Strategos: Island in the Storm (40 page)

‘Perhaps?’ Only now Apion could see the young man’s face was streaked with recent tears. ‘Unlike when we last met, you do not seem so sure this time?’

‘You killed my true father, your armies sacked my home in Hierapolis. You stole my soul . . . ’ Taylan growled over the squall.

Apion saw the knuckles of Taylan’s sword hand flex on the hilt of his scimitar, then he eyed his own blade – still jutting from the ground. ‘I wished for none of that. I, like you, am just a leaf in this storm of war.’

‘But my mother,’ Taylan snarled.

All of Apion’s senses pricked up. His son looked him in the eye.

‘She did not want this,’ Taylan continued. ‘Not for Bey Nasir, not for me.’

‘She has a good heart, Taylan. One of the few who do.’

‘Don’t you speak of her!’ Taylan barked, lifting his scimitar to point it like an accusing finger. The wind blew his locks across his face and part-masked his gritted teeth.

Apion raised his hands in supplication. ‘Tell me she is well, Taylan,’ he cried over the din. ‘Tell me she is happy. Tell me this and I will not seek her out any more. Tell me this and we need not clash swords.’

Taylan looked along the length of his scimitar and frowned, his sword arm quivering. ‘Then what would be my purpose?’

‘You can be a good man. Do not let a quest for revenge stain your life like it did mine and Nasir’s.’

Fresh tears darted from Taylan’s eyes. Slowly, he unbuckled Nasir’s scale vest, the armour jacket crunching to the ground.

‘Taylan, what are you - ’

‘I am unshackling myself of the past,’ he said with a weak smile. ‘The shame, the anger, the hatred . . . ’

His words shuddered to a halt and he staggered forward, his back arching and blood lurching from his mouth. A wiry-bearded older Seljuk swept past on his mount, reaching down to wrench his thrown axe from between Taylan’s shoulders. ‘Where is your hubris now, whelp?’ the older rider spat, a sneer wrinkling his blade-like features.

The man’s victory was short lived. Apion swept up his scimitar and brought it chopping round on the rider’s belly. The blade cut through the man’s mail shirt and sliced open his flesh. He toppled from the saddle, screaming, then scrambled up onto his knees, desperately trying to scoop his steaming, spilling entrails back into the wound – scraping up blood, earth and slivers of flesh from other bodies in the process. Devoid of feeling, Apion strode over to the man, who glared up at him, mouthing some kind of plea. With a swipe of the scimitar, the man’s head was off, gawping as it rolled through the mire.

He heard a distant cry; ‘Bey Gulten has fallen!’

Apion stumbled through the fray to the prone Taylan. He fell to his knees and cradled the young man, lifting him from the filth. The snarl was gone, replaced by a look of fear. He looked every bit a fifteen year old boy, breathing his last on a battlefield.

‘She is . . . she needs you,’ he spluttered, the colour draining from his face and his pupils dilating. ‘Go to her. Be swift . . . tell her I’m . . . sorry.’

‘Where is she?’ he gasped.

But there was no reply. He felt the boy’s body relax, a last rattling breath escaping his lips. He stared into Taylan’s lifeless eyes, hearing the boy’s last words over the screaming, gnashing of mounts and rasping of iron nearby. Tears blurred his vision and his chest racked with a sob. His trusted three were gone. His faithful old warhorse had charged its last. The emperor’s army was on the brink of destruction. And now his son lay dead in his arms. Surely now he too was to die on this field. The truth he had sought about Maria would die with him.

‘What is left?’ he mouthed, feeling bloodspray settle upon him.

It was then that he heard a desperate cry from amidst the pocket of Byzantine resistance. ‘Do not lose heart!’

He looked up. The voice was unmistakable. Emperor Romanus. Apion lay Taylan down and stood tall. A short distance away, the writhing mass that had been the Varangoi and the remainder of Bryennios’ cavalry wing were now clustered together in a desperate last stand. A few thousand other men still held out in pockets here and there, despite the relentless press of Seljuk cavalry. A pair of ghazi riders circled around him at that moment. He levelled his scimitar and swept up a discarded shield, seeing they each had their bows trained on him. But the lead rider looked down at Bey Taylan’s body and then at Apion, then flicked his head towards the nearest cluster of Byzantine resistance. ‘I saw what happened. Go, join your comrades. Fight your last. You deserve to die in battle at least. We will tend to Bey Taylan’s body.’

Apion backed away, panting, giving the man a brisk and earnest nod. He turned and hurried for the cluster of varangoi – now in a swiftly shrinking circle. These Rus – barely a hundred of them – swung their axes valiantly. Seljuk bodies fell back in swathes, cleaved open or deprived of limbs or heads, only for many more to replace them. He saw a gap that had been forged in the circle, and, just before the varangoi had a chance to close it, he rushed for it, tumbling into the tiny patch of ground within. At one edge of the circle, Romanus tugged on the reins of his rearing stallion, swiping out at the attackers, aided by Bryennios and a clutch of his cavalrymen. The emperor’s armour was battered and gore-coated, his helm lost and his hair matted with blood. Then, with a flash of steel, the Golden Heart’s mount was struck down, peppered with Seljuk arrows. The emperor sunk out of view.

‘No!’ Apion cried.

Romanus thrashed in the blood-soaked earth, desperate to free his trapped leg from under his dying mount. Apion and a pair of varangoi wrenched him out by the shoulders and to his feet.

‘Get me armour,’ Romanus growled over the whistling gale, unbuckling his ornate white and silver breastplate. ‘Proper armour.’

A varangos came to him with an old iron klibanion – the lamellar armour jacket of the ranks – and a simple conical helm, before rushing back to the tight defensive circle.

‘
Basileus?
’ Apion frowned.

‘What use is splendid cavalry armour when you are to fight on foot?’ Romanus offered him a flash of a grin that did well to mask his fear. This man was the figurehead of all the Seljuk army were here to conquer. His head would surely be a prize sought by every blade coming for them.

Apion did not protest, clasping a hand to the emperor’s shoulder as he buckled the klibanion and helmet on. The vicious squall circled around them with a howl as if it had come to battle too, and the relentless arrow hail thickened further, striking men down in swathes. ‘I will be by your side to the last,
Basileus
.’

Like an island in the storm . . .

When a pair of varangoi cried out, lanced by Seljuk spears, and fell from the circle, Apion and Romanus leapt into the breach as one. The wailing storm buffeted them, arrows danced from their armour and the Seljuk blades were relentless, and they fought with all they had. Apion parried, swiped and cut out, feeling his sword arm tremble with fatigue, knowing he had little left to give, sensing that this last stand was about to fall. The hundred varangoi became thirty, and all too quickly just a handful. Soon, he felt Romanus press up back-to back with him and realised they were but two. He felt the vibrations of a defiant war cry vibrate in his bones. Then a Seljuk axe cut down across his cheek and sliced the skin open there. A heartbeat later a spear punched into his klibanion, puncturing his flank. He faltered, falling to one knee, blood lurching from the wound. He felt Romanus, at his back, sink to the ground too. The emperor clutched his forearm, an arrow having pierced his wrist, knocking the spathion from his grip. Weaponless, Romanus tried to barge out with his shield. Apion swiped weakly at those who came at the emperor. His parry was swept aside with ease, and a Seljuk shield rim cracked against the bicep of his sword arm, shattering the bone. He roared in agony, barely seeing the scimitar that scythed for him, the flat of the blade crashing against his temple.

He fell back into blackness, hearing pained cries all around him as the Byzantine resistance collapsed. Cries for mercy rang out from the pockets of men who fought on. A Seljuk war horn spoke next. It sang across the battlefield, echoing through the hills and into the near-dark sky. The Seljuk victory cries were relentless.

20.
Amongst the Dead

The southern end of the plain and the valleys around the foot of Mount Tzipan reeked of death. The moonlight betrayed thousands of glistening corpses and flocks of crows – heedless of the night – who descended to tear at the still-warm flesh. The gale had died not long after dusk, as if satiated by its feast of souls.

Alp Arslan picked his way sombrely through the carpet of dead, the night chill searching under his bloodied shroud and the armour underneath. Around him, his men set to work on laying out the bodies for burial and disarming the remnant of the Byzantine army.

He came to Bey Taylan’s corpse. The boy’s skin was as pale as a westerner’s now. He was laid out on his back, as if placed there, his eyelids having been closed. The sultan’s heart hardened as he realised the boy must have faced his father after all.

‘Spearmen,’ he called to a passing pair of akhi who carried a ghazi body. ‘How did Bey Taylan fall?’

The akhi bowed. ‘Great Sultan. He died with Bey Gulten’s traitorous axe in his back.’

Alp Arslan’s blood cooled. ‘Then bring that dog to me-’ he stopped, seeing the spearman’s gaze switch to another body, disembowelled and headless. This body had been offered no care – neither laid out straight nor reunited with its head.

‘The
Haga
destroyed Gulten, moments after Bey Taylan had fallen.’

Alp Arslan felt a long-lost emotion claw at him. Sorrow tightened his throat and ached in his chest. A boy had died before his father. Many more mothers and fathers would be without their sons too. He thought again of his newborn son, and of Malik, growing into a fine battlefield leader. How long would they have in this world of endless war?

‘And the
Haga?
’ he asked.

The spearman looked up, setting down some other body. He looked this way and that, across the piles of dead, over to the masses of Byzantine prisoners. ‘It is hard to tell, Sultan. Every man we come to wears a mask of blood.’

Alp Arslan laughed a chilling laugh at this. Utterly mirthless. ‘Don’t we all, brave akhi? Don’t we all?’

He walked on, hearing the weary salutes of his men, seeing the wounded writhing in agony – far too many to be treated by the few physicians in his ranks. He entered the valley south of the battlefield, skirting Mount Tzipan’s eastern face. Here, the akhi spearmen were putting together a rudimentary timber corral and herding the Byzantine prisoners inside. Here, they could be guarded more easily and would have access to a small brook that trickled through the space.

Further on, he came to the wide, flat area where his army had made camp. In the heart of the sea of tents and torches was an obscenely large yurt. Nizam stood at the entrance and Kilic was there too, there for him as they always had been. They offered him no words of congratulation or solace, Nizam simply handing him a flask of wine.

Inside alone, he felt the silence claw at him. The space was adorned with a few simple chairs on a raised timber platform, a post to which his pet falcon was chained, and a small table with a shatranj board and a platter of fresh bread and dates. He had never felt less like eating.

He tore off the bloodied shroud and threw it down, unbuckled his swordbelt and armour and drew a green silk cloak around his shoulders. A shrill whistle brought his hunting dog into the tent and to his feet. Then he sat on one of the chairs, supping at the wine, smoothing the dog’s sleek, dark coat and gazing out through the tent flap into the darkness. When dawn came, the flask was empty. It was then that he noticed a party approaching. An excited rabble. Akhi spearmen jostling around a beleaguered Byzantine. They led this one by a rope tied around his neck.

Alp Arslan sat up, leaning forward on his chair, the fog of the wine dissipating at once. More and more of his men gathered around this prisoner. Soldiers, still stained with the filth of battle. Beys and noblemen, washed and in clean robes. They spilled inside the tent under Kilic’s glower, eagerly forming an audience, awaiting the prisoner.

When the prisoner was brought inside, Alp Arslan eyed him. A mere spearman, his hair a knotted mess of blood and dirt, his face black with dust and his lamellar vest clad in a layer of gore. The ropes shackling him had chafed his neck and wrists, and one hand was encrusted with the blood of what looked like an arrow wound. A sorry sight. Despite his condition, the man’s azure eyes blazed with defiance.

‘Sultan, we bring you your prize,’ the foremost akhi stepped forward. ‘The Emperor of Byzantium.’

Alp Arslan threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘Then you have been had, brave akhi, for this is not the great Romanus Diogenes!’

The prisoner’s gaze dropped to the floor, his nose wrinkling and his jaw stiffening in ire. Alp Arslan cocked his head to one side, noticing the gold chain peeking from the collar of the man’s armour. ‘Bring me another prisoner,’ he said.

The akhi frowned, then nodded hurriedly and slipped from the tent. The audience murmured in excitement. The akhi returned with a Byzantine foot archer. This wretch was scrawny, with a tattered, bloodied tunic and teeth like tombstones. The archer stumbled in, trembling, looking all around him like a cornered animal. Then his gaze swept over the lone Byzantine spearman. At once, the man’s eyes bulged and he dropped to one knee, bowing. ‘
Basileus!
’ he gasped.

The audience broke out in a babble of excitement. Alp Arslan looked on the lone spearman with interest now. ‘Is it really you?’

Romanus looked up, his features drawn and weary. ‘The victory is yours. So do what you will with me and be swift about it . . . had the situation been reversed I would not hesitate to put you with the dogs in a lead collar.’

Alp Arslan cocked an eyebrow. ‘Now I have no doubt that it is you,
Basileus
.’

‘Bow before your new master!’ one bey snarled, striding forward to grapple Romanus’ shoulders. Another bey came forward to help him. ‘Kiss the ground before the sultan’s feet!’

Alp Arslan tensed, seeing the pair as jackals, knowing their thirst for blood was not yet satiated. Romanus shrugged them off with a swing of his broad shoulders, and a pair of watching akhi instantly grabbed for their sword hilts, ready to intervene. At this, Alp Arslan shot to standing, knowing he had to act. He brought the back of his hand raking across Romanus’ face. Once, twice and again. This brought the Emperor of Byzantium to his knees, spitting blood from his split lip. The offended beys and the eager akhi pair stepped back, pleased at this sight. The sultan then lifted a leg to place the sole of his boot on Romanus’ shoulder.

‘From this moment, Emperor of Byzantium, I am your master,’ he said. He scanned the sea of gleeful faces watching this, then clapped his hands together. ‘Now, leave us!’

He watched them go, then when the tent was empty, he nodded to Kilic, who stepped outside too and drew the tent flap over, leaving him alone with Romanus.

He lifted his scimitar from the pile of his dumped armour, then walked back over to the kneeling Romanus, eyeing the sword. ‘The blade is still sullied with stains from the battle,’ he said, placing it on Romanus’ neck. ‘But I envy it, for while the blade might be cleaned this morning, I will remain tarnished.’

Romanus frowned, then started as the sultan flicked the blade up deftly, slicing through the ropes on his neck. With another lick of the blade, the wrist ropes fell away too. ‘Come, sit with me,’ he beckoned Romanus up then sat on his chair again.

Tentatively, Romanus rose.

Alp Arslan held out a square of silk. ‘Clean the blood from your lips, and know that I struck you only to appease my men.’

‘What is this?’ Romanus asked, sitting, his eyes darting as if expecting some sudden attack.

‘Did you mean what you said? Were the situation reversed, you would have me in chains with the dogs?’ Alp Arslan asked.

Romanus snorted. ‘Were the situation reversed, I can only guess at what I might do. Mercy, torture . . . what does it matter? I will never know now.’

‘It befits a man to understand that good fortune can swiftly be turned upon him. Allah alone knows how close I have come to falling to those baying dogs,’ he flicked a finger at the space where the audience had been standing, the eager acolytes who he knew secretly supported his rival, Yusuf. ‘Thus, I will not have you subjected to torture or punishment. Perhaps then fortune may spare me any such fate should I find myself in your position in future?’

Romanus nodded gingerly, the frown on his brow fading only a fraction.

‘You are confused?’ Alp Arslan asked.

‘I look around your tent and see a reflection of my own. I find myself at ease in your presence. Many of my courtiers – even the few noble ones – told me you were a mindless blood-drinker, a foul-hearted cur.’

Alp Arslan cocked an eyebrow. ‘I drink only dark wine, and too much of it. And as to the nature of my heart,’ he shrugged, ‘aye, at times, I have done foul deeds.’

‘Then perhaps that is the lot of any sultan, emperor or king,’ Romanus said, his gaze saturnine. A silence hovered as both men gazed into their own thoughts. ‘So what is to become of me?’ Romanus said at last.

Alp Arslan pulled the small table round between their chairs. He poured a cup of water for Romanus and pushed the dates, bread and yoghurt towards him. ‘In the years that have been and gone, I would have gladly kept you as a hostage, a trophy of sorts. A brave and noble ruler of Byzantium reduced to a mere slave at the sultan’s court.’

Romanus’ lips narrowed.

‘Then our great empires did battle yesterday after so many years of posturing, raiding, taking of cities and burning of homes. What did yesterday tell me?’ Alp Arslan leaned a little closer to Romanus. ‘It told me that you are indeed brave and noble. You stood with your men until the end, when you could have fled on your stallion and broken free of the carnage.’

‘I stood firm because I was the last source of hope to my men!’ Romanus insisted. ‘I stood my ground because I had nowhere to flee too. Yesterday was my last hope. You, Sultan, are a wily and powerful foe. But you do not know of the enemies who hover at my back like crows, waiting to swoop upon my failures. Even now, word will be on its way back to Constantinople, to laud my disaster. The lords and nobles who have long sought to depose me will rejoice.’

Alp Arslan held Romanus’ gaze. His sparkling azure eyes were earnest, resolute. In them he saw his own features reflected – as weary and battle stained as the Emperor of Byzantium’s. ‘Then despite our differing faiths, our opposing cultures, our clashing wills, we have much in common. I saw what happened yesterday. My armies did not win a great victory – the traitors in your ranks handed it to me. Your reserve was strong enough in number to have repelled or broken up my forces. Had they not turned from the battle and left you to your fate . . . I might well have been a prisoner sitting in your tent right now, under the walls of Manzikert.’

Romanus’ weary features cracked into a desert-dry half-grin that did not come close to reaching his eyes. ‘But you point out only a fraction of the treachery, Sultan. When I marched east, my armies numbered some forty thousand men. Yet half of those men forsook me before we even came to battle. I sent them to Chliat and never saw them again.’

Alp Arslan sighed. ‘We came to these plains, braced to face such a number. I am more certain than ever that, had they stood with you, then our roles would be reversed right now.’

Romanus chuckled mirthlessly at the notion. ‘And the treachery did not end there. In the battle itself, when I gave the order to retreat at dusk – some black-hearted dog spread the rumour that I had been slain. That is why my lines foundered and fell apart.’

Alp Arslan sighed and let his head drop. His thoughts drifted to his nightmares. The skeleton mountain and the gory rain. ‘Sometimes I fear we are blighted with a certainty of blood. Every summer when the lands grow lush and verdant, abound with life, we seem determined to march with our armies, to cut it down and soak the dirt in blood. What happened yesterday was grim indeed, and as I sat here alone in the night, I asked myself the same thing over and again: could it have been avoided?’

Romanus frowned at this. ‘Then tell me, Sultan . . . tell me one thing. Why did you reject my offer?’

Alp Arslan shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘When you were besieging Aleppo, I sent my fastest rider to you, with a scroll.’

‘I received no scroll, met no rider of yours. I merely had a threat passed to me from a rider of my own. He said you were set to seize these lands then march down the Euphrates valley and penetrate my heartlands.’

Romanus shook his head, sadness wrinkling his face. ‘There was a scroll. It outlined a peaceful swap: Hierapolis for the Lake Van fortresses.’

Alp Arslan’s eyes darted. He recalled the haze of the wine that had muddied his thoughts on the day that messenger had come to him. The wine and the anger at his failed sieges of Edessa and Aleppo had catastrophically clouded his judgement.

Romanus dropped his head into his hands. ‘What use is it complaining about dice that have already been cast? Their willingness to betray me is a sign of my weakness as a leader. Had they believed in me then - ’

‘Had they believed in anything other than gold,
Basileus,
’ Alp Arslan cut in, ‘then they might have stayed loyal.’