Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

20. Siege

‘Once, twice. . three times!’ Sha whispered, squinting at the flash from the tower over the north gate. ‘It’s closing in on noon,’ he shot a glance to the sun. There’s no doubting it, sir. That’s our man signalling us.’

Apion was lying prone in the hot dust alongside his tourmarches, just where the dip in the land levelled out. His heart willed him to give the word, but he hesitated. He looked immediately behind him. The emperor was crouched there, surrounded by Philaretos, Igor and the handful of varangoi who had survived this treacherous campaign so far. Blastares, Procopius and Dederic flanked them along with the doukes and strategoi of the thematic and tagamatic armies. All looked on expectantly, eyes wide. Gregoras looked on like a wily predator.

Behind this cluster of leaders, the slopes of the dip were awash with the Byzantine army. They stood in silence, their faces keen and glistening with sweat, their fingers flexing on shields, swords and reins. A sea of iron, bobbing with a thick flotsam of speartips, fluttering banners and the swishing manes of war horses. To the rear, hidden in the lowest part of the dip, the skeletal frames of siege engines stood silent and ominous.

There could be no more hesitation.

Apion looked to the emperor and nodded.

Romanus’ eyes sparkled at this. He stood tall and strode up from the dip in the land, hefting his spathion aloft. ‘Nobiscum Deus!’ He roared.

At this, the Byzantine army cried out in reply. ‘Nobiscum Deus!’ With that, they poured up the slopes, spilling onto the flatland like a tidal wave.

The skutatoi of the Optimates Tagma formed a solid centre, with their thematic counterparts marching on the wings to present a wide crescent of over three thousand spearmen. The first few ranks of the skutatoi all along this arc presented an iron-fronted spearwall, with those to the rear clutching their javelins and every tenth file carrying a siege ladder. Behind them, the thousand-strong toxotai jogged into place, stretching their muscles, readying their bows, checking their quivers one last time. Then the hardy kataphractoi of the themata formed up on the flanks, one hundred and fifty strong on either side, each wing resembling an iron talon. The five hundred Oghuz horse archers milled in loose formation behind the left flank, and the five hundred Pechenegs took up a similar stance on the right. The ironclad riders of the Scholae Tagma — three hundred and fifty in total — formed a central reserve, just behind the infantry line, with Doux Philaretos barking at them to form up in a wedge so they could punch forward at haste if required.

Behind this vast bull horn formation, two siege towers wobbled forward, the skutatoi at their bases straining as they worked the racks and pinions that drove the great devices. The towers split the infantry line evenly as they passed through and settled to a halt just in front of the centre. Then, a cluster of eight catapults rumbled into place, four either side of the towers, and an iron-tipped battering ram waited in reserve behind the stone throwers. Then, as if to add the finishing touch, sixteen siphonarioi in iron full-face masks and conical helmets stepped forward to the right of the Byzantine centre, carrying their deadly fire siphons. Each man carried a flint hook in his belt, ready to ignite their devices and set the world aflame.

At first sight of this iron tide, the sentries on Hierapolis’ walls took to scurrying back and forth, sounding horns and ushering men to the battlements. Within moments, around ninety Seljuk archers were clustered atop the gatehouse, nocking arrows to their bows, and some three hundred or more akhi spearmen lined the battlements either side of the gate. At the same time, the mounted ballistae on each of the gate towers came to life, being twisted and raised to point at maximum range, readying to fire when the Byzantine lines came into their reach.

But the Byzantine ranks were not deterred by this. The coloured banners of the skutatoi were pumped in the air again and again and the ranks cried out. Then the priests walked back and forth solemnly, the campaign Cross and the image of the Virgin Mary raised overhead.

‘Nobiscum Deus! Nobiscum Deus!’

The chant continued unabated, then it rose to an unprecedented level as Romanus took to cantering along the front ranks, hefting the imperial banner in encouragement, his purple cloak lifting behind him in his slipstream. He carried his purple-plumed helmet underarm, allowing his broad jaw, billowing flaxen hair and unrelenting distant stare to inspire his subjects. The men roared as he passed, beating their swords on their shields. Eventually he settled at the Byzantine centre, and Igor and the varangoi hurried to surround him, their pure-white armour and polished axes gleaming in the sun.

Apion, Sha, Blastares, Procopius and Dederic worked their way through to the front. Apion led his mount on foot, carrying his helm. Sha and Blastares were mounted, fully clad in helmet, greaves, veils and klibania and Dederic rode too in his weighty mail hauberk that hung to his knees. Procopius had foregone his mount, having been tasked with leading the artillery crews today.

Apion led them to the emperor.

Romanus turned to him, his eyes sparkling. ‘We are on the cusp, Strategos,’ he spoke through clenched teeth.

Apion cast his gaze to his left and then his right. Sweeping walls of iron and speartips stretched off in both directions. ‘I have rarely witnessed such a show of might from the empire, Basileus. At once it both gladdens me and strikes fear into my heart. For I feel that many men are fated to die today.’

Romanus squinted into the azure sky. ‘Then let us take a swift and clean victory. Today is a fine day to defy fate,’ he grinned.

Apion felt a flare of hope in his heart at this. Then he vaulted into the saddle, placing his black-plumed helm on his head. ‘Give the word, Basileus, and we shall make the first move.’ He motioned towards Procopius. ‘Procopius will unlock the city for you.’ Then he looked to his tourmarchai. ‘And my men will present a dogged left.’

Romanus nodded. ‘Then let us begin.’

‘Aye, Basileus,’ Apion replied. Then he heeled his gelding round into a trot along the line. Sha, Blastares and Dederic followed him while Procopius strode forward to the artillery crews. They rode past the spears of the Optimates Tagma and on to the Byzantine left-centre. Here, the crimson banners of the Chaldian Thema were clustered and waiting for him in silence. Adjacent to the Chaldian left was the ranks of the Thrakesion Thema. Gregoras stood at their head, his shifty eyes catching Apion’s gaze momentarily.

Apion’s brow dipped at this. This man would have to be watched. Lined up here he would be like a dagger hovering near Apion’s flank. Gregoras took to rallying his troops at this point.

At this, Apion turned back to Sha, Blastares and Dederic. ‘Fight well, and I know we will drink to victory tonight.’

‘Sir!’ They each saluted. Then the three tourmarchai trotted off to the head up their tourmae.

He squeezed the Thessalian’s flanks, bringing it into a gentle trot along the Chaldian front, casting his gaze along each of his men. Then he drew his scimitar and held it aloft. ‘The sultan has left a sparse garrison to man the walls we see before us. But walls are not taken easily, as well you know from the countless years of struggle we have faced to hold our own. So stay together, defend your brother’s flank and he will defend yours. Let every swipe of your spathion be the one that will turn the battle. Seize victory today, seize this chance to let our empire breathe once more, for your wives, for your children, for the men who have fallen for the cause!’ Their steely silence erupted at this. Sword hilts thundered on shields, the din spreading along the line like a coming storm;

‘Ha-ga! Ha-ga! Ha-ga!’

Then he turned to the city, sliding on his splinted arm greaves and then his studded leather gloves on top of them. As he did so, he saw the first fleeting glimpses of the dark door. The flames were ferocious, licking out from around its edges. Finally, he buckled the triple mail veil across his face. Only his emerald eyes remained visible to remind those he was about to meet in battle that he was human.

Then it began.

The signophoroi clustered around the emperor, strode forward a few paces. Then they hefted their purple and gold banners, before dropping them, pointing directly to the catapults. A chorus of notes rang out from the buccinators by their sides.

At this, Procopius was spurred into action. The aged tourmarches spat into his palms, then rubbed them dry, his wrinkled features scanning the walls. Silence fell across the plain and all eyes were upon him. At last, he nodded, then spun to bark orders to his crew.

‘Catapults, forwaaaaard!’ he screamed.

The stone throwers rumbled some fifty paces ahead of the front line and then halted. Then the crews rushed to stretch the ropes and load the devices with rocks. But before they could even prepare, the first of the Seljuk ballistae — one of the two on the tallest tower — let loose. With a twang and a whoosh, a five foot, iron-tipped bolt shot forth and smashed into the rightmost catapult, shattering the device and pinning the leader of the crew to the ground where he stood, his head slumping forward and a wash of blood erupting from his mouth. Then another bolt sailed over the next-nearest catapult and skated along the surface of the ground, ploughing into the front ranks of the Opsikon Thema, breaking legs and sending up a wail of terror.

‘Smash those bolt-throwers!’ Procopius yelled as the first of the catapults groaned and then bucked violently in riposte. The first rock sailed over the tower and into the city. The next one to fire hit the face of the tower, which shook but was otherwise unharmed. Then the third volley sent a rock sweetly into the crenelated tower-top. The limestone blocks shattered under the impact. Tendrils of dust and rubble shot into the air, accompanied by two screams and a thick crack of timber. One of the ballistae crew toppled soundlessly from the tower before crunching into the ground outside the walls. Then the dust cleared. The ballista hung limp, its bow was shattered and the other crewman was draped lifelessly over the gouged, bloodstained battlement like a discarded robe.

A cheer rang out from the Byzantine lines at this.

Apion watched in sombre silence. In the next heartbeat, another Seljuk ballista bolt crashed through the offending Byzantine catapult, throwing one crewman into the air and snapping the neck of another.

Then, as the catapults and ballistae exchanged fire at will, Procopius twisted to the emperor. Romanus nodded. Then the old tourmarches bawled, lifting both arms and dropping them to point forward. ‘Towers — forwaaaaard!’

At this, the skutatoi clustered in the base of the two tall and ungainly timber-wheeled towers took the strain, grappling the handles jutting from the pinion and pushing until the cog engaged with the rack. Like wakening giants, the towers rumbled towards the walls, one either side of the gate. The towers were not the tallest Apion had seen, but Procopius had designed them to perfectly match the height of the squat outer city walls of Hierapolis. He had also ensured they would have a decent rate of movement and a broad enough base and weight distribution to provide stability while they moved. The front and sides of the towers were clad in timber and scrap iron, like a cobbled together foulkon. Only the rear was uncovered, revealing the two floors and connecting timber stairs inside. A clutch of toxotai was positioned on the bottom floor. This extra weight stabilised the towers while the archers fired their bows through narrow slats in the frontage at the defenders on the walls.

The Seljuk archers were quick to react to this new threat. At once, an orange glow bobbed above the gatehouse, and then they raised their bows, each nocked with a blazing arrow. With a gentle whoosh, the fiery missiles arced skyward and then fell upon the siege towers, their flames licking up the sides of the timber.

‘Aye, it would be as easy as that,’ Apion muttered under his breath as he watched, ‘had you faced a less astute artillery master.’

The surfaces of the towers glistened in the raging heat of the arrows, but neither tower caught light. A stench of vinegar permeated the smoky air that wafted over the watching Byzantine line. Procopius had insisted on soaking the towers in vinegar that morning. The liquid would neither ignite nor evaporate too quickly in the dry heat, rendering the towers impervious to fire. The archers seemed to lose heart as volley after volley of fire arrows were ineffective. But they quickly re-nocked their bows with unlit arrows, turning their weapons instead on the Byzantine skutatoi pushing the devices. A handful fell, screaming, clutching thighs and clawing at throats, but most were shielded by the hulking towers. Then the akhi captain on the walls barked out a command. At this, the three remaining Seljuk ballista twisted, taking aim at the siege tower nearest the walls, on the Byzantine right.

The first ballista bolt smashed through the frontage of the siege tower. Shattered splinters of timber flew from the frame and the bolt punched one toxotes out of the back of the tower like a piece of slingshot. A fine cloud of his blood settled like mist on the skutatoi below.

Then another ballista bolt whooshed from the walls and destroyed the broad beam that supported the first and second floors of the tower. A crack rang out that caused all in the Byzantine ranks to gasp. The tower halted, then there was an eerie hiatus before the wooden frame groaned, buckled, then pitched forward, its structure compromised. The screams of the toxotai rang out as they scrambled to the back of the tower, but the floor turned vertical under their feet as the tower crashed into the ground like a slain giant. The toxotai were dashed on the ground, some killed by the impact, others prone, limbs snapped. They could only lie where they had fallen and watch as the Seljuk archers took aim to finish them off. The skutatoi who drove the device were likewise exposed and in range of the archers. They dropped into a foulkon formation, pulling their shields around them instinctively as the Seljuk arrows rained in upon them. But, heartbeats later, another ballista bolt smashed into their midst. Blood erupted from the strike, and the men inside the foulkon fell away, injured, bloodied or dead.

A groan of despair sounded across the Byzantine ranks.

But then, the tower on the Byzantine left clunked into place against the battlements. The skutatos leading the crew who pushed this device turned and waved his banner frantically. At this, the cries of despair turned into a defiant chorus of cheering.

‘Now,’ Apion whispered, firing glances to the centre of the line, ‘send the ladders forward now!’ He willed the emperor to think as he did once more.

Blessedly, the buccinators lifted their horns to their lips and the instruments wailed across the plain. Then the signophoroi around the emperor strode forth again. They waved their banners in a chopping, forward motion, and this was echoed up and down the line by the bandophoroi of the ranks, where every komes bawled;

‘Ladders! Forward!’

At last, the caged fury of the Byzantine line was unleashed, and the wide crescent of iron washed forward. The earth shook and the cries of men echoed across the land.

Apion rode in the midst of the Chaldian ranks, urging them onwards. The plain jostled before him. Dust stung in his eyes and the stench of blood, vinegar and fear thickened the air. Arrows smacked down around him. ‘To the walls!’ he roared over the thunder of boots.

He twisted to his right and saw the fate of the brave Optimates Tagma. They were being torn asunder by the ballistae, doomed to lose many of their number just to force home the taking of the walls. Their shields and armour were pierced like paper with every strike. Men were ripped apart at the waist, others were pinned to comrades. Blood and dirt streaked the air like a gory blizzard.

He glanced up to the nearest of the gate towers; the ballista crewman there was taking aim for another strike at the Optimates. Apion lifted the javelin strapped to his back, tensed his shoulder, hefted and hurled it. The missile stayed true, arcing up and directly for the man. But at the last, the man ducked under the javelin. Then he rose again, grinning like a shark as he turned the ballista on Apion and the Chaldian ranks.

Apion’s heart froze. Until another javelin burst through the man’s chest. Apion glanced over his shoulder to see Gregoras punching the air at this, celebrating his feat of marksmanship. Apion frowned, then fell back.

‘You saved my life?’ he cried over the tumult.

‘Aye, what of it?’ Gregoras growled, ‘every man in the ranks is my brother.’

Just then, a Seljuk arrow hissed down and smacked into Gregoras’ thigh, finding a gap between the iron plates of his klibanion. Black blood pumped from the wound in gouts. Gregoras’ smile dissolved, and he solemnly slid from his mount and slumped to sit, cross-legged, panting as his lifeblood soaked the dust.

Apion leapt down from his mount, crouched and grappled the dying strategos’ hand, lifting his shield to protect them from the Seljuk arrow hail. ‘If you have any light in your heart then tell me before you die, who are you working with?’

Gregoras could barely manage a frown, his face greying. ‘What?’

‘The Seljuks have known our route all along this campaign. I know you had something to do with it. I found your coin near the body of the murdered sentry at Melitene.’ He plucked out the pure-gold nomisma and held it before Gregoras.

The dying man laughed a weak laugh. ‘Ah, Psellos has given out many of those in the last year. We have all taken coin at times, Strategos. I took mine for delaying the works at the armamenta. Yes, I took Psellos’ bribe, but only because I feared what might befall me had I refused. But I have had nothing to do with the ill-fortune on this campaign. Aye, there is a dark bastard at work, but it is not me.’

Apion saw nothing but truth in the man’s eyes.

Then Gregoras’ pupils dilated and his head slumped forward.

Apion frowned, backing away.

Then the clatter of ladders rang out all along the walls.

Apion spun to the sound. The matter of the traitor would have to wait.

He smacked his gelding on the rump to send it galloping back from the fray, then he turned to the walls, looking for a ladder to climb. Arrows smacked down all around him and he could only snatch glances over his shield rim as he ran to the nearest ladder. But it was already thick with skutatoi, unable to force their way onto the battlements. The sight was the same all along the walls. Despite the sheer weight of Byzantine numbers, the akhi on the battlements were holding steady. Apion knew that just a few hundred men could fend off many thousands if marshalled well, and these akhi were ruthless. And they weren’t just akhi, he realised, squinting. Some of the men on the battlements held two-pronged spears. Daylamid spearmen, he realised. Rugged and burly mountain warriors and tenacious whoresons who would fight to the death. This was unexpected. Doubt swirled in his thoughts as he wondered what other surprises awaited them.

He saw skutatoi topple back from the ladders, their faces cleaved by spear thrusts. One fell away when the top of his head was sliced off like a piece of fruit, brains and blood showering his comrades below. Then one ladder was pushed back from the walls, toppling to the ground, snapping the limbs of the screaming men who clung to it and scattering those in its path, making them easy targets for the Seljuk archers.

Next, a pair of Seljuks appeared at the battlements, carrying a wide urn of something. They moved to the top of one packed ladder and tilted the urn, unloading a heap of glowing sand on the climbers. A terrible screaming rang out as the scorching sand penetrated every gap in the skutatoi armour, fusing with their skin. One skutatos fell from the top of the ladder, clawing at his face. He roared, thrashing to pull off his helmet and klibanion, heedless of his horribly shattered leg. His skin was ruby red and blistered and one eye had burst in the intense heat. The stench of his melting flesh pierced the air before the stricken man was peppered with Seljuk arrows.

The sight was the same all along the walls. There was no bridgehead, no foothold to allow them to press onto the battlements. Apion looked to the siege tower; it was yet to spill soldiers onto the battlements. ‘The tower is the key — fill the tower!’ he cried.

‘It is full already!’ one skutatos roared, staggering, clutching at an arrow shaft in his thigh. ‘They won’t lower the drawbridge.’

Apion frowned, then pushed through to the rear of the tower, arrows thudding into his shield as he did so. Indeed both floors of the tower were packed with skutatoi. But many were the young, feeble boys who had been rounded up to bolster the numbers of the Bucellarion Thema. He pushed through and flitted up the stairs to the second floor. The air was stifling in the cramped space.

The pair who held the drawbridge rope wore the expressions of terrified lambs.

‘What are you waiting for — another ballista strike to cripple your tower? Our men are falling like harvest wheat out there!’ Apion roared. ‘Lower the drawbridge!’

The first man gulped and nodded. The second — a man of his own age with a thick dark beard — was white with fear, his hands trembling.

‘I. . I can’t,’ the man stammered.

Apion pushed him away, grappling the rope in his place. Then he fixed the first man with a glare. ‘Are you ready?’

The man gulped and nodded again.

Apion cast a glance around the fearful faces surrounding him. ‘How many years have you spent, fearful of Seljuk raids? How many of you have lost those you love to this war?’ He stabbed a finger at the drawbridge. ‘Out there you can change this; stand together and you can bring it to an end. Know this and you will know victory.’

They nodded, some shouting in agreement.

‘Now, are you ready?’ Apion roared.

‘Yes, sir,’ some called. ‘Yes, Haga,’ cried others.

Now he ripped his scimitar from his scabbard and held it aloft. This time he cried; ‘I said. . are you ready?’

‘Yes, Haga!’ came the reply. Even the uncertain bearded man he had pushed away had taken up his spear and held it in shaking hands, his jaw clenched.

‘Onwards!’ Apion cried out, then scythed the scimitar down on the ropes. The drawbridge toppled onto the battlements and the white heat of the day flooded the insides of the tower. Snarling daylami and the din of battle awaited them.

Apion leapt through the dark door and into the fray.

***

The fighting on the battlements was ferocious. The stonework was slick with blood and littered with skutatoi corpses. Still the Seljuk akhi and daylami were holding good around the gatehouse, but Apion and his men had established a foothold on the walls and now more and more reinforcements were piling up there through the siege tower. On the ground outside, the Byzantine battering ram had reached the gates and now smashed at the timbers like a giant demanding entry.

Apion pulled his blade across the swipe of an akhi scimitar, then kicked out at the man’s gut, sending him over the edge of the battlements and plummeting down into the city streets.

Then a daylami spear came forking down at him like lightning and he toppled backwards to dodge the blow. He sprung to his feet and swiped at his challenger. The scar-faced man wore only an iron conical helmet and a light horn klibanion, and he was fast and nimble for it, evading Apion’s strike. The man then feinted to jab his spear at Apion’s gut, and followed up with what he thought would be a death blow to the throat. Instead, Apion ducked right, pulled his war hammer from his belt and swung it round in a wide arc to bring the pointed head crashing into the daylami warrior’s left temple. The man’s helmet flew from his head as his skull crumpled under the blow. Blood gushed from his ears and nostrils, then his eyes rolled in his head and he crumpled to a heap.

Apion leapt over the body to thrust his scimitar between the twin prongs of the next warrior’s spear. But the man was strong. He freed one hand to smash a fist into Apion’s nose. Apion’s head was filled with white light and the crunching of breaking bone and cartilage. He fell to his knees, shaking his vision clear just as the twin-headed spear edged towards his heart. Apion’s limbs trembled as he pushed back with his scimitar, but the daylami would not relent. The man pushed until the prongs ground against Apion’s klibanion. The speartips parted the iron plates to pierce the skin of his chest, then ground into his breastbone. Apion saw the past flit before him.

Then the pressure fell away and the spear clattered to the ground. His foe staggered back, gawping, clutching at the spurting stump where his arm had been. His eyes were fixed on the severed limb by his feet, still gripping the spear shaft.

The thick-bearded skutatos who moments ago had been paralysed with fear inside the tower leapt forward to finish the daylami. Then he twisted back to Apion; ‘Haga!’ he barked in acknowledgement before plunging forward into the fray. Another wash of fresh skutatoi spilled from the towers and onto the walls and then more joined them, finally winning the battle of the ladders. Then Igor and his comrades leapt into the walls just ahead. Their once pristine, white armour was now spattered with blood and their faces streaked in gore too. The big Rus swung his axe overhead and unleashed a cry that seemed to shake the walls and his blade cut through man after man, cleaving bones, lopping off limbs and splitting skulls.

At this fervent onslaught, the remaining few daylami seemed to lose their infamous nerve, and scrambled back to take shelter in the gatehouse towers. At the same time, the walls shuddered as the battering ram smashed the gates apart.

Apion panted as the men of Chaldia flooded past him. He glanced around the battlements and the ground either side of them. Skutatoi lay dead or dying, hundreds upon hundreds of them. Nearly a third of the toxotai had been slain too, having bravely exchanged fire with their Seljuk counterparts above the gatehouse. A clutch of kataphractoi lay broken near the gates, where they had fallen foul of a ballista barrage.

Yet cries of victory rang out when one bull-like soldier scrambled up to the top of the tallest gate tower, grasping a crimson banner of the Chaldian Thema. It was Stypiotes, the big komes. He hefted the banner high and waved it. At this, the remaining Byzantine soldiers outside the walls broke into a raucous cheer.

The outer walls had fallen, Apion realised as he unclipped his mail veil. Then he drew his gaze across the maze-like streets that clung to the inner city slope, and up to the citadel perched high on the acropolis. Handfuls of akhi fled through those streets, headed for the stronghold. They carried their spears and shields — clearly determined to fight on there.

Just then, the Byzantine infantry spilled through the shattered gates and poured into the market square. The emperor rode into the city in their midst, punching the smoke-streaked and crimson-spattered imperial banner towards the acropolis. ‘Onwards!’

The battle for Hierapolis had only just begun.

***

Seljuk arrows and deadly iron bolts rained down like a storm from the rooftops onto the tapering, sloping street that led up to the citadel gate. The flagstones were littered with slain skutatoi, and the gutters ran red.

Apion inched forward to poke his head out from one alleyway and look uphill once more. The street rose sharply, past the granary and the crumbling barracks, then it narrowed and rose from the land around it like a ramp as it came to the arched citadel gate. The smooth limestone walls of the round-cornered bulwark shimmered in the afternoon sun, lifted from the city around it by a steep, rubble-strewn slope. The stronghold was five storeys tall, and looked as though it had been set there by giants. The crenellations ringing its flat roof seemed impossibly high from this angle, with iron glinting in the sun betraying the akhi, archers and ballistae up there. The gate was the only way in and it looked as sturdy as the walls, made of thick timber and barred and studded with iron. Already, several brave charges had faltered; the ramp before the gate was carpeted with broken skutatoi corpses and the battering ram they had tried in vain to bring to the gate. There has to be a way, Apion affirmed.

Then, as if willed by this frustration, one brave komes burst from the next alley and onto the rising, tapering street. He held his shield overhead, his arm juddering with every arrow strike, his step faltering as he picked his way through the dead. Then, with a hoarse cry, he beckoned his ninety remaining skutatoi with him. They roared in reply, holding their shields overhead to brave the worst of the hail. They reached the ramp and came within paces of the unmanned battering ram.

Yes! Apion clenched a fist, readying to wave his own men out to support them.

‘Take the strain!’ the komes roared, swiping his spathion forward to usher his men around the device. Then the two ballistae mounted atop the citadel dipped like the beaks of watching birds of prey. The komes’ eyes widened under the rim of his helmet and he staggered back. The ballistae loosed. One bolt hammered into the spine of the ram and a sharp crack of timber rang out; the device was ruined. The other ploughed into the skutatoi, blowing their tight formation apart. At once, the arrow storm from the rooftops turned on the scattered men. Their cries were short lived and the street was piled higher with corpses.

Apion stared at the sight. He ducked back only when another arrow smacked against the whitewashed wall, inches from his eye, sending a shower of dust and grit across his face.

‘Back!’ he hissed, waving his eighty dirt, smoke and bloodstained men flat against the wall. This alley, like all the others they had stolen through to get here, was deserted. Doors lay ajar, belongings lay discarded. The populace had been evacuated. The Seljuks had anticipated the fall of the lower city walls. Planned it, even. Doubt was taking shape in Apion’s gut as he thought of the hidden traitors in their midst.

In the alley directly across from Apion, Sha and his contingent were pinned down too. All up and down the broad street that ran steeply up the hill towards the citadel gate, the scene was the same. The army had been fragmented and immobile like this for over an hour, pinned down in the labyrinth of alleys. Apion looked to the rooftops all around the citadel. The granary, the bathhouse and the tenements were packed with Seljuk archers, pointing to targets, nocking their bows and loosing with ease. The buildings themselves were bristling with akhi, who had so far fended off Byzantine attempts to storm them.

Just then, Komes Peleus returned. He darted across the street, diving into the alley beside Apion, a storm of arrows smacking down in his wake. ‘Many hundreds of them, sir. I lost count after that,’ the little Komes panted, jabbing a finger up to the rooftops. ‘I don’t understand it. Laskaris signalled. . ’ Peleus started.

‘Laskaris is long dead,’ Apion cut him off. ‘We have been lured into this, Komes. There are far more men garrisoning this city than we were led to believe. And they’re no militia — they are the sultan’s best men.’ He stabbed a finger at the pure white tunics and the horn vests worn by the archers. ‘And they’re keeping us pinned down here.’

‘What for?’ Peleus’ eyes widened.

‘I fear the answer to that more than any of the missiles that might tear my throat out.’

Then a defiant cry rang out from above. Apion looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. Three storeys above, a pair of skutatoi had somehow fought their way onto the bathhouse rooftop and were struggling with the Seljuk archers at the roof’s edge. Then a bundle of akhi appeared behind them. With the flash of a scimitar, one skutatos crumpled out of sight. The other toppled from the roof, screaming, limbs flailing. Then he crunched onto the ground, blood, entrails and grey matter exploding from the shattered corpse. Apion turned away, sickened.

‘We have to take the citadel, we need the high ground,’ he spat, flexing and unflexing his fists. Far down the hill, he could see Procopius and his crew waiting in frustration beside the two remaining catapults — the only thing capable of breaking through that citadel gate. Yet the aged tourmarches and his men could not hope to move upon the citadel while the two ballistae on the stronghold roof were trained on anything that approached. Nothing could break through. Not while the ballistae remained. He closed his eyes and breathed. His heart slowed and he imagined himself as an eagle, soaring over the sun-baked city. Then he thought of the men of the campaign army as shatranj pieces and the walls of the citadel as enemy pawns in a tight square. Every piece he tried to move had to best the enemy pawns in order to break into their midst. But the knight. . the knight could move up, over and inside their lines.

He blinked, his eyes sharp and focused, then looked to Peleus. ‘You are a climber, Komes?’

Peleus frowned.

‘I have seen you climbing the cliffs outside Trebizond.’

Peleus nodded, bemused. ‘Aye, keeps me limber, sir, and falcon eggs fetch a good price at market. What of it?’

‘Can the citadel walls be scaled?’

‘Sir?’

Apion pinned him with his gaze. ‘Can they be scaled, Komes?’

Peleus’ face was etched with doubt. He risked a glance around the corner. ‘They look sheer and smooth, but there will be gaps in the mortar. In theory, yes. But the archers on the rooftops will pick. . ’

‘Do not fear the archers,’ he flicked his head up, to where the Seljuk marksmen were still scouring the streets below for easy targets, ‘they are clustered on the roofs and streets here, around the northern side. They’re not paying attention to the other side, and they won’t expect climbers,’ he cocked an eyebrow with a ghost of a grin, ‘as that would be a foolish plan.’

Peleus looked up, the fear and doubt on his face dissolving as he squared his jaw and nodded briskly. ‘Then yes, we can do it.’

Apion clasped his shoulder, then looked to two toxotai near the back of his group. ‘Steal back downhill. Take word to Tourmarches Procopius. Tell him that the ballistae will soon fall silent. Tell him that when they do, he must unleash a storm of rock upon the gates.’

Then he turned to the bandophoros and pointed to the filthy crimson Chi-Rho banner on the staff he carried. ‘I’ll be needing that.’

Finally, he beckoned Peleus and seven others equally lithe and light. ‘Now, come with me.’

***

Apion pressed his back against the southern wall of the citadel and filled his lungs with a few good, deep breaths. He looked to the eight with him. Like him, they were dressed only in boots, tunics and swordbelts. A few were still stretching their limbs so they were supple enough for the climb.

They had picked their way through the alleys unseen to come round to the south of the acropolis mount. A brief glance around had confirmed that only a few Seljuk archers had part-sight of this area and in any case, they seemed to be focused on the scurrying Byzantines below the gates on the north side. So, Apion and his men had picked their way up the scree of the acropolis mount unseen. That had been tense enough, but the most perilous part of the plan had still to come.

He turned to the walls, running his palms across the surface. The blocks were vast indeed, but they were also old, and in places the mortar between had crumbled.

‘Good hand and footholds, sir,’ Peleus confirmed. ‘Whereas these,’ he pressed his fingers into the shallowest of depressions where the limestone had been weather worn, ‘are enough to hold you to the wall, but do not use them to climb with.’ The seven skutatoi with them nodded. Their chests were rising and falling rapidly, some darting looks to the Seljuk archers — only a glance away from spotting them.

‘You will not be sighted if you stay close to the wall,’ Apion reassured them. ‘And if you stray from the wall then an arrow will be the least of your worries,’ he added with a half-grin. They laughed at this, some of the nerves dissipating as they did so. Then he fixed each of them with an earnest look. ‘I’ll be following Peleus’ every move, so you follow me. We will get to the top.’

‘Sir!’ they replied in unison.

All eyes fell on Peleus. The limber komes nodded and turned to the wall. He crouched to pat his hands in the dust, then clapped them together.

‘Good for grip,’ he nodded, motioning for the others to do the same.

Next, he slid one foot into the first gap and then stretched out an arm to reach the next one. He groaned then swung his leg up and kicked it into the next gap in the mortar. The little komes picked his way up the citadel wall like a spider. Apion memorised his every hold, then followed suit.

As he rose, the din of battle became distant. He heard only the thudding of his own heart and every scrape of his fingers and boots in the limestone. The sun seemed intent on blinding him. His spathion seemed to pull at his belt like an anvil, and the higher they climbed, the more precarious and tenuous each hand and foothold became. Worse, his arms took to trembling with fatigue. His legs were strong from running and his arms were lean and muscular from battle but this climb seemed to pull on tendons and muscles he had not used in years. His vision became hazy and his mouth dry. It was then that a breeze served to remind him of how high he was. He glanced down to see the other skutatoi below gawping up at him, their hair flapping in the breeze, their eyes wide. He realised he could not afford to show any sign of weakness or those below him would let fear creep back into their hearts.

He reached out for the next handhold and then hesitated — it was barely a dent in the wall. Did Peleus climb with this? He said we should avoid these but I am sure he used it. Then he realised he had lost track of the little komes’ path above him. No time to delay, he affirmed, then worked his fingers into the depression and hoisted himself up.

In that instant, his grip was gone. His body jolted in alarm as he dropped, his fingertips gouging at the surface. Fingernails were ripped clear as he fell and he braced himself for death. Then his body jolted as his scimitar guard wedged into one foothold below. All was still. He panted, staring at the ivory hilt. This was not the first time old Mansur’s sword had saved him. Don’t let it be the last, he mouthed, seeing the old man’s solemn features in his memories, you owe me that much. Then he glanced down to see the skutatoi below had halted in horror at his fall.

‘Bad handhold,’ he said flatly, before continuing on the climb as if nothing had happened.

When Apion neared the top of the wall, he found Peleus waiting, clinging like a limpet. The others soon joined them.

‘Take a few moments to breathe and reinvigorate your limbs,’ Apion whispered over the gentle breeze. Their chests rose and fell and they looked all around them. On the shimmering Syrian plain, outside the western wall, the riders of the Scholae Tagma had set up tents and laid down their armour and weapons. Packs of them were now setting out to locate fodder, forage and water as Romanus had ordered them too, for it had swiftly become apparent that the city had been stripped of all food and the cisterns had been drained too. The Antitaurus Mountains stood defiant in the north. The waters of the Euphrates sparkled in the east. Then his gaze snagged on something, far to the south. A train of wagons and a disorderly mob. The populace of Hierapolis, fleeing from their homes.

Guilt stabbed at his heart at this. Relief washed around his veins too — that they would not be slain. But there was something else. A shiver passed over his skin again; there was something about this city, something about those fleeing people. He frowned, unable to turn away from the sight.

***

Maria swept her robe over her mouth to block out the worst of the dust. Then she felt Taylan wrench clear of her grip, spinning round to look north once more.

‘I should be there, to fight them off, to save our city, to save our home!’ he spat, staring back at the besieged city. His fingers flexed on his spear, knuckles white. The fleeing families and wagons broke around him like a river around a rock. Women, children and elderly flinched at his snarling expression as they passed.

Maria placed a hand on his shoulder as she looked to Hierapolis with him. She knew what was to happen there today. She could not bring herself to tell Taylan. She pulled him round from the sight, grappling him by the shoulders. ‘Your duty is to see your people safely to Damascus.’

He dropped his gaze. ‘But I should be there, by his side. . ’

Maria placed her forehead against his, cupping his face, silencing him. ‘Turn and walk with me, Taylan. I need you to be strong.’

At last he nodded, and they set off together once more.

Maria afforded one last look back at the city. Her gaze lingered on the top of the citadel. An odd chill passed over her skin.

***

‘Sir?’ Peleus hissed.

Apion snapped out of his thoughts, turning from the distant exodus.

He eyed each of his men. They all wore flinty looks. They were ready.

Then he sucked in a breath. ‘Now!’

They scrambled up and over the crenellations, thudding down onto the rooftop. There were twelve archers lining the northern edge of the roof, and then the ballistae were each manned by crews of three akhi.

One Seljuk archer spun to the noise and loosed an arrow instinctively. It took the skutatos nearest Apion square in the throat, and he toppled back over the wall.

Apion lurched for the archer, then swept his scimitar round, knocking the bow from the man’s grip before ramming the blade into his gut. He twisted to hammer his elbow into the face of the next nearest, then wrapped an arm around the man’s neck to use him as a shield against the arrows loosed by the man’s comrades. Then he pushed the man forward, bundling him and another from the roof. Peleus and two skutatoi had already cut down six of the others, while the other four Byzantines despatched those manning the ballistae, one of the skutatoi taking a fatal cut to his belly in the process. The remaining three Seljuk archers fled, descending into the citadel. Apion ran to the leftmost ballista, chopping down on its bow with his scimitar then kicking out to snap the device. ‘Peleus, shatter the other ballista,’ he yelled. ‘The rest of you, guard the staircase!’

As Peleus crippled the second ballista with a series of furious swipes of his spathion, Apion hastily pulled the rolled up crimson Chi-Rho cloth from his sword belt and stood tall, unfurling it and waving it overhead. The maze of alleyways below looked like a map from up here, and it was no wonder the Seljuks had been content to fall back to this citadel. He searched down the hill until he saw it; Procopius and his catapult crew driving forward, pushing the two catapults up the hill and into range with a guttural roar. The Seljuk archers on the rooftops of the granary and the baths realised what was happening, and took to firing upon this new threat. Crewmen toppled, peppered with shafts, and the catapult slowed. But then a cry burst from the alleys.

‘The ballistae have fallen. . forward!’ Apion recognised the booming voice of the emperor.

At once, the men pinned back in the alleys burst forth, no longer fearful of the bolt throwers. Hundreds upon hundreds of them rushed to collect around the catapults, helping to push them ever closer, holding their shields over the heads of the crew.

Apion spun from the scene. ‘Our men are coming for the gates! Soon the citadel will be. . ’ he halted at what he saw. Three of his five skutatoi staggered back from the top of the stairs, arrow shafts quivering in their unarmoured chests. The other two backed away, faces pale.

From the shadows of staircase, baleful grey eyes and a broad, glittering scale vest sparkled as a figure ascended the rooftop. Then the sun shed its light on the face, melted and ruined on one side, the dark hair scooped back in a ponytail. He wore a dark cloak on his shoulders and his expression was fixed in a scowl.

‘Nasir,’ Apion uttered.

‘Haga,’ Nasir replied, then snapped his fingers. Four akhi rose behind him, clad in the pure-white robes, horn armour and studded conical helmets of the sultan’s personal guard. Without hesitation, they punched their spears into the hearts of the last two skutatoi, then kicked the dying men clear of the spearpoints, sending them toppling from the roof.

Peleus rushed forward, spathion raised.

‘No!’ Apion pulled him back.

‘Save your breath, Haga. For he will die today, as will you.’

‘Then you had best be swift about it,’ Apion replied. ‘For in moments, the doors of this stronghold will be blown from their hinges in a blizzard of rocks and my men will flood this rooftop.’

As if old Procopius was joining the conversation, a whoosh sounded from the street below, followed by an almighty crash and a groaning of timber. The rooftop shook under them.

Nasir did not flinch. ‘That matters little,’ he said, his eyes pinning Apion. ‘My sultan asked for volunteers to come here. Men who wished to give their lives for the Seljuk cause. To snare the emperor and his armies.’

Apion frowned, noticing something over Nasir’s shoulder. To the west, something stained the horizon, a few miles distant. A dust storm?

But Nasir’s face had bent into a rapacious grin. ‘Now you see it, don’t you?’ he swept a hand to the west.

Apion’s vision sharpened like a blade. His heart iced over as he saw glinting iron amongst the dust clouds. This was no dust storm. Speartips, scimitars, iron masked mounts, spike-bossed shields. A Seljuk war machine. Only now, the unprepared riders of the Scholae Tagma outside the walls saw what was coming for them. Now, men ran between tents in a panic, unarmoured riders hared back from their foraging, cries erupted and horses bolted in fright.

‘The Emir of Aleppo commands a fine army. Some ten thousand fresh and well-equipped riders and infantry. This is why I allowed your forces to tire, dashing your heads against Hierapolis’ walls. You are snared within this broken city and now the emir will slay your forces to a man. Alp Arslan rides a short way behind with his retinue. The sultan looks forward to having your emperor bow before him.’ Then Nasir beckoned another akhi from the stairs. The man brought a hemp sack, stained brown at the bottom. ‘And know this,’ Nasir continued, opening the sack and tossing the grey, staring head of Laskaris across the rooftop towards him. ‘Every step of your journey here has been planned, planned so that you would arrive at this shabby end. Planned not by my sultan, not by me, but by your very own kin in the place you call God’s city. Those who oppose your new emperor sponsor his downfall.’

One name rang in Apion’s thoughts.

Psellos.

‘I have known this for some time,’ Apion growled. ‘Yet still the emperor and his armies stand. This emir will have a gruelling fight on his hands, and the dark heart in our ranks who brought this upon us has not won.’

Crash! Another catapult strike pummelled the citadel gate.

Nasir’s brow dipped like that of an angered bull. ‘Do not trouble yourself with the emir or the traitors festering in your ranks and at the heart of your empire. For soon you will lie rotting, your eyes staring at the sky, watching as the carrion birds swoop to feast upon them!’ he snarled, shrugging off his dark cloak, sliding his scimitar from its sheath. He raised the curved blade, levelling it at Apion, glaring along its length. ‘It is time to bury our oath, Haga!’

Crash! The stronghold shuddered violently.

Nasir stalked around behind him. Apion did not move.

‘Are you too timid to bring this to a finish? It would give me little satisfaction to strike you down so easily. . ’

Apion heard the whoosh of honed iron coming for him. He spun round, lifting the flat of his blade to parry in one motion. Nasir’s blade smashed down upon it, sending a shower of sparks into the breeze.

Apion backed away and the pair circled. ‘All those years ago, you hated me at first, Nasir. But you learned to accept me. You knew happiness in that time, as did I.’

‘I knew happiness when she was mine. Maria was mine!’ he roared, thumping a fist against his chest. His eyes were shot red with blood. ‘Then you took her from me!’ He cried, lunging forward with a flurry of swipes.

His anger carried him forward with speed and strength, and Apion could only parry each of the blows.

Finally, Nasir fell back, panting.

‘I did not take her from you, Nasir,’ Apion gasped. ‘She was taken from us both by creatures who did not deserve to walk this earth.’

Crash! A splintering of timber rang out as the gates collapsed and Byzantine cheering filled the citadel from below. At this, three of the four well-armoured akhi left Nasir, rushing down the stairs to join the fray. Peleus took to circling with the last of them, the pair exchanging blows.

Nasir looked to the stairwell. Then his face fell and his eyes grew distant. ‘Then perhaps the truth will die today along with our oath.’

Apion frowned. ‘Truth? What truth?’

Nasir simply glared at him, lifting his blade once more.

‘Nasir, tell me!’ Apion cried. But Nasir rushed for him, a roar tumbling from his lungs.

Apion instinctively leapt to the defensive. He hefted his scimitar and rested his weight on his left foot. Then, just as Mansur had taught him all those years ago, he bent his right knee, just a fraction.

Nasir saw the bent knee and lunged to his left to dodge the blow and strike out at Apion’s right flank.

Apion pulled out of the feint, dipping to his left, sweeping his scimitar round, swiping the blade from Nasir’s hand. A popping of bone rang out as the blade spun into the air together with four fingertips. Nasir roared, dropping to his knees, clutching his hand, his ruined face contorted further.

‘It’s over,’ Apion stated stoically. From a few floors below, the clatter of swords rang out as the Byzantine forces swept up through the citadel.

Nasir looked up at him, his grey eyes fierce under his v-shaped brow, his shoulders heaving with each breath. ‘It is not over until one of us is dead.’ Then he tore a dagger from his belt and stood.

There was something in Nasir’s eyes. A finality. It reminded Apion of the lion’s gaze on the plains of Thracia.

‘Nasir,’ Apion panted. ‘Do you really think that the death of one of us will bring the victor peace?’

Nasir’s rage faded at this. He shook his head and a single tear quivered in the corner of one eye. ‘No. Peace will come only for the one who falls.’

Apion’s heart stilled and he searched his old friend’s eyes. Don’t do it.

But Nasir rushed for him again, emitting a booming roar, dagger held overhand, his chest completely exposed.

Apion glanced to either side. He was near the edge of the rooftop and had no space to dodge the blow. He closed his eyes and twisted, swiping his scimitar across Nasir’s path. The all-too familiar crackle of splitting flesh and bone rang out, and Apion felt blood shower him. He sunk to his knees with Nasir.

‘Haga. . ’ Nasir rasped.

Only now Apion opened his eyes. Nasir’s gaze was distant, his pupils dilating, mouth agape, lips trembling as he tried to speak.

Apion placed his free hand on Nasir’s shoulder. ‘You have your peace now, old friend. Do not fight it.’ He thought of Nasir’s long dead father and brother. Perhaps Nasir’s faith would provide a final comfort to him. ‘Kutalmish and Giyath wait for you.’ Then he felt a stinging sorrow behind his eyes as he thought of the past. ‘But you must know this. Not a day has passed since Maria died that I have not wished it was me. Were it not for me, then you and she may have lived these last years together in happiness, far from this war.’

Nasir’s eyes glinted at this and he stared at Apion. It was a stare that worked its way into his soul and witnessed some truth deep inside. At the last, Nasir clutched at Apion’s shoulder with his bloodied, fingerless hand. ‘Apion, she. . ’

Apion stared through Nasir as the life left him with that breath. A breeze skirled around them like his last, unfinished words. He lowered the body to the ground, whispering a farewell, and then stood.

‘Sir?’ Peleus stepped forward tentatively, having sent the last akhi running for the stairs.

Below, the victory cries were only just turning into shouts of alarm as word of the emir’s approach reached them. Down by the western walls, the approaching tide of iron rushed for the unprepared riders of the Scholae Tagma. The Byzantine riders could only turn and flee. Then they, their mounts and their tents seemed to disappear under Seljuk hooves and boots. Ghulam riders cried out as they skewered the dismounted riders, set light to the banners and fodder and spared none in their path.

‘Steel yourself, Komes,’ Apion spoke flatly, staring at the tide of iron. ‘For the day is yet young.’

***

The charioteers arced around the southern bend of the Hippodrome track and the crowd on the eastern terrace rose as one, punching the air, waving and crying out in fervour. Then the lead charioteer saw the mounts of his nearest opponent slip onto the inside and pick up a good pace. He thrashed his sweating stallions with a whip and snarled, simultaneously pulling their reins to block off the overtaking manoeuvre. But then one overtaking mount foundered, stumbling under the wheels of the lead chariot. A sharp crack of timber rang out. In an instant, mounts, chariots and men were bundled together, tumbling over and over before spinning into the air and then smashing down again. When the dust cleared, the sandy track was strewn with splintered wood, bent bronze and mutilated flesh. The screams of the riders and whinnying of the horses rang out above the roar of the crowd. One rider lay, halved at the waist, clutching at his spilled bowels and gazing in disbelief at his legs, twitching only paces away.

The roar of the crowd died with a chorus of gasps and pained yelps. Silence prevailed for a heartbeat. Then, in the midst of the long eastern terrace, one sweat-basted bookmaker turned from the disaster and drew his bulging eyes around the crowd, wagging one finger in the air.

‘Next race — wager just a single follis on the swift and nimble Xerus and his Phrygian chargers and I’ll give you twelve in return!’

As if the poor wretches writhing on the track were little more than an inconvenience, the spectators burst into an excited babble once more, clamouring around the bookmaker, waving fistfuls of coin in the air.

Psellos’ nose wrinkled as he looked down on the populace from the kathisma, shaded by a purple silk awning. The imperial box was perched high enough over the terracing to catch the southerly breeze and prevent their foul odour from offending him. Then his chest prickled in agitation at the figure shuffling and sighing in the emperor’s chair next to him.

John Doukas glowered at the gold and silver coins being passed around on the terrace below, scratching his dark beard in irritation. Then he took to shuffling and wriggling his shoulders despite the cushioned, silk-lined comfort of the chair.

‘It is money well spent,’ Psellos whispered in reassurance. ‘The people must remain our pawns.’

But John merely grumbled at this. ‘It is not the spending of my family’s money that concerns me. Paphlagonia will always produce rich and flavoursome wines and furnish us with riches. No, it is the continued occupation of the imperial throne that boils my blood.’ He twisted to look behind him, to the spiral stairway that led up here. Only the pair of numeroi that had escorted them here were present. ‘Yet all day I have been tormented with the possibility that my troubles could be over?’

‘Be patient, Master,’ Psellos urged him, twisting to look over his shoulder. Through the latticed arches to the rear of the imperial box, the tower on the far side of the Bosphorus was just visible in the midday haze. ‘The signal from Chalcedon was only a short while ago. The messenger will be escorted here without delay once his ferry docks in the Neorion Harbour.’ Then his gaze snagged on the rooftop portico at the heart of the palace. There stood a silhouette, gazing eastwards. Eudokia. Flanking her as ever were the stocky shapes of her precious varangoi. If Romanus has fallen, then no number of axes will protect you from my forces, my lady.

A panting broke through his thoughts. He turned round to see a dusty, red-faced young man ascend to the top of the spiral staircase. He held a simple scroll. Yet he has no comprehension as to its weight, Psellos mused. He and John shared a rapacious grin. Then he beckoned the messenger, snatched the scroll and unfurled it. His eyes darted across the text.

Master, our designs have been thwarted so far. Romanus and his armies have reached Syria, and I write this as we march onto that arid plain. .

‘It is done?’ John Doukas asked, hands grasping the arms of the emperor’s seat like claws. ‘The signal can be given today, the Numeroi can move on the palace.’

Psellos’ chest tightened as he crumpled the scroll. ‘Romanus lives.’

John’s face reddened and his hands trembled. ‘He lives? I chose you to be my adviser, and I could just as easily have you exiled!’ John roared, grappling Psellos by the collar. ‘Or worse!’

Spectators below looked up, squinting in the sunshine, frowning.

I could let the ignorant fool boil himself into a seizure, Psellos mused as he eyed the man who would be his puppet.

‘Be at ease, Master,’ Psellos calmed him. ‘Our men within the campaign ranks have prepared for this eventuality.’

John frowned in confusion, his nostrils flared. But he set Psellos down nonetheless.

Psellos held his gaze. ‘Now that Romanus and his loyal retinue are in Seljuk lands, subtlety is no longer a necessity.’

John’s eyes darted. ‘The campaign army will doubtless meet vast Seljuk armies and be battered by them, yes. But how can we be sure that Romanus falls in any such onslaught?’

Psellos’ grin stretched and his eyes sparkled. ‘Whether Romanus falls to a Seljuk blade or a Byzantine one matters little. Should the sultan’s men fail, then our men will make sure that it happens. Indeed, in the days it has taken for this messenger to arrive, it may already have happened.’

John’s face split with a baleful grin at this. He released Psellos and threw back his head, roaring with laughter. Then he stood and spread his arms wide.

As one, the crowd rose with him, roaring in applause.