Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

7. Return to Chaldia

The journey home for the weary men of the Chaldian Thema was long and troublesome, and it had taken some months to finally set eyes on their homeland.

They had stalled at first on the banks of the River Halys. In the stifling summer heat, Apion found himself charged with the care of tens of thousands of displaced citizens and farmers. While Caesarea lay in Seljuk hands, there would be no return home for these people. Alp Arslan’s show of magnanimity had been shrewd, for allowing the populace safe passage from their homes had effectively tied up the remaining forces of the mustered themata in organising and policing the homeless rabble. Gaunt and filthy, they lived for weeks in makeshift tents and timber lean-tos under the welcome shade of the beech groves lining the banks of the Halys. It was fortunate that the river was abundant with fish and the surrounding lands rich with game. For without such bounty, thousands would have perished.

Still, the days were long and troublesome. Theft, rape and brawling were rife and the atmosphere suffocating. So, Apion took to waking each morning just before dawn, then setting out to run along the banks of the river, barefoot and dressed only in a light linen tunic. He found the chill air and the babble of the river cleansing to the mind, and he would only stop when the sun was fully past the eastern horizon. After stopping he would stretch his muscles and wash in the shallows. Then he would eat his usual breakfast of bread and honey, washing it down with river water. His mind fresh, he would then return to face the latest troubles of the refugees.

As the weeks passed, imperial trade cogs and the occasional galley docked by the camp and transported some of the refugees to the more westerly themata and gradually the camp shrank. By the ides of August, the camp held only a few thousand souls. It was then that Apion saw fit to delegate his command of the site to the newly appointed strategos of the Charsianon Thema — a young man who had previously been a tourmarches, one of the few who had survived the initial incursions of Bey Afsin.

After that, Apion and the men of Chaldia had set off on the journey home, crossing the Halys and then heading north-east. It was a steady and quiet march as they dotted between rivers and wells, eating from their rations and trapping game. Now, some six months after they had left their farms and towns, they were finally within sight of their homeland once more.

Apion squinted into the morning sun and eyed the plain ahead; russet and gold stretches of dust dappled with beech thickets and studded with shrubs. He could not help but focus on the crunch of boots and hooves on the dirt track behind him. Far fewer than there should have been. Of the twelve hundred Chaldians summoned to Charsianon by Doux Fulco, less than four hundred men would be returning home to Chaldia. Two households in every three would know only grief in the months ahead.

‘Many widows we make of waiting wives, with so little thought we squander men’s lives,’ a baritone voice spoke as if reading his thoughts.

Apion turned to Sha. The tourmarches had drawn level on his grey stallion.

‘It’s a saying from back home, in the sands of Mali. It is not just this land that suffers the pox of bloodshed. But I doubt that offers you any comfort?’

Apion looked off into the distance. ‘Not a crumb, Sha, not a crumb. That more young men of these lands will step up to take their fathers’ places is a joy for a strategos and a tragedy for those families he leaves behind.’ He twisted in his saddle once more. His gaze fell upon the short rider behind him.

Dederic the Norman rode in his mail hauberk. His skin was the colour of cooked salmon under the sun’s glare, and he looked almost as agitated as big Blastares. The Norman was one of the few of Fulco’s tagma who had stayed to defend the city when many others had fled. He had also been eager to accept Apion’s offer to enlist with the thema. Apion was equally eager for his acceptance, as only twenty seven of the precious kataphractoi had survived the Charsianon campaign, and Dederic and his knights would help to cover those losses.

Sha followed his strategos’ gaze. ‘He’s a good rider, sir. Some of his comrades are a touch feisty. But at least now they act under your command.’

Apion smiled dryly. ‘For a time, perhaps. But it will not be long before the emperor sees fit to appoint another puppet doux in Fulco’s place. Only then can he have a tentacle in every thema of his empire. Was such greed for power rife in your homeland too?’

‘In Mali?’ Sha mused, then shook his head. ‘When I was a boy, our king would be sure to ride to the borders of his realm at least once every season. To see what threats lay outwith and, more importantly, within. He rode without luxury and slept little, and some say he was permanently callused from the exercise. My people loved him for this.’ Sha looked to Apion and extended a finger. ‘Emperor Doukas would only have to ride out here once to see what lies in store for Byzantium should he continue his policy of neglect and greed.’ He wagged his finger. ‘Only once.’

Apion grinned wryly at this. ‘Perhaps the emperor feels it would be beneath him. After all, rumour has it he considers himself divine.’

Sha cocked an eyebrow. ‘Sir?’

Apion shrugged. ‘I heard it from the last mule-post from the west. It may be true or it may be hearsay. A few years ago, the Oghuz tribes raided in the west — nearly half a million of them spilled across the River Istros and into the empire.’ He frowned. ‘I do not know those lands, but I know what half a million armed men must look like. At one point they had Doukas and his retinue of just a few hundred riders trapped near the Haemus Mountains. He was a dead man, and the Oghuz are well-known for putting their enemies to miserable deaths — slicing off arms and legs then hanging the moaning torso from a tree for the wolves and bears to tear at. One night, while camped in some miserable hilltop bog in the middle of a rainstorm, Doukas did not pray to God, instead he cursed God for having put him in so miserable a predicament. Then he went on to curse the Oghuz who would surely put him to an excruciating end in the next few days. Then, almost overnight, as if his word had been deific, the Oghuz raiders were stricken by a terrible plague. They fell in their hundreds of thousands. Those who survived were leaderless and panicked. Many fled back to the wastelands across the Istros, but many more surrendered to Doukas. At once the raid was over and tens of thousands of these Oghuz pleaded to serve Doukas as mercenaries. An immense victory — won by his words alone, or so he believed.’

Sha held out his palms. ‘Perhaps that is why he chooses to neglect his borders and the themata armies so?’

Apion thought of Alp Arslan’s threat without airing it, ‘well he may well find that one day soon that those borders are pushed back until they encroach upon Constantinople’s walls. I fear that his words will offer little providence then. Hope is hard to conjure when such a prospect looms.’ He sighed and squinted into the sun. ‘What keeps you here, Sha, when the empire you serve shrivels in upon itself? Do you never pine for a return to Mali?’

‘Hope comes when we least expect it, sir. I remember that always, ever since I was a slave in the Seljuk heartlands. One day I hobbled back to the slave quarters, my back was more blood than flesh. I wept, knowing I could not sleep due to the pain. That night, I took a piece of root from under my pillow. I had been given it by an old slave months before as he lay dying. He said it would turn my blood to fire and I would suffer for only moments, and then I would be free.’ Sha’s eyes grew glassy and he paused for a moment. ‘I held the root in my hand for what seemed like an eternity, preparing to die. It was at the last moment that I realised that I had not heard the usual scuffle and chatter of the guards outside, nor the door to my filthy quarters being locked. When I opened the door and saw that the guards were indeed absent, I had my freedom.’ Sha frowned as he spoke. ‘On the cusp of death, hope presented itself.’

Sha sat up straight on his saddle, blinking the glassiness from his eyes and forcing a smile. ‘And as for returning to Mali?’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t think so — that king was an arsehole,’ he said and then roared with baritone laughter.

Apion chuckled too as Sha fell back to marshal the column.

They rode on across the plain and through the valleys. At dusk on the third day they reached the south banks of the River Lykos and made camp there, each kontoubernion of ten men setting to work on erecting their tent and lighting a campfire. The following morning the sun rose and grew fierce once more. The men of the thema were settled in the lacy shade offered by the beech trees, bantering as they waited on a passing vessel to transport them across the water. They kindled fires, boiled river water in their pots and then added balls of dried yoghurt, almonds and sesame oil, which blended with the water to form a thick and nutritious porridge. Their banter dropped to a lull as they filled their bellies with this, supplemented it with hard tack biscuit and smoked fish then washed it all down with well-watered wine.

To one side of the camp, Apion sat alone, his limbs still supple from his morning run and his hair still damp from bathing. He ate a meal of bread, cheese and dried berries, washing it down with cool river water. Then he settled down to cook a small pot of salep over his fire, the orchid root and cinnamon blending with the milk and releasing a delightfully sweet fragrance. The smell triggered many memories.

As did the sight a few hundred paces along the riverbank.

There, the charred foundations of a hut were embedded by the ruins of a simple ferry dock — little more than a few posts of timber driven into the silt of the shallows. On the opposite riverbank another post stood, with a frayed tether hanging from its tip where once a horn had hung. Once, years ago, the old ferryman Petzeas and his boys had run this crossing. In those days before Apion had enlisted with the thema, he had spent many hours chatting with the old goat as he crossed the river on his travels between the market towns dotted across the land. But then, five years ago, war had devoured the old man’s simple life. Apion had been too slow to meet the Seljuk incursion that ravaged these southern tracts of Chaldia. The ghazi warbands had razed, plundered and murdered everything in their path. Peaceable Seljuk settlers and Byzantine citizens alike were slaughtered like animals. Old Petzeas had been trampled to death and his home set to the torch. His sons, Isaac and Maro, had joined the thema ranks, embittered and thinking only of revenge. Apion had felt compelled to talk them out of this, but had found he could offer no rationale, no reasoning that would seem fair or fitting. He himself had joined the ranks intent on revenge, and knew that some fires in the soul could not be doused. So Isaac and Maro had fought like lions in Blastares’ tourma, only to be cut down in a Seljuk ambush in Southern Armenia. An entire family gone, consumed by the treacherous borderlands.

He was stirred from his thoughts as, at last, a small, well-weathered pamphylos drifted downriver. The bowl-shaped transport vessel had sun-bleached sails, desiccated timbers and an equally well-weathered crew. Sha hailed it, summoning its captain to the vessel side. The captain reluctantly agreed to ferry the men of the thema across to the north banks, forty men at a time. Apion waited until the end to cross, and his eyes rarely left the sad, blackened stumps of old Petzeas’ home.

They reformed on the opposite bank and then continued northwards. Apion sensed his men’s weariness and fell back to offer them words of encouragement, slipping from his saddle to lead his Thessalian on foot for a while. It was then that the Norman, Dederic dropped back also.

‘It’s not often you see a strategos or a doux deigning to forego the relative comfort of the saddle and tread the land,’ he said.

Apion shot a glare up at him and saw the little rider’s nervous grin fade. It was then he realised he was scowling. He sighed and chuckled. ‘At ease, Dederic. I sometimes forget that my troubles are etched on my face.’ Then he looked down at the dusty track. ‘And now that you mention it, by now my feet are probably just as callused as my arse.’ He slipped one foot into a stirrup and hauled himself up and into the saddle, relieved to hear Dederic laughing. He winced at the rawness of the little rider’s sunburnt skin once more and frowned. ‘So, tell me, where in the west do you hail from?’

‘Rouen,’ Dederic broke into a broad grin, his gaze growing distant, ‘a dear and green land. The soil is rich, the air is crisp in the winter and hot in the summer,’ his grin dropped for a moment, ‘but not this hot.’

Apion frowned. ‘Then what brings you east?’ Apion knew the usual motives of mercenaries were plunder, titles and lust for bloody adventure. But he could not pin one of these on Dederic with any certainty.

Dederic’s features darkened just a fraction. ‘I had little choice but to leave my home, Strategos. I came this way two years ago, and I can still taste the tears that stained my face on the day I left my family behind. We have a small landholding on the outskirts of Rouen. A patch of farmland by a fresh brook, ringed by oaks that look like they have grown there for a thousand years or more. It is where I grew up — where my father and his father lived out their lives in relative peace. I took on the working of that land to feed my wife, Emelin, my three girls and my boy. But had I remained there, they would have ended up in poverty, homeless and starving,’ he frowned, ‘or worse.’

Apion recognised the little Norman’s expression only too well.

‘My father died heavily indebted to the lord of the land — a fat and uncompromising whoreson who insisted we had inherited the debt. Then the harvests were scant for four years, and we could not hope to pay our dues let alone put gruel on the table for the children. I promised the fat lord the arrears we owed, if only he would wait on my return from these lands. So I set off in the service of a neighbouring lord, seeking out the coin that would spare my family a grim future.’

Apion frowned, seeing that Dederic’s hands were typical of a landworker; the skin mottled with scars and his fingers were short and stumpy. ‘You worked the soil, yet you are a rider?’ he gestured to Dederic’s fine iron garb and well-kept fawn stallion, usually only owned by the rich lords and knights of the west — those who reigned over the serfs.

Dederic nodded, then shot a furtive glance behind. ‘All of my men and I were serfs before we came east, sir. We served as squires, pikemen and light infantry, the first to be thrown into the fray while the lancers waited for us to break the enemy or be broken before they would enter battle on their fine steeds.’

‘So how. . ’ Apion begun.

‘Slain, sir. Every last one of them. The Seljuks surrounded them near Ikonium and butchered them. Cut off their heads before the city walls. Their riches did little to protect them at the last,’ Dederic laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. ‘The bitter irony is that while the Seljuks slaughtered the lancers, they ignored the fleeing serfs, seeing us as little threat. Later that night, we crept from our hiding places in the rocks, we reined in the panicked horses, we gathered the armour. . we buried the corpses. Then we fought on in place of the dead lords.’ He stared straight ahead, his gaze flinty. ‘We fought on, because we had to.’ He patted his purse. ‘I need many more coins, but one day I will be able to return home. My family will be freed from the bonds of the fat lord.’

Apion felt a glow in his breast at the little rider’s conviction. ‘You fight for your family. I have heard only a few noble motives from the mercenaries that pour into our lands, Dederic. Today I have heard one more.’

Dederic nodded, his gaze sullen and his lips pursed.

There was much more Apion wanted to say to the little rider, but the steel around his heart would not allow him to do so. Perhaps there would come a day when he could share his past with this man. He offered an earnest nod, then rode ahead to the front of the column.

By late afternoon they entered the valleys of the River Piksidis and the foothills of the Parhar Mountains. Here the pale gold landscape gave way to a lighter terracotta earth, with thicker patches of green shrub that dotting the ground and the gentle hillsides. The cicada song echoed through these valleys and the heat was only just beginning to ease as the sun dropped to the western horizon.

Apion was all too aware of the babbling Piksidis, only a short ride away. Nestled on its banks was a place he had not visited for twelve years. The ruins of old Mansur’s farm. After witnessing the grim remains of Petzeas’ home, he knew he could not afford to set his eyes upon the place. He had tried to come here once before, alone, and found that he could not face it. Now, with his men in tow, he could not trust himself to retain his iron veneer. It was not far from here, and its presence pulled at his heart. They passed by the far side of the cluster of gentle hills that marked Apion’s old stamping ground, and he kept his head bowed as they did so. From the corner of his eye, he could not help but see the outline of the beech thicket atop one hill, and the rock in its midst. A reminiscence of his precious few moments alone with Maria up there danced through his mind. Her scent, her soft skin, her sweet voice.

‘Sir!’

Apion snapped from his thoughts and twisted in his saddle. Procopius sat bolt upright on his mount, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun, the other pointing to the north. Up ahead, a lone rider galloped towards them, a red dust plume billowing in his wake.

It was a kursoris, a thematic scout rider wearing an off-white linen tunic, riding boots and a dark-blue felt cap, armed only with a spathion and a bow. He was dipped in the saddle and his dappled grey rode at full gallop. At this haste, Apion’s heart steeled and his shoulders tensed.

The rider reined in his mount, paces from Apion.

‘Strategos!’ the man saluted.

Apion nodded. ‘Rider?’

The man pulled off his cap and mopped the sweat from his brow. ‘I thought we might never find you,’ he panted. ‘You must make haste, to Trebizond.’

‘The capital is in danger?’ At this, Sha, Blastares and Procopius gathered round, Dederic joining them with his clutch of Normans.

The rider shook his head. ‘No, Strategos. The capital is safe. But Cydones requests your presence with the utmost urgency.’

Apion’s gaze shot to the northern horizon, behind the rider. His eyes narrowed. Cydones, his old mentor in the ranks, would never create a commotion without good cause.

He raised a hand and circled it overhead. ‘Infantry, proceed to Trebizond at quick march.’ Then he pinned his gaze on two figures near the head of the first two banda of infantry. ‘Komes Stypiotes, Komes Peleus, you have the lead.’

‘Aye, sir!’ the pair saluted in reply.

Then Apion beckoned to the kataphractoi and the Norman knights.

‘Riders, with me — we leave for the capital at full gallop!’

***

They rode through the night. While the riders grew cold as the chill rushed over them, their mounts glistened with sweat, a lather of saliva gathering at their iron bits.

Then, as dawn broke, they neared the northern coastline of Chaldia. Overnight it seemed that the land had transformed around them. The arid rock and patchy shrubs were gone and in their place were verdant grasses and forests that hugged the cliffs and hillsides. Striped birds chirruped and squawked, flitting from tree to tree in celebration of their victory over the ubiquitous cicada song. The air had changed too, growing fresher and spiced with the tang of sea salt.

Then, when the sun had fully risen, the snaking track broadened, becoming a speckling of ancient flagstones and then a full stone road. Up ahead, the sun-bleached and well-walled city of Trebizond rose into view, capped by the citadel perched on the city’s acropolis and framed by the azure sky and the sparkling waters of the Pontus Euxinus.

The riders slowed as they entered the stream of trade wagons, camels, oxen and mules ambling to and from the city gates. At the rumble of hooves, some turned and moved aside, others seemed less than enamoured by the inconvenience. Until they heard the cry from Sha, who rode out ahead.

‘Move aside for the strategos!’

At this, all heads turned, then wagons and animals drew in to the roadside.

The skutatoi above the gatehouse cried out as they approached and the gates groaned open.

Inside, the broad main street stretched out before them. Islands of palms in the centre of the street hung motionless in the windless air, while a sea of citizens swarmed to and fro. It was market day, and the populace of the city was out in force, joined by the swathes of thematic farmers, here to trade their crops and wares and buy tools and fodder. This throng was hemmed on one side by the towering red-tiled dome of the Church of St Andreas and on the other by the tall-walled granary. Overlooking all of this from the far end of the street was the citadel, perched on the green hillside by the coast.

Apion slowed as he and his riders entered the bustle of bodies. The air was thick with the chatter of friends, the yelling of traders, the crying of babies and the cackling of drunks. The stench of horse dung was ripe, only combated by the succulent tang of sizzling goat meat, garlic and strong wine. They trotted into the heart of the city, past the market square and the gushing fountain at its centre, then peeled from the main street and rounded the squat stone walls of the city barracks at the foot of the citadel hill. Here, the streets were narrow, cool, shaded and blessedly quiet.

To the rear of the barracks was the imperial stable compound; a run of timber sheds with a small patch of enclosed, hay-strewn ground for the mounts to be exercised. Piles of fodder and a water trough lay at one end, where stablehands groomed the precious few spare mounts. The tink-tink of iron upon iron rang out from the larger shed at the end of the compound where the stable smith worked on new stirrups and snaffle bits for the beasts.

Apion slid from the saddle as they entered the stable area, his legs numb from the ride. He offered his reins to the nearest hand then removed his helmet, running his fingers through his sweat-matted locks. ‘Where is Cydones?’

The hand opened his mouth to speak and then stopped.

‘I know the clop-clop of a Thessalian from a mile away!’ a voice croaked.

Apion spun to see old Cydones hobbling through the narrow arched entrance that led from the main barrack compound. He was dressed in a white woollen robe and sandals, resting his weight on a cane as he moved. The man who had been strategos of Chaldia before him was now in his sixty-seventh year. The onset of age had been swift since he had laid down his sword for the last time. He was now a frail and withered form, bald-headed, with snow-white hair around the back and sides and a rather unkempt white beard. This sparked a tinge of sadness in Apion’s heart. He remembered the tall and broad figure that had mentored him through his early years as an officer. Back then, Cydones sported a dark and pristinely forked beard, and would seldom be seen without his iron klibanion hugging his torso and his swordbelt strapped to his waist. Now, without family to care for him in his retirement, he resided here at the barracks, advising Apion and the men.

Cydones hobbled over to the dismounting riders. Then he reached out a knotted hand, grasping at Apion’s wrist.

‘I knew you’d be back soon,’ Cydones spoke warmly, his sightless eyes darting all around and his hand moving to touch Apion’s jaw. ‘I have momentous news for you, Ferro. . sorry. . Apion.’

Apion winced at the old man’s forgetfulness. Age had taken its toll on Cydones’ mind as much as it had on his body. Ferro had been Cydones’ chief tourmarches, but had died over ten years ago — impaled by a raiding ghazi warband before the walls of Argyroupolis.

‘We rushed back to see this old bastard?’ a foreign voice chuckled in a muted tone. ‘He doesn’t even know the strategos’ name!’

Apion spun to the voice. It was one of Dederic’s men. A tall and red-haired Norman rider with a bent nose. His smirk dropped immediately as Apion’s glare fell upon him. Then Apion strode forward, his face twisting into a grimace, his fingers curling into fists. Under Apion’s glare, the big Norman wilted, his gaze dropping to his boots.

‘Sir!’ Dederic cut in, moving to stand before the big Norman. ‘Let me discipline him, if you will allow it?’

Apion looked down to Dederic. His first urge was to shove the little rider out of the way and smash the teeth from the big man’s mouth. Then Cydones spoke in a mirthful tone;

‘Ah, but he is right, Apion. An old bastard I am,’ then he moved towards the big red-haired Norman, tapping his cane before him to find his way, ‘. . but a wily old bastard. So he’d better watch his tongue around me.’ With that, Cydones swished his cane up and whipped it down, striking the calves of the big Norman. The Norman howled and sunk to his knees.

At this, a chorus of laughter erupted from all watching on.

Apion looked on, eyebrows raised for a heartbeat. Then he looked back to Dederic and issued a sigh that morphed into a dry chuckle.

‘No need. I think he has learned his lesson.’

‘Sir!’ Dederic backed away, relief etched on his features.

Apion offered him a faint nod, then raised his voice to address his men. ‘Now, tend to your armour and weapons, then fall out. You will return to your farms soon, but first we have much work ahead of us to reform and replenish the ranks. Visit the taverns if you must, but be ready for morning muster.’

With a guttural cheering, the men dispersed, leaving Apion and Cydones alone. They walked together into the barracks and strolled around the near-deserted muster yard.

‘The workers have discovered a fresh seam in the silver mines,’ Cydones enthused, ‘so the next mustering should see the new men we gather clad in good fighting garb.’

Apion nodded. The silver caves had been mined for these last twelve years unbeknownst to the imperial tax collectors. Those seams had been the difference between the Chaldian army standing firm along the borders and falling out of existence like some neighbouring themata. This was indeed good news, but not momentous — surely not the reason he had been called back to Trebizond in a rush. ‘So tell me, sir, what trouble is brewing?’ he asked the old man.

Cydones snorted. ‘You insist on calling me sir, even years into your stewardship of this land. I remember when I was first promoted, I would never dream of calling the stubborn bastard I replaced sir. In fact I. .’

‘Cydones?’ Apion cut in, barely masking his frustration.

‘Oh, right. . I,’ Cydones started, then a frown wrinkled his brow as he searched through his thoughts. Then his face lit up in realisation and was momentarily free of wrinkles. ‘Ah, yes!’ he wagged his index finger in the air. ‘There is no trouble, Apion.’

Apion frowned.

‘No, instead there is news that may change the ills of these lands.’

‘Sir?’

Cydones’ face fell stony. ‘Emperor Doukas is dead, Apion.’

The breath stilled in Apion’s lungs. Many emperors had risen and fallen in his lifetime; some had abdicated, a lucky few had died a peaceful death, but many had been slain in their sleep and some even mutilated by the fervent masses of Constantinople. ‘How did it happen?’

‘He died of a lung infection, on the ides of May. Word travelled slowly and we only found out last month. I’ve had scouts looking for you since then.’

Apion frowned. ‘That a man has passed gives me no pleasure. But Emperor Doukas has a lot to answer for, and now he never will. Sir, I fail to see anything to be joyous of in this news? If there has been no coup, no shift in power, then surely one of Doukas’ sons will take the throne and continue his policies of neglect?’

Cydones stopped, rested his weight on his cane and wagged one finger from side to side. ‘No, it is not to be — and that is where the hope lies. Doukas’ wife, Eudokia, has contested the succession of her own son, Michael.’

Apion spluttered at this, turning to Cydones. ‘In that snakepit? How have we even come to hear of this? Usually such an act all but guarantees a stealthy dagger blade between the ribs, does it not?’

‘Eudokia is a brave spirit, Apion. She went against her late husband’s demands that she should never remarry. She signed an oath to that effect. But after Doukas’ passing, she appealed to the patriarch, Xiphilinos. I can only imagine what discussions took place or what dealings were made, but now she is to remarry. Her new husband will become emperor. The Doukid dynasty is over, Apion.’

Apion’s eyes widened. Doukas had overseen eight years of military neglect. He had quickly filled the senate with his supporters and tuned taxation to punish the poor and keep the rich magnates happy and supportive of his reign. He was hated throughout the capital and the themata. But the end of his dynasty could easily be the start of another, more loathsome one. ‘That alone is not cause to rejoice, sir. It is entirely possible that Eudokia will wed another haughty figure who is equally damaging, or more so.’

Cydones reached out to grasp Apion by the shoulders. ‘No, Apion. For she is to wed a man of the army. Romanus Diogenes; a legend from the battlefields of the west. He understands the plight of the empire’s borders. The cause has been reignited. There is once more hope that this land can be saved!’

One word echoed in Apion’s ears.

Hope.

His eyes darted across Cydones’ face, then he glanced to the barrack gates. ‘I must tell my men. They have gone so long with only harsh news.’

‘Aye, tell your men, Apion. Then select the best of them to accompany you and wish the rest farewell.’

Apion frowned at this. ‘Farewell?’

Cydones face lit up. ‘Eudokia has summoned every strategos and doux to the capital to set out her plans and to hail the new emperor. A berth awaits you in the harbour.’ He stretched out an arm, pointing westwards. ‘You are to set sail for Constantinople.’

A shiver danced over Apion’s skin.

The Golden Heart will rise in the west.