Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

16. The Scorpion Pass

It was a baking-hot morning when the imperial campaign crossed into the golden, steep-sided valleys of the Lykandos Thema.

Apion rode alongside Igor, Dederic, Romanus and Gregoras. He found plentiful excuse to cast a look over his shoulder and take pride in the spectacle of the column. Over seven thousand men, snaking out for miles behind them like a silvery asp. In the few weeks they had been stationed by the Halys, the army had been transformed.

At the tail, Doux Philaretos had been entrusted with the rearguard. He along with five hundred kataphractoi — a mixture of riders from the themata and the Scholae Tagma — and a large detachment of toxotai were on the lookout for ambushers and deserters. Fortunately, since the bolstering of the column’s fortunes, there had been few of the latter.

In front of this rearguard, and forming the bulk of the column, the much-improved infantry banda of the themata marched, sixteen abreast. Those who had previously been filthy and unarmed now possessed a shield, spear and sword. The majority were clad in quilted vests and leather klibania, and the select few who would fight on the front ranks had been afforded iron klibania. The medley of bright, clean banners identifying each of the banda bobbed on a sea of vertical speartips as they strode, bulging around the centre to protect the supply touldon. Equally rejuvenated, the toxotai marching with them each had a bow, a full quiver and a wide-brimmed felt hat to keep the sun from their eyes, affording them a truer aim.

Leading the thematic infantry were the all-iron-garbed skutatoi of the Optimates Tagma. Then, heading up the column were the rest of the Scholae Tagma; twelve hundred riders on muscular mounts. The priests marched before these riders, carrying the bejewelled campaign Cross. The signophoroi flanked them, carrying their purple Chi-Rho campaign banners with pride. Then, at the head, the emperor rode, surrounded by his white-armoured varangoi.

Since leaving his Chaldian army behind almost a year ago, Apion had felt short of a limb. This sight, however, was a fine comfort. Having equipped the men well, their self-belief and attitude had lifted also — just as old Cydones had always preached.

‘A well-tempered anvil, indeed,’ Romanus spoke in a hushed tone, ‘probably the finest I have led in some years.’

Apion turned to see that the emperor was grinning at him.

‘Not quite; wait until we rendezvous with the men of Chaldia. . ’ Apion grinned in reply.

Romanus frowned momentarily, then threw his head back and boomed with laughter.

***

The mood of the march had been buoyant for the next few days. The priests had led prayers and chanting as the column wound its way deeper into the valleys of Lykandos. Apion had dropped back from time to time, offering words of encouragement to the marching men. He had noticed to his amusement that, when the priests were well out of earshot, some of the men struck up more ribald songs. Indeed, the further away the priests were the more bawdy the men became.

At the end of each day they would set up a vast, palisade-ringed marching camp, with each thema and tagma forming smaller camps within for their own ranks. After evening prayer, the men laughed as they ground their grain, cooked their porridge and sipped their soured wine by the campfires. The nights passed without incident and the soldiers awoke refreshed in the mornings, ready for another days’ march.

Vitally, each man had set out from the eastern banks of the Halys with two full skins of water, knowing that the heart of Lykandos was notoriously dry. Those skins had served them well for those first few days. Indeed, they should have been enough to see them to the first well and the supply dump the emperor had arranged.

But then, on the fourth day, things changed.

They came to the wide valley with the well at its centre, the column had slowed to a standstill and looked on in silence, the ribald tunes and prayer falling away.

There were no wagons, no sacks of grain, fodder or water skins. Likewise, the group of skutatoi they had expected to find guarding the well was nowhere to be seen. The valley floor was deserted. Romanus had sent a clutch of kursores scout riders on to the end of the valley to check for signs of the men or even for ambush. But the land was deserted in every direction. Then they approached the well, but it yielded only sand. The mood had understandably darkened at this. But out in these parched valleys, they could do little other than carry on to the next well with only the emergency water rations on the touldon wagons to fall back on.

Two days later, they had approached the second well in weariness, the men bearing dark lines under their eyes. Again there were no supplies and no guards. They were apprehensive as they moved to the well, then spirits soared as the bucket splashed into the darkness at the bottom. The cheering and expectation plummeted though, when the bucket became wedged. Apion had tossed a flaming torch into its depths, and then recoiled at the rotting body of the skutatos that lay down there — his neck and back snapped at absurd angles and the water slick with his putrefying flesh. Again, they had little option but to move on.

Now, another three days on from that second well, they trekked in silence, all water long gone. As if to mock them, the noon sky was pure azure and the heat in the valley was relentless, the air stale and dry. The bulk of the kataphractoi had taken to riding only in their tunics, boots and swordbelts, their weighty armour stowed in the touldon. Many of the skutatoi had done likewise, now marching only with their packs, spears and shields. Even the usually hardy mules of the supply train brayed in exhaustion.

Apion too rode in his light linen tunic and boots, with a felt cap on his head to shield his scalp from the worst of the sun. His hair hung loose around his face and neck. His mind was foggy, having slept fitfully the past few evenings, waking unrefreshed. His throat was as dry as his tunic was damp with sweat — he had drained the last of his water the previous day.

Damn, but this land is dryer than the wit of a Cretan.

He felt guilt at his own discomfort, wondering how the infantry behind him, largely from the more temperate north-western themata and unaccustomed to this parched land, would be faring right now. Then he looked ahead to the vanguard of three hundred kataphractoi, riding a half-mile in front of the main column. Their role required them to remain in full armour, and they were but a shimmering dot of iron on the horizon. Poor bastards, he sympathised, no doubt cooked through by now.

Gregoras, the Strategos of Thrakesion, rode nearby in silence, his ruddy skin dripping with sweat. Apion noticed how his eyes seemed to be alive though, combing the valleysides, taking everything in. He felt both reassured and unnerved by this.

In contrast, Dederic rode with his head down, his eyes on the dust before him. The Norman was shorn of his weighty mail hauberk. His neck was burnt red.

‘I’d cut off my cock for a skinful of water,’ Igor croaked beside him. The Rus’ face was the shade of cooked salmon, giving him a demonic appearance.

‘It is enough to drive a man to madness,’ Romanus observed, frowning slightly at Igor’s choice of words. ‘The echo of boots and hooves grows spellbinding, and all my thoughts are fixed only on when we will next enjoy a modicum of shade.’

‘Aye,’ Apion straightened up on his saddle, ‘yet thirst and heatstroke are but a few of the dangers out here.’ He took to scouring the valley sides as he said this. In their discomfort the vigilance had ebbed, he realised. ‘We must keep the men focused, Basileus.’

At that moment, a clopping of galloping hooves rang out. Doux Philaretos slowed alongside them, having rode from the rearguard. ‘Fresh water would focus the mind like nothing else right now,’ he suggested, then cast his narrowed eyes around the emperor’s retinue. ‘Perhaps we should stop here and find a source?’

Romanus punched a fist into his palm, then swivelled his gaze along the valley sides. ‘But if we stay on our route, the River Pyramos is, what, just over a day’s march from here?’

At this, Gregoras’ eyes shot to the emperor. ‘A day’s march for well-watered men, perhaps. I would agree with the doux, Basileus. Let us stop here and find a closer source.’

‘It seems that the River Saros is but a short distance from here — just over two miles,’ Philaretos continued, squinting at a dog-eared map. ‘Look, there,’ the doux said, tapping his map then pointing at a narrow crevasse a few hundred paces ahead in the southern valleyside. A finger of rock jutted into the sky from one side of the opening, curving round like a half coiled finger, the tip weathered to a fine point. ‘That’s it, the only passable terrain to the banks of the Saros, by the looks of it. It’s called. . the Scorpion Pass.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Igor muttered.

Apion looked to the jagged opening, struggling to hear anything other than the trickling of water in his mind. He rubbed at his eyes and examined the fissure again. It was narrow, and even from here he could see that the ground was uneven and littered with rockfall. The men would have to march two abreast at best, and the horses in single file. ‘That valley is narrow and treacherous underfoot — we could only send a few men through it to bring water to the column and it would take many trips to slake the thirst of our ranks. It would mean halting here for some time. I feel we should press on to the east, Basileus.’

Romanus mulled over a response. ‘Yes, we should not be distracted from our course. . ’

Before he had finished his sentence a groan came from behind them, followed by a thudding. They twisted in their saddles to see that a pair of skutatoi at the head of the Thrakesion Thema had crumpled, one to his knees, the other flat-out, face down. The one on his knees panted, his eyes like slits, his limbs trembling, his face pale. Ghostly white, Apion thought, seeing a lock of pure white hair hanging from the felt cap the man wore. It was the albino recruit he had noticed before.

‘Clearly, we must stop here,’ Gregoras raised his eyebrows at this as if to underline the point. The other banda of the thema looked on, their faces a sea of weariness.

‘Basileus, morale is low,’ Doux Philaretos agreed. ‘At the rear of the column, we have had to ride down deserters — it started this morning.’

Romanus swithered. Then he looked to Apion. ‘I can’t let morale fall away, Strategos. Worse, I can’t afford to have them perish. They need water.’ His gaze darted from his weary men to the silent, shimmering valley sides.

Philaretos and Gregoras shared a shrewd glance then looked to the emperor with narrowed eyes.

At last, the emperor nodded, heeling his mount round to face the head of the column. ‘Down your burdens and rest,’ he boomed. ‘We will remain here until the midday heat relents.’ He motioned to the blanket of shade that had formed on the northern side of the valley as the afternoon begun. ‘Keep your weapons close and maintain a stringent watch. But know that your water rations will be replenished before long.’

As the news filtered back along the column, a chorus of relieved sighs broke out and then escalated into a raucous cheering. Like a silver asp, the body of men moved from the centre of the valley into the shade at the northern edge. Then a clatter of helmets and shields hitting the dust filled the air. The vanguard trotted back to join their comrades.

‘Kursores!’ Romanus barked.

A pack of thirty scout riders trotted over on their lithe mounts. Their leader was Himerius, an aged man. His crisp bald pate was an angry shade of red from the sun. His face was fixed in a sour and puckered grimace, as if he had been sucking on a ripe lemon. ‘Basileus!’ the rider barked.

‘Load your saddles with water skins, as much as you can carry when full. Make your way to the Saros then ferry the skins back to the column. It will take many trips, but know this;’ Romanus’ cobalt eyes sparkled, ‘today, you can be our saviour.’

***

Zenobius stepped away from the collapsed skutatos and moved into the shade. Here, he offered a furtive nod to his accomplice, mounted by the emperor’s side. Then he abandoned his pretence of feebleness and watched as the skribones tried in vain to revive the fallen man he had been marching alongside. Perhaps if the man merely had heatstroke then they would be able to bring him round, Zenobius thought. Then he reached into his purse and thumbed at the small pewter vial in there, half of its contents gone. No, there would be no reviving of this one, he grinned. Then his eyes drifted to the Scorpion Pass.

Perhaps I have offered him a small mercy, given what is to come. .

***

Atop a sun-baked plateau in the north of Lykandos, Sha chewed on a strip of goat meat as he eyed his weary men. There were nearly four thousand of them. They were gathered round small cooking fires, munching on their rations of hardtack, slurping at their stew of honey, almonds and yoghurt, stopping only to slake their thirst with their plentiful water supply. They needed every last drop, for up here they were exposed to the mid-afternoon sun that baked them as they ate. Their necks were angry red and their faces slick with sweat. He considered giving the order to move out, then hesitated. Give them a little longer, he affirmed, after all, it has been a long and tiring march.

It had been three weeks since the eighteen hundred men of the Chaldian Thema — four banda of skutatoi, one of toxotai and nearly two hundred kataphractoi — had set off from the verdant coastal area near Trebizond. They had headed south-west, mustering the men of the eastern themata as the letter from Apion had instructed.

Their first stop had been the city of Nicopolis to levy a tourma from the narrow-shouldered Strategos of Colonea. Sha smiled as he recalled the man’s initial belligerence and refusal. The man’s stance had quickly melted when Sha mentioned that the order came from the emperor and that the Haga would be coming to enforce the order. On paper, they should have complemented his column with another two thousand four hundred men; six banda of skutatoi and two of toxotai. In reality, there were less than four hundred men, and he could barely tell the spearmen and the archers apart — each wearing only a tunic, a few with boots, and a handful with shields and weapons. He had hidden his dismay though. At least these thematic troops had mixed well with their Chaldian brothers — some of them exchanging food and others playing dice, their banter rising and falling.

Next they had marched south-west from Colonea to cross into the rocky highlands of the Sebastae Thema. Some years ago, the thema soldiers there had retired to their farms permanently, stowing their swords and putting their lives in the hands of Doux Ausinalios and his mercenary tagma that had been sent to replace them. Now Ausinalios was to join Sha’s column. The doux brought with him two hundred Norman riders, five hundred Pecheneg horse archers, five hundred Oghuz steppe cavalry and over a thousand Rus axemen. Ausinalios’ army was welcome in terms of the numbers, but there had been an uncomfortable rift between them and the native Byzantine troops. Fights and goading had been commonplace on the march and in camp. One man had even been blinded in a dagger fight.

The sooner we meet with Apion and the emperor, he thought, glancing south, the sooner I will be relieved of this lot. Decision made, he filled his lungs. ‘Rest is over. Douse the fires and ready yourselves to move out!’

‘Aye, we’re not far from the rendezvous point now,’ Procopius sighed.

‘By tomorrow we’ll be there,’ Sha replied.

Then a tinkling of water and an angry hiss split the air. Sha and Procopius spun to see Blastares, staring skywards, a look of bliss on his face. A plume of grey smoke billowed around his ankles as he emptied his bladder onto a campfire and the skutatoi nearby yelped as they scrambled clear of the spray.

The big tourmarches grunted and shuffled a few times to get every last drop out, then blinked, realising Sha and Procopius were gawping at him in disbelief. His blissful expression morphed swiftly into a scowl. ‘What’re you looking at?’ he growled.

Procopius screwed up his eyes in exaggerated fashion; ‘Not sure — hard to tell from here.’

‘Aye, well at least I can do more than piss through this, you old bastard,’ Blastares fired back, and then cackled, shaking his head in disbelief at his own comeback as he tucked himself away again.

Sha stifled a chuckle then turned to the edge of the plateau, looking out over the wrinkled network of valleys below. He raised a hand, readying to wave the men into a march towards the snaking path that led down there. But as he did so, something caught his eye and his breath. Many miles away, a dust plume approached from the west, rising from the broad valley that spliced Lykandos.

‘Ours?’ Procopius whispered, crouching by his side, an elbow resting on Sha’s shoulder. Then Blastares moved to his other side.

‘Got to be,’ Blastares affirmed.

‘They may well be,’ Sha agreed. ‘But if they are, then who or what is that?’

Blastares and Procopius followed Sha’s stabbed finger. There along the hilly ground south of the dust plume, a faint glinting pierced the heat haze. It was there and then not there at the same time. . and it was moving, like an arrowhead shooting for the flank of an unsuspecting warrior.

***

Hooves echoed through the narrow, shaded pass. Himerius, the komes of the scout riders muttered under his breath. He had lost his felt cap that morning and now his bald pate was lobster-pink and crisp. The dust all around him was thick and clung to the throat. He winced as his mare stumbled and whinnied. No part of this pass was even close to level, with slivers of broken bedrock and scree under every step. So far, they had been forced to dismount to round piles of rockfall and to lead their horses through the narrowest parts. Then, when they ducked low in their saddles to ride under yet another jagged overhang, the serrated rock scraped his angry scalp.

‘The only damned grace is that we are in the shade,’ he croaked, shaking a fist at the offending rock as he sat tall once more.

Niketas, the young rider behind him, laughed stoically at this. ‘Just think of ducking into the shallows of the river, sir.’

‘I’m thinking of the state of my mount after six or seven sessions of stumbling through this crack in the ground.’ He patted his grey on the neck. ‘They won’t be replaced or tended to if they are injured — we’re not tagma riders, lad.’ The spite in his tone silenced his fellow rider. He closed his eyes, sighed and then twisted in his saddle to the youngster. ‘I’m sorry, Niketas. A grumpy old bastard like me and heat like this do not mix well.’

But Niketas’ gaunt features were illuminated with a smile. He was pointing ahead.

Himerius spun forward again to see that the pass was opening out above them, the blue sky yawning overhead. The rushing of the rapids met his ears before the tumbling waters came into sight. A smile cracked across his aged features. He closed his eyes, clutched the Chi-Rho on his neck chain and mouthed a prayer to God.

Then he blinked at the clatter of a small rock tumbling down the side of the crevasse. He squinted up into the sunlight. Confusion wrinkled his features at what he saw up above.

A single man, crouching. He wore a jet-black pony tail and grey eyes that seared under a v-shaped brow. One side of his face was an angry smear of scars and drooping flesh. He wore a scale vest and a fine Seljuk conical helm. Then the man stood tall and barked. At once, both sides of the pass writhed as warriors rose. There were hundreds of them, and hundreds more behind. Himerius dropped the Chi-Rho, his entire being suddenly awash with icy cold dread.

‘Get back to the column!’ he roared. ‘Warn the emp. . ’

His words were ended in a gurgling roar as a spear punched through his throat and a pair of arrows hammered into his chest.

***

Nasir crouched above the craggy pass, biting his lip in vexation. All along the high flat ground beside him, his three thousand men were stilled likewise, breath bated, crouched or lying flat. His eyes never left the thirty scrawny imperial scout riders below. They could not be allowed to foil his plan.

When the sultan had given him the opportunity to redeem himself, sending him west to seek out and counter Romanus’ expected campaign, it had been a fine gift indeed. Then, when a lone rider had come to him just days ago advising him of the Byzantine route, it had been like a gift from Allah. This was his chance to seize glory. This was his chance to slay the Haga. But now, only a mile from the edge of the broad valley where the ambush was to take place, these scout riders could ruin it all. One glance upwards. One careless noise from his warband.

Then the clack-clack of a tumbling pebble rang out. He shot a deathly glare at the akhi whose shuffling had dislodged the stone. Then his breath stilled as the echo of the falling stone died.

The lead rider gawped at it and then up at the edges of the pass.

The Byzantine locked eyes with Nasir.

There was no turning back now. Nasir stood to his full height, filled his lungs and ripped his scimitar from its sheath. ‘At them! Kill them all!’

As one, his warband rose to hurls spears and loose arrows upon the Byzantine scout riders. The old rider crumpled mid-cry, convulsing, his body punctured. The cluster of riders behind him descended into chaos. The quickest to react kicked their mounts into a turn, only to crash into those behind them. Backs exposed, these riders were swiftly pierced with missiles and slid from their mounts, corpses tangling under hooves.

Nasir slid down the scree-strewn pass side then leapt forward to hack at the panicked mass of riders. A clutch of akhi joined him, jabbing their spears forward at man and mount alike. He wrenched one fleeing rider from the saddle and smashed his mace into the back of the man’s skull, crushing his head. Then he tossed the corpse aside and looked for his next foe.

Only a few Byzantines fought on. One, a gaunt-faced young rider who had fallen from his horse, hobbled towards a riderless stallion further back in the pass.

‘That one!’ Nasir stabbed his mace towards the fleeing young rider, sinew, skin and bone dangling from the tip. ‘Stop him!’

Nasir leapt over the pile of the dead and hurled his mace as the young rider reached out to mount the stallion. The weighty metal bludgeon spun towards the man’s head and Nasir grinned in bloodlust. But the young rider stumbled and the mace only scraped across his crown, tearing the felt cap and a section of scalp clear. Heedless of this gruesome injury, the rider mounted and heeled the stallion into a frantic gallop.

Seljuk arrows hissed and smacked against the sides of the pass, some punching into the man’s back. But the rider did not fall and in moments he was gone. The drum of hooves died and for a heartbeat, the pass was silent bar the panting of the Seljuk warriors.

‘Sir, we should consider turning back. If the Byzantines know we are coming. . ’ an akhi panted.

Nasir spun to him. It was the man who had dislodged the stone. In one motion, he pulled his scimitar from its sheath, then drove it hard into the man’s gut. The akhi’s eyes bulged and blood pumped from his lips, then Nasir ripped his blade clear. As the corpse toppled, he cast his gaze around his men in the narrow passage and the swathes of them lining the tops of the pass.

‘There is no turning back. Riders, mount! Spearmen, be ready for a quick march. To the north!’

***

Apion’s belly groaned. It was loud enough to draw startled looks from Igor and his axemen. He stared at the hardtack he had been holding for some time now, touching his parched tongue to his cracked lips. Hunger and thirst seemed to be playing dice with him and every other man sat in the shade at the northern edge of the valley.

‘You’d be as well eating rocks,’ Igor croaked, mopping the sweat from his brow.

‘Washed down with a cup of dust,’ Philaretos, sitting nearby, rasped with a throaty chuckle, his eyes shaded under a scowl.

The ruddy-faced and sweating Gregoras smirked at this, his beady eyes fixed on Apion.

Apion shrugged in resignation and placed the biscuit back in his ration pack. Himerius and the riders were not due back for a while yet. Even then the water would rightly go to the infantry first, so it would be near sunset by the time they received their share. He looked to Romanus, striding along the lines of his column, offering words of encouragement to his men. The emperor had insisted on being the last to receive water.

‘We’re being led by a good man,’ Dederic muttered absently, by his side.

Apion looked to him. The little Norman’s face was bathed in sweat. He had taken to carving at a wooden stake, hewing it vigorously into a point.

‘Preparing that for the fat lord?’ Apion nudged him with an elbow.

Dederic nodded. ‘Something like that.’ Then he looked up, squinting at the sun. ‘Tell me, sir. . in your time leading the ranks, you must have had to make tough choices?’

‘Indeed,’ Apion replied instantly, ‘Almost every day. I have had men and their families retreat from their defences and their homes, ceding hard-won ground to the Seljuks but saving them from unavoidable slaughter. I have allowed captured ghazi warbands to return to their lands unharmed — thinking that perhaps the next time we meet on the battlefield they will remember that. I would say these were good choices.’ Then he thought of the bloody massacres he had led, the wailing of children spattered in their parents’ blood, the stench of burning flesh. His thoughts spiralled back to those last days on Mansur’s farm — the time that spawned that darkness. He flicked a finger at the Chi-Rho banner hanging limply nearby. ‘And, by that God of yours, I have made some terrible choices in my time.’

‘They say a man’s choices will define him,’ Dederic mused, tracing the tip of his stake through the dust. ‘But what if he makes the wrong choices for the right reasons?’

Apion heard the question, his thoughts snared once again on Mansur’s farm and on that last day he had ever laid eyes upon it. His poor choices had led to that day. ‘Then he will live to regret it evermore,’ Apion replied absently, staring into the dust.

Then his thoughts were curtailed by the echoing clop-clop of hooves. He shot his gaze to the Scorpion Pass. Approaching horses? he wondered, firing glances to Igor and Romanus. No, it is too soon, surely.

Gregoras was the first to stand, his eyes darting, his tongue poking out to moisten his lips. Then the infantry rose and stretched on their toes like a crop field rippling in a breeze, their faces eager.

Apion looked to Igor. ‘Something is wrong,’ he whispered, ‘gather around the emperor.’

Igor nodded and barked to his varangoi. Immediately, they rushed to surround Romanus. Igor hefted his axe, his head dipped and his scarred eye trained on the opening. Apion stood by their side.

Then a single rider trotted sluggishly from the pass.

‘It’s Niketas!’ one skutatos cried out. ‘Where is our water?’ A babble of voices broke out, confused and curious.

But Romanus raised a hand to hush them.

Niketas slowed to a canter, then halted, halfway across the pass and some twenty strides from the head of the column.

‘Rider — report!’ Romanus bawled.

The rider opened his mouth to speak, but no words were forthcoming. The cicada song seemed to grow deafening. Then Niketas’ head lolled forward to reveal the circle of scalp that dangled from his crown and the matching disc of blood-smeared skull that it exposed. Niketas’ shoulders lurched and he retched. Blood erupted from his nostrils and lips, soaking his mount. Then he toppled to the dust with a thud, revealing the arrow shafts quivering in his back.

A heartbeat of stillness and silence ensued. Then a rumbling of hooves started again. But this time it grew like thunder, and it came not from the Scorpion Pass, but from up above, somewhere atop the valley sides.

The Byzantine column broke into a babble of murmuring and then cries of panic split the air as men looked around in terror. Apion’s eyes locked on the southern lip of the valley. All along it, plumes of red-gold dust rose like demons.

‘Basileus,’ he stabbed a finger to the south, ‘form up for a flanking strike!’

But at that moment the tip of the southern valleyside came to life. A cluster of ironclad riders burst into view, shimmering in the sunlight, directly across from the emperor and his retinue.

Apion’s heart froze. Ghulam riders, the cream of the Seljuk heavy cavalry. There were more than two hundred of them, each encased in armour and clutching lance, bow and blade. Behind them, a crescent of nimble ghazi riders swept into view. Another eight hundred. As one, the Seljuk riders flooded down the scree and onto the valley floor, thundering straight towards the column head like an arrowhead. Apion stumbled to take his place with Dederic between the Varangoi and the Optimates. His mind echoed with a thousand thoughts and orders formed on his tongue, but without his army to command he could only watch on.

‘Ready spears!’ Romanus cried out. The order was echoed along the lines of the Optimates Tagma who were nearest the approaching horsemen. But, caught by surprise, they were unprepared, many having stowed their arms and armour in the touldon. Those on the front ranks who had spears levelled them, while those in the ranks behind lifted their rhiptaria. The resulting phalanx was blunt and weak in vast stretches, and the raiding horsemen were only strides away.

‘Rhiptaria, loose!’ Romanus cried.

At that moment, Apion saw three things. He saw the twisted, snarling and mutilated face of Nasir at the head of the Seljuk charge, he saw the devious sparkle in his nemesis’ eyes and he saw the knuckles on Nasir’s right hand grow white on the reins of his mount.

‘No, Shields!’ Apion cried. But his shout was drowned out by the hoarse cries of those all around him. Thousands of Byzantine javelins streaked into the air.

Then Nasir yanked on his mount’s reins and barked his cavalry into a swift turn, pulling out of the charge and haring right, parallel to the column. The Byzantine javelins punched down harmlessly into the dust in the Seljuk riders’ wake. Then the ghulam hurled their spears and the ghazi loosed an arrowstorm into the massed and unprepared Optimates ranks. Apion, without a shield at the edge of the Optimates lines, could only watch the incoming hail. Then, at the last, Dederic snatched up a shield and held it over both of them. The shield battered and buckled as the barrage rained down. The ripping of flesh and crunching of bone rang out all around them. Skutatoi fell in swathes, gouts of blood staining the air and soaking them. The densely packed toxotai further back were also cut down like wheat before they could loose in reply.

Then the barrage slowed as the Seljuk cavalry thundered on past the head of the column, along the valley floor and to the east.

Dederic lowered the shield and he and Apion gawped around them. Many hundreds lay dead or dying. Amidst the screaming of the stricken, the varangoi clustered around Romanus, their shields peppered with arrows. The emperor’s eyes were locked on the Seljuk cavalry.

Nasir and his riders stopped a few hundred feet away, before two pillars of rock that pinched the valley. There, they took to cantering in a sweeping circle, those nearest the head of the Byzantine column firing and those furthest away nocking fresh arrows. Once more, Byzantine men all around the emperor fell like harvest wheat and chaos reigned.

Apion heard Philaretos growl from under the ceiling of varangoi shields; ‘We outnumber them, urge our riders forward!’

Then Gregoras added to this, snarling; ‘Aye, seize the opportunity, Basileus! The vanguard are nearly ready to charge.’ He stabbed a finger at the cluster of three hundred riders, most now mounted and armed once more.

The emperor seemed swayed by their hubris. Apion grabbed the reins of his Thessalian from the nearby squire, then leapt on the saddle and kicked the beast forward to intervene; ‘No!’ he cried as he pushed in amidst the cluster of Rus axemen. ‘Get shields to the men and wait out the arrow storm! Do not pursue those riders. Our column will lose integrity and the Seljuk mounts are swift and well-watered — even our best riders will do well to catch them.’

Philaretos scoffed at this as arrows rattled down on the shields overhead. ‘Enough! This is not a decision for a thematic strategos!’

Apion ignored the jibe as he strapped on his plumed helmet and took up a shield. ‘Basileus?’ he gasped.

At that moment, a stray arrow slipped inside the varangoi shields, grazing the flesh on the leg of the emperor’s stallion. The beast reared up dramatically and the emperor threw his sword arm up to balance, punching through the roof of shields.

The beleaguered Byzantine front saw this and cried out in anticipation of an advance, and the vanguard took it as so. ‘Nobiscum Deus!’ the lead rider of the vanguard roared, then dropped his spathion, pointing it forward like an accusing finger at the swarm of Seljuk cavalry. As one, the riders rumbled forward and burst ahead of the column.

‘Basileus!’ Apion gasped, ‘you must stop them.’

Romanus looked to Apion. His gaze was acquiescent. ‘It is too late, and I could never have ordered the men to wait here and die.’ With that, he kicked his stallion fiercely, and the beast whinnied and bundled clear of the varangoi then charged out to lead the vanguard. ‘Forward!’ he roared, his purple plume dancing in his slipstream.

At this, the varangoi cried out in dread. Igor was the first to leap onto a saddle. ‘Strategos,’ he cried to Apion, ‘With me!’

Apion nodded and the pair kicked their mounts into a gallop after the emperor. The rest of the column surged forward too; masses of skutatoi, toxotai and pockets of semi-prepared riders. But Apion and Igor broke ahead of them all, lying flat in their saddles to catch up with Romanus.

Apion saw what he expected to see up ahead; the Seljuk horsemen waited until Romanus and his riders were a handful of strides away, then they broke from their swarming circle and burst into a retreat eastwards along the valley.

‘They’re drawing the emperor away from the rest of the column!’ Apion growled over the rush of wind in his ears.

Then the Seljuks slipped between the two pillars of rock that pinched the valley and the emperor’s riders were quick to follow. Apion’s gut twinged as he and Igor passed through this choke-point. Then his heart froze when he glanced up to the southern valleyside behind it.

A storm of roaring akhi were streaming down the scree. At least two thousand of them. These Seljuk spearmen then streamed across the valley floor and Apion and Igor only just burst past them before they blockaded the narrow choke-point.

Apion shot a glance over his shoulder. The akhi had dug in, nearly twenty ranks deep, spear butts dug into the dust and facing the rest of the onrushing Byzantine column, bodies braced. ‘We’re on our own,’ he hissed.

Igor frowned, then looked back over his shoulder to see the swell of Byzantine infantry surge against this wall of spears. Ribs popped and men were disembowelled as skutatoi were pushed onto the spearwall by their over-eager comrades behind. Blood showered the akhi, screams rang out and Byzantine corpses piled up. The pressure was immense, but the akhi stood firm. ‘Aye, then my axe will be busy today,’ the big Rus said as he looked forward again.

There, just a few hundred paces ahead, the emperor and his three hundred were now at the mercy of Nasir and his thousand riders. The ghazis were circling, raining arrows, while Nasir led his ghulam lancers in darting charges at the kataphractoi flanks, each time felling clutches of the precious riders. Romanus’ purple plume whipped and billowed as he fought like a demon, hacking and slaying when he could get within striking distance of the Seljuk riders. But nearly half of the kataphractoi had been felled. It was only a matter of time.

Apion’s heart thundered. It could not end here. Surely this was not the island in the storm the crone had spoken of?

As he burst forward to join the emperor and his riders, he caught sight of Nasir glaring at him then roaring with laughter.

‘The emperor will die, and now the Haga comes to join him! This is a fine day to take our glory!’

With that, Nasir broke from his pack of ghulam, lifted a javelin from the body of a dead kataphractos and fixed his sights on the emperor. Then he hefted the shaft and launched it.

Apion kicked his mount forward, lunging to the front of his saddle to punch his shield out just as the javelin sped for the emperor’s throat. His shoulder jolted and popped as the missile smacked from the shield and sclaffed clear of Romanus.

The emperor looked at him, wide-eyed and blinking as they rode side by side.

‘Basileus,’ Apion cried over the thunder of hooves, ‘break your men into two wedges. We must separate the ghulam from the ghazis.’ He punched a fist into his palm. ‘Snare and lure!’

Romanus nodded briskly then raised a hand and flicked a finger in one direction and then another. ‘Split!’ Eighty of the kataphractoi read this and wheeled away behind the emperor to charge at the ghazi circle.

Apion led the remaining seventy in a charge towards Nasir and the ghulam wedge. ‘With me — stay tight to my path! Every man on the right, ready your bows!’ he bellowed, then swept the scimitar down and straight at Nasir.

The dark door crashed open in Apion’s mind as the two wedges thundered for one another. The two men at their heads roared, scimitars raised.

Then, only paces apart, Apion wrenched on the reins of his mount, pulling right. He parried Nasir’s swipe, then hacked and parried as he galloped along the edge of the Seljuk wedge. The rest of the wedge fell in tight behind him and followed suit, smashing and parrying. The sides of the two wedges scraped together like the hulls of a pair of opposing warships colliding. Splintered spearshafts, crimson spray, the tearing of iron and flesh and a cacophony of curses filled the air.

Then Apion cried out; ‘Archers!’ The riders in the right half of the wedge stood tall in their stirrups, twisted to their left, stretched their bows and loosed a small but dense volley of arrows down into the flanks of the ghulam. At such close range, the missiles punctured limbs and punched through the gaps between iron plates. The Seljuk wedge wobbled at this barrage, many falling, mounts tumbling over in the dust. Then the two wedges broke apart.

Nasir roared his men into a tight turn. Despite his losses, his riders were fresher than the Byzantines and they wheeled round nimbly, lining up to pierce into the flank of Apion’s slower wedge. Apion saw that he could not ride clear of the threat and stay in formation. ‘Break, break!’ he cried. But it was too late.

Nasir’s wedge smashed into the Byzantine kataphractoi, lancing men from their saddles, throwing others under a storm of hooves. Apion kicked at his mount to break clear when he heard a whirring. He glanced up then snapped his head to one side just in time to dodge a flanged mace hurtling for his face. The metal wings on the bludgeon gouged the skin from his cheek before spinning onwards to rip the mail veil and jaw of a kataphractos clean off. The man’s eyes bulged as he clawed at his jawless face, tongue dangling, blood soaking his chest before he toppled to the ground. Apion twisted in his saddle to see Nasir cursing the near miss.

Apion heeled his Thessalian round to face his foe, when a wooden spear shaft swept round like a club and knocked him from the saddle. He crashed to the dust, dazed and winded momentarily. Through the forest of horse legs, he saw Romanus’ riders, thinned even further, pursuing the ghazis but still unable to snare them. He saw the akhi spearwall holding firm at the choke-point despite the swell of Byzantine riders and infantry pressing against them. Then he saw Nasir’s scimitar blade scythe down for his neck.

At once his vision sharpened and he rolled clear of the blow, the blade splitting a jagged rock where he had lay moments before. He scrambled to his feet, turning to face Nasir. He backed away, dodging and ducking between the swiping swords and rearing mounts of the kataphractoi and the ghulam all around him.

Then a ghulam mount reared up and kicked out, a hoof whacking into his shoulder and sending him staggering towards Nasir. Nasir lunged for him, swinging his blade in a flurry of swipes with no thought to defence. Apion parried as best he could, but his limbs were numb, his parched and starved body weak and every blow seemed to be stronger than the last. Then Nasir’s blade sliced across Apion’s forearm and his scimitar fell from his grip. Before he could grasp out to catch it, his heel stubbed on the split rock and he toppled onto his back, weaponless. Kataphractoi thudded all around him, impaled on ghulam spears and torn by Seljuk blades.

Nasir approached, scimitar extended, chest heaving. ‘We once swore an oath to protect one another,’ he cried over the tumult, lifting his scimitar tip to Apion’s throat. The ruined side of his face was coated in dust, the exposed eye bulging. ‘Today, I rescind that oath.’

Apion squared his jaw, waiting. ‘Then why do you hesitate, brave bey of the sultanate? My actions led to the death of your betrothed, did they not? If not for my mule-headedness, Maria would still be by your side. I do not deny this. So spill my blood and be on about your business.’

For a heartbeat, Apion saw something behind the rage. Nasir’s good eye was shot red with blood and for that moment it was glassy.

Apion searched Nasir’s gaze. ‘Nasir?’

Nasir offered him a look that broke through the tortured, burnt and bitter features of the man he had become. Then it was washed away with a look of sober finality. He raised his scimitar and readied to swipe. ‘Goodbye, old friend.’

The roars all around them died away like a gale dropping.

Apion held Nasir’s gaze.

Then a rumble of thunder filled the air and the Seljuk roars of impending victory turned into cries of anguish. Nasir frowned, sword still aloft. Then he snatched a glance at the eastern end of the valley.

Apion looked there too. There, another wall of silver flickered, growing like an onrushing flood. A bobbing sea of Crimson banners emerged from the heat haze.

The cry was jumbled at first, then it grew unmistakable.

‘Nobiscum Deus! Nobiscum Deus!’

The men of Chaldia were coming to war.

At this, the ghulam and ghazis broke from the melee, kicking their mounts into a frenzied flight up the southern valley side. Then the akhi spearwall hemming in the bulk of the Byzantine column saw this and a panicked wail broke out from them. They disintegrated and scrambled for the valley sides, clawing at the scree to reach the top. The kataphractoi and skutatoi pegged back by their spears now flooded forward like a raging river bursting its dam.

Nasir glanced to the Byzantine tides washing towards him from either end of the valley.

Apion scrambled to his feet and snatched up his scimitar once more. ‘Perhaps this means our oath remains?’

Nasir turned to him, then roared in frustration and leapt onto his mount. As he did so, he pointed his blade accusingly at Apion, his gaze trained along its length, his expression darker than night once more.

‘Your time is short, Haga,’ he spat, before heeling his mare round for the southern valley side and taking flight with his army.

Apion watched him go, then fell to his knees, panting. He closed his eyes to see the dark door slam shut. All around him he could hear only the shrill cries of carrion birds descending to begin their feast.