Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

21. Light in the Darkness

The Seljuk war horns wailed across the sweltering Syrian plain as the Byzantine army rushed to man the western walls of Hierapolis.

‘Ten thousand men, Strategos?’ Romanus gasped to Apion as they galloped downhill from the citadel towards the western gate. The emperor was wide-eyed, his face and hair streaked with grime and gore, his armour laced with battle scars.

‘At least.’ Apion fumbled to fasten his klibanion buckle as he galloped, then slid on his helmet. From the slope he could see the slaughter outside the walls. The emir’s army dominated the plain, part-silhouetted in the late afternoon sun. A thick pack of ghulam were ripping the Scholae camp asunder, swooping and darting through the screaming and unprepared kataphractoi, cutting off limbs, sending heads spinning clear of bodies. A broad wall of akhi stood back from this, flanked by two packs of ghazis, bows nocked, mounts shuffling in anticipation. To the rear of this assembly, a pair of green banners fluttered in the dust storm kicked up from the fight. The emir was between them, clad in gilt armour and saddled on a grey mare. Then, emerging from the western horizon, a fleet of a dozen war towers, a dozen more tall trebuchets and some forty catapults were being hauled forward, eager to smash the city walls from their path and capture the emperor as a prize for their sultan.

‘We have barely three thousand men!’ Romanus growled through gritted teeth, pointing to the western wall. The battered remnant of the Optimates Tagma had reached the battlements there first, and now filtered into a thin line. The ragged remnants of the themata spilled up there to join them; banda of spearmen missing helms and shields, carrying blunted blades and limping on bloodied limbs, many of their comrades lost. Pockets of archers scrambled onto the gatehouse with their quivers depleted, their numbers thin. To a man, they glanced to the storm on the plain and then over their shoulders, seeking out their emperor, seeking out hope. ‘The outer walls will not hold their artillery back. And the citadel is breached — so we cannot fall back to its walls. Defending this place is nigh on impossible.’

‘The emir knows this. Yet he is bargaining on us clinging to the battlements like fearful limpets, defending to the last. That is what Byzantium has become in the eyes of men like the emir,’ Apion shouted back, ‘and that is why we must abandon the walls.’

Romanus’ face curled into an incredulous frown. ‘Retreat, Haga?’

Apion’s brow dipped and he stabbed a finger out to the plain. ‘No, Basileus. We must ride out to meet them in the field.’

‘I have stolen some unlikely victories in my time, Strategos. But the emir’s men are fresh and numerous. . ’ Romanus frowned.

‘They expect an easy victory, Basileus.’ Apion pointed to the ragged few of the Scholae who fought their last out on the plain. ‘They think they have slain all of our riders, no doubt.

Romanus looked to him. ‘They all but have!’

‘Do not discount the riders of the themata, Basileus,’ Apion pointed to the packs of ironclad kataphractoi just ahead, milling inside the western gate. ‘Three hundred, three hundred and twenty, perhaps. Let the emir feel the wrath of their steel. If we engage the Seljuks in the field, then their artillery will count for little. What use is a war tower against a swarm of skutatoi? Will they fire their trebuchets or catapults into a mass of fighting men?’

Romanus looked to him wordlessly as they slowed under the shade of the western gatehouse.

All around them, men cried out, appealing for their emperor’s words.

Apion, Romanus and Doux Philaretos gathered together to discuss their next move.

Then, at last, Romanus nodded. ‘Doux, you have the infantry. Lead them out onto the plain to face down the emir,’ he said to Philaretos, nodding to the western gate. With that, the emperor kicked his stallion round. ‘Sally forth!’ he roared to the amassed ranks. ‘It is time to end this long and bloody day. With God by our side, victory will be ours! Nobiscum Deus!’ he boomed, emptying his lungs.

‘Nobiscum Deus!’ the men of the ranks roared in reply, the panic shaken from their hearts by the emperor’s hubris.

Doux Philaretos dismounted and strode forward to head up the exodus. ‘Onto the plain!’

The signophoroi waved and their banners and the western gates were thrown open. Men streamed onto the plain to the song of the buccinas.

Then Romanus turned to Apion. ‘Take half of the riders to the southern gate, Strategos. I will lead the other half to the north.’ He heeled his mount round, a dry grin spreading across his face as he clutched a hand across his heart, the golden pendant dangling there. ‘And I will see you out there in the fray.’

Then the emperor waved Igor, the varangoi, half of the thematic kataphractoi and the Pecheneg riders with him, northwards along the inside of the western wall.

Apion waved the kataphractoi of Chaldia plus a handful of those from the Bucellarion Thema — some one hundred and thirty riders combined — over to him. Then he waved the cluster of Oghuz riders over too. Just over five hundred men in total.

He kicked his Thessalian along the inside of the western wall to the south and in contraflow to the flood of infantry. He slowed momentarily as he came to the torn crimson banners of Chaldia as they made for the western gate. Sha, Blastares, Procopius and Dederic led them. They were matted in the filth of battle like the few hundred spearmen and archers that remained of the Chaldian army.

‘Haga!’ Sha barked. ‘You will lead us out?’

Apion slowed his mount and shook his head. ‘No, but I will be joining you soon.’ He looked each of them in the eye. ‘Have the men proceed in a line. Present the emir’s men with an irresistible target. Then. . ’ he pressed his hands together, making a diamond shape. ‘Doux Philaretos knows this already,’ he paused, shooting a furtive glance at the scowling doux. A traitor was still amongst their ranks. Apion longed for it not to be the man who would lead the infantry into the fray. ‘Just be sure your ranks are ready for the move. And stay strong. Today can still be ours!’’

‘Aye, sir,’ Sha nodded firmly.

‘Aye, sir!’ Blastares and Procopius barked in reply.

Dederic offered him a solemn gaze. ‘Whatever it takes, sir.’

Turning from his trusted four, he waved his riders with him. ‘To the southern gate!’ he cried.

***

The earth trembled beneath Sha’s feet as the Byzantine spearmen marched forward in a phalanx. It was only two men deep and an atypical formation for the banda, and even then it barely stretched to match the breadth of the emir’s horde. All along the line, faces were stained with blood, wrinkled in defiance, jaws jutting, tears streaming from eyes. Banners were held proudly, spears and shields grappled in white-knuckles. Doux Philaretos led the centre on foot, heading the few hundred remaining spearmen of the Optimates Tagma. The Chaldian army marched left centre, with Sha, Blastares, Procopius and Dederic on foot at the head of their depleted tourmae. Behind them, the toxotai rumbled forward in a pack of six hundred, arrows nocked to bows, wide-brimmed hats cocked forward to shield their eyes from the dropping sun. With them marched eight siphonarioi, their fire siphons grasped tightly, their iron masks betraying nothing of the fear they doubtless felt. Then, to the rear, the priests held the campaign Cross high and chanted, eyes closed.

‘Halt!’ Doux Philaretos cried when they were some two hundred paces from the smoking remnant of the Scholae camp. The buccinas sang and the bandophoroi waved their banners to reinforce this. As one, the phalanx slowed to a standstill.

Ahead of them, the Seljuk centre was obscured by the devastation of the Scholae camp. Tents lay ablaze, smoke smudging the air. A smattering of the broken tagma fled, some on their mounts, some on foot, precious few unwounded and carrying arms. Those who did escape — thirty seven, Sha counted — thundered in behind the phalanx where they formed together once more.

The flames ahead died, the smoke grew thinner, and through the sweltering heat haze, the full might of the emir’s forces were revealed. The two wings of ghulam reformed on the Seljuk wings, cleaning their bloodied lances. Ghazi archer cavalry milled close behind, and a broad and deep wall of some eight thousand akhi spearmen formed the centre.

He glanced to his side. Blastares and Procopius returned his solemn look.

If today is to be my last, then it has been a pleasure fighting alongside you, he thought. Then he saw Dederic. The Norman was muttering some prayer, his gaze sombre. Aye, he thought, his mouth drying and his bladder swelling, let us pray our riders come soon.

Then his thoughts dissolved as the emir raised both hands. The babble died to silence for but a heartbeat. Then he dropped his hands forward like blades. The Seljuk war horns wailed and the battle cry rose up, then the emir’s army washed towards the phalanx like a tidal wave.

‘Allahu Akbar!’

Sha’s eyes flicked from the advance to the scowling Philaretos. The lives of the infantry lay with this man. If his order was just a fraction too early or too late, thousands would die and the Byzantine campaign would be crushed.

‘Hold!’ Philaretos cried.

‘Hold!’ Sha barked along with every other tourmarches along the lines.

Still the Seljuk horde thundered forward. Sha could see the whites of the ghulam mounts’ eyes, their grinding teeth, the glint on the scimitar blades of their riders.

‘Hold!’ Sha repeated.

The akhi now loosed javelins towards the phalanx like a hailstorm. The missiles rained down all along the front of the ranks, most falling just paces short. But one missile punched into the skutatos by Philaretos’ side. The doux gawped at the gap where the man had stood.

Then he looked back up at the advancing horde. ‘Fall back! Form square!’ he cried at the vital moment.

At once, the buccinas sang and the banners waved, but the ranks were moving even before these signals. The centre of the phalanx bunched closer, the two ranks becoming sixteen deep. The men with the longest spears and iron vests formed the front ranks, and those with shorter spears fell in behind. The left and the right of the phalanx folded round to form the other three sides of the square, enclosing the toxotai and the few surviving Scholae riders. Then the siphonarioi bustled forward to present their fire siphons alongside the wall of spears, two men posted at each corner. In just moments, the broad, thin Byzantine line had transformed into a compact square, bristling with a palisade of spears, the centre packed with readied archers.

The emir’s horde did not falter at this, curving their broad and deep line around the square like a flooding river around a feeble rock. The ghulam riders swung round at the end of this line to charge at the left and right of the square, while the wall of akhi charged towards the front.

The toxotai focused their aim on the approaching akhi wall, sending a thick cloud of arrows skywards, then nocking their bows once more while this volley rained down on the spearmen. The shafts punched into shoulders, burst through eyes and shattered the skulls of those without helms. The stricken suddenly dropped from the approaching horde as if the ground had opened up beneath them. Then the ghazi riders replied in kind, circling on their mounts a few hundred paces away. The square scrambled to pull their shields overhead. A rattle of arrowheads on shields rang out, with a chorus of screams and wet punch of iron in flesh from those too slow to react.

Then, when the akhi were some thirty paces away from the Byzantine front, Sha raised his hand like every other tourmarches.

‘Rhiptaria. . loose!’

Like a bristling porcupine, the rear ranks of the skutatoi hefted and loosed their javelins. This thick cloud of iron-tipped timber crashed down on the akhi advance, punching akhi from their feet, dashing the lives from their bodies. Many hundreds fell. But many hundreds more rushed to the fore to replace them, spears trained on Byzantine throats, only paces away.

‘Stay together!’ Sha roared with all the breath in his lungs, but the din of the Seljuk cry rendered it useless. He felt his comrades’ shoulders press against his, their bodies shaking with hubris and terror.

Then the Seljuk charge met the Byzantine square with a tumultuous rattle of shields, screeching iron and screaming men. A thick spray of blood burst into the air. Many skutatoi crumpled, many akhi ran onto spears, some surging up and over the Byzantine wall such was their momentum. At the same time, the ghulam riders plunged into the square’s flanks, hacking off Byzantine speartips and heads as if they were one and the same. Mounts reared up, hooves dashing out skutatoi brains or shattering ribs, the ironclad Seljuk riders leading a dance of death through the Byzantine spearmen. In moments, the front of the square was battered out of shape and the flanks fared little better.

Sha’s spear arm jolted as he thrust his spear through an akhi warrior’s breastbone, the tip erupting through the man’s back. The akhi’s face fell expressionless, and a wash of black blood and broken cartilage vented from his lips and nostrils, the spray coating Sha’s eyes. He blinked to clear the mess. The corpse fell under the continuing akhi push and pulled Sha’s spear down with it. He clutched for his spathion hilt and lifted his shield to brace against the push, but the pressure was immense, and he felt his feet slip on the red-white mire of blood, flesh and bone underfoot. He pressed shield to shield with another screaming akhi before him and both found their arms pinned to their sides, unable to wield their weapons. He could do little but scream back in defiance at his foe. The square was wobbling, the front face bending inwards. The toxotai behind cried out in alarm at this.

‘Give them fire!’ Sha cried to the corners of the square.

At this, the siphonarioi were hoisted onto the shoulders of the men around them. They hurriedly struck their flint hooks to ignite their siphons. Then, with a thundering growl, they sent forth far-reaching jets of orange flame. At once, the akhi and the ghulam were ablaze, the fire clinging to them like clay. The ghulam riders cooked inside their own armour, their panicked mounts carrying them, screaming and ablaze, back from the fray. Their pained roars were short as corpses toppled, acrid smoke billowing from their burnt out faces and throats.

At once, the deathly crush was relieved. But only briefly.

The emir rode behind the akhi, marshalling them into line once more. Sha watched as the gilt-armoured leader and his retinue took to chopping their blades down on the heads and necks of those of the men who did not obey the commands. Then the emir ordered his ghazi to fire upon the siphonarioi. A cloud of arrows hammered down on the fire throwers and, without shields, all but one of them fell under this hail. At this, the akhi and ghulam halted their retreat, and came crashing back towards the Byzantine square.

‘Reform the square!’ Sha barked. Blastares, Procopius, Dederic and Philaretos echoed the command all around him and the front and sides of the square bent back out to present flat walls of spears. But this time the square was smaller — much smaller. Nearly one in three of their meagre ranks had fallen in the first Seljuk assault, Sha realised. Another such charge and they would surely break.

He plucked a spear from an akhi corpse, then pushed up against the spearmen either side of him. The akhi came at him in their thousands, spears levelled, eyes bulging, screaming. Sha’s limbs trembled, his heart thundered, and he cried out in defiance.

***

Dederic’s ears pounded with every heartbeat and he heard little of the screaming all around him. His arm juddered as he brought his longsword across the throat of man after man. His lips were caked in blood and the vile metallic tang permeated every breath he managed to snatch. This was survival and little more.

Then an akhi speartip punched through the top of his shield, sending splinters into his eyes and scoring across the hood of his hauberk, tearing it and splitting his ear, knocking his helm to the dust. Dederic dropped his shield, clutching at his ear, momentarily deafened. In the silence, he saw the speartip lancing towards his heart, the akhi wielding it roaring in fervour.

Two emotions pierced his heart as he saw the certainty of death. Guilt that he would now never free his family from serfdom and tyranny, and relief that he would now no longer have to carry out the deed he had been paid to do. He looked the akhi in the eye, searched for an image of Emelin and the children, then prepared for death.

But it did not come.

The akhi’s snarling face widened in shock as a spathion hammered down into the side of his skull, cleaving it through to the nose. Blood spurted from the fissure and then the body crumpled under the press.

Gawping, Dederic felt his shield being pressed back into his hands. At this, his deafness passed and the din of battle returned. He parried at the flurry of spear thrusts that rained in on him and glanced to his side to see who had saved him.

Zenobius was a sickly, vivid red, his pallid features caked in gore and the brains of the slain akhi.

‘Your job is not over yet, accomplice,’ the albino said. ‘With me,’ he demanded and then stepped back from the front and melted into the heart of the Byzantine square.

Dederic felt his legs move and he followed the man. Now his heart was awash with guilt alone.

***

Apion clipped the mail veil across his face as he galloped along the base of the southern wall. Then he and his wedge burst round the corner tower and onto the western plain.

Before him he saw the vast swarm of akhi and ghulam feeding on a pocket of Byzantine resistance in the centre. Before him he saw skutatoi falling in swathes as if being swallowed by an underground predator. Before him he saw the fiery tendrils engulfing the dark door. He felt his hands trace its scorching timbers, and welcomed the goading, sibilant voice that lay behind it. I’m coming for you, he mouthed behind the veil. He saw the door smashed back upon its hinges. The flames gouged at his flesh, and he lunged into the fury of battle.

‘First, the ghazis!’ he cried, waving his wedge towards the thick pack of Seljuk archer cavalry. These riders were focused on the attack on the Byzantine square. They loosed an almost constant storm of arrows upon the trapped skutatoi there and were oblivious to Apion’s charge. He saw some of them cheer when their missiles hit home. Others punched the air in delight as they watched the akhi and ghulam cut further into the beleaguered square.

Only when Apion and his riders were around forty paces away did the rearmost ghazis turn, faces etched with confusion. Then their eyes bulged, their lips flapped wordlessly. Now they slapped the shoulders of their fellow riders in alarm. But it was too late.

The kataphractoi lanced into them, ploughing through their pack like an axe through kindling. Few ghazis had time to draw their blades before man and mount were thrown to the ground. Their cries were short lived. Apion hacked the bow from one ghazi’s grip and then chopped at the man’s shoulder, shearing the bone and relieving him of his arm.

Then the Oghuz riders, riding close behind Apion’s wedge, loosed their arrows rapidly, picking off the ghazis who tried to break from this kataphractoi strike. Many of the archer cavalry did manage to break away though. They raced to the north, readying to adopt their deadly tactic of firing and circling, remaining clear of the Byzantine lancers.

Not today, Apion mouthed behind the veil, looking to the north.

The ghazis stumbled and slowed when they set eyes on another iron wedge coming from that direction.

Emperor Romanus charged at the head of this second pincer, holding the purple imperial banner aloft. His cry sounded across the plain. Igor and the varangoi echoed his cry as did the kataphractoi who fanned out in their wake. Even the Pecheneg cavalry racing alongside them joined in.

At this, the ghazis’ nerve broke. They wheeled round, ready to break to the west from where they had come. But the two Byzantine wedges crashed through their flanks to see them off. Mounts were turned over and over and riders were thrown clear of their saddles under the impact.

At once, Apion turned from the fleeing riders and looked to the swarm of Seljuk akhi and ghulam, a few hundred feet away. In their midst, the few men of the Byzantine square were fighting their last. Across the fray, Apion locked eyes with the emir.

The emir gawped back at these silhouetted riders who had appeared on the plain unexpected, as if the ghosts of the Scholae Tagma had come back for him. Then his face curled into a hateful grimace and he yelled at his ghulam riders.

Apion panted as he sidled up to the emperor. ‘It is time to finish this, Basileus,’ he said with a solemn finality.

Romanus’ gaze was flinty. ‘To the last, Haga.’ He clutched one hand over his heart and raised the other to wave the riders forward. ‘To the last!’

The men of the two Byzantine wedges kicked their mounts into a gallop. At the same time, the ghulam riders peeled from the attack on the Byzantine square and hared headlong for this charge. They were evenly matched in terms of numbers. Some three hundred ghulam to the same number of kataphractoi. The ghulam rode as one pack while the Byzantine riders rode as two.

The ghulam leader was brave and brash, urging his men on with a guttural roar. Apion squeezed his gelding’s flanks and burst ahead of the wedge, training his lance on this man. The lead ghulam tensed his arm, bracing as he guided his spear tip towards Apion’s throat. At the last, Apion saw that the ghulam lance was nearly a foot longer than his and knew he would die on the end of it if they clashed. So he fixed his gaze on the man’s bulging white eyes, then hefted his own spear and hurled it forward like a javelin. The shaft was heavy, but at only paces away, the tip smashed through the rider’s veil, shattered his face and punched his lifeless body from the saddle. Apion burst past the riderless mare, and the two wedges collided with a cacophony of screaming and clashing blades. Then, moments later, Romanus’ riders piled into the fray too.

The ghulam and kataphractoi fought like centaurs, at once dealing out and evading death. The arrow storm from the nearby Oghuz and Pechenegs was thin but carefully placed, the shafts falling only on the enemy, panicking the mounts or debilitating the riders. Apion twisted in his saddle to swipe his scimitar at the ghulam who charged for him. The curved blade scythed into the rider’s neck, breaking through the chain mail and tearing out the man’s larynx. Then he felt the presence of another attacker on his flank, and spun instinctively, swinging his mace down to crumple the plated iron vest of his foe and burst the man’s heart. Through the dust and crimson fog all around, he saw Romanus wheeling and hacking, never ceasing to cry out in encouragement. Before him, Igor and the varangoi swung their battle axes overhead, cutting a path for their emperor. Riders on both sides fell in swathes, but the two Byzantine wedges tore at the brave ghulam with a ferocity that the Seljuk riders could not match. The storm of hacking and stabbing ended only when Apion came face to face with Romanus. Both panted, glancing all around, expecting another foe. But there were none. The mighty Seljuk ghulam riders had been broken. Less than seventy kataphractoi remained, the rest lying tangled amongst the fallen.

Apion turned his sights on the mass of leaping, hacking, roaring akhi, and the near-invisible Byzantine square holding out to the last at the centre of this horde.

Now the emir was berating his infantry, waving his arms. ‘The threat lies behind you, you fools!’ his voice echoed across the plain. His mount reared up in the centre of the crush, the hooves breaking the neck of one helmetless akhi. At this, the rearmost of the akhi ranks began to turn away from the assault on the tattered Byzantine square, their faces etched with panic at the small but bloodied pack of riders forming up behind them. First a few, then hundreds of spears were turned round to protect the rear.

‘Basileus!’ Apion gasped. ‘We must act!’

Romanus’ eyes bulged. ‘Onwards!’ he bellowed.

The plain juddered before them once more. Apion saw the emir force his way into the swarm of akhi that had turned to face the rear, keen to find protection behind their myriad spears. The finely armoured leader even chopped his blade down at men in his way and kicked out at them from his saddle. At that moment, Apion realised that the Seljuk warriors would fight for this man only as long as they feared his reprisal. Thousands of lives would be lost today, but thousands more could be spared if this man was slain.

Apion plucked a ghulam lance from the body of a comrade and readied himself in the saddle. ‘With me!’ he roared, waving his wedge into a charge at the akhi who clustered around their leader. He lay low in his saddle and levelled his lance. Crucially, it was longer than those held by the Seljuk infantrymen. He waited until he could see the panicked eyes of the nearest of them, then he braced. His shoulder jarred and jolted as his spear plunged through the man and then again through the next two men behind. Likewise the rest of his riders carved into the akhi cluster like a blade and Romanus’ wedge ploughed into them too. The dull crunch of crumpling armour, the sickly ripping of flesh and serrated screams of torn men sounded all around. Apion did not blink throughout it all as he barged through the enemy lines. His gaze and his spear tip were fixed on the emir.

The gilt-armoured emir snarled at the few akhi left immediately before him. But, at the last, all bar a few ducked out of the way.

The emir fell silent, his eyes wide, his lips trembling. Only four akhi remained to defend their leader.

Apion hurled his spear into the nearest of the defenders, then pulled his scimitar from his scabbard and ripped the blade up and over the next man’s chest. The third threw his spear, and Apion tumbled from the saddle to avoid the lance. He rolled where he landed and saw the akhi rush for him, sword in hand. The akhi sliced the blade down, and Apion spun from the blow, then dealt a counter swipe, scoring across the man’s throat and bringing forth torrents of lifeblood. He kicked the man backwards, then turned to the last defender — a giant of a man with a smashed nose who bore a huge spike shield and a silver-tipped spear. Apion drew his war hammer and hurled it at the giant’s skull. But the giant hoisted his shield and punched the hammer from the air, then lunged at Apion, bringing his spike shield crashing down. Apion threw up his shield arm. The small shield strapped to his bicep caught the brunt of the blow, but the rusting, serrated spikes of the giant’s shield were long and found a way through the gaps in Apion’s klibanion. White-hot pain streaked through his ribs and blood washed from under his armour.

He had only an instant to get his bearings. He scrambled back from the giant’s next scimitar strike, which splashed into the gore underfoot. Then the giant came at him again. Apion leapt as if to meet the man, then dropped into a crouch, swiping his blade round to cut across the giant’s left hamstring. The giant fell with a guttural roar. On his knees and unable to stand, the big man swiped out as if wanting to finish the fight. Apion kicked the man over into the gore. ‘Your fight is over,’ he panted.

Ignoring the giant’s roars of derision, Apion turned to the emir. The kataphractoi had driven the rear-facing akhi back like an axe hewing into soft timber, and now the emir was alone. Apion stalked towards the man. But his tunic and legs were now soaked in his own blood and his stride was sluggish. His vision blurred as he approached the emir. He shook his head, but it did not help.

The emir backed away from Apion, his face twisted into a bitter scowl. The jewels studding the rim of his ornate helmet sparkled, illuminating the hatred in his eyes as he looked down from his black mare.

‘Byzantine dog!’ he roared, levelling his scimitar.

The words sounded distant and echoing to Apion. Then, seemingly lightning-fast, the emir swept the blade down as if to split his skull. Apion was slow to react, his limbs heavy. He only just held up the flat of his blade, two-handed, to parry the strike. Sparks showered as the blades collided.

The emir strained and grunted, pushing down with an unexpected strength. Apion felt his own strength sapping quickly, his limbs growing numb and cold. Then, behind him, he heard an animal grunting. He twisted to see the giant bodyguard whose hamstring he had torn, propped on a spear shaft, hobbling towards his back. The giant held a scimitar in his other hand, and a foul grin stretched across his face as he lifted the blade and readied to swipe it at Apion’s neck. Apion shot glances to the giant and to the emir. All the other riders were locked in battle with the akhi. He was alone and his vision was spotting over. He could slay either one of these men, but only one. And then he would die on the blade of the other.

The emir leaned closer, sensing Apion’s weakness. ‘Your head will be rotting on a spike by dusk,’ he spat. ‘My sultan will dine in the shade as he watches the vultures feast on your cold, staring eyes.’

For Apion, the decision was made. ‘Your sultan is my enemy, but at least he carries honour in his heart.’ With that, he dropped back from the emir’s blade, twisted round and rammed the tip of his scimitar up, under the emir’s armour and deep into his chest. The emir’s eyes widened in shock, and black blood poured from his lips in gouts.

As the light left the emir’s eyes and the corpse toppled, Apion heard the whoosh of iron swiping round for his neck. He turned to see the giant’s blade sweeping round to behead him. He locked his gaze upon his killer and waited upon the death blow.

I will march on in your nightmares, whoreson!

Then a whinnying split the din of battle, and he saw the faint outline of a white stallion behind his killer, bursting from the nearby melee. Something glowed on the rider’s breast. Something golden.

A crunch of iron chopping through flesh and bone ended it. Hot blood washed down Apion’s body. But there was no pain. Blinking, he looked at the headless body of the giant. Blood pumped from the raw stump of a neck, the arm was still outstretched, quivering, holding the scimitar only inches from Apion’s jugular.

Then the corpse toppled away. Romanus stood behind it, his face twisted in a grimace, his chest heaving, his bejewelled spathion dripping with blood.

As news of the emir’s slaying spread, many akhi broke from the battle. Spears were thrown to the ground and they spilled past the kataphractoi like a flooding river, fleeing to the west. The Byzantine square broke apart like an exploding mirror, striking out to hasten their flight. Joyous and hoarse victory cries rang out as the tide turned.

Apion frowned as he looked around him, swaying on his feet, the last of the akhi barging past him in their hundreds. The dark door slammed shut and tendrils of smoke spiralled from the edges. He saw only the carpet of corpses all around. He glanced down to see the blood washing freely from under his klibanion. He felt cold, so cold.

Then he saw something else. A Byzantine spearman, on horseback, galloping through the fleeing akhi. It was Zenobius the albino from the Thrakesion ranks.

Apion frowned. Those of the ranks who gave chase to their enemy wore twisted scowls and pained, tear-streaked grimaces. But this rider wore an empty look on his face. Empty and cold. And he was riding against the tide. Something chilled Apion to his heart at that moment. Then he saw the albino lift a bow from his back and load the wooden channel fixed to it with a solenarion bolt. At that moment he realised where the rider was headed.

‘Basileus!’ he cried weakly.

But it was too late, Zenobius loosed the bolt at Romanus’ back. The emperor spun, eyes widening. The varangoi cried out, pitching forward. But none were fast enough.

Except one small rider in a mail hauberk.

Dederic’s mount flashed in front of the emperor at the last, and the bolt took the Norman high in the chest. His lifeblood burst over Romanus. Then he slid from the saddle and into the gore.

Zenobius’ expressionless face cracked into a sneer of confusion and disgust. He had time to snatch up his spathion before a pair of varangoi axes swung down upon him, one cutting his chest open, the other slicing his sword arm off. Then Apion’s scimitar spun through the air and swiped his head from his shoulders.

The varangoi and the men of the ranks cried out in confusion, swarming past Apion to surround the emperor. Apion felt his thoughts merge with blackness as he staggered to where Dederic lay.

The Norman clutched at the solenarion shaft, sputtering blood from his lips, his eyes searching the sky above.

Apion dropped to his knees, panting weakly. ‘How did you know?’ he croaked. ‘Even the varangoi were caught unawares.’ His vision was slipping away, and all he could see now were the Norman’s eyes, fixed on him.

‘Whatever it takes. . ’ Dederic whispered. ‘They promised me gold, Apion — enough to free my family. I betrayed our every move.’

Apion shook his head. ‘No!’ he whispered.

‘I made my choice.’ He clasped Apion’s forearm, his eyes bulging as another mouthful of blood burst from his lips. ‘But I pray that my choice at the last will define me. I pray that God will not let my family suffer.’

With that, Dederic of Rouen shuddered in a death rattle and he was still.

Apion’s heart turned as cold as the rest of his body. He gazed at Dederic’s dead eyes.

All around him, the skutatoi chanted for the emperor. ‘Ba-si-le-us! Ba-si-le-us!’ and this chant became intermingled with that from the tattered remains of the Chaldian Thema; ‘Ha-ga! Ha-ga! Ha-ga!’

At this, Apion’s head lolled round weakly and he glanced to the setting sun in confusion. Dusk was coming on faster than normal, he thought as his vision dimmed.

‘Strategos!’ he heard Romanus cry as if from a distant place. He felt hands grapple at him, men calling out in alarm. He heard the voices of Sha, Blastares and Procopius, pushing to the fore. But they were slipping away. And he was falling.

As Apion toppled into the gore beside Dederic, the distant chanting changed to a solemn tone as the priests heralded the victory and bemoaned the lost, accompanied by a chorus of screeching carrion birds.

***

Alp Arslan halted his retinue of seventy ghulam with a raised hand. Not a man spoke.

Upon their approach, he had watched in disbelief as the small pockets of Byzantine cavalry had carved the emir’s army apart. Now his gaze hung upon the sight before him. Thousands of the emir’s men washing past, leaderless, weaponless, their eyes wide. The fleet of trebuchets, towers and catapults had been abandoned in the middle of the plain, their crews having fled. ‘Fleeing what?’ he said, eyeing the bloodied rabble that stood outside the western walls of Hierapolis. ‘I see only a tattered band of men.’

‘Including the two that matter,’ Nizam whispered, by his side.

Despite the distance, Alp Arslan recognised the white and crimson form in the Byzantine heart as that of Romanus. Beside the emperor knelt a bloodied rider with a black eagle plumage, shoulders draped in a crimson cloak. It was the one who had slain the emir.

‘The Haga has shown honour today. He slew the emir, knowing it would end the battle swiftly,’ Nizam mused.

‘Honour or the ruthless nous of a man soaked in battle-blood?’ the sultan countered.

‘It matters little,’ Kilic cut in, grinning. The big bodyguard pointed to the crimson-cloaked form. ‘Look, he has fought his last.’

Alp Arslan squinted, seeing the Haga collapse to the ground.

He found no joy in the sight.

‘What now, Sultan?’ Kilic asked.

Alp Arslan’s eyes never left the Haga’s body as he heeled his mount round to the south. ‘We are beaten today and so we return to our homes.’ His eyes glazed just a little as he added. ‘Tomorrow, and every day after, we will pursue victory. Fate is with us. Byzantium must fall.’