Strategos: Island in the Storm (38 page)

Apion focused on the bold Seljuk riders, trapped between Sha’s spear line and his own cavalry charge.
Anvil and hammer!
he mouthed through gritted teeth as the powerful gale seemed to help him on his way. He grappled his spear tightly and welcomed the flames of the dark door. Then his wedge smashed into the confused sprawl of Seljuk riders, driving them back onto the Chaldian spears, breaking them utterly. He lanced through one man, felt his mail veil being torn off by the hand of another, then felt the others melt away before him. In moments, the brave ghazi ambush of some fifteen hundred riders was little more than a third of that number. Those who could broke south in disarray, Byzantine missiles raining down all around them and Greek jeers ringing in their ears. But a chorus of laments rang out from the Byzantine left. Apion squinted through the dusty evening haze to see that a similar Seljuk ambush on Bryennios’ flankguard had been successful. They had gone too far in pursuit and had not managed to recover the situation. Hundreds of kataphractoi and kursores lay in broken heaps as the victorious ghazi band over there swept away to the south, whooping and punching the air in delight as they moved to re-join the main line of slowly retreating Seljuk riders.

‘We must turn around,’ Apion growled over the howling wind, wiping the gore from his face, seeing the sun sliding away.

‘Aye, the valleys are growing steep and the light is fading,’ Alyates agreed, his hair matted with blood, his arm torn badly from a Seljuk blade.

‘Let me speak with the emperor,’ he said.

Alyates nodded. ‘Be swift, Strategos. You are needed here.’

Apion nodded briskly, then kicked his mount into a gallop across the Byzantine front, heading for the centre. The Chaldians, the Armenian spearmen and then the ranks of the other themata lofted then waved their spears and banners like wheat stalks in a breeze to salute him. ‘
Ha-ga! Ha-ga! Ha-ga!
’ they chanted.

Apion heard nothing of them, focusing only on Romanus, ringed by the Varangoi, with Igor and Philaretos by his side. He barged through, the Rus axemen recognising him soon enough. ‘
Basileus,
we must end this pursuit.’

‘Yes we must,’ Romanus admitted, his cobalt eyes defiant, his flaxen locks whipping in the gale. ‘The sun is almost gone. Worse, I fear the ambuscades we have stumbled over so far are but a hint of what lies further south.’

Apion followed the emperor’s gaze. The land ahead was treacherous, with tracts of volcanic rock jutting from the valley floor like waves in a foaming sea, churning in the squall. Overlooking this rough ground was a jutting outcrop of rock. A clutch of silhouetted figures watched from up there. One was crouched, wearing a Seljuk war helm and a white shroud, billowing in the wind. Alp Arslan. Beside him was another, broad shouldered, the setting sun’s halo dancing from his outline, shimmering on the scales of his familiar vest.
Taylan?

‘Our riders will crush the sultan’s forces tomorrow, then,’ Romanus boomed, disguising well his doubts over how they would feed themselves tonight. ‘Bring up the banners, signal across the lines for an ordered retreat,’ he called to his signophoroi. ‘We are to return to the camp.’

For the briefest of moments, Apion felt a wave of relief. Then, from high above, an eagle shrieked. A piercing, chilling shriek of warning.

***

Alp Arslan watched the Byzantine manoeuvre studiously from the rocky outcrop, crouched on one knee, smoothing his moustache, the gale singing around him like an army of wraiths. In the broad, uneven land below, the purple imperial banner had been raised aloft, then turned to face northwards at the tune of three buccina blasts. Like a great silvery creature coming about, the Byzantines halted. Spears were raised, shields clattered and men turned about face as they readied to march back to Manzikert and their camp. In response, his ghazi line had now halted their slow retreat just under the jutting hill, their commanders looking up, waiting on some signal from him and his best men.

And now I must choose,
Alp Arslan mused.
Retire for another day of battle tomorrow, or risk an attack upon the Byzantine retreat?
He looked to the purple-pink dusk sky, streaked with scudding clouds, and wondered if it was woefully late to ask for Allah’s wisdom. Grain and fodder in the Seljuk column and in the granaries of Chliat was all but gone. A day of hesitation might be a death knell to them all. He thought of all that his rival, Yusuf, might do with news that he had failed in this long-awaited clash with the Byzantine Emperor.

‘Sultan, what should we do?’ Bey Gulten asked. ‘Why do they turn?’

‘It is just as it was at the Cilician Gates,’ Taylan said flatly. ‘The emperor turns because he fears the night.’

‘He turns,’ Alp Arslan growled, ‘because he is not a fool.’

Taylan paced over to Alp Arslan and crouched by his side. ‘My riders are fresh, eager. Give the word, Sultan.’

‘You want to lead your riders into a spear wall?’ Alp Arslan gestured towards the men who would form the rear of the ordered Byzantine retreat – readying to pace backwards and present their spears and shields at any minded to attack. ‘You would lead your riders into a pit of fire just to strike him down, wouldn’t you?’

Taylan balked at this, his dark locks whipping across his face. ‘I . . . I must face him. I am Taylan bin Nas-’

‘Bey Nasir once told me that he and the
Haga
were like brothers. They swore to die for one another.’

Taylan looked away, scouring the slow turnaround of the Byzantine lines. The dusk light betrayed the tears building in his eyes. ‘I miss him. He loathed me but I miss him every day.’

‘Bey Nasir loved you. He loathed himself for being unable to show it. It destroyed him.’

‘No, the
Haga
destroyed him.’

Alp Arslan grasped his shoulders. ‘His hatred is what destroyed him. In the end he ran onto the
Haga’s
blade, despite his old friend trying to spare him. Why do you waste your life, trying to repeat such folly?’

Taylan’s eyes provided an answer before his lips moved. ‘Because Nasir was not my father.’

Alp Arslan frowned. ‘Then who . . . ’ his words trailed off, the glint of dusk light in Taylan’s green eyes enough to piece it all together. Until now, he had thought Taylan to be just one of that rare breed with bright eyes that came about every so often amongst his people. ‘No!’

Taylan nodded. ‘It is true.’

Alp Arslan’s eyes widened, his very marrow chilling. ‘You are the
Haga’s
son?’

‘Aye,’ Taylan said, standing tall. ‘And now you know. I am the bastard who reminded Nasir each and every day of his shame.’

The sultan searched for the right words to reply. The gale screamed around them. ‘Taylan, if there was one thing Bey Nasir would have wanted for you . . . it would be to unburden you of these troubles.’ He saw the confusion in the boy’s eyes, then grasped his shoulders. ‘Let go of the past, let go of . . . ’

Just then, a shrill Greek voice cried out from the Byzantine lines, below; ‘The emperor has been slain!’

Alp Arslan and Taylan were torn from their exchange, both men’s eyes shooting to the source of the cry.

His retinue hurried to crane over the edge of the jutting outcrop with them, gawping, their eyes disbelieving at the sight of the Byzantine lines – in chaos, the neat rear-facing spear line of moments ago disintegrating. And the cry sounded again by many others;

‘The emperor has fallen! God has deserted us!’

Nobody there spoke for some time, until Taylan broke the spell;

‘Now, Sultan, you must give the word. Set my White Falcons loose.’

***

Palladius the toxotes tilted the wide brim of his hat up and squinted up at the front-centre of the Byzantine line, the wind stinging his eyes. He saw the furiously flapping imperial standard turning round and heard the buccina blasts. An ordered retreat? This was unexpected. A tense hiatus was followed by concerned murmuring. It seemed that none had expected this.

Men pushed and shoved all around him, eager to get into their positions. This would see the majority of the army turn to face north, while the current front ranks would remain south facing, but march backwards to present shields and spears against any attack from the rear. It required composure, discipline and perfect timing to execute.

He saw that many of the men were craning their necks to catch sight of the emperor, keen to see him confirm this order. He heard the men nearby rally their ranks with cries of; ‘About-face! Ordered retreat!’

Here at the back ranks of the Colonean Thema, Palladius had seen little of the battle so far, merely watching the front ranks of the infantry centre suffer the constant barrage of Seljuk arrows. He had been paid a fine campaign purse just to do this. Now, however, he saw an opportunity to make a far larger purse– a sum that would see him able to afford a villa in the Bithynian countryside and leave behind the squalor of his Colonean shack. He heard the continuing concerned babble from the ranks and filled his lungs. Then he let loose a cry that echoed above all others and above the gale;

‘
The emperor has been slain!
’

There was a momentary silence, then chaos broke out all around him. Men echoed the cry and laments broke out. He smiled and pulled the rim of his archer’s cap down to hide his face. He had always had a strong voice. Now he could use it to call upon his slaves in his new villa.

***

Apion swung round at the cry, his blood turning to ice, sure he had misheard over the squall. Then it was repeated, once, twice and then again, spreading like a wildfire through a dry forest.

‘The emperor has fallen! The Seljuks have his head!’ In moments, the ordered retreat had descended into panic. Skutatoi who had already turned to face north believed the cries and – fearing that some Seljuk attack had penetrated into the men behind them and slain their glorious leader, broke for the north. As soon as the first few did this, panic grasped the others. Men trampled over men, shouting, cursing. Some fell, snapping their lances, spraining their ankles, being trampled by their comrades. In moments, the tidy, ordered centre had disintegrated into a swarm of fleeing men, breaking around those who stood firm. Even the men marching in reverse to cover the rear seemed shaken by the cries, some fleeing too despite seeing that the emperor was in fact nearby, alive and well amidst his ring of varangoi.

Apion spun to meet Romanus’ disbelieving gaze. ‘Raise the banner, call to them, show them you are well!’ he cried. Romanus was already waving the purple banner frantically, having snatched it from the signophoroi to perform the duty himself.

But still riders and archers continued to flee for the north, blind to the truth and fuelled by panic. Of the centre, only the Varangoi, the Chaldian Thema and the Armenians with them held their fragmented lines, though many were on the verge of panic, seeing the chaos that had erupted right next to them.

‘Sir!’ Sha cried over the thunder of boots and laments and the howling wind. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Maintain the retreat, Tourmarches. Blastares, Procopius – keep the men at a steady retreat and bring them together to close the gaps!’ Apion yelled.

But beyond the Chaldians, he saw Alyates crying out to his riders. The kursores had seen the centre crumble and break for the north and they too had set off in panic – many hundreds of them – and this left a glaring gap between the remaining outflankers and the infantry centre. He flicked his gaze to the Byzantine left; Bryennios’ western tagmata riders had kept their discipline and were holding their lines, but for how long?

‘
Basileus,
we can still retreat well if we form a narrower line and pull our remaining men together. The left is good, but the right is about to break.’ He glanced this way and that. In these few panicked moments, the Byzantine front line had thinned drastically to just seven thousand men – more than six thousand having broken into flight. ‘If we can stabilise this retreat, we can rally the deserters back to us.’

But Romanus’ gaze was fixed on a point beyond Apion’s shoulder, his hair blown back from his suddenly pale face by a furious gust of wind. ‘Then by God, Strategos, bring them together!’

Apion swung round on his saddle to look south. The thick ghazi line, having spent the day retreating, now stowed their bows and instead took up their lances, swords and war hammers. They had scented the blood of the hugely weakened Byzantines and were now coming for the kill. He saw the Seljuk war horns being raised, ready to signal the charge, when he noticed something else from the corner of his eye. High up on the valley side to the Byzantine right, a dark smear emerged. A fresh wing of ghazis. They spread out like an iron wall up there, poised like a glinting dagger at the Byzantine flank. Most wore striking white falcon feathers jutting from the front of their helms and they clutched clusters of arrows in their knuckles, bows already nocked.

‘A reserve,’ Apion gasped, counting some five thousand of them.

Igor gazed with him. ‘God have merc – ’ his words were cut short by the wailing Seljuk war horns that brought these fresh ghazi riders flooding down the hillside like demons, heading straight for the ailing Byzantine right flank. At the same time, the ghazi front on the rugged valley floor coursed forward. Both fronts raced as if to gnash like iron jaws on the beleaguered Byzantine ranks.