the certainty that beyond the spring it would only result in a greater threat to the few Byzantine holdings in northern and western Syria.

He closed his eyes, attempting to order his thoughts once more. But a dull murmur from the streets down by the Hippodrome suddenly erupted into a chorus of cries. Angst, terror, penance. He frowned, glancing down, seeing a throng of citizens there, heads tilted skywards, fingers pointing. A stark coldness gripped him as he looked up to behold the heavens. A fiery red streak, breaking across the sky, staining the perfect blue. A comet. It shone like a bloody beacon. The cries of the populace rang in his ears. It is a sign, one cried. We have lost God’s favour! Another shrieked. He closed his eyes and clasped a hand over his heart. Do not desert me in my hour of need.

‘Basileus, they have arrived!’ Igor’s words rang out over the rooftop portico. The big Rus stopped in his tracks, eyes drawn to the omen in the skies. Even this scarred, haggard brute of a warrior gawped impotently at the sight.

Romanus bit his lip in frustration, then strode over to Igor, clasping a hand to the man’s shoulder and stirring him from his fright. ‘My generals are here? Then we must set to work at once, Komes,’ he beckoned Igor back inside the domed roof.

Here, the fine vases and ornaments had been cleared from the large oak table in the centre of the room and a map of the empire was rolled out over its surface. The fire had been piled high with logs and the shelves at the side of the room were well stocked with watered wine, fresh and aromatic bread, cheese and fruit. A pair of varangoi guarded the door and stairwell that led up to the room, and a cluster of thirty or so military men had gathered around the map table. He sought out the three most senior amongst them. ‘Bryennios, Tarchianotes, Alyates!’ he called out, a broad grin stretching across his face.

Bryennios, the towering Doux and Domestikos of the armies of the West, stepped forward. His dark-skinned face was gaunt and split with a feral grin. He had a thinning peak of dark hair, flashed with grey at the temples. He bowed on one knee and dipped his head. ‘Basileus!’

‘Up, up!’ Romanus waved him to stand once more. ‘It is good to see you again, old friend.’

‘I bring with me the best of your Thracian armies. Five thousand riders of the western tagmata,’ Bryennios added. ‘Steel-skinned, iron-willed, hearts brimming with courage!’

Romanus nodded, heartened, clasping his forearm to Bryennios’. ‘I need no reminding of the western riders’ valour — indeed, I have missed them since my days riding at their head were curtailed!’

Then the emperor turned to Doux Tarchianotes. This bulky, swarthy individual was some ten years older than Bryennios. The tanned skin of his somewhat unhandsome face was lined with age and spoiled by a bulbous wart on one cheek, a fleshy and shapeless nose and permanently flared nostrils. His dark curls hung to his jaw and a neatly trimmed beard hugged his chin. This man was nominally the commander of the eastern border tagmata, in the hazardous lands east of Chaldia. But in recent years, the armies there had fragmented, with the likes of the odious Crispin of Normandy running riot. As such, Tarchianotes had found himself as a man with a title and little else.

‘My friend,’ Romanus rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Your time has come. The imperial cavalry tagmata — the Scholae, the Vigla, the Stratelatai and the Hikanatoi — will ride under your command, and the infantry of the Optimates Tagma will march for you too. You will be my deputy for the coming campaign.’

‘This is a great honour you have bestowed upon me, Basileus,’ he bowed.

Romanus nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to the third of his summoned men. ‘And you,’ he said, ‘have grown into a fine leader of men in the years since last we met.’

Alyates, Strategos of Cappadocia, stepped forward, embracing the emperor as a brother would. He was in his early twenties, built like a sapling with lank, dark hair hanging to his cheeks and framing his fine-boned and handsome features. ‘The people of Cappadocia, your homeland, are with you in your every coming step, Basileus!’ Alyates exclaimed. His words were firm despite his soft tone. ‘I have mustered what men I could,’ he added with a whisper, ‘but barely two thousand march with me.’

Romanus felt his heart sink. He had hoped Alyates might raise twice that number from the lands of Cappadocia. He buried his disappointment and grinned, then cast his eyes around the other men he had called here; doukes of the tagmata and strategoi of the inner themata. These men would be his officers in what was to come. The campaign that would seal his destiny. He tapped on the campaign map. All gathered round the table.

‘Now, the goal that has eluded us in these last three years of campaigning lies here,’ he pointed forked fingers at the two dots lying near a lake, far to the east. ‘The fortress-towns of Chliat and Manzikert are akin to watchtowers, overseeing the Gateway to Anatolia. For many years, no one power held both. Now, Sultan Alp Arslan’s men garrison the walls of those citadels. He has a dagger poised at our flank. Unimpeded, he could channel his armies into inner Anatolia. In the past, we have suffered raids with bands of Seljuk riders, sometimes numbering several thousand, ravaging our borderlands and penetrating deep into the interior. The forts and watchtowers lie broken and unmanned across the heart of Anatolia in testament. And God will not let us forget what happened to Caesarea and Chonai in these last years.’

At this, the gathered men offered a muttering of prayer for the thousands of souls who died in the sacking of those mighty and once-invincible walled cities.

‘But should the Sultan bring the full might of his armies to bear through that eastern gateway, then we will not be hearing tales of ruination from the east. That ruination will befall all Anatolia and might threaten even the great walls of Constantinople itself. God’s very city is at risk. The empire could fall in these next months. It could fall, or,’ he looked each man in the eye, all faces illuminated in lamplight, ‘or we could seize a legendary victory,’ he finished, clenching a shaking fist. ‘In the past we have held either the desert cities to the southeast — such as Hierapolis, Antioch — or key Armenian fortresses — such as Manzikert or Chliat — in the east. Seldom both. Thus the interior of Anatolia has always been susceptible to invasion. Currently we have both Hierapolis and Antioch garrisoned by imperial troops and standing fastidiously against the Sultan’s annual sieges — so the southeast is secure. Bringing Manzikert and Chliat under Byzantine control also would see the eastern border secured.’

It was then he heard a muttering amongst the men.

‘What’s that you say?’ he said sharply, identifying one of the strategoi.

‘I. . I said how can we secure those two fortresses? For two years running we have set out to do so and failed. And just last year the strongest of our themata were all but wiped out under Manuel Komnenos’ stewardship,’ the man’s words echoed around the chamber until he dropped his gaze, almost ashamed that he had spoken up against the emperor.

‘Your words were spoken in earnest, man, do not shy away from them,’ Romanus replied. ‘He is right,’ he said to the others. ‘The three themata wiped out near Sebastae last year were supposed to be the backbone of the regional armies we would summon this year. Finely armoured and equipped, they harked back to a bygone era. Now they are part of history. To equip more themata in a similar fashion to replace them requires funding — funding that is simply not there.’

‘Then how do we amass a campaign army, Basileus?’ Another man spoke. ‘The themata are battered and broken and the tagmata armies number too few to guarantee victory and seizure of the Armenian forts.’

‘Guarantee?’ Romanus cocked an eyebrow. ‘There is no such thing as a guarantee. I once placed a wager on Xerus and his Phrygian chargers at the Hippodrome. The musclebound rider had won every race he entered — by nearly half the track. This day he was up against Ampelas, a slip of a lad on his first ever race. The boy was trembling visibly as he went to his chariot. But then Xerus turned up, white as a sheet, sweating profusely. He rode like a drunken beggar that day, coming in a full track behind Ampelas. Turns out he ate a bowl of oats shortly before his race that went through him like a blade. Spent the next three days shitting out every last morsel in his guts. So don’t talk to me of guarantees!’

A hearty chorus of chuckling rang out at this, even the man who had spoken was grinning. ‘Foul gruel for our enemies, then?’ he smiled.

‘Perhaps,’ Romanus nodded with a smirk. ‘But first, let us address how we will cope with the shortcoming in the thematic forces.’ He swept a hand across the map. ‘We can muster but a few hundred from each of the themata shattered in last year’s campaign — so I propose the men of those lands are left to defend their homes and tend to their farms. But from the other themata,’ he dotted a finger to the themata of Charsianon, Anatolikon, and Colonea, ‘we will be able to muster a greater number. Perhaps eight or ten thousand spears and bows plus maybe two thousand horse overall, including Alyates’ Cappadocians. Doux Philaretos is currently organising the thematic mustering in the upper Sangarios River valley,’ he pointed to a stretch of flatland in the northwestern corner of Anatolia. ‘Philaretos will see what shape he can pull those ranks into. They must be drilled and equipped to form a fine anvil for our cavalry hammer.’

Alyates’ cocked an eyebrow and he cast his gaze around the room. ‘You do not plan to muster the Chaldians? The Haga, he is not coming?’ Alyates asked.

Romanus looked up with a grin. ‘Ah, I had not come to that yet! The Strategos of Chaldia is assembling men in the east as we speak. His numbers are also few, but they are well equipped and expertly drilled. More, I have tasked him with mustering a mercenary army from our Armenian allies in the eastern hills and what nomadic riders he can gather too. He will gather this force and station them in the east at a point on our campaign trail, then come west with his retinue to join us at the mustering ground.’

A murmur of consent rang around the table at this.

‘Still, though,’ Tarchianotes interjected, ‘the combined forces of the themata and the Haga’s mercenary armies might still not be enough. Last year, Manuel Komnenos and his twenty thousand were crushed. You have talked of gathering an army thrice that size this year. But with the tagma and themata combined, I foresee only some thirty three thousand men. Not quite the hammer blow we hoped to deliver to the Sultan, is it?’

Romanus eyed the man carefully. His dark brown eyes were masked in shade. This one is a shrewd fellow — does he know of my plans already?

‘Indeed. Thus, we must look beyond the themata, or rather, within their lands. The wine and oil magnates own vast tracts of Anatolia. They reap great dividends from their produce.’

‘They are self-serving curs, to a man!’ Bryennios cut in, thumping a fist to the table. A heartbeat later, he bowed his head. ‘I am sorry, Basileus!’

Romanus let the outburst pass. He knew Bryennios’ son had been slain in some power struggle between the wine magnates of Paphlagonia.

‘They have paid vast sums of taxes into the imperial treasury in the past, but you are right, they have also profited greatly from imperial soil. Now it is time to call upon them. Some own sizeable private armies; companies of spearmen, retinues of riders. Many employ Norman lancers from the west or Rus mercenaries from the north. Some even organise their infantry into banda. Others have scant forces — just a handful of thugs and brigands to guard their countryside villas — but vaults brimming with gold. Should they wish to stave off invasion of their precious lands, then now is the time they should seek to spend that money in bolstering their ranks and joining the campaign. I estimate that we could add at least another seven thousand to our campaign army if we call upon them. An army of forty thousand combined. Not quite what I had hoped for, but a strong force indeed. Stronger than the empire has mustered in many years.’

Silence rang around the room, and Romanus could feel the uncertainty growing. Many felt just as Bryennios did about these greedy and proud lords of plenty. A log snapped in the fire, breaking the tension.

‘We have no choice, do we?’ Bryennios asked.

Romanus nodded earnestly. ‘This year demands victory. The Lake Van fortresses must be taken and the Gateway to Anatolia secured.’

‘Then I give you my backing, Basileus, as always,’ Bryennios replied, bowing then looking to his comrades to follow suit. And they did, one by one, some albeit grudgingly.

Romanus felt an all too brief flush of relief. They had bought into his mustering plan. But now he would have to broach a far more contentious subject. ‘As you are all aware, I am sure, I must also take measures to protect my throne whilst I am absent from the capital.’ He clapped his hands.

The two varangoi at the door parted, and another pair marshalled a young man in. This one wore a leather tunic and a white woollen cloak. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with thick, dark, cropped hair and a flat-boned, fair-skinned face. His dark, almond-shaped eyes lent him a look of openness.

‘Andronikos Doukas will be joining us on this campaign.’

‘You are taking John Doukas’ son on this campaign?’ Alyates gasped.

‘John Doukas and his acolytes may be in exile, but only a fool would think them content with their lot. Having his son in my ranks will ensure they remain so for the duration of the campaign, at least.’

All eyes fell upon Andronikos. The young man’s nose wrinkled. ‘Are you seeking out my hidden blade?’ he said, meeting each gaze upon him. His voice was throaty and firm. ‘I have no wish to join my father in exile. I am to ride with you like a wretch — in chains. And I will do so gladly, if only to prove my valour.’

‘Aye, until you can sink a blade into the emperor’s back?’ one voice called out.

Andronikos came to the edge of the table and stood tall, stretching his neck to see who had spoken. ‘I will ride with neither shield nor blade. And I have the courage to do so, unlike you, who casts his words from a veil of shadows.’

The doux who had spoken out leaned forward over the table so his face was fully illuminated. It was Tarchianotes. His bulbous nose was wrinkled in distaste.

‘I won’t let you out of my sight for a moment. . boy!’

Romanus leaned in between the pair, cutting through the simmering tension. ‘So be it. Now, let us eat and discuss the finer detail. There is much to organise. As soon as the snow lifts from the city, we will make haste across the Bosphorus and meet with our mustered armies on the banks of the Sangarios. Then, with God’s will, we will see our empire secured and our people free of strife,’ he boomed, lifting a cup of watered wine and urging the others to do likewise.

‘Nobiscum Deus!’ the gathered military men roared in reply, then broke into clusters of conversation, each man taking bread and wine for himself and discussing their roles with their comrades.

At last, Romanus realised, there were no eyes upon him. He slipped from the chamber and out onto the balcony once more. His gaze lifted to the heavens and rested once more on the blood-red comet, like a fresh wound in the night sky. His mind tumbled with thoughts of what might happen in this city in his absence, of the patchwork and suspect nature of the magnate armies who would supplement his ranks, of what might happen when they reached Lake Van, far to the east. And the road to that far flung outpost is long and treacherous, he thought, his gaze falling to the eastern horizon. A chill wind danced across every inch of his flesh.

***

The second week of March drove out the last of the ice and snow. Three fresh but clear-weathered days saw the ceremonial gilded shield hung on the gates of the Imperial Palace. This age-old sign meant the campaign was to begin in earnest. Crowds gathered and a thick stench of dung permeated the air as, all that morning, the city streets were flooded with mules, oxen, carts and men, shouting and heckling over the whinnying, lowing and snorting as they guided this, the makings of the touldon train that would supply the campaign, towards the fortified Port of Julian.

When Romanus entered the port gates on foot dressed in his white and silver moulded bronze breastplate, white tunic and trousers and fine doeskin boots, all stopped to salute.

‘Basileus,’ they called out.

He saluted in return, then motioned for them to get back to their business. He took just a moment to glance up and over the walls of the port, across the fluttering banners atop the Hippodrome and up to the red dome at the pinnacle of the Imperial Palace. He saw her there, the woman he had come to love. He stroked the golden heart pendant she had given him as a wedding gift, then tucked it inside his armour and thought of her and young Nikephoros.

‘Until I return to your side,’ he whispered. If you return, a cruel voice countered in his mind. He ignored the voice of doubt, slipped his purple cloak over his shoulders and boarded the imperial flagship, his escort of varangoi flooding onboard with him.

Igor and his men were resplendent in their pure-white armour, fine silk cloaks, shell-like shields clinging to their shoulders and battle axes slung over their backs. Most wore simple helms or none at all — letting their blonde and red braided locks hang free. The sight of one thousand of these hardy and ruddy-faced curs filled his heart with hope. Another two thousand such men were to remain here in the city with a brief to stay vigilant of any manoeuvrings. For although Psellos was in exile, the man’s claws were long and insidious. His gaze had unwittingly drifted to the form of Andronikos Doukas, being led on board the flagship, his wrists bound in chains. The young man had done nothing to suggest he was of the same ilk as his father, and this brought a dark cloud of guilt over Romanus’ heart. A hard choice, but the right one, he affirmed.

‘We are ready to embark, Basileus,’ the ship’s kentarches said, panting, his hands lined with rope-burns from working the rigging.

‘Good. Take us out,’ Romanus nodded, then moved over to the prow, resting his palms on the edge of the ship to look ahead as the vessel moved under oar out through the sea gates and into the Propontus. Then the purple and white Chi-Rho sail was unfurled — at once billowing proudly in the stiff sea breeze. Romanus inhaled deeply. The salt spray made it all real — always the first step of a campaign to the east. The scent of the ocean, the stinging chill of the water, the sight of the foaming, choppy surf offering the first hint of defiance, the crash of the waves against the hull and the crying of gulls and cormorants.

Let’s see what you have for me this time, he said with a nervous but defiant grin.

All around him, clusters of round-hulled pamphyloi bobbed, ferrying horses, fodder, supplies and artillery components. Just ahead, dromons — each with three banks of oars — brimmed with spearmen and riders from the imperial tagmata. The completion of this small but fine fleet was one of the few rewards for abstaining from campaign the previous year.

He looked east in the rough direction of Helenopolis, the small port-town in Bithynia that was their destination, then up to the sky, taking heart at the unbroken blue that promised of the spring and summer to come. His memories of the grim comet had faded. Even the populace seemed to have gotten over the spectacle without too many predictions of doom. The voyage continued throughout the morning, swift and steady. It was only when they cut away from the coast and out across the Propontus that the skies greyed. The turquoise waters turned sombre in reflection, the choppy peaks growing higher and causing the timbers of the vessel to groan. Some soldiers, unused to the buck and swell of the sea, took to throwing down their bread rations and retching overboard. Then the grey clouds conspired to unleash a chill rain that swiftly turned into a hailstorm. Chunks of ice as large as a sword pommel smashed down on the deck. Soldiers yelped and ran for cover, clustering under the sails.

Romanus braved the storm until it became ferocious, some chunks of hail even splintering a barrel of wine stowed on the deck. At this, he hurried to join his men under the precarious shelter of the sail, slipping and sliding through the slick of red wine. There, he watched as the sky continued to hurl down its wrath, turning the water all around the boat into a foaming cauldron. The stench of sweat and damp clothing soon filled his nostrils.

‘It is a sign,’ he heard a squat vigla soldier say, behind him. ‘We should be going to Pylai, not Helenopolis. The men of my bandon, they all have been on campaign before, and they say they have always travelled to Pylai and then set off overland from there.’

Romanus made to contest the man’s fears, but another voice cut in;

‘And if the men told you they always drank each other’s piss on campaign, would you yearn to do likewise?’ the voice said. It was Andronikos Doukas, his haughty posture and calm expression untroubled by the squall.

The vigla soldier scowled and grappled Andronikos by the throat; ‘Close your mouth, cur! You are in shackles, remember. Be thankful you still have your tongue!’

Andronikos gazed down upon the man, barely flustered.

‘Enough!’ Romanus stepped in. The pair parted. Romanus offered Andronikos a barely noticeable nod of appreciation, then turned to the vigla soldier.

The vigla soldier gawped, meltwater running from his nose. He saw the emperor’s features, flaxen hair plastered to his face, cobalt eyes glinting, and at once paled.

‘Basileus, I. . I apologise,’ he stuttered over the rattle of the hail.

‘Why? Because I am your emperor or because you understand this man’s point?’ Romanus countered, opening a hand towards Andronikos. ‘Tell me as you would any of your comrades; why would Helenopolis be any sort of cursed move?’ he shrugged. ‘It is some ten miles more easterly then Pylai. Ten miles less to march!’ he cocked an eyebrow, awaiting an answer.

The vigla soldier gulped then nodded. ‘Yes, Basileus, that is true. But it is a damp and unpleasant place. The miserable city, some call it. Campaigns that have been victorious in the past have all gone via Pylai.’

Romanus snorted. ‘As have many disastrous ones!’

The men chuckled at this, and the vigla man nodded in acceptance.

‘Think not of omens and portents,’ he clasped a hand to his breast. ‘If we are showered with hail today then we will drink chilled water with our meal tonight!’

At this, the men broke out in a cheer. Then, as if the storm had been conquered by his words, the sky brightened, the hail lessened and then stopped. He strode from the shade of the sail, welcoming a modicum of warmth from the watery sun. As he gazed up at the thinning clouds, he saw a bird in trouble up there in the zephyrs. He walked to the prow of the vessel again, seeing the creature flail to right itself. It tumbled lower and lower. Finally, just a few feet above the deck of the boat, it caught the breeze and began to glide. Romanus watched as it then arced round and came to land on the prow right before him. It was a grey dove — rarely seen this far from land. He frowned at the creature’s boldness, then started as it hopped forward along the rim of the ship and onto the back of his hand. Romanus lifted his hand back, drawing the creature closer to examine it. An ordinary dove, bar the distinctively grey feathers and almost laughable impudence. Just an ordinary dove.

But he heard the murmurs from the deck behind him, and knew all eyes were upon him.

‘Another sign from God. He chooses to send a grey dove and not a white one. A truly ill-omen,’ they whispered.

Romanus set the creature to flight once more, then bowed his head in frustration.

***

The weather had turned back to mizzle when the fleet reached the grassy headland of Helenopolis — a tiny promontory jutting into the Gulf of Nicomedia. Soon, the campaign army had disembarked at the broad timber wharf side where a few round-hulled pamphyloi listed in the shallows, badly in need of repair. The small port-town itself was indeed rather sorry-looking. Unwalled, with a collection of timber shacks and a few dilapidated stone buildings that served as the offices of the local tourmarches, it had the look of a muddy stain on the otherwise verdant countryside surrounding it. A handful of garrison skutatoi in grubby tunics and rusting armour stood guard around the streets and atop the rickety watchtowers that overlooked the town and the disembarking fleet.

The army flooded through the town to set up camp south of the settlement. Romanus strode around the earthworks as the men busied themselves preparing the camp’s ditch and rampart, the scent of damp earth and sweet woodsmoke spicing the air. He stayed out in the relentless drizzle for the rest of the day, helping to erect the gates at the camp’s eastern side. By dusk, he was filthy, sodden and exhausted, but the camp was complete. Men settled down to pray and to kindle cooking fires, melting down cakes of dried yoghurt, sesame seeds and honey or cooking meaty stews. His appetite awoke at that moment, and he swung round to see the red satin dome of his tent at the heart of the camp. He strode towards it, then stopped before the ring of vigla skutatoi demarcating the imperial tent area, turning to sweep his gaze around the rest of the camp in the fading light. More tents than he could count. Myriad vivid banners standing proudly albeit soaked. And by his sodden imperial tent stood two symbols of greatness — the glittering campaign Cross and the blue-gold Icon of the Holy Virgin of Blachernae. The core of this campaign army was ready to stride forth and make history. ‘It seems the omen of the dove was somewhat exaggerated!’ he chuckled to himself.

He acknowledged the salutes of the vigla guards, who parted to let him through, then nodded to Igor and the eight varangoi who formed the inner layer of sentries, dotted around the edges of the imperial tent. Sweeping the tent flap back and entering, he saw that his bed had been prepared. A lamp glowed beside it, casting the tent in a warm and inviting orange. He slumped down, sliding off his cloak and boots with a sigh. A dull rumble emanated from his belly, and he realised he had not eaten all day. He noticed a tray in the corner of the tent, containing his evening meal of stew, fresh bread and more wine. He pulled a chunk of bread from the still-warm loaf and dipped this in the thick, delicious-smelling stew. The warm, meaty meal swiftly innervated his weary limbs and he finished the lot soon after. He washed this hearty meal down with a cup of watered wine from the jug. The wine had a bitter edge to it, spoiling the drink somewhat. ‘Pah,’ he scoffed, ‘you’re too used to the finest Paphlagonian, man!’

With that, he slipped off his tunic and sunk back onto his warm, dry bedding. The tension in his muscles seeped away and sleep overcame him in moments. It was dark and dreamless.

Until he heard something crashing like a war drum.

He sat bolt upright; all was dark — the lamp having burnt out — and the camp was silent outside. Had it been a trick of the mind? Then. . Boom! Boom! Boom! The blood hammered in his ears rhythmically. He clutched the sides of his head, wincing, feeling a wave of nausea rush over him. He stumbled from his bed, falling to his knees, retching. Only a thin, acidic bile came up. The floor seemed to melt away before him and he was overcome by a terrible sense of falling endlessly. He cried out, flailing, lurching to his feet in order to grasp out at something, anything. He crashed against the centre pole of the tent and heard a dull and distant crack amidst the rapid drumming of blood in his head. He barely noticed the pole shredding or the canvas of the tent falling down around him, covering him. He barely heard the cries of alarm from outside when this happened. He scarcely recognised Igor and the other varangoi who pulled him out of the collapsed tent. He did, however, recognise the panicked mutterings of the vast number of soldiers who had rushed from their tents to the scene of the incident and now stood, gathered and gawping in torchlight.

‘The tent pole snapped and nearly saw our emperor suffocated. God have mercy on us. Another dark portent!’

‘No. . I,’ he croaked, reaching a hand out to the staring masses. But a rush of nausea snatched his words away and sent him spinning into the blackness.