Island in the Storm

10. Adnoumion

The first weeks of April were dry and hot. Spring had arrived and the once barren inland hillsides of the Opsikon Thema were now alive with the chirruping cicada song and dappled with thick green grasses, wheat fields and shady groves of ash and poplar.

A flock of starlings scattered from one such thicket as four horsemen rose over the tip of a grassy hill, silhouetted in early morning sunlight. One of them, sporting three black eagle feathers in his helm, raised a finger and pointed downhill.

‘Let your weary eyes rejoice,’ Apion grinned, scratching at his iron-grey beard.

Sha, Blastares and Procopius looked with him, gazing across the vast army camp that spread across the banks of the Sangarios, interrupting the tracts of wheat that clung to the sides of the calm, teal river. The camp was just downriver from the Zompos Bridge, an ancient-looking stone structure that had long allowed imperial armies to march east without the need of a ferry fleet. This was the adnoumion, the ritual mustering. The land where the emperor assembled his armies, summoning the regional themata to join his tagmata corps. He spotted the bright banners of the imperial tagmata; the Scholae, the Vigla, the Stratelatai and the Hikanatoi. And the fluttering emblems of the Cappadocian Thema and the Anatolikon too. Then there were standards he did not recognise — western tagmata, it seemed. More than twenty thousand here, he reckoned on a rough count of the tents, and doubtless many more to come. This was the emperor’s response to the news of Alp Arslan’s taking of Manzikert. Once more, the Golden Heart filled Apion with that precious commodity; hope.

Realising his trusted three had never witnessed the mustering before, he pointed to the sturdy fortress that sat on a small hillock overlooking the vast camp and was framed by a backdrop of tall, rocky hills. ‘That is the fortress of Malagina. That is where the last blades will be forged, the last garments woven and the supplies will be gathered, ready to be loaded onto the mules and wagons of the touldon before the campaign continues eastwards.’

Next, he pointed to the rows of timber stalls that hemmed a patchwork of lush green meadows, dotted with horses. ‘And here we have the imperial stables. Thousands of the finest battle horses are reared, broken in and put to stud and pasture right here.’

‘Hmm. I wonder if they’d be interested in a trade?’ Procopius grumbled. His grey stallion snorted and shook its head as if in protest. ‘This one gives me nothing but a mean eye and blisters on my arse!’

Sha chuckled. ‘Perhaps your mount means to trade you in?’

‘Ha,’ Blastares cut in, ‘for what, a sack of hay?’

Procopius’ eyes widened and he squared his shoulders indignantly. ‘Alright, alright, you pair of bast-’

‘Look, to the south!’ Sha cut in.

Apion blinked and peered to the green hills there. From a fold in the land, another column snaked towards the camp. He spotted the silver banners they carried. And a mile further south again, another column sporting green banners. ‘The Colonean Thema and the Charsianon Thema!’ he grinned. ‘They must have some two thousand men each. That is a fine sight.’ Then he eyed his trusted three with a mischievous grin. ‘Still, I’m not in the mood to let those beggars beat us to the gates. Ya!’ he cried, heeling his Thessalian downhill towards the camp.

Apion noticed many things inside the camp. There were many soldiers moving to and fro in the full glare of the mid-morning sun. The tagmata men seemed well prepared and equipped for this campaign, but the themata armies seemed to present a jumble of issues. The Anatolikon Thema and the Cappadocian Thema were already encamped, but their ranks seemed to consist of very old men with good armour and weapons but lacking the physique of soldiers. When the Colonean and Charsianon ranks came in, it was a different story; they had indeed mustered nearly three thousand young men, but in such haste, they had found little time to provide basic kit for these recruits. Most had shields, spears and felt caps or helms, but many marched in bare feet and few had swords.

‘Ah, there is much organisation to be done,’ he muttered to himself, sliding from his saddle. Amongst the sea of tents, the incessant babble and the packs of men hurrying this way and that, Apion realised one thing was missing. The campaign Cross was nowhere to be seen. Indeed, the usual central compound with the emperor’s tent was missing. ‘Sha, set up our tent. I’ll be with you soon.’

‘Sir,’ Sha nodded, waving Blastares and Procopius with him.

Apion frowned, stalking over to the centre of the vast camp, where the emperor’s tent would normally be. There was nothing bar a pile of crates and barrels. A man of some fifty years was sitting on one of these crates, cross-legged, with a slat of wood on his knees, a pot of ink in one hand and a quill pen in the other. He had a bookish look about him, his eyes shaded under his mop of curly silver locks and his slender frame draped in some grey silk robe. He seemed to be taking in all that was going on around him, gazing across the sea of tents, over the surrounding hills and up to the pleasant sky. Then he took to scribbling furiously on a sheaf of paper stretched across the timber slat.

‘A fine place you choose to write — this is the place where the emperor’s tent should be, is it not?’

The man looked up, as if having been awoken from a daydream. ‘Indeed it is.’

Apion cocked an eyebrow. ‘And you are?’

‘Michael Attaleiates. I am the emperor’s scribe. It is my job to capture every detail of this campaign. I don’t know where he is — I only know that there has been some. . confusion.’

‘So you choose to sit and write?’ Apion frowned, scanning the goings-on nearby for some familiar face.

Michael smiled. ‘Future generations must know what transpires — virtuous or wicked,’ he said with a wry grin.

Apion snorted, recalling old Cydones’ disdain for the scribes and chroniclers. ‘Virtuous or wicked? Surely that depends on the eye of the beholder. . and his agenda.’

Michael’s grin grew a little taut at this. He looked Apion up and down. ‘And you, you must be an officer?’

‘Apion, Strategos of Chaldia.’

Michael’s eyes sparkled shrewdly at this. ‘Ah, the Haga is here? I have heard your name mentioned by more than a few. Perhaps I should write of you in my chronicle?’

Apion smiled and shook his head. ‘I am but one blade amongst thousands. Save your ink for those who matter, writer. For now I’d like to know where the emperor is. Who here can help me?’ he asked, looking round but seeing only unfamiliar faces striding to and fro.

‘Perhaps the Komes of the Varangoi might be best placed to explain,’ Michael pointed over Apion’s shoulder.

Apion twisted round to see Igor stalking towards him, his armour brilliant white, his face lobster pink — almost blending in with the vertical scar that ran over one eye — and his braided locks bobbing with every step.

Apion held out an arm, ready to greet the big warrior as he had done at the Euphrates camp two years ago. But this time, Igor’s face was a picture of dread. ‘Haga! You are here at last,’ he said, clutching Apion’s outstretched arm. ‘And not a moment too soon.’

Apion frowned. ‘The emperor, what is-’

Igor held their embrace, whispering; ‘The emperor is not himself.’

Apion saw the dark look in the Rus’ eyes. Igor’s gaze stayed locked with Apion’s and then flicked up, beyond the fortress of Malagina to the cluster of rocky hills that loomed over the mustering plains.

‘Come, ride with me, I will take you to him,’ the Rus said, hefting up a cloth-wrapped parcel from the pile of crates and looking to the hills.

Apion mounted his Thessalian and followed Igor out of the camp, trotting through the long grass around the Malagina Fortress hillock. The Rus remained silent as they passed a pair of varangoi who seemed to be guarding the dirt track that led up into the hills. They picked their way up this track until they came to the rougher ground near the cliffs at the top of this range.

The path was mercifully shaded by the cliff face, but the going was treacherous, the track winding up around the cliff side, growing steeper with every stride. They came to a perilously steep section. Apion’s Thessalian stumbled in the scree here, sliding to the side of the long-disused path and halting only inches from the edge. Apion’s eyes bulged as he clutched at his reins and swayed in his saddle to balance, catching sight of the sheer drop into a rocky gully he had only just avoided. A vulture swooped by overhead and screeched as if thwarted of its chance of a meal.

‘Igor, for pity’s sake, will you tell me what is going on and why you are leading me into the sky — preferably before I fall and break my neck!’

Igor looked all around, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as if looking for some observer.

‘We are alone, I can assure you,’ Apion spat. ‘No other cur would be so mad as to come up here!’

Igor snorted at this. ‘Ah, if only that were true. But no, our emperor languishes atop these cliffs.’

‘What, why?’

‘Walk with me,’ Igor said, dismounting.

Apion followed suit, patting his Thessalian’s neck and crunching on up the scree.

‘There have been ill-portents in every direction since the start of this campaign. Blood-comets, freak storms at sea and grey doves suffering from wanderlust,’ Igor panted as they neared the top of the cliffs. ‘All brushed aside by the emperor’s hubris and his stirring homilies. But when we camped at Helenopolis, something changed. In the dead of night, his tent collapsed, the centre pole shredded and it fell in upon him.’

Apion sighed, knowing full well how such incidents were usually perceived by the Christian ranks. ‘And the men think it was a sign from God?’

‘They do. But the worst of it is that God had no hand in this. The emperor himself brought his tent down in some blind fit, throwing himself around.’

Apion cocked his head to one side. ‘But surely a few words from him, would have remedied the situation? A dash of humour and bravado?’

‘They would, had he not been acting so strangely since. After we pulled him from the tent, he was suffering some blinding headache. He said nothing to the men before he blacked out. Then, when he awoke the next day, he was — as I said — not himself. He was sullen and highly irritable.’

‘Has he been seen by an archiatros?’ Apion asked, knowing full-well that the emperor would have brought some of the fine physicians from Constantinople along with him.

‘They tried to examine him, but he would not have it. He lashed out, blackening the eye of one orderly. When we deconstructed the camp, he then insisted on riding as part of the vanguard.’

Apion’s gut tightened at this. The emperor was a brave soul, but not a fool. Even in firm imperial territory, he would never risk riding in the van in case he might fall to some enemy ambush.

‘And when we came here, he watched the men build the camp, but insisted the imperial tent should not be pitched. And then. . then he rode from the camp at haste, alone. We pursued him, all the way up here.’

Apion looked up to see they were approaching the clifftop. ‘Here, why?’

The steep path levelled off and the shade fell away as they stepped onto the clifftop. Apion squinted in the sunlight at what lay up there. Three huts stood, all of them ruins, deserted long ago. Hovels at best. The roofs had caved in, the clumsily piled stone walls lay tumbled and broken in places, and the remnant splinters of what had once been a door hung from the entrance to the nearest one. Cicadas sang in the weeds. Clouds of flies buzzed in the shade of the doorway, next to which the emperor’s white stallion was tethered. Then Apion saw smoke puff from this roofless abode.

‘Because the emperor insisted he preferred to be away from his men. He said he favoured these hovels over the fresh and open wheat banks of the river. He has slept here for the last week and has had food brought to him,’ Igor tapped the parcel.

Apion heard a scuffling from inside the tumbledown ruin then.

‘Basileus,’ Igor called out.

Apion removed his helm, readying to salute his emperor, the one man who promised to bring an end to the empire’s constant struggles. But his blood iced when he saw the figure that emerged from the hovel. Romanus’ flaxen locks were unwashed and tangled, his skin was awash with profuse sweat and his chin was covered in unkempt bristles. His lips were taut and twitching, his cobalt eyes darting. His white tunic and trousers were encrusted in filth.

He barely made eye contact with Apion or Igor, instead seemingly more interested in the ashes of a fire. He crouched beside it and poked at the ashes with a stick, sighing and muttering to himself.

‘Basileus, the Haga is here,’ Igor said, crouching by the emperor’s side, placing the parcel down. ‘Only weeks ago you talked of how glad you would be to see him.’

‘Hmm, the Haga? I don’t need him. I just need to be left alone. Away with you both. Away!’ he snarled.

Igor stood back, blanching.

‘Basileus,’ Apion said. ‘The men need you. But I understand you are not well. You need to allow the archiatros to examine you.’

‘I am well. I have my home,’ he gestured to the hovel, then unwrapped the cloth parcel to reveal a round of cheese, a loaf of bread, dates, honey and a small amphora. ‘I have food in my belly and the sun on my skin,’ he looked up to the sky, then winced, looking away and clutching at his temples. ‘I need no physician.’

Igor and Apion shared a wary look, then bade the emperor farewell.

‘Perhaps tomorrow you will feel better,’ Apion said.

Romanus said nothing, remaining crouched, his eyes screwed tight shut with a hand on his forehead.

‘He is unwell, there is no doubt about it,’ Apion whispered to Igor as they made their way back down to their mounts.

‘What are we to do?’ Igor shrugged. ‘My men are guarding the tracks up here, so he is safe from attack, but the armies are becoming restless.’

Apion tucked his hair behind his ears and slid his helm back on. ‘If tomorrow, he still insists on dwelling in that ruin, then we must take matters into our own hands — have the archiatros see to him whether he likes it or not.’

Igor smoothed his moustache and shook his head. ‘I truly hope it does not come to that.’

***

Apion sat on a log under a clear and starry summer night sky at the heart of the camp where the emperor’s tent should have been. The fire before him was dulling. The cooks who had prepared food to be taken to the emperor cleared away their implements and stored their supplies. The other men of the emperor’s retinue sat alongside him, jabbering about what should be done.

He glanced around each of them. Alyates, the young, lean, Strategos of Cappadocia seemed a good sort if a little naïve — insisting that the emperor just needed time to come back to his senses. Doux Bryennios, on the other hand, seemed a shrewd and bullish character, keen to assert his authority in the emperor’s absence. Meanwhile, Doux Philaretos was eager to force the emperor to return to the camp. Doux Tarchianotes was the most aged and seemingly the most balanced individual; he listened to the arguments of the others while stroking his tidy beard, then countered their thoughts with his own. Each of them pitched their ideas as to how to deal with the emperor’s strangeness, each of them jabbing fingers up to the dark silhouette of the cliffs that loomed over the camp.

Only one other around the fire remained silent. Andronikos Doukas. The young man sat there, staring into the fire, one arm chained to a post and constantly under the glare of the two varangoi permanently assigned to watch him. The flames illuminated his broad, flat-boned face and betrayed a sadness in his eyes. Apion thought of the man’s cousins — Eudokia’s sons; young Michael Doukas and his younger brother, Konstantious. In his time in Constantinople, Apion had got to know them both; one a confused young man and the other an innocent and scared boy. Being a member of the Doukas family did not make Andronikos an enemy, but Apion felt a distinct discomfort at his presence in the camp. No man is born evil, he reminded himself, then countered; nor into virtue.

Suddenly, a scream rang out. The chatter ceased and all heads swung round. ‘Fire! Fire!’

Apion looked this way and that. There were no flames, no clouds of smoke.

‘God have mercy!’ Alyates gasped by his side, shooting to his feet and pointing to the cliff tops.

Apion followed his gaze. Up there, an inferno raged. The outline of the hovels were just visible in the blaze.

‘The emperor!’ Bryennios gasped.

‘Take water, form a chain!’ Tarchianotes cried.

Men rushed to and fro. A pack of varangoi hurried up the narrow dirt track that clung to the cliff side, focused on rescuing Romanus. Several banda of infantry formed a line from the river’s edge all the way up to the hill track, passing buckets of water hurriedly. ‘More, we need more!’ Alyates yelled, beckoning more men to the end of the chain which barely reached the lower slopes of the rocky hills.

The faint cry of the varangoi rang out from the cliff top. ‘We cannot find him!’

Apion looked up to see their tiny, silhouetted forms up there, arms waving. Then he heard a chorus of laments from the chain of men now winding up the steep dirt track. That and hooves thundering and a horrific, pained whinnying. Apion’s eyes locked on the dirt track just as the source of the commotion burst into view. The emperor’s white stallion charged down and around the track, its coat and saddle utterly ablaze. It shook and thrashed its mane, bucking and kicking, biting, knocking water-bearing soldiers from the dirt path and into the treacherous gullies. The beast’s struggle only intensified the flames. The stallion barged down onto the flat ground and raced into the camp. The stench of burning hair and flesh was rife, bringing memories of the dreadful Greek fire to Apion. Swathes of soldiers fell back and gawped at the sight of their emperor’s horse in flames. The tortured beast circled the camp, setting light to tents, then charged from the northern gate and into the imperial stables beside the fortress of Malagina. There it took to throwing itself against the stable pens, terrifying the other beasts in there and setting the timber structures ablaze too.

Apion saw from the sea of dumbstruck faces all around that somebody had to act. He ran for the gate, plucked a spear from the trembling hands of a skutatos on sentry duty, then rushed to the stables. The stallion charged for him, maddened. Apion braced, thinking of the many battles this brave creature had fought in with Romanus. Then he plunged the spear into the beast’s breast. At once, the stallion slumped, pulling the spear down with it. Apion crouched by the dead war horse, his eyes moistening. Moans and laments rang out all around.

‘Get water to these fires!’ Igor cried over the tumult.

A flurry of crunching boots, splashing water and shouting ensued. Apion felt distant from it all. He stared into the stallion’s burnt-out eyes and wondered if this was it. With Romanus burnt alive on the cliff top, the campaign was over. The enemies of the Golden Heart would seize the throne.

The next voice he heard spoke calmly. Oddly so, given the circumstances.

‘Ah, Haga, you made it at last!’

Apion looked up to see Romanus, soot-stained and dishevelled, his knees and elbows bloodied where he had somehow scrambled down the mountainside to escape the blaze up there. Yet he was smiling as though this was an ordinary night, his eyes sharp. ‘Basileus?’

Romanus looked around the camp, seeing the panting, gawping men of his army, the half-ruined stables, and then the corpse of his beloved war horse. ‘It seems we should move on from here?’ he said, showing little emotion. Then he nodded as if agreeing with some inner voice. ‘Yes, yes, we will move on tomorrow.’

***

After a sleepless night, Apion rose before dawn and set off on a run, barefoot. He jogged along the main way through the camp, where the dewy air was still spiced with the tang of charred wood and the burnt remnants of the stables and tents blackened his peripheral vision. When he slipped from the camp’s southern gate, he ran south, along the western banks of the Sangarios, on past the Zompos Bridge.

He had run some seven miles when the sun broached the horizon and cast a purple-pink light across the sky. Normally, a morning run would purge his mind of troubles. Today, though, the jabbering thoughts seemed eager to cling to him. Even when he pushed himself into a sprint, they followed like wolves chasing a bloodied deer. Frustrated, he slowed, panting, then waded into the shallows of the river, throwing off his tunic and ducking under the surface. When he rose, he swept his silver-amber locks back from his face and inhaled deeply. Here, at last, he felt his troubles fade. Here, he could see only the grassy hills and valleys, hear only the chattering cicada song. For the briefest of moments, a treasured memory came to him. He saw the valley of Mansur’s farm, imagined himself as a boy, leading the goat herd onto the hills, watching Maria as she went about her business, pretending she didn’t know he was watching her.

The first shafts of full daylight bathed him at that moment, and a smile stretched across his face. He splashed out of the river and tied his hair back in a ponytail, then threw on his tunic and dug out the lock of hair from the purse sewn onto his belt.

‘I don’t know anymore what terrifies me most, Maria; not finding you, or finding you,’ he whispered, settling on a fallen hazel tree by the riverbank. ‘For if I have to come face to face with Taylan again to learn of your whereabouts, I fear that only one of us will walk away.’

He listened to the sounds of nature, as if waiting for an answer. Instead, he heard something on the log beside him: the scratching talons and rustling feathers of some settling raptor. From the corner of his eye, he saw a metamorphosing shape, growing, changing. Finally it settled. The crone’s silvery locks lifted in the gentlest of breezes.

‘Yet if you do not face Taylan, he will pursue you evermore,’ she said.

‘I know this. I know we must meet,’ he sighed.

‘It is a choice, Apion. Likewise, young Taylan has a decision to make. Together, your choices might still confirm or confound my nemesis, Fate.’

‘Fate has ploughed a crimson furrow through my life,’ Apion said flatly. ‘I spit in Fate’s eye.’

She placed a gnarled hand on his forearm. ‘And that is why I always return to you.’

‘I am but one man. Your faith in me is misplaced.’

She shook her head. ‘The deeds of one man can inspire the hearts of others. You know this.’

Apion looked north, downriver to the horizon in the direction of the camp. ‘Ha! Then I will need to perform many deeds to right things. Thousands of men wait back there — confused, angry. . ’ his words trailed off with a sigh. He looked to her, seeing her milky eyes fixed on the rippling waters of the river, now sparkling and illuminated in a rich teal. ‘I should know better than to ask you for answers, old woman, but tell me: are these omens that have riddled my emperor’s campaign mere coincidence?’

‘Cah!’ she swept a hand through the air then broke down in a wheezing cackle. ‘Omens help weak men make poor choices.’ She extended a bony finger, pointing to a calm spot amongst the reeds. ‘See how the sunlight bathes the shallows on the far bank?’ While the morning shadows had yet to retract from the rest of the eastern banks, a wedge of morning sunlight had, indeed, conspired to shine through two eastern hills, casting a shaft of rich yellow-orange on this part of the bank. Tiny rainbow trout leapt from the surface, biting at the clouds of mayfly gathered there, and the light betrayed larger, silvery carp darting under the surface. ‘Bountiful, is it not?’ the crone said.

Apion resisted the temptation to answer, noticing a crane stalking over to the reeds, attracted by the sunlight and the leaping fish.

‘A good omen if ever there was one?’ she continued, eyeing Apion in search of an answer.

Apion remained tight-lipped.

The curious crane plucked a trout from the water at will, stopping every so often to look this way and that, somewhat disbelieving its luck. Then the bushes nearby shuddered and a leopard leapt from the undergrowth, clamping its ferocious jaws around the crane’s neck and snapping it like a dry reed.

‘I take your point,’ Apion replied.

‘Then take my next words with you as well. Not omens, but two things I have foreseen. They will not help you find your woman or confront your son, but they are vital.’

Apion looked to her; ‘I may not always comprehend your words, old woman, but I will always listen to you.’

She smiled, her age-lines fading, her whole being exuding warmth. ‘When you come by the boy on the dead man’s horse, choose your words well.’

Apion frowned, nodding.

Then, like a cloud masking the sun, her demeanour changed, her face fell grave, her gaze glacial; ‘And then beware. Beware the serpent with the amethyst eyes!’ she hissed.

Apion frowned. ‘The serpent with. . ’

Suddenly, a shrill cry rang out from the far riverbank. Another leopard, far larger than the first, had arrived to challenge the kill. Apion looked to the confrontation then back to the crone. But she was gone, the log beside him was empty. The angered keening of an eagle rang out above, and this seemed to scare the fighting leopards into flight. Apion glanced up and all around the morning sky. Unblemished. Empty.

He set off back to the camp, enjoying the cooling dew of the pasturelands on his bare feet as he jogged. His thoughts began to gather like clouds as he tried to work out how to approach the emperor when he got back.

The camp was still a few miles distant when he noticed movement on the western track. A lone rider, emerging from the heat haze. An eerily familiar-looking military man with long, dark locks, tanned skin and a hooked nose, his fine bronze klibanion vest sparkling in the sunlight. And the grey stallion with a distinctive white blaze on its face — he had seen that fine steed once before, at the Euphrates and on the march through Mesopotamia two years previously.

Manuel Komnenos? Apion mouthed in disbelief.

He slowed to a walk, peering into the sunlight, knowing it could not be true. For Komnenos had perished — the reports had come to Apion only in the last month or so, but they had been clear; a vicious, malignant growth inside one ear had claimed the emperor’s man, and this had saddened Apion greatly. He squinted, seeing the rider behold him too. Shades had long plagued his dreams, were they now haunting his waking hours also?

But as the rider came closer, he saw that this was not Manuel Komnenos, but a young lad cast in the dead general’s image.

When you come by the boy on the dead man’s horse, choose your words well. .

As they came to within a few paces of one another, the boy’s eyes narrowed, seeing Apion’s faded red military tunic. He cast up a hand in salute. ‘Perhaps you can help me, soldier?’

‘You seek the mustering fields of Malagina?’ Apion guessed, saluting in reply.

‘Aye,’ the boy said, peering down his nose.

‘Where is your escort?’ Apion asked.

The boy shrugged, maintaining an aloof gaze. ‘I have no need of an escort.’

Apion cocked an eyebrow. The lad’s mount and armour were fine indeed, and brigands would happily rob a lone traveller of both. ‘Very well, but if you refuse to be escorted then how can I guide you to the camp?’

The lad’s aloofness cracked for an instant as he grinned impishly. ‘Good point,’ he said, sliding from the saddle to walk his stallion. ‘So who is my escort?’ he said, the loftiness returning.

Apion could not help but chuckle at the boy’s pluck. ‘Apion, Strategos of Chaldia,’ he replied.

The boy’s face brightened and his eyes flashed with realisation, darting to the red-ink stigma on Apion’s arm. ‘You?’

Apion feigned a smile, unconsciously shielding the stigma with his other hand.

‘Then I can speak freely,’ the boy said, his reserve fading and a look of relief washing across his face. ‘I have no escort because the emperor meant to keep me from this campaign — for my own safety, apparently. It is a shame that the guards posted to retain me in Constantinople did not have the wits to match my determination.’ He said this with a grin, then his look grew earnest. ‘But I worried who I might meet first upon arriving at the mustering fields. Before my brother died, he told me that there were few men I should trust. One was the emperor, another was the Haga.’

Apion nodded, swatting away the embarrassment. Then realisation dawned as to how the lad had come by the arms and war horse. ‘Ah, so you are Manuel’s brother?’

The boy nodded, standing a little taller. ‘I am Alexios. I live to wipe the black stains from the Komnenos family name. My brother died in shame. Rumours spread that it was his poor generalship that saw his army wiped out by the Seljuks last year at Sebastae. Worse, the chance to rectify his mistakes were taken from him by disease — ’

‘Your brother was one of the most astute and loyal souls I have ever come across in all the lands of our empire,’ Apion cut him off, but kept his tone gentle. ‘In the end, he was vanquished by a hardy Seljuk foe and a venal cur in the imperial court who betrayed him and his army to the enemy. There is no shame there for your brother, only for the cur.’

A silence passed.

‘I can see why he liked you,’ Alexios said sheepishly at last. ‘He said your name and your symbol were signs of hope to the armies of Anatolia.’

‘Ha! When I first met your brother, I felt just the same about him. His armies were in awe of him. A fine leader, a fine man. One of so few.’

Apion noticed Alexios’ eyes reddening. So he changed tack, instead asking the lad about his military experience. They ambled up the track towards the mustering fields, chatting as they went. Eventually they came back to more sensitive matters.

‘Manuel used to say that Romanus Diogenes is the last ember of hope for our empire,’ Alexios said, feeding his grey handfuls of grain as they walked. Then he lowered his voice, darting glances this way and that before adding: ‘And that the Doukas family are like a dark thundercloud, eager to extinguish it.’

Apion smiled dryly at the description. ‘You think the Doukas family will bring ruin to the empire?’

‘I am sure of it.’

‘I am certain they will try,’ Apion snorted.

‘But if Psellos and John Doukas ever find their way onto the throne. . ’

‘They will not,’ Apion countered, willing his words to be true. ‘They are in exile and there they will remain.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Alexios frowned. ‘Neither of those dogs will ever stop in their efforts to dethrone the emperor.’

‘The empire has endured many foul characters in the past. Wolves constantly watching the throne. Some have even managed to claim the seat of power. Yet the empire has endured. That is not down to good fortune, Alexios, that is down to good men.’ He took a stalk of wheat from the trackside and twisted at it, thinking of the crone’s advice, seeking his next words carefully. ‘Most men are a blur of light and darkness, good and evil, swinging from one to another like a dead man on a noose. But there are some who refuse to let blackness tip the balance. Good men like the emperor. . like your brother.’ He fixed Alexios with his gaze. ‘While good men stand firm and refuse to buckle under tyranny, corruption or lies. . there is always hope. Always.’

Alexios held his head a fraction higher. His eyes reddened once again and tears escaped, yet these tears came with a smile. When the lad looked skywards and mouthed a prayer, no doubt for his lost brother’s soul, Apion looked away to afford him some privacy.

They walked on until they came over a rise in the track, then onto the plain of Malagina and the approach to the camp’s southern gate. They slowed only when a pack of Pecheneg steppe riders thundered to the gate before them, filing inside two abreast. These stocky men rode on equally squat and hardy ponies. They wore leather armour and animal hides, and each man had two or more bows on his back, plus a clutch of arrow-filled quivers. Apion counted some four hundred of them. A fine addition to the campaign army, he thought — if they stayed loyal.

‘Come,’ he said to Alexios as they entered the southern gate of the camp, ‘I will take you to the emperor.’

He picked his way past the clustered tents of each thema and tagma army, and saw that a wing of mercenary Norman riders had arrived also. Nearly five hundred men in mail hauberks and iron helms with broad nose guards, grooming their tall, powerful battle mounts or honing their lances. They bore emblems of their homeland and symbols of God on their garments. Apion could not help but think of that Norman dog, Crispin, still roaming somewhere in Byzantine lands. He thought also of Dederic, a Norman he had trusted with his life, and still missed every day, despite the little rider’s betrayal.

He stirred from the memories when he saw what lay up ahead. His eyes lit up as he beheld the red satin imperial tent, erected at last at the heart of the camp. All looked as it should, with the bejewelled campaign Cross mounted nearby and the blue-gold Icon of Blachernae sparkling in the morning sun. The emperor’s cooks were busy preparing some sweet-smelling stew. Andronikos Doukas was chained to his post nearby, pretending he was not interested in the delicious fare. Best of all, the emperor was there, talking with his retinue, looking over maps, pointing this way and that, his movements sharp and determined. He had washed the worst of the soot from his face and hair and he wore his white tunic and trousers, purple cloak, doeskin boots and his fine white and silver armour breastplate. The Golden Heart was back, it seemed.

‘Ah, Strategos,’ Igor called out, stepping away from the discussions and beckoning him over. ‘And. . Alexios?’ Igor frowned. ‘I thought you were supposed to be — ’

‘I am exactly where I am supposed to be,’ the lad replied swiftly, donning his haughty mask again.

‘Ha!’ Igor said in an effort to disguise his discomfort. The big Rus frowned, then added; ‘Perhaps it would be best for you to wait here and speak to the emperor later?’

Alexios made to protest, then looked to Apion.

‘It will only be for a short while, lad.’

Alexios stowed his complaint, nodding and leading his horse to a nearby trough.

Apion and Igor walked together towards the emperor. ‘To see things in their right place is encouraging indeed,’ Apion whispered.

‘Things are still not right, despite how it might look. . ’ was all Igor had time to whisper in reply.

‘Haga!’ Romanus laughed heartily, extending an arm, his eyes sparkling. Gladly, Apion clasped his arm to the emperor’s. Then they embraced. ‘Damn, but it is good to have you here at last. I trust your journey from Chaldia was smooth?’

Apion disguised a frown; so the emperor remembered nothing of their meeting at the cliff top hovels, or last night, standing over his burnt war horse? And he noticed Romanus was still unshaven, his cheeks gaunt and ruddy, his skin bathed in sweat and his hair unkempt. ‘And damn, it is good to be here,’ he offered in as genuine a tone as he could muster. ‘I bring only my three tourmarchai, but my two thousand Chaldians, another two thousand Armenian spearmen under the command of Prince Vardan and nearly eighteen hundred Oghuz horse archers wait just south of Ancyra, eager for the campaign column to come by, eager to join your ranks, Basileus. Though I see those forces will be but a grain of sand on a bay, given the numbers that have been gathered here?’

Romanus nodded, sweeping a hand around. ‘The mustering is almost complete — we have nearly twenty seven thousand men gathered. The iron riders of the tagmata, the myriad spears of the themata, and the lancers and archer cavalry of our allies. All that remains is your forces and — ’

His words were cut off by a cry from the southern gate. ‘They’re here!’

All heads looked south. Over the camp’s southern palisade, the Zompos Bridge was just visible. Writhing like a silver snake, myriad warriors poured across the river there. They moved not in ordered formations, but in a mass of riders and foot soldiers combined. More akin to a horde than an imperial army.

‘There must be four, no five thousand of them,’ Igor gasped.

‘Closer to seven thousand,’ Romanus marvelled. ‘Now we can move east with almost forty thousand men altogether. The Sultan, or any other who might choose to stand in our way, should be sure to devise a plan of retreat.’

‘You chose to call on the magnates and their private armies, Basileus?’ Apion said in a hushed voice. He had heard this rumour, but dismissed it as apocryphal. In previous years, he and Romanus had discussed the possibility but rejected it on the basis of the dubious character of these private levies.

‘Seven thousand men, Strategos,’ Romanus said brashly, not observing Apion’s quieter tone. ‘They’ll make up for the losses from last year.’

The riders at the head approached the camp’s southern gate now. He could see that they wore a mish-mash of armour and carried a selection of unorthodox weapons. Some of them wore just tunics and boots and carried simple spears — no doubt levied farmworkers from the magnates’ lands, men who should have been serving with their local themata anyway. Others were clad in mail, some in scale. The cavalry amongst them carried axes, clubs and short stabbing swords — totally unsuitable for mounted warfare. The magnates themselves were easy to spot. These leaders wore ludicrously ornate and antique breastplates of moulded and bronze and silver — some outshining even the emperor’s armour. Most bore helmets with garishly ostentatious plumes. One even had a plume of ostrich feathers — dyed red and glued to stand proud nearly a foot higher than the tip of his helm — and a caged faceguard. When he lifted the faceguard, the expression on his face said it all. A smug, defiant grin and a dark trident beard. He glared disdainfully at the imperial regiments through bloodshot eyes.

‘Well this lot will surely provide much entertainment on the march,’ Apion muttered, seeing that the bearded one rode on a stiff and barely used leather saddle. ‘He’ll be counting the blisters on his arse by this evening.’

‘Ah, yes, Scleros will be in charge of the magnate ranks,’ Romanus said, clasping a hand to Apion’s shoulder and nodding to the trident-bearded one. ‘Now, come with us to the fortress. There is one piece of business to attend to before we set off.’

Apion nodded and fell back as Romanus took the lead, beckoning Philaretos, Alyates, Tarchianotes and Bryennios along. He leaned in to Igor’s ear as they followed. ‘Has he said anything about the fire and his behaviour in these last weeks?’

Igor pulled a perplexed frown. ‘Not a word. As I say, he wears a veneer of normality this morning, but. . ’

Romanus boomed over his shoulder; ‘This might just be the most important choice of the entire campaign.’ the emperor strode up the short ramp leading to the gates of the Fortress of Malagina. The gates swung open before them to a chorus of salutes from the wall garrison. Inside, Apion looked to the armamenta, the three-storey arms warehouse — perhaps they would be calling in there to pick up extra supplies? Or the granary, for more rations? But instead, the emperor veered towards the small, domed church nestled in the corner of the fortress walls.

‘Basileus?’ Apion frowned, seeing the confusion of the others in the retinue.

But Romanus continued as if he hadn’t heard. ‘The final part of our campaign route has yet to be finalised. When we march east, beyond the themata, how should we approach Lake Van? Do we take the more northerly route, into the Armenian highlands and through Theodosiopolis — mountainous but direct. Or the southerly route we used two years ago, across the Euphrates and through Mesopotamia — flatter ground but many more miles through hostile territory?’

‘I would opt for a smooth march over a fast one, Basileus,’ Apion answered. ‘But in any case, I would suggest this is a matter best decided over a map table as opposed to a church.’

Romanus seemed oblivious to his words, coming to the tall arched doors of the church and sweeping them open. Inside, candles flickered on the altar. Two scrolls lay before them, pooled in the dim orange light.

Apion stepped inside, his footsteps reverberating like the echoes of his past. He felt the flesh on his wrist where he had once worn the Christian prayer rope tingle, as if trying to conjure guilt from him. Mosaics on the domed ceiling glared down upon him sombrely, the faces of the Apostles and the Virgin Mary unsympathetic. And where were you in my darkest hour? he mouthed, glaring back with equal austerity.

He, Romanus and the retinue stopped before the altar. All but the emperor shuffled uncomfortably, glancing around the cold, shadowy and otherwise deserted chamber. Finally, a scraping of sandals sounded from behind a screen. A trembling, ancient-looking priest hobbled into view, his shoulders crooked and his head bowed awkwardly. The old man shuffled over to the altar. When the aged priest looked up, Apion saw straight away a distant dimness in his eyes. It was clear that the man was absent in all but body.

‘Now, as we agreed; let God direct us,’ Romanus coaxed the old man, pointing to the two scrolls.

Apion felt his blood cool.

‘Basileus?’ Igor gasped.

‘Select a map, priest,’ Romanus said, again seemingly unhearing.

The old man lifted a badly shaking hand to clutch his Chi-Rho necklace, and then reached out with the other to lift the leftmost scroll. Romanus took it, unfurling it and grinning broadly. ‘We take the northerly route — past Theodosiopolis!’ he said, flashing his grin around the gathered generals.

Apion felt his optimism of earlier melt away. As pious as any other Byzantine, Romanus had never in the past let his faith and his rational, military judgement collide. Now he was asking God to make his choices. The emperor was clearly still not himself. A glance to the others confirmed they shared his thinking.

Romanus was oblivious to their doubt. He marched from the church as boldly as he had entered, then back down to the camp. Reaching the central tent, he stopped, frowning, rubbing at his temples and blinking, sweat lashing from his ruddy skin. Finally, he swung round to Apion and the others following. ‘Tell me, where is my horse?’