Island in the Storm

4. The Cilician Gates

A pleasant autumn morning bathed the Cilician plain. In the north, the Byzantine cavalry stood in a crescent, facing south, waiting, watching. Somewhere beyond the hazy southern horizon, the Seljuk horde roamed.

On the right wing of this crescent, Apion stood by his Thessalian in just his helm, tunic, cloak and boots — his klibanion and greaves stowed away on one of the touldon supply wagons. Likewise, Sha, Blastares, Procopius, Kaspax and the rest of the fifty Chaldians were without their usual heavy kataphractoi armour. He stooped to pluck a handful of long grass and fed it to his gelding. ‘I promise you at least a week of grooming, sleeping and eating when we return to Chaldia,’ he whispered to the beast. ‘But ride swiftly today.’

‘The mighty Haga and his riders see no need for their armour today, it seems?’ Philaretos snorted as he trotted past, looking down from his saddle at Apion.

Apion glanced up, squinting in the sunlight. ‘We need to ride fast today, Doux. And if it is merely my armour that panics our enemy, then send it on ahead! Tell it to return when it has brought peace to our borders. I’ll be in my tent feasting on goose, awaiting it eagerly.’

The men nearby laughed at this. Philaretos tried to disguise his discomfort at being the butt of the joke by shrugging and laughing too. Then he took to switching his gaze this way and that, before shaking his head and sighing. ‘It’ll never work,’ he concluded. ‘What if the horde swings back to the west to ravage the inner themata once more?’

Apion smoothed his gelding’s mane and smiled. ‘They won’t, Doux. They have burnt or overgrazed the lands to the west.’ He pointed to the swaying long grass stretched out before them. ‘This is the only place they can come to for fodder, and when they do, we must drive them to the east,’ he nodded in that direction where in the hazy distance the Cilician mountains loomed.

‘Hmm, we’ll see,’ Philaretos moaned, before turning to walk his mount over to the head of the four hundred vigla riders who were also on the right of the crescent.

‘What an arse!’ Blastares muttered by Apion’s side.

‘An arse indeed, but a loyal arse,’ Apion chuckled.

‘True. I’d rather have a loyal arse than a treacherous one any day,’ Sha added, throwing his saddle over his stallion and buckling it into place.

Procopius hobbled over to join the chat. ‘Is that Blastares talking about arses again? Loves the arses, I tell you.’

Blastares frowned as Kaspax and Sha laughed aloud. ‘The only arse I’ll be talking about in a minute is yours, when it’s impaled on the end of my boot!’ But the big man’s grumbling fell away, melting into a chuckle too.

Suddenly, all of them looked up as the crescent of Byzantine riders bristled. There, coming from the south, was a band of colour and a russet dust plume, heading due north, directly for the Byzantine lines.

‘They’re coming!’ a familiar voice boomed from the centre of the crescent. There, Romanus was mounted and ready on his white stallion. He was clad in his silver and white armour, his silver, purple-plumed helm and his purple cloak. ‘Ready!’ Beside the emperor, the Varangoi and the Scholae horsemen settled in their saddles. On the left, the rest of the thematic riders — a mix of heavy kataphractoi and lighter kursores — readied likewise. Banners were raised, lances levelled, buccinas lifted to lips.

Apion leapt into his saddle as the horns keened. Across the plain, he saw the emerging horde take form. The Seljuk horns wailed as they sighted the Byzantine bullhorn awaiting them. Like a drift of hornets, they swept to the east, towards the mountains.

Yes! Apion punched a fist to his palm.

‘After them!’ Romanus bellowed, waving the crescent forward.

The ground shuddered as more than three thousand Byzantine riders broke into a trot and then a gallop. Apion watched as the hazy mountains ahead grew larger and larger. Stay true, he mouthed, willing the fleeing Seljuk raiders not to divert north or south.

The skyline grew rugged as the mountains loomed ever closer. Directly ahead, two mountains jutted, their adjacent sides almost perfectly sheer, like two limestone walls. A narrow corridor wove between these two monoliths and wound on for some distance like a furrow ploughed by some ancient god. This was it, the only direct path from these lands to the east. At that moment, Apion remembered old Cydones reminiscing; Many have breathed their last at the Cilician Gates. It is a wonder they are not stained red.

The Seljuk horde narrowed and funnelled into this corridor, the thunder of their hooves echoing like drums, their hearts confident of escape and further plunder on the far side of the pass. Apion hoisted his lance overhead and waved it to and fro frantically, looking to the tops of the rocky corridor high above. But the high sides of the pass remained lifeless, despite his signal. ‘No!’ he gasped.

Beside him, Sha snarled, scanning the deserted tops of the rocky pass likewise; ‘Treacherous bast-’

‘Look!’ Blastares cried, pointing up there. First a single spearman rose tall. Then another, then in moments hundreds lined either side of the pass, armoured in felt and mail, some with vivid purple, green and red eastern-style silks wrapped around their heads. The Armenian Prince and his army. More than a thousand men. They carried with them bundles of missiles — spears, bows, quivers and slings.

‘Loose!’ the unmistakable voice of Vardan boomed from up there. It echoed down through the corridor like a clap of thunder, and every Seljuk neck bent to look up. At once, they saw the snare, and a heartbeat later, they broke out in a chorus of panicked wails. Their good order at once descended into horrified flight as each of them grew frantic to race on and out of the corridor. But the Armenian spearmen hurled their lances down on the thick swathes of ghazis and nearly every one struck home with deadly effect. Wails were cut short as men were pinned to their horses, thrashing together in their shared death throes, blood pumping across their comrades. Next, a pack of Armenian slingers hurried to the edge of the mountaintop overlooking the corridor, swiftly loosing volleys of shot. Holes were punched in helms, and blood leapt from the broken heads within. Hundreds more toppled. The remaining ghazis raced now — desperate to be clear of the corridor. However, the Armenians were swift to draw their bows; known as a nation of fine bowmen, they showed their skill, loosing volley after volley upon the Seljuk mass. Many more enemy horsemen fell, writhing, peppered with shafts. Moments later the Armenians took to rolling great boulders from the cliff tops. These monoliths crashed down, pulping clusters of riders like insects, all but blocking the corridor.

Some Seljuk riders broke through the narrow gaps that remained and raced on to the east, but many others — thousands of them — took to wheeling around like a shoal of silvery fish avoiding a preying shark. They swung back to face west, set on taking their chances against the onrushing Byzantine crescent — now galloping to close the door at the western end of the corridor and pen them in. When they threw down their bows, Apion longed to hear them cry out: Mercy. But the cry did not come. Instead, they tore out their scimitars and spears, intent on battle.

Apion watched the rider coming for him, and this merged with the pulsing image of the dark door. The man’s face was creased in a war cry, his dark moustache whipping in the wind, his spear arm drawn back. The flames roared from behind the dark door, blowing it open. He jinked to his left as the man loosed his lance, the shaft skimming past his neck. A moment later, a flanged mace from one of the Byzantine kataphractoi plunged down into the spearless ghazi’s forehead, crushing his helmet and skull like an egg, sending a shower of blood and brains across his comrades and throwing the man back from his saddle. Then the two cavalry lines clashed with a clatter of shields, iron and the screaming of man and beast.

Apion felt the flames of darkness roar all around him as the first few riders that met his lance tip simply vanished, torn through or punched from their saddles, trampled like kindling. Blood whipped across his face in a constant spray, and he smelt the all too familiar coppery stench of death. He ran another three of them through, and saw many more scattering, kicking their mounts into a disordered flight. His Chaldians swept along with him, tearing Seljuk riders asunder, throwing some from their saddles. When his spear was lost, embedded in a Seljuk’s chest, he swept his scimitar from his scabbard and lashed it round at those who tried to break past him. He felt Seljuk blades scrape at his skin, death only inches away. He saw throats torn open before him, his sword hand numb yet relentless. Yield! he mouthed, sickened at the crunch of bone and tearing of flesh. Yet still they came, maddened and panicked. On the slaughter went.

The sun was high in the sky when at last the Seljuks thinned. Bar a few who had broken past the Byzantine crescent and raced off into the western countryside and the riders who had survived the Armenian hail and forged on to the east, all lay dead before the panting Byzantine cavalry.

Apion gazed around numbly. The Cilician Gates were red once more. Clouds of flies buzzed over the gore, and carrion birds circled and lined the sides of the corridor. Crispin’s words rang in his thoughts.

A slayer of souls, a burner, a death-bringer.

A hand clasped his shoulder. ‘A fine ploy, Strategos,’ Romanus said, catching his breath. ‘And not just for today. A lasting bond with the Armenian princes is something that must be forged if the borders are ever to be truly secure.’

From the corner of his eye, Apion noticed the Armenians flooding down the mountainside to meet with the Byzantine lines in celebration.

‘Did we finish them? All of them?’ Doux Philaretos panted, arriving alongside the emperor.

‘No,’ Apion scowled, ‘but those who made it through the gates are gone. Their raid is over.’

‘Gone? Not quite. Some wait to goad us, it seems?’ One finger of Philaretos’ iron gauntlet stretched out to pinpoint a lone rider, nestled in the shade of one of the giant rocks thrown down by the Armenians. ‘I recognise that one — from the camp by the Euphrates. . a fierce whoreson, he was. . ’

Apion squinted along the corridor. The unseen hands of a wraith stroked his neck as he recognised the tall, broad-shouldered warrior’s garb. A fine scale vest, a silver helm with a distinctive studded rim and nose guard — Nasir? He mouthed, confused, images of his dead, one-time brother flitting through his mind. Was this some kind of demon? He locked eyes with this masked figure, and his blood ran cold. The stranger’s face was bathed in half-shadow, but he was certain the eyes in there were fixed on him. And there was something about those eyes. .

Apion’s thoughts evaporated when Philaretos grunted and loosed a wayward javelin at the rider. It punched down some twelve feet short, quivering in the dust. Without alarm, the rider turned and rode on to the east.

‘Come, Strategos,’ Romanus pulled him away from the scene. Apion nodded, tearing his gaze from the sight. As they walked away, he could not help but glance back, sure the shadows had been playing with him.

***

Above the Cilician Gates the sky was jet black, dotted with stars and a waning moon. The Armenian warriors were long gone from this vantage point where they had rained death on the ghazi horde. But the high mountain tops were not entirely deserted.

Having escaped to the east and then doubled back with just his bodyguard, one young Seljuk rider crouched atop the rocky outcrop near the corridor mouth. His skin and hair were coated in dust, his throat parched and his scale armour encrusted in dried blood where his comrades had been struck down around him. He glanced at his reflection in the stud-rimmed helm he cradled, then gazed down to the Cilician plain below, where a thousand torches and campfires demarcated the Byzantine imperial camp. He had heard them pray, now he heard them laugh and cheer their victory, cups clacking together, overflowing with wine. This angered him. When he imagined the Haga celebrating with them, the wrath grew fiery.

His bodyguard crept up beside him. ‘Sir, our men will have made camp by now, some miles to the east. Should we not return to them? Some of your riders might think you have been captured should you not come back to them before first light. And Bey Gulten is known for his fierce discipline.’

The young rider ignored his bodyguard’s plea and snorted at the idea that Bey Gulten, the leader of this expedition, was any form of threat. ‘After today, Bey Gulten will be known only for his failure.’ The howling of some wild dog sounded across the plain. ‘Now take my armour,’ he said, unbuckling his scale vest and sweeping on a tattered robe, ‘then you can return to camp. I have business to attend to first.’

‘Sir?’

The young rider looked to his bodyguard, the moonlight flashing in his green eyes. ‘Sometimes, to slay a wolf, you must separate him from his pack.’

***

The thick red satin of the imperial tent muffled the jovial babbling from outside. Inside it was muggy, still and tense. Apion sat alone with the emperor, a table between them bearing a shatranj board, a jug of nearly finished wine and a platter of barely touched bread, honey and cheese. He saw the torchlight dance in Romanus’ eyes, as if trying to ignite the emperor’s vim once more. His veneer of the victorious leader had been shed as quickly as his armour as soon as he had come inside. The white and silver klibanion and ornamented silver helm retained their proud, broad-shouldered stance on the timber frame they rested upon, while the man sat in dejection, shoulders slumped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, sir,’ Kaspax chuckled.

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

It was Seljuk script.

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