Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

8. The Snakepit

The imperial dromon cut through the choppy waters of the Pontus Euxinus, headed west. Its twin triangular linen sails were sun-bleached and patched with leather, and they billowed in the morning winds, carrying the craft along at a fine pace. Every wave that crashed against the bow dissolved into a cool salt spray that soaked the decks of the vessel. Free from the oars, the kopelatoi roamed the deck, tying down cargo and shinning up the rigging to tighten and twist the sails. The kentarches also strode the decks, roaring encouragement to his crewmen.

‘Cleanses the body and the mind, does it not?’ Cydones spoke, inhaling deeply at the lip of the boat, his chin thrust out defiantly. His robe was sodden with brine.

Apion, sitting nearby, chuckled at this. ‘Get any closer to the edge and it’ll cleanse you a little more thoroughly than you might wish!’ But he could not deny the freshness of the sea air. He was dressed in a faded red tunic and leather boots. His amber locks whipped back with the breeze as he cut at an apple with his dagger, lifting slices to his lips. The sea stretched out unbroken to the northern horizon where the waters met with the hazy blue sky. Then he glanced to the other side of the ship; about three miles to the south, the northern coastline of Anatolia rolled past. The mountains and thick forests of the Bucellarion Thema were occasionally punctuated by sun-baked city walls or timber port-towns and imperial watchtowers. Finally, he stood to join Cydones, looking west. A faint outline of the coastline far ahead betrayed a break in the hinterland. This was the Bosphorus strait, the narrow channel that would take them right into the heart of the empire.

To Constantinople.

Cydones sighed, clenching a fist. ‘We are on the cusp, Apion. When Romanus Diogenes takes the throne, he will revitalise our armies.’

Apion felt a swirl of emotion in his blood. Hope had indeed sparked in his heart at the prospect of a military man rising to the purple. But the days since the news had given him time enough to realise that such hope was sure to be fraught with danger. ‘Perhaps. But until then, we must deal with those he left behind, those who oversee the empire in the interregnum.’ For a moment, he recalled the dark spectre of the Agentes. The shadowy organisation that murdered and plotted on the emperor’s whims had collapsed some years ago. But darkness never truly disappeared, he mused, it only ever seemed to change its form. He turned his mind to those they were to meet; Doukas’ widow, Eudokia, and the rest of his bloodline and advisers. ‘I have seen what a droplet of power can do, even to a good soul. Do you not wonder endlessly of their motives in summoning us to the capital?’

The old man frowned and turned to Apion, his sightless eyes narrowed. ‘I’d be sick with worry if I was to allow myself to dwell upon it, Apion.’ For an instant, he wore a sharp expression, the fog of age falling away. ‘I have not set foot inside the city since I was a young man. Back then I had no dealings with the imperial court or the military, but that matters little; emperors and beggars find little providence in that place. . you said it yourself, Constantinople is a snakepit, and you have never even been there. Yes, the coming of a new emperor brings with it a promise of rejuvenation. But the Doukids will be livid at Eudokia’s actions, and they are but one faction that covets the imperial throne.’ Then Cydones shook his head and grinned wryly. ‘In fact, if I had any sight at all I would certainly sleep with one eye open for the duration of our stay.’

Apion roared with laughter at this, and the effect was cathartic. The tension that had started to cluster around his heart dissipated like the salt spray. He swigged fresh water from the skin on his belt and mused instead on the positive. ‘But if it is true. If we are to have an emperor who will invest in the themata armies once more. . ’

Cydones nodded. ‘We could dispense with the mercenaries who protect our lands when it suits them. Yes, I can see in my mind a time when the themata return to their past greatness. Every warrior with good boots and a fine iron vest. A helm that is crafted to fit him well. A spathion honed to perfection and a shield painted freshly. Every household would have a bow and forty arrows so a man could protect his family whether he was a man of the ranks or not. Every imperial stable replete with tall and muscular mounts. The forts and watchtowers across the land in good repair and with full garrison, watching the tracks, passes and highways across the land. That is the dream I once strived for.’

‘And I,’ Apion added.

Cydones smiled. ‘Then that’s one thing we agree on. Still, your choice of best men to accompany you on this journey still befuddles me. Dragging along a blind, dithering old fellow like me when you could have brought any of your fine tourmarchai?’

Apion smiled at this. ‘You don’t know your own strengths, sir. You see far more than many a sharp-eyed youth,’ he grinned, ‘and you are a fine shatranj opponent. Besides, Sha, Blastares and Procopius are best placed to stay in Chaldia. They will keep the people safe in my absence.’

He turned to rest his back against the lip of the dromon then gazed to the aft, his hair whipping up across his face. While the crew scuttled across the deck and shinned up and down the mast and rigging, one figure was bent double over the edge of the vessel, near the stern. Dederic’s shoulders lurched as he retched violently into the white churn that stretched out behind the dromon. Apion had brought him because he had proved a worthy addition to the thema, helping his Norman riders integrate well with the kataphractoi. Dederic had a dry sense of humour and a shrewd mind as well. Added to that, the Norman had spent some months in Constantinople within the last few years, and his knowledge of the place could be useful.

‘You think Dederic has it in him to lead a tourma for you?’ Cydones said as if reading his mind.

‘Aye, he’s already a leader, even if he doesn’t realise it yet,’ Apion said, thinking of how the Norman had led thirty lost and frightened serfs and moulded them into a disciplined band of lancers. Then he recalled Dederic’s steadfast commitment to saving the citizens of Caesarea. ‘And he has a good heart.’

‘A good heart? There is no such thing,’ Cydones replied wistfully. ‘All men can do is struggle to stave off the darkness in there. Light cannot exist without darkness. To be a man is to be both.’

Apion saw the old man’s brow furrow and wondered at what grim memory he was replaying right now.

Then the shrieking of gulls pierced the air. They turned to the coast to see a series of broad stone watchtowers dotted along the shores as they approached the Bosphorus strait. Atop each, purple banners fluttered bearing the Chi-Rho and the Cross.

They were coming to the city of God.

***

The sails were brought down and the oars extended as the dromon entered the warm, turquoise and placid waters of the Bosphorus strait. The surface ahead was dotted with fishing vessels and trade cogs. Ferries cut to and fro, from one rocky and verdant coastline to the other. Thick shoals of silvery fish darted this way and that before the dromon, and then a school of dolphins broke the surface and tumbled through the waters alongside the vessel.

Apion stood at the prow with Cydones and Dederic — the Norman having at last lost the green tinge to his skin.

The three were silent in anticipation, until Cydones cupped a hand to his ear at the gentle splashing of oars from the ferries up ahead. ‘Ah, Europe to Asia and back in a single morning — that brings back memories!’

Then the old man clasped a hand on Apion’s shoulder as they approached a jutting outcrop of headland. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he said, his nostrils flaring and his sightless eyes closed, ‘I can smell it. . the fruits of the palace orchards, the sweat of the mounts in the Hippodrome, the dust of the emperor’s stonemasons, the spices of the traders. . and the bullshit of the senate!’

Apion and Dederic roared at this. Then they rounded the headland and all three fell silent.

Constantinople was revealed, dominating the western skyline, conquering the peninsula that spliced the waters.

Apion wondered at the sight. Never in all his years in the borderlands had he seen a city to rival this. The ancient walls were broad and all-encompassing with pristine purple banners fluttering in the faint breeze atop every fortress-like tower. Silvery flashes along the battlements affirmed that it was well garrisoned at every section. Behind the walls, the city rose up on its seven hills. The gentle, lush green slopes of the first hill curved around the tip of the peninsula in the shape of a hawk’s beak. The mountainous domed church of the Hagia Sofia was perched there, then, a stone’s throw away was the Imperial Palace. This magnificent gilded marble complex was ringed by collonaded walkways and topped with a wide, red-domed portico.

‘This is our destination?’ Dederic said with a touch of disbelief in his voice as he eyed the palace. ‘The last time I was in this city I slept in a pile of hay next to a cesspit that was shared by a brothel and a tanner’s yard.’

Behind the first hill, the dark-brick walls of the Hippodrome seemed to mark an end to the fertile area around the palace. After this was a sea of marble. The aqueduct of Valens rose up and picked its way through the other slopes of the city, each seeming to jostle for supremacy. Domes studded every hilltop and arches, obelisks and columns stretched for the sky, bearing brass and gold statues of heroes and emperors. Around this finery, a sea of red-tiled tenements and villas, stairs, streets and alleys filled every available inch.

The dromon slowed and the oarsmen guided it around the tip of the peninsula and under the gaze of a thick cloud of circling gulls. They came to a section of the sea walls that jutted out into the waters — a spacious, fortified harbour complex, with a sturdy timber bar blocking entry.

‘We must be nearing the Port of Julian?’ Cydones asked, feeling the direction of the sun on his face and cocking an ear to the gentle lapping of water on the harbour walls.

‘Aye, it would seem so,’ Apion answered, casting his gaze up to the nearest of the two towers overlooking the harbour mouth. An iron fire siphon lay still and silent up there, and he wondered when they would next be put to use.

Then a finely-garbed skutatos appeared atop the tower and yelled down to the ship. ‘State your business.’

‘I bring wine and oil. . ’ the ship’s kentarches yelled back from the decks.

The skutatos looked irritated at this, waving one hand to the north. ‘Merchant vessels are to dock at the Neorion harbour. You can trade for honey, wax, hides and slaves in the northern city mar. . ’

‘. . and I bring the Strategos of Chaldia!’ the kentarches cut him off.

At this, the skutatos fell silent, then waved down into the harbour. The timber bar groaned as it was hoisted clear.

The capital had so far presented an image of polished invincibility, but as the dromon manoeuvred inside the harbour, there was no pristine imperial fleet. Instead, Apion frowned as the ship drew into an empty berth alongside a row of nearly forty dilapidated war galleys. The best of these ships were dried out with damaged rigging and hulls. The rest were semi-submerged, water lapping over parts of the deck.

‘The crafts of the imperial fleet used to sit proudly with their hulls well above the water and their masts stretching for the sky,’ Cydones said, hearing the creaking of damp timber all around him. ‘But not any more? The vasilikoploimon is not what it once was?’

‘It appears not,’ Apion agreed.

‘Then it has been this way for some time,’ Dederic offered. ‘At least, it was in this condition when I first came east. There are only ten galleys maintained, and they exist merely to sail this strait and escort the imperial flagship — a vessel less suited to war than to entertaining those of the palace court,’ he snorted in derision. ‘The riders I served had to purchase a berth on a trade ferry to cross the water on our way to meet with Doux Fulco. We sailed to war with cattle!’

The kentarches laid the gangplank onto the flagstoned harbour side then saluted to Apion. The gulls shrieked all around, swooping and darting in the sunshine, convinced a meal was to be had.

‘Well the fleet may be neglected,’ Apion nodded to the skutatoi all around the harbour walls as they disembarked, ‘but the imperial tagmata are certainly not.’ These were the armies traditionally stationed in and around Constantinople. Unlike the wretched mercenary border tagmata, these soldiers were the cream of the empire’s fighting force.

‘Describe them to me,’ Cydones asked as, all around the three, the crew began unloading crates and hemp sacks onto the wharfside.

Apion looked to the two skutatoi who stood either side of the iron-studded gateway that separated the harbour from the city. Like the others, these two were tall and broad-shouldered, their jaws set in determined grimaces — a far cry from the often ragged and rake-thin themata skutatoi. But it was their garb that set them apart. ‘Finely armoured — each of them wears an iron klibanion over a pure-white tunic. On their heads they wear a helm and a scale aventail. Their shields are painted purple with a white Cross in the centre.’

Cydones nodded. ‘So the Numeroi still run the city walls? Aye, you will seldom find a meagrely armed soldier in this city, Apion. While the emperors have let their outlying armies and their fleet rot, they would never let the blades that protect them succumb to rust.’

At that moment, the iron gates groaned open. From the shadows, a block of eight broad and tall warriors marched purposefully towards Apion. They were markedly different from the numeroi. They wore pristine white breastplates and white cloaks trimmed with gold thread. Even their boots were white, and emblazoned with a black motif of a long-legged spider on the shin. Their hair was red or blonde, hanging in richly oiled-curls and braids and they wore kohl under their eyes — Rus who had fallen for the charms of Byzantium, Apion reckoned. Decorative shields hung like turtle-shells on their backs and they carried thick-shafted axes, the finely honed edges glinting in the sun. Their leader was a granite-faced individual. His features were creased with age and a scar ran vertically over one eye. His grey locks were braided into two tails, his moustache was thick and full and his eyes were shaded by the kohl and a heavy brow. He threw up an arm promptly.

‘Igor, Komes of the Varangoi, sworn protectors of the imperial blood.’

Apion returned the salute. ‘Apion, Strategos of Chaldia,’ he replied.

‘My men and I will escort you to the palace, sir,’ Igor barked. ‘Many of the other doukes and strategoi are already here,’ he faltered momentarily and his voice grew hushed, ‘. . but there have been some unfortunate events since their arrival.’

Apion’s brow dipped. ‘Komes?’

‘Walk with us,’ Igor replied, ‘and do not stray.’

Apion shot Dederic a troubled look, then he took Cydones’ elbow and the three followed the varangoi. He noticed Igor glancing furtively at the watching numeroi on the harbour walls. In reply, the numeroi burned equally baleful glares at the Rus.

‘The populace are. . excitable,’ Igor continued in a muted tone. ‘The races are on today and have been every day for the last week — funded by those who see the contested throne as an opportunity.’

The iron gates before them groaned once more, opening up to reveal a blur of citizens darting to and fro. As they passed under the gateway and out into the broad street, the rabble broke around them like a river. Many faces washed past, some lost in thought, some inebriated, many more bearing malignant scowls. The jabbering of a thousand voices was incessant, until it was suddenly drowned out by the deafening wall of noise that tumbled from the Hippodrome; a raucous cheer that shook Apion to his bones, the likes of which he had only ever heard on the battlefield. A shiver danced up his spine, despite the stifling heat, as he craned his neck to look up at the vast arena’s towering collonaded walls and the purple banners fluttering above.

Then he turned back to the Varangoi komes.

‘Tell me, Igor,’ he said, ‘tell me what you could not under the gaze of the numeroi?’

Igor leaned in close, still darting glances to see who was within earshot. ‘There are some within the palace who seek to ruin Lady Eudokia’s plan to bring Romanus Diogenes to the throne. They see the gathering of your ilk as an opportunity to leverage support for their cause. And those who spurn their advances. . ’ Igor’s face fell grave and he shook his head. ‘The Strategos of Paphlagonia was found in his palace bedchamber the night before last, dead in only his twenty third year. Then the Doux of Lykandos was killed by thieves in the Forum of the Ox while he browsed for spices — they sliced his head from his body.’ He looked up, above the Hippodrome, where the rooftop portico of the Imperial Palace pierced the skyline. ‘Out here and in there, it would be wise to stay on your guard, Strategos.’

Apion followed the Rus’ solemn gaze. ‘So this is the heart of the empire I have fought for all these years? I will heed your words well, Komes.’

***

Zenobius rested his palms on the crenellations of the inner harbour walls and swept his gaze along the packed streets of Constantinople. He was a young man still, but his lank hair was pure white, like his skin, and his eyes were ghostly silver. Behind those eyes lay bitterness and a primal instinct to survive. When he was a tot, his mother had assured him that his striking appearance had marked him out as one destined for greatness. Yet when she had died, Father had shunned him as much as Mother had coddled him. Father had taken to drinking neat wine at every hour of the day when their crop failed, and had then taken to blaming Zenobius, insisting he was a curse from God. Then, one day, Father had even joined in when the villagers had battered Zenobius until blood ran from his eyes and ears. Zenobius had quickly learned to disguise all emotion and to show little reaction to the taunts of his aggressors. He did not wince. He did not cry. Neither did he smile — but this came easy. This veneer caused the beatings to be no less painful, but it did deny his attackers much of their enjoyment. After years of this, he realised he could not remember what it was to be human.

It was shortly after this that he had come here, to the heart of the empire, to seek out the destiny his mother had promised him. Indeed, he had found it in his new employ. Yes, he thought, examining the pale skin of his fingers, now they cannot hurt me. For I am the master of pain. Then his gaze swept back to the party of three that stood below, like a rock in the river of pedestrians. A broad-shouldered warrior with battered, bearded features and amber locks stood with a short, dark-haired Norman and a feeble and sightless old man.

‘Is it him?’ a voice grunted.

Zenobius turned to the bald, burly torturer by his side. ‘Aye, it is the Strategos of Chaldia,’ he said, then nodded to the clutch of varangoi who milled around the three newcomers. ‘Look, proud Igor is with them.’

The burly torturer uttered a hushed, baritone laugh, emitting a waft of vile breath as he did so. ‘Then I look forward to welcoming them.’