Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

9. The Cold Heart

Apion waded into the cool, scented water, tracing his fingers across the surface. He glanced at the marbled opulence surrounding him — all was still apart from the delicate corner fountains, carved from blood-red porphyry, babbling as they spilled fresh water into the pool. The palace baths were empty and he was alone. So he lay back and sunk under the surface, washing the dust and salt from his skin. For an instant he could hear only the gentle thumping of his heart and the water coursing in his ears. It was a blissful moment of calm. Then he opened his eyes and through the waters he saw the ceiling frescoes ripple. Dancing reflections from the water’s surface lent a vivid lustre to the colourful figures there. Emperors past, reaching up to the sky as if to talk with God. Warriors of the arena streaked in crimson, standing over slain opponents and saluting fervent crowds. Chariots racing, riders crying out, mounts’ eyes wide and bulging. Around the edges were images of wild beasts; lions, elephants, wolves and scorpions. Then his gaze fell on one creature; an olive-scaled serpent, glaring down on him, its eyes a portent of the venom in its fangs.

Igor’s words of warning from earlier that day rang in his ears. Suddenly feeling less than calm, he rose to standing, sweeping his locks back from his face. As the water drained from his ears, he heard a noise.

A sandal scraping on the tiles behind him.

He spun to the doorway, muscles tensed. The two slave girls there yelped in fright, then ran from the room, giggling. With a sigh and brisk shake of the head, he waded from the pool to the chair where his tunic hung.

He wiped the excess water from his body and lifted the filthy and faded garment. But he hesitated, noticing the blue silk robe the slave girls had left for him. He touched it, then reticently lifted it and dropped it over his body. It was cool and soft on his skin. Then he sat by the platter of fruit, bread and honey the girls had also left. Blueberries, apricots, figs, freshly baked bread and rose-scented water. He took a mouthful of blueberries, the skin bursting to release their tart and fresh juices.

Still not a patch on Chaldian crop, he mused with a pensive half-smile, thinking back to those lost days on Mansur’s farm.

He tore at the still-warm bread, dipping it in the honey before chewing. As he washed it down with a swig of rosewater, a warming shaft of afternoon sunlight crept across his legs. He followed the light over to the collonaded outer wall of the bath chamber. Most of the arches were covered by timber lattice screens to provide bathers with privacy, but the sunlight was pouring in through the one archway with no screen. Outside, a vibrant garden square shimmered. There were orange trees, palms and exotic blooms jostling for space while parakeets flitted to and fro between the branches. This was in pleasant contrast to the packed city streets pulsating against the other side of the palace. Such beauty should have soothed his thoughts. Instead, he found his foot tapping incessantly. For now he could only imagine big Blastares’ waggish reaction to seeing his strategos in such luxury, wearing a silken robe. He grumbled then hurriedly stood to change back into his grubby tunic, lifting the robe off and dropping it to the floor. But as he picked up his tunic, something caught his eye.

There, on the central balcony above the colonnade on the far side of the gardens, a figure looked down upon him. She was tall and slender and wore her golden, silver-flecked hair tied up on her head. Apion frowned, wondering why she stared at him with such a foul look on her fine features. He stepped forward, towards the sunlit ground under the open archway. From there he could see that her expression was more one of shock than disdain. It was then that a sudden breeze reminded him he was stark naked.

To save further embarrassment, he fumbled to wrap his tunic around his waist and started to mouth an apology. But she turned from the balcony and was gone in a heartbeat.

Cursing under his breath, he pulled his tunic on and strode from the room through the inner doorway, glowering at the silk robe as if it was to blame. He was intent on dressing fully and then seeking out the woman to apologise to her but found his pace somewhat cowed by the vastness of the palace interior. The cavernous ceilings shone with a gilt lustre and the forest of veined marble columns and sparkling porphyry served to remind him how far from home he was. His every footstep echoed and the eyes of the white-garbed varangoi followed him as he flitted up the marble staircase. At last he reached the upper floor then made his way along a corridor lined with tall, arched windows through which the afternoon sun bathed the mosaics on the walls and floors. He came to the three rooms assigned to Dederic, Cydones and himself. A serrated snoring echoed from old Cydones’ room. This took the edge off of his annoyance, and his lips played with a smile. ‘Aye, the noise from the streets will not be an issue with you nearby, Cydones,’ he thought aloud.

Then he stepped inside his own chamber, a high-ceilinged, cool, light and spacious room with a wide oak bed, a chest and a table. He stretched his calves and his shoulders and then sat by the chest, reaching for his boots and his cloak. But he stopped, his blood chilling as he felt a breeze from the arched windows.

They had been closed when he left the room earlier.

His eyes locked upon the pure-white, silken veil that hung over the central window and the faint shadow behind it. Then the veil billowed as the breeze picked up once more, revealing a short and aged man, back turned, hands clasped. The man looked through the open window and down the slopes of the first hill, where the grounds of the imperial palace deigned to merge with the city streets. He wore a gold-trimmed, purple cloak and a purple felt cap atop his tightly curled, grey crop of hair.

Apion stood, frowning, cursing the absence of his swordbelt. Indeed, Igor had seemed reluctant to relieve him of his weapons when they entered the palace, but could not risk letting anyone bar the Varangoi bear arms within the building. Apion considered his next move.

Just then, a roar erupted from the Hippodrome. At this, the man tilted his head back, extending his hands to his sides as if refreshed by the incoming breeze.

‘Can you hear it?’ the man said. ‘The people are exultant. It is a golden melody.’

‘I hear only the bleating of a stranger in my quarters,’ Apion replied flatly.

‘The people are so easily swayed,’ the figure continued as if Apion had not spoken. ‘A dash of entertainment, a shipment of Paphlagonian wine,’ he snapped his fingers, adorned with thick gold rings, ‘and they are acquired. A prudent expense, it would seem.’

‘I will ask you once; who are you?’ Apion said, his voice echoing around the room.

The man turned to him at last, fixing him with the kind of gaze a gull would cast upon a discarded fish head. He was narrow-eyed with a shrivelled, pinched face. ‘Psellos, chief adviser to the imperial throne.’ He bowed slightly, his eyes never leaving Apion. ‘And you are the Strategos of Chaldia, I believe?’

Apion nodded.

‘Many of your ilk have arrived here in recent weeks,’ Psellos started.

‘So I have heard,’ Apion spoke over him. ‘and some of those have had their visits. . cut short. So forgive my abruptness, but when I find a stranger in my quarters, I have little time for decorum.’

Psellos smiled, extending his arms wide. ‘Ah, set your mind at ease, Strategos. I come here only to welcome you.’

Apion noticed that Psellos’ smile never reached his eyes.

‘And to offer you a morsel of advice,’ Psellos continued. ‘In my years as adviser, I have seen how vital you and your kind are in making or breaking an emperor, or even a whole dynasty. That is why you have been called here; to make choices that will determine the fate of the empire.’

‘Weighty choices plague my every day back in the east, but not here,’ Apion replied prosaically. ‘I have come here simply to hail the arrival of the new emperor. Then the rebuilding of the borderlands can begin as soon as Romanus Diogenes takes the throne.’

The little man’s features creased with a tight and bitter smile. He raised a hand, one finger extended and wagging. ‘Ah, now there is the first of the problems. An assumption that has little basis in legality. . contrary to current thinking, the throne does not lie unoccupied. The young Michael Doukas sits upon it. His father’s dynasty is unbroken.’

‘I understand that it is merely a formality that he and his regents will step aside when Romanus Diogenes comes to be crowned?’

Psellos was unblinking. ‘That remains to be seen, Strategos. As I said; the coming months will reveal many truths. In that time, I urge you to remain open to those who choose to confer with you.’

‘Why would I be anything but?’

Psellos chuckled mirthlessly at this, stroking his chin as he strolled to the door. ‘Why indeed?’ he said as he left the room.

Apion’s mind darkened as his thoughts tangled. He had been lured here by the promise of hope. Yet he had been received with only dark insinuations. But they can wait, he thought, shaking his head clear of this muddle as he slid on his boots, focusing only on the fine-featured woman on the balcony, for I have an apology to make.

He stood and swept his crimson cloak across his shoulders. Then he hurried downstairs and past the two varangoi bookending the archway that led outside into the gardens. The afternoon sunlight was warm and a welcome contrast to the cool, shady interior of the palace. Indeed, the trilling cicada song reminded him of home. He glanced up at the balcony above the far side of the gardens where he had seen the woman. She was not there so he picked his way along the narrow paths that wound between the fruit trees and colourful blooms. The tang of oranges spiced the air first, and then the lazy scent of jasmine and narcissus. Fountains babbled near the heart of the gardens, and he found it an effort not to forget his troubles.

Until he heard footsteps, rushing towards him. At once, he was alert.

He looked this way and that, then spun to his right. The dark-green leaves of a rhododendron bush wriggled and rustled. He grasped at his absent scimitar hilt and cursed aloud, bracing himself for this unseen attacker.

Then the tension washed from him as a boy tumbled from the bush, giggling, twigs in his blonde hair. The broad grin on his cherubic face fell as he skidded to a halt before Apion. The lad was no more than seven. Apion’s eyes fell to the sword belt the boy carried. It contained a spathion.

‘A weighty weapon for a young lad, is it not?’ he cocked an eyebrow.

The boy squared his shoulders and lifted his chin at this insult, and Apion had to work to resist chuckling at this.

‘I’m going to be emperor one day, so I must be ready!’ the boy replied. Then he jabbed a finger at a nesting parakeet and its hatchlings, high up on one orange tree, an impish grin creeping onto his face. ‘My feathered army are loyal to me!’

Just then, a weightier set of footsteps sounded nearby, accompanied by a low growl. ‘Konstantious! I have no time for your foolish games!’

The boy’s haughty look faltered at this and he spun round, lifting the sword from the belt, two-handed. His limbs shook under the weight of the blade.

A small but broad-shouldered young man stomped into view. He was sixteen, perhaps. He wore a purple tunic hemmed with gold thread. His jaw was broad and well-defined, his hair light brown and short and his eyes shaded under a scowl. Apion saw the resemblance between the two as the young man marched up to little Konstantious and tore the sword from his grip, threw the blade to the ground, then moved towards the young lad, fists balled.

Apion stepped between the two, frowning at the young man. ‘Perhaps in ten years or so you two could have a fair fight. Until then, you should keep your sword belt somewhere safe.’

The young man’s face burned with anger. ‘How dare you address your emperor in such a tone?’

Apion’s breath froze in his lungs. So this was Michael. Constantine Doukas’ eldest son and acting emperor. The boy whose grasp of the purple would be torn from him when Eudokia remarried.

Michael Doukas continued to glare up at him. ‘Drop your gaze and fall to one knee or I’ll have you flogged until the bones in your back are shattered.’

Apion simply gazed back at the boy. Then Konstantious, hiding behind Apion, peeked round to yell; ‘Nobody has to do what you say, puppet emperor!’

At this, Michael’s face turned crimson, and he readied to leap for little Konstantious.

‘Easy, easy!’ Apion held up his hands, then bowed on one knee. They were at eye level now. ‘You are emperor and so I will kneel before you. But know that in the past I’ve been flogged until the barbs on the whip wrenched at my ribs. So I do not wilt under such threats, Michael. Men who do may fear you, but they will never respect you.’

Michael’s gratified grin faded a fraction at this and he looked every inch the lost young man that he was.

Then a woman’s voice pierced the air and the young man’s face fell completely; ‘You’ll control that foul temper of yours, Michael.’

Apion glanced up. The tall, slender lady from the balcony walked towards them. She was draped in red silken robes and he could now see her face clearly; beauty sullied only slightly with age, her golden locks flecked with silver. Most interestingly, she was flanked by two varangoi, each bearing their heavy axes as if ready to strike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

Apion snapped to attention. ‘Basileia?’

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

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

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

Apion frowned.

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

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

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

‘For many,’ Apion agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She pointed to the south.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I can offer you only my word.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘My lady?’ Apion frowned.

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

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

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

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

‘That pleases me,’ she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, my lady.’