Strategos: Island in the Storm (19 page)

‘Until I return to your side,’ he whispered.
If you return,
a cruel voice countered in his mind. He ignored the voice of doubt, slipped his purple cloak over his shoulders and boarded the imperial flagship, his escort of varangoi flooding onboard with him.

Igor and his men were resplendent in their pure-white armour, fine silk cloaks, shell-like shields clinging to their shoulders and battle axes slung over their backs. Most wore simple helms or none at all – letting their blonde and red braided locks hang free. The sight of one thousand of these hardy and ruddy-faced curs filled his heart with hope. Another two thousand such men were to remain here in the city with a brief to stay vigilant of any manoeuvrings. For although Psellos was in exile, the man’s claws were long and insidious. His gaze had unwittingly drifted to the form of Andronikos Doukas, being led on board the flagship, his wrists bound in chains. The young man had done nothing to suggest he was of the same ilk as his father, and this brought a dark cloud of guilt over Romanus’ heart.
A hard choice, but the right one,
he affirmed.

‘We are ready to embark,
Basileus,
’ the ship’s
kentarches
said, panting, his hands lined with rope-burns from working the rigging.

‘Good. Take us out,’ Romanus nodded, then moved over to the prow, resting his palms on the edge of the ship to look ahead as the vessel moved under oar out through the sea gates and into the Propontus. Then the purple and white Chi-Rho sail was unfurled – at once billowing proudly in the stiff sea breeze. Romanus inhaled deeply. The salt spray made it all real – always the first step of a campaign to the east. The scent of the ocean, the stinging chill of the water, the sight of the foaming, choppy surf offering the first hint of defiance, the crash of the waves against the hull and the crying of gulls and cormorants.

Let’s see what you have for me this time,
he said with a nervous but defiant grin.

All around him, clusters of round-hulled pamphyloi bobbed, ferrying horses, fodder, supplies and artillery components. Just ahead, dromons – each with three banks of oars –brimmed with spearmen and riders from the imperial tagmata. The completion of this small but fine fleet was one of the few rewards for abstaining from campaign the previous year.

He looked east in the rough direction of Helenopolis, the small port-town in Bithynia that was their destination, then up to the sky, taking heart at the unbroken blue that promised of the spring and summer to come. His memories of the grim comet had faded. Even the populace seemed to have gotten over the spectacle without too many predictions of doom. The voyage continued throughout the morning, swift and steady. It was only when they cut away from the coast and out across the Propontus that the skies greyed. The turquoise waters turned sombre in reflection, the choppy peaks growing higher and causing the timbers of the vessel to groan. Some soldiers, unused to the buck and swell of the sea, took to throwing down their bread rations and retching overboard. Then the grey clouds conspired to unleash a chill rain that swiftly turned into a hailstorm. Chunks of ice as large as a sword pommel smashed down on the deck. Soldiers yelped and ran for cover, clustering under the sails.

Romanus braved the storm until it became ferocious, some chunks of hail even splintering a barrel of wine stowed on the deck. At this, he hurried to join his men under the precarious shelter of the sail, slipping and sliding through the slick of red wine. There, he watched as the sky continued to hurl down its wrath, turning the water all around the boat into a foaming cauldron. The stench of sweat and damp clothing soon filled his nostrils.

‘It is a sign,’ he heard a squat vigla soldier say, behind him. ‘We should be going to Pylai, not Helenopolis. The men of my bandon, they all have been on campaign before, and they say they have always travelled to Pylai and then set off overland from there.’

Romanus made to contest the man’s fears, but another voice cut in;

‘And if the men told you they always drank each other’s piss on campaign, would you yearn to do likewise?’ the voice said. It was Andronikos Doukas, his haughty posture and calm expression untroubled by the squall.

The vigla soldier scowled and grappled Andronikos by the throat; ‘Close your mouth, cur! You are in shackles, remember. Be thankful you still have your tongue!’

Andronikos gazed down upon the man, barely flustered.

‘Enough!’ Romanus stepped in. The pair parted. Romanus offered Andronikos a barely noticeable nod of appreciation, then turned to the vigla soldier.

The vigla soldier gawped, meltwater running from his nose. He saw the emperor’s features, flaxen hair plastered to his face, cobalt eyes glinting, and at once paled.

‘
Basileus
, I . . . I apologise,’ he stuttered over the rattle of the hail.

‘Why? Because I am your emperor or because you understand this man’s point?’ Romanus countered, opening a hand towards Andronikos. ‘Tell me as you would any of your comrades; why would Helenopolis be any sort of cursed move?’ he shrugged. ‘It is some ten miles more easterly then Pylai. Ten miles less to march!’ he cocked an eyebrow, awaiting an answer.

The vigla soldier gulped then nodded. ‘Yes,
Basileus
, that is true. But it is a damp and unpleasant place. The miserable city, some call it. Campaigns that have been victorious in the past have all gone via Pylai.’

Romanus snorted. ‘As have many disastrous ones!’

The men chuckled at this, and the vigla man nodded in acceptance.

‘Think not of omens and portents,’ he clasped a hand to his breast. ‘If we are showered with hail today then we will drink chilled water with our meal tonight!’

At this, the men broke out in a cheer. Then, as if the storm had been conquered by his words, the sky brightened, the hail lessened and then stopped. He strode from the shade of the sail, welcoming a modicum of warmth from the watery sun. As he gazed up at the thinning clouds, he saw a bird in trouble up there in the zephyrs. He walked to the prow of the vessel again, seeing the creature flail to right itself. It tumbled lower and lower. Finally, just a few feet above the deck of the boat, it caught the breeze and began to glide. Romanus watched as it then arced round and came to land on the prow right before him. It was a grey dove – rarely seen this far from land. He frowned at the creature’s boldness, then started as it hopped forward along the rim of the ship and onto the back of his hand. Romanus lifted his hand back, drawing the creature closer to examine it. An ordinary dove, bar the distinctively grey feathers and almost laughable impudence. Just an ordinary dove.

But he heard the murmurs from the deck behind him, and knew all eyes were upon him.

‘Another sign from God. He chooses to send a grey dove and not a white one. A truly ill-omen,’ they whispered.

Romanus set the creature to flight once more, then bowed his head in frustration.

***

The weather had turned back to mizzle when the fleet reached the grassy headland of Helenopolis – a tiny promontory jutting into the Gulf of Nicomedia. Soon, the campaign army had disembarked at the broad timber wharf side where a few round-hulled pamphyloi listed in the shallows, badly in need of repair. The small port-town itself was indeed rather sorry-looking. Unwalled, with a collection of timber shacks and a few dilapidated stone buildings that served as the offices of the local tourmarches, it had the look of a muddy stain on the otherwise verdant countryside surrounding it. A handful of garrison skutatoi in grubby tunics and rusting armour stood guard around the streets and atop the rickety watchtowers that overlooked the town and the disembarking fleet.

The army flooded through the town to set up camp south of the settlement. Romanus strode around the earthworks as the men busied themselves preparing the camp’s ditch and rampart, the scent of damp earth and sweet woodsmoke spicing the air. He stayed out in the relentless drizzle for the rest of the day, helping to erect the gates at the camp’s eastern side. By dusk, he was filthy, sodden and exhausted, but the camp was complete. Men settled down to pray and to kindle cooking fires, melting down cakes of dried yoghurt, sesame seeds and honey or cooking meaty stews. His appetite awoke at that moment, and he swung round to see the red satin dome of his tent at the heart of the camp. He strode towards it, then stopped before the ring of vigla skutatoi demarcating the imperial tent area, turning to sweep his gaze around the rest of the camp in the fading light. More tents than he could count. Myriad vivid banners standing proudly albeit soaked. And by his sodden imperial tent stood two symbols of greatness – the glittering campaign Cross and the blue-gold Icon of the Holy Virgin of Blachernae. The core of this campaign army was ready to stride forth and make history. ‘It seems the omen of the dove was somewhat exaggerated!’ he chuckled to himself.

He acknowledged the salutes of the vigla guards, who parted to let him through, then nodded to Igor and the eight varangoi who formed the inner layer of sentries, dotted around the edges of the imperial tent. Sweeping the tent flap back and entering, he saw that his bed had been prepared. A lamp glowed beside it, casting the tent in a warm and inviting orange. He slumped down, sliding off his cloak and boots with a sigh. A dull rumble emanated from his belly, and he realised he had not eaten all day. He noticed a tray in the corner of the tent, containing his evening meal of stew, fresh bread and more wine. He pulled a chunk of bread from the still-warm loaf and dipped this in the thick, delicious-smelling stew. The warm, meaty meal swiftly innervated his weary limbs and he finished the lot soon after. He washed this hearty meal down with a cup of watered wine from the jug. The wine had a bitter edge to it, spoiling the drink somewhat. ‘Pah,’ he scoffed, ‘you’re too used to the finest Paphlagonian, man!’

With that, he slipped off his tunic and sunk back onto his warm, dry bedding. The tension in his muscles seeped away and sleep overcame him in moments. It was dark and dreamless.

Until he heard something crashing like a war drum.

He sat bolt upright; all was dark – the lamp having burnt out – and the camp was silent outside. Had it been a trick of the mind? Then . . .
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The blood hammered in his ears rhythmically. He clutched the sides of his head, wincing, feeling a wave of nausea rush over him. He stumbled from his bed, falling to his knees, retching. Only a thin, acidic bile came up. The floor seemed to melt away before him and he was overcome by a terrible sense of falling endlessly. He cried out, flailing, lurching to his feet in order to grasp out at something, anything. He crashed against the centre pole of the tent and heard a dull and distant crack amidst the rapid drumming of blood in his head. He barely noticed the pole shredding or the canvas of the tent falling down around him, covering him. He barely heard the cries of alarm from outside when this happened. He scarcely recognised Igor and the other varangoi who pulled him out of the collapsed tent. He did, however, recognise the panicked mutterings of the vast number of soldiers who had rushed from their tents to the scene of the incident and now stood, gathered and gawping in torchlight.

‘The tent pole snapped and nearly saw our emperor suffocated. God have mercy on us. Another dark portent!’

‘No . . . I,’ he croaked, reaching a hand out to the staring masses. But a rush of nausea snatched his words away and sent him spinning into the blackness.

10.
Adnoumion

The first weeks of April were dry and hot. Spring had arrived and the once barren inland hillsides of the Opsikon Thema were now alive with the chirruping cicada song and dappled with thick green grasses, wheat fields and shady groves of ash and poplar.

A flock of starlings scattered from one such thicket as four horsemen rose over the tip of a grassy hill, silhouetted in early morning sunlight. One of them, sporting three black eagle feathers in his helm, raised a finger and pointed downhill.

‘Let your weary eyes rejoice,’ Apion grinned, scratching at his iron-grey beard.

Sha, Blastares and Procopius looked with him, gazing across the vast army camp that spread across the banks of the Sangarios, interrupting the tracts of wheat that clung to the sides of the calm, teal river. The camp was just downriver from the Zompos Bridge, an ancient-looking stone structure that had long allowed imperial armies to march east without the need of a ferry fleet. This was the
adnoumion,
the ritual mustering. The land where the emperor assembled his armies, summoning the regional themata to join his tagmata corps. He spotted the bright banners of the imperial tagmata; the Scholae, the Vigla, the Stratelatai and the Hikanatoi. And the fluttering emblems of the Cappadocian Thema and the Anatolikon too. Then there were standards he did not recognise – western tagmata, it seemed. More than twenty thousand here, he reckoned on a rough count of the tents, and doubtless many more to come. This was the emperor’s response to the news of Alp Arslan’s taking of Manzikert. Once more, the Golden Heart filled Apion with that precious commodity; hope.

Realising his trusted three had never witnessed the mustering before, he pointed to the sturdy fortress that sat on a small hillock overlooking the vast camp and was framed by a backdrop of tall, rocky hills. ‘That is the fortress of Malagina. That is where the last blades will be forged, the last garments woven and the supplies will be gathered, ready to be loaded onto the mules and wagons of the touldon before the campaign continues eastwards.’

Next, he pointed to the rows of timber stalls that hemmed a patchwork of lush green meadows, dotted with horses. ‘And here we have the imperial stables. Thousands of the finest battle horses are reared, broken in and put to stud and pasture right here.’

‘Hmm. I wonder if they’d be interested in a trade?’ Procopius grumbled. His grey stallion snorted and shook its head as if in protest. ‘This one gives me nothing but a mean eye and blisters on my arse!’

Sha chuckled. ‘Perhaps your mount means to trade you in?’

‘Ha,’ Blastares cut in, ‘for what, a sack of hay?’

Procopius’ eyes widened and he squared his shoulders indignantly. ‘Alright, alright, you pair of bast-’

‘Look, to the south!’ Sha cut in.

Apion blinked and peered to the green hills there. From a fold in the land, another column snaked towards the camp. He spotted the silver banners they carried. And a mile further south again, another column sporting green banners. ‘The Colonean Thema and the Charsianon Thema!’ he grinned. ‘They must have some two thousand men each. That is a fine sight.’ Then he eyed his trusted three with a mischievous grin. ‘Still, I’m not in the mood to let those beggars beat us to the gates. Ya!’ he cried, heeling his Thessalian downhill towards the camp.

Apion noticed many things inside the camp. There were many soldiers moving to and fro in the full glare of the mid-morning sun. The tagmata men seemed well prepared and equipped for this campaign, but the themata armies seemed to present a jumble of issues. The Anatolikon Thema and the Cappadocian Thema were already encamped, but their ranks seemed to consist of very old men with good armour and weapons but lacking the physique of soldiers. When the Colonean and Charsianon ranks came in, it was a different story; they had indeed mustered nearly three thousand young men, but in such haste, they had found little time to provide basic kit for these recruits. Most had shields, spears and felt caps or helms, but many marched in bare feet and few had swords.

‘Ah, there is much organisation to be done,’ he muttered to himself, sliding from his saddle. Amongst the sea of tents, the incessant babble and the packs of men hurrying this way and that, Apion realised one thing was missing. The campaign Cross was nowhere to be seen. Indeed, the usual central compound with the emperor’s tent was missing. ‘Sha, set up our tent. I’ll be with you soon.’

‘Sir,’ Sha nodded, waving Blastares and Procopius with him.

Apion frowned, stalking over to the centre of the vast camp, where the emperor’s tent would normally be. There was nothing bar a pile of crates and barrels. A man of some fifty years was sitting on one of these crates, cross-legged, with a slat of wood on his knees, a pot of ink in one hand and a quill pen in the other. He had a bookish look about him, his eyes shaded under his mop of curly silver locks and his slender frame draped in some grey silk robe. He seemed to be taking in all that was going on around him, gazing across the sea of tents, over the surrounding hills and up to the pleasant sky. Then he took to scribbling furiously on a sheaf of paper stretched across the timber slat.

‘A fine place you choose to write – this is the place where the emperor’s tent should be, is it not?’

The man looked up, as if having been awoken from a daydream. ‘Indeed it is.’

Apion cocked an eyebrow. ‘And you are?’

‘Michael Attaleiates. I am the emperor’s scribe. It is my job to capture every detail of this campaign. I don’t know where he is – I only know that there has been some . . . confusion.’

‘So you choose to sit and write?’ Apion frowned, scanning the goings-on nearby for some familiar face.

Michael smiled. ‘Future generations must know what transpires – virtuous or wicked,’ he said with a wry grin.

Apion snorted, recalling old Cydones’ disdain for the scribes and chroniclers. ‘Virtuous or wicked? Surely that depends on the eye of the beholder . . . and his agenda.’

Michael’s grin grew a little taut at this. He looked Apion up and down. ‘And you, you must be an officer?’

‘Apion, Strategos of Chaldia.’

Michael’s eyes sparkled shrewdly at this. ‘Ah, the
Haga
is here? I have heard your name mentioned by more than a few. Perhaps I should write of you in my chronicle?’

Apion smiled and shook his head. ‘I am but one blade amongst thousands. Save your ink for those who matter, writer. For now I’d like to know where the emperor is. Who here can help me?’ he asked, looking round but seeing only unfamiliar faces striding to and fro.

‘Perhaps the Komes of the Varangoi might be best placed to explain,’ Michael pointed over Apion’s shoulder.

Apion twisted round to see Igor stalking towards him, his armour brilliant white, his face lobster pink – almost blending in with the vertical scar that ran over one eye – and his braided locks bobbing with every step.

Apion held out an arm, ready to greet the big warrior as he had done at the Euphrates camp two years ago. But this time, Igor’s face was a picture of dread. ‘
Haga!
You are here at last,’ he said, clutching Apion’s outstretched arm. ‘And not a moment too soon.’

Apion frowned. ‘The emperor, what is-’

Igor held their embrace, whispering; ‘The emperor is not himself.’

Apion saw the dark look in the Rus’ eyes. Igor’s gaze stayed locked with Apion’s and then flicked up, beyond the fortress of Malagina to the cluster of rocky hills that loomed over the mustering plains.

‘Come, ride with me, I will take you to him,’ the Rus said, hefting up a cloth-wrapped parcel from the pile of crates and looking to the hills.

Apion mounted his Thessalian and followed Igor out of the camp, trotting through the long grass around the Malagina Fortress hillock. The Rus remained silent as they passed a pair of varangoi who seemed to be guarding the dirt track that led up into the hills. They picked their way up this track until they came to the rougher ground near the cliffs at the top of this range.

The path was mercifully shaded by the cliff face, but the going was treacherous, the track winding up around the cliff side, growing steeper with every stride. They came to a perilously steep section. Apion’s Thessalian stumbled in the scree here, sliding to the side of the long-disused path and halting only inches from the edge. Apion’s eyes bulged as he clutched at his reins and swayed in his saddle to balance, catching sight of the sheer drop into a rocky gully he had only just avoided. A vulture swooped by overhead and screeched as if thwarted of its chance of a meal.

‘Igor, for pity’s sake, will you tell me what is going on and why you are leading me into the sky – preferably before I fall and break my neck!’

Igor looked all around, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as if looking for some observer.

‘We are alone, I can assure you,’ Apion spat. ‘No other cur would be so mad as to come up here!’

Igor snorted at this. ‘Ah, if only that were true. But no, our emperor languishes atop these cliffs.’

‘What, why?’

‘Walk with me,’ Igor said, dismounting.

Apion followed suit, patting his Thessalian’s neck and crunching on up the scree.

‘There have been ill-portents in every direction since the start of this campaign. Blood-comets, freak storms at sea and grey doves suffering from wanderlust,’ Igor panted as they neared the top of the cliffs. ‘All brushed aside by the emperor’s hubris and his stirring homilies. But when we camped at Helenopolis, something changed. In the dead of night, his tent collapsed, the centre pole shredded and it fell in upon him.’

Apion sighed, knowing full well how such incidents were usually perceived by the Christian ranks. ‘And the men think it was a sign from God?’

‘They do. But the worst of it is that God had no hand in this. The emperor himself brought his tent down in some blind fit, throwing himself around.’

Apion cocked his head to one side. ‘But surely a few words from him, would have remedied the situation? A dash of humour and bravado?’

‘They would, had he not been acting so strangely since. After we pulled him from the tent, he was suffering some blinding headache. He said nothing to the men before he blacked out. Then, when he awoke the next day, he was – as I said – not himself. He was sullen and highly irritable.’

‘Has he been seen by an
archiatros?
’ Apion asked, knowing full-well that the emperor would have brought some of the fine physicians from Constantinople along with him.

‘They tried to examine him, but he would not have it. He lashed out, blackening the eye of one orderly. When we deconstructed the camp, he then insisted on riding as part of the vanguard.’

Apion’s gut tightened at this. The emperor was a brave soul, but not a fool. Even in firm imperial territory, he would never risk riding in the van in case he might fall to some enemy ambush.

‘And when we came here, he watched the men build the camp, but insisted the imperial tent should not be pitched. And then . . . then he rode from the camp at haste, alone. We pursued him, all the way up here.’

Apion looked up to see they were approaching the clifftop. ‘Here, why?’

The steep path levelled off and the shade fell away as they stepped onto the clifftop. Apion squinted in the sunlight at what lay up there. Three huts stood, all of them ruins, deserted long ago. Hovels at best. The roofs had caved in, the clumsily piled stone walls lay tumbled and broken in places, and the remnant splinters of what had once been a door hung from the entrance to the nearest one. Cicadas sang in the weeds. Clouds of flies buzzed in the shade of the doorway, next to which the emperor’s white stallion was tethered. Then Apion saw smoke puff from this roofless abode.

‘Because the emperor insisted he preferred to be away from his men. He said he favoured these hovels over the fresh and open wheat banks of the river. He has slept here for the last week and has had food brought to him,’ Igor tapped the parcel.

Apion heard a scuffling from inside the tumbledown ruin then.

‘
Basileus,
’ Igor called out.

Apion removed his helm, readying to salute his emperor, the one man who promised to bring an end to the empire’s constant struggles. But his blood iced when he saw the figure that emerged from the hovel. Romanus’ flaxen locks were unwashed and tangled, his skin was awash with profuse sweat and his chin was covered in unkempt bristles. His lips were taut and twitching, his cobalt eyes darting. His white tunic and trousers were encrusted in filth.

He barely made eye contact with Apion or Igor, instead seemingly more interested in the ashes of a fire. He crouched beside it and poked at the ashes with a stick, sighing and muttering to himself.

‘
Basileus,
the
Haga
is here,’ Igor said, crouching by the emperor’s side, placing the parcel down. ‘Only weeks ago you talked of how glad you would be to see him.’

‘Hmm, the
Haga?
I don’t need him. I just need to be left alone. Away with you both.
Away!
’ he snarled.

Igor stood back, blanching.

‘
Basileus,
’ Apion said. ‘The men need you. But I understand you are not well. You need to allow the archiatros to examine you.’