Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

12. The Golden Heart

The lush green plains of northern Thracia sparkled with morning frost. Overhead, the sky was an unbroken blue, and the winter sun tried in vain to warm the land. To the south, a band of Macedonian Pine forest stretched across the plain, still and silent.

Then a distant rumbling grew in intensity until the treeline rustled and the ground shook. A flock of bullfinches scattered, chirping a fluted song, before a wedge of thirteen horsemen burst from the forest, lowered in their saddles.

Apion rode at the fore, his crimson cloak and plumage billowing in his slipstream, his arms clad in splinted greaves and his torso hugged by his iron klibanion. Immediately behind him on his right rode Dederic in his hooded mail hauberk, with a conical helm and noseguard and a woollen cloak for warmth. Behind him on his left was Igor, the gruff Komes of the Varangoi, whose braided grey locks whipped up behind him. He, like his ten charges, wore their distinctive snow-white armour, tunics, trousers and gold-edged cloaks. The Rus were notoriously awkward horsemen, but they had kept the pace well.

On this, the third morning of their ride from the capital, they had made good ground northwards and were now in sight of the towering Haemus Mountains. Here, the land became a little more ragged and they soon reached a series of grassy foothills, sparkling with the remaining frost and lined by trickling meltwater streams descending from the rocky heights some miles away. Nearing mid-morning, Apion noticed froth on his Thessalian’s iron snaffle bit, and the beast’s skin was slick with sweat despite the winter chill. He sat up in his saddle and tugged on the reins. The wedge slowed and then stopped with him.

Dismounting, he smoothed the gelding’s mane and whispered soothing words in its ear. As he did so, the men of the wedge gathered around him, awaiting orders. ‘We can fill our skins while our mounts recover,’ he nodded to the nearest stream, ‘and cook some hot porridge to warm our blood.’

The varangoi looked to one another in mild disgust. Apion and Dederic shared a spontaneous grin at this.

Despite their hardy origins in the frozen northlands, the Varangoi had been reared on the finest spiced meats, exotic fruits and poached seafood in their years of service in the palace. Thus, the perfunctory food of the armies had not gone down at all well. Indeed, one of them had spent the previous evening groaning after persevering with the gruel, his skin almost as white as his armour before he retched his meal into the fire. This had served to trigger a similar response from another two of his comrades.

‘It’s only for another few days — then you can reacquaint yourselves with oak-smoked octopus and the like!’ Dederic chirped, sliding from his saddle and juggling two compact balls of dried yoghurt, almonds and sesame oil in his hands as he strolled off to the stream.

Apion turned to Igor and pointed to the nearest two foothills. ‘I want one man on each of those hills.’

Igor nodded two of his men forward.

‘Keep your thoughts focussed and your bows nocked,’ Apion called after them as they jogged to their posts. Then he glanced to the spare ration pack he had brought with him from the palace kitchens. ‘I’ll have toasted bread and cheese sent up to you as soon as it’s ready.’ A spring was added to their step at this promise.

Apion watched as Igor and the rest of the varangoi set about kindling a fire, bantering in their native tongue. He prised his helmet from his head, then removed one glove and ran his fingers through his matted locks.

He took up his water skin and sipped absently upon it as he looked around this green, well-watered country. So far removed from the baked, terracotta and gold lands of home. Then his thoughts drifted to Sha, Blastares and Procopius, out in the east. Damn but I miss them, he thought.

Equally, he had only been parted from old Cydones for a few days, yet he missed the old man’s banter already. They had played shatranj on the afternoon before Apion and the riders had slipped from the city. The loss of his sight had done little to dampen Cydones’ enthusiasm — and deft skill — for the game. So you will leave me behind while you ride? Cydones had mused as they picked their moves. Quite right; my body is as worn as my mind, and my bones would surely crumble at the mere thought of the gallop! Then, in his next move, he had pinned Apion’s King to the edge of the board. Checkmate! The retired strategos had croaked gently, a grin spreading across his features as he set the pieces up to begin another game immediately, not satisfied with this victory alone. Apion could not contain an equal grin at the infectious memory, and he cast a glance back to the south, wondering how the old man would fare in the palace without familiar company. Well, there was Eudokia, he realised, then chided himself for thinking of her.

Since leaving the imperial yacht, he had resolved to lock away any memory of their warm and lasting bout of lovemaking. Her scent, her beauty and her softness had permeated his every thought and laced his dreams every night since. But through it all, he had thought only of Maria, of what could have been with her in another life. He smiled wryly, shaking the thoughts away; just as Eudokia had used the coming together as a harbour of respite, so had he.

Then his distant gaze faded and settled on the forest from which they had come, now far to the south. His eyes narrowed. Something wasn’t right. The flight from the city had felt too smooth and that thought had nagged him all the way here. The numeroi were thin on the walls that night — conspicuously so. He searched the sky, littered with circling wagtails. Where are you when I need you, old lady?

Then a hand slapped on his shoulder and his heart lurched in his chest.

‘Sir!’

Apion spun to Igor. The varangos’ eyes were wide with alarm. Behind him, the pair of varangoi atop the foothills were crouched and waving.

‘They’ve spotted something, coming this way,’ Igor said, interpreting the signal.

Apion’s vision narrowed on the cleft between the two hills. From the rift beyond, he heard a baritone, inhuman roar. A waft of sweet woodsmoke drifted under Apion’s nostrils and he shot a glare at the newly kindled fire. ‘Douse it!’ he hissed. Silently, he beckoned the men with him, fanning his fingers out to have them separate and line the hillsides.

‘Have them guard these hills as if they were the palace gates,’ he whispered to Igor. Then he picked up a free spear from beside the doused fire, placed his helmet back on and turned to Dederic. ‘With me!’

Apion stalked forward, around the rightmost hillock and then ahead of the varangoi. Then he moved along and up the slope of the uneven ridge that ran northwards from the twin hillocks. As they came to the tip of the ridge, another roar pierced the air. This time it was only paces away, from the other side of the ridge. More, the stench of rotting meat wafted in the chill, northerly breeze.

‘Sir?’ Dederic’s eyes were wide.

‘Stay your fears, Dederic,’ Apion whispered. ‘Has ever a roar and foul breath hurt a man?’

Then he stretched his neck up and over the ridge to look down into the narrow corridor on the other side. What he saw, only a few strides away, turned his blood to ice.

‘No, but that thing surely has,’ Dederic whispered, gawping beside him.

The beast was as magnificent as it was ferocious. Tawny gold fur and a golden mane, its paws as large as a man’s head, the tips of dagger-like claws visible under the fur. The lion’s jaw hung slightly open, revealing yellowed fangs and a lolling, pink tongue. These mighty creatures were long thought gone from this part of the world. Indeed, even way out east, in the Armenian mountains, they were becoming a rare sight.

Then Apion frowned, noticing the lion’s belly as it padded towards the twin hillocks — its skin was taut and its ribs jutted like blades. The beast was starving.

‘It is weak?’ Dederic suggested, nodding to the beast’s belly as it approached.

‘Maybe,’ Apion said, ‘but never is a predator more dangerous than when it is starved.’

‘Then we must slay it?’ Dederic’s eyes bulged in fear as he shot glances at the distance between them and the rest of the varangoi.

‘No, we let it pass,’ Apion asserted as the lion padded on towards the south. ‘It will find prey on the plain.’

‘That’s not likely to happen, sir,’ Dederic nodded to the cleft between the hillocks that stood between the lion and the plain.

Apion turned to see that the varangoi had spilled to the lower ground and levelled their axes towards the lion, barricading the beast’s exit from the corridor. The lion stopped at this, then its growl filled the small valley. Apion closed his eyes and muttered a curse. ‘Then we must drive it north, back up the rift in the land.’

The little Norman raised his eyebrows. ‘We?’

‘Think of this beast as the fat lord back in Rouen!’ Apion cocked an eyebrow, issuing a mischievous smirk at the same time. ‘Now come!’ He hissed, then launched up and over the lip and slid down the steep valley embankment, stumbling to a halt before the lion with the aid of his spear shaft. The beast started, took a few tentative steps backwards, then stood tall and emitted a roar that shook Apion’s bones. Having displayed its fangs and the wet of the back of its throat, the beast lowered its head, its eyes trained on Apion, its back legs wriggling and then steadying.

Apion’s heart thundered.

But, just as the beast was about to launch forward, Dederic tumbled down the banking less than graciously, his mail hauberk jingling like a whore’s purse. Then he righted himself, straightened his helmet and quickly levelled his spear at the lion, following Apion’s lead. At the same time, the varangoi rushed up to form a line behind the pair.

At this, the lion aborted its attack and paced backwards, snatching glances at them all. Then it risked a glance over its shoulder. Once, twice, and then once more. But it seemed hesitant to flee to the north.

‘It doesn’t want to go that way, sir?’ Dederic surmised.

‘No,’ Apion’s eyes narrowed, looking past the beast to the north. The rift wound on for a hundred paces or so and then it adopted a jagged path, concealing the trail ahead. ‘Because it is being hunted. Listen!’

To a man, the party fell silent. Then they heard it; the drumming of hooves, echoing through the rift.

‘Coming this way?’ Dederic deduced.

‘With haste,’ Apion nodded. His mind spun with thoughts of the Magyar and Pecheneg warbands it could easily be, for this land was just as volatile and permeable as the eastern borderlands. ‘Back to the hillocks,’ he waved the men back. ‘Let the beast through and. . ’ his words were cut off as a clutch of riders burst into view from the north, rounding the jagged edge of the rift.

Startled by this threat to its rear, the lion roared out and, in a flash, leapt for Apion at the heart of the line of varangoi, intent on breaking through to the south.

Apion felt the beast’s paws thud against his chest like a rock from a trebuchet. The wind was knocked from his lungs and he crashed back onto the earth. His mind flashed with white light and he was lost momentarily. He heard the grating of the lion’s claws against his klibanion, iron segments coming free of the armour. Then his vision cleared, and he saw the beast’s face, only inches from his. Its pupils were dilated in terror. Its lips curled back and its jaws extended to crush his neck.

Then there was a crunching of bone and flesh and Apion was showered in hot blood. But there was no pain. The beast’s eyes dimmed at this, the fear replaced by resignation as blood washed from its mouth.

Apion wheezed as the creature toppled from his chest, a spear lodged between its shoulder blades. He rolled back from its corpse and looked around him to see that Dederic and the varangoi still held their spears and axes, halted mid-stride in coming to his aid.

‘No! This was not to be!’ A voice called out from the pack of approaching riders.

Apion stood, gasping for breath and grappling for his sword hilt. But the tension eased from him when he saw that the clutch of horsemen — sixty of them, he estimated — were clearly Byzantine. They were adorned in the fine iron garb of the kataphractoi. Their boots, tunics and armour bore scrapes and stains that told of recent conflict.

From the armies of the north? Apion wondered as they slowed to a trot.

The lead rider trotted forward — a man a few years Apion’s senior. His armour was particularly finely crafted, and he wore a fine, white silk cloak on his sturdy shoulders. His broad and handsome face was wrinkled in a scowl, his teeth bared. His flaxen locks were swept back from his forehead and his cobalt glare pinned the lion’s corpse.

The rider did not look to any of Apion and his party. Instead, he flicked his glare from the lion to the rider by his side who had thrown the spear. ‘You fool,’ he grappled the man by the collar and shook him. ‘If I wanted another cadaver I could have had my pick from the battlefields!’

‘Sir, I was not aiming to strike the beast. I wanted to halt its flight. . ’

While the man who had killed the beast mumbled an apology, Apion eyed the leader, and his gaze fell on something — a tiny trinket that hung around the man’s neck. A chain with a small heart pendant dangling over his breastbone. It was pure gold. The hairs on Apion’s neck lifted.

The Golden Heart will rise in the west. At dawn, he will wear the guise of a lion hunter. Apion saw the crone’s features in his mind’s eye. He had forgotten her words in the turmoil of these last months, now they were as crisp and clear as winter meltwater. At noon, he will march to the east as if to counter the sun itself. At dusk you will stand with him in the final battle, like an island in the storm. .

Yet his first words to the man were instinctive. ‘Something of an uneven contest, was it not?’ He nodded to the lion’s corpse then swept a hand around the man and his sixty riders.

The man twisted to Apion, releasing his grip on the spearless rider as he did so. Then, as if waking from a dream, the scowl fell from the man’s face. He blinked, almost as if just realising that Apion and the varangoi were present.

‘I had no intention of killing such a fine beast,’ the man shook his head. ‘The Magyar Prince who bestowed him upon me thought I would delight in having such a creature to parade.’ His gaze darkened under a frown. ‘But the animal was terrified, from the moment the Pecheneg traders dragged him from Armenia and shipped him across the Pontus Euxinus, then for every moment of his wretched life in the war zone along the Istros in these last months.’ The man sighed. ‘No, I came to recapture the beast after it escaped my camp,’ he shot a saturnine look at the rider by his side. ‘I did not come to kill it, I wished only to see it returned to its homeland. However, perhaps this outcome is a bittersweet providence — for it is at peace now and will suffer no more torturous journeys.’

‘Aye,’ Apion nodded at this, ‘perhaps.’

‘But the spectacle of a lion in these parts is almost rivalled by the sight of imperial Varangoi,’ the man mused, stroking his chin. ‘Who are you and where are you headed?’

Apion hesitated, searching the man’s eyes. Instinct told him that he could trust this one. ‘We are in search of the commander of the armies of the north.’

The man’s face fell expressionless. ‘Romanus Diogenes?’

Apion took a breath to answer and then hesitated. He juggled with the possibility of revealing his mission, remembering his sense of unease, earlier. Then he glanced to the golden heart pendant once more and his doubts faded. He held out a roll of paper, the seal unbroken. ‘Lady Eudokia has sent for him.’

The man took the paper and traced a finger across the seal, then he held it to his nose and inhaled the sweet scent Eudokia had laced it with and broke into a broad grin.

‘Then you have found him.’

Apion’s eyes widened. All around him, the varangoi stooped to one knee, hands across their hearts, heads bowed.

***

Romanus’ camp was vast. Apion had seen such a sight only few times in the east; the riders of the Hikanatoi Tagma, together with the infantry of the Paradunavum Thema, stationed together on the plain with innumerable bands of mercenary Oghuz, Pechenegs, Magyars, Normans and Rus. The sea of tents stretched from the banks of the River Istros to the hills in the west and the horizon in the east, all wrapped in a ditch and palisade wall. Banners fluttered in the breeze under a murky sky that threatened snow. The soldiers wandered between the campfires and tents, pulling their cloaks tighter, muttering in muted tones and chewing on their rations.

‘This land reeks of conflict,’ Dederic spoke.

Apion turned to him. The Norman was standing by a fire with Igor and the other varangoi, just inside the main gate of the camp. The Rus bantered amongst themselves, toasting bread in the flames and supping on their soured wine, some grooming their mounts.

‘Aye,’ Apion replied, ‘So very different from the borderlands I know, yet so very similar.’ He looked into the sea of tents. They had ridden north at haste for three more days to finalise Romanus’ departure from his armies. Now they waited on the emperor-to-be to return from the depths of the camp and begin the swift journey back to Constantinople. He looked to the south, through the camp gates. ‘And that’s what worries me — we must stay sharp on our return journey.’

‘Why so grim?’ A voice called out. ‘Bitter at the prospect of leaving such luxury behind after only a short visit?’

Apion turned to face front again; Romanus trotted from the heart of the camp on his white stallion. He led twelve kataphractoi with him, and another twelve scout riders carried supplies on their backs. The soldiers at every point in the camp had risen to their feet, saluting and cheering their leader.

Apion smiled at this. ‘Aye, back to bleakness of marble halls, platters of goose meat and jugs of rich wine.’

Romanus returned his wry grin. His riders formed up with Apion’s and they readied to leave the camp. Then, at the last, Romanus lifted his sword from his scabbard, pumping it in the air. The men of the camp erupted in a unified roar this time.

‘Basileus!’

***

They headed south across the plains at a steady gallop. On the third day they rose early and set off without eating, stopping only at midday to cook a meal of cheese on toasted bread then nuts and honey washed down with soured wine. Then they rode once more. Just as the light began to fade, they reached the conifer forest, thick with the scent of pine. They slowed here, picking through the soft bracken trail. Romanus had pinpointed a small dell with a stream nearby about three miles into the woods where they could make camp for the night, and this would leave them only two days distant from Constantinople.

A pair of varangoi rode ahead as a vanguard, then Apion and Romanus followed behind, the rest of the riders forming a double breasted column in their wake.

Their chat had been awkward at first, with Apion unable to shake off the memory of the lustful encounter he and Eudokia had shared, and the guilt that came with it whenever he looked her betrothed in the eye. But Romanus seemed as tentative as Eudokia had been with regard to the romantic side of their coming marriage. A beauty with a heart of pure ice, he had scoffed bitterly. Did she tell you she had me exiled and even threatened to have me executed?

This had set him at ease somewhat. Still, he was glad when the conversation moved on to Romanus’ thoughts on how the empire’s ills should be addressed.

‘The empire has been contracting for too long. Loss has become acceptable,’ Romanus continued, his breath clouding in the chill. ‘From the loss of Syria and the lucrative trade routes that disappeared with it, to the loss of Tunisia and the precious cereal crop and olive groves.’ He shook his head. ‘There are many ills to be tackled, Strategos. From the tax system to the armies. From the heart of the empire, stretching out to the borderlands that you and I know only too well.’

Apion nodded. ‘In the past, the empire would fund the armies of the outlying themata, allowing them to defend their homes. Now it takes from us, preferring to entrust the empire’s welfare to mercenary tagmata loyal only to imperial gold. We are in a sorry state, sir.’

Romanus shrugged, squaring his shoulders and rolling his head. ‘It will be corrected. That may not sit well with the magnates of Anatolia. But damn them if they think I’m going to be another lapdog for the rich.’

Apion thought of Psellos and the Doukids. ‘There are some who might be cowed, sir. Yet there are others who are rooted in the imperial court. In these last months I have seen terrible deeds carried out by these types.’

Romanus shot him a narrow-eyed look, nodding. ‘I know the lie of the imperial court, Strategos. It has festered for too long. It needs washing clean from top to bottom.’

Apion smiled at this. ‘Only Lady Eudokia has spoken with such frankness since I came west.’

Romanus grinned. ‘That is why we will make a tenacious pairing. I want the capital to become what it once was; a beating heart, a beacon of inspiration. God’s true city, as it once was.’

Apion did not reply to this, glancing at the white band of skin on his wrist.

But Romanus continued; ‘A city garrisoned with non-partizan tagmata. Armamenta stocked high with weapons and armour. Did you know that the capital once held enough ore in its workshops to forge four thousand blades?’

Apion thought over the military treatise he had read through in the library at Trebizond. ‘Aye, enough to equip an entire imperial tagma. The city armamenta is to be restored to its past greatness, sir?’

‘Indeed,’ Romanus leaned in closer, a wry grin spreading across his face. ‘And so will those of the outlying themata. The workhouses will provide arms and armour for all our armies.’

Apion thought of Alp Arslan’s words, dismissing the empire’s demise as a certainty. Suddenly they sounded distant and weak. A warmth grew in his heart, and one word resonated in his thoughts. ‘The greatest thing you can bestow upon the empire is hope, sir.’

Romanus nodded. ‘That will follow when the people see change around them. But there is much to do. It was once the case that we were strong enough to mount a challenge against our aggressors on the western and the eastern borders simultaneously. It has not been this way for some time. I have watched as, after years of campaigning to bring the Bulgar rebels and Magyar armies to their knees, the armies of the west have been drawn away from the cusp of victory — sent east to push back the armies of the Seljuk Sultanate.’

Apion nodded. ‘The converse is equally true. Four summers ago, I led the remainder of the Chaldian and Colonean Themata into Armenia. We pinned Alp Arslan and his army — some twenty thousand riders, twice our strength — in the rocky passes. In such terrain, the advantage of their mounts was lost, and they were hemmed in by a wall of my spears. We were weeks from forcing them into submission, weeks!’ Apion clenched a fist as if grasping out for that elusive victory. ‘Then a doux led his tagma to our camp. Not to reinforce us, not to elicit surrender or to hammer home victory and seal lasting peace in the east. He handed me a scroll bearing an imperial seal, then led more than half of my men away to the coast, where they were shipped to the west. We were forced to fight a long and bloody retreat from those mountains.’

Romanus patted his stallion’s mane, nodded and chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Then we have a common history, Strategos. Did you know that I spent my youth in Cappadocia? I rode in the east when I was a boy. And now I must turn my sights to the rising sun once more. I have yet to clash swords with Alp Arslan, but it is only a matter of time. I have heard much rumour of the sultan’s guile and ferocity.’

‘The rumours are well-founded,’ Apion replied earnestly.

‘And that is why I need men like you by my side in the years ahead,’ Romanus concluded with an earnest gaze.

They rode on in silence, and Apion noticed that the light had faded almost completely and that Dederic had struck up a torch. This cast a ghostly orange glow on their immediate surroundings, every shadow dancing like a demon. Only the muted shuffle of hooves, the snort of horses and the crackling of dry bracken pierced the stillness. When an owl hooted from the depths of the woods ahead, Apion started, then chided himself with a ghost of a grin.

Then the piercing shriek of an eagle split the air, high above. The other men of the column glanced up in weary half-interest. But Apion’s spine chilled. He frowned, peering into the darkness ahead.

There, a wisp of wintry mist swirled and took shape. He recognised her immediately; the silvery hair, the puckered features. But her sightless eyes were bulging in horror. She pressed one finger to her lips. Then she was gone, and darkness prevailed once more.

Apion slowed his mount to a halt and placed a hand across the chest of Romanus. ‘Be still, be silent.’

‘Strategos?’ Romanus asked, his face creased in confusion. The rest of the column slowed up behind them and the pair of varangoi in the vanguard twisted in their saddles, frowning in puzzlement.

Apion did not answer. His brow dipped as he scanned the forest around them.

Then he heard it, the continued snapping of bracken in the darkness. His eyes widened.

At that instant, hissing filled the air like a hundred asps.

‘Shields!’ he roared.

The column rustled into life, but not before the arrow hail hit home. The hissing died with a series of wet punches of iron bursting into flesh. Sparks flew as arrowheads hammered into armour, helms and shields. Gurgling cries rang out as the stricken slid from their mounts. Horses whinnied and reared up and at once the column was in disarray.

Finally the arrow hail slowed and stopped. A dozen riders lay slain and still on the forest floor. Apion heeled his mount round, his eyes scanning the blackness over the rim of his shield.

‘Brigands?’ Romanus gasped as he circled on his mount likewise.

Apion pulled a shaft from his shield — it was squat, thick and the iron heads were heavy; these were no arrows, they were darts launched from a solenarion, far more powerful than a normal bow at such close range. A weapon used in these parts only, and sparingly, by the empire. ‘No, assassins!’

Romanus’ eyes widened as he heard bowstrings stretching once more in the darkness, all around them. ‘Dismount and form foulkon!’ he cried to his men.

The remaining riders slid from their saddles and bundled together with Romanus and Apion, raising their shields around them and overhead to form a miniature protective shell. The bowstrings twanged and another round of hissing filled the air. The huddled group braced and then shuddered as the darts hammered home. A series of gurgling cries rang out and the group shrank further.

‘They’re coming closer!’ Apion realised as he noticed that some of the darts had punched right through the shields this time. He turned to Dederic. ‘Give me light!’

Dederic looked at him, wide-eyed, then nodded as realisation dawned. The Norman scrambled out from the foulkon to grasp at the torch, lying on the forest floor where he had dropped it. Then he scurried back into the shield canopy, darts smacking into the dirt in his wake.

Apion tore a strip from his tunic, then handed it to Igor. The varangos hurriedly tied it around the head of an arrow shaft and held it to Dederic’s torch. ‘Ready? Break!’ Apion cried. As one, the foulkon parted, Igor stood and fired the flaming arrow into the depths of the forest. Then, just as quickly, the foulkon reformed. From the gaps in their shields, they watched as the arrow punched down. Sparks ignited the dried leaves all around it. In the glow, the silhouettes of their attackers flitted between the trees. They wore conical Byzantine helmets and padded vests. Apion counted more than fifteen of them before the flames died.

Another hissing volley of solenarion bolts hammered down on the foulkon. Three more varangoi crumpled.

‘I can’t see them properly. I need more light!’ Apion barked, ripping another strip from his tunic. The rest of the men followed suit.

Then one of Romanus’ riders nudged Apion, offering him a round, wax sealed clay jar. ‘Try this.’

Apion held the wax seal to his nose and caught scent of the acrid stench from inside. His eyes glinted, then he shot up and hurled the jar at the last of the embers from the fire arrow. At once, the jar exploded into an orange vision of hell. Apion watched as the Greek fire engulfed the forest before him like the dark door incarnate. A pair of assassins tumbled around, their skin and clothes ablaze, their cries falling mute as the flames drew the breath from their lungs. Another eighteen silhouettes remained only paces away, hurriedly nocking bolts to their bows.

‘Stand!’ Apion roared. ‘Their strength was the darkness. Now we can fight them. They have assumed that victory is theirs — look how close they have come.’ At this, the varangoi stood and formed a line, ready to charge. Then Romanus waved his dismounted riders to their feet likewise, and raised his spathion overhead.

‘Advance!’ he roared.

Like a mirror shattering, the line exploded forward, each man lurching out, hefting their axes and spathions.

Apion’s heart hammered on his ribs as he rushed for the assassin before him. The assassin threw down the solenarion and fumbled to draw his sword. Apion kicked the blade from the assassin’s grip and then swiped his own blade down, gouging a crimson trough through the man’s chest. Hot blood sprayed on Apion’s skin as the man toppled. Then he spun just in time to parry a swipe at his neck, before jabbing his sword hilt into this next attacker’s face, feeling bones crunch under the blow. The assassin fell away, his cheekbone caved in.

Apion stalked through the melee to locate his next opponent. He dodged under swinging spathions and swiping Rus axes. Then he saw that three of the assassins had isolated Romanus, and were driving at him with their swords. Romanus fought like a lion, parrying two strikes but taking a cut to his neck from a third, blood spidering over his moulded breastplate. Apion rushed to his aid, slashing the hamstrings of the nearest assassin and then sending a right hook into the jaw of the next, who spun away with a grunt, then twisted back round only to receive Apion’s boot on the bridge of his nose followed by the edge of the scimitar across his throat. Romanus despatched the third, punching his spathion through the man’s chest and kicking the corpse away.

The pair staked their blades in the ground, panting, hearing the rest of their riders cry out in victory before breaking out in solemn prayer, some dropping to their knees, others clutching hands to their hearts.

‘Who were they?’ Romanus puffed, nodding to the corpses before them as one of his men tended to his neck wound.

Apion pressed his boot on the body of the assassin he had punched, then rolled him over. The man was dressed as a skutatos, there was no doubt of that.

Igor answered, his eyes wide. ‘I recognise this cur from the Numera barracks.’

‘He is a soldier of the Numeroi?’ Romanus’ face was creased in a frown, then he looked at Apion. ‘Loyal to Psellos and the Doukids?’

‘Like a vile stench,’ Apion nodded.

Igor looked to Apion and Romanus. ‘I doubt he is a mere infantryman,’ he said, plucking a solenarion bolt from the man’s quiver, then looking around in the darkness. ‘This work reeks of the portatioi — the dark-hearted bastards at the core of their ranks that live to spill blood. Torturers and cut-throats.’

‘They’ve followed us all the way here,’ Apion realised.

‘Strategos?’ Romanus exclaimed.

Apion’s reply caught in his throat as he heard the stretching of one more bowstring.

He leapt forward, punching Romanus back with the heels of his hands. A bolt sliced through the air and smacked into the tree where Romanus had been a heartbeat before.

Apion and Romanus gawped at each other.

The thudding of a lone set of hooves echoed somewhere in the darkness, heading south and growing fainter.

Apion mounted his gelding, holding Romanus’ gaze. ‘Out here we are in grave danger. Rest will have to wait. We must ride and reach Constantinople at haste.’

***

A thick fog had settled over the north of Constantinople, filling the valleys and even creeping over the peak of the sixth hill. The shadows of the few who were brave enough to tread these streets at night swirled and faded in the moonlight.

The broad northern imperial way was somewhat imbalanced, lined on one side with a dilapidated tavern and a selection of brothels, and on the other with the marble walls of the Cistern of Aetius. The way ended at the city walls and the Adrianople gate. The gatehouse towered high above, the crenellations and the tiny figures of the sentries silhouetted in the ghostly moonlight.

Hidden in the doorway of a derelict tenement a few doors down from the tavern, two gaunt and filthy men lurked. They watched as a drunken trader staggered from the door of the tavern, casting an ethereal orange glow on the greyness momentarily. He hobbled — partly from inebriation and partly from the festering wound on his leg. A purse dangled from his belt, chinking with coins with his every faltering step. The pair looked at one another and then nodded, before scuttling unnoticed through the fog to flank the drunk, each of them slipping daggers from their belts. Like wolves, they leapt upon the man, muffling his cries with a hand over his mouth. Then one of them hammered a dagger hilt into the man’s temple. The man crumpled, and the pair fumbled to free his purse. The first thief batted the hands of the other away, then the other pushed his accomplice back. In an instant, they were growling at one another, like scavengers over a carcass, hands bloodied, daggers levelled. Just then, approaching footsteps echoed down the street. Footsteps and the clanking of iron. They both snapped their glares round on the swirling mist down the street.

‘Numeroi!’ The first hissed, then scurried back into the silvery veil of fog.

The second grunted at this, flicking his gaze between the purse — still tied to the dead man’s belt — and the approaching footsteps. His eyes widened as shapes formed in the mist. Two ironclad numeroi of the city garrison bookended a pair of hooded figures, one hunched and small, the other tall, with ghostly silver eyes peering out from under the hood. Then, at last, the purse came free. He spun and scrambled towards the walls and away from the figures, slipping and sliding on the flagstones. He had run only a handful of steps when a pair of arrows punched into his back. The thief crumpled to his hands and knees, crawling, spluttering black blood from his lips. Then, when the tall, silver-eyed man clicked his fingers, one of the numeroi jogged forward and dragged his spathion blade across the thief’s throat and he fell still.

At this, the trader stirred, groaning, clutching his head. In a haze, he looked up at the four who had saved him. ‘God bless you!’ he clasped his hands together and bowed as he struggled to his feet.

‘Nobody must witness my presence here,’ the squat, hooded figure hissed, ‘nobody!’

The silver-eyed one by his side nodded at this, then slipped a sickle from his cloak and nicked the trader’s neck. The trader’s eyes bulged and he mouthed silent words of confusion as black blood haemorrhaged from the arterial tear. Then his skin drained of colour and he slumped to the ground.

Psellos stepped over the corpses and picked his way through the pooling blood. The deaths of these nameless individuals were an irrelevance to him at best. He looked up to the end of the street and the Adrianople Gate. The vast, arched timber gates were as tall as four men, hugged by bands of rusting iron, and barred by a length of timber hewn from a single, tall beech. When they reached the entrance to the gatehouse, another pair of loyal numeroi waited there.

‘Where is he?’ Psellos spoke abruptly.

‘On the walls, sir,’ the numeros replied, nodding up to the battlements.

The four ascended the stairway until they emerged onto the battlements. This, the inner wall, stood tall and clear of the carpet of fog. The limestone walkway was bathed in clear moonlight, the towers that studded it were as large as forts. Looking back into the city, only the Hagia Sofia, the Imperial Palace, the Aqueduct of Valens and a militia of fine columns rose above the fog. Looking west, out of the city, the outer wall and the moat were swamped by the fog, and the countryside and crop fields of Thracia were likewise cloaked.

Psellos saw the lone figure standing in the shadows of a crenellation. The rider’s face was bathed in sweat, his hair matted to his forehead as he clutched his helmet underarm. He strode to the man. ‘It is done?’

The man’s eyes gave it away before he spoke.

‘No, sir. Romanus lives, though many of his retinue were felled. I have ridden for days without food, rest or shelter. To be sure that news would reach you while you still have time. . ’

‘And the Haga? I trust that at least this troublesome thorn has been pruned?’

The man’s lips trembled. ‘He fought like a demon, sir. The men — Romanus’ men — they fought on his word.’

‘You and your men failed.’ Psellos cut the man off, his chest tightening. ‘Yet you purport to be one of my finest?’ He had promoted this fool into his portatioi on a day when he had been suffering from a crushing headache. The folly of his hasty actions would be costly. He looked to Zenobius. ‘Zenobius is an example I had hoped you would follow. He sets aside his soul, his fears, his wants, and he never fails me. Never.’

The rider’s lips flapped uselessly and he nodded hurriedly.

‘Zenobius, afford this man a lesson in efficacy.’

The albino turned his expressionless gaze upon the shivering rider and grappled him by the throat, crushing the cry of fear from the man’s larynx. Then he reached down with his free hand to grasp the rider by the belt. Finally, he lifted the man up and over the dipped section of the crenellations. The rider thrashed like a sturgeon, then the albino released him. His body fell into the fog like a stone, his roar hoarse and muted. Then, a wet crunch of bone echoed between the inner and outer walls.

Psellos inhaled the chill night air through his nostrils and looked to the north-west. ‘It is nearing dawn. Romanus must be only a short ride from the walls.’

‘You should have sent me,’ the albino spoke flatly.

‘Aye,’ Psellos mused. ‘Your time will come, Zenobius.’

‘I could have a dagger in Romanus’ back even before he reaches the Forum of the Ox?’

Psellos chuckled dryly at the albino’s stolid tenacity. ‘Once Romanus is inside the city, it will become too dangerous to attempt an assassination. The balance of power will remain, we must bide our time.’

‘Hmm,’ Zenobius replied flatly. ‘And what of the Strategos of Chaldia — I could have his throat opened before noon?’

Psellos sighed, his nose wrinkling as he thought of the aftermath of Nilos’ murder. The man’s death had put the fear of God into the people, but it had also swayed the Optimates Tagma to favour Romanus Diogenes’ rise to the throne. ‘He will die, but we do not need another martyr. No, we have to pick our time to slay the Haga.’ Then he wagged a finger, a smile creeping across his face. ‘But in the meantime, we can wound him.’

Zenobius’ silver eyes betrayed absolutely nothing. ‘Torture?’

‘No. I have found out much about his past in these last months,’ Psellos mused. ‘To hurt the Haga, you must hurt the few that he loves.’

***

Cydones stepped out onto the balcony of his sleeping chamber, then pulled his woollen cloak tight around his shoulders as the bitter fog rolled around him.

‘A lungful of night air and a bellyful of salep before I sleep,’ he chuckled wryly, wrapping his fingers around his cup, enjoying its warmth.

At this hour, the streets were near silent and he wondered what the great city that was spread out below him might look like. He thumbed at his Chi-Rho necklace, but it did little to fend off the air of melancholy that descended upon him. His memories of the place were all from his boyhood, and they were anything but happy. He wondered, given the tension in the palace since they had arrived — was anyone truly happy in this, God’s city? Indeed, the mutilation of the noble and affable strategos, Nilos, had cast a dark shadow on his faith. Cydones felt the chill reach his heart as he remembered Apion reluctantly describing the body they found.

Uttering a weary sigh, he slipped back into his bedchamber, the tap-tapping of his cane echoing as he closed the shutters behind him. Despite being indoors, he kept his cloak on. Even the underfloor heating inside the palace struggled to fend off the winter chill. He decided he would sleep wearing his thick woollen tunic and trousers tonight. So he shuffled across his room, tapping with his cane, then hung his cloak on a nearby chair before sitting on the edge of his bed. He reached out to feel for the bedside table. There sat the shatranj board and the pieces of the unfinished game he and Apion had started. He inhaled the sweet scent of his salep and took a sip, the creamy orchid root and cinnamon flavouring coating his throat. At this, his mood lifted once more.

Apion had first convinced him to try the Seljuk drink many years ago, and now it had become ingrained in his pre-bed ritual. In the darkness behind his sightless eyes he saw the young Apion as he was back then. A boy with a crutch, fresh-faced and sharp-eyed. Now that was a memory that stirred happiness from his heart. The crutch was gone now, and when Cydones last had the power of sight, Apion’s face was scarred, weathered and battered. But the emerald eyes remained sharp as ever. Then a shadow of guilt passed over his heart as he recalled encouraging Apion to join the ranks of the thema. He wondered what Apion could have been had he not been drawn into the war.

‘That boy was destined to hold a sword regardless,’ he muttered, breaking into a dry chuckle. ‘In any case, an old fool like me can do little to change things now.’

He supped down the last of his salep and then patted around on the bed to find the lip of the blankets.

But as he did so, the icy fingers of a draught danced on the skin of his neck.

He frowned. I’m sure I closed the shutters?

Then he realised he was not alone.

‘What do you want?’ he spoke without fear.

Silence. Only a foetid stench, like rotting meat wedged between foul teeth. Then a hoarse cackle echoed through the room. But there was another presence too, cold and silent.

‘There are two of you, aren’t there? You think you have an easy job on your hands, don’t you?’ Cydones felt a burst of the old battle-rage surge through his weary limbs. He grimaced and hefted his cane, his arms trembling with fury. ‘Well, come on then. . you whoresons!’

The old man leapt towards the source of the cackling, his bones cracking in protest. He swept the cane back, and his mind flashed with memories of his halcyon years as a mighty strategos. The glory and the bloodshed tore at his emotions as always. Then something cold and hard punched into his chest and he was stilled, mid-leap. His arms fell limply to his sides and his head lolled forward. Was this the fatal wound that he had avoided for all these years? He felt no pain, only numbness.

Then he slid from the lance and crumpled to the floor.

As he lay there, his thoughts dimming, he heard the footsteps of his assassins disappear through the shutters.

He shivered as the life slipped from his body. His last thoughts were of Apion and those he would leave behind.

Yes, it was going to be a long, cold winter.