Island in the Storm

15. City of Echoes

The early-August sky was grey and the air intolerably muggy, and the gloom seemed to rob the armoured column of its lustre as they marched up into the Armenian highlands via the northerly passes. This was the route decided by the befuddled old priest in the church at Malagina. As they ascended, the air grew mercifully cooler, but thinner too, and the pace of the march slowed. This eastern land — beyond the themata — was nominally in Byzantine control, presided over by the border doukes and their mercenary armies. In truth, there was little sign of imperial control. No waystations, forts or patrols.

Soon though, they were on the uphill road towards the city of Theodosiopolis. That fortified, moat-ringed city was a solid Byzantine holding, and it would serve as a final staging post before the campaign column struck out on the final leg of the march to Lake Van. Vitally, its stores would provide the grain and water required for man and horse to make this strike into enemy lands.

‘There she is!’ Igor bellowed, stretching out a finger.

All necks craned to see the towering Mount Drakon up ahead, one face carpeted in green shrubs and grass, the other a haggard, rocky and arid tumble of scree. The imperious vista inspired the men, and they took to cheering as they approached; for at the foot of this mount was the city of Theodosiopolis.

Apion had been there just once, many years ago, to help plan the new moat system. But as they approached and came within sight of the city, he realised that something was wrong. The city’s walls seemed to be a shade of grey, reflecting the mood of the sky, and even the red-tiled roofs visible within seemed dulled with dirt, weeds sprouting from the cracks. And there was a distinct lack of movement on the walls. Yes, the purple imperial banners fluttered up there in the breeze, but they were ragged and filthy, and the usual glimmer of helm or spear was absent. The emperor saw this too and gave a nod to the signophoroi, a tacit command to bring the column to a halt, some five hundred feet from the city walls. As the campaign banners were waved and the ranks crunched to a standstill, the emperor and his retinue scoured the scene. Silence, bar a faint and whistling breeze.

‘Where is my vanguard?’ Romanus spoke testily, scanning the road ahead, as deserted as the city that it wound past.

They gazed ahead, each man imagining the Normans and the kursores of the vanguard lying slaughtered and unseen, ahead, destined to become another field of bones. But, with a thunder of hooves, the Normans and kursores of the vanguard burst round from the rear of the city, having circled the walls. They were calling out to the battlements, receiving no reply, only echoes.

‘Look, the gates have taken a battering recently,’ Alyates squinted ahead. The tall, arched timber gates were splintered around head-height, the tell-tale marks of a ram-head impressed on the planks. More, they lay slightly ajar.

‘But the walls remain intact,’ Tarchianotes replied. ‘Though not for want of trying.’ He nodded to the piles of rubble and earth that had been tipped into the moat channel to form a bridge. Below it lay a broken siege ladder, and the stonework here was charred black from fire.

‘Look,’ Bryennios pointed to the grass by the roadside. Hundreds of arrows lay embedded in the soil, like some foreign crop.

‘Seljuk raiders,’ Apion said, recognising the fletching immediately.

‘Aye, and incessant, they were too!’ a croaking voice startled them all.

Apion turned to see a withered old fellow in a coarse grey robe at the roadside. He led a single oxen and his twig-like legs looked painfully bowed.

‘The trade dried up first,’ the old man said. ‘They burnt any wagons that came near the city and slew the drivers. A shortage of jewels and fine pots is no great hardship, but when they started attacking the grain wagons. . well, enough was enough. The populace left this cursed place nearly six months ago. They fled south to seek protection from the Armenian princes, or north to live in the countryside and help work the farmlands to earn their grain.’

‘And the garrison?’ Romanus said, barging through the men of his retinue.

‘Basileus? So the rumours are true,’ the old man said with a half-smile, casting his eye over Romanus’ armour and then sweeping his gaze down the road along the column. ‘It has been a long time since an emperor made it this far east. I spent my career as a skutatos, praying to see such a sight. Yet it never came. And now I am too old to ma — ’

‘The garrison!’ Igor barked, shaking the old man from his musings.

‘Ah, yes. The shower of cowards who walked these walls dissolved into the countryside too. Seventy men, Basileus, just seventy men were spared to guard this place. I could say I don’t blame them for running, just as I wouldn’t blame mice for scattering before a wildcat. But there is nothing to fear here. Just as the populace left long ago, the raiders did too. The danger for you and this fine army lies further east.’

‘East?’

‘I have heard word that the forts near the great blue lake are modestly garrisoned by their Seljuk masters. They have heard of your approach and are right now putting the crop fields west of Chliat to the torch. They mean to offer you not a single grain and not a drop of encouragement.’

‘They seldom do, old man,’ Romanus smiled, heeling his mount forward.

Apion followed the emperor, his retinue and the Varangoi forward to the gates while the rest of the column waited a few hundred feet from the city. The riders of the vanguard pushed the gate open. It groaned on its hinges and revealed the deserted streets within.

‘Be vigilant,’ Romanus said, beckoning them forward.

The clopping of their mounts’ hooves echoed through the broad way that led to the heart of the city and the many narrow alleys that sprouted off from it. Cups, clothing, bags and trinkets were strewn on the flagstones, entangled with the weeds that had shot up through every crack.

‘They must have been swift to desert their homes,’ Igor noted grimly.

Apion recalled the last time he had been here. The place had been vibrant — thick with traders and shoppers and well-kept by the militarily minded doux who had once commanded the garrison. Now, it seemed like just another cadaver. Forgotten, abandoned.

They trotted into the centre of the city. Here, a sturdy limestone keep sat astride a man-made mound. Untouched by rock, blade or flame, it seemed.

‘They just gave up,’ Alyates said, his words unintentionally amplified by the walls of the church and granary that boxed in the keep square. Apion looked up and around, seeing the serpentine, green tendrils of nature that clung to every wall, weaving through open windows and infiltrating homes. Claiming back the once-proud city. They came to a fountain that lay dried up and filled with dust. In the centre, a pair of marble legs sprouted and then halted at the thigh, the top half of this ornamentation lying in the dust in the fountain’s basin. It was an ancient statue of Emperor Justinian. Romanus stared at the broken effigy, wordless.

‘Have the men set up camp outside the wall. We will use the keep as a planning room.’

***

When night fell, a vast band of flickering orange torches illuminated the flatland outside Theodosiopolis, wrapping round the city and touching the lower slopes of Mount Drakon. Incongruously, the only lights within the city walls came from the lonely keep at its centre.

Six men were gathered around an oak table there, poring over the campaign map and a sheaf of papers. A fire crackled and spat in the hearth behind them, casting dark shadows on the walls and spicing the air with woodsmoke. Apion watched on as the debate raged, still weighing his thoughts.

‘We cannot split the army, Basileus!’ Alyates pleaded. ‘It goes against every military maxim.’

Tarchianotes was swift to counter; ‘But if that old goat’s word was true, then we face a great danger of starvation if we do not. The grain supplies we expected to find here are absent, just like the population and the garrison. And this,’ he jabbed a finger at their current position on the map, then dragged it east to Lake Van and tapped it there. ‘This is not Byzantium. We will find no supply dumps, no friendly — or deserted — settlements from which we can levy food and fodder. We must split the army and send our fastest regiments to drive off these rogues around Chliat before they leave the earth there burnt and barren. Forty thousand well-fed men might well bring victory, but forty thousand starving men will ensure defeat — regardless of whether we come to face to face with the Seljuks.’ He looked to Romanus. ‘Take half with you to Manzikert, Basileus, to begin the siege. Take the infantry and those who will be able to storm that sturdy fortress. Send the other half — the riders and the foot archers who will be able to move swiftly — to the fields around Chliat. These men will clear the land of Seljuk rogues and secure the grain and forage that is to be had there. Then, when Manzikert falls, we can be reunited to take Chliat as well. Is that not the objective of this campaign?’

‘Have you lost your mind?’ Philaretos slammed a fist on the table in challenge to Tarchianotes. ‘Stay together, there will be forage enough! Some may perish. But is that not expected on such a great expedition?’

Bryennios shook his head. ‘A few dead or dying from hunger swiftly becomes a hundred, and then a thousand. I have seen such a sight before, and I pray I never have to see it again. Should our men perish, then let it be by the sword and not meekly, crying out for bread. We should separate the army. One half takes Manzikert, the other half secures the grain at Chliat, as Doux Tarchianotes suggests.’

‘I hear two voices for staying together and two for splitting,’ Romanus said. Then he turned to Apion. ‘Well, Strategos, what is your view?’

Apion balanced both views. There was danger in each. But Tarchianotes was right. The supply train was low on rations. Dangerously low. He had checked inside one of the touldon wagons and noted that they had grain enough only for a few days’ bread at best. Their stores were due to be replenished here in this dead city, but the empty grain silos offered nothing other than cobwebs and dust. If they moved on as a single column, their pace would be slow and lumbering. If the old man’s reports were true then the grain fields near Chliat would be ash by the time they reached them. Every fibre of his being screamed at him, demanding that he listen to the memories of old Cydones and old Mansur, two military giants of their day. Never divide your forces. Sooner split your own head with an axe than send half of your army away, Cydones’ stern words echoed in his mind. Then Mansur’s gravelly tones interrupted, as if challenging his old foe; Who would clad his men in fine iron coats and boots and give them bright shields and tall spears, but neglect to keep their bellies full and their spirits high? Who, but a fool? Apion gazed into the fire. There is no correct choice, is there? he answered the memories, then looked to the emperor and met the eyes of the others. ‘We cannot risk splitting the army,’ he said. ‘Yet we cannot risk marching on as one force.’

Philaretos snorted at this. ‘Such wisdom!’ he spat. ‘What else can you bring to this discussion; that night will be black and day bright?’

Apion resisted the urge to snap back at the firebrand doux. ‘Night is black, day is bright. . and dusk is grey.’

Philaretos’ scowl deepened.

Apion tried not to let the man’s ire hurry him. ‘The men tire because of the march, Doux. Marching is an exhausting detail, especially in the thinner air of these highlands. Every infantryman requires a pint of water per hour and a pouch of grain, salted meat or cheese morning and night. We have talked only of two options; split the army or keep it whole. But there is a third option. Abstain from the march, and the men would require less.’

‘Stay here?’ Bryennios cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why — to solidify our borders in this region? But again, what would we eat?’

At once, another squabble broke out. ‘Impossible — the Lake Van fortresses must be taken,’ Tarchianotes rasped. ‘We cannot stay here!’

‘But the empire has clearly lost control over this city and these lands. We need to consolidate!’ Alyates snapped in riposte, stabbing his finger at the table top map around the area of Theodosiopolis.

Romanus hushed them, both hands raised, casting a stern glare around the table. ‘Strategos — perhaps you should explain your thinking.’

Apion nodded. ‘We should stay here, but only for a few days. Long enough for our kursores to sweep the countryside, bring in what rations they can from the farmlands where the populace of this city now dwell. Grain is out there.’

‘Enough to feed nearly forty thousand men for the week of marching that will take us to Lake Van?’ Tarchianotes frowned.

‘Why not? This city was once populous enough to have grain silos overflowing with surplus — and that was when just a portion of the locals worked the land. If even a quarter of those who lived within these walls have fled to the farmlands in the north, then now they will certainly have grain and fodder aplenty. There is no certainty that this approach will work, but if it does, then we need not consider splitting the army, and our well fed and united force would be primed to sweep over Manzikert and Chliat. You know this, all of you.’ Apion looked up, his face uplit by the flames. He held the gaze of each of the retinue until they looked away or nodded. He looked to the emperor last.

Romanus gazed back for what felt like an eternity. ‘Then that is what we must do.’

Tarchianotes stood back from the table. ‘Folly,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘We should split the forces and move on — at haste!’

‘If we fail to gather the grain and rations, Basileus. . ’ Bryennios added his dissent, albeit more graciously.

‘Then we will be compelled to split the army,’ Romanus glowered at him. ‘But first, send out our champion rider with a wing of kursores. Speed is of the essence.’

***

Diabatenus admired his beauty, reflected on the flat of his spathion. If he squinted enough, he could not see the purple veins snaking from his eyepatch. God truly favoured him, it seemed. ‘Lead the kursores to the farmlands in the north, you say?’ he grinned, looking up to the gruff Rus axeman who had come to his tent.

‘At first light,’ the varangos confirmed, handing him a weighty sack of coins. ‘Use this to buy whatever the people can spare. The emperor prays that you will ride as swiftly as always.’

‘It will be done,’ he nodded.

When the Rus left, Diabatenus turned his gaze back on his sword blade. A broad, white-toothed grin now split his features. An alternative brief had already been supplied to him by the other man from the emperor’s retinue who had come to him only a short while ago. The lost riches of his racing career would be dwarfed by the gold he would earn from this. He lifted his eye patch to reveal the cracked bone, the welt of pustules and the scarring that lined his empty eye socket. His grin faded into a sneer.

Yes, it will be done.

***

Genesios halted his oxen, seeing the dust cloud coming from the south. Fear gripped him instantly. Another Seljuk raid?

‘Father?’ his boy whimpered, sitting astride the plough.

‘The raiders rarely venture this far north, Nicholas,’ he lied. ‘There is nothing to fear.’

His guts turned over as the dust cloud came closer. From the many farmsteads and shacks around his, he heard wails of distress, saw women gathering the hems of their robes and running from the fields, men throwing down their hoes and tools or grappling them like weapons, some trembling. They had fled the great stone walls of Theodosiopolis to leave behind raids like this. Let the Seljuk raiders have the city and the trade route, we desire only to be left in peace and safety with our families, he had implored the doubters. He clutched the Chi-Rho on his breast and prayed he had not led them all to their doom. He glanced to the barely started earthworks they had planned to develop into some form of defensive barrier, and cursed their lack of progress on this.

‘Father!’ Nicholas cried, a smile like a breaking dawn spreading across his fresh face. ‘They are imperial riders!’

And indeed they were. Kursores, he realised. Light and swift cavalrymen, torsos wrapped in iron or leather klibania, heads crowned in glistening iron helms. Genesios shuddered with a sigh of utter relief, then followed it up with a lungful of laughter as his fear melted away, leaving him shaking and drained. Thank you, he whispered skywards.

The handsome, eyepatch wearing lead rider pulled up before him, clods of dew-damp earth spraying as the man’s mount circled. ‘The people of Theodosiopolis?’ he mused, casting his good eye over the fertile strip of land, his gaze coming to a rest on the timber grain silos and storehouses. ‘I am Diabatenus of the Vigla. Who governs this community?’ the man asked, stroking his wind-ruffled, dark-brown locks back into place.

‘I do,’ Genesios replied. ‘The governor and the garrison of Theodosiopolis fled and bought residence in the hilltop towns of the Armenian princes,’ he pointed a finger to the southern horizon. ‘The people without such means needed a leader.’

‘A brave man it is who steps forward in treacherous times,’ Diabatenus nodded firmly. ‘Now, you have surplus food, I understand. Grain, salted meats, fish, cheeses, honey, nuts?’

Genesios hesitated before replying. ‘We have stockpiled for the winter, yes, but we are likely to need it in those cold, harsh months.’

‘I find coin often supplants the need for other things,’ Diabatenus grinned, lifting the heavy sack of coins from the back of his mount. ‘The emperor and his campaign army lie camped outside the walls of your old city, some ten miles south of here.’

‘The campaign army is in these lands? I had heard only rumour of this,’ Genesios’ eyes widened. ‘Then he means to buy our surplus?’ he looked to Nicholas and thought of the boy. He and many others would go hungry this winter without the surplus in the storehouses. But with coin they could replenish the stores over the next few months by visiting the northern market towns. He looked up to the handsome rider. ‘When I left Theodosiopolis I brought with me God and all that I love about God’s Empire. I will do anything for the emperor, God’s chosen one, anything for Byzantium.’ He smiled at the rider and beckoned him over to the silos.

‘In here you will find maybe a hundred wagon-loads of food and fodder,’ He opened the storehouse doors to reveal tightly bound bales of hay, hanging meats, various amphorae and brimming barrels of grain. ‘You should bring your wagons round from the west, as the ground is rough and. . ’ his words trailed off as the acrid tang of burning resin curled into his nostrils. He turned around, frowning. The handsome rider was grinning, the kursoris beside him had lit a torch.

‘As I said, coin can bring about almost any possibility,’ Diabatenus’ grin grew. He turned to the kursoris, clapped a hand on the sack of coins then nodded towards the silo. ‘Put it to the torch. Earn your share.’

The kursoris looked uncertain, glancing back over his shoulder from whence they had come, then to the faces of Genesios and little Nicholas, then to the sack of coins. His expression hardened.

‘No!’ Genesios roared as the man tossed the torch onto the hay bales inside the silo. Several more riders did likewise to the other buildings nearby. ‘What have you done?’ he crumpled to his knees as angry flames and thick black smoke billowed from the silos and storehouses. ‘You have killed us all. Now we will not last even until the winter, let alone through it.’

Diabatenus grinned down at him and shrugged. ‘Then let me offer you some mercy.’ He nimbly swept out his spathion, hung low in his saddle and swirled the blade round in one stroke, hacking into the side of Genesios’ neck. The farmer shuddered where he knelt, the blade cutting deep, a spray of red showering his son before dark blood came in sheets.

Genesios’ reached out to his son, longing to protect the lad, but the blackness of death swept him away.

***

Diabatenus took a rag from his belt to clean the blood of his first ever kill from his blade. Damn, but that felt good, he realised. He had missed the raw, visceral power of the Hippodrome, but this was a fine substitute. He kicked his mount into a walk around the rising inferno. This will do it, he enthused. I will forge a chariot of solid gold once Psellos pays me for this.

At that moment he felt utterly invincible. His charm, his looks, his wits and his abilities. Even his skin felt like cold, hard steel. So it was a surprise when he felt a dull blow in his flank. He turned round, frowning, expecting that one of his fellow riders had clumsily barged into him. Instead, he looked down to see the drawn, haunted eyes of the farmer’s little boy, gazing up at him. The lad’s face was smoke-stained and tear-streaked. He held the shaft of a hoe in both hands. Diabatenus’ gaze ran up the hoe shaft to where the blunt blade rested under the hem of his iron klibania. Blood washed from his flank in waves. He felt the urge to correct the lad, tell him he had been mistaken. You can’t hurt me, he thought, I am Diabatenus, Champion of the Races, Breaker of Hearts, Best of the Vigla. . his thoughts fell away as he slid from the saddle, thudded to the ground then gazed up at the sky, his body growing terribly cold.

The last thing he saw was the farmer’s boy stand over him with a heavy rock in his hands. A heartbeat later, the rock crashed down, and Diabatenus’ beauty was crushed into the dirt like an egg.

***

Apion stood on the battlements of Theodosiopolis, clasping his helm underarm as he gazed into the clear, unspoilt morning sky. But his thoughts were dark and murky. Two days had passed since Diabatenus and his riders had been sent out. And it seemed that they had simply vanished into the ether. Romanus had insisted they keep word of this from the rest of the army. We bury this news and we split the army. It is our only option now. Tarchianotes’ regiments will forge southeast towards Chliat, and I will lead the rest at a slower pace towards Manzikert.

He looked down to the vast camp outside of the city. Half of the site now lay empty. To the south, the rumbling was just beginning to fade as eighteen thousand men slipped over the horizon, despatched on the most direct route to Chliat to seize the fields, forage and fodder there. Not just any men either — the cream of the campaign army. The Scholae Tagma, the Hikanatoi Tagma, the Stratelatai Tagma and the Vigla Tagma — more than eight thousand cavalry, many of them the precious heavy kataphractoi. The hammer of the campaign. Supplementing them were the four hundred strong pack of Pecheneg riders. The infantry of the Optimates Tagma, the Anatolikon Thema and the Charsianon Thema, plus the bulk of the foot archers from the other themata had been despatched behind them at a quick march. Doux Tarchianotes had been entrusted with this fearsome and fast-moving corps.

‘Strategos,’ Sha called from the end of the battlements. ‘We are to leave within the hour.’

Apion turned and nodded to the Malian. So it was to be that Romanus and the remaining half of the army — twenty two thousand strong — were to march directly for Manzikert. The makeup of this half was troubling.

There was a solid core. The infantry of the Chaldian Thema, the Cappadocian Thema and the Colonean Thema along with Prince Vardan and his two thousand Armenian spearmen. These men would happily bleed for the empire, without question. And the siege engines loaded onto the wagons would be well utilised on Manzikert’s walls by Procopius and the artillerymen.

The makeup of the cavalry presented more issues. He saw Igor readying his Rus riders, polishing their white armour and honing their axes. These thousand riders were fierce and loyal, but as cavalry, they were not the most nimble. There was Bryennios’ western army — five thousand strong. One in ten of these men were heavily armoured kataphractoi. The rest were the more lightly-equipped kursores. These western riders were brave and skilled, but they had yet to face a Seljuk foe in full battle. This fact tossed up memories of Manuel Komnenos’ over-confidence the previous year. Then there were the two thousand Oghuz archer cavalry and the five hundred Norman lancers; men with no love of Byzantium other than for the gold coin minted in her treasuries. Lastly, there was Scleros and the seven thousand of the magnate armies. They busied themselves strapping their overly ornate weapons to their belts and backs, supping neat wine and boasting with each other as to how they would smash the skulls of the Seljuk garrisons. This rabble were yet to be tested in a battle of any kind. They had been involved in skirmishes with brigands along the way, but had never been seriously challenged. Would they stand firm and charge hard, should the need come? His gaze snagged on the one who stood solemnly amongst them. Andronikos Doukas. The young man was something of an enigma. Heedless of his shackles, he polished his armour and checked his horse’s snaffle bit and scale apron. Probably the best soldier amongst them. Yet the son of John Doukas would ride into this battle with not so much as a dagger to wield. Your father has a lot to answer for, Apion mused, batting away the sliver of sympathy he felt.

Just then, the buccinas blared and the standards were raised above the myriad banda of infantry — assembled now in an offensive formation to present a broad front nearly a mile across. The priests raised the campaign cross, chanting as they walked before the formed ranks. He flitted down the stone steps and gladly departed the ghost city of Theodosiopolis, taking the reins of his Thessalian from Sha then riding to the front of the column where the emperor sat astride his dark stallion.

‘Ha-ga!’ the men of Chaldia chanted as he passed them, men from other themata joining in.

Romanus beheld him as he approached. Apion nodded, sliding his helm on his head. Romanus nodded in return, then raised his bejewelled spathion overhead. The chanting fell away. ‘Forward — to our destiny!’ the emperor cried.

They headed east, turned south to cross the Araxes River then journeyed through the broad Murat Su valley. It was early afternoon six days later — six days with scant half-rations but otherwise without incident — when they came to the top of a green hill. On the brow, the emperor halted the column. He raised a hand and pointed south, down the slope that lay before them.

‘Look. At last we are on the cusp of all we have strived to achieve,’ he said to his retinue, his voice but a whisper in the dry, hot air.

Apion gazed south, fixated on the black-walled fortress town, less than half a mile away, standing proudly where the hills faded into a dry, dusty flatland.

Manzikert!

A pack of swallows swooped and darted above the compact, tall and well-architected structure. The tiny silver dots of Manzikert’s Seljuk garrison strolled back and forth on the battlements. The fortress was small — not much bigger than the citadel of Trebizond, but it was well situated on top of a small hill by a fresh brook.

He gazed on past the fortress. The dry plains of Manzikert stretched out for many miles to the south. They ended somewhere in the heat haze, and from that same haze sprouted an imperious mountain range. The tallest of these, Mount Tzipan, was snow-capped and rugged, and just behind its slopes, Apion noticed a shimmering sliver of blue. Lake Van. His mind turned over all he had been told of this land and the many maps he had scoured on this march. Somewhere, behind the mountains on that lake’s northern shores lurked Chliat and its fertile farmlands. Hopefully those lands would soon be under the control of Tarchianotes and his men and grain and fodder would be forthcoming. But it was the nearer fortress that drew his gaze once more. He beheld Manzikert and felt a chill of the unknown on his skin.

Destiny, he mouthed.

As he knew they would, the crone’s words came to him.

I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars.

He looked to Romanus, his eyes falling to the golden heart pendant on his breast.

At dusk you and the Golden Heart will stand together in the final battle, like an island in the storm. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud.

He scoured the horizon and frowned. The land was empty and at peace. Bar a modest Seljuk garrison on Manzikert’s walls, oblivious to their observers, neither the sultan nor his forces were anywhere to be seen. He had seen to it that Komes Peleus and Komes Stypiotes — two of his most loyal men from the Chaldian ranks — had ridden with Tarchianotes’ half of the army, and had implored them to make sure that any signs of danger were communicated to the emperor at haste. There was nothing in the scene before him to rouse fear. But he recalled something he had forgotten from his childhood, before he had first walked the dark road to war. On a day as fine as this one, he had watched a family of robins working tirelessly in the clement air to construct a nest of twigs and feathers atop an old poplar tree near his parents’ farmhouse. The mother robin had flitted to and fro, bringing twigs to the branch, while the hatchlings clung to the branches near the trunk and cheeped as they watched on. The sight had captivated him and he had remained fixated until nearly dusk. The nest complete, the birds had settled in their new home. Apion had turned to go back to his own home, when he felt a stiff breeze pick up. Moments later, it was a gale and then a storm. Grey clouds scudded across and then filled the sky, bringing night in moments. A stinging, chill rain battered down. The gale and the deluge served to bend the poplar in its wrath, casting the new nest from the branches. The hatchlings were dashed on the ground or swiftly pounced upon by foxes. In the end, only the elegiac song of the mother robin remained, piercing through the roar of the storm.

He cast another glance across the idyllic, summer-bathed countryside and shivered as if it was the dead of winter.

***

Tarchianotes scoured the green valleys ahead. It had been a hard march, but his many wings of kataphractoi and regiments of skutatoi and foot archers had nearly reached the shores of the great lake — and in good time. The towering mountains either side loomed over them like giants, casting them in shade as if separating them from the fine day above. He watched every bend ahead, wondering when he would see the blue waters.

‘Chliat is but a mile away, sir,’ Komes Peleus, riding by his side, shouted over the thunder of so many hooves. ‘Does it not worry you that we have yet to sight a single Seljuk rider?’

Tarchianotes nodded by way of reply, casting the small komes a dismissive look. They had found some of the wheat fields burnt to ash and some still ripe with crop. But he wasn’t looking merely for small parties of terrified Seljuks. When they reached the end of the valley, a murmur of excitement and anxiety broke out as a pleasant waterside breeze wafted over them and the land ahead revealed the azure waters of Lake Van, bathed in sunshine. And there, nestled just a few miles away along the lake’s shores, stood the dark-brick fortress of Chliat. A small but sturdy fortress that resembled something of a boil on the pleasant bay. Tarchianotes raised a hand for a full halt, just at the edge of the valley’s shade. The thunder of hooves and boots ceased at once.

Peleus gawped at the fortress. ‘We have come too far. The emperor was clear that we were not to approach the citadel.’

‘We have come just as far as I wished,’ Tarchianotes sighed, his gaze fixed on the fort. Just a few hundred helms and spears glinted atop Chliat’s walls.

Peleus frowned, seeing Tarchianotes’ gaze remain on the fortress. ‘Sir, the emperor was adamant we should not attempt to take Chliat until the two halves of the army are united again. They have all the artillery and the bulk of the infantry. We should turn back, harvest what crops are still left. Grain and fodder are our priorities.’

Tarchianotes ignored the little komes, his eyes now drifting beyond Chliat and eastwards along Lake Van’s shores. There, the land seemed to be writhing, shapes spilling from a col between two mountains onto the broad shores to ride along the waterline, moving towards Chliat.

Peleus saw it too, his eyes bulging. ‘Sir. . is that. .?’

Tarchianotes’ eyes narrowed. Riders, hundreds of them. He made out their conical helms, mail shirts, spears and vividly painted shields.

‘A raiding party? Perhaps it’s the field burners returning to Chliat?’ Peleus stammered. A hundred other voices of the riders just behind them made similar suggestions.

‘These are no mere raiders,’ Tarchianotes replied. ‘Look,’ he pointed a finger at the tall golden banner bearing the double bow emblem that bobbed out from the col, carried by many hundreds more riders. ‘The sultan has come to protect his holdings.’

Hundreds became thousands and thousands more followed. Peleus’ eyes danced over the mass of Seljuk riders. ‘There must be twenty or thirty thousand of them — at least as many of them as there are us, sir. They are coming this way. Shall I give the order to take up battle lines?’

Tarchianotes gazed at the thick swell of enemy horsemen, now almost dominating Lake Van’s shores. He shook his head. ‘No. The risk is too great. We don’t know what other forces they have in the vicinity.’

‘Then what-’ the komes started.

‘We are as yet unseen. So we withdraw,’ Tarchianotes replied flatly. ‘Turn the column around and back into the valleys before the Seljuk riders sight us.’

Peleus stared at him, lips quivering as if to contest the order.

‘Did the emperor not say we were to avoid any major engagement?’ he said, parroting Peleus’ earlier words.

‘Aye, he did,’ Peleus nodded as the signophoroi silently waved their banners, herding the column into a gradual turn back into the shaded green valley.

Peleus rode alongside him as the mass of Byzantine riders and foot soldiers hastened back the way they had come. When they came to a forked valley, the komes seemed to slow, looking up the northerly fork which led to the flatland and Manzikert.

‘Fall into line, Komes!’ Tarchianotes barked at him, guiding the column to the westerly fork.

Peleus’ brow knitted. ‘But sir, the north track is the swiftest one that takes us back to the emperor?’

‘And the west track takes us away from the enemy. Many, many miles away and back into safe imperial territory. It takes us to Melitene,’ Tarchianotes snapped.

‘Melitene? But. . does the emperor know of this plan?’ Peleus frowned, thinking of that faraway Byzantine city, his gaze switching from west to north.

‘No, Komes. I am using my experience as a doux. A battlefield commander should know when it is right to stay and fight and when it is right to withdraw.’ Then he stroked his neat beard.

‘But the emperor must be told of our retreat, and of the threat that hovers nearby,’ Peleus insisted.

‘You are a swift rider?’ Tarchianotes asked.

‘Swift enough,’ he beckoned Komes Stypiotes, another Chaldian, to him. ‘I will take my fellow Komes too, if you will permit it?’

‘Very well. Ride, and ride at haste. Tell our emperor of this unexpected Seljuk presence and urge him to make haste back to the west likewise.’

‘Yes, sir!’ the komes nodded hurriedly, before heading north towards Manzikert with his comrade.

Tarchianotes watched the pair go, then, when they had slipped out of sight, he turned to four riders who served as his personal bodyguards. He nodded to them. In silence, the four peeled away from the column and headed north too.

Tarchianotes allowed himself a hint of a smile, then waved the vast column of men with him, back to the west, leaving Lake Van behind.

***

‘Something’s not right,’ Stypiotes growled over the rush of air as they galloped along the valley floor.

‘I had that one worked out some time ago,’ Peleus yelled in reply.

‘We should have tried to rouse the men in the column, urged them to stay.’

‘No, Tarchianotes’ men would have stamped out any undermining of his authority. We must forget the man and think only of getting word back to the emperor.’ He jabbed a finger ahead at the end of the valley, the flatland and the distant speck that was Manzikert. ‘Half of his army has just deserted him!’

Big Stypiotes did not reply. Peleus looked up to see the big komes was gawping up at the valley side on their left. Now Peleus saw it too. A pair of kataphractoi. Tarchianotes’ men. They trotted down the hillside, hailing Peleus and Stypiotes. Each bore a gruff, haggard grin. ‘Riders, you set off too soon. Doux Tarchianotes had more yet to brief you on.’

Peleus frowned, then saw that one’s gaze was darting between himself and Stypiotes, and his sword hand was falling away from his reins. At the same time, he heard a thundering of hooves behind him. He and Stypiotes twisted to look up the other valley side to see another pair of kataphractoi racing down this slope, spears levelled.

‘God be with us!’ Peleus gasped.

‘Draw your blade!’ Stypiotes cried, pulling his mount round to face these two.

Peleus swung to face the first two, now rushing for him, spears level. He managed to swipe the spearhead from one, then the second lance punched through the iron plates of his klibanion vest and tore his heart in two. He toppled to the ground, where his big friend, Stypiotes, already lay. The pair shared a wordless, dying gaze.

As life slipped from Peleus, he heard one of the four grunt. ‘Hide their bodies, just in case.’

All his thoughts turned to God. He prayed with his last moments of life that he had not let the emperor, the Haga and the rest of the army down.