Island in the Storm

7. A Dagger in the Dark

A hot spring day bathed Constantinople, and every street pulsed with masses of citizens eager to forge their way to the Hippodrome. The tips of the horseshoe-shaped arena were lined with purple imperial banners, rippling gently in a northerly breeze from the Golden Horn that carried a salt-tang with it. The air seemed to crackle in expectation at the races that were to come after so many months of austerity.

Inside, Psellos took his seat in the upper tiers of the eastern stand, with two numeroi spearmen flanking him. His ears stung at the incessant cheering and babble of the crowd — already some one hundred thousand strong — and his nose wrinkled at their stench. This was the first day of races for nearly a year, yet the wretches of this city who had been dangerously close to rebellion just months ago now fawned over their emperor for bending to their will and reinstating the much-loved spectacle. He glanced across the arena. Beyond the tip of the western stand and across the city skyline, he could see the hazy blackened ruin of the Shrine of Blachernae, jutting like a rotting tooth at the northern end of the land walls. He had paid handsomely to have the holy shrine put to the torch one chilly December night at the tail end of last year. It was supposed to be the omen that would tip the people into outright rebellion against Diogenes. Yet somehow, Psellos sighed, the cur still has the throne.

Suddenly, the babble died and all heads looked to the kathisma — the imperial box shaded by a purple silk awning — perched a few rows behind Psellos on the tip of the eastern stand’s midpoint. Following the crowd’s lead, Psellos also twisted round to look up to the kathisma. Two varangoi had ascended the spiral staircase leading directly from the Cochlia Gate of the Imperial Palace and entered the box. They stepped to either side of the ornate chairs set up in there and stared out at the crowd like sentinels. Psellos scowled at the two empty chairs, remembering that the emperor had been absent from the city over the previous two summers — on campaign and at the mercy of hired blades and saboteurs. During those precious months he had been seated there in the kathisma’s shade with John Doukas, manipulating the fickle people to his own ends, lavishing them with games bought with Doukid money. Now, it seemed, Diogenes was wise to what had gone on, choosing to remain in the capital while appointing Manuel Komnenos to lead an eastern campaign in his stead. This would allow Diogenes’ armies to at once fight off the empire’s foes and for the man himself to quell the unrest of the citizens. Psellos’ spies had told him of the emperor’s designs: to empty the imperial treasury in an effort to train and strengthen the themata armies serving under Komnenos — to make them powerful and numerous. Surely, Psellos had thought, this meant the people would still be deprived of their games, for the imperial treasury was nearly bare. How, then, had the cur managed to fund today’s races? Such a spectacle was not cheap. Not at all.

Just then, the crowd erupted into a chorus of ‘Dio-genes! Dio-genes!’ followed with ‘Ba-si-le-us! Ba-si-le-us! Ba-si-le-us!’ as two figures emerged from the back of the kathisma. Romanus Diogenes and Lady Eudokia. The emperor wore a cloak of gold brocade, a chequered klibanion — the small iron squares gold then bronze in turn — that hugged his torso, and the bejewelled imperial diadem on his head, gold crosses dangling from each side. Eudokia wore a green silk robe and cradled her pregnant belly with a gentle hand, but glowered down upon the crowd like a warrior. Cold, austere and aloof as always. Psellos’ top lip twitched as they bathed in the adulation. He had backed the Doukas family in expectation that they would swiftly dethrone Diogenes and seize power again. So far, he had backed a losing horse.

The announcer cried out then, bringing the crowd to a sudden hush. ‘First, we are blessed to witness the greatest rider of recent years return to the track. After three years of retirement, he will ride for us one last time. I speak of the champion of the races, the breaker of hearts, the swiftest of all Greeks. I give you. . Diabatenus of Athens!’ The crowd erupted again, confetti blossoming into the air and flitting down onto the sand of the racetrack as a handsome rider drove his gilded chariot out onto the circuit. His fine, almost sculpted nose and cheekbones were framed to perfection by his thick, shiny, dark brown locks, swept across his forehead and tucked behind his ears. Four stallions snorted and shuffled under the burden — a steeldust, two bays and a chestnut, each of them strong and tall and as fine-looking as their rider. Psellos gazed through the man, bored while the announcer called the other riders out onto the starting line. Flurries of hands shot up as the many bookmakers dotted around the stands were besieged by eager gamblers, most jostling to place their money on Diabatenus. In moments the horns sounded and the chariots burst forth, conjuring a guttural roar from the spectators that shook the sky over Constantinople.

Suddenly, the lesion on his chest burned. The mere itching was but a distant memory. Now when it came it was as if a glowing brand was being held to his skin. He clamped a hand to it, wincing, feeling the glutinous mesh of unhealing skin stick to the fibres of his robe, peeling away, leaving, raw, pink flesh which burned all the more fiercely. He tried to bury the pain, focusing on the racing chariots.

Just then, another figure barged through the crowd and past the two numeroi to sit beside him. John Doukas wore black robes and a shifty gaze. His eyes flicked over his shoulder to the kathisma. ‘Did you hear it? The people’s cries are an affront to my name. And that bitch carries the death of my family line in her belly,’ he growled.

‘The people are fickle and their cries change with the wind,’ Psellos whispered. ‘And when Diogenes is ousted from his throne, Eudokia will be dealt with also.’

‘And her babe too?’ John’s eyes narrowed.

‘Diogenes’ line will be extinguished, Master,’ Psellos nodded.

The pair turned their attentions to the race for a moment. The crowd roared as Diabatenus sped round onto his third lap, leading, of course. The cacophony was spliced by a sudden crack of timber as the lead chariot pitched over on itself. The axel of Diabatenus’ chariot had snapped and his mounts collapsed in a whinnying heap. The rider himself was catapulted forward, tumbling head over heels through the sand. A chorus of gasps rang out. Diabatenus scrambled to his knees, disbelieving as he glared back at his ruined vehicle, then gawping in terror as the next chariot hurtled round the bend. The second chariot rider lashed furiously at his mounts to steer them around the felled Diabatenus. Likewise, Diabatenus scrambled back from their hooves. They missed him by inches, only for the protruding spoke of the chariot wheel to tear across his handsome face, putting out an eye in a spurt of blood and white matter. His scream seemed to pierce the heavens. Many thousands of spectators groaned at their lost bets, while the bookmakers punched the air in delight.

‘Pah — the fool thought victory was a certainty, it seems. Forgot to check his chariot over,’ John laughed heartily, heedless of the horribly injured Diabatenus’ sobbing as he was carried from the track. ‘Now, why did you call me here? You said there was some other matter?’

‘Indeed. A matter that we have neglected for some time. A matter that we should resolve at the outset of our. . your journey to the imperial throne.’

John’s eyes narrowed. ‘Aye?’

Psellos steeled himself and straightened his robe. ‘To weaken Diogenes, we must dispose of those troublesome dogs who remain loyal to him. Some more troublesome than others.’

‘I don’t understand?’ John said.

Psellos nodded discreetly to the two figures seated a few rows down. One, a hulking, bearded brute with a jutting brow and a flat-boned face and the other wiry and lithe. Both equally skilled as assassins and torturers. ‘Plakanos and Lagudes are the finest of my portatioi. They will leave in the morning.’

‘Leave? For where?’

‘For Chaldia, Master,’ Psellos grinned.

***

Apion, fresh from bathing after his morning run, ascended the creaking timber stairs to Trebizond’s citadel rooftop, the sun-warmed flagstones soothing his bare feet.

The summer morning sky was cloudless as usual, and up here there were no palms or awnings to provide shade, just the flitting shadow of circling gulls and storks and the salt-tang breeze from the sparkling, azure waters of the Pontus Euxinus, the great northern sea whose coastline the citadel was perched over like a sentinel. The setting did much to lift his soul. He knew the moment would be fleeting — as it always was — and made sure to enjoy it.

The flat rooftop was small — about the size of a modest bedchamber — with a crenelated edge and a ballista mounted at each corner. Several smaller fortified balconies jutted from the two floors below where the citadel widened towards its foundations, set in the bedrock of the grassy citadel hill. His gaze drifted on down the hill and into the lower city, across the broad main street, lined with still palms and packed with sweating faces, shouting wagon drivers, bawling traders, camels, oxen and mules — market day once again. Behind the sweltering masses stood the Church of Saint Andreas. Just looking at the church often triggered an unconscious response, and once again he found himself smoothing at the skin on his wrist where he had once worn a prayer rope, as devout as any of the people in the streets below. He sat down in a crenel at the southern edge of the roof, one leg anchored on the rooftop, then laid down the parcel and water skin he carried. As he shuffled to find a comfortable position, a sliver of steel from the edge of one of the mounted ballistae touched his neck. Despite it being sun-warmed, the sensation sent a shiver through him, and scattered the pleasant thoughts from his mind like a wolf amongst deer.

His gaze drifted past the skutatoi-lined city walls and on to the eastern horizon. Somewhere far beyond the cliffs and lush green woods of northern Chaldia, beyond the borders of the empire, somewhere deep in Seljuk lands, Maria lived on. Of that there was no longer any doubt. But shielding her like a sentinel was his son. A boy warped by anger.

In every dream, in every waking moment, with every step you take on the battlefield, you should beware. I will be coming for you, Haga. I will not stop.

He dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes tight. But in the blackness there, he found only more troubles. He had arrived back from Mosul in February only to hear of grim news from the lands of Chaldia and the surrounding themata. Poor harvests had brought famine in places, and tax revenue had suffered as a result. It seemed that the emperor had somehow managed to stave off these crises, finding funds to cover the loss of revenue and to bolster the themata armies, feeding the people and even putting on games in the capital. As always, Romanus was the beacon of hope.

This brought his thoughts to the as yet unattended task of mustering the men of Chaldia from their farms. Manuel Komnenos and his campaign army would be marching east soon, and Manuel had already sent messengers to Apion, pleading with him to bring as many Chaldians as he could. He sighed, resolving to begin the mustering later that day, then set about opening the food parcel he had brought with him.

Just then, something bolted up the stairs and out onto the rooftop. Something small. A flash of orange. Apion started, his gaze snapping round. But there was nothing there. He frowned, craning his neck to look behind the ballista, sensing something hiding behind there. Suddenly, a ginger and white paw shot round the base of the ballista, claws extended, batting at the timber. Apion’s frown melted into a grin.

‘You have followed me, Vilyam? In your adoration of me. . or in the hope of yet another feed?’ Apion’s thoughts drifted to the brave lad he had buried out there in the east. ‘Kaspax was right about you.’

As if incensed by this slight, Vilyam the tomcat poked his head from behind the ballista base and glared at Apion, whiskers twitching. With a somewhat demanding yowl he trotted into full view, up to Apion’s nearest leg, then his eyes narrowed to slits as he erupted into a chorus of purring, brushing his sun-warmed ginger and white coat back and forth against Apion’s shin. Then he leapt up, somewhat clumsily, onto the roof’s crenelated edge, his eyes fixed on the small parcel.

‘Ah, it is like that, I see,’ Apion chuckled, opening the parcel to reveal a round of fresh bread, a pot of honey and a small strip of salted duck meat. He put the duck meat before Vilyam, then tore at the bread, dipping it in the honey and enjoying the chewy sweetness before washing each mouthful down with cool water.

Vilyam rolled on the wall’s edge, purring shamelessly as Apion stroked his white belly. He made to take another sip of his water when he noticed a familiar sight, approaching on the road from the south. Kursores, riding at great haste.

Wordlessly, he corked his water skin, stood then flitted down through the citadel, descended the citadel hill and came to the squat, red brick barrack compound. Ducking under the narrow arched entrance into the stable yard at the rear of the barracks, he found Sha already with the two newly-arrived riders.

‘Seljuk raiders, more than two hundred of them. They have slaughtered the garrison at Argyropoulis and now they rampage across the farmlands to the south. Ghazi riders and a small pack of infantry — fierce soldiers with twin-headed spears.’

‘Daylamid spearmen,’ Apion said, recalling the rugged and ferocious hillmen of the Seljuk armies he had faced more than once. He strode forward from the shade of the archway. ‘They are holding Argyroupolis?’ he said, his thoughts fleeting with images of the dusty mountain town he had spent his first years of service in.

‘Strategos!’ the sentry saluted, straightening as he turned to Apion. ‘No, they have moved on but they shattered the gates, crippled the defences and slew every last soldier in there.’

Sha offered Apion a weary look. ‘There were only sixteen men garrisoning those walls, sir.’

‘And even that was more than we could afford, Tourmarches. Other settlements went with less watchmen — some even with none,’ Apion replied flatly. Then he turned back to the scout riders. ‘And the populace?’

‘They too were cut down. Some may have scattered and fled into the Parhar Mountains. But I rode through Argyroupolis’ streets, sir, it was a grave sight. . ’ his voice gave out and he looked to the dust before him.

Apion looked to the barrack sleeping blocks. Barely one hundred men were permanently garrisoned here, on watch atop the battlements, patrolling and policing the sweltering city streets or resting between shifts. A handful more men were garrisoning the other settlements, forts and outposts of Chaldia equally thinly, but the vast majority of the Chaldian army were at home, tilling their lands, and would take many weeks to muster.

‘We have, what, nine riders?’ he asked Sha.

‘Seven kataphractoi and these two scouts, sir, yes.’

‘Have them ready to ride by noon.’

He saw big Blastares emerge from the sleeping quarters just then, fresh from sleep and eager to know what was going on. Apion pointed to the city walls. ‘Blastares, pare the wall guard down from fifty to thirty men. Bring the other twenty here.’

Then he scruffed his beard, realising full-well that twenty nine men would have a hard time besting some two hundred raiding Seljuks, but that was all they could spare. He glanced to the eastern barrack wall and scanned the city skyline beyond it, and his gaze stuck on the tall grain silo and the supply storehouse beside it, where all the grain, meat, wine, honey, textiles and furs were kept. Then he glanced up to the citadel rooftop where he had been moments ago, his eyes locking onto the ballista there where he had eaten with Vilyam. An idea began to form.

He swivelled round to the barrack sleeping block again.

‘And will someone wake Procopius.’

***

Bey Kerim climbed atop the jagged rock to survey the land around him. From here he could see the surrounding valleys of southern Chaldia: burnt-gold and terracotta folds of land, studded with shrubs and beech thickets, shimmering in the heat haze of the late afternoon. Not a Byzantine soldier in sight. Not a sound in the air bar the trilling cicada song. Bey Taylan had sent them on ahead to disrupt this northern thema, and shield what was going on in Armenia and beyond. A plum task it had been, so far.

He had heard much of the tenacious border lord known as the Haga, and of his Chaldian forts and armies. ‘Pah!’ he swiped a hand through the air. ‘Crumbling towns with a few malnourished runts on the walls, barely able to lift their spears to my men?’ He chuckled at his own hubris, thinking back to the sack of the mountain town, Argyropoulis, the previous day. It had been a procession. He had spared the last few townsfolk until nightfall, only so he could enjoy watching them burn in the darkness while he ate like a king, draining the town’s remaining food supplies before laying waste to its defences. ‘This feared border lord’s reputation is somewhat exaggerated!’

He was interrupted from his reverie by the scuffling of feet and the grunting of men. He sighed, turning, knowing what he would set eyes upon. Indeed, down at the bottom of the rock where his men were camped on the flat ground, two burly, bearded daylami hillmen grappled with a pair of ghazi riders, kicking red dust up in their fracas. One of the daylami grappled a rider by the neck and proceeded to pummel him with a shower of punches. The other hillman seemed bested by his opponent; he was sprawling in the dust with the dark-locked and moustachioed ghazi rider pressing a knee to his neck. All around, the rest of his men bayed and snarled. Kerim sighed and scrambled down the rock, knowing he had to intervene now before it erupted into a miniature civil war. He distrusted the filthy hillmen as much as any of his fellow ghazis, but they had to be tolerated, at least for the remainder of this mission, or at least until he could find some parlous and unwinnable situation to throw them into.

‘Enough!’ he cried as he thumped down onto the flat ground, sweeping his scimitar from his scabbard and slicing it down into the ground between the two scuffling pairs. They broke apart, shrugging as if their bruises and cuts were painless, eyes glaring, refusing to be the first to look away.

The ghazi who had been on the end of the pummelling coughed and spat a gobbet of blood and phlegm into the dust. His nose was smashed and spread all across his face, and one eye had swollen over shut. Kerim mused over bringing out the lash for this one and his attacker. The words danced on his lips, but they were snatched away by a shout.

‘A wagon approaches!’

It was one of the men he had posted to a hilltop opposite.

Suddenly all of them, daylami and ghazi, were united by the prospect of easy plunder and probably some brutal torture of the wagon drivers. They needed little cajoling to clear the flat ground and line up on the hillsides like pincers. The ghazis stilled and quieted their mares, the daylami crouched behind rocks and shrubs, their two-pronged spears poised like fangs. Kerim licked his lips as he watched the bend ahead, hearing wheels grind on dust.

Then it appeared, bouncing as the wheels juddered over a small boulder. Two dark ponies hauled the open-topped cart carrying a canvas-covered heap of something round the bend in the hill, then they slowed in fright at the sight of nearly two hundred men flanking them. The wagon came to a halt.

Kerim gawped at it. For there was no wagon driver.

‘Bey Kerim, what is this?’ one of his men whispered.

One of the daylami had taken it upon himself to approach the vehicle, stalking forward, eyeing the canvas covering the wagon’s heaped contents warily. He looked to Kerim, who nodded his assent. If a Byzantine soldier leaps out of there and runs the bastard through, what do I care, he is only a daylami anyway?

The daylami swept the canvas back, braced, then cocked an eyebrow at the stack of amphorae there. He lifted one, plucking the cork from it. He sniffed the contents and threw his head back in laughter, before pouring a copious measure of the rich red wine into his mouth.

‘The drivers must have got wind of us and fled!’ he cried in delight, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Kerim frowned, uncertain, but his men did not wait on his verdict, instead sweeping down from the hillsides to take their share. Just as they were united by the prospect of slaughter and plunder, the ghazis and daylami once again came together in merriment. Red wine showered the air in place of blood, and cries of joy rang out in place of the screams of the stricken. Kerim mused over halting them, but he could see it had solved the problem of their quarrelling, and so he decided not to.

Soon, the sun began to fade, and almost every man bore ruddy-cheeks and hooded-eyes. All except Kerim. He drank slowly, still keen to ensure his men kept a vigilant watch, still making regular trips up to the top of the rock to scour the surrounding lands for himself and check the sentries were not asleep. His men laughed and joked like brothers, they shared rations, toasting bread and eating together, then as another round of amphorae were opened, they sang like a flock of gulls. It was then that Kerim’s resolve cracked. The land was as still and empty now as it had been that afternoon. He took up an amphorae and guzzled on it. Enjoy it as a conquering bey should! he enthused as the wine gripped his mind with a soft, welcome fuzziness.

***

It was well into night. Under cover of darkness and with their faces smeared with dirt, Apion and his trusted three shuffled on their bellies, snaking forward to the tip of the rock overlooking the Seljuk raiding party. The ghazi guard up here had long since fallen asleep, and then a blow to the temple from Blastares’ fist sent him into a slumber he would not wake from for many hours. The four then looked down on the chaotic scenes below.

In torchlight, one daylami stumbled in a stupor to pick up an amphorae, one handle already clutched by a slumped ghazi. The daylami tugged at the other handle, bringing the ghazi up onto his feet with a growl, but in their clumsiness, the pair clashed heads and crashed to the ground, groaning. Moments later, a ghazi decided he was a mite peckish, and tried to toast more bread over the fire. It was only when his sleeve caught fire that he realised this was a bad idea.

Blastares chuckled, ‘I’ve never been so glad to be sober.’ Then he looked to Sha, Procopius and finally to Apion. ‘I’d say now was about the right time, sir?’

‘Agreed. Ready?’ Apion nodded.

His trusted three nodded back. Sha lifted a small rock. Heavy enough to throw some distance. The Malian winked as if drawing a fine composite bow, then hefted the stone back and hurled it. The four ducked down, only their eyes peering over the ridge of the hill once more. The rock thwacked into the back of a daylami trying to empty his bladder. The big hillman yelped then roared, spinning round, his robe soaked in his own urine. His eyes scanned those sitting around, then he stabbed a finger out at the closest ghazi. ‘You, you think. . thish. . ish funny?’ he slurred.

Blastares’ desperately pursed lips and watering eyes suggested the answer should be yes. Apion kept his gaze fixed on the pair below. The ghazi riders from the steppes hated the daylami, and the feeling was mutual.

The ghazi shrugged, bemused. Then, when the daylami strode forward, a cluster of ghazis rushed to stand with their comrade. Likewise, a bunch of daylami crowded round their man. Insults were hurled between the two opposing halves of this swaying, wild-eyed Seljuk warband. Apion found some of the insults beyond his comprehension of the Seljuk tongue, but he did make out one man threaten to kick another’s genitals so hard that he would be able to fellate himself. Then the quarrelling voices were interrupted by another sound; the screeching of scimitars being drawn, the growl of the daylami as they took up their twin-pronged spears. Then the two sides advanced towards one another.

It was only when one square-jawed man — the leader of the warband, Apion reckoned. — stepped in between the two groups, that the approaching parties halted.

‘Silence!’ the man tried to calm his charges, hefting a barbed whip in the air. ‘The next man to make a move will feel the wrath of my — ’

Apion sensed the moment. ‘Now!’

At once, Sha hurled another rock. This time it crashed against the forehead of the urine-soaked daylami. There was a hiatus of disbelief and sour glares. Then, at once, the Seljuk camp erupted in chaos. Men screamed, blades clashed, blood sprayed. They fought like desert dogs until swathes had fallen and eventually the ghazis’ numerical advantage told. The last of the daylami toppled to the earth, his gut ripped open and his steaming entrails toppling to the dust. It was only the brutal reality of what they had done that brought sobriety to the remaining ghazis at last. More than half of their number lay in bloodied heaps, still or groaning, moments from death. Now some of the steppe riders slumped to their knees, dropping their swords, bowing to the earth or clutching their hearts in penance and prayer. Apion felt a black guilt touch him for what he had done; just a single word to loose a rock, and nearly one hundred men were dead. He tried instead to focus on what had happened at Argyroupolis because of those men.

‘And now, sir?’ Sha asked.

Apion firmed his jaw. The black work was not yet complete. ‘And now, we finish it,’ he said, then nodded to Procopius. Without a word, the old tourmarches slipped back from the ridge, taking Blastares with him.

***

Half of his men lay dead around him. Every daylami and thirty six ghazi too. Bey Kerim shuddered, wondering what might happen if Bey Taylan found out what had happened here. No, he reasoned, he had plenty of time to fabricate a report of some ambush or other that would account for the loss of the daylami. As the stench of blood wafted up from the corpses around him, he scowled. ‘Come now, let us be swift, let us be away from this filthy camp before the crows come to feast at dawn. Let us go further westwards to see what more bounty Chaldia has to offer!’

His men broke out in a cheer, and a smile grew on his face once more. Then he heard a crunching of cart wheels on dust round the base of the nearest hill. . again.

Without need of a word from their bey, his remaining ghazis swiftly took up their weapons, some drawing scimitars, others nocking bows, some leaping onto horseback, ready to charge this unseen vehicle.

Kerim frowned, his eyes locking onto the wagon that rolled round the bend, trying to discern some detail in the pre-dawn gloom. Again, two ponies led it. No drivers in sight, just a canvas-covered heap in the wagon itself, as before. It stopped next to the wine wagon. ‘What is this? What is this?’

A few ghazis made to approach the wagon, but Kerim barked them back. ‘No!’ he roared. ‘Nobody touches it this time, except me!’ He strode forward, reaching up to lift the canvas, fingers outstretched. But he froze. Had something moved under there?

Suddenly, the canvas was yanked back from his open hand. No amphorae. Just a loaded ballista and two Byzantine soldiers. One with an anvil jaw, built like a bull, one smaller with a face like a shrivelled prune. Both glowered darkly at Kerim, eyes part-shaded under their conical helms. Kerim’s last thought was snatched from his mind before it could fully form as the ballista loosed the first of its three bolts. The missile passed through him as though he was not there. Swaying, he touched a hand to the ruin that was his chest, and noticed the absence of a heartbeat. With that, Bey Kerim crumpled into the blackness of death.

***

Apion watched the ballista bolt ruin the ghazi leader and skewer another man behind him. As soon as their shock had faded, the rest of the ghazis cried out, stretching their bows, all aimed at the two on the scorpion wagon.

Now! Apion mouthed, looking to the other end of the rocky valley behind the angered Seljuks. Sixteen skutatoi flooded into the flatland there. They jogged forward, kite-shields interlocked, eyes glaring between the tops of their shields and the rims of their helms, spears jutting forward like fangs. They roared out in unison; ‘Nobiscum Deus!’ Behind them, just four toxotai kept pace, nocking arrows to their bows and loosing onto the befuddled ghazi warband. Now, some of the ghazis turned their bows to this miniature phalanx. Arrows were loosed en masse, but the skutatoi shields held firm, just a pair of men falling to the hail as they advanced. Then the spearmen rippled at the call from the man leading them.

‘Rhiptaria. . loose!’

As one, the skutatoi hoisted and threw a volley of the light rhiptarion javelins they carried. The missiles sailed into the ghazis and punched several from their mounts. On the other side of the Seljuks, the ballista bucked and spat another bolt, scything down another four riders. Ghazi arrows pattered onto the wagon all around Blastares and Procopius, but the pair were adept at loading the device whilst sheltering behind its bulk.

The vice was taut, Apion realised. Wordlessly, he waved Sha and the nine other ironclad riders — just a few paces downhill behind him — to their feet and onto their nearby mounts. Likewise, he leapt onto the saddle of his gelding. He clipped his mail veil across his face, then roared with all the breath in his lungs, to be sure that every Seljuk down there heard;

‘Forwaaard!’

The cry echoed and multiplied. He swept his spear overhead, urging his riders down the hillside and directly at the flank of the ghazis. Sitting as far back as he could in his saddle to balance, he grappled his mount’s sides as tightly as he could with his thighs, the beast’s every stride covering vast distances of the close-to-sheer slope. He glanced up and over his shoulder to see his riders, the first tinge of dawn light glinting on their klibania and helms, their faces twisted, mouths agape in battle-cries, cloaks and plumes billowing behind them, their mounts’ eyes white and wide, teeth bared, manes thrashing. Not a single rider had foundered.

The first of the ghazis twisted to look up the steep hillside. His brow knitted in a frown, then his eyes bulged and his mouth opened to cry aloud. The cry did not come, as the kataphractoi ploughed a gory furrow through their ranks. Apion saw the dark door rush for him, crash open and swallow him into its fiery belly. He drove his spear through one ghazi, then threw it at another, knocking the man from his horse. Then he whipped his scimitar from his belt and wheeled around, striking heads from shoulders, dashing skulls open and cutting bodies open at haste. Finally, there were no snarling men before him save his own bloodstained ranks. He stared at the twitching corpses all around him, numb to the dying embers of the fight and the fading flames beyond the dark door, dead to the cries of victory from his own men.

‘Ha-ga! Ha-ga! Ha-ga!’

***

A muggy summer’s night bathed the city of Trebizond and the streets were quiet. High up in the citadel chambers, only cricket-song from the grassy mount outside broke the silence. Apion sat in the map room in his lightest tunic, his chair tilted back against the red-brick walls, his legs and bare feet up on the table, mindless of the map of Chaldia and the small, carved wooden skutatoi and kataphractoi figures carefully laid out there. A scent of roasted goat meat and yoghurt still tinged the room from his evening meal. His gaze hung on the small, arched window that looked out over the city. Pure darkness bar the torchlight from a few homes. He supped on his wine and shuffled for comfort, one wooden figure toppling over from its carefully appointed spot on the map table.

Apion eyed the piece with disdain. ‘Cah! Planning can wait until morning,’ he muttered. It had been a long day spent huddled over the map with Sha, Blastares and Procopius. The four had shared their thoughts on the raiding party: had it been a lone band, or the first of many? Nobody could offer a convincing answer. Then they had tried as best they could to revise where their scant numbers would be garrisoned for the rest of the year. Even scanter given the eight men lost in the skirmish two days ago. In the end it had been like trying to clothe a beggar in a single thread. And they had still to discuss how to go about mustering the rest of the men of Chaldia from their farms to join Manuel Komnenos and his campaign army — thought to now be marching for the Thema of Sebastae, readying to set up a semi-permanent fort there to ward off any Seljuk incursions from the south or the east. Summoning the Chaldians from their farms was one thing, but getting them in good fighting order within the next six weeks would be another entirely. A throbbing headache blossomed behind one eye.

Just then, like a straggler from a marauding Seljuk horde, Vilyam scampered into the room, purring. The ginger tom then leapt — rather ungracefully — up onto the table, trotting across the map to bat playfully at the wooden pieces left standing. Heedless of the symbolism, the portly cat then took to grappling one piece between his two front paws and collapsing onto his side, biting at the wooden figure’s head while kicking at the other end with his back paws, his tail swishing and thumping, sweeping the last few pieces clear of the table.

Apion glared at the cat in horror, then when Vilyam looked up, eyes hooded in pleasure at such wanton destruction, he jostled with laughter. ‘Are you telling me our defensive plans were flawed?’ As if in some form of reply, Vilyam stood and hurried along the table, over Apion’s outstretched legs and onto his lap, where he shuffled and settled in a ball, purring furiously.

Apion stroked Vilyam’s ears and supped at his wine once more. He had been too weary to seek out water to dilute this, one of the few amphorae they had brought back after ambushing the Seljuk raid. But he had sworn to limit himself to just one cup of the heady mixture, sending his trusted three back down to the barracks to share the rest with the other men. Yet this one cup was proving to be a potent ration. As the night wore on, the mugginess eased and he felt a slight chill touch his skin. Drawing his cloak over his shoulders and sweeping part round onto his legs and lap to cover Vilyam too, he felt drowsiness come to him. It was a blessing that his thoughts then began to melt away, gently entranced by the cricket melody, Vilyam’s purring and the soothing warmth of the wine. His thoughts drifted and memories surfaced — pleasant ones, for once. He imagined the cloak’s warmth as Maria’s. At last, sleep took him.

Blackness. Pure, dreamless sleep. Then all around him swirled and was swept away. He found himself standing face to face with Taylan once more. His son raised a blade like an accusing finger, and his words from that meeting echoed once more;

‘In every dream, in every waking moment, with every step you take on the battlefield, you should beware. I will be coming for you, Haga. I will not stop.’

A rhythmic growl penetrated the blackness. It was faint at first, then it grew fearsome.

The veil of sleep dropped away and Apion awoke, blinking. His mouth was parched and the wine cup had toppled to the floor. It was now pitch black outside — the last of the street side torches having been extinguished. Then, the growl came again, vibrating through his body.

‘Vilyam?’ he croaked. The ginger cat was poised on Apion’s knee, having wriggled clear of the cloak. His eyes were wide, ears back, hips shuffling and tensed to spring. Apion followed the cat’s nocturnal glare into the blackness around the window.

‘At ease,’ he chuckled, ‘what harm can a mouse or a bat do you?’

But when the cat reared up, hair spiked, emitting a hiss that split the night air, Apion saw it. A brief glimmer of steel in the blackness, sweeping down for him. He threw himself from his chair, his ankle catching a table leg and sending the table and its contents scattering across the room. He heard the crack of shattering timber and scrabbled round to see the splintered remnant of his chair, cleaved by a blade. Hurrying to the back wall of the chamber he saw the shadow that carried the blade.

‘What the. . who are you?’ he uttered. The images from his dream were still at the forefront of his thoughts. ‘Taylan? No!’

The figure did not respond, instead stalking carefully towards him, blade rising to strike.

Apion squared his jaw. ‘Tayl-’ he uttered again.

At that moment, he heard the gruff laughter of the shadowy figure, and saw the blade in a sliver of moonlight. A spathion. This was no Seljuk.

Apion ducked and the spathion blade scythed round, streaking across the bricks where his neck had been a heartbeat ago. Orange sparks flew in the air, illuminating the assassin’s face for an instant. A heavy-browed, flat-faced creature, clenched teeth nestled in a bushy dark beard. He also spotted the knotted rope and steel hook the man had used to scale the citadel wall and climb in the window. Apion heard the assassin grunting and the blade whooshing up to strike again. He kicked out, feeling his heel crack against the man’s knee. A yowl of pain sounded and Apion leapt up and headed for the door, Vilyam rushing with him.

His mind reeled. What a fool! he scolded himself. To fall foul of the wine only days after seeing it bring the Seljuk warband to their end. My sword, my armour? he fretted, looking this way and that down the short, stony corridor outside. Amidst his flurry of thoughts, he remembered stowing his armour in his bedchamber, two nights ago. He rushed past the narrow stairwell that led to the citadel rooftop and on to the small bedchamber doorway that lay just beyond it. But, to his horror, another shadow waited there — this time wiry and lean. It stalked towards him, raising a dagger. Apion backed away from this one, but sensed the hulking assassin coming for him from behind. Nowhere to run except up. He sped up the stairs and onto the rooftop, his eyes at once locking onto the nearest ballista mounted there, glinting in the moonlight. He hefted up one of the unwieldy bolts resting beside the device and levelled it like a spear, spinning round just as the two assassins emerged onto the rooftop as well. He shot a glance over the rooftop battlements. Down below, he saw the lifeless forms of the four guard skutatoi posted at the citadel gate, and another lying in a shattered, unnatural poise — doubtless the corpse of the man posted to this rooftop.

‘Sha!’ he cried down towards the barracks. Dark and silent like the rest of the city.

‘Nobody will save you now, Haga!’ the burly assassin hissed.

‘Shall we gut him, or send him over the edge?’ the other said.

‘Both?’ the big one chuckled icily.

Apion backed away from the pair who held their blades like well-trained swordsmen. His ballista bolt was a clumsy weapon — not quite a spear and not nearly as nimble as a sword. His thoughts were yanked away as his heel struck the crenelated edge of the rooftop. From the corner of his eye, he noticed torchlight sparking into life down below at the barracks. Someone had heard his shout, but he had only moments to live.

The two assassins braced to rush him when suddenly, with a yowl, Vilyam leapt up from behind the burly one, clamping to the back of the man’s head and wrapping his claws around to tear at his eyes. The assassin roared out, throwing the cat off, clutching at his bloodied eyes, blinded and staggering.

Apion realised he had moments before the big man recovered. He wasted no time in rushing forward to drive his ballista bolt at the other assassin’s chest. But the wiry one was swift, leaping back from the huge, iron head of the bolt and striking down at the shaft with his dagger hilt to throw Apion off balance.

Staggering, Apion just managed to bring the bolt shaft round to parry the man’s next blow, the dagger blade scoring Apion’s hand, sending the bolt toppling from his grip. The wiry assassin grinned as the pair circled one another, then he swiped out, the dagger scoring Apion’s face. Only a sharp punch to the man’s gut stopped him from turning the blade down and into Apion’s neck.

When shouting and the clattering of rising footsteps from inside the citadel sounded, the man became more desperate, lunging forward. Apion crabbed away from the lunge so the assassin bundled past him. Then he brought his elbow crashing round on the back of the man’s head. Stunned, the man swung round, only for Apion to take up the fallen ballista bolt, drive forward and plunge the shaft into the wiry assassin’s chest. The blunt force shattered the man’s sternum, lodging there and sending him staggering backwards towards the roof’s edge. He stopped there, swaying, rasping, blood dribbling from his lips as he glared at the now weaponless Apion. With a look of finality, he raised his dagger, clutching it by the blade, and drew an arm back to hurl it at Apion. But a thrum of loosed bowstrings saw the hand and dagger stilled. Two blazing arrows whacked into the assassin’s chest, and in moments his black garb was ablaze. The assassin emitted a shrill, pained death rattle, before toppling over the roof’s edge. An instant of silence passed before a thick, wet crunch sounded below.

Apion gawped at the spot where the man had stood, then swung to the top of the stairwell. Sha stood there, panting, his loosed bow clutched with trembling knuckles. A toxotes was with him, bow clutched in similar fashion, and Procopius stood behind them carrying a torch.

‘The other?’ Apion croaked, swinging round to scan the rooftop.

‘Sir?’ Sha cocked an eyebrow.

‘There was another one — a brute of a man!’ Apion growled this time.

‘We saw only one, sir,’ Procopius frowned.

Apion’s gaze caught on the iron hook wrapped over the edge of the rooftop, grinding and sliding as if under great weight. ‘No, look, there!’ he pointed and rushed over. The others joined him. Down there, near the ground, the hulking assassin shuffled down a rope tied to the iron hook, then leapt down to land on the grassy citadel hillside. Without waiting for an order, Sha nocked and loosed an arrow, the toxotes following suit.

‘Wound him!’ Apion insisted. ‘We won’t get much information from the other fellow.’

The arrows smacked down at the assassin’s heels as he bounded down the citadel hillside. Blastares and a clutch of skutatoi were flooding from the barracks, racing for the citadel’s main entrance. But they were blind to the man’s flight and confused by Procopius’ shouts to alert them. The assassin went unharmed by Sha’s next arrow, then clambered over the squat outer wall of the citadel and out into the lower town. A heartbeat later, the whinnying of a horse and the clopping of hooves sounded as the man sped off along the main way towards the southern city gates.

Wordlessly, Apion led his men down the stairs, raced to meet with Blastares and his men and waved them with him. They rushed along the main way, seeing the handful of night sentries posted along the street startled by the racing horseman.

‘Stop him!’ Apion cried.

But the sentries’ attentions were snared by something else. The horseman took to tossing in his wake handfuls of coins. The coins bounced and jangled as they spread across the street, and the sentries slowed, spellbound by their lustre. Many crouched, scooping up what they could. Apion slowed at that moment, seeing that the side hatch by the main southern gate was already ajar and the skutatoi atop the gatehouse lay slumped and lifeless.

‘Sir, come on, if we get our mounts from the stables then we can-’ Sha started.

‘We will not catch him,’ Apion panted, ‘he has planned this well.’ He stalked over to one coin that the night sentries had missed. He offered these men a dark scowl, and saw the shame in their nervous eyes. ‘In any case, we do not need to catch him to find out who his master is.’ Apion held the coin so it caught the light of Procopius’ torch. The pure-gold nomisma sparkled like a dawn ray.

Apion’s jaw clenched. Psellos!

‘Then what should we do?’ Blastares asked, his sword hand clenching and unclenching.

Apion’s eyes darted, thinking of Manuel Komnenos and his campaign army. If Psellos was at work once more, then he would not have confined himself merely to an assassination. ‘We should bring the mustering forward with haste. I want the fighting men of the thema readied to march for Sebastae by the end of the month.’

***

The streets of Constantinople baked in the summer heat. Babbling crowds writhed in the dockside fish market. A small dromon with a single bank of oars pulled away from the nearby Harbour of Theodosius, leaving behind the hubbub and the foaming, murky waters lapping at the wharf side. Under oar, the ship manoeuvred into the turquoise waters of the Propontus, then the crew hurried to unfurl the purple sail, pulling the boat westwards, skirting the city’s southern sea walls and heading towards the green Thracian countryside. Soon the city was but a speck on the eastern horizon.

Psellos stood at the prow of the vessel. Yet he could not enjoy the fresh winds and the gentle noises of the sea, for his chest lesion seared as though a white-hot brand was being pressed to it. It had spread further, he was sure, now covering all of his chest and weeping almost constantly. Great boils had formed over it and just this morning, he had tried to lance one; blood and yellow pus had poured from it, and then a chunk of flesh had come away too. Just a small piece about the size of his fingertip — but it was rotten like spoiled food. Beads of cold sweat scampered down his back at the memory.

What did you do to me, witch? he fretted, remembering the silver-haired old crone whose touch had spawned the lesion.

‘I cannot wait to see his gawping, severed head,’ a gruff voice interrupted his thoughts.

Psellos swung round to John Doukas, clad in white silks blemished by dark perspiration stains. He wore the look of a man about to sit down to an imperial banquet. His eyes were fixed dreamily on the shoreline, seeking out their destination.

‘The Haga must surely have put up a fight. How did you say they killed him?’ John asked, his eyes sparkling like a child’s. ‘Tell me.’

Psellos considered his response carefully. ‘Plakanos’ message only said that the job was done.’

‘Where did you say the meeting point was?’ John asked.

‘We’re almost there.’ Psellos flicked his eyes to the shoreline: shingle beach then thick forestation beyond, with no signs of farms or settlements nearby.

A fine salt-spray whipped over them as they approached a small, timber jetty. Storks picked their way through the shallows here, bills chattering and occasionally spearing into the water to catch fish. ‘Hmm, do you think it was wise to bring only two men?’ John nodded past the ranks of rowers to the two numeroi spearmen. They were clad in fine pure-white tunics, iron klibania hugging their torsos, purple cloaks draped over their shoulders and scale-aventailed helms protecting their heads and necks. Each man carried a kite shield — purple with a white Christian Cross in the centre — and was armed with the finest of spears and spathion blades.

‘I think we will be fine,’ Psellos said, his eyes narrowing.

When they docked, Psellos, John and the two numeroi spearmen filed out onto the jetty, wandered up the patchy grass of the shore side to a small timber hut nestled by a thicket of hornbeam trees. A gentle breeze tickled the leaves into a chorus of rustling and a flock of starlings shot to the sky, startled by the newcomers.

Psellos raised a hand to halt his retinue.

He peered at the door of the ramshackle hut. It creaked open ever so slowly. A hulking giant peered out, eyes darting furtively. This one was his finest assassin. The man who had taken over the mantle from Zenobius after that albino agent had been killed on his mission to slay Romanus Diogenes in Syria. Despite his flat-boned, brutish appearance, Plakanos had a shrewd mind, and he had barely suffered a scratch in his duties so far — murdering and sabotaging then fading like a morning mist. But Psellos noticed that Plakanos’ eyelids and cheeks were a mesh of scabs and scars, and the whites of his eyes were bloodshot and bleary.

‘Advisor, your strongest assassin seems to have had a run-in with. . a cat?’ John said, chuckling derisively.

Psellos shot his puppet a sour look, then flicked his gaze back to the assassin. ‘It is done? The Haga is dead?’

Plakanos’ eyes darted and a bead of sweat forked across his heavy brow. ‘No. He lives.’

‘So you failed me?’ Psellos said then spluttered with incredulous laughter. ‘You failed me and returned to tell me. You, a man who knows full well what happens to those who fail me?’

It was then that the trees rustled again. Seven men in black cloaks and dark-red tunics emerged and stood in an arc with Plakanos. More portatioi. ‘My men? What are you doing here?’ Psellos asked.

‘No, my men,’ Plakanos said, his shoulders squaring and his demeanour changing. Slowly and silently, the other portatioi drew out weapons from behind their backs. One held a nocked solenarion bow, another a small crossbow. One patted a spiked mace menacingly and the others carried clubs and blades. As if reflecting this turn of events, a cluster of grey cloud crossed over the sun, dulling the land and lending just a mite of chill to the coastal breeze. ‘Your time is over, Advisor,’ Plakanos grinned.

‘No!’ Psellos gasped. He looked to the equally panicked John, then to his two startled numeroi, then to Plakanos and the closing arc of portatioi agents. ‘No!’ he cried again. But this time the cry was overly-theatrical, and it tapered off with a throaty chuckle.

Plakanos halted, frowning.

Psellos flicked a finger and the seven with Plakanos suddenly turned on the giant, one striking him on the back of his head with a club. The giant gawped momentarily, realising they were, indeed, Psellos’ men. Then he toppled to the patchy grass, unconscious.

‘It was as you suspected, Master,’ the club-wielding assassin spoke in a sibilant tone to Psellos. ‘He summoned us here, tried to rally us against you.’

‘Too shrewd, it seems,’ Psellos glowered down the length of his nose at Plakanos’ prone form. ‘Dispose of him, and make it slow.’

‘I have been planning how we might do this all morning, Master. Then I remembered that Plakanos once told me of the recurring nightmare he suffers. A nightmare of creatures feasting on his flesh. . ’ the club-wielder grinned and nodded as he ushered the other portatioi to lift Plakanos. They carried their colleague over to a hump of raised earth and placed him beside it, staking his wrists and ankles. One of them tore Plakanos’ tunic from his body. Another brought out a jar of honey, then began smearing the viscous substance onto Plakanos’ face, all across his torso and around his genitals. The big man was just coming too when he heard them beating at the hump of earth with sticks. He regained consciousness fully just in time to realise what was happening. In seconds, angered ants flooded from their nest under the hump of earth. Myriad creatures, bodies dark and glistening like some nightmarish horde. They swamped Plakanos’ skin in moments, and the brutish assassin could only scream with all the power in his lungs as they went to work, devouring the honey, then his skin and flesh. Plakanos’ cries were terrible. He thrashed and his limbs strained at the roped stakes, but to no avail. His eyes bulged and seemed set to burst clear of his head. But the ants flooded across his face unimpeded, a cloud of them rushing into his open mouth and nostrils and many more setting to work upon his eyeballs. His screaming grew intense and then fell away, replaced by choking, grunting noises. As the ant-covered mass of Plakanos writhed in the background, John and Psellos turned away, looking back along the coastline to the distant outline of Constantinople.

‘So the Haga lives on?’ John growled.

‘The Haga’s head will be ours in time, Master.’

But John’s lips began to twitch. ‘The Haga lives and Diogenes and his bitch remain unchallenged as the toast of the empire.’

‘That Diogenes continues to cower in his palace should not concern you, Master,’ Psellos replied.

‘It is not his palace, Advisor,’ John spat.

‘No, he has merely bought himself a stay in your rightful home. By lavishing funds on the games and on the armies of the themata, his stock has risen and his failures on the battlefield have been forgiven.’

‘Yet the cur has no vaults of gold, no limitless wealth,’ John said.

‘No, but he has enough. Enough to allow him this single year of respite from campaign. My spies have been more successful than my assassins. They tell me that he has sold off his manors and great tracts of his family’s lands in Cappadocia to pay for his initiatives. He will very soon be a pauper. He means only to have this year in the capital to plan.’

John’s pupils narrowed like a preying cat. ‘To plan? To plan for what?’

‘To lead a campaign grander than any other. Next year, he hopes to raise the greatest army the empire has ever witnessed and to secure the empire’s borders. . and along with them, the glory that will cement his place on the throne.’

John’s eyes darted in panic as he considered this. ‘With the revitalised themata, the imperial tagmata and mercenaries too he might well raise an army as vast as — ’

‘You forget, Master, that I am always a step ahead of Diogenes,’ Psellos cut him off, ushering him back towards the dromon. ‘The themata armies he has poured so much gold into are currently on campaign. They march under the banner of Manuel Komnenos.’ He leaned a little closer to whisper in John’s ear. ‘And we both know how hazardous a campaign can be.’