Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

17. Land of Honey

Dusk settled on the plain surrounding Melitene. A baritone chanting of evening prayer started from the centre of the city. It grew in intensity, echoing out over the broad, tall limestone battlements. Then it spilled across the marching camp that hugged the southern walls and gate. Inside the near-deserted camp, Apion sat alone at one of the many benches laid out for the feast that was to come.

He traced his fingertips across the rough oak table — yet to be adorned with fare. The holy chanting reverberated through the timber and caused him to shiver. He shuffled, pulling his crimson cloak tighter.

Three weeks ago the army had limped to this, the last of the Byzantine strongholds in southeast Anatolia. Romanus had proposed that they rest here, waiting until October to march into Seljuk territory.

For, by then, the Syrian sun will have lost its fire and the men will not fall sick under its glare.

Apion knew how eager Romanus was to press on and seize victory, so this was a generous concession from the man. Yet these few weeks had passed like bad meat through a beggar’s belly, Apion thought, for the Ides of October was upon them already. Tomorrow the army would set out on the march once more, leaving Byzantine lands behind them. Yet the doubts and questions surrounding the Seljuk ambush in Lykandos still plagued his thoughts like a swarm of gnats.

More than eleven hundred skutatoi, one hundred toxotai and four hundred kataphractoi had been lost in that valley. Their lives had been claimed by Seljuk blades, but they had been condemned to death by whichever dark soul had informed Nasir of the campaign route. The same dark soul, no doubt, that had seen the wells poisoned and the supplies taken.

This unanswered riddle had hung like a grey cloud over the march to Melitene. Rumours had spread amongst the ranks. The men were nervous. These fears seemed to fade somewhat once they reached the safe haven of this city and the men indulged in the local delights — the wine, the renowned honey and the well-wishing local ladies. But the cloud still remained over Apion’s thoughts.

He eyed the white-specked peaks of the Antitaurus Mountains to the south. The precipitous passes that led through there would be treacherous, but at least such terrain meant they were unlikely to face another Seljuk warband. Then he thought of what lay beyond the mountains. Syria, the start of the Seljuk heartlands, a desert studded with Seljuk strongholds. Nasir. Alp Arslan. He shivered once more and shook his head.

Then he realised that the chanting had ceased. Slaves had begun swarming around the tables. They brought platters of goose and lamb joints, cheeses, bowls of yoghurt and pots of the renowned Melitene honey. The aroma of the cooked meat wafted across the table and hunger stabbed at his gut. Still they came with fruits, berries and blissfully aromatic freshly-baked breads, then amphora after amphora of wine, soured wine and water. Crackling torches were brought out and staked all around the feasting area as the soldiers and the populace poured from the city to crowd around the tables, taking seats and tucking into the fare. They had made their peace with their god and now they were ready to celebrate. A rumble of kettledrums started and then the plucky melody of a lyre joined in. Laughter and chatter broke out all around. Then a fresh clay cup was slammed down before him. Blastares sat down beside him with two cups of his own.

‘Drink up, sir,’ the big man insisted.

Apion raised a hand in refusal, swirling his near-finished drink. ‘I’ve had my time seeking answers at the bottom of a cup. . ’ he started. But then Dederic, Procopius and Sha sat opposite him, cups in hand.

‘. . and perhaps tonight you will finally find them,’ Sha grinned, pushing the fresh cup towards him.

Apion relented and took a swig of the wine — tart, fruity and unwatered. First it invigorated his flesh, warming his belly and blood. He savoured the sensation for a moment, then tore a piece from a charred, still-warm flatbread offered by Procopius and dipped it in yoghurt. Then he took another deep swig of wine to wash it down. This time he felt it begin to pierce the troubles in his mind. He listened as Procopius and Blastares bickered about a lost cloak.

‘I gave it to you, when you were training your men in that rainstorm last week,’ Procopius insisted.

‘Nonsense,’ Blastares waved a hand. ‘I borrowed it yes, but I gave it back to you. Not my fault if you’ve misplaced it.’ He gulped at his wine and tapped a finger to his temple, cackling. ‘Old age, you see, plays tricks on your mind.’

Procopius gawped at this. ‘I can remember every ripping fart, watery belch and grating snore you’ve subjected me to, so there’s no way I would forget. . ’

‘Hold on, you’re talking about your green woollen cloak?’ Sha interrupted, swigging his wine. ‘The one I saw that lady wearing this morning in the market square? What’s her name,’ he snapped his fingers over and over, then he wagged one finger and his eyes sparkled. ‘Ah, yes, Tetradia!’

Procopius’ jaw dropped. ‘Tetradia? The fat Rus whore? You gave my cloak to her?’

At once, Blastares’ face fell ashen. ‘Aye, all right, I might have left it with her. But she’s not just a whore. She’s nice.’

‘Aye, nice to rut with?’ Procopius countered, winking at the others and then rising from his bench slightly to perform a few robust pelvic thrusts.

‘No,’ Blastares scowled. Then he examined his filthy, cracked fingernails. ‘Well, yes. But she’s nice to talk with as well. She listens to my problems.’

At this, Sha and Procopius shared and incredulous glance, before erupting in laughter. Dederic nearly choked on his wine at this.

Apion took another swig of wine and grinned. ‘Damn, but I’ve missed your banter in these last months. Dederic will be a fine fit for our group.’

Sha, Blastares and Procopius looked to the Norman and then to Apion.

‘He will be the fourth tourmarches for Chaldia.’

The three frowned at Dederic for a moment, and the Norman shuffled where he sat.

Then Blastares leaned forward. ‘You’re not an artillery bore, are you?’ he said, flicking eyebrows at Procopius.

Dederic shrugged. ‘I’m a simple man. Give me a horse, a lance and men to lead. I’ll lead them to victory or die trying. That’s me.’

Blastares’ scowl remained for a moment, then he raised a cup and broke into a grin. Apion, Procopius and Sha followed suit and Dederic joined them, clashing the cups together, before gulping at the wine. A cheer erupted from those nearby at this.

Then, when it died, Apion looked them each in the eye. ‘The emperor relies on me and the other strategoi and doukes as if we were his limbs. Likewise, I look to each of you as mine. I want you to remember this; what we do out there,’ he said, flicking a finger to the south, ‘could bring an end to the suffering of these lands. Anatolia has been riven with bloodshed for too long. Syria can be a safe and secure imperial border for the southeast, and if I die and we achieve this, then it will be a good death.’

Their eyes sparkled as they listened.

‘I’m ready for it,’ Blastares drummed his fingers on his spathion hilt, grinning like a shark. The big man’s eyes betrayed a giddiness from the wine.

‘I’ve lost too many dear to me to think of anything else,’ Procopius agreed, lifting his cup. The old tourmarches had lost his brother and his son to the war, and he wore a steely look that Apion was all too familiar with.

‘Mali is my birthplace,’ Sha stabbed a finger into the table, ‘but this land is my home, and you are my brothers.’

Then they looked to Dederic. He seemed a little cowed by the bravado of the others. Apion knew the man was here only to earn coin to save his family.

‘We fight for different reasons, but know this; I came here to do whatever it takes to see that my family are safe.’ Dederic thumped a fist into the table, looking each of them in the eye with solemnity, coming to Apion last. ‘Whatever it takes.’

Apion and Dederic shared a lasting gaze.

Then, suddenly, the men all around him put down their cups and slid from their benches, dropping to one knee. The kettledrums and flutes stopped as well and the musicians fell to their knees.

Apion twisted to see Emperor Romanus behind him, flanked by Igor, Philaretos and Gregoras.

‘At ease,’ Romanus motioned to the soldiers around him to sit once more. ‘I too am here to feast and ready myself for what is to come — just as you are.’ The men cautiously returned to their benches and the drums and flutes picked up once more. Despite this, the banter was muted. Romanus cast Apion a wry look, then drew his sword and held it aloft by the blade, examining the spectacularly bejewelled hilt. All eyes turned to this spectacle. ‘This monstrosity was bestowed upon me, much to my chagrin.’ He boomed. ‘But know that despite such seemingly necessary ostentation, I am just like every one of you. When we march, I may march at the head. But when we fight,’ he clenched a fist, ‘I fight by your side.’ He lifted a cup of wine, took a gulp and then held it high. ‘Nobiscum Deus!’

The surrounding soldiers echoed the sentiment. ‘Nobiscum Deus!’

Romanus sheathed his sword and lifted both arms in the air. ‘Now drink and eat until your bellies are fit to burst!’ A raucous cheer erupted at this before tapering back into a lively babble.

Apion had heard of many emperors before, some hiding from reality on their thrones while the enemies clawed at the borders, others leading campaigns as if they were gods, being carried above their men or meting out brutal punishment upon the soldiers for any breach of discipline. Romanus was not one of either ilk. He was a man of the armies. It was little wonder the men of the Istros frontier loved him so much. The golden heart pendant around Romanus’ neck glinted in the torchlight. Apion looked upon it and welcomed the one word that echoed through his thoughts.

Hope.

Romanus straddled the bench to sit by Apion’s side, Igor, Philaretos and Gregoras taking a seat nearby. Sha, Blastares and Procopius bantered amongst themselves, while Dederic shared some ribald tale with Igor. Philaretos and Gregoras were hunched together, chatting quietly.

‘We’ll meet in the citadel before dawn to review the route one last time,’ Romanus said, leaning in towards Apion. ‘But it should be unchanged; we take the passes through the Antitaurus Mountains. Then we are there, Apion, and it will all be within our grasp. Syria! The strongholds of Aleppo, Edessa and Antioch can be ours in good time. The Euphrates can be our border once more. With its banks well-manned, we can hold the Seljuks at bay with a minimum of bloodshed. With the south secure, we will only have the borders of eastern Anatolia to contend with.’

Apion thought of the many fortresses, citadels and well-walled towns and cities dotted around Syria. If needed, the Seljuks could muster a vast army. ‘There are many strongholds on that baked land, Basileus. We must choose our first target carefully.’

‘Exactly,’ Romanus agreed. ‘But I feel we should defer that decision until we lay eyes upon the Syrian sands. Sometimes it is best to descry your enemy before you decide how to tackle him.’

Apion nodded and tore off more bread. ‘Aye, and perhaps our destination should remain concealed for now,’ he said, shooting furtive glances around at the sea of faces, some sanguine, some narrow-eyed, some scowling, ‘for other reasons.’

‘As we have spoken of in these last days, your thoughts and mine are one and the same,’ Romanus spoke in a hushed tone. ‘There is a rogue in our midst. But as ever, this campaign must push on. For, behind us, Psellos awaits like a sharpened dagger. And if it was not Psellos, then it would be another. Such is the fate of an emperor.’

Apion nodded. ‘Aye, ever onwards.’

Romanus grinned at this and drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Ever onwards with one hand on your sword hilt and a dagger under your pillow.’

Apion smiled at this. The emperor was no fool.

Romanus then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘But this much we can discuss: I plan to leave Doux Ausinalios, his Rus and his Norman riders to garrison these walls. Together with the three banda of skutatoi already posted here, it should prove redoubtable against raids in our absence. This will leave us with just shy of seven thousand fighting men for the march into Syria. Over seven hundred kataphractoi, twelve banda of skutatoi, four banda of toxotai, a handful of my varangoi and scout riders, plus over a thousand horse archers — Pecheneg and Oghuz. A fine ratio of abilities, don’t you think? Our patience should pay off too — the men should be able to march through the mountains at a fair pace given that the cool of autumn has settled upon their peaks.’

Apion nodded at this and looked to the south. ‘And then on into the inferno,’ he smiled wryly.

Romanus slapped him on the shoulder with a chuckle, then stood and left.

Apion then turned to those sitting around the table. He set his doubts to one side and raised his cup. ‘Let tomorrow bring what it brings,’ those seated around him raised their cups too. He took another generous mouthful and let the tart liquid wash around his tongue. ‘And the day after? We will drink to it tomorrow night!’

A raucous cheer erupted around the table.

***

Zenobius supped at his water, cheering along with the fools of his kontoubernion, laughing when they laughed, pretending to enjoy their banter. Then they turned to him.

‘So, Zenobius,’ Trolius, the pug-nosed dekarchos slurred, ‘tell us a story. You’re from. . ’ he frowned.

‘Ancyra,’ Zenobius lied, disguising his disdain for this weak man. The leader of his kontoubernion, like the rest of the men, had been cold and guarded around him. Just like everyone else in his life had. It was only now they were drunk that they seemed to warm to him.

‘Aye, Ancyra,’ Trolius snapped his fingers. ‘So, what are the women like in Ancyra?’

Zenobius looked at them, their faces expectant. Then he forced a smile, mimicking their inebriate expressions. ‘I’ll need another cup of this stuff before I can talk about the women of Ancyra!’

He took his leave as the men roared with laughter at this. He had no intention of returning. Instead, he passed around the feasting area. He glowered at a pair of buxom women who barged past him; the pair shared the warmth of a green woollen cloak as they jabbered about some burly soldier who only seemed to want to talk about his problems — the main one being a bulbous wart on his genitals. The two women shared a look of disgust, then they both shrieked with laughter. Then a staggering drunk fell across his path, slurring an apology, his breath wretched.

Finally, Zenobius reached the table where the emperor sat, whispering with the Haga. He offered a faint and cold nod to his accomplice, sat there too. Then he picked a seat nearby — close enough that he could see the emperor’s face. He pretended to swill from his empty cup, all the time watching their lips move. He read it all; the emperor’s plans for his forces and his ambitions once they reached Syria.

At last he turned away, looking south to the tall and treacherous shadow of the Antitaurus Mountains.

If they reach Syria, he mused.

***

Dekarchos Trolius hiccupped as he swaggered back through the dark streets of Melitene. The air was still spiced with the tang of roasted meat and woodsmoke from the feast. The few torches that still glowed showed that the streets were empty bar the odd inebriate soldier like himself. His thoughts were on the curvy and milky-skinned Rus woman, Tetradia, he had just left behind in the brothel. He could still smell her sweet scent, and could still see her pendulous breasts bobbing in his mind’s eye. Guilt and pleasure tugged at his conscience. Then a grin stretched over his face.

‘Ah, just wait till I tell the others,’ he grinned inanely, thinking of his fellow soldiers who had run out of money earlier that evening. ‘They’ll be raging!’

He looked up, his eyelids half covering his pupils, and a hiccup escaped from his lips.

‘Now which way was it?’ he muttered, dragging a finger along the streets before him, looking for the way to the main gate on the southern walls that would take him back to the imperial camp. He chose one shadowy alley behind the granary and set off that way.

The shadows danced around him as he stumbled over the loose and worn flagstones. Then the alley opened up to reveal the main gate, only paces ahead. A grin spread across his features, then settled into a frown. Locating the main gate was the easy part of it. Sneaking through it and then back into the imperial camp and his pavilion tent during the hours of curfew would be somewhat stickier though. He thought again of the others in his kontoubernion — probably sound asleep in their tents by now, obeying the curfew just as he had drilled them to do. Guilt touched his thoughts once more.

He looked up to the walkway above the gate and saw that the two skutatoi on sentry duty up there were talking, doubtless trying to fend off the urge to sleep. The single sentry by the gate hatch inside the city was less fortunate. He rested against the gate, head slumped, chest heaving to the rhythm of his snoring. Satisfied with this, Trolius strode forward and slipped under the shadows of the gatehouse, lifting the iron latch carefully despite his blurring vision. Then he opened the hatch and readied to slip outside. He cast one last glance at the sleeping sentry and shook his head. ‘Disgraceful. . ’ he whispered, then clamped a hand over his mouth just in time to stifle a hiccup.

The sentry stirred but only enough to grumble and reposition himself.

Trolius closed the hatch and made haste through the imperial camp. The sky was peppered with scudding clouds, and this caused the moonlight to come and go. Right now, the full moon shone strongly, revealing the imperial banners fluttering in a light breeze in the centre of the camp where the emperor and his varangoi were situated. Surrounding them was the sea of pavilion tents of the themata and tagmata, each cluster marked out by the fluttering, multi-tailed banners of those armies. He tried to pick out the distinctive colours of his banda standard — yellow cloth emblazoned with the Chi-Rho, then three coloured tails: yellow for the thema, blue for the tourma and green for his bandon. Locating it by the outer edge of the camp, he picked his way forward through the tent ropes, avoiding the main thoroughfare for fear of being spotted. He stifled a curse as the moonlight faded under a veil of cloud, causing him to nearly skewer his foot on a tent peg.

Eventually, he reached the tent. A warm sense of relief washed over him. He paused for a moment before entering. He yawned, groaned and stretched then cast a glance out over the palisade camp wall. The darkness to the south betrayed only the dark outline of the Antitaurus Mountains. A sliver of fear snaked through his heart as he remembered what lay ahead tomorrow. A few hours with the busty Rus lady had served only as a distraction. He shrugged and turned to enter the tent.

But then he spun back to the south and froze.

Out there, in the darkness, something had moved.

He rubbed at his eyes, then crept towards the palisade, gripping it, lifting up onto his toes to peer out.

Again, the shadows rippled.

Suddenly, he became very sober.

He glanced up to the nearest watchtower; the sentry there appeared to be sleeping at his post, head lolled forward on his chest.

He squinted back out at the shadows, desperate to be wrong. But then he saw it; a horseman passed under a brief shaft of moonlight, galloping for the mountains. The rider shot a glance over his shoulder and Trolius’ heart thundered. A ghazi rider? But there was another figure out there too — someone in a dark cloak, standing where the rider had set off from. Trolius gasped, filling his lungs to raise the alarm. But then a cloud covered the plain in darkness once more.

The breath stuck in his throat, and he rubbed his eyes, peering into the blackness. Then the cloud passed from the moon and the plain was illuminated again in an eerie grey light. It was deserted. No rider, no cloaked figure. The panic faded from his breast. Was it a trick of the light? He scratched at his jaw; if he was to report it, reeking of wine whilst breaking the curfew, the skin would be flogged from his back. But if there was to be some kind of Seljuk attack on the camp tonight. . his head ached with indecision. Then he recognised the sleeping sentry in the nearest watchtower. It was Sittas, a good man and a friend. Perhaps he could waken Sittas, pass on the warning and then retire to his tent quietly.

Satisfied with this, he jogged over to the timber watchtower, trying to keep the image of what he had seen fresh in his mind. A rider and a dark cloaked figure. The rider was racing to the mountains and the dark cloaked figure was. .

His brow knitted into a frown as he saw some dark stain on Sittas’ chest, then he saw the blood washing from the wound on the man’s throat.

Trolius sucked in a breath to cry out in alarm, but the breath never left his lungs.

The cloaked figure from the plain leapt over the palisade to land in the camp only paces ahead of him, then plunged a dagger in his heart. Trolius saw only silver eyes and a ghostly pallor under the figure’s hood. Zenobius? He mouthed silently.

Then he fell to his knees. A bitter cold gripped his body as the lifeblood pumped from the wound. Behind the albino, he saw some other figure slinging Sittas’ body over one shoulder, then bringing it down from the watchtower. As he toppled to the ground to bleed his last, this second figure dropped Sittas’ corpse beside him.

Trolius’ last thoughts were for his brothers in the camp all around him.

What devilment was to befall them?