Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

11. Under Darkening Skies

Cydones sniffed at the peach and a smile spread across his face. He squeezed the fruit gently. ‘Ripe as a young lady’s. . ’

‘We’ll take three,’ Apion cut in, tossing three folles to the stallholder.

The pair stepped out from under the stall’s awning and back into the grey autumn morning that hung over the Forum of the Ox. The scent of roasting meat, honey and spices hung in the air as they took in their surroundings again.

Sitting in a valley, the forum was overlooked by the city’s third and seventh hills. The square itself was hemmed in by vine-clad porticoes which were packed with stalls, workshops and traders selling their wares. At the western end of the forum was a towering arched gallery, housing a grand statue of Constantine the Great and his Mother Helena clutching at a gilded Cross.

Apion led Cydones towards the centre of the forum, manoeuvring through the throng of shoppers and traders. They were followed closely by the four varangoi Igor had assigned to protect them. The pair stopped by a clutch of Judas trees clustered around a babbling fountain, the golden-brown leaves piling around the roots where they had fallen and some floating on the fountain’s waters.

They sat and munched into their fruit.

‘When I used to live here as a lad,’ Cydones pointed vaguely to the centre of the forum, ‘they said there used to be a hollow bronze statue of an ox, right about there. Do you know why it was hollow?’

Apion shrugged absently.

Cydones leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. ‘Because the people used to gather to watch as Christians were bundled inside the belly. Kindling and brush would be lit underneath, and then they would be incinerated alive, their screams echoing across the city.’ The old man shook his head.

‘We are a knotted rope of contradiction,’ Apion mused, brushing at the stigma on his forearm and the white band of skin where his prayer rope had once been tied. His fruit seemed less ripe all of a sudden. Then he noticed another furtive glance from the nearest of the four varangoi; they were afraid. Now the peach tasted almost sour and he stopped chewing.

Another doux had been killed the previous day, mutilated under the hooves and wheels of a trade wagon as he strolled the city streets. The wagon driver was discovered later that night, emasculated, eviscerated and left in a dank alley for the rats to feed upon. He cast his gaze around the forum; the spearmen of the numeroi posted at each street corner and atop the higher buildings wore stern grimaces. But he was sure he caught more than one of them glancing at the four varangoi.

‘Eat,’ Cydones sighed, wiping peach juice from his lips. ‘If someone wishes to cut off our balls and gut us then they will. But they’ll have to get through those axemen first!’

Apion cocked an eyebrow at the old man’s turn of phrase. ‘I do not fear being slain, sir. You know me better than that. I merely worry that Eudokia’s fears will come to pass.’ He thought of the evening a few days past when he, Cydones and Dederic had dined with Eudokia, Igor and a select few of the doukes and strategoi whom Eudokia seemed to trust. She had laid out her concerns and intimated to each of them that tough weeks and months lay ahead. ‘She has the loyalty of the patriarch, but he is just one man and his followers are few. The people claim piety but seem to favour Psellos and the games and races he funds. The Varangoi are loyal to her also, but there are only a few hundred posted around the city and less than fifty in the palace. Meanwhile, Psellos can call upon the thousands of spears of the Numeroi at any time he wishes.

‘So why does he not force home his massive numerical advantage?’ Cydones summarised Apion’s question.

‘Exactly. The palace could be taken within a morning.’

‘This is true,’ Cydones nodded, licking his fingers and tossing the peach stone to the ground for the birds. ‘But it would be a short-lived victory. Yes, the Numeroi could easily force home the wills of Psellos and see John and Michael seize the throne permanently. But that would incite many more thousands of spears to converge on this city. The themata armies of Lykandos and Paphlagonia would come to avenge any such act, for their strategoi have been slain. Nilos, the Strategos of Opsikon, is loyal to his core — he too would rouse his armies to march against Psellos. Then there are the imperial tagmata, stationed across the Bosphorus. Many thousands of the finest soldiers the empire has to offer — their loyalty is unknown and it would undoubtedly be tested should such a coup occur. The balance is too fine to risk a coup as things stand.’

Apion nodded, smiling. At times, old Cydones’ mind was still as sharp as a blade. ‘Aye, I know this. But ambition clouds the minds of men. I fear that ambition might drive Psellos to take that risk.’

Cydones frowned. ‘I have met that snake only briefly in my time here, and yes, I could smell the ambition seeping from his pores. You are right to be wary of him, not the members of the Doukas family he controls or the thousands of blades he can call upon. For it is the head of the snake that bears the fangs. But Psellos is a cool and shrewd individual. He will not take that risk until the time is right. I am sure of it.’

Apion chewed on the last piece of flesh from his peach, tossed the stone to the ground and washed it down with a swig from his skin of well-watered wine. ‘Then it is all we can do to maintain the balance. We must ensure Psellos cannot either slay the remaining strategoi and doukes loyal to Eudokia or buy those whose hearts are venal before Romanus Diogenes arrives.’

Cydones turned to him, his sightless eyes bright as a smile stretched across his lined features. ‘Aye, and you have it in your power to do that, Apion. Stay alive, stay true, and Psellos will be thwarted!’

Just then, a sweet aroma of roasted lamb and garlic wafted over them. They looked up. Dederic was wandering over to them, carrying with him a clay pot. He scraped the remaining stew from it, licking at his spoon. There was something about Dederic’s swagger that Apion appreciated — as if he cared little for the threat that hung on these streets. The Norman reminded him greatly of Sha, Blastares and Procopius, and it warmed him to know that he had found another with a good heart. Dederic had seemed buoyed by his daily dawn runs at the Hippodrome and Apion hoped that by introducing him to the routine, he had helped the man find some peace of mind.

Just then, a fussing varangos tried to usher Dederic back to where Apion and Cydones sat, but Dederic ignored this, glancing to a brass sundial, then frowning and looking to the sky. The grey clouds were darkening in a portent of rain.

‘It must be close to noon, sir. Should we not be heading back, for the gathering?’

Apion tossed the remaining peach to the Norman. ‘Aye, we should. And I must say, I do wonder if I’ve been anticipating anything with less joy.’

Dederic grinned at this, catching the fruit.

Cydones groaned as he stood, then a wry grin spread across his face. ‘Indeed! I’d rather face a hundred thousand Seljuks with a wooden sword — splinters on the handle, no less.’

The three chuckled at this, then strode back through the crowd towards the palace, flanked by the varangoi. The first splodges of rain stained the streets before them as they walked.

As the rain grew heavier, Apion snatched glances to the top of the portico from under a furrowed brow.

The numeroi were watching his every footstep.

***

The rain thundered on the palace roof and echoed throughout the main hall. But Eudokia’s words boomed over this din;

‘On the first day of the new year of our lord, the souls of God’s empire will gather to watch as noble Romanus Diogenes joins me in marriage. The empire will have a new leader, a new man who will act under God’s will to see our people prosper and our borders secure.’

There were ninety men in her audience. They had set down their klibania, helms and weapons at the gates of the palace and wore only boots, tunics and cloaks. These were the doukes of the provincial tagmata and the strategoi of the themata together with their closest aides. Men who commanded armies of thousands, to victory or death. They listened intently.

Apion stood with Cydones and Dederic. He watched Eudokia as she spoke frankly, her gaze icy. He wondered how many people had ever seen that gaze melt. Few, he reckoned. He had seen it for those precious few moments on the rooftop portico. He had seen it again when they had dined as a group and she had offered him a ghost of a warm smile. No wonder she was so guarded, he thought, given that she had lived in the presence of Psellos and his ilk for so long. Apion furtively eyed the squat, hawk-faced old man who was standing beside Eudokia, his hands clasped and a peaceable expression on his features. Ostensibly, the pair represented imperial unity. But his eyes — his eyes were scouring the room like a predator’s, as if seeking out those who had not yet pledged their allegiance to him.

Beside Apion stood Nilos, the strategos of the Opsikon Thema. The big, bearded Greek had embraced him warmly when they had first been introduced over a week past. Ah, the Haga — the legend of the borderlands! But when Apion changed the subject to Psellos’ background, he became guarded, his eyes darting as he spoke.

A leech! The strategos had hissed under his breath. The man is a damned leech who seeks puppets for the imperial throne! If you seek reasons for the decline of your borderlands, Haga, then the foremost of them is Psellos.

Apion realised he was staring at Psellos, and that Psellos was staring back with added intensity. He turned to Eudokia and focused on her words.

‘There should be no doubt in your minds,’ Eudokia continued, ‘that imperial taxes will no longer be squandered on embellishment of the capital or bloating of imperial court bureaucracy.’ A rumble of approval broke the silence of the crowd.

Apion could not help but notice Psellos’ eyes narrowing at this, darting to a handful of faces in the crowd. Apion glanced sideways to those targeted. One, a young doux, seemed cowed by Psellos’ glare and offered a faint nod. Another doux, a wiry, older man with an eyepatch, seemed to hold Psellos’ pinched glare momentarily. Apion felt a glow of hope at this, but then the wiry man’s forehead broke out in a sweat, then he gulped and dropped his gaze to the floor, offering another faint nod. Psellos then turned his gaze on Nilos, who returned the glare, squaring his jaw. Nilos did not yield, and Apion’s heart lifted at this. But Nilos was only one man.

Apion leant to one side, where Cydones and Dederic stood. ‘It is as we thought,’ he whispered. ‘Psellos seeks to tip the balance.’

Cydones’ sightless eyes gazed far into the distance. ‘Aye, treachery is in the air,’ he agreed, his nose wrinkling. ‘I can smell it.’

‘The armies of the themata will no longer be neglected and the outlying tagmata will be bolstered,’ Eudokia continued, ‘recruiting Byzantine souls and lessening the dependency on mercenary soldiers.’ Eudokia continued. This time, a cheer broke out from the crowd. But nearly half of them remained mute and wary of any show of support.

Psellos’ lips tightened at this, as if resisting a satisfied sneer.

Then, Eudokia brought her speech to a close, making sure to catch the eye of every man in the crowd; ‘I asked you here to welcome Romanus Diogenes to the city. Now,’ she hesitated for just a heartbeat, and Apion saw her lip tremble just a little, ‘I ask that you remain here to see us wed.’

Apion’s eyebrows shot up at this. He looked to Dederic, who looked equally stunned.

An unfortunately timed clap of thunder rippled through the air outside and reverberated through the hall.

‘Tell me I’m going deaf, Apion?’ Cydones croaked by his side. ‘Did she just say that we are to remain here until the year is out?’

‘Aye, unfortunately,’ Apion said in a muted tone, his gaze returning to Psellos. ‘I feel it will be a long, cold winter.’

***

The rainstorm had raged for days, and the streets of the city were slick and shiny. A clap of thunder tumbled across the night sky and brought with it another sheet-like barrage. Many guttering torches hissed, spat and died at this.

Wrapped in a brown hemp hooded cloak, Psellos splashed through the streets, past the Milareum Aureum, the gilded bronze pillar casting him momentarily in its ghostly golden light. When a pair of sunken-cheeked wretches emerged from an alley nearby, Psellos halted and raised one hand just a fraction. Then, as if spawned by the rainstorm, three gleaming numeroi spearmen stole from the shadows behind him and half drew their spathions. The screech of iron was enough to send the wretches scurrying back from whence they came.

Psellos looked at his hand, marvelling at the power it wielded. The city was his. The empire would soon follow.

Then he set off once more towards his destination — the Numera, the barracks of the Numeroi Tagma.

But they’re so much more than a simple barracks, he grinned to himself.

Two more numeroi stood in the gloom either side of the entrance, their helms and cloaks fending off the worst of the rain. When he approached they threw up a hand in salute.

Then a komes, denoted by the white sash knotted at his right shoulder, emerged from the door to greet him. ‘I will take you to him, sir,’ he said.

Psellos nodded in silence as he stepped out of the rainstorm and entered the barracks.

The komes led him through a musty-smelling and dark corridor, until they emerged into the Numera muster ground. It was deserted apart from the sentries who looked down on them from the soaked, grey barrack walls and watchtowers. They skirted round the collonaded edge of the muster ground to stay clear of the rain. Then they came to an iron-lattice gate on the far side, behind which was a corridor lit by a flickering and faint orange torchlight. The komes nodded to the soldier posted here, who fumbled with keys then opened the gate. This revealed a worn stone staircase that descended steeply underground, slick with damp. The komes plucked a torch from the wall and they began their descent.

‘He struggled, sir. He killed one of my men. But a club to the back of his head put paid to his resistance. Now he is yours to dispose of as you see fit.’

‘Your continued distinction has been noted,’ Psellos enthused.

They descended until they reached the prison complex, a series of pitch-black, stinking spaces gouged into the bedrock and fronted by rusting iron bars. Gaunt, sickly faces gawped as the torchlight bobbed past them, some scurrying to the backs of their cells in terror like rats, others lying like broken men, simply rolling their eyes to watch the passing pair.

Then they came to a tall, timber chest that rested against the bedrock. The komes braced his shoulder against one end of the chest and then grunted, putting his full weight into shoving it to one side. The grating of timber on rock echoed around the prison.

Psellos gazed into the opening and down the roughly-hewn stone staircase that was revealed. He could smell the rankness of burnt and rotting flesh, wafting up at them like a wolf’s breath. He could even taste the metallic tang of blood. As they descended the staircase, a muffled roar of agony escaped from the depths. Psellos’ face split into a grin at this.

Then they finally reached the torture chamber of the Portatioi. The most devious of the Numeroi, some would say. The most efficacious, Psellos thought.

The air was thin and hot in this small and enclosed chamber, probably composed of the dying breaths of the many hundreds he had consigned here.

The only light came from the brazier in one corner, loaded with iron rods and tongs that glowed like hell itself. One torturer was dressed only in a loincloth, his muscular frame dripping with sweat in the stifling heat and the veins pulsing through his shaved scalp as he sharpened a sickle. Meanwhile, from the darker corner of the room, a ghostly figure lurked, his lank hair as white as his skin. This was Zenobius, his chief torturer and a man without a soul. He stoked at a cage in the shadows with a hot poker. This elicited animal grunting and screeching and illuminated fleeting glimpses of some inhuman form, wrinkled and glistening.

Psellos frowned as he scanned the room, then he grinned as he turned round to the wall nearest the door. There his prize lay, like a goose awaiting the butcher. The huge and muscular figure of Nilos the strategos was chained to a table, on his back and spread-eagled, naked. His torso glistened with sweat and blood, and his muscles strained at the shackles. His face was a swollen mess.

Psellos walked over to join him. ‘Ah, Nilos, you have inconvenienced yourself so,’ he bent over so his nose was inches from Nilos’ battered features. ‘How much less trouble I would have had with you if you had been as weak-willed as the others.’

Nilos uttered an inhuman roar at this, straining at the irons that held him in place, and aiming a headbutt at Psellos. But the strike fell short as the irons clanked tight. Yet Nilos hovered there, the bulging masses of flesh that were his eyes cracking open just enough for him to glare at Psellos. ‘You’ll never buy my loyalty, you whoreson!’ he spat, his words slurred and rasping through his shattered teeth, blood and saliva spraying onto Psellos’ face.

Psellos stood back, his nose wrinkling as took a silk cloth from his purse and dabbed at the mess. ‘Some I can buy. Some I cannot. I need only one thing from those in the latter group. . I need you to die,’ he rubbed his hands together, his eyes glinting in the brazier-light, ‘and to die in an appalling manner. Then your corpse will serve to persuade the next of my targets.’

At this, Nilos seemed to be fired with a fresh wave of fury. He wrenched up from the table, bawling from the bottom of his lungs.

Psellos erupted in laughter at this.

But then the shackle holding Nilos’ right wrist shattered.

Shards of iron sprayed across the room, and the strategos’ fist swung round in a powerful hook.

Psellos leapt back, the blow flashing only inches from his face. His bowels turned over and icy fear stabbed at his heart. A shrill cry leapt from his lips as Nilos then wrenched at the shackle on his left wrist.

Then Zenobius stepped forward deftly, snatched the sickle from the big torturer and slashed at Nilos’ forearm, cleaving the limb clean off. Nilos crumpled back onto the table, writhing, mouth agape in silent agony, blood pumping from the wound.

Zenobius stepped back, cleaning his sickle in silence, his blood-spattered face expressionless. At this, the bald torturer’s hoarse cackle rang out once more, the foetid stench of his breath cutting through the vile smell in the chamber.

Psellos righted himself, then barked at Zenobius. ‘Staunch the wound, I want him to die as planned!’

The albino wrenched at the haemorrhaging limb and wrapped a length of filthy cloth around it, tying it as if strangling a victim. Then he barked to his colleague.

The bald torturer used the tongs to pluck an iron mask from the coals. It was glowing white, sparks spiralling and dancing from it.

Nilos’ pained cries fell silent at this sight. Then Psellos grasped his jaw and glared at him. ‘The death mask is but the finishing touch, Strategos,’ he purred.

Taking his cue, Zenobius lifted the bolts from the cage in the corner, and the pair of starved hogs were released from their prison. They immediately took to licking and gnawing at Nilos’ arm stump. Then Zenobius punched the sickle into Nilos’ gut and ripped it across the length of the strategos’ belly. As Nilos’ guts tumbled from the wound, the hogs leapt upon him, tearing at the steaming entrails.

At that moment, footsteps sounded from the stairs, and another figure entered the chamber. John Doukas’ eyes glinted with bloodlust at the sight before him. That and disappointment at having missed some of the proceedings.

‘You have joined us just in time, master,’ Psellos enthused to John, before turning back to Nilos, writhing under the frenzied hogs. ‘Another stubborn strategos is about to breathe his last.’

Nilos could not even utter a croak as the beasts feasted upon his innards. His only solace was that the darkness was closing in. All he could see before him was the trio of faces: Psellos, the man who would be the death of the empire; John Doukas, who looked on like a hungry wolf; and a pale and emotionless creature whose glare cut through him like a blade. This was surely the realm of the Godless.

Then he heard the albino speak calmly to the bald, burly torturer; ‘Finish him.’

Nilos’ mind swirled with confusion until the tongs and the golden mask filled his field of vision, and descended upon his face. With an untold agony and a stench of searing flesh, the blackness took him. The hoarse cackling of the big torturer was the last thing he heard.

As Nilos’ body fell limp, the grin faded from John’s face. ‘Now we must turn the screw upon our more stubborn visitors.’

Psellos nodded. ‘Ah, yes. The Strategos of Chaldia, yet to see sense.’

John shook his head. ‘He is even more tenacious than this whoreson ever was.’

‘Give me one more chance to speak with him, master.’ Psellos’ face opened up into a wicked grin. ‘He will turn, or he will die.’

***

It was the first morning of December and the rainstorms had abated at last. The air was crisp and a heavy frost had settled across the palace gardens. Near the centre, the parakeets squawked as Apion and young Konstantious played. Apion roared like a lion and stomped forward, arms outstretched, scooping the boy up and swinging him from side to side. Konstantious squealed in mock terror, then wriggled free of Apion’s grasp and stumbled towards the orange trees, giggling.

‘It is a blessing that I had a thick and restful sleep last night,’ Apion panted, doubling over and resting his palms on his knees. Indeed, his body was already tired after his extended morning run with Dederic. Still, this horseplay was refreshing, lightening his mind of troubles.

‘I thought you said you were a brave lion?’ Konstantious jibed. ‘You don’t seem very brave to me. My parakeets are bigger and stronger than you, and they eat only the seed I feed them.’ At this, one fledgling bird fluttered clumsily down to rest upon his shoulder.

‘Now the worst thing you can do,’ Apion wagged a finger, stalking around the orange trees with accentuated footsteps, ‘is to goad a wild creature.’ His footsteps slowed and he fell silent, then he sprung forward with another roar. Konstantious squealed and then sped away with only inches to spare, darting into the rhododendron bush. The parakeet fled back to its nest.

Apion stood tall, then stalked around the bush. He could see Konstantious hiding in there, waiting, but he pretended not to notice. Then, when he ‘carelessly’ turned his back on the bush, the youngster burst from the undergrowth, hoisting a thick twig in one hand and leaping into the air.

‘Ya!’ Konstantious yelled and thrust the ‘spear’ into Apion’s leg.

Apion fell to the ground in an exaggerated fit of choking and thrashing, before falling limp, eyes closed. He held his breath and lay motionless.

Then, when Konstantious stepped closer to inspect his kill, Apion burst back into life, grappling the boy and roaring, lifting him from the ground and swinging him round in circles once more. The pair collapsed into a giggling heap before Konstantious got up and darted to the far side of the garden, his laughter filling the place.

Apion stood, still chuckling. Then, as he stretched his shoulders, his gaze snagged on something. High on the balcony overlooking the gardens.

Eudokia looked back at him, the frosty veneer she wore like a klibanion was absent. She was smiling, and it illuminated her beauty.

Apion found it infectious, and let out a hearty chuckle, resting his hands on his hips.

But the moment was fleeting. A varangos’ hand on Eudokia’s shoulder and a whispered word in her ear saw her expression fall icy once more. She turned and left the balcony without a word. Apion felt his own smile wane at this.

Then it dissolved completely as he heard a familiar voice behind him.

‘These gardens are truly compelling. Once a man knows such finery, he can only think with horror of leaving it behind.’

Apion turned to Psellos. The shrivelled adviser wore a fur-lined purple cloak trimmed with gold thread, hands clasped behind his back.

Apion pinned him with a flinty gaze. ‘There may be some comforts I will miss, but I will gladly return to the dirt-tracks and scree-strewn hillsides of Chaldia.’

Psellos smiled coldly at this, then reached up and held out a hand to the orange tree. He clicked his tongue and the striped mother parakeet fluttered down from the tree to rest on his wrist, its three nestlings screeching from above. He stroked the bird’s ruby and buttercup yellow feathers and it pecked around his fingers in curiosity.

‘A magnificent creature, is it not?’ Psellos purred, stroking the bird’s neck with one finger. ‘A beast of majesty, safe in its opulent home. . yet cupped in my palm. Watch how its ignorance brings about its fate.’

The bird, angry at the lack of seed in Psellos’ hand, pecked a little too hard, pinching the old man’s skin and drawing a spot of blood. Psellos did not wince at this. He simply wrapped his free hand around the bird’s neck. The creature flapped its wings and squawked in terror and then Psellos wrenched at its body with the other hand. With a snap of bone, it was still. He looked up at Apion once more. ‘Emperors, regents and those who sit, ostensibly, in positions of power should be wary of those who lifted them there, Strategos. Remember that.’

‘Say your piece, adviser, then leave me.’ Apion shot furtive glances around the overlooking balconies and roofs of the palace. The few varangoi who were normally stationed there were absent, doubtless drawn away by the same issue that had troubled Eudokia.

‘The axemen are occupied for the moment, Strategos. It is just you and I, and you are one of a. . dying breed,’ Psellos said. ‘One of the few who choose not to support the continuation of the Doukid line. A wise choice?’

Apion nodded. ‘A man’s choices define him, so he should always stand by them. There are others who stand with me.’

‘Hmm. . hmmm,’ Psellos nodded. ‘To the last, it would seem.’

Apion felt a chill on his skin as they gazed at one another in silence. Then a distant, chilling scream pierced the air, from the streets at the far side of the palace. Psellos did not flinch at this. Indeed, his smile only broadened. Then a buccina blared out and the babble of troubled citizens filled the air.

‘What have you done?’ Apion snarled.

At that moment, Konstantious rushed from the trees, ready to resume play. But he skidded to a halt before Apion and Psellos. His impish grin fell away when he saw the dead parakeet in the adviser’s hands. ‘What happened?’ He gulped, his eyes welling with tears.

‘The bird must have fallen from its nest whilst sleeping,’ Psellos lied. Then he glanced to Apion with a glint in his eye. ‘It would have died instantly, ignorant of its fate.’

Konstantious reached out, taking the parakeet’s body from Psellos. ‘Then I shall bury her,’ he sobbed, ‘and make sure she rests well now.’ Then he looked up to the mass of twigs in the tree and the screeching nestlings peering over the edge. ‘But they will starve without her to nurture them and they will never grow strong enough to leave the nest.’

Apion’s thoughts swirled with imaginings of what had happened on the streets. The urge to rush through the palace to see for himself was overwhelming, but that was exactly what Psellos wanted.

He glowered at the adviser, then crouched beside Konstantious, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Then we can lower the nest and you can feed them yourself. The nestlings will live on and be strong.’

***

Constantinople was cloaked in frost, the wind was bitter and the sky was brushed with wispy, white clouds. The imperial flagship bobbed in the morning swell of the Golden Horn, the oars propelling her gently along the waters of the inlet that hemmed the northern edge of the city. For once, the customary escort of dromons was absent.

On the centre of the flagship, a purple silk tent had been erected. Twenty varangoi stood around this, their faces set in grimaces, their axes held as if they were readying for battle. A small rowing boat approached the vessel. A crimson-cloaked figure stood at the prow, his amber locks billowing in the breeze.

Inside the tent, Eudokia sat at the centre of the plush, quilted floor. But she ignored the comfort of her surroundings and the bountiful platters and amphorae that lined the tent. Neither could she concentrate on the sheaf of paper in her hand. Instead, she could think of nothing but the horrific discovery of the mutilated strategos, Nilos.

The big man’s carcass had been found, tied to the foot of the Milareum Aureum, gulls and carrion birds stripping what flesh was left from his bones. Above the corpse on the gilded column’s surface, a message had been daubed in blood.

God’s wrath will fall upon Diogenes.

The populace had gathered around the sight, babbling in panic, eyes wide and hands covering mouths in disgust. Hyperbole broke out almost immediately, and spread around the streets like wildfire. Some cried out that the impending succession of Romanus Diogenes was folly, that God had chosen another. Others jabbered of a monster that stalked the streets at night. A demon. The antichrist incarnate.

Eudokia looked up from the papers, her lips taut. Indeed, there was a demon in the city, and his scheming had never before been so dark. Such was her mistrust of those who lurked in and around the palace, she had retreated to this yacht with an escort of varangoi in an attempt to understand how she could counter Psellos’ push for power.

Like her enemy, she understood that to retaliate directly would only incite the possibility of civil war, dragging the tagmata and the themata into battle against one another around the capital. At a time when the Seljuk forces were rumoured to be readying for a decisive push into Anatolia, this could not be allowed to happen. She tried to piece together the plan in her head once more when a hand swept the tent flap open, sending the winter chill around her bare ankles.

‘My lady,’ the varangos bowed on one knee to her.

Behind him stood a figure, features silhouetted by the morning sun, eagle feathers rippling in the wind atop his helm.

‘Come, sit,’ she beckoned him.

Apion handed his swordbelt to the varangos and then entered. It was the first time she had seen him dressed in his full soldier’s garb — and he was a fearsome sight. The iron klibanion hugged his torso like the skin of a reptile and the conical helm and scale aventail hid all but his battered face. His emerald gaze was shaded under his brow, his expression dark as he sat before her.

‘Nilos’ murder still troubles you too?’ she asked.

‘I cannot change that he was slain, so no, his death does not trouble me.’ Apion replied prosaically. He removed his helm and his amber locks tumbled around his face. ‘But I worry for the others, those whom Psellos has not yet turned his sights upon.’

‘As do I,’ she replied.

‘Then why summon only me?’ Apion replied, his gaze unblinking.

‘Because,’ Eudokia hesitated at this. ‘Because of all the military leaders who have gathered in the palace. You are the only one I still trust.’ There was another reason, but that was foolish, she chided herself. Foolish and weak.

‘That is praise indeed,’ Apion raised his eyebrow at this, smoothing his beard. ‘But you know little of me.’

‘I know enough, and time is scarce.’ She looked over his scarred features and again her gaze locked onto his. For a moment she saw herself on a dusty track that stretched across an open plain. Behind her, the grey, rotting corpse of Constantine Doukas marched for her, arms outstretched as if trying to claw at her. Ahead, she saw Romanus Diogenes, the man she was to marry, the man she had exiled, the man who would gladly take the imperial throne but would never love her. Under Apion’s gaze, she felt something she feared she might never feel again. Her heartbeat surged for just a moment, then she buried the thoughts that crept into her mind. ‘So, we must turn our attention to the days ahead.’

Apion nodded at this, his expression sincere.

She pushed the sheaf of paper towards him. It was etched with diagrams depicting the walls, towers, barracks and docks of Constantinople. ‘Psellos knows that once Romanus Diogenes enters the city, his grasp on power will be as good as over.’

Apion looked up at her, his expression lightening, the edges of his lips lifting.

‘Something amuses you?’ she frowned.

‘Do not take it as a slight. I have spent time with many strategoi, many doukes. Some encounters were pleasurable, others were endured and no more. Few of those men were as succinct and practical as you, my lady.’

She shook her head at this digression and then tapped a finger on the Numeroi barracks and the various strongholds and watchtowers around the city that Psellos’ men controlled. ‘Psellos’ allies within the city will be powerless to flex their muscle without a guarantee of support from the themata and the other tagmata. Thus, I fear that in the coming weeks, he will accelerate his campaign of aggression. He will do whatever it takes to turn the bulk of the empire’s armies to his cause. Thus, we cannot allow him the time he needs to achieve this.’ She picked out a map of the Balkan region, depicting the empire from the tip of Mystras in southern Greece to the River Istros in the North. She tapped the plains that lay between the city of Adrianople and the great river. ‘Diogenes is ending his campaign on the plains, here.’ Then she tapped a spot further up, near the river. ‘Then he means to establish a winter camp on the banks of the Istros and see that his officers are well bedded in before he travels south in the last week of December, more than three weeks from now. But by then it may be too late.’ She looked up to him, her expression earnest. ‘You are to ride out to him, Strategos. You are to escort him into the city before then. The fate of the empire rests upon your shoulders.’

Apion took a deep breath at this. ‘This is not the first time I have had such weighty expectation placed upon me, my lady.’ Then he nodded, his eyes darting across the diagram. ‘But I came here in search of hope, hope that the empire could be saved. So I will do as you ask.’ Then he made to stand. ‘And I should waste no time?’

‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘Psellos must not see you leave the city. So you will leave under cover of night.’

‘Then today will be a long day, knowing what lies ahead,’ Apion mused wryly, sitting once more.

She nodded, then gestured to the platters around them; bread, cheeses, cured meats, fish, fruit, honey, nuts, yoghurt and wine. ‘Have your fill, you will need strength and focus for the journey.’

She realised he was looking at her lips when she said this, and she turned away in embarrassment.

He seemed not to notice, or at least he pretended he had not. He lifted the platter nearest, laden with apricots, blueberries, bread and a fresh honeycomb. ‘When I return to Chaldia,’ he chuckled, ‘I will remember this fare fondly. Sesame porridge does lose its appeal after the hundredth day on campaign.’ He grinned at her, tearing the bread in half and holding one piece out to her.

She reached out to take it, then dipped it into the honeycomb, breaking the wax, the golden syrup spilling free onto the platter. Then, when she ate, the sweetness of the honey warmed her heart. It had been days since she had eaten properly, and it felt good. She realised that, despite herself, she was smiling. Then she noticed that Apion’s gaze hung on her features, his lips playing with a redolent smile. Then his face fell. In the next heartbeat, he averted his eyes. ‘Apion? What is it?’

He shook his head. ‘I just,’ he started, his words trailing off. ‘You remind me of someone.’

‘A woman?’ she asked, averting his gaze. ‘I did not think to ask of your family, your wife. I hope you do not think me rude. . ’

‘I have no family,’ Apion cut in. ‘War is my only mistress, and a ferocious one she is at that.’ He nodded, his stare growing distant. ‘No, you reminded me of someone I once broke bread with many years ago. A woman as brash and strident as you, my lady.’ Then he looked up, pinning her once more with his gaze. ‘And, if I may say, as beautiful.’

‘Did you love her?’ she asked, shuffling where she sat.

A long silence passed.

‘I did,’ Apion replied at last. ‘There have been other women, but she is the only one I have ever truly loved.’ He shrugged. ‘But, like so many others, she was lost to me. Now I often wonder if love and loss are inseparable; if one cannot exist without the other.’

A silence passed between them until something twinged in her heart. This brought forth words she had long ago resolved to never speak to another soul. ‘When I was a girl, I lived near Ephesus. I gave my word to a boy, the son of a smith, that I would one day marry him. We walked together every day, we rode in the fields, and we made love in the rain, caring little for anything other than each other’s embrace. I have never felt such a bond with any other. I have often wondered if it was love I experienced.’ She looked to Apion. ‘That love came with loss. A brutal loss that I will never forget.’

‘He was killed?’

She hesitated at this, unsure if she could let the next words pass her lips. ‘God forgive me, yes.’ She clasped a hand to her chest and steadied her thudding heart. ‘When the boy raped my sister, he took from her, me and my family more than he could ever give. He took her dignity. The wounds he had inflicted upon her were grave, and she bled until she breathed no more.’ She barely disguised the choking of a sob.

Apion reached out, tentatively at first, to place a hand upon her shoulder. ‘Loss leaves a bitterness in the veins that never fades.’

She nodded. ‘Yes. . yes it does.’ She locked her gaze onto Apion’s. ‘I found him slumped in an inebriate doze later that night, in the straw behind a tavern. I threw water upon his face until he stirred. I wanted to look into his eyes when I did it. . I took up a dagger and I. . I. . ’ she fell silent, searching his eyes for revulsion.

Apion held her gaze, his expression unflinching. ‘Then we are more alike than I first realised.’

They hovered there, only inches from one another. She blinked at this, confused at the forgotten sensation of true feeling in her blood.

Then he pressed his lips against hers.

She raised her arms as if to strike him. After years of abhorrence of the asp-like men who stalked the palace corridors, this was her instinct. But she realised she was kissing him back, and her arms wrapped around him, pulling at his cloak until it fell free.

He pushed back at this, grasping her by the shoulders, panting, his eyes shaded under a troubled frown. ‘Forgive me, my lady.’

She shook her head, unclasping her robe, which slipped silently from her shoulders to reveal her breasts, her nipples erect and tender. ‘Don’t speak, Apion. For I sense that a long, dark road lies ahead. Let us have one moment of light.’ With that, she drew him closer.

Apion unbuckled his klibanion in silence and then it fell to the floor. Then they came together in a passionate embrace.

***

As the small rowing boat parted from the imperial flagship, Psellos watched from the dromon anchored outside the Neorion Harbour, his eyes fixed on the crimson-cloaked figure. He nodded, his hands clasped behind his back.

‘Is it as we suspected? He is to ride to Romanus Diogenes?’ John Doukas gasped, leaning over the lip of the vessel as if the truth would be revealed to him under scrutiny.

Psellos grinned at the naiveté, the bluntness. This man was a parody of his hot-headed brother. He would make a fine puppet emperor. ‘We have forced Eudokia into a corner, master. We have limited her options to the one we know will serve us best. The Haga will make a break for the north in the coming days. That, you can be sure of.’

‘Then he must die at the gates,’ John hissed, punching a fist down onto the rim of the ship.

‘That would be folly, master.’

John turned to scowl at him. ‘What? Then you suggest we let him live?’

Psellos nodded, a grin bending under his hooked nose. ‘Yes, master. But only for a matter of days. When he meets with Diogenes, then we can slay this troublesome strategos and the whoreson who shapes to steal your throne. . ’