Strategos: Island in the Storm (17 page)

Romanus shot Eudokia a confused frown which she reflected with one of her own. ‘What, where?’

Igor’s face lengthened. ‘While our armies were troubled at Sebastae and Hierapolis, Alp Arslan has swooped to seize Manzikert. The sister fortresses of Lake Van are united under his rule. The Gateway to Anatolia is in his hands.’

Romanus’ mouth dried in a heartbeat. A prelude to an invasion. If the dark hearts within the palace did not bring him to his knees then the sultan surely would.

He looked to Eudokia again. A swift and decisive move?

Now he had no choice.

Part 3: 1071 AD

9.
Ruthless

It had been a bitter winter, with a thick blanket of snow clinging to the rooftops and domes of Constantinople in the coldest months. Statues of emperors past stood proudly on column-tops draped in a jewellery of icicles. Sentries paced the city walls, shivering, breath clouding in the chill and shoulders wrapped in thick woollen cloaks. Citizens hurried to and from their homes, sharing whispered tales of the Seljuk capture of the eastern fortresses.

Just before dawn on the first morning of February, the snow was joined by a thick and icy shroud of fog. At the tip of the peninsula, the Imperial Palace and the surrounding streets were deserted at this early hour, until the fog swirled and the sound of boots crunching on frozen snow pierced the air. Two figures were being marched by a pair of varangoi, down from the palace towards the Prosphorion Harbour on the north edge of the city.

John Doukas’ shoulders trembled with rage, feeling the sword point of the varangos marshalling him resting at the small of his back. Psellos stumbled as the other gruff varangos’ axe blade pressed against his back, knocking his purple cap to the ground. The advisor stooped to sweep the hat up again, then swung to face the Rus axemen. ‘You are already dead, redbeard,’ he hissed, his clouding breaths coiling around the axeman’s face. The varangos feigned disinterest at this, twirling his axe, half-grinning and looking on past Psellos’ shoulder. ‘But not before you have watched your family being torn apart like hogs under a butcher’s blade. They live in the south of the city, do they not, by the Forum of the Ox?’ Now the Rus’ face steeled, his eyes betraying a glint of fear. It was Psellos’ turn to grin.

‘Onwards!’ Igor cried, emerging from the mist behind this party.

Psellos turned and continued down the gentle sloping flagstones, swept clear of snow and glistening with frost, towards the sea walls. Now he felt the dark glower of John Doukas on him again. The man had insisted on instigating a coup as soon as Romanus’ plans had come to light earlier that week.
Rally the Numeroi from their barracks, seize the city and mount Romanus’ head on the palace walls!

Psellos glowered at John. A coup might well have taken the city, but the outlying strategoi and doukes that still supported the emperor would have rallied their themata and tagmata armies and come to the city’s walls. But then the delicacies of their situation had always been lost on John.

The walled harbour emerged from the fog like a tombstone, the iron gates keening as they swung open, shards of ice and snow toppling from the movement. A pair of spearmen glowered down on them from either side of the gates. Men from the Numeroi Tagma, Psellos realised. Until a week ago, his men. Since then, the Numeroi commanders had been sent into exile, with the emperor’s men taking over the city garrison. Now it was his turn, Psellos realised, seeing the half-rotted dromon that bobbed in the swirl of fog at the wharf side where another group of varangoi awaited them. He and John were to be cast from the city like beggars. They were to be taken across the Hellespont and cut adrift from imperial affairs with immediate effect. Of the Doukas family, only Eudokia’s children by her past marriage to Constantine Doukas would remain in the palace. Young Michael Doukas – one Psellos had long hoped to harness – would now be but a pawn of Diogenes and Eudokia. His thoughts began to churn.

They stumbled aboard the vessel closely followed by the varangoi escorting them, then turned to look back across the harbour. There, emerging from the fog of the palace hill, was the white-robed emperor and his harridan of a wife, ringed by more of their varangoi dogs. Romanus’ steely blue eyes were fixed on Psellos, as if John was merely an afterthought. With a ghostly moan from an unseen buccinator somewhere on the harbour walls, the dromon parted from the wharf side, the oars lapping at the waters under the carpet of fog. Slowly, the emperor and his retinue began to fade into the mist too.

‘And the last chance of power slips away in utter silence without a blade being drawn,’ John said, his voice trembling with rage. He gripped the edge of the ship with wool-lined mits as if trying to throttle the timbers.

‘You do not see it, do you?’ Psellos replied, never taking his eyes from the emperor’s fading form.

‘See what? All I see is a bleak future. I will take to my villa in the countryside of Bithynia, and I will no doubt live in luxury. But what good is luxury when my heart and my every thought are cloaked in shame . . .
shame!
’ he thumped a mitted fist on the vessel’s edge.

A trio of the fifty varangoi escorting them looked round at this, alarmed for an instant, then melting into gentle and mocking laughter.

‘And these
curs
will guard my lands. Not to protect me, but to pen me in like a
dog!
’
John panted, then poked a finger at Psellos, wide-eyed. ‘And you too, advisor. This is your fate too!’

Psellos did not flinch, refusing to let John’s panic take him. ‘We have struggled for nearly four years to establish support enough to overthrow Diogenes and reinstate your family dynasty.’

‘Aye – four years! You seek to remind me of your failures?
Not
a wise move, advisor. Remember, at my countryside estate I have a company of slaves. They may only number twelve or so, but they will heed my beck and call. One word from me and they will dispose of any soul who displeases me.’

‘So already you seem keen to make plans for this countryside empire of yours – a few vineyards, a paltry household slave-guard and a pile of bricks?’ Psellos scoffed. ‘Will a swarm of cicadas and a field of barley stalks be your army?’

John grappled Psellos’ purple collar, lifting him to his toes. ‘You know I would give anything to have my rightful throne back, Advisor!’

Psellos felt the shower of spittle fleck his face. ‘Then you will listen . . .
Master.
’

John set him down, nodding, his chest still heaving in ire. ‘Speak.’

‘For four years we have tried to garner support to oust Diogenes,’ he repeated, ‘and for four years the balance has always been too delicate to risk the coup you have long sought.’ Psellos leaned his elbows on the lip of the dromon, staring into the dark waters visible through the swirling fog. John joined him. ‘Now, it seems, we have pressed the emperor into making this rash move. Sending us into exile will instigate a backlash amongst our supporters . . .
your
supporters,’ he swiftly corrected himself. ‘We have a righteous cause, Master. And matters are coming to a head, both concerning the throne and the long-anticipated clash with the sultan and his Seljuk hordes. Romanus has no money and his plans to gather a vast army are listing. Yet he now has no option but to march east, to Lake Van, at the head of what forces he can muster. He must expel the sultan’s forces from Manzikert and Chliat. Only a final victory and an end to the Seljuk threat can steady his trembling grip on the throne.’

Psellos’ own words rang in his ears for a moment. And for a moment, his chest lesion began itching furiously again. He recalled the night of that winter storm when the old crone had attacked him. Her words from that night now mixed with his own.

On a battlefield far to the east, by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars, blood will be let like a tide . . . and it will be your doing.

The words seemed to usher the chill air in under his robe and across his skin. He shivered, drawing his garment tighter, feeling the glutinous fluid weep from the pitted, bad flesh there.
This morning, to his disgust, he had even found a maggot writhing in one of those pits, and when he had plucked it out, he saw just the whiteness of his breastbone underneath
.

It was then that something moved in his peripheral vision – along the deck from where they stood. It pulled him from his vile memory. He peered along the deck. A shape swirled in the mist; milky, sightless eyes, grey, web-like hair and one finger outstretched, pointing at him. Her lips were rolled back, her teeth like fangs. Then she swept towards him. With a yelp, he swung to face the approaching shape, only for a cloud of deathly-cold mist to sweep over him. Nothing.

John frowned at Psellos’ sudden jumpiness. ‘A hazardous campaign awaits Diogenes. Yet what influence can we have upon its fate when we languish in exile?’ he sighed.

‘Probably more than ever before,’ Psellos grinned, brushing away the thought of the old crone.

John scowled at this. ‘How so?’

‘We first heard of the emperor’s intentions to exile us a week ago. Do you think I used that time to pack my belongings?’ Psellos purred.

‘Advisor?’

‘I have made arrangements. This time, they shall not fail.’

The corners of John’s mouth played with a dark grin, his belief returning. ‘Tell me what you have planned.’

Psellos looked up and into the murky wall of fog, back in the direction of Constantinople. He stroked his gold rings, his eyes narrowing. ‘When Romanus marches east, he will find that his ranks are peppered with traitors, and his initiatives will be thwarted at every turn.’

***

The fog cleared from the capital later that day, leaving the air crisp and cool air and the sky unblemished. Romanus stepped out from the red dome atop the palace and onto the balcony ringing it. Out here, the snow-covered roofs glistened and the noise of the streets below was faint, contested by the crying of gulls and the lapping of icy waves against the sea walls. He gazed off to the east, across the choppy waters of the Bosphorus Strait to the shores of Anatolia. He needed strength now more than ever. Yet his people were in sedition once more and his armies were in tatters. And the winter had claimed another of his thin band of allies. Manuel Komnenos, shamed yet unswervingly loyal and eager to redeem himself after the disaster at Sebastae, had perished not on the battlefield but in his bed, overcome by a foul ear infection that soon consumed the rest of his body. ‘So few good men left to stand with me,’ he muttered into the ether. ‘And this is truly my last throw of the dice.’

There had been a modicum of respite, however, with the arrival of an offer from Alp Arslan. An offer of temporary truce. It seemed the sultan aimed to stabilise his hold on Seljuk Syria and wanted to have the spring to seize and garrison the rebellious cities of that baked land. He shook his head and sighed. It was an offer he could not refuse, despite the certainty that beyond the spring it would only result in a greater threat to the few Byzantine holdings in northern and western Syria.

He closed his eyes, attempting to order his thoughts once more. But a dull murmur from the streets down by the Hippodrome suddenly erupted into a chorus of cries. Angst, terror, penance. He frowned, glancing down, seeing a throng of citizens there, heads tilted skywards, fingers pointing. A stark coldness gripped him as he looked up to behold the heavens. A fiery red streak, breaking across the sky, staining the perfect blue. A comet. It shone like a bloody beacon. The cries of the populace rang in his ears.
It is a sign,
one cried.
We have lost God’s favour!
Another shrieked. He closed his eyes and clasped a hand over his heart.
Do not desert me in my hour of need.

‘
Basileus
, they have arrived!’ Igor’s words rang out over the rooftop portico. The big Rus stopped in his tracks, eyes drawn to the omen in the skies. Even this scarred, haggard brute of a warrior gawped impotently at the sight.

Romanus bit his lip in frustration, then strode over to Igor, clasping a hand to the man’s shoulder and stirring him from his fright. ‘My generals are here? Then we must set to work at once, Komes,’ he beckoned Igor back inside the domed roof.

Here, the fine vases and ornaments had been cleared from the large oak table in the centre of the room and a map of the empire was rolled out over its surface. The fire had been piled high with logs and the shelves at the side of the room were well stocked with watered wine, fresh and aromatic bread, cheese and fruit. A pair of varangoi guarded the door and stairwell that led up to the room, and a cluster of thirty or so military men had gathered around the map table. He sought out the three most senior amongst them. ‘Bryennios, Tarchianotes, Alyates!’ he called out, a broad grin stretching across his face.

Bryennios, the towering Doux and
Domestikos
of the armies of the West, stepped forward. His dark-skinned face was gaunt and split with a feral grin. He had a thinning peak of dark hair, flashed with grey at the temples. He bowed on one knee and dipped his head. ‘
Basileus!
’

‘Up, up!’ Romanus waved him to stand once more. ‘It is good to see you again, old friend.’

‘I bring with me the best of your Thracian armies. Five thousand riders of the western tagmata,’ Bryennios added. ‘Steel-skinned, iron-willed, hearts brimming with courage!’

Romanus nodded, heartened, clasping his forearm to Bryennios’. ‘I need no reminding of the western riders’ valour – indeed, I have missed them since my days riding at their head were curtailed!’

Then the emperor turned to Doux Tarchianotes. This bulky, swarthy individual was some ten years older than Bryennios. The tanned skin of his somewhat unhandsome face was lined with age and spoiled by a bulbous wart on one cheek, a fleshy and shapeless nose and permanently flared nostrils. His dark curls hung to his jaw and a neatly trimmed beard hugged his chin. This man was nominally the commander of the eastern border tagmata, in the hazardous lands east of Chaldia. But in recent years, the armies there had fragmented, with the likes of the odious Crispin of Normandy running riot. As such, Tarchianotes had found himself as a man with a title and little else.