Island in the Storm

2. Blood River

It took several months for Apion to fully muster his Chaldians, but by late August they were together, marching under a baking sun as they trekked. Their hooves and boots crunched in time to the cicada song as they marched along the dusty track that wound across desert-dry Mesopotamia — the brink of imperial territory. There were fifteen hundred men in all: fifty kataphractoi riders, a smattering of more lightly equipped kursores scout riders plus three vastly-understrength tourmae of skutatoi spearmen and toxotai archers.

Apion tilted his drinking skin back and enjoyed a mouthful of cold spring water. Mercifully, there were plenty of brooks, wells and springs marked on his map of this eastern land. Mesopotamia was not like Chaldia or any of the other themata. There was no strategos here, no levy of land workers for the empire to call upon — indeed, even the populace was desperately meagre. Instead, this land was ruled by the imperial border doukes and patrolled by the mercenary tagmata raised by those men. It was just a few miles more to the southeast and the banks of the upper Euphrates where they were to rendezvous with Emperor Romanus and his campaign army then finally strike out eastwards, to Lake Van. The sister fortress-towns in that distant land were the prize. Apion had never ventured as far east as that much talked of region, yet he was well aware of the delicate balance of power there: a scant Byzantine garrison already held the northerly fortress of Manzikert, but the lakeside fortress of Chliat was thought to be well guarded by a Seljuk warband. Each faction had long sought to hold both. He heard some of his kataphractoi riding behind him sharing their hopes and fears on the matter.

‘Sultan Alp Arslan and all his iron hordes lie in wait by the lake,’ one said. ‘Many thousands of ghulam and ghazi riders.’

‘Nonsense,’ another scoffed. ‘I hear that barely a thousand Seljuks man Chliat’s walls. We will have that fortress in our grasp in good time.’

‘Pah!’ another surly rider countered. ‘Why so much attention on Lake Van anyway? The land is bleak and far from the hub of either empire.’

Apion fell back a little, listening, eager to see how his men reacted to this. He saw one rider dab out his tongue to dampen his lips. It was Kaspax, a young rider who had recently taken the place of his slain father, Atticus, in the ranks of the precious Chaldian kataphractoi. The young man had an answer but was afraid to speak out against the grizzled veterans. Apion caught his eye and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

‘Because,’ Kaspax started, his eyes darting uncertainly, ‘because the broad tracts of land that run north of the lake are like a weak spot in our flank. They present an unspoilt path from enemy domains in the east, right into the heart of our lands, our ancient themata. The Gateway to Anatolia, they call it.’

Apion met each man’s eyes with a stern gaze. ‘And what an apt moniker, for a stronghold is only as strong as its weakest gate. The Antitaurus Mountains sweep along our empire’s southeastern borders and the Parhar Mountains dominate the north and the east,’ he nodded to that hazy range, ever present in the horizon, ‘like great ramparts that armies cannot traverse without enormous difficulty. But the Lake Van pass is a chink in the armour, a long, flat, broad and snaking route that opens inner Anatolia to all and sundry. The outposts of Manzikert and Chliat serve as fine watchtowers from which to guard the mouth of that route. While our garrison holds the former and the sultan’s men the latter, neither side has the advantage. But should the sultan seize Manzikert, then he will be master of the Gateway. He will be free to pour his armies into these lands,’ he swept a hand back in the direction from which they had come, ‘and upon our homes.’ His men fell silent at the thought. Even the surly rider had paled.

‘That is why our emperor summons us and the rest of his armies to march east at haste, to seize Chliat from Seljuk hands and to make Lake Van our own.’ He clenched a fist and met each of their eyes. ‘So when the sultan comes calling, he will find only a wall of steel and sharpened spears — and the gateway closed to him and his hordes!’

They cheered at this, rapping their spears on their shields. Just behind, the ranks of the infantry joined in for good measure. ‘Ha-ga!´ they chanted.

Apion rode ahead again, satisfied that he had quelled their doubts and fired their hearts. He started to think ahead, glancing to the sun and judging how far they had to ride before they would be at the Euphrates. Just then, Sha ranged level with him, Kaspax coming with the Malian.

‘We should probably form a vanguard, sir,’ Sha suggested.

Apion squinted into the shimmering golden mountains that lay before them. ‘True, we are at the edge of the empire.’

‘Kaspax here reckons he’s ready to lead the van,’ Sha motioned to the lad.

Apion looked Kaspax over. His tanned features and curly, dark locks were reminiscent of the lad’s father. But the similarities ended there: while everything about Atticus’ demeanour had cried boldness, Kaspax’s taut lips and wide eyes reeked of apprehension. He considered sending Sha on to lead the vanguard instead, then wondered what it might do to the lad’s confidence. Maybe confidence, that delicate flower, is all that is missing? he mused. ‘Take ten riders and stay vigilant,’ he flicked his head forward.

Kaspax issued a stiff salute and set off, waving a clutch of ten horsemen with him.

‘He’s a good rider, sir,’ Sha said, reading Apion’s thoughts. ‘He just needs to understand that. Keeps comparing himself to his father.’

‘Understandable. Atticus was a boisterous big whoreson,’ Apion chuckled, recalling the time the hulking soldier had challenged Blastares to a bout of wrestling after several skins of wine. That had been a messy evening.

With impeccable timing, a snorting noise sounded from behind them. Blastares, leading the infantry there, spat the contents of his throat to the ground then struck up a tuneless chorus to rouse the march-weary men;

‘So I woke in a byre one morning,’

The men perked up and joined in. So I woke in a byre one morning,

‘With me what I thought was a whore,’

With me what I thought was a whore,

‘But when I opened my eyes, I got a mighty surprise,’

But when I opened my eyes, I got a mighty surprise. . the men continued albeit a little more uncertainly.

‘When I saw that I had screwed a boar!’ Blastares roared in a joyous crescendo before falling silent, realising he was singing alone.

The column slowed just a fraction, all the riders looking at Blastares in horror. Apion and Sha shared a bemused glance as the big man reddened in shame.

‘Eyes front!’ Blastares barked to the riders, then twisted to the infantry who had let him down. ‘And you lot, stay in line!’ Red-faced, Blastares ranged forward to join Sha and Apion, cricking his neck this way and that in an overly-vigorous manner. ‘Just trying to lift their spirits. Ungrateful bast — ’

‘How is Tetradia?’ Sha cut in.

Blastares’ mood lifted at once, his humiliation of moments ago forgotten. ‘Wondrous,’ he beamed.

Apion chuckled, recalling the curvaceous and ‘lively’ woman the big soldier had met at Melitene in the previous year’s campaign.

‘Wondrous, aye?’ another voice added. Old Procopius rode level too now, barely suppressing a roguish grin. ‘And I’m sure the wedding will be too.’

While Apion and Procopius grinned, big Blastares seemed to clam up at the mention of his impending marriage. ‘Eh?’ he frowned. ‘Nah, nah. It’ll be a simple affair. One or two guests, that’s all. A few amphorae of wine, maybe.’

‘For you to still your nerves?’ Procopius cackled. ‘Though you’d better leave some for me.’

Blastares cocked an eyebrow. ‘Who said you were invited?’

Procopius looked shocked momentarily, then smiled, winking at Apion and Sha. ‘Tetradia did. Said she’d need me to bolt the door at the church — stop you fleeing like a slinger at a swordfight.’

‘Did she say that?’ Blastares replied a little too quickly, his face paling.

Procopius, Sha and Apion shared an intrigued glance, then the old tourmarches cocked an eyebrow and replied; ‘No, but perhaps I should come along, just in case.’

Spirits high, they came to the golden mountains and a winding valley that led down towards the Euphrates. They enjoyed some shade here, and neither heard nor sighted a single threat, only the recent spoor of a lion in the dust giving cause for caution. Moments later, they crested a saddle of land and a great cheer rose when they saw what lay downhill and beyond: the tumbling blue waters of the Euphrates and the vast Byzantine camp hugging its banks. A sea of tents, serried ranks of steel and a forest of fluttering banners. Apion could not suppress a broad grin as he saw the tall purple imperial banner and the bejewelled campaign cross in the centre, where Emperor Romanus’ red satin tent had been set up. Psellos’ manoeuvrings had been troublesome indeed, but the Golden Heart had marched east, unperturbed.

***

The camp was a hive of activity. Soldiers milled by their kontoubernion tents in groups of ten. They stood or sat by their campfires, cooking and chatting, some painting their shields to match the banners of their regiments, others grooming their mounts. Apion noted the vivid banners of the themata that had mustered here. The green of Charsianon, the sky-blue of Opsikon, the orange of Thrakesion, the tan of Colonea. A good twelve thousand spears and bows in there, he reckoned going by the number of tents. In the centre, he recognised the vivid gold banners of the Vigla and the pure-white standards of the Varangoi axemen. These two cavalry tagmata were sworn to protect the emperor at all costs. And then there were the slate-grey banners of the Scholae Tagma, one of the oldest and strongest imperial regiments. Nearly two thousand of these crack kataphractoi had been mustered, it seemed — many new horsemen had been recruited since the near-destruction of that tagma at Hierapolis the previous year. Including Apion’s Chaldians, there were possibly as many as twenty thousand soldiers perched on this river’s edge camp.

‘Strategos!’ a familiar voice cut across the babble.

Apion scanned the sea of faces, then broke out in a broad grin. ‘Komes!’ he laughed, sliding from his saddle to clasp forearms with the scarred figure sporting braided, greying locks. This was Igor, Komes of the Emperor’s household Varangoi. Clad in shell-like, pure white armour, the purity interrupted only by a black spider motif on the shin greaves, a shield strapped to his left shoulder and a huge breidox battle axe hanging behind his right, he was a fearsome sight.

‘I heard you had ridden on ahead to take Chliat yourself,’ Apion jested.

‘Pah!’ Igor swiped a hand through the air as if cutting with his axe. ‘Given half a chance, I would have! But you know how these marches are — slower than a week in Helenopolis. And apparently we had to wait here. . for you!’ Igor donned a look of mock-rage then cackled. ‘Now come, the emperor awaits you,’ he beckoned Apion to the imperial tent area.

Apion turned to speak to Sha. The Malian had already pre-empted him, taking the reins of his Thessalian. ‘I’ll have the men set up our tents.’ Then he grinned and added; ‘Seems like we got here just too late to help fortify the camp. . what a shame.’

As the Chaldians moved off to the eastern section of the camp demarcated for them, Apion and Igor strode on towards the ring of Vigla guards, who parted their pristine golden shields and let them into the emperor’s tent area.

Emperor Romanus Diogenes was there, in the stretch of dust beside his tent. He wore a simple white tunic and boots as he stretched and aimed a composite bow at a target some sixty paces away within the tent area, left eye screwed shut, the open cobalt eye narrowed as he took aim. Beside him was a tall, lean man with bronze skin, a hooked nose and flowing dark locks that hung to the chest of his rough, black tunic. This one was coaching the emperor on his archery technique, it seemed. Apion and Igor sidled up behind, taking care not to distract Romanus from his shot.

‘Exhale and then hold your breath. Nock and raise the bow, begin your draw as you lift. Remember — two fingers and the thumb, no more, no less,’ the dark one demonstrated this as the emperor carried out the instructions. ‘Draw until your fingers near your face, then roll your shoulder back to stretch a little more until the string is almost at the corner of your lips. The air is dry and the arrow should fly true, so do not aim too high. Now. . loose!’

Thock!

Romanus allowed a smile to creep over his face, lowering his bow and admiring the arrow quivering near the centre of the target. The dark man threw up his hands in delight. ‘And that, Basileus, is the thumb draw — the draw of the Seljuks.’

‘A steadier shot, a faster nock, and even a more powerful release,’ Romanus mused, running a hand through his swept-back flaxen locks, his gaze lost in the target. ‘If we can understand our enemy well enough, then he cannot surprise us.’

‘Exactly,’ the dark one said.

Apion spoke at last; ‘Wise words, but who will teach the stubborn Greeks to abandon their traditional draw?’

Romanus and the dark one swung round to see who had spoken. ‘Strategos!’ Romanus beamed, his cobalt gaze flashing in the sunlight. Casting decorum aside, he strode forward and embraced Apion. ‘It has been hard work keeping my men focused while we waited on you, but I insisted that we would not cross the river until the Haga was with us.’

‘The ranks are eager, I hear?’ Apion said.

‘They are hungry to march on to Lake Van, to bolster Manzikert, to take Chliat and to seal the eastern borders. And tomorrow, Strategos, we will set off,’ he gestured to the timber jetty on the section of riverbank that formed the camp’s eastern perimeter. A fleet of eight round-hulled pamphyloi ferries bobbed there.

Apion noticed the dark one by the emperor’s side eyeing the red-ink stigma on his arm. Romanus saw this too. ‘Ah, permit me to introduce another of my finest officers. Manuel Komnenos, Protoproedros, a fine tactician. . and a master archer to boot.’

‘I have heard many tales of your efforts in these borderlands, Haga,’ Manuel smiled.

Apion nodded curtly. Bitter experience had long ago taught him to withhold judgement and err on the side of caution whenever he met some new member of the imperial retinue. He managed a smile. That would do for now.

‘Perhaps you can share some of your drills with the strategos?’ Romanus suggested.

Manuel nodded. ‘Certainly. Come, the men are still on the training field,’ he said, stooping to feed a clump of hay to his nearby tethered mount — a fine, muscular grey stallion with a white blaze on its face.

The three made their way through the northern sector of the camp, trailed — as ever — by a clutch of varangoi axemen. A tangy scent of stewing goat meat and a waft of baking bread greeted them as they made their way past the tents of the Thrakesion Thema. Men rose from around their campfires to salute their emperor, some even recognising Apion too.

Next, they came to the workshops, a series of tents where the tink-tink of hammers and sawing of timber filled the air. A small furnace had been set up and the blaze seemed to distort the air around it with its ferocious heat. A smith worked to pattern-weld a spathion, a technique that would give the blade a supple core but a hard edge. A pile of recently crafted weapons lay stacked nearby. This army was indeed well-prepared and eager.

‘So we are to leave in the morning?’ Apion asked.

‘As soon as dawn breaks. I have arranged for Doux Philaretos to remain here as a rearguard.’ He pointed to a figure standing atop a small wooden dais by the riverbank, barking his riders into formation.

Apion squinted and spotted the unmistakable doux there. Philaretos had the look of some villainous, murderous type, his face red and scowling under his close-cropped, receding hair. This and his somewhat testy and firebrand nature had troubled Apion when they first met, but he had proved himself valorous and noble in the taking of Hierapolis and Apion had been more than happy to judge him on those deeds during that fraught campaign.

‘He will stay at the camp with a third of our forces, protecting us from any attack on our rear as we march east and blocking any westwards Seljuk push into Anatolia.’

They came to the camp’s north gate then climbed a ladder to the top of one of the watchtowers flanking it. From this vantage point, he could see the spearmen and archers of the Opsikon Thema going through their manoeuvres on the flatland outside. They worked under an incessant barrage of orders from the kampidoktores — a squat, bald man who swished his cane around as if batting the soldiers into line whenever they strayed. The space was overlooked by the towering Mount Taurus, its lofty summit dusted with snow, as if mocking those toiling in the oppressive heat below. Apion imagined himself up there, looking down. His lips played with a smile as he imagined the men like pieces on a giant shatranj board, just as old Mansur had taught him to.

Manuel Komnenos called down to the kampidoktores mid-tirade, halting him. ‘Have them practice the square variations,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir!’ The kampidoktores yelled, then flicked a finger at the buccinator by his side. Moments later, the buccina cry sent the ranks of men scurrying back and forth. Their flat line dissolved and they reformed in a square, hollow in the centre.

‘A fine square. It protects our men, and dilutes the front of our enemy,’ Apion observed.

‘Indeed, Strategos. A square, but with a difference,’ Manuel countered.

It took Apion a moment to notice, then he saw it; as usual, spearmen formed the outer layer of the square, three ranks deep. They protected the smaller square of archers inside, again, three ranks deep. This way, the toxotes could loose upon outlying enemies without fear of attack. But there was also another layer of three spearmen inside the square, ringing the backs of the archers and framing the small hollow centre. ‘Insurance should the square be compromised?’

‘Exactly!’ Manuel said. ‘Should a pack of Seljuk lancers break inside, there will be no easy slaughter of our archers, just a nest of spears!’ He pressed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘A hardy formation like this could be the key to staving off our enemies and keeping our borders safe.’

Apion felt a smile touch one edge of his lips, seeing Manuel’s eyes sparkle at the notion of bringing peace to the borderlands. An earnest fellow, it seemed. But something troubled him about the square. ‘Yet this lessens the number of spears on your front.’

‘It would, but should we need their number then-’ he stopped and waved to the kampidoktores. Another buccina cry. Another stampede of boots. Almost faultlessly, the spearmen inside the square hurried through the ranks of archers and into the outer ranks of spearmen. In just a few heartbeats, the outside of the square had been bolstered by some three hundred spears.

Apion smiled fully now. ‘This is a play on the formations of the past,’ he realised.

‘Indeed,’ Manuel nodded.

Apion scoured the square one more time, then his eye snagged on something. Three spearmen on the front ranks of the square wore mail shirts, and another two donned felt coats, while all the rest on the front were clad in iron lamellar klibania.

‘Speak, man!’ Romanus chuckled, seeing Apion’s eyes narrow. ‘Manuel was eager to hear your advice.’

Apion pointed to the mismatched men in the front. ‘You should keep your front uniform at all costs. The square will only be as strong as its weakest point. These five should be afforded iron klibania like the men they stand with.’

‘Mail is a sturdy armour,’ Manuel countered.

‘For a sword slash, maybe.’ He patted his own klibania-clad chest. ‘But the overlapping iron plates on a klibanion help to spread the blow of Seljuk arrows more evenly than mail or felt. And believe me, even then a single arrow can still feel like the kick of an angry mule.’

Manuel nodded with a grin. ‘Then the smith will be busy tonight. Is there anything else, Strategos?’

Apion cast his eye across the square again. ‘Have the men had a chance to use these manoeuvres in anger — and in particular, against the Seljuks?’

Manuel shook his head. ‘That is one part of their training I cannot provide. The lash of a drillmaster’s tongue and swish of his cane can only do so much. And I too have yet to face them in the field.’

Romanus clasped a hand to each man’s shoulder and looked to Apion. ‘That’s why we need men like you, Strategos. There is plenty of bread and wine in my tent, not to mention a shatranj board. You should use the rest of today to share your knowledge of our foe. Then tomorrow, we will march, strengthened by it.’

Apion beheld Manuel, Romanus and the sea of serried ranks throughout the camp. For that moment he experienced an odd feeling. All, for once, felt right.

***

The sun dipped behind the western skyline of Constantinople, bathing the lofty heights of the Imperial Palace in its last light and casting a shaft of deep red inside one set of tall, open shutters there.

Michael Psellos leaned back in his chair, his belly full of lark tongues and falcon eggs and his skin bathed in the fiery sunset. He swirled his cup of well-watered wine, inhaled its sharp, fruity aroma, then took a deep gulp to wash the meal down. He smoothed at his tightly curled, short grey locks, adjusted the purple felt cap on his crown and looked around the grand dining chamber, shivering with delight at the possibilities. The palace was devoid of its emperor. Then he glanced through the tall shutters, his gaze trawling across the Hippodrome, the Forum of Constantine and the forest of marble columns, statues and fine domes. The city was at his behest. He flexed his gem-ringed fingers on the collar of the gold brocade robe he had taken from the emperor’s chambers that morning. With a tailor’s skilled hand, this could be a fine fit, he mused.

A watery belch from the far side of the table stirred him from his reverie. His age-lined, pinched features creased even further in distaste. John Doukas, tall and black-bearded, simply wiped a hand across his mouth and continued eating, unperturbed. This oaf was to be endured only because he held the key to the imperial throne — the Doukas family having long insisted that they should be returned to the helm of the empire. He wondered who else from that family line might make a more suitable pawn. Anyone? He concluded, bitterly.

Just then, Psellos noticed movement at the main chamber door. The two numeroi spearmen standing guard there stepped aside. Before Psellos could rise from his seat to berate them, a figure strode in and stood at the head of the table.

‘I bring news that will sweeten your banquet,’ the tall, elegant lady said. She wore a dark blue robe that clung to her lithe figure, and her silvery locks were swept together in a swirl atop her head. Her fine-boned features were alive with a smile that was at odds with her cold stare.

John twisted only to glower at her.

‘Ah, Lady Eudokia,’ Psellos purred, rising now to bow as if in deference. This woman was the widow of the last member of the Doukas family who had held the throne. By wedding Romanus Diogenes and supporting his rise to power, she had broken the Doukid line and caused the rift in power.

Eudokia ignored John’s glare and continued as if Psellos had not spoken. ‘The rumours we heard have been confirmed; the rogue mercenary of Colonea, Crispin of Normandy, was taken captive by the Strategos of Chaldia some months ago. He now languishes in exile and will trouble my husband’s campaign no longer.’

Psellos held her defiant gaze as long as he could, until he felt an incessant itching on his chest. ‘That is good news, indeed,’ he said, his top lip quivering in suppressed ire.

With that, Eudokia swept from the room and Psellos slumped back to sitting. He glared at the spot where Eudokia had stood, his mood black, the itch on his chest growing ferocious.

John threw down a duck bone and sighed. ‘We can eat and drink and pretend we are kings. But when the morning comes, we will wake as mere courtiers.’

‘You are unhappy, Master?’ Psellos asked through taut lips.

John snorted. ‘You spent much of my family’s money buying off those useless curs in the border tagmata — and what of them?’ he roared with a mocking laugh. ‘Crispin languishes in exile, and the others you bought were little but an annoyance to Diogenes’ march east. What reason have I to smile?’

Psellos issued a terse smile. Without my wits, oaf, you would already be in exile or dead. He sucked in a breath through flared nostrils and held John’s gaze. More, the itch on his chest stung like fire. This often happened when he became vexed. He scratched and scratched at the coin-sized spot there. Well, it was coin-sized at first, when that crazed old crone had inflicted the mark upon him — with some hidden brand, he guessed — last winter. But in recent weeks it had grown. Now it was the size of a small plate. Angry red, the flesh was blistered and it wept when he scratched at it too much. He felt the skin split as he scratched at it now and this broke his semblance of calm.

John leaned forward and repeated in a flat tone; ‘I said; what reason have I to smi-’

‘Diogenes is at a critical juncture,’ Psellos snapped, grabbing a cup of cool water and holding it against his chest — this seemed to calm the itch. ‘He has withdrawn all but the scantest of funding from the cities. Almost every coin from the treasury goes to the armies. The people are unsettled,’ he gestured to the Hippodrome, lying empty and unused as had been the case for some six months, ‘they need their races and their games!’

John shrugged at this. ‘This will not tip the balance. We need Diogenes to fail at the head of his army. When the people and the army give up on him, only then have we won.’

Psellos smiled coldly, sensing an opportunity to toy with his puppet. ‘Yet the balance might yet swing against us, Master. If he succeeds in strengthening the imperial hold on Manzikert and in seizing Chliat, the eastern passes will be protected and the borders will be safe, the spending can be balanced once more. The people will love him and the army will revere him. . and his legacy as emperor will be assured.’

John’s jaw dropped, strings of meat dangling from his teeth and a foul look in his eyes. ‘If you are trying to encourage me, advisor, then you have failed. Remember, it is your job to ensure that the balance tilts in our favour.’

Psellos ignored the overbearing rebuke. ‘If I was to guarantee you that Diogenes will not take Chliat this year, would this calm you?’

John frowned. ‘What? No man can make such a guarantee.’

‘Oh, but I am no ordinary man,’ Psellos smiled. His thoughts flashed to the numeroi scout riders he had despatched some months ago. Ride into enemy lands. Spread word amongst our foe of the emperor’s planned route.

‘What have you done?’ John whispered, a savage grin rippling across his lips.

Psellos simply reached out to pour more wine into their cups. ‘I will explain all as we eat and drink, Master. As kings!’

***

Doux Philaretos stood on the edge of the timber jetty as the last of the pamphyloi fleet returned from the far banks to be re-moored here. He ran a hand over his sweat-soaked scalp, burning in the morning sun, then looked across the river and off to the east, watching the last silvery flashes and plumes of dust dissipate at the tail of the departing campaign army. They moved with a broad front towards Lake Van. When they slipped into the heat haze and could be seen no more, he issued a contented grunt, then swung round to look over the camp that would serve as the rearguard’s headquarters.

Six thousand men had been entrusted to him. The sixteen hundred toxotai loosed arrow after arrow at a practice range outside the camp’s western gate, by the saddle of land in the shady valleys. The rest were inside the camp. Some four thousand of them were skutatoi; the majority of these men had laid down their weapons and iron jackets and now milled about their tents, jabbering, cleaning their kit or praying. Meanwhile, the bandon of three hundred kursores riders busied themselves grooming and exercising their mounts. They were content in their activities in this still and warm land, and rations and water were plentiful. He squinted up at the sun. ‘With a little shade, this place will make a fine home for the next few weeks,’ he surmised.

When an odd rumbling noise sounded from the north, he instinctively swept a suspicious eye around the camp’s mountainous surroundings, then squinted at the shaded face of Mount Taurus. A shower of rocks tumbled from the heights there, the noise echoing across the riverbank. He chuckled and shook his head. Then he remembered the advice of the tourmarches, Procopius, who served under the Haga. Before setting off with the Chaldians in the emperor’s column, the prune-faced old officer had implored him;

Decrease the size of the camp. Fill in the ditches and throw up new ones that will be more easily defensible for your reduced numbers. You can rebuild the original camp when the emperor returns. And keep a strong watch at all times.

Philaretos snorted at the notion. ‘Perhaps, old man,’ he spoke into the ether, then turned back to look across the river and east, shading his eyes from the sun. He imagined the emperor’s army moving along the broad, winding tracts of land that led to Lake Van. ‘But you should first concern yourself with your own marching camp — for it will likely be you who encounters any Seljuk foe.’ Then he smirked, drawing his gaze in across the tumbling torrents of the Euphrates. ‘And unless they bring ferries of their own, any invading riders from the east might have to content themselves with watching our fine camp from the far riverbanks.’

He jostled with laughter at his own joke, then turned away from the river and strode towards the heart of the camp, where his tent now stood in place of the emperor’s. A cup or two of wine? he mused as his guards parted. He made to sweep his tent flap open, but his hand froze. He noticed his mount, tethered nearby, scuffing its hooves in agitation. Then it snorted, its ears pricking up.

‘What’s wrong, boy?’ he cooed, stepping over to the piebald stallion.

His question was answered by a chorus of panicked cries from the western valleys. His eyes widened as he saw the archers out there break into a reckless run, racing back towards the camp. He licked his lips and felt his throat shrink as he saw a dust plume and dark shapes cresting the saddle of land in the shady valley. An instant later, the thrum of loosing arrows sounded, and the air behind the fleeing Byzantine archers darkened as a storm of arrows plunged down upon their fleeing backs. Hundreds fell and hundreds more stumbled over the fallen.

‘Ghazis!’ Philaretos gasped, clutching at the pole of his standard in disbelief, seeing the Seljuk riders swoop like raptors over the saddle of land and down towards the camp. Spiked, conical helms. Iron, horn or leather armour. Nocked bows, levelled spears and raised scimitars. His eyes swept over them once, twice and again. Still, more poured over the saddle. Five, six, no — seven thousand, he realised.

The ghazis unleashed a howling war cry as they caught up with the fleeing toxotai. Without armoured spearmen to protect them, the fleeing Byzantine bowmen stood no chance, falling to the flashing curved blades and sharp lances of these swift riders. Blood spouted and puffed up through the still heat, screams were cut short and the archers were felled like wheat. Those who tried to break away were punched to the ground, backs peppered with arrows.

‘Close the gates!’ Philaretos roared, pulling the standard from the earth and waving it frantically to and fro as the ghazi mass raced for the open western gate. The skutatoi were in disarray, men tripping over each other as they hurried to find their armour and weapons. Just sixteen guarded the open gate in arms and armour. They threw down their spears and shields in an attempt to close the timber gates. Philaretos rushed to aid them, throwing his shoulder to the stubborn gate. It was inches from coming into line with the locking bar, when his world was thrown upside down. He and the sixteen were cast back through the dust as the gates were barged back open. The tide of ghazis poured inside the camp and spilled across the sea of tents. The unprepared skutatoi threw up what defence they could, jabbing spears, swinging burning firewood or hurling rocks at them. Those who had taken up their shields and spears in time tried to gather together, but the swooping ghazis gave them no time, breaking apart these determined clusters of men and cutting them down. Philaretos, dazed, slumped and unseen by the open western gate, blinked again and again at the rout that ensued. For the first time in his career he was utterly lost. He saw his six thousand fall, limbs shorn, skulls crushed, chests pocked with arrows. Some Byzantines splashed into the shallows of the Euphrates, only to have their skulls split by pursuing Seljuk riders, and soon there were hundreds of corpses drifting off downriver in a crimson wash. One ghazi was the most ferocious of all. A scale-vested rider crowned with a stud-rimmed spike helm. His face was a mask of shadow, with just green eyes glinting, scouring the fray. He cut one man down, then another, swiftly turning to find the next at haste as if searching for the one death that would satisfy him.

Philaretos watched this one, numb with fear. When a gawping Byzantine head bounced past his feet, and a mizzle of blood settled upon him, something changed. He looked up, seeing some other ghazi who had beheaded the soldier. At once, the shame of his folly turned into anger. He leapt up, ducking the thrown spear the rider aimed at him, then drawing his spatha and hacking it through the rider’s thigh. Flesh cleaved and bone shattered, the rider fell from the saddle in gouts of blood. Philaretos leapt onto the riderless mount and heeled the beast this way and that, parrying, hacking and ducking a storm of blows as he tried to find some hope of a counter attack. But there was nothing, he realised. He set his eyes upon the western gate. Most of the ghazis had spilled inside the camp’s walls now, indulging in the slaughter. The land outside was free of enemies. He filled his lungs and bellowed to all who could hear.

‘Retreat!’ he cried, helping one skutatos into the saddle behind him. ‘Abandon the camp. Head for the Mountains!’

***

A dust plume the size of a colossal thundercloud billowed up in the column’s wake. Apion rode with the emperor and his retinue amidst the cavalry head of the column, while Sha led the Chaldians in the infantry body. So far, he had enjoyed high spirits with the rest of the column, chuckling as riders of the Vigla Tagma mocked Igor when the big varangos used his axe blade like a mirror to apply black smudges of kohl on his lower eyelids.

The morning’s march had seen them gradually ascend into the Armenian plateau where the air was thinner but still excruciatingly hot. They stopped at noon to eat a hearty meal of fresh bread, mutton and berries. He had seldom seen his Chaldians and the rest of the army quite as eager, yet as the day wore on, a nagging sense of doubt settled upon him. He couldn’t quite place it, but he felt something was wrong.

‘You look glum, Strategos. Something on your mind?’ Romanus asked, his face uplit from the fine silver and white armour jacket he wore.

‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Not a thing. This campaign has been impeccable so far, and we are but a week away from Lake Van. Chliat might soon be ours.’

‘Then I’d loathe to see you on a bad day,’ Romanus chuckled, his white stallion snorting as if in agreement.

‘Perhaps it is the absence of struggle that perturbs me, Basileus.’

Romanus’ brow knitted. ‘Aye, not a single Seljuk blade. . nor a Doukas snake to be seen.’

Yet. Apion thought. He shook his head, hoping this might cast off his doubts. ‘Maybe I seek trouble when there is none,’ he offered.

Romanus made to reply, when the pained screeching of an eagle sounded. The noise was so shrill that it cut through the dull thunder of boots and hooves. Indeed, the column slowed just a fraction, all heads looking up and around. The screeching continued. When Apion saw that the sky was azure and marked with neither bird nor cloud, he knew his dread was well-placed. As the cries rang out unabated and the army continued to look to the skies, Apion felt his gaze drawn to the east. There in the dancing heat haze he saw a solitary figure standing in the army’s path. Her silvery hair and white robes fluttered in the gentle breeze and her sightless eyes pinned him. She held up the palm of one hand as if barring their way, and shook her head, her features drawn and riddled with sorrow. An instant later and she was gone, as if swallowed by the rippling heat haze.

‘What is that infernal-’ Romanus started, searching the skies for the absent eagle. But he stopped, hearing the rapid thudding of a galloping horseman approaching from the rear of the column and twisting to look.

Apion tore his gaze from the spot where the crone had been, then turned in his saddle to look back with the emperor. A chorus of chatter broke out, as if conjured by the lone kursoris who swept towards the emperor. The man was wearing a dented helm and a white tunic that was stained brown with dried blood, one arm was clumsily looped around the reins, the hand hanging limp and the tendons of his wrist lacerated. Igor and the Varangoi bunched up before Romanus as the injured rider slowed and stopped before the emperor. The column drew to a halt as the rider tried to dismount but instead he fell, panting. His skin was pallid and slick with sweat, and his eyes were black-rimmed.

‘Basileus,’ he gasped, righting himself with his trembling good arm, ‘A Seljuk host roams in imperial lands. They came at us from the west. They must have breached the southern borders.’

Apion realised what had happened before the scout could recount the tale.

‘They fell upon our camp this morning. Doux Philaretos and the rearguard have been driven into the hills. Scant few survived the attack and now the Seljuk riders have ridden on into our heartlands, to raid the themata.’

The chatter of the ranks rose into panic.

Romanus was silent, his gaze growing distant. Apion saw the sparkle of hope in his eyes fade. In that instant, the promise of the campaign had been snuffed out. ‘Raise the standards,’ he said to the signophoroi by his side, clutching the great purple imperial banners. Then he cast his gaze over the vast ranks of the column. ‘We must hasten back to our heartlands, to quell the threat there and avenge our fallen brothers.’ The babble died at this. ‘God is with us. Let us march with haste!’ he cried. The column cried out in approval, the desperate cheer sweeping back across the miles of silvery warriors and vivid banners. Then, like a writhing serpent, they set about turning to face back to the west.

Romanus waited where he was, taking a moment to turn east once again, gazing to the heat haze that blended sky and earth in the distance, to the wide route they would have taken to Lake Van. Desperation and despair danced in his eyes now.

‘We will return next year, Basileus,’ Apion offered.

‘A year is time aplenty to see an emperor cast from his throne, Strategos.’

Apion nodded, knowing there was no reply that could sweeten this acrimonious truth.

‘What troubles me most, Strategos, is. . ’ Romanus said, turning to him, his face suddenly gaunt and drawn, ‘. . how did they know we were here? Seljuk warbands coming from the south and raiding the rich lands of southern and eastern Anatolia I can understand. But for them to come here, to this dry, dusty no-man’s land and fall upon our rearguard? That is no coincidence.’

Apion sighed. ‘I regret that I can only agree, Basileus.’

Both men instinctively turned their eyes back to the west, beyond the horizon, thinking of the distant imperial capital and the vultures who nested there.