Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

15. To Conquer the Sun

Apion finished his morning run and then ascended the stairs of the Hippodrome. He nodded to the pair of varangoi seated in the otherwise deserted arena as he passed them. ‘I won’t be long,’ he panted.

He carried on up the stairs until he reached the southern lip. Up here, a gentle salt-tanged breeze from the Propontus offered some respite from the fiery July heat, cooling his sweat-slicked skin. He inhaled deeply and looked far to the west, where the hazy and distant Mount Olympus pierced the azure skyline, still capped with snow at its summit. Then he drew his gaze in along the southern edge of the bustling city.

The waters of the Propontus were coral blue and peaceful. Storks and herons picked through the shallows while dolphin schools tumbled and played further out amidst the fishing vessels dotted on the placid surface. Inside the sun-baked sea walls, the marbled finery of the southern wards were cloaked in a verdant blanket of vines, rooftop gardens and orchards. Bullfinches, skylarks and parakeets chirruped in competition with the cicada song, and the populace babbled throughout the streets. Crowds clustered around the fish market by the Harbour of Theodosius, where oysters and tuna seemed to be in high demand.

But the busiest part of all was around the fortified Harbour of Julian. Here, the infantry of the finely armoured Optimates Tagma and the riders of the Scholae Tagma filtered towards the harbour. Following them was the touldon, the precious supply train of mules and wagons that would pull rations, tents, artillery, spare weapons and armour along with an assortment of tools such as mallets, axes, sickles and shovels. This gathering of an army had been inevitable since the ceremonial gilded shield had been hung from the gates of the Imperial Palace.

For today, the first great campaign for many years was to set off to the east.

He turned to look across the Bosphorus strait. Beyond the woods on the far shore, the mountains of Anatolia lined the eastern horizon. A shiver danced up his spine. Beyond those mountains lay Chaldia and the borderlands. But they were headed beyond the borderlands — right into the Seljuk dominion. He cast his mind back to Romanus’ brash address in this very arena in the early summer.

The armies of God’s empire will march to the east. Rejuvenated, with pride in our hearts, we will recoup the vital lands that have been long lost to us. We will walk over fire to see the Seljuk threat quelled. To the east and into the flames! To Syria!

His heart beat just a fraction faster at the memory. The words became intermingled with those of the crone.

In the afternoon, he will march to the east as if to conquer the sun itself.

At last, it all seemed possible. Psellos and the Doukids had been tempered, apparently. They still clung to the imperial court, but the murders and plotting had ceased since Romanus had taken the throne. Romanus had wanted to have Psellos exiled. But Eudokia had insisted that to do so would incite bitter retribution and that he could still garner enough support to spark a civil war. Let the snake slither in our midst. Is it not better that he is within our sights than plotting unseen?

Apion frowned, weighing this logic, not for the first time in recent months.

Then the rippling of heavy linen snapped him from his thoughts. He looked down into the interior of the fortified harbour. There, the newly crafted fleet was readying to sail. Each of the thirty dromons had fresh white sails adorned with purple Chi-Rho emblems. Their timbers were supple and fresh, their hulls high in the water and their sides studded with fire siphons. It was in stark contrast to the crippled, rotting hulks they had witnessed upon their arrival in the city.

This was just one of Romanus’ immediate reforms. The rotting fleet had been scuttled. The senate had protested vigorously about this, but to Apion it had seemed like the merciful thrust of a blade into a wounded stallion’s chest. What use is a fleet that cannot sail even from its own harbour? Romanus had insisted. The empire needsa fresh and compact fleet to allow us to cross the Bosphoruswithout need of private ferrymen. The church had backed his stance. Then they had recoiled in horror as the emperor had set the Varangoi loose to strip the gilded artifices of the city’s churches to pay for the initiative. But Romanus was undeterred. Apion had led the Rus in their endeavours, the pleas of the clergy like distant echoes as he set about chiselling obscene quantities of precious metal from the holy buildings all across the city. Only the Hagia Sofia was spared this harvesting.

Then he heard the tink-tink of hammer upon metal from the armamenta workshop. The long-neglected furnaces had been fired into life once more, devouring the vast quantities of iron ore purchased with the church gold. Over these last months, great stockpiles of spathion swords, kite shields, kontarion lances, iron and leather klibania, well-crafted leather boots and iron helms were formed. Now each and every man in the ranks of the Scholae and Optimates tagmata had been furnished with full armour and weapons. Indeed, as they gathered inside the harbour, they formed up in neat squares and wedges of shimmering iron.

The Optimates Tagma were two thousand strong, comprising fifteen hundred skutatoi in full iron garb, carrying spears, spathions and shields, and five hundred toxotai in wide brimmed felt hats with bows and full quivers.

The Scholae Tagma was fifteen hundred strong and all cavalry, man and mount encased in iron. They would form the hammer to the anvil of the infantry. They were led by Doux Philaretos, a scowling man with receding cropped hair who Apion placed as shrewd and easily angered. But Romanus trusted him implicitly, it seemed. The most loyal of my men, he had spoken of the doux with a sparkle in his eye. Apion was less enamoured with the man, and could not decide whether his judgement was coloured by his experiences with the late Doux Fulco and his like. Regardless, the Scholae riders under Philaretos’ command seemed like good men.

These two tagmata were to form the core of the campaign army. But the spears of the Optimates Tagma alone were too few. More infantry were needed. Far more. As such, Romanus planned to muster the themata. They were to cross the Bosphorus and disembark in Anatolia, then march to the centre of the Bucellarion Thema where the armies would muster. Apion had worked hard to convince Romanus that the themata needed a vast investment if they were to be ready — significantly more than the funds used to bring the tagmata up to scratch. So, Romanus had despatched wagons of gold to each of the themata they were to call upon for this campaign. That moment had been like water to a parched throat for Apion, as he thought of the many thousands of lives that would be saved under the protection of finely garbed soldiers.

You would have been proud, Apion whispered, seeing Cydones’ features in his mind. A refreshing breeze lifted his grey-flecked amber locks as he saw the old man standing alongside Mother, Father, Mansur. . Maria. The memories ached like an open wound.

Then footsteps scraped behind him, echoing around the arena and jolting him from his thoughts.

‘Sir!’ A voice spoke, echoing like the announcer at the races.

Apion turned to scan the arena. The two varangoi had not spoken. Finally, his gaze snagged on Dederic, standing near the centre of the track, dwarfed by the central array of columns and obelisks.

‘Sir?’ Dederic repeated.

Apion flitted down the steps and padded out across the racecourse, the varangoi following a handful of paces behind. As he approached the Norman, he noticed once again how much the little man had changed. His skin was burnished from the summer sun. He had even taken to wearing kohl under his eyes like some of the varangoi, and had let the severely shaved back and sides of his hair grow into long, dark curls.

‘It is time?’ Apion asked.

‘Aye, our dromon will set sail before noon.’

The pair shared a taciturn gaze for a few moments.

‘Then let us not keep fate waiting,’ Apion said at last, clasping a hand to Dederic’s shoulder and smiling. ‘We will meet my army on the voyage ahead, and I know you will lead your tourma well. This campaign will be arduous, but it can be won.’

‘Whatever it takes, sir,’ Dederic replied with an earnest gaze.

They walked into the western tunnel. There, Dederic stopped. ‘Sir?’ he said, his voice echoing in the cool space. ‘I’ve fought in central Anatolia, but that’s as far as I’ve been. What awaits us beyond the borderlands?’

Apion looked through the Norman as his mind replayed the years of bitter bloodshed.

‘You believe in God and heaven don’t you, Dederic?’

The Norman frowned, then nodded. ‘Of course I do, sir.’

‘Then you will soon know hell also. . ’

***

A hot, dry August breeze swept across the mustering point near the banks of the River Halys in the heart of Anatolia. Outside the vast marching camp, weed and dust whipped up and over the gathered men of the Thrakesion Thema, who shuffled in discomfort under the afternoon sun.

Emperor Romanus Diogenes stood in full armour; a white and silver moulded bronze breastplate over a white linen tunic and trousers, iron greaves and fine doeskin boots. He carried his silver, purple-plumed helm underarm. Once more he swept his steely glare across the few hundred who stood before him — their appearance in stark contrast to his. They were gaunt, with soot-blackened faces, motley teeth and tousled hair. They wore ripped and darned tunics, faded and stained. Only a handful of them wore quilted and felt armour jackets, and even less had iron helms — the majority wearing only felt caps. Precious few carried the shield, spathion and spear of a skutatos or the composite bow of a toxotes. Most were armed only with farming tools and rudimentary weapons; hoes, scythes, clubs and woodcutting axes. But the banners were most telling of all. Each of these was supposed to represent an infantry bandon of between two hundred and three hundred men. He had bargained on each thema bringing anything up to thirty of these banners, yet here before him were only six, frayed, faded and smoke-stained. Barely fifty men clustered under each.

Anger bubbled in Romanus’ veins. Where were the thousands that he had been told to expect? What had become of the gold he had released to these themata from the imperial treasury to equip them? He cast a dry look to Igor and Apion, by his side, then turned his gaze on the man who had presented this ragged bunch to him.

Gregoras, the Strategos of Thrakesion, was a ruddy-faced individual with shifty eyes. He was mounted with his retinue of ninety kataphractoi. Few of his riders wore armour while he wore a fine, moulded breastplate. In the previous year, Gregoras had held firm and stayed loyal to Romanus’ rise to the throne while others sided with Psellos. But in the months leading up to this campaign, Romanus had received little communication from the man, and what word he did receive was brief and terse.

Under Romanus’ glare, Gregoras’ gaze faltered, his eyes darting to the left. Romanus noticed how his chin bulged over the collar of his klibanion. A man who had enjoyed plenty in recent times, unlike his men.

‘I assume that others will be coming?’ Romanus asked through taut lips.

Gregoras’ tongue darted out to dampen his lips before he spoke. ‘These have been hard times, Basileus. The availability of fighting men has dwindled. Many have paid their exemption tax for this year in order to tend to their farms.’

And I have a damned good idea as to where a wedge of that tax has ended up, Romanus seethed, eyeing the pure-gold chain Gregoras wore around his neck. ‘What became of the gold that was issued earlier this year? It was supposed to see each man armed and armoured as they should be.’

Gregoras’ gaze once again faltered. ‘There were. . complications. The armamenta struggled to acquire the resources needed to produce the goods on time.’

‘So they produced nothing? In six months?’ Romanus hissed, striding over to reach up and grapple Gregoras’ klibanion. ‘Nothing?’

‘Basileus!’ Igor spoke in a low but demanding tone.

Romanus glowered at the plump strategos. Then, with a sigh, he released his grip and gestured over his shoulder. ‘Take your rabble into the camp and have them set up their tents. I had space reserved for many thousands,’ he said, barely containing a sneer, ‘so you will have ample room to sleep in comfort.’

‘As you command, Basileus,’ Gregoras gushed, backing away before barking orders to his weary infantry.

Romanus turned to the marching camp as Gregoras, his riders and his ragged collection of men flooded past them and inside. The camp was vast, ringed by an outer ditch and then palisade stakes punctuated by timber watchtowers. The tips of pavilion tents and vivid banners were visible above these defence works. But so were the yawning stretches where there should have been more. The strategoi of two other themata they had summoned — the Bucellarion and Anatolikon — had turned up with a similar following and suspicious tale of woe to that of the Strategos of Thrakesion. Only the Strategos of Opsikon — a young man who had succeeded the murdered Nilos — had mustered a decent number of spearmen and archers to complement his two hundred kataphractoi. The campaign army now numbered barely seven thousand men, when Romanus had planned to have at least twice that number, and over half of them resembled little more than a peasant militia.

‘We only have your men and the border tagmata to add to this rabble,’ Romanus muttered to Apion absently.

‘I cannot speak for the border tagmata, Basileus,’ Apion said, a shadow crossing his thoughts as he recalled the odious Doux Fulco and his ilk, ‘but the men of Chaldia will not disappoint you.’ The shadow lifted as he thought of Sha, Blastares and Procopius and the well-drilled if depleted tourmae they led.

‘I don’t doubt you, Strategos,’ Romanus sighed. ‘But even if the army of Chaldia offered a full complement, we still could not set out for Syria in this condition. Despite our efforts in these last months, there is still much work to be done.’ The emperor scoured the camp again and again, as if in search of an answer. ‘It seems that intrigue clings to this campaign like a plague carried from Constantinople — that three of the four themata have been unable to utilise the grants we provided is interesting indeed.’ He sighed through taut lips. ‘At this, the most desperate days for the empire, must I fight a war in my own camp?’

Both men looked at one another. One name remained tacit between them.

Psellos.

‘Basileus,’ Apion spoke firmly, his emerald eyes fixed on Romanus. ‘Indeed, there is much to be done. But we must start somewhere,’ Apion said.

‘Aye. Suggestions?’ Romanus asked wearily.

Apion raised a finger to point at the trudging smatter of infantry as they filed inside the camp. ‘Those filthy banners, they epitomise the poverty of the ranks. The men feel as worthless as those rags look. Have the craftsmen set up their looms — fresh banners can be woven within the week.’

Romanus cracked a grin. ‘Aye, that seems a fine place to start. Then tomorrow, we ride to visit these armamenta who, in over half a year, could not stitch together a single felt vest.’

Then Igor joined in, a manic grin sweeping across his face as he drummed his fingers on his axe shaft. ‘Yes, tomorrow we will crack some heads!’

The group split up and Apion wandered through the camp picking through the sea of fluttering banners and brightly coloured tents to reach the one he shared with Dederic and some of the varangoi. Inside was empty and stifling hot, so he pegged the tent flap back to allow fresh air to circulate. The ten sets of quilted bedding were laid out around the centre pole and the spears and armour of each man were balanced at the head. He ate a light meal of cheese and hard tack biscuit, washing it down with a swig of rather tepid water. Then he took the opportunity to rest, slipping off his cloak and boots then reclining on his blanket. As he closed his eyes, a merciful breeze danced over his tired limbs, lulling him to sleep.

As his thoughts slipped away, he saw her again, and her name echoed in his dreams.

Maria.

***

Maria sat, cross-legged by the poolside in a pale-green linen robe. The coral-blue water was absolutely still, reflecting the vibrant tiles of the villa courtyard and the unblemished August sky that hung over Hierapolis. Honey-gold finches chirruped from their nest in the palm tree in the corner. Dragonflies hovered in the shade and around the verdant vines that scaled the walls. She closed her eyes and tried to let the serenity cleanse the fear from her heart.

Then the creaking of a thick wooden door shook her back to reality. Her chest tightened at once, her heartbeat galloping. She looked into the shaded hearth room to see the silhouetted figure entering the villa. A thousand doubts raced through her mind. She had been told what to expect; that her husband would return to her today after more than two summers since he had ridden west with his warband, and that he had been horribly disfigured.

When Nasir stepped out into the sunlight, she shuddered. Not at the sagging, blistered welt of skin and patchy hair that clung like a mask to one side of his face. But at the look in his eyes. He had found no vent for his anger in his latest foray.

She clapped her hands. The slave girl came running. ‘Bring bandages, balms and salves,’ she called out, sending her off back inside the villa.

‘It is too late to heal the wounds,’ Nasir spoke, his voice dry from the dust of the ride.

‘But you will still be weary and saddle sore from your ride, will you not?’ she approached him gingerly, extending her arms as if to embrace him. Deep in his grey eyes, she saw an echo of the young man she had once loved, before he had descended into bitterness. Then his gaze steeled and his nose wrinkled.

‘Is it too much even to embrace me?’ she spoke weakly.

Nasir shook his head, waving one hand at her as if swatting a fly away, then headed back inside the villa.

She stared at the spot where he had stood. Sometimes, when he was gone with his riders, she imagined that the iciness between them was just a trick of her memory. Yet when he returned, she always felt such a fool for deluding herself.

She entered the villa. It was cool and gloomy inside. Nasir sat on a wooden bench, unstrapping his scale vest, facing away from her.

‘How did it happen,’ she asked, ‘your wounds?’

He halted, trembling with rage.

At that moment she knew the answer. ‘Apion did this? I’m sorry, I. . ’

‘You’re not sorry. You never were,’ he spat at the mention of the name. ‘Your father’s blood is on his hands. Don’t you remember what they did to him? All because that Byzantine whoreson was not there to protect him!’

Maria choked back a sob. It was this distorted truth that had convinced her to perpetuate Nasir’s cruel deception. To let Apion live all these years believing that she too had been slain with her father on that day.

‘Aye, he has burned the flesh from my face,’ Nasir snapped his head round at that moment, showing the ruined side of his face; gritted teeth, the melted folds of skin and one bulging eye. ‘But the pain of these wounds is nothing compared to knowing that. . ’

‘Father!’ a voice called out. Footsteps pattered through the villa and then a broad and tall boy raced into the room like a blur, rushing straight for Nasir. He slid to his knees and threw his arms around Nasir, back turned to Maria. Nasir returned the embrace, kissing the top of the boy’s head and smoothing his charcoal locks. His voice had softened now, but he cast baleful looks up at Maria.

‘Aye, Taylan, I have returned, but not for long. The sultan has already tasked me with another mission.’

Taylan looked up, then recoiled in shock. ‘Your face,’ he said, lifting a fawn hand to Nasir’s wounds. ‘The Byzantines did this to you?’

‘It is but an old scar now. Many of them fell to my blade in penance.’

‘And many more must fall when you ride out again!’ Taylan growled, trying in vain to disguise his sobs.

Maria clasped her hands to her breast at this. This was the one thing she feared more than anything. That Taylan would inherit Nasir’s anger. He was only thirteen, but was already familiar with the scimitar, and Nasir had sent him to ride with the sultan and watch battles from afar.

‘Aye, many will fall, Taylan,’ he said, his chill glare never leaving Maria, ‘but there is one whose blood must be spilled above all others.’

Maria’s heart turned to ice.

Bey Nasir had been away on campaign for more than two summers, but the Nasir she had once loved had been absent far longer.

***

A baritone chanting rang out from the dusty, sun-baked streets of Ancyra as the bishop led the populace in morning prayer. The few skutatoi posted on the walls were the only ones to notice the tiny dust plume approaching from the south, winding through the russet and gold hills. One squinted at the banner that emerged from the plume, then looked to the other, frowning.

‘I drank a lot of wine last night, and I mean a lot. Unwatered too. Tell me my mind is still addled with merriness?’

‘Eh?’ the other skutatos frowned, then squinted at the banner himself. His jaw dropped. ‘Is that. . ’

Neither noticed the cloaked and hooded figure watching from an adjacent rooftop. The figure saw the approaching horsemen. Then three rapid glints of reflected sunlight flashed from their midst. The figure noticed this then scurried back from the roof’s edge.

Leo the smith was a simple man, a man who could only enjoy reward after a hard day’s work. That was why the events of the last few months had been so confusing for him, he mused, weighing the full wineskin in his grasp. He wiped a rag over his wrinkled scalp and spat a gobbet of phlegm onto the streetside, then looked both ways before lifting the keys to the armamenta from his pocket.

‘What is there to be scared of?’ he chided himself as he unlocked the door. ‘They’re all in on it. Every whoreson in the city.’

The half-rotten timber door opened with a clunk and he stepped inside the cavernous red-brick workhouse. Where normally there would be a riot of hammers on iron, sawing, shouting and sweltering furnaces blazing, there was only stillness and silence. The furnaces lay black and cold, the lathes and anvils still and silent and the long workbenches were empty, all apart from one bearing a brass bell upon it. He stalked across the floor of the main workroom, the place echoing with his every footstep, then slumped down on the chair and lifted his feet onto the battered old table before him. He sighed and looked to the wineskin, made to pull the cork from its top, then hesitated as he felt a touch of guilt.

He looked around. Wool, flax, ore and timber were piled high but untouched and the furnaces, looms and lathes lay inactive. Likewise, Leo thought, the tannery at the edge of the city was empty and blessedly free of the noxious stench. This, despite the surplus of hides that lay untreated by its doorway.

Yes, it felt wrong. He lifted the wineskin to his lips and sucked upon it, the tart liquid washing into his gut and further lifting his mood. But it felt so, so good. Being paid twice his usual wage to do nothing? That was quite something. Besides, he thought, every other worker was taking the money without questioning their morals. Yes, he grew bored easily without daily labour. But then, he grinned, he could simply spend his wage on whores and drink to whittle away the time.

He shrugged wearily as he thought of his wife’s tears that morning. He had thought this relative wealth would have at least brought a smile to her face. Instead she seemed determined to focus on the scent of the whore he had spent the previous night with.

‘Cah!’ he swept a hand through the air as if batting his troubles away. ‘She’ll learn that it’s better this way.’ He tipped the skin up once more. Today, like the last few days when it had been his job simply to keep an eye on the building, he planned to get so drunk that he would sleep through his shift. Already he felt a fuzziness right behind his eyes. A smile crept across his face as he lifted the skin a third time.

‘Be on your guard,’ an urgent voice filled the room.

Leo sat bolt upright. His heart thundered and he looked this way and that.

He felt fright drain from his body, convinced he had just fallen asleep for a moment. Then he saw a hooded figure stride towards him across the workroom.

He leapt up, yelping, spilling his winesack on the flagstones, backing up against the wall, his chair tumbling to its side.

The figure halted suddenly, only a pace from him.

Within the shade of the hood, Leo saw the ghostly pallor of the man and recognised him at once. It was Zenobius, the curious stranger who had ridden into the city some months ago. The albino had also been in the armamenta that day when the Strategos of Bucellarion had ordered the workers to stand down. Bizarrely, he seemed to be overseeing the strategos’ actions that day. He had the look of a soulless bird of prey that day and now he looked like a hungry one.

‘Gather the workers,’ Zenobius said, flatly.

‘What?’ Leo stammered.

Zenobius grappled his collar and hefted him from his feet and against the wall. The albino’s glare was empty. ‘This is all you were asked to do for your coin. Now do it, or I will cut you to pieces,’ he said, then pointed a finger at the brass bell on the workbench.

‘The workers, yes!’ Leo nodded hurriedly, rushing over to lift the bell. This was left in place to be rung whenever the works needed to be resumed. ‘But who is coming?’

Zenobius simply moved a hand to his belt, where the edge of a sickle blade glinted.

At this, panic washed through Leo’s veins and he stumbled through the double doors into the workyard up the timber stairs onto the roof, clanging the bell with all his strength.

***

Apion clutched at the handle of the armamenta door. It rattled but would not open. He looked to Dederic and shook his head, then he twisted round. Romanus and a party of forty varangoi in their pure-white armour were mounted in the middle of the street. Philaretos and Gregoras were mounted alongside them.

Romanus’ lips grew taut. Then he waved Igor and a clutch of the varangoi forward.

‘Stand back!’ Igor grunted.

Apion twisted just in time to see the scarred Rus begin his charge, head down, growling. He leapt back as Igor threw his sturdy frame at the door. With a sharp crack, the lock gave way and the door burst in, falling from its hinges in the process. Igor dusted his hands together then cricked his head towards either shoulder until a popping noise sounded from his collarbone. Then the party filed inside, halting on the main workroom floor as a pair of young men cut across their path carrying timber to the furnace.

Apion frowned as he swept his gaze around. The furnaces were lit, women were sitting at the looms and a small, bald smith seemed engrossed by a sheaf of paper with diagrams inked upon it. Through the double doors, in the yard, he saw two men buzzing around what looked like a fletcher’s workshop. Then he looked back to the smith — and caught the man’s furtive glance for a heartbeat before it was dropped back to the paper. Apion dipped his brow and strode over to the furnace area.

'You oversee this workhouse, smith?’

The man nodded, as if irritated by the interruption.

‘And how are the works going?’ Apion asked.

The smith took a moment to stroke his chin before looking up.

‘Slowly, we have had some difficulty with the materials. The ore has many impurities, and the wool is coarse and. . ’

As the smith listed his complaints, Apion looked to the pile of ore in the adjacent storeroom. He noticed two things at that moment. The thick coating of dust upon the iron ore and the bead of sweat on the smith’s forehead, despite the relative cool of the workhouse.

‘. . we really are struggling to meet the emperor’s demands,’ the smith gestured to the furnaces, ‘but we’ve been working night and day to. . ‘

Apion barged past the smith, then placed a hand against the furnace door, tentatively at first, then without fear. It was cold and only beginning to heat from the flames inside. He looked up at the others in the room. One of the lads carrying timber had a wet, red stain down the front of his linen tunic. Wine. The other lad’s clothes were pristine white, despite the soot around the works. Then he saw that another few faces had appeared in the yard outside. They looked anxious until the fletcher whispered to them and they hurriedly took up tools.

‘There have been no works here for some time,’ Apion stated.

‘I. . how dare you suggest,’ the smith started, his eyes bulging. All around the workshop had slowed, eyes fixed on the scene.

‘You reek of wine!’ Apion spat back. ‘And your drudges have obviously come here in haste from the inn,’ he gestured to the lad with the stained tunic. Then he nodded to the white-robed lad, ‘or from prayer.’

‘This is an outrageous claim!’

Igor barged forward, lifting his axe from his back, hefting it up to strike at the man with the shaft. The smith staggered back and fell in anticipation of the blow, shielding himself with his arms.

Dederic stepped forward and caught Igor’s arm just in time. The gasps of the onlooking workers filled the cavernous workhouse.

Igor grunted and glared at Dederic, wide-eyed.

‘This is not how it is supposed to be,’ the Norman muttered, frowning.

‘Strategos?’ Igor bawled, looking to Apion.

Apion twisted round. ‘Dederic is right. If we knock this man unconscious, who will see our weapons forged?’

With a grunt, Igor stepped back.

Apion crouched by the smith and stared at him. ‘The emperor waits in the street outside,’ at this, the smith gawped to the shattered door and then to Apion, ‘and he is minded to execute those who have jeopardised his campaign.’

‘I. . I. . ’ the smith stammered.

‘You will not be hurt or punished, smith, unless you fail to do as I ask.’

The smith nodded hurriedly.

‘The emperor’s army is set to march into Seljuk lands to protect the empire, to protect you, to protect your family. Yet near half of them, over three thousand men, have only tunics and the grace of their god to protect them from Seljuk steel,’ he gripped the smith’s tunic, lifting him to his feet and pulling him close. ‘We need klibania, do you understand?’

The smith nodded hurriedly.

‘Iron is best but leather will do,’ Apion continued. ‘They need boots also — we have already visited the sot dozing at the tannery, so he knows his responsibilities. Helms, blades, spears and shields are in short supply also, as are arrows. You have a busy few weeks ahead of you, smith, but I’m sure your appetite for hard work has grown in the time you have taken coin to do nothing.’

The smith gulped, a steely resolve growing and replacing the terror in his eyes. ‘Aye, it has. Idleness has made me do some bad things.’

Apion pinned him with a gimlet stare and lowered his voice. ‘A man rarely finds opportunity to redeem himself for past evils. Seize your opportunity.’ At last. the man nodded vigorously and Apion released his grip on him. Then Apion strode back to the shattered door. Igor’s barked orders echoed around him as he left.

Outside, Romanus waited on horseback. The varangoi clustered around him. Philaretos and Gregoras looked on with narrowed eyes.

Apion squinted as he looked up to the emperor. ‘It is as we thought, Basileus. Some treachery has seen the armamenta lie idle for months. But it is rectified now. Igor is posting his men here to oversee that the works are completed with haste.’

‘Good,’ Romanus nodded, the tension easing from his expression just a fraction. ‘Now we must ride around the farmlands and muster what other men we can.’

***

Zenobius lay flat on his belly, inching forward until he could curl his fingers around the lip of the armamenta roof and peer down into the flagstoned street below. While he had taught himself to disguise his emotions, it meant they were all the fiercer in his heart. The signal from his man in the emperor’s retinue had been too late. Psellos would think him some kind of fool. Childhood memories swirled in his agitated mind. His mother’s promise of greatness seemed ever more distant and he heard the drunken jeers of Father and his cronies as they beat him. Father was right. I am a curse! At this, his expressionless face twitched and the beginnings of a frown wrinkled his brow. But he clenched his fists until his nails broke the skin and his palms bled. No, he insisted, his face settling once more, this is merely a setback.

He looked to the nearby stables where a dappled grey was loosely tethered. It was time to move on to the next step of the plan.

***

Apion walked with Romanus, Igor, Dederic and Philaretos in the watery morning sunshine by the banks of the Halys, north of the camp. It had been a hectic few weeks of kicking the armamenta into life and rounding up what few recruits they could find in the nearby farmlands, villages and towns.

Just outside the camp on a patch of flat ground clear of rhododendrons and rocks, the skutatoi of the Opsikon Thema were being put through their paces by their kampidoktores. The gruff man orchestrated the drill of running and leaping with a chorus of barks and a gleeful and sadistic grin. Adjacent to this, the thock-thock of arrows punching into wood rang out as the toxotai of the Bucellarion Thema fired into rings of tree trunk, each emptying one quiver before taking up another.

Then, further north, the imperial tagmata trained. One glance could distinguish these more ancient regiments from the mercenary rabbles on the borders led by the likes of Doux Fulco. The skutatoi of the Optimates Tagma — the only infantry unit that could present with every man armed and armoured — formed up in a silvery line, those with the longest spears to the fore, their green banners splicing the line at regular intervals of each bandon of three hundred men. One barking command saw their flanks fold swiftly to form a defensive square. Then, buccinators by the side of the river raised their horns to their lips. The wail of the instruments rang out and the earth shook; from the banks upriver, the kataphractoi of the Scholae Tagma mock-charged this square. They were a fine sight; fifteen hundred mounted men encased in iron, thundering forwards together in a thick wedge. At the last moment, they split into two and broke around the square. Then the men of the Optimates cheered as they fended off this ‘charge’.

Apion noticed a contented smile touch the corners of Romanus’ lips as he watched. Then the emperor turned to those with him, recounting the next steps for the campaign once more. ‘A trade flotilla is due to come downriver within the week. They will bring the last shipment of arms and armour from Ancyra and they will ferry us upriver.’

‘Another week of training should surely see the vermin of the themata hardy enough for the march,’ Doux Philaretos said with a sneer as they peeled away from the riverbank.

Apion bit his tongue at this.

Then they came to the men of the Thrakesion Thema. They had been bolstered with the extra few hundred that had been mustered in the last weeks.

Apion eyed the man who barked them into formation. It was Gregoras, the ruddy-faced strategos. The new recruits of his thema were easy to spot, their shoulders bowed under the weight of all they carried. Apion thought of Philaretos’ jibe and sighed. Then he strode from the emperor’s group and past Gregoras. All the men in the Thrakesion ranks broke into a muted murmur at the disturbance.

‘What do you think you’re. . ’ Gregoras barked at Apion.

Apion turned to him. ‘Permit me this one thing, sir.’

Gregoras’ eyes narrowed and his lips grew pursed. ‘Be swift, strategos.’

Apion carried on before stopping in front of the recruit at the end of the line. He was gaunt and unshaven, with nervous eyes and foul teeth.

‘At ease,’ Apion said.

He lifted the pack from the recruit’s shoulders. ‘A column is only as strong as its weakest point,’ he barked to the line, lifting from the hemp bag three pots, a hand-held grain mill, a small sack of barley, another sack of wheat. Then he shook his head and crouched, lifting the sack by its corners and tipping out a pile of tools and blankets.

‘A marching soldier must carry only what he needs. The temptation is always there to be prepared with everything you might need, but think only of the essentials.’ He kicked the sack of barley to one side, then all but one blanket, then the majority of the tools. ‘You carry your weapons and your armour, a cloak or a blanket — not both, two skins of water, one sack of grain, one pot, a cup, and a mill,’ he said, scooping each of these things back into the pack. ‘I have spent months in the arid east with only these things.’

He noticed one squat recruit nearby stifling a smug grin, firing glances at the man whose possessions were on display. ‘Don’t look at this man,’ Apion patted the gaunt recruit on the shoulder, handing him back his pack, then scowled at the short recruit’s pack before sweeping his gaze across the rest of the line, ‘for he isn’t the worst offender.’ At this, the squat man’s face froze in alarm, fearful that he would be made an example of next. ‘Sell what you do not need to the touldon or at the next market we cross. When you are clashing swords with a seven foot Seljuk, you will not be glad of an extra cooking pot. Though he may find use for it after he has cut off your balls and fancies a meal.’

A flurry of nervous laughter was followed by the thudding of knees hitting the dust and the clatter of packs being unloaded.

As he left the line, he nodded to the seething Gregoras then made to catch up with the emperor and his party. He noticed that one deathly pale recruit was kneeling but not unloading his pack nor chatting with his comrades. He seemed to be more interested in Romanus and his party, still walking some distance away.

‘Zenobius!’ a komes cried at the soldier. ‘Get on with it — empty your pack!’

***

The Halys babbled incessantly in the darkness and the sky was studded with stars and a waning moon. At the heart of the camp, crackling torches illuminated the night and cast an ethereal glow up onto the gilded campaign Cross erected by the emperor’s tent.

Gregoras, the Strategos of Thrakesion, was seated at the campfire, eating a strip of greasy goat meat, staring silently into the flames. Paces away, Apion, Romanus, Philaretos and Dederic sat around a small table just outside the tent. On the table was a shatranj board, a plate of fruit and a jug of wine.

Philaretos’ eyelids drooped, then he jolted awake. Hearing Igor and the pair of nearby varangoi sentries chuckling at him, he rubbed at his eyes and scowled them into silence. Then he drummed his fingers on his knee and tapped his foot. Then he shuffled and scoffed, drained his wine cup and stood, casting an accusing finger at the shatranj board. ‘Torture, this is. Watching even more so than playing. Give me a sword and a thousand men any day.’ With a further sigh, he stood and stalked over to sit next to Gregoras at the nearby campfire, where he took to honing his spathion on a whetstone.

Apion and Romanus looked at one another, chuckling.

At the same time, Dederic stood. ‘The doux has a point; there is a certain level of patience required for this,’ he said, nodding to the board. ‘A level of patience that turns the mind to otherwise loathsome tasks.’ He strolled over to his fawn stallion, tethered only paces away, then took to brushing at the beast’s mane and coat.

Romanus chewed on a piece of dried fish then supped at his watered wine. ‘Just us then, Strategos?’

‘Aye,’ Apion nodded, lifting a pawn forward from his front rank.

The emperor lifted a pawn of his own, moving it out over two squares to allow development of his chariot piece. His face was stern, his mind clearly not on the game. ‘There is one thing the men must learn. Something long forgotten by all but our border armies. Not just how to fight, but how to fight the Seljuk war machine.’

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

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

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

‘You fear for Lady Eudokia?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dederic flashed a smile in reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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