Island in the Storm

3. An Elusive Foe

Apion crouched in a myrtle copse at the southern edge of a vast green-gold plain in northern Cilicia. The cicada song grew intense as he scoured the features of the shrub-dotted lands ahead, part-obscured in a gentle heat-haze. A few miles to the east there was a small Byzantine village. He saw the handful of felt-armoured garrison skutatoi standing at the gatehouse of the town’s weak timber walls. Half a mile north across the plain was another grove like this one. To the west, there was nothing but open flatland. His eyes scoured the horizon there. Come on.

It had been a fraught month since the disaster at the Euphrates. They had returned to the riverside camp to find a carpet of dead and wounded. They had spent the rest of that day and the next burying the fallen. It was on the second night that Doux Philaretos had come out of hiding, leading the pack of nine hundred or so survivors down from the safety of the mountains. The doux had been a sorry sight, his face caked in dirt and blood, and his eyes heavy with shame. The weeks since had been spent chasing the rampaging Seljuk army throughout Byzantine lands. They had hastened through western Colonea, only to find ruined villages littered with corpses and burnt-out forts strewn with mutilated garrison soldiers. The story had been the same as they pursued the enemy riders south through the border themata of Sebastae and Lykandos, then on to the west, into the inner themata of Cappadocia and Anatolikon, where they arrived too late to save the city of Iconium from the raiders’ wrath. Indeed, the city walls were blackened with soot by the time they came within sight of it, and the battlements lined with severed Byzantine heads on spikes. This had enraged the emperor. But even when Romanus left Manuel Komnenos and the infantry behind, leading the far swifter cavalry ahead in an effort to intercept the Seljuk raiders, they were still too slow and so the pursuit continued. Just a few days ago, the chase had led them here, to the southern Thema of Cilicia.

He clutched a shard of polished silver in his palm, then shot a glance to the early autumn sun. It was well past noon, and heat and frustration prickled on his skin. The Seljuk host had been sighted a few hours ago, some way to the west, heading in this direction. And this timber-walled village was the only settlement in miles. It had to be where they were headed. Yet surely they should be here by now?

‘Something’s wrong,’ Blastares whispered by his side.

‘Not necessarily,’ Apion hissed, staving off his own doubts. ‘We wait.’

Just then, something moved. In the western emptiness, a puff of dust kicked up. All his senses sharpened and he held his breath. When he saw a racing deer, his heart sank. Then, as he made to exhale, his gaze snagged on a lone rider chasing the deer. A ghazi, cutting across the plain on a dark steppe mare, drawing and loosing his bow, his long, braided dark hair billowing in his wake. The rider howled in glee as his arrow punched into the deer’s side, felling the animal.

Apion looked behind the lone rider. The horizon rippled in the heat haze. Green and gold danced together. A heartbeat later he felt the ground judder and a blotch of colour appeared, then spilled across the horizon. Thousands of Seljuk riders rumbled into view. Iron helms, brightly painted shields and speartips glinting in the sun. He twisted to Blastares. ‘Ready the men.’ The big tourmarches rose and scuttled away to the rear of the myrtle copse. Apion shuffled forward, careful not to break cover, then cupped the polished silver shard in his palm. He tilted it up to the sun and caught its rays then flicked it just a fraction. Once, twice and again. He watched the far wood keenly until the three flashes of reply came, then he turned and followed Blastares’ path through the undergrowth to meet with the serried wedges of cavalry hidden just behind the grove — some fifteen hundred thematic riders, including Sha, Blastares, Procopius, Kaspax and the fifty Chaldian kataphractoi, the riders stroking their mounts to keep them still and silent. All for this moment. Mount, Apion mouthed as he leapt up onto his Thessalian, slipped on his plumed helm and took up his lance. Then he flicked a hand up and forward in silence.

The Byzantine riders broke forward at a walk, moving round the eastern edge of the grove in three fang-like wedges. From the northern wood, another three such fangs rumbled forward — the best of the Varangoi, the Vigla and the Scholae riders with the emperor amongst them. The Seljuk mass spilled along the plain between these two unseen cavalry wings. The jaws of the trap were set, ready to close on the marauding horde. Although numbering only three thousand, the Byzantine cavalry were more heavily armed and armoured than the seven thousand ghazis. And if they could catch them by surprise, fall upon their flanks. .

A buccina blared from the emperor’s riders across the plain.

‘Charge!’ Apion roared, kicking at his Thessalian’s flanks. At once, he and his three wedges of riders broke forward in a gallop onto the plain. From the northern wood, the emperor’s men charged likewise. Apion lay flat in the saddle, levelling his lance, eyes trained on the Seljuk horde. They slowed momentarily, heads switching between the two Byzantine cavalry wings coming for them from north and south. At that moment, Apion was sure the snare had succeeded. So certain was he of coming battle that he saw in his mind the image that had followed him since his earliest days;

A dark, arched doorway, the timbers desiccated and ancient. He heard the striking of flint, saw tongues of flame shoot out from under the door, licking like a demon readying to feast. His grip tightened on his lance and his heart pounded like a battering ram against his ribs.

But in a heartbeat the fire in his heart was extinguished as the Seljuk horde shot apart before him like a flock of birds evading a predator. They split into two groups. The foremost riders bolted forward at a gallop, slipping clear of the two sets of Byzantine riders, and the rearmost riders wheeled away, back to the west. Apion reined in his mount, seeing that the snare had failed, seeing the two jaws of the trap slow to a canter, lances and blades unsullied. Before he had time to look to the emperor for direction, he heard the thrum of Seljuk bows.

The hail was thick but inaccurate, arrows punching down all around the two slowing jaws of the failed trap. It was not meant to be a lethal strike, merely a means to give the fleeing Seljuk horde an extra few moments to make their break. Most of the missiles landed in the dust, but a fair number glanced from the iron coats and helms of the riders, and he heard a thin chorus of cries and whinnies where they found their way in between the iron cladding of horse or rider. As soon as the hail passed, Apion pulled on his reins to swing his mount round. He watched as the ghazis who had turned to flee westwards arced round the southern edge of the plain, behind the myrtle grove, to join with their comrades in the east. Reunited they rode on to the eastern horizon, mercifully subjecting the timber-walled village to just a shower of arrows as they passed.

A wedge of Scholae riders burst away from the emperor’s side, haring after the fleeing Seljuk pack.

‘Come back, you fools!’ Romanus roared, tearing off his purple-plumed helm and throwing it to the dust. ‘You will not catch them. Have you learned nothing in these last weeks?’

A buccina keened to convey this message and the galloping Scholae riders slowed and returned, while the Seljuk horde became but a glint on the horizon. A nauseatingly familiar sight, Apion thought as he joined the emperor.

Romanus was surrounded by Igor, the Varangoi and Doux Philaretos.

‘Like a whore in oil,’ Philaretos grunted, watching the Seljuks slip away.

‘It worked at Hierapolis,’ Romanus hissed through clenched teeth, punching a fist to his palm as he looked to the northern and southern woods from which his two cavalry wings had sprung.

Apion recalled the move, when he and Romanus had led two wings of cavalry, bursting from the cover of the northern and southern walls of the desert city to ensnare the Seljuk ranks amassed by the western gate, pressing them onto the hardy Byzantine spearmen standing firm there. ‘But then our enemy was already engaged with what infantry we had. Those riders,’ he flicked a finger to the horizon, ‘have never stayed in one place long enough to let us draw up our spearmen and archers.’

Romanus looked north. Somewhere beyond the horizon, Manuel Komnenos and the infantry section of the weary campaign army were marching at haste to catch up, but still nearly a hundred miles behind, going by this morning’s report from the scout rider. ‘Then we have to find a way to bring our spears to bear.’

‘We could try to lure them northwards, onto our infantry?’ Philaretos suggested.

Apion shook his head. ‘They will not follow us. They mean only to evade us, to sack towns and cause as much disruption as possible.’

‘Then we should continue the pursuit. We can only hope that they will slip up soon, surely?’ Philaretos grumbled.

‘Hope is a fine thing, Doux, but it is not a strategy,’ Apion replied as gently as he could manage.

‘You are adept at revealing the weaknesses in the suggestions of others, Strategos,’ Philaretos snapped. ‘Perhaps you might offer an alternative solution?’

Apion looked to the red-faced doux and the rest of the retinue. His thoughts swam as he recalled the terrain of this southern thema. They needed two things; a choke point and a regiment of infantry to block it. There were many choke points to the east, where the Seljuk horde were headed, but no infantry bar a few sparse local garrisons. Then he thought of something else, high up in the Antitaurus Mountains. His eyes glinted and a crooked smile pulled at one edge of his lips. ‘This may not be to your liking. . ’

***

Apion pulled his crimson cloak tighter around his shoulders as they rode up the winding mountain path. It was mid-September and dark, clear nights like this brought with them a biting cold, especially at this altitude. He wore a long-sleeved tunic both for warmth and to hide his red-ink Haga stigma — figuring it might distract those he was to parley with. With him were his trusted three, plus the young rider, Kaspax. They had set off from the imperial army and ridden hard for a day, moving due east to these mountains while the Seljuk horde busied themselves terrorising the Byzantine settlements in the lower foothills just a few miles south.

He glanced to the mountaintop above. It glowed orange, silhouetting a stocky timber palisade wall, watchtowers and sentries. Philaretos’ reaction to his plan rang in his thoughts once more.

The Armenian hill princes? Have you lost your senses, man?

Apion chuckled dryly at the memory. The doux was bound to rubbish whatever plan he put forward — the man was still pickled with shame over being routed at the Euphrates camp. As they rounded the last section of path leading up to the hilltop town’s gatehouse, he saw the four sentries standing before the gates brace. One of the sentries called out to challenge Apion and his night visitors. Momentarily, Apion wondered if Philaretos had been right. For it was a feral cry, a challenge.

‘Apion of Chaldia,’ he replied. ‘I come on behalf of Emperor Romanus Diogenes.’

The torch near the gates guttered in the chill breeze and for a moment, the lead sentry’s face was illuminated: dark-skinned, scarred, with a rich green headscarf on his scalp and a thick beard on his chin. His nose wrinkled and he spat on the ground. ‘Byzantines,’ he growled, his mail shirt rustling as he squared his shoulders. ‘You come to speak with Prince Vardan?’ The men beside him laughed. ‘I see no reason why I should let you keep your lives, let alone open our gates to you.’ As he said this, twelve shadows rose up from behind the palisade walls accompanied by the tune of stretching, creaking bows. The dancing torchlight revealed something else. On either side of the gates, two limp bodies dangled, impaled through the chest on roughly-hewn spikes, throats cut, flesh grey, their eyes gone to the crows. It looked as if one of them at least wore the battered armour of a Byzantine spearman.

Apion kept his gaze on the lead sentry. ‘You have family in these mountains and the surrounding plains?’

The sentry lost his steely gaze for but a moment, then the scowl returned. ‘What is it to you?’

‘I come to offer your prince a deal that will see all in these lands, Byzantine and Armenian alike, spared the edge of the Seljuk sword.’

The sentry frowned. ‘You speak of the horde? They are some way west of here — I heard they sacked Iconium?’

Apion held his wavering gaze. ‘They tore the place apart but we drove them off. I saw the blackened ruin they left behind. Now they are here, only miles away, and they are not yet tired of slaughter and plunder. All I ask of you is that you let me speak with your prince.’

The lead sentry’s scowl faded and his shoulders slumped just a fraction. A time passed then, wordlessly, he nodded to his comrades, who hurried forward to strip Apion and his men of weapons. When one of the sentries tried to take the hemp sack from Apion’s saddle, Apion clamped a hand over it. ‘That is for your prince alone,’ he said with the barest of smiles. Next, a creaking of timber rang out and echoed around the Cilician mountains as the gates swung open.

Escorted closely, they trotted along the hay-strewn dirt path that led through the close-packed town. It was a jumble of stone-walled huts and larger villas, clinging to the rounded mountain top, with a sturdy, high-walled and fortified manor at the apex. Torches sputtered and flickered, lighting their way, and he saw the wide-eyed looks of children and adults alike who peeked from the doors of their homes, eager and anxious to see who had come to their lofty settlement. Towns like this were dotted all across the Parhar and Antitaurus Mountains. Collections of loosely affiliated but notoriously fickle Armenian tribes and federations — more often at war with one another than working together. Again, he heard Philaretos’ mocking words.

The lead sentry brought them to the doors of the fortified manor then motioned for Apion to enter, alone. Apion nodded to the others, then slipped from his saddle and stepped forward.

Inside was just one cavernous hall, with a mezzanine of sleeping areas up above. A roaring log fire crackled in a hearth at one end of the hall, and in the centre, a well-weathered man with a thick brown beard and a jacket of leather armour sat at the head of a feasting table laden with wine, fresh and aromatic bread, cooked birds, bowls of blueberries, dates, figs and pots of yoghurt and honey. A motley collection of others lined the sides of the table, cackling and babbling in drunken banter. Slaves scurried to and fro around the dining area and an old, black mongrel lay asleep in front of the fire.

The sentry hurried over to whisper in the brown-bearded one’s ear, then came back to him. ‘Prince Vardan invites you to join him,’ he said, gesturing to an empty seat at the table, a few places away from the prince.

Apion stepped forward, removing his helm and drawing a stool to sit. At once, the chatter ceased. All eyes swung to him. A fawn-skinned bald man with a nose like a sickle frowned. ‘What have we got here,’ he said, his tone serrated and his demeanour glacial, ‘a Rus?’

‘My mother was Rus. My father was Byzantine.’

‘Aye?’ snorted another fellow, plump and ruddy, his teeth stained with wine. ‘Then what does that make you?’

‘I’m just a man,’ Apion replied, refusing the offer of a cup of wine from a passing slave girl. As the slave carried on around the table, he winced as the hook-nosed one seized her by the wrist and pulled her to his lap. He groped her breasts and pawed at her crotch, his bald head wrinkling as he cackled. Most around the table cheered at his lewd behaviour. Only Apion noticed that the man had slipped a tiny clay vial into her bosom.

‘What kind of man comes to a mountaintop village in the dead of night?’ the plump one scoffed, tearing his attention away from the slave. ‘Were you lost?’ His cronies hooted in laughter at this. Prince Vardan remained silent.

Apion pinned the plump one with a stare. ‘What kind of man drinks himself into oblivion when there is a Seljuk horde rampaging on the fringes of his lands?’

The chatter died again. The plump one gawped, outraged. Prince Vardan’s eyes narrowed on Apion.

But it was the bald, hook-nosed one who spoke; ‘How dare you speak in such a tone?’ His face was pinched as if Apion had just spat on his mother’s corpse.

Apion snorted. ‘You condemn my tone yet you ignore my words? There is a horde not three miles from — ’

‘Be careful, wanderer,’ hook-nose countered. ‘The last man to speak to me so was a slave of mine. I had his throat cut with just a click of my fingers,’ he raised his fingers as if to panic Apion. ‘Kept his head until it putrefied.’

‘Enough,’ Vardan spoke in a throaty voice from the end of the table. ‘The man is here at the behest of Emperor Diogenes. He is my guest and he will be treated as such.’ He clapped his hands, bringing more slaves scurrying from the darkness at the edges of the hall. ‘And he is right. It is late, you are all drunk. Leave me!’

With a groaning of chairs and stools on the stone floor, the prince’s guests stood to leave. The plump one cast him a mean eye. Hook-nose stepped round behind Apion as he made to leave. ‘Be careful, Byzantine,’ he whispered, his breath foetid, ‘for although Vardan may shield you tonight, tomorrow is a new day. Who knows what it might bring?’

His sibilant words rang in Apion’s ears until they were all gone. Now just two spearmen in vivid green and yellow tunics and trews stood guard at the door, and a single slave girl remained to prepare some herbal brew for the prince. Vardan beckoned Apion over to sit on the stool beside him.

‘What you said, it is true, Apion of Chaldia?’ Vardan asked, one hand ruffling his beard, his eyes gazing into the middle-distance.

‘Just three miles to the south, over seven thousand ghazi riders roam. They have destroyed all in their path so far. Farms, towns, even walled cities have fallen to them.’

‘Many of my kin have been summoned by Byzantine Emperors of the past, few have returned,’ Vardan replied swiftly. ‘I presume that is why you are here — to plead for the help of my army?’

Apion nodded. ‘Our infantry are still a week’s march away. We need just enough foot soldiers to pin the Seljuk horde, then we can bring our cavalry to bear.’

Vardan smiled wryly. ‘So you do come to prize away the young men of my villages? You have yet to persuade me why I should grant you this.’ He sat back in his chair and sighed, eyeing Apion. ‘Who am I speaking to?’ he mused. ‘Are you a delegate, a learned man of some sort, Apion of Chaldia?’

‘I have neither studied the scrolls of the great libraries, nor attended the new universities of the empire far to the west. But I have been schooled in war — the cruellest of mistresses. I have learned many black lessons on the plains and passes of these borderlands. Many times I have been certain that I have seen all war has to show me, yet she still astonishes me at every turn.’

The prince chuckled at this, eyeing Apion’s battered nose and scarred features. ‘I thought as much. You do not have the look of some soft-skinned envoy. Tell me who you really are.’

Apion hesitated, judging the situation. If hook-nose and his cronies had still been here, he would have lied. But he needed this man to trust him. Truth breeds truth, he decided. He pulled up his sleeve, revealing the red-ink stigma of a two-headed eagle.

Vardan’s face split in a not altogether reassuring smile. ‘The Haga?’

Apion nodded.

Vardan laughed under his breath. A laugh that chilled Apion. ‘If you had come to my gates and hailed my sentries as so, I would have had you shot through without a second thought. Your trail is black indeed.’

Apion did not flinch. ‘I understand. When farmers see me setting light to their village, they do not realise I do it only to deny shelter to invading riders. When I burn or cut down my enemy in their hundreds, I do it only to save the thousands they would otherwise slay.’

Vardan tilted his head to one side. ‘Hmm. They used to call me Vardan the head-taker. You know why? Because when I was a boy, the warriors of a neighbouring tribe stopped my father’s grain wagon. They raped and killed my sister. They tortured my father, nailing him to a tree. It took him three days to die. It was me who found him, on that last day. His dying gaze was on my sister’s corpse. He had seen all they did to her. My grandfather was the prince of this town at the time. He reacted weakly. He demanded the killers pay my mother for her loss. They paid, yet the coins did not soothe our pain one scrap. Only months later, I heard they had murdered again. So I took up my sword one morning, and came back at night with their heads. I never heard of any further suffering at their hands.’ He gazed into the fire with a wistful half-smile.

Apion’s mind flashed with memories of his early days in the ranks, of his slain parents, of the vile Bracchus. ‘Then we may be more alike than you might imagine.’

Vardan beheld him for a moment, then chuckled. ‘Perhaps, Haga, though my name is known only in these mountains. Yours echoes all across the borderlands.’ He sat a little straighter. ‘You know much of war, that much is clear. But what do you truly know of my people, of whose lives you ask?’

‘I know that your tribe and the others of the hills have suffered as the great empires of east and west have clashed on these lands. Your home has been used as a buffer, your strong young men have been treated like dogs of war, led away to die for some foreign king.’

Vardan laughed heartily now. ‘You are doing a fine job in making my decision an easy one!’

Apion leaned forward, holding Vardan’s gaze. He reached down to lift up the hemp sack of coins by his feet. ‘I was sent to tempt you with this,’ he dropped the sack on the table with a thick clunk, ‘but I know already you care little for coins. I can see you are a prince who cares for his people. My empire’s history is stained in places. But for the first time in so long, Byzantium has at its head a man who seeks to end the strife on these mountains, on the plains of Cilicia, in the valleys of Chaldia. . in all of the blood-weary borderlands. He strives to seal the borders and end the relentless struggle. Bring your men to fight with us, Noble Prince. Let us drive off these warring Seljuks.’

Vardan said nothing, his face expressionless. He looked in Apion’s eyes for some time, then turned to gaze into the fire. The only noise in the hall was the spitting and crackling fire.

As Apion waited on the prince’s decision, he noticed something in the corner of the room; the slave girl preparing the herbal brew had a way about her, the swaying hips, the dark hair and dusky skin. For an instant, he could not help but see her as Maria. When she saw Apion watching her, she started, then smiled sweetly, before turning her back on him, finishing the brew-making process before coming over to place the cups down. He noticed now that she looked nothing like Maria and his eye snagged on the bruises around the girl’s wrist where hook-nose had grabbed her. She flashed him a swift and nervous smile then scuttled off into the shadows.

‘Drink,’ Vardan said, pushing one cup towards Apion. ‘It clears the head.’

When the prince lifted the cup to his lips, Apion lifted his own. At that moment, he saw the slave girl looking on from the shadows, her face wrinkled with anxiety. His gaze swung to the table where she had been preparing the brew. There lay a small vial, cracked open, its contents gone. Without hesitation, he swung out a hand, grasping the prince’s wrist. ‘Stop.’

‘What is this?’ the prince jerked his arm free, brew spilling from his cup and splattering to the floor. At once, the old black mongrel that had been sleeping by the fire woke and hobbled over to lap at the spilled brew.

‘Your aide, the bald one who did not take to me. He means to usurp you.’

‘What? Hurik is my cousin, one of my most able generals.’

Apion held his gaze. ‘And one of your most ambitious, it would seem. For he has had your brew poisoned?’

Vardan looked at his cup and back to Apion, then roared with laughter. ‘You are mistaken, Byzantine. Hurik is a surly man, but he would not dare to-’ the prince fell silent as the mongrel’s whimpering filled the hall. Apion and he looked on as the dog retched, foam bubbling from its mouth. The creature’s torment lasted only a few moments before it fell on its side, convulsing, then fell still. The noise of the crackling fire filled the hall once more.

The prince stared at his dead pet, his eyes reddening. After a lengthy silence, he spoke at last; ‘You will have your infantry, Haga. And Hurik will watch them march from this town. He will have a fine view, what with his head on a tall spike above the walls.’