Island in the Storm

11. The Strangeness

The Byzantine column marched on past the great cities of Dorylaeum and Amorium, and by late May they had reached the plains south of Ancyra’s walls. Here, they rendezvoused with the six thousand strong army Apion had left stationed there; two thousand Chaldian infantry and fifty precious kataphractoi riders, Prince Vardan and his two thousand hardy Armenian spearmen and a swathe of Oghuz horse archers. Now complete and numbering forty thousand overall, the campaign army journeyed on eastwards and entered the lands of the Cappadocian Thema, the column now resembling a giant silvery serpent, nearly twenty miles from tip to tail, scales glinting in the baking midday sun and vast plumes of gold and red dust spiralling skywards as it moved along this arid highland. The vanguard — composed of a bandon of iron-vested kursores and the five hundred mercenary Norman lancers — led the way. Fine and well-ordered wedges of the tagmata riders rode a quarter of a mile behind the van, with the white-armoured varangoi forming a circle around the emperor. Behind them marched seemingly infinite ranks of iron-helmed skutatoi spearmen and their bobbing banners. Dotted amongst them were packs of toxotai archers mercifully shaded from the sun in their wide-brimmed hats and enjoying wearing only light linen tunics and boots. The touldon of supply wagons and mules rumbled along in the midpoint of the column, giving the serpent a swollen belly. The Pecheneg horse archers rode wide of the column, as flank-screening outriders. To the rear, a mass of mercenary cavalry rode. The heterogeneous rabble of the magnates were nominally led by the trident-bearded Scleros, but in truth their armies were kept in order only by the fifty Chaldian kataphractoi led by Apion and his trusted three.

One cluster of the magnate riders strayed from the column, trotting nonchalantly to the south to squint at the ruin of a farmhouse. One of them wore ancient, baked leather armour, no doubt harvested from some battlefield years ago. The others wore just ragged tunics and sported untidy beards and rotten teeth.

‘Get back in line, you dogs!’ Procopius howled, the sinews in his neck straining and his eyes bulging. ‘You can turn your mind to plunder once you’ve ridden as far as the emperor demands, and risked your bloody necks against the empire’s enemies.’

The leather-vested leader of this pack turned to look Procopius up and down with disdain, his lips wrinkling as if preparing to fire back some venomous retort. Only when Scleros called to him did he halt, the words remaining unsaid. With a dipped brow and a barely disguised grimace at Procopius, the leather-vested one and his small band of cronies heeded their master’s words, falling in with the main pack again. Once there, they instantly set about bickering and arguing amongst themselves.

‘Unbelievable,’ Procopius growled, riding back to join the head of the wedge of fifty.

‘This lot are supposed to be a rearguard,’ Blastares grumbled, slapping a fly from his wrist, then lifting his helm to sweep a sheet of sweat from his stubbled scalp, ‘and at seven thousand strong, they should make a bloody formidable one.’

‘I’d rather have a single lion watching my back than a pack of quarrelling wolves,’ Sha said, chewing on the flesh of an apple.

‘True,’ Apion commented, digging out and biting into an apple himself. ‘But in any case, I fear our greatest danger lies not here, but at the head of the column.’

Sha, Blastares and Procopius followed Apion’s gaze into the eastern horizon. Somewhere beyond the cloud of dust and the iron snake, beyond the shimmering haze where land and sky melted together, and nearly a half day’s hard ride ahead, the emperor and his retinue led this vast column.

‘You speak of the Seljuks. . or the narrow-eyed dogs who ride with the emperor?’ Sha asked with a hint of a grin.

Apion snorted, thinking of Alp Arslan, Taylan and the hordes. That ever-present threat hung like a blade in the sky over Byzantine Anatolia. Then he thought of the men the emperor had surrounded himself with. Philaretos was a firebrand, but a loyal one. There was Tarchianotes, the gnarled and guarded doux. Bryennios, the lithe giant with the grin of a sly hunting dog but the reputation of a military genius. And then there was Alyates, a loyal and well-meaning young man on the surface. But what colour is his core? Apion wondered, the words stoked by bitter experience. He then thought of Andronikos Doukas, riding in chains alongside the emperor too. He shook his head, his thoughts tangling. ‘Both trouble me equally, but not as much as the emperor himself,’ Apion replied at last. ‘He is suffering from some illness still, I am sure of it.’

‘The madness from the mustering?’ Procopius cocked an eyebrow. ‘That was unsettling, aye. But now we are on the march. I have heard of no incident since. Even when we camped near Cryapege, all was quiet.’

‘This is true,’ Apion mused, stroking his beard. Camp had been still and peaceful that night and in the nights since. The last flashpoint had been the sight of young Alexios Komnenos being led back to Constantinople, escorted by a troop of determined varangoi. Alexios’ howls of protest had unsettled many of the watching soldiers. Apion regretted that he would not have further chance to talk with the lad. But perhaps it was a sensible move by the emperor. Alexios, a steadfast ally, would be a fine asset to have back in the capital.

‘And you haven’t heard anything from Komes Peleus or Komes Stypiotes since we set off from Malagina, have you?’ Blastares added.

Apion thought of the loyal pair of skutatoi commanders who marched near the column head with the Chaldian infantry. He had insisted that they were to relay any news of the emperor’s behaviour to him via a kursoris scout rider. ‘No, but then I do not equate silence with surety.’

‘I could ride ahead, check on them?’ Sha offered.

‘No, I need you here,’ Apion replied, leaning forward to feed his apple core to his mount. ‘But watch the horizon, watch for the kursoris.’

***

Near the front of the column, Komes Stypiotes marched at the head of one bandon of Chaldian spearmen. The hulking soldier fought to suppress a groan. Despite being afforded the ‘luxury’ of marching without their heavy armour jackets, the going was tough. Dust coated his skin, his mouth was parched, his feet were blistered and swollen and his head throbbed from the crunch-crunch of marching boots. Tiring rapidly of the sight of swaying horse buttocks in front of him, he glanced to either side of the column to the shimmering heat haze that blended dust with sky. To the south, there was a faint sparkle of blue. Lake Tus. He watched the rippling air and imagined the cool, clean waters rushing towards them. Most of the infantry in the campaign army would have welcomed such a relief from the blazing afternoon sun.

The bandophoros was the only one to enjoy a sliver of shade, offered by the crimson Chi-Rho standard of the bandon. Stypiotes eyed the patch of shade jealously, then winced as the linen cloth that acted as padding between his helm and his scalp slipped, the hot metal stinging his skin. Feeling the irritation growing in his chest, he shot a glance over to Komes Peleus, leading the adjacent bandon. ‘How long since we last stopped for water?’ he hissed.

Komes Peleus shot him a glare in return, frowning, nodding faintly to the men who marched behind him. Then he barked an order for his own bandophoros to take the lead before sidling over to march with Stypiotes ‘Why? Oh, let me guess, because you’re thirsty and too hot?’

Stypiotes made to retort, but a waft of dust kicked up by the hooves of the kataphractos before him caught in his throat and he broke down in a coughing fit. ‘Look,’ he stabbed a finger ahead at the swaying cavalry, ‘I’m bloody sick and tired of watching a collection of horses’ arses, complete with flies and regular consignments of turds, in this bloody inferno.’

Peleus smirked sardonically. ‘Really? That’s odd, because we all love it. Anyway, I told you not to drink all that wine last night.’

Stypiotes thought of the game of dice after evening prayer that had seen him gleefully collect in the wine rations of four of his skutatoi. It had tasted ever so sweet. . last night at least.

‘That’s why you’re so thirsty,’ Peleus continued, ‘and testy.’

Stypiotes grumbled and sought a reply, when suddenly, the men of the Chaldian Thema broke out in a murmur, necks craning to get a view of some activity ahead. ‘Hello, what’s this?’ he cooed.

‘The emperor, he’s leaving the head of the column,’ Peleus gasped.

Sure enough, a silver and white-armoured figure with a purple-plumed battle helm saddled on a dark stallion emerged from the many wings of cavalry at the front of the column. He moved at a trot, riding off at a tangent to the south. A clutch of varangoi riders hurried to follow him. Over the gasping of the ranks, the emperor’s booming laughter rang out as he kicked his stallion into a gallop across the dusty plain heading towards the distant, sparkling waters of Lake Tus. Then he tore off his helm and tossed it to the dust with a metallic clunk.

‘What the?’ Peleus gasped. ‘What is he doing?’

‘Look at the colour of his face — seems like he was on the wine last night,’ Stypiotes mused, squinting at the emperor’s florid skin.

‘Why would I want to ride with a shower of sweating men and horses,’ the emperor’s distant cry was only just audible, his arms outstretched to the sky. The varangoi pursuing him caught up and gathered around him, Igor remonstrating with him most fervently.

‘I can sympathise with him. . but I’d say it is time to send the kursoris back to the strategos?’ Stypiotes nodded to the lone Chaldian scout rider trotting with the column on the northern flank.

‘Hold on,’ Peleus said. ‘He’s coming back.’

Sure enough, the emperor had turned his stallion around and was now trotting back with Igor and his men. One of the Rus guardsmen stopped to collect the discarded helmet.

They marched on until late afternoon without further incident until they came to the banks of the River Halys. As arranged, a fleet of round-hulled pamphyloi were already waiting there to ferry the column across the river. The operation would take the rest of the day and most of tomorrow.

The tagmata were first to cross, those reaching the far banks setting to work on a camp over there, while those who waited on the near bank did likewise there. When the last of the tagmata were safely on the far banks, the varangoi turned to Romanus and gestured to the next free pamphylos, expecting the emperor to lead them on board. But Romanus looked at them blankly, then snorted.

‘I’ll not be crossing today. I think I’d prefer to remain here,’ he said. Then he took to squinting at the shingle banks and poplar groves downriver. ‘Yes, I think that shady dell there would make a fine spot for a new imperial manor.’ His eyes swung round and rested on Stypiotes and Peleus. ‘You, Chaldians. You will set to work on this immediately. You can quarry good limestone in these lands. I know this,’ he patted his silver and white breastplate with pride, ‘for Cappadocia is my homeland!’

Stypiotes stared back, stunned. Until now he had been in awe when in the emperor’s presence. Until now — or a few weeks ago at least — the emperor had commanded such awe. But this? This was lunacy.

‘You will find strong and supple timbers in the valleys further downriver. Some of you will have to go to the hill town of Nyssa, of course, to buy textiles and furnishings.’ His gaze swept over to the far banks of the river. ‘And perhaps we should bring the Scholae Tagma back, denude them of their horses. Those mounts could seed a new imperial stud farm here.’

Igor and the other varangoi pleaded with the emperor in hushed tones, but he waved their appeals away with an arrogant sweep of one arm. ‘Enough!’ he snarled, his hands shooting up to rub his temples as if some crushing headache had overcome him. He heeled his mount into a walk to stand and face the shimmering body of the vast column, stretching off to the west as far as the eye could see. His eyes fell upon Stypiotes and Peleus. ‘Well? I asked you to quarry me fine stone and fell me the tallest trees. Be about your duties, soldiers!’

Stypiotes and Peleus hesitated only because of their incredulity. It lasted just moments. Then, as one, they turned and barked to their men. ‘You heard your emperor. Drop your weapons, take up your axes and picks. Make your way for the trees and the limestone cliffs.’ In mute disbelief, the Chaldian infantry did as they were told. Spears, shields and bows clattered to the dust. Two thousand men trudged off, heads bowed in disillusionment. Stypiotes shared a wide-eyed glance with Igor, then turned with Peleus to follow the ranks.

But Romanus was not finished. He jabbed a finger at Prince Vardan and the Armenian spearmen, mustered by Apion, who had been marching just behind the Chaldian ranks. ‘And take those eastern, godless whoresons with you!’

Prince Vardan bristled at this. Teeth bared, he swept a hand towards his swordbelt. It was only the cooler-headed men by his side who calmed him, persuaded him to play along. Vardan lifted the trembling hand to adjust his gold silk headscarf, then nodded, albeit with twitching lips and fire in his eyes. ‘Spearmen, follow me,’ he bawled hoarsely, then led them towards the groves and cliffs.

‘Now. . we must get word to the kursoris,’ Peleus hissed under his breath as they walked from the column.

‘It is taken care of,’ Stypiotes replied, glancing over his shoulder to see Igor already whispering to the lone rider.

***

Apion hurried his gelding along the side of the column, passing rank after rank of thematic infantry as night fell. The closer he came to the head of the column where the ranks were spilling into the vast camp on the Halys’ western banks, the more troubled the voices around him became.

‘He has truly lost his mind!’ one cried out. ‘Gave the lash to an Armenian soldier for accidentally shredding a plank of timber. The man’s back is hanging in strips.’

‘He refuses to cross the river with us. The campaign is dead in the water.’

Apion scowled at this talk and turned to wave his trusted three on at haste. ‘Ya!’ he yelled, heeling his own mount. He slowed as they reached the western gate of this riverbank camp. Men babbled in confusion now. As he pushed through the masses, he saw that many men had left their tents unconstructed, their attentions on something going on by the river. Sha, Blastares and Procopius flanked Apion as he dismounted and barged through. Here, the air was spiced with shouts of anger and the gloom speckled with torchlit faces twisted with ire. The ranks had gathered in a dense crescent around the end of the camp adjacent to the riverbank with just Igor and a wall of varangoi holding them back.

The camp ditch and palisade running along the bank broke for a short distance to allow access to the basic timber jetty and the pamphyloi docked there. The crew on the boats watched from the decks, mouths agape, as Emperor Romanus strode back and forth through the empty crescent of shingle, hurling objects into the bubbling rapids. He strode over to the thin wall of varangoi holding the crowds back, then shot a hand between two of the Rus to grapple the wrist of the nearest skutatoi, tearing something free.

‘A bronze bracelet?’ he gasped, holding up the trinket. ‘Nonsense! It will only slow you down, hold us all back.’ Without decorum, he turned to toss the piece into the river. The skutatos gawped, his lips twitching to cry out, his soldierly training only just keeping his ire in check. Igor and the varangoi struggled to keep the mass of men at bay with their shields as they cried out in a fresh wave of confusion and anger.

‘Hold us back?’ one voice said as Apion barged closer and closer. ‘Yet only hours ago he was all for remaining here to build a villa!’

Apion winced. So the kursoris’ report had been true.

He saw Romanus reach through the varangoi wall again to tear a silver-embossed shield from one skutatos. Clearly an heirloom this soldier’s forefathers had carried to war. The man’s hands remained outstretched, fearing the shield would be thrown to the depths as well. But Romanus eyed the shield, then shrugged, taking it instead to a wagon parked nearby, heaped with such goods. ‘Yes, this shield will make a fine addition to my collection. Without all the other litter to weigh the boats down, my wagon might just get across the river,’ he chirped, as if ignorant to the thousands of eyes burning upon him. Apion caught Igor’s eye just then. The big, haggard Rus’ face was blanched and weary.

‘It has been a grim day, Strategos. I prayed you might get here earlier,’ he called out over the baying crowd, putting his shoulder to his shield in an effort to keep them back.

‘Why has nobody intervened?’ Apion hissed, seeing that amongst the onlookers from the docked boats, the retinue of Philaretos, Alyates, Tarchianotes and Bryennios watched on, bereft of words or actions. And shaded beside them stood Andronikos Doukas, wrists in iron.

Just then, the emperor’s eyes sparkled and snapped onto something happening beyond the mass of onlookers. Apion twisted to see that, in the far corner of the camp, one Byzantine toxotes was being bundled along by a superior, who was berating him mercilessly. The cowed soldier led an ass by a tether.

‘You!’ Romanus cried. Like a parting sea, the mass of men at the riverbank split, the varangoi opening a channel to the pair.

The archer leading the ass looked up, startled. The superior, a komes, looked equally sheepish. ‘Basileus?’ he croaked.

‘What is this?’ Romanus boomed, then winced and pinched the top of his nose as if in great pain.

The komes’ eyes darted in confusion. ‘He. . he stole this ass from a local farmer. I’m making him return it.’

‘And then what?’ the emperor spat.

‘And then he will be put on half-rations, latrine detail and double-watch for the next two weeks,’ the Komes said.

Romanus’ eyes locked onto the shame-faced soldier with the ass. ‘Bring him to me.’

Two varangoi took the man by the shoulders, shaking the tether from his grasp and then marching him to stand before the emperor, the corridor closing up behind them. The soldier fell to his knees in obeisance. The two varangoi took a couple of steps aside, eyeing the confrontation with a sense of dread.

‘Do you know what used to happen to criminals?’

‘Not the lash, Basileus, I beg of you,’ the man whimpered.

Romanus was oblivious to the man’s pleas. He plucked a dagger from his belt and held it up so the polished blade sparkled in the torchlight. ‘Rhinokopia. Once a thief, always a thief.’

Apion’s heart froze and gasps rang out all around, some men falling to their knees lamenting or praying. Was the emperor ill or utterly possessed? The punishment of slicing off a man’s nose had not been used in hundreds of years. In the blackness of night, a flicker of torchlight betrayed the nightmarish scene clearly for just a moment; Romanus lowering the dagger blade and pressing it to the bridge of the wretch’s nose. He pressed against the wall of varangoi. ‘Igor, we must stop this.’

Igor shook his head. ‘We obey the emperor’s word, be it good or loathsome.’

Apion shoved closer, so only the Rus komes could hear. ‘Let me through. Nobody will lose face, I swear it. If we let this happen then morale will be shattered.’

Igor beheld him momentarily, then nodded, nudging the varangos by his side. The pair parted briefly and let Apion through onto the crescent of shingle.

‘Stop!’ Apion cried out.

Romanus looked up, one cheek twitching, his eyes scouring Apion’s form with disdain. ‘Who dares to interrupt the emperor?’

‘The Strategos of Chaldia, Basileus,’ he replied, bowing a little and moving close enough to whisper. ‘Your friend.’

Romanus frowned, fixing his unrecognising gaze to Apion’s. It was then Apion saw just how lost and distant the emperor’s eyes were, how bloated and ruddy his sweat-soaked skin was — rashes now creeping across his neck from the collar of his armour. And the emperor’s hand trembled, ready to slice down with the dagger and cut off the kneeling archer’s nose. Apion stepped back at that moment, realising he would have to call upon a force long lost to him.

‘Then I cite the Intercession of the Holy Victory,’ Apion said, stepping back. ‘Bring forth the icon of the Holy Virgin of Blachernae.’ The gasps from all around fell silent. Then cheers broke out in support of this move. The Intercession of the Holy Victory could see any man spared such a fate. Moments later, a clutch of varangoi brought forth the blue-gold icon, holding it aloft for the gathered crowd to see.

Romanus looked to this and blinked hard, shaking his head.

‘Basileus?’ Apion whispered, hoping the emperor had come to his senses.

But Romanus now shook his head firmly. ‘No. The punishment will be carried out, as planned.’ His knuckles then whitened on his dagger blade. A rivulet of blood spidered from the bridge of the kneeling man’s nose and the emperor’s arm tensed to push the blade down through the cartilage. Apion grasped his arm before he could do so.

Romanus shot an animal glare at him. ‘Unhand your emperor.’

‘Basileus, it is not becoming of you to become sullied in blood. Allow me to do this.’

Romanus stared into Apion’s eyes as Apion prised the dagger from his grip. At last, the emperor stood back, nodding, somewhat bewildered.

Apion strode to stand before the kneeling skutatos. He placed the blade on the man’s nose, then looked up and met the eyes of the watching thousands. The gathered ranks of the skutatoi, the varangoi looking over their shoulders, Scleros and the first horsemen from the magnate armies just reaching the camp. He gritted his teeth. . and swept the dagger blade down. It chopped through flesh. Hot blood spurted and bone crunched. Then the wretch fell back, clutching his bloodied face. ‘Take him away,’ Apion growled, throwing a strip of bloody flesh to the dirt.

The sea of faces gawped at Apion. Some in fear, many in disgust.

***

Apion cradled his hand in the dull lamp light of his tent. Sha, Blastares and Procopius looked at him, searching for the right words.

Just then, the tent flap rustled and opened. Komes Igor ushered the wretch who had stolen the ass inside. The man sat opposite Apion. His face was still encrusted in dried blood, his nose badly broken but all still there. Komes Igor sat next to the fellow, then nudged him.

‘God bless you, sir,’ the man said quietly to Apion.

‘God blesses foul hearts and fair with little distinction. I’d rather listen to a dog howl at the moon than take a blessing from God,’ he snapped in reply, cradling his palm and wincing.

The man’s head dropped at the admonishment.

Sha let a desert-dry laugh escape his lips. ‘He accepts your gratitude, soldier. Now be off back to your tent before curfew begins, lest you end up in more trouble.’

‘Aye, sir,’ the skutatos nodded. He turned to Apion one more time as he left. ‘Thank you, Haga.’

Apion nodded silently.

‘Word is already spreading around the ranks that the man did not lose his nose,’ Sha said as the tent flap fell closed again. ‘The men know their emperor is unwell, but had that wretch been mutilated. . ’ the Malian’s words trailed off and he shook his head. ‘Now let me see the mess you made of your hand,’ Sha insisted again.

Apion uncurled his cradled hand, revealing the red raw strip on the heel of the palm. When he had swept the dagger down, he had broken the skutatos’ nose with his knuckles and sliced this strip of flesh off his own hand with the blade’s edge. The blood had spattered over Apion and the man’s face, disguising the fact that the man’s nose was only broken and not mutilated, and the thrown-down strip of palm-flesh had diverted the eyes of the emperor and the onlookers.

The Malian took a rag doused in vinegar and cleansed the wound. Apion did well to limit his discomfort to a teeth-grinding grimace. ‘It’ll heal within a few weeks,’ Sha said, wrapping a length of linen bandage around the palm tightly. ‘But if you have to lift a shield in that time it’ll sting like fire.’

‘Then I won’t dwell upon it until I need my shield,’ Apion grumbled. ‘And in any case, I feel we have more important things to set our minds to.’

‘What has happened to him?’ Igor muttered aloud. ‘He was sharp, brash and noble until we arrived at Helenopolis. Even on the crossing to that miserable town, he cajoled the men amidst a grim a hailstorm, had them defying the hail and chanting his name.’

Apion looked up. ‘And what has changed since then?’

Igor’s eyes swept across the lamplit floor. ‘Much has changed. We have come far from the capital, through the verdant coastal trails and now across the dry inner plateau. Spring has become a foul and hot summer and. . ’

‘No, what has changed about the emperor. His habits, his routines?’

‘An emperor on campaign follows a strict routine of sleeping, bathing, eating and riding.’ Igor looked up, his eyes glinting. ‘You suspect treachery, Strategos?’

‘I find it a suitable default stance, Komes,’ Apion offered a wry half-grin in reply. His mind flashed with memories of his night-visit to Prince Vardan’s hilltop town, to Hurik the poisoner. ‘Now, does anyone have access to his garments, his bathing waters or his food?’

‘A few men tend to his clothes and prepare his washing water, yes, but they are beyond suspicion, Strategos.’ The big Rus’ eyes were earnest, almost longing to believe his own words.

Apion cocked an eyebrow. ‘Such men make the best traitors, Komes. And his food?’

‘Ah, poisoning? Yes, I thought so too. But it is impossible,’ Igor said, his eyes narrowing and the vertical scar across one wrinkling. ‘Those who cook his meals are watched by the vigla sentries and the best of my axemen. No poison could make it past all of them.’

‘But if it did?’ Apion persisted.

Igor laughed aloud. ‘It simply could not, Strategos. And besides, even if it did, we have a man who tastes a small portion of every meal before it goes to the emperor. A humble eunuch by the name of Symeon. He would have fallen ill by now if the emperor’s food had been poisoned.’

Apion balled his good hand into a fist. ‘There must be something, someone. . ’ his words trailed off as he remembered the one man on this march who had almost become a forgotten figure, shackled only feet from the cooking area by the emperor’s tent.

Igor’s eyes narrowed in realisation, then they hissed in unison;

‘Andronikos Doukas!’

***

Apion and Igor strode through the night, picking their way around the clustered pavilion tents and accepting muted salutes from the night watchmen. Up ahead, the emperor’s red satin tent glowed brightest of all, surrounded by a ring of torches, vigilant varangoi axemen and vigla skutatoi bearing grim and alert scowls.

The vigla sentries parted at Igor’s command, then the varangoi in the inner circle recognised their leader and saluted silently.

‘The emperor is asleep?’ Apion asked in a hushed tone.

‘Fitfully, but yes,’ the Rus by the tent flap replied. Through the canvas, Apion could hear Romanus’ dull moans.

‘And he has eaten tonight, I presume?’

‘Heartily,’ the Rus replied. ‘And he drank like a man who had been lost in the desert. Five cups of watered wine!’

Apion and Igor shared a narrow-eyed glance. ‘Bring me his wine jug,’ Igor ordered. The big Rus at the tent flap ducked inside then reappeared with the near-empty jug.

Igor took it, sniffed at it, shrugged, then tilted it to catch the light. There was nothing suspicious about it, it seemed.

‘The cooking area?’ Apion suggested.

‘This way,’ Igor beckoned, leading Apion round to the rear of the imperial tent. Here, a smaller set of tents were erected in a semi-circle. They all faced onto a blackened campfire, over which hung pots and kitchen implements. A squat, bald man ambled around the kitchen area, gathering up washed implements and stowing them away. ‘Symeon,’ Igor muttered to Apion, nodding to the food-taster. But Apion’s attentions had fallen on the only other figure in the space, sitting on a stool, irons shackling one arm to a post.

Andronikos Doukas gazed listlessly into the black remains of the fire before him, his flat-boned features sullen. Apion eyed the length of the chain, then the closeness of the kitchen area.

‘He has always been kept this close to the cooking fires?’ Apion whispered to Igor.

‘Yes,’ Igor sighed.

‘And when the emperor insisted on living in the hilltop hovel — his food was prepared here and taken to him?’

Igor sighed again. ‘It was. And in all that time this one has been but a few paces from the emperor’s meals. The chains are too long.’

Andronikos shot to standing, his eyes flashing with ire as he overheard them. ‘You assume I am responsible for the emperor’s madness?’

Symeon, ambling nearby, started at the outburst, dropping the pans he carried then apologetically gathering them up.

‘Convince me otherwise, boy,’ Apion snorted.

A silence ensued until the fire left Andronikos’ eyes and he slunk back to his stool, his chains clanking as he dropped his head into his hands. ‘I see. So you judge me on my father’s deeds. I should have expected as much.’

‘Men are fickle and I am no judge,’ Apion snorted. ‘All I know is that our emperor has fallen to some madness, and I find you within arm’s reach of his kitchen.’

Andronikos looked up, his eyes meeting Apion’s. ‘I care little for the emperor. Also, why would I care for the cur who calls himself my father?’ He snatched up the chains and shook them, teeth gritted. ‘His meddling has seen him cast into exile. . and me brought along on this campaign, tethered like a rabid jackal.’ He shook his head, dropping the gathered chains. ‘So if you are looking for an answer to the emperor’s madness, look elsewhere.’

Apion watched Andronikos as the young man dropped his head back into his hands. Words were ever so cheap. He had seen some fine actors in his time. Was this young man another such?

‘What do you think, Strategos?’ Igor whispered beside him. ‘We will have him removed from the imperial tent area, that is for certain. But as to his punishment. . ’

Apion heard little else of what Igor said. His eyes hung on Andronikos but, like a hunter, he noticed something flash in his peripheral vision. He looked over to see the squat Symeon waddling to and from a storage tent, humming some tune. Then he saw it again. A flash of silver. He saw that the man wore a bracelet on his wrist, with an amulet dangling from it — a tiny, silver cylinder with an asp coiled around it. As Symeon turned, the moonlight glinted on the tiny purple gemstones that were the serpent’s eyes. The sight stole Apion’s breath away and the crone’s words hissed sibilantly in his thoughts.

Beware the serpent with the amethyst eyes!

‘Komes,’ Apion said, cutting Igor off. ‘I think we have our man.’

Igor frowned, following Apion’s gaze, then gawping as Apion strode over to stand before Symeon. ‘Symeon? Never! The man is as loyal as they come.’

‘A simple test will prove it.’

Igor shook his head, sighing. ‘Do what you will.’

The squat food-taster looked up to Apion, a pleasant smile spreading across his face.

‘You taste the emperor’s food, yes?’ Apion asked him.

‘Not a morsel goes to him without me sampling it first,’ Symeon nodded.

‘Show me,’ Apion said, gesturing for Igor to give the food-taster Romanus’ wine jug.

Symeon took the jug and a cup, pouring a little wine and then sipping at it. ‘It is a pleasant task,’ he grinned. ‘And I can assure you I have had no ill-effects in these recent weeks.’

Apion did not return his grin. ‘Now hand me your amulet.’

Symeon frowned, clutching his bracelet. ‘My amulet? Whyever would — ’

‘Just do as he says,’ Igor cut in, albeit reluctantly.

Symeon lifted the bracelet from his wrist and placed it in Apion’s hand. Apion eyed the piece. It was the size of his smallest finger and it was finely carved, the snake’s body etched with individual scales, the mouth open, fangs bared as if striking. Within the mouth was a tiny stopper. Apion plucked it out, then held the amulet over Symeon’s wine cup. As he tilted it, he watched the food-taster’s face, saw a bead of sweat dart down the man’s forehead. Finally, a glimmering, silvery globule dropped from the mouth of the amulet and splashed into the wine.

Igor gasped beside him.

‘Care to drink some more?’ Apion asked Symeon.

The food taster hung his head.

‘What was it?’ Apion asked.

‘Quicksilver,’ Igor answered for him, snatching the amulet and tipping another drop from it. The silvery bead splashed on the ground and divided up into several smaller beads. ‘Symeon, why?’ he demanded, grabbing the little man by the shoulders and shaking him.

‘They told me to make it look like some sort of illness,’ Symeon confessed to the big Rus. ‘They have my wife. . in the torture chambers under the Hippodrome,’ he said with a trembling voice, his eyes rimmed with tears.

Apion knew there was no need to ask who. He closed his eyes and bowed his head as he tried to block the memories of those dark chambers where Psellos and his portatioi agents tormented and mutilated their political foes.

‘Now they will kill her,’ Symeon whimpered. ‘Unless. . ’

A rasp of iron tore Apion from his thoughts. He looked up to see that Symeon had stolen the sword from Igor’s scabbard and pushed back from the big Rus. The little man swiped out with it clumsily, slashing the Rus’ chest armour and sending him toppling backwards. The food taster spun round, his eyes wide, fixed on the red satin sides of the emperor’s tent.

‘No!’ Apion cried.

‘I have to,’ Symeon wailed, then made for the side of the tent, hefting the sword back to cut through and buy a chance to slay the emperor inside.

Apion leapt to block him. Without shield or armour, he could only draw his scimitar, grappling it two-handed, readying to parry. But his raw, wounded palm stung like fire and the hilt fell from his grasp. Defenceless, he could only watch as Symeon’s wild sword strike swept down for him and the side of the tent.

A stinging pain slashed across Apion’s cheek and he heard a sudden clanking of thick iron. He staggered back, blinking. He touched a hand to the spot on his cheek, where hot rivulets of blood trickled. The blade had only nicked it. And there, right before him, was a terrible sight. Symeon, gagging, eyes bulging, face reddening, Andronikos Doukas stood tall behind him, wrist chains wrapped tightly around the food taster’s neck. The little man thrashed like a fish trapped in shallow water. The sword toppled from his grasp and his face grew purple as Andronikos wrenched tighter and tighter. A moment later, and Symeon’s body fell still.

Igor was back on his feet now and came to stand with Apion. They both watched as Andronikos set the food-taster’s corpse down, then settled back on his stool. He looked up with a sardonic half-grin. ‘Seems it was a good thing that these chains were long.’

***

The campaign army had marched on into fine June sunshine and now they were at the eastern edge of the Charsianon Thema. Three days had passed since Symeon’s death, and Apion struggled to take meaning from what had happened. He thought over it as he rode. A seemingly good man had been outed as another of Psellos’ pawns — but then his motives were valorous. The grim truth was that the food taster’s wife was now doomed to die in those dark torture chambers. And Andronikos, the one he had suspected initially, had proved to be a noble man. Noble? By virtue of choking a man to death? And so the thoughts continued in this grey loop.

At dawn on the fourth day after Symeon’s death, Romanus and Apion sat alone in the imperial tent, playing shatranj. The emperor was — for the first time in weeks — clean-shaven and freshly bathed, his flaxen hair still-damp and neatly swept back. More, the pink-red tinge to his skin and the copious sweat were gone. The poison was fading from his system. Apion had taken over as food-taster, and this morning’s meal of eggs, bread, honey and yoghurt was delicious and free from any uninvited ingredients.

Apion watched as the emperor made to lift a pawn forward, a move that would expose his king within two moves. But Romanus hesitated, replacing the pawn. The emperor looked up, cocking a wry smile.

‘Proof enough that I have recouped my senses?’ he said.

‘You never lost them, Basileus. They were simply tainted by quicksilver.’

Romanus sat back, gazing at the tent flap, beyond which the purple-orange of dawn was growing, promising another day of fiery heat. ‘Yet it seems I did my damnedest to dispirit the men. It is a wonder that they did not think to cut me down for my deeds. Throwing their belongings in the river, having them build some manor. . and the fire at Malagina — I have little memory of how that started, other than a vivid recollection of walking through the flames, laughing like a drunk. My stallion, after years of charging bravely into battle, bearing my burden. . burnt alive without an enemy blade in sight. The Armenians are better men than I — forgiving me for the slurs I cast at them shows they are noble allies indeed.’

‘I have explained what happened to Prince Vardan. And the armies are simply relieved to have their emperor back, Basileus,’ Apion insisted. ‘That is why none tried to depose you or relieve you of your post — because they need you to lead them, to make them believe.’ He cast his mind back over Romanus’ speech the previous day — the first time he had addressed the men since his poisoning. They had stopped at noon near a fresh spring and an orchard. They waited there for the rest of the afternoon until the majority of the column had caught up. The men unburdened themselves of their armour and sat in the tall grass, speckled with roses and lilies, nourishing themselves on cherries and icy-cold water. Romanus took that moment to stand before them and lay his soul bare.

I will forever carry the guilt of my actions in these last weeks. That you still heed my word is a testament to your strength and will. Be angry not at me for my times of madness, but at the cur who poisoned my food and those who compelled him to do so. They have hurt us all, but they have not broken us. This campaign set out to march east and seize the Lake Van fortresses, and it will not be waylaid by treachery! I look over you and see nigh-on forty thousand faces. I listen and I hear forty thousand beating, noble hearts. I know we will be victorious. God is with us!

The cheering of the gathered men had seemed to rock the land for miles. Apion felt a gentle smile creeping across his face at the memory.

‘But the rhinokopia,’ Romanus continued. ‘If I had actually went through with it I don’t think I would be able to face them. . ’

‘But you didn’t do it, Basileus. I knew there was something else at play here. No man turns from a noble and brave leader into a mindless tyrant without a cause. Psellos. He is the one who forced Symeon to do what he did. He is the one who slew your stallion. He is the one who tormented the troops.

Romanus sighed. ‘The dog still operates from exile, it seems.’

Apion felt his dark memories surface again, remembering the many slain at the advisor’s behest. Old Cydones the most prominent. ‘Perhaps you should consider nullifying his threat more permanently?’

Romanus shrugged. ‘And then what? Watch while another black crow flutters down to perch on the shoulders of the Doukas family? No, best accept the enemy I know and understand than some new force.’

‘True. The Doukas family and their supporters are widespread and entrenched in imperial lands. But not all of them are black-hearted. The one you have in chains, outside. He is no lover of his father’s scheming.’

Romanus stroked his jaw in thought. ‘Andronikos is a decent man with a shrewd eye for the battlefield. He has led men in wars past and shown himself to be a strategos in the making. It does not please me to see him led with us in chains like some exotic animal. But he is John Doukas’ son, and as much as the young man despises his father, John covets the lad, sees him as a protégé yet to fall into line with his thinking.’ He toyed with the pawn again as he said this, then changed his mind, lifting his knight out over the pawn line and into play. ‘Yet I brought Andronikos along thinking it might stop Psellos and John’s attempts to dethrone or slay me. How wrong I was. It seems that John cares as little for Andronikos as he does for his father?’

Apion swept his war elephant across the board, taking the emperor’s knight with a dry grin. ‘Still, be on your guard. Every man has it within himself to be at once noble and despicable.’

Romanus grinned. ‘You can be sure of it, Strategos. Andronikos will earn no sympathy until this campaign is over and the Lake Van fortresses are ours. Then, perhaps, I might offer him some respite from his vile father. Until that moment, he can ride in chains. And when we go to battle, he will remain in chains and line up within the magnate armies.’

Apion whistled at this, thinking of the rabble of infantry and cavalry. ‘I would hesitate to send my darkest enemy into those ill-ordered ranks.’

Romanus leaned over the shatranj board, his face stern. ‘I brought them along to swell our ranks and fend off the detractors who would otherwise say my army was far less numerous than I proclaimed it might be. Seven thousand men. Seven thousand men led by a clutch of self-serving dogs. Cut them and they would bleed avarice. That is why they will not be used in this campaign unless desperation overcomes us.’

Apion nodded, thinking of the clutch of overly proud men who led these private militias. ‘They have taken to giving themselves grand titles. I’ve heard the one with the trident beard — Scleros — calling himself doux and strategos, when I’d wager he has never once been in battle — no doubt too busy sucking wine from a jug and growing fat as he watched his slaves toil over his crops.’ He lifted a pawn out in an attempt to lure the emperor’s chariot piece.

Romanus swigged at his cup of watered wine, gazing out through the tent flap as the sun broached the horizon, casting his face in orange. ‘Always a balancing of risks, is it not? Who would have thought that upon assembling an army of this strength, we would still face such choices? We must not fail this time, Strategos. Manzikert and Chliat must be taken, at any cost. If I return to the capital without these prizes, the people will not support my reign any longer. Psellos, John Doukas and their many agents and sympathisers will pluck me from the throne like an overripe fruit.’

‘The Lake Van fortresses can be taken, Basileus. And done well, there should be no need for great bloodshed.’

‘I pray for better than that, Strategos. Our army is capable of taking the fortresses by force if needs be. But I have been thinking, thinking of a way to obtain the fortresses with no bloodshed at all.’

‘Basileus?’ Apion frowned.

‘I have taken a measure for the greater good. . though it may rankle with you and some of my retinue. Ah, here they come,’ Romanus stood as a collection of men entered the tent. Igor came in first, still dressed in his pure-white armour having been on night watch. Tarchianotes entered next, wrapped in a woollen cloak and wearing an ugly scowl that accentuated his cheek-wart and suggested he had just been awoken from a deep sleep. The lithe and fresh-faced Alyates was dressed in his finely polished iron klibanion, tunic and boots, his chin freshly shaven and his lank, dark hair neatly combed as if he had risen early to be ready for this. Doux Philaretos entered next, halting only to hurl some volley of abuse at a soldier outside. Then he came in, his face sullen and inches from ire. Bryennios came in last, running his hands through his greying peak of dark hair to neaten it, then flashing his wolfish grin around the gathered men. The five sat around the table with Apion and the emperor. Romanus lifted the shatranj board away, careful not to disturb any of the pieces, then unfurled a yellowed, well-used map of the empire. He tapped the blue outline of Lake Van, sliding his finger between the two dots there that represented Manzikert and Chliat.

‘I summoned you five — and only you five — because I trust each of you with my life.’ Romanus said flatly. ‘I want our men to remain vigilant, but, should things go to plan, we may find that the Lake Van fortresses can be acquired without facing the sultan’s armies. Even without bloodshed.’

Bryennios gasped. ‘Basileus, that is a fine aspiration, but — ’

‘I have not taken to the quicksilver again, I can assure you,’ Romanus cut him off with a raised hand and a firm grin.

‘But Alp Arslan will not relinquish his grasp on those fortresses without a struggle, Basileus,’ Alyates added.

‘No he won’t. Unless we offer him something more attractive than a fight.’

Apion felt a warm glow in the pit of his stomach as he caught on to the emperor’s thinking. A trade!

‘The sultan is having difficulty in securing his hold on Syria. Just when the Fatimids seemed beaten, they have raised their heads again. I believe we have something in those lands that he covets.’ Romanus’ finger lifted from the Lake Van area of the map and swept down to the south, to Syria.

‘Hierapolis,’ Apion whispered, thinking aloud.

Romanus flashed him a grin, his finger falling right on the city in the sands.

Tarchianotes gasped. ‘You propose we trade the desert city? The city we fought so hard — and lost so much — to take?’

‘Unlike you, Doux, I was there. Memories of the fighting within those walls, and the faces of the many lost, do not evade me, nor my nightmares,’ Romanus said, an edge of terseness in his reply.

‘Yes, Basileus,’ Tarchianotes bowed his head in apology.

‘Holding Hierapolis for these last three years has allowed us some respite on those borders. Antioch and our coastal holdings in Syria have been strengthened. Fortresses have been constructed in the Antitaurus Mountain passes, and are now garrisoned by our Armenian allies. Edessa’s walls have been bolstered, the towers heightened and the garrison doubled. Indeed, I hear reports that the sultan has been bombarding the city with his war machines since the start of the month, but is unable to break the walls. Antioch, Edessa, and this line of mountain fortresses can be the basis of a formidable chain of defence for our southeastern borders. Hierapolis has served its purpose. Now it could serve another, of equal if not greater significance.’

‘We withdraw our Heirapolis garrison, and station them instead in the mountain fortresses?’ Apion suggested.

‘Exactly,’ Romanus swung round, pointing at Apion.

‘So Alp Arslan will walk into Hierapolis and suffer no opposition,’ Bryennios frowned. ‘Then what? We simply march east and take the Lake Van fortresses likewise?’

‘Perhaps. If the sultan sees sense,’ Apion mused.

‘Alp Arslan fought hard to win Manzikert from our hardy garrison last year. I heard he lost two wings of his finest veteran ghulam riders in the process,’ Alyates said.

‘And he fought even harder to establish Seljuk control in Syria,’ Apion countered. ‘The emperor is right. The Lake Van fortresses are more valuable to us than to Alp Arslan, and Hierapolis is more valuable to him than it once was to us.’

‘We are some six weeks away from reaching Lake Van, Basileus,’ Tarchianotes said, his morning scowl having relaxed a fraction. ‘Official parley and agreement of such a trade will take significantly longer, I would imagine. So do we halt the march, put the campaign on hold?’

Romanus’ lips lifted in a wry smile. ‘Sometimes, in the name of expediency, decorum and pomp can be dispensed with. All we need is a fast rider. The fastest of them all. Someone who can hasten to the sultan and propose this trade.’

Apion listened as they chattered over the possibilities. The warmth in his belly was an unfamiliar feeling. Powerful men discussing the real possibility of sealing Byzantium’s borders from attack at long last. But something nagged at him. If there was to be no confrontation with the sultan’s armies, then he would not face Taylan. Maria’s whereabouts would remain elusive. But I will not have to face my boy, he reasoned. A bittersweet swirl of emotion played with his heart.

Then he thought of something. Words that had long hovered in his thoughts. The crone’s shrill tones echoed in his mind as his gaze fell upon the map. Lake Van and the two fortresses near its shores.

I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The mighty Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud. Then his eyes drifted to the golden heart pendant Romanus wore around his neck. At dusk you and the Golden Heart will stand together in the final battle, like an island in the storm. .

The warmth in his belly faded, and a chill took its place.

***

The burnt-gold Bithynian countryside basked in a serene summer’s day. A villa stood at the crest of a gentle hill, surrounded by orchards and crop fields. Cicadas trilled and a pair of nut-brown hares hopped across one orchard floor, nibbling at seeds, play-fighting as they went. Neither noticed the osprey perched on the branches above. Starved of its usual diet of fish, it swooped, scooping up the smaller hare in its talons, piercing the creature’s heart.

John Doukas observed from a bench overlooking the orchard, heedless of the remaining hare’s keening for its lost partner. He watched the osprey rise and soar away with its prey, gliding off to the east. His hands flexed on the ball-shaped top of the knotted walking cane he had come to need, imagining it as Romanus Diogenes’ heart in his grasp. His mind pulled in myriad directions at once. He longed to stand and stride to the palace wing he had once called his home, to call together his shrewdest minds and plot their next move. He yearned to visit the Numeroi barracks and the dark chambers underneath, where the portatioi would doubtless have another foe in chains for him. He hungered to hear the crowd in the Hippodrome rise for him, cry out for the Doukas family, laud his every movement. Instead, he could opt only to stroll in this pleasant estate, or shuffle around the corridors of this white-walled villa, with the advisor, Psellos, his only company. The dusty lands beyond the orchard flashed momentarily, and he glanced to see the pair of white-armoured varangoi there, their breidox axes glinting in the sun as they let the bread boy into the estate — bringing fresh loaves from the bakery in the nearby village. And so it was every hundred paces; a pair of stony-faced, iron-willed Rus. Not just at the perimeter of their exile, but within the estate and inside the villa too. He saw another of the big Rus axemen from the corner of his eye, standing in a shaded villa doorway, studying him as the osprey had watched the hares just moments ago.

They wanted none of his gold, none of his promises of riches. He had even given one of these surly wretches a purse-load of pure-gold coin — nearly all he had. The red-bearded cur had taken it too. He had revelled in the possibility that his games of power were alive again, only to return to his bedchamber that evening to find an ass tethered there, the empty purse lying on the floor beside it. Your coins will not tempt the varangoi, advisor! Redbeard had snorted, then the ass had started braying and the rest of the Rus nearby had erupted in laughter. And when he had told Psellos of this, the shrivelled advisor had worn a mocking glint in his eye too.

The cicada song seemed to grow deafening, and his knuckles whitened on the cane. There had to be a way, a way to gather the Doukas supporters, to break him and Psellos free of this powerless tedium of exile.

A crunching of boots in scree sounded as Psellos came from within the villa to sit by his side then. He braced himself for some caustic, wordy rhetoric — that had been Psellos’ speciality in these last months, usually accompanied by frenzied scratching at the mysterious affliction that burgeoned on the advisor’s chest. But this time, something was different. He was grinning. ‘Advisor?’ John whispered.

Psellos waited until the watching varangos turned away, then leaned a little closer. ‘The lines of communication are open once more, Master.’

John frowned, then saw the bread boy descending the gentle dusty slope to leave once more.

‘And he did it for just a bronze nomismata,’ Psellos’ shoulder jostled in mirth.

‘He brings news of Diogenes’ campaign?’

Psellos’ grin widened. ‘It seems there was some dark soul who brought the emperor to his knees with poison.’ The grin faded a fraction. ‘Yet the poisoner was outed and slain.’

John’s hopes sank. ‘Then your ploy failed,’ he said flatly.

‘Did it?’ Psellos replied, the grin returning. ‘The bread boy told me how close the campaign army had been to revolt. Word of this has spread across imperial lands. The people are doubting Diogenes once again. More. . ’

John made to interject, but Psellos raised a finger, silencing him. The advisor’s eyes shut tight for a moment, his face wrinkled in agony and paled. He reached a hand up to his chest and made to scratch at the lesion under his linen robe, but hesitated, wincing at the lightest touch. A patch of pinkish-red, sticky fluid blossomed from the point where he had made contact. John’s skin crept as he saw something else under that translucent patch of linen; something writhing. Shuddering, the advisor composed himself, pulling his robe clear of his skin. The grin returned, albeit pained.

‘. . more, the boy brought me word and will take word with him. Riders will take that word to your followers, Master. To those in the capital and those all around the empire’s lands. Prime them, ready them for what is to come.’

John’s brow knitted. ‘What is to come?’

‘I planned for many eventualities before we were sent into exile, Master. The poisoner was but one string to my bow. The first of many.’