Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

23. The Few

Winter had gripped the lands of the Sebastae Thema like a predator’s claws. A winding track snaked across the land, still, empty and frozen hard with sparkling frost. A dark-red sun dipped towards the western horizon, retreating from the blanket of chill darkness encroaching from the east.

Then a steady crunching of boots and clopping of hooves stirred the icy stillness. From the horizon on the south-east, a weary column of men bearing tattered banners and a smoke-stained campaign Cross marched into view, their breath clouding above them as if to compensate for the lack of a dust plume. The priests carrying the Cross chanted as they marched, lamenting the fallen.

Some way back from the head of the column, Tourmarches Sha rode solemnly, flanked by Blastares and Procopius. He stared dead ahead when the thud of another man falling to the ground sounded from not far behind him. Of the sixteen hundred wretches that had survived the Syrian campaign, nearly a third had died on this march home, succumbing to their injuries and the cold. As such, the path behind them was littered with dead men and mules. Hierapolis had been secured and with it, the beginnings of a new, more defensible borderland in the southeast. But at what cost, he mused, thinking of the six thousand men who would never return home.

Then his eyes fell upon the crimson cloak, tied up to form a parcel and balanced on the front of his saddle. It contained an ivory-hilted scimitar, a battered helmet plumed with black eagle feathers and a folded iron klibanion scarred with a russet, blood-encrusted tear near the midriff.

‘Many widows we make of waiting wives, with so little thought we squander men’s lives,’ Sha spoke gently, his breath clouding before him.

‘Aye,’ Procopius nodded, his aged features creasing as he squinted into the sunset. ‘For an old bastard like me to ride home unscathed while so many boys and young men lie buried back in that dusty plain is strange indeed.’ He pointed upwards furtively. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

Blastares frowned. ‘Eh?’

Procopius glanced this way and that, eyes wide. ‘If God has chosen those who live and those who die, then on a day like today, you have to question his judgement.’

‘You shouldn’t question him,’ Blastares replied flatly, clutching the Chi-Rho amulet dangling around his neck. A troubled frown wrinkled the big tourmarches’ features.

‘The strategos gave up on God a long time ago,’ Sha said, looking to the parcel of armour he carried. ‘What that tells us, I don’t know.’ He looked up to the sky with the other two as if searching the coming gloom for an answer.

A chill wind whistled around them.

‘Tourmarchai of Chaldia,’ a hoarse voice called out from behind.

They turned to the voice. The gaunt and pale, amber-bearded rider was saddled on a scarred chestnut Thessalian, shivering under a pair of thick woollen blankets. He held one hand to his ribs and his face was wrinkled in pain.

‘Strategos!’ Sha gasped, dropping back to ride level with Apion.

‘Ah, so you have my armour, I’ve been all along the touldon looking for that,’ Apion said as if Sha hadn’t spoken. He reached out to lift the crimson bundle from the Malian, poorly disguising another wince of pain as he did so.

‘Sir?’ Sha searched Apion’s battered features. His eyes were open for the first time in weeks. Only that morning, the strategos had been strapped to a stretcher, wrapped in blankets. He was muttering and feverish. ‘The skribones insisted you would be confined to the stretcher for the rest of the journey,’ Sha frowned. ‘Even then, they were sure you were. . ‘

‘Aye, well, they were wrong,’ Apion replied, his eyes avoiding Sha’s, a bead of cold sweat dancing down his forehead.

Sha’s brow furrowed. ‘Sir, for the last two weeks, you have been near-lifeless, face tinged with blue.’

‘True, I feel well rested,’ he started to chuckle and then stopped, flinching and clutching his ribs. ‘The skribones have done their job. My wound is already healing well.’

‘Then perhaps that old hag should join the skribones?’ Procopius added with a dry snort.

Apion’s gaze snapped round on the white-haired officer. ‘Tourmarches?’

Procopius jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘About a week ago, after we came back through the mountains, she started walking with the column. She was bare-footed and withered like a dried berry. The men grew tired of heckling her after a few days and then she started walking alongside you. The skribones saw no harm in this, until they caught her smoothing some foul-smelling paste into your wound.’

‘I was there,’ Blastares cut in. ‘The open flesh had absorbed most of it by the time they hauled her away and cast her out of the column. We feared she had poisoned you, but that evening, the colour returned to your face and you started to show signs of life once more. But still it was not pleasant; you were feverish, moaning, crying out in pain. You really should be at rest, sir.’

‘I’ll journey as I see fit,’ Apion grunted, scowling, then failing to disguise another shudder of agony. ‘Besides, the skribones fed me a pot of warm stew and bread — I am in fine fettle.’ Sha, Blastares and Procopius stared at him, their brows knitted in frowns.

‘What’s wrong — do I command no respect without my armour?’ Apion barked, patting the parcel then pinning each of them with a flinty glare. The three gawped back at him until at last his features melted into a weak smile; ‘Or does the mighty Haga look more like a wounded sparrow in his current state?’

The three could not stop laughter tumbling from their lungs at this, rousing the attention of those nearby.

Apion nodded back down the column. ‘Now fall back and ready the men. For we will soon depart for Chaldia. We’re going home.’

‘Aye, sir,’ Sha grinned in reply.

***

As his tourmarchai fell back, Apion rode for the head of the column. Every stride of the Thessalian’s canter sent fiery waves of agony through his torso. Every wave washed at the memory of that curious grey place, pushing it back into the depths of his mind like a fading dream. Not for the first time since he had crawled from the stretcher, he looked to the palm of his hand. Empty. The lock of hair was absent. He looked to the sky in search of an answer. It offered nothing.

When we speak again, I have much to ask you, old woman.

He slowed as he approached the front of the column. Romanus rode there, back straight and jaw squared, his cobalt eyes narrowed as he looked to the deep-red sunset. He carried his purple-plumed helmet underarm. His moulded breastplate was battered and scarred. The golden pendant hung on his breast, glinting in the sunset. Igor and the four surviving varangoi flanked him, their braided locks caked in dust and their armour in tatters.

The Golden Heart lived on. This was the spoil of victory. But then sadness and a dying ember of anger touched his heart as he thought of Dederic, lying in the gore by Zenobius’ side. He had shed blood with the Norman. He had allowed himself to trust the rider. But the man had betrayed him. Yet Dederic had died a hero, Apion having concealed the rider’s shame. Then he thought of Nasir, their days together in adolescence, the war that had torn them apart and the festering scar that had remained between them in the years since. Then that last moment, that unspoken truth. Damn, but I miss you both like brothers, despite it all, he thought, tears pushing into his eyes.

He rubbed his eyes clear and looked ahead. Romanus was the talisman of hope. Romanus was the future.

Psellos’ minions had been slain, but the adviser himself still loomed like a venomous asp. Indeed, Apion wondered what troubled the emperor more; the vast Seljuk armies that would doubtless fall upon Byzantium’s eastern flank in retaliation for the taking of Hierapolis, or the snakepit in the west he was to return to. Romanus’ hard stare at the western horizon suggested the latter.

A cry pierced the air as the Strategos of Sebastae ordered his handful of men to fall out from the column, readying to lead them back to the farms and forts of their homeland.

Romanus turned to the noise, then gawped as he saw Apion. ‘Strategos? Are you sure you are fit to ride?’ Philaretos, Igor and the varangoi frowned in concern likewise.

Apion pulled his woollen blanket tighter and cocked a half-smile at the question he had become so familiar with since prising himself from the stretcher. ‘I’ll ride until I drop.’

Romanus frowned at this. ‘Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘I will recover my strength soon, Basileus. For I must,’ Apion looked to the north. ‘It will soon be time for my men and me to depart for Chaldia. The people of my thema have been without the protection of their army for too long.’

Romanus nodded earnestly. ‘Return to Chaldia and aid your people, Strategos. Then turn your thoughts to readying your army for what is to come. Syria will serve as our south-eastern border now, and a fine one at that; Hierapolis will be garrisoned by the Doux of Mesopotamia and his army, and the city’s walls will be rebuilt taller and stronger. The passes through the Antitaurus Mountains will be maintained and the city will never be starved of reinforcements or supplies. But Eastern Anatolia is still porous, as you well know. Before long we must march into that rugged land. The forts and passes there must be secured if we are to have any hope of holding the sultan’s armies at bay.’ He balled one fist and punched it twice against his palm. ‘Manzikert, Chliat. These strongholds must be secured. With them under imperial control, Lake Van and the surrounding lands will be stable once more.’

A shiver passed over Apion’s skin. I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The mighty Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud. Then he looked to Romanus as the rest of her words echoed in his mind. At dusk you and the Golden Heart will stand together in the final battle, like an island in the storm. .

Then Romanus rode a little closer, his voice dropping. ‘For Alp Arslan’s Fatimid troubles appear to be over. He will never again turn away from battle as he did in Syria.’

‘He will never relent, Basileus,’ Apion said, thinking of the sultan’s steely resolve. ‘Likewise I will always be there to stand against his armies.’

‘Then we will always have hope, Haga,’ Romanus’ eyes sparkled and he held out his forearm.

Apion clasped his forearm to the emperor’s. He thought of a thousand words that demanded to be spoken. To plead that Romanus stay clear of Psellos and his minions. To stay close to the axes of Igor and his men at all times. To protect Eudokia and her boys. But behind Romanus’ assured gaze, Apion saw a sharpness, and awareness of all the ills he would return to. The words did not need to be said.

‘Until we meet again, Basileus.’

They shared a lasting and earnest gaze and then they parted.

As the imperial banners marched on towards the setting sun, Apion dropped back to the ranks of the Chaldian army. Blastares was leading them in the chorus of a song extolling the benefits of a plump woman’s figure. On seeing Apion approach, the men abandoned the song and threw up their hands in salute.

‘Haga!’

He eyed each of them. One hundred and sixty three men. Each bore scars, bruises, bloodied bandages and some walked on crutches. ‘We have fought long and hard. Now another long march lies ahead of us. But it is the march home.’

At this, a raucous cheer erupted and the crimson banners were pumped in the air.

He smiled at this and heeled his mount round to lead them north, away from the column.

‘Sir,’ a voice called as they peeled away from the column.

Apion frowned, looking down on the lean, gaunt man. It was one of the skribones who had carried him on the stretcher. He offered something in his hand.

‘This fell from your grip, when you were feverish,’ the man said, dropping the object and then jogging back down the Chaldian ranks.

Apion stared at the dark lock of hair and the golden thread that bound it.

The pain inside him was swept away and tears welled in his emerald eyes.