‘A persuasive and coherent summary of the advocacies of the esteemed Leo,’ said the Emperor non-committally before he finally looked up. He directed his incisive eyes to the group of junior officers arrayed behind Dalassena; all of them, like the Grand Domestic, were attired in court robes rather than military uniform, even though reconnaissance units of the Bulgar army had already been engaged that very morning. ‘Domestic of the Excubitores,’ said the Emperor, ‘would you give us, in the spirit of free and open speculation, the views of the author of the
Strateghikon
in this matter, as I know that you are well read in his literature.’
Haraldr peered over the heads of the officers ranked in front of him and tried to get a glimpse of Isaac Camytzes, the new Domestic of the Excubitores. Haraldr wished that his old friend Nicon Blymmedes could have been here to see this; unfortunately Blymmedes, former Domestic of the Excubitores, had been transferred to command of a garrison in Sicily, ostensibly for his failure to protect the Empress near Antioch - actually because he opposed Dalassena’s chronically timid strategies. But Blymmedes had taught Camytzes well, and apparently the Emperor was giving a competent junior officer an opportunity to speak without exposing him to charges of insubordination by his senior officer.
Camytzes strode to a position equidistant between the Emperor and his fellow officers. He was probably only in his early thirties, of medium height, with dark Armenian colouring that seemed to be characteristic of so many of Rome’s best soldiers (although Dalassena himself also had the swarthy look of the Armenikoi.) ‘Nicephorus Phocus, the esteemed author of the
Strateghikon,
as many of you know advocates the use of cataphracti in phalanx formation in order to cleave a defensive formation--’
‘Cataphracti!’ Dalassena snorted with a discourtesy designed to humiliate his young subaltern. ‘Where are the cataphracti?’ He looked about comically. ‘Rome has not employed heavy cavalry for almost a century, Domestic’ Dalassena wagged his finger for emphasis. ‘Because they were too clumsy to be effective in battle.’ This time the Grand Domestic looked around with immense self-satisfaction.
Camytzes waited for Dalassena to step back among the other officers. ‘Majesty, I of course an aware that we no longer employ cataphracti. We do, however, employ a powerful force of heavily armoured infantry accustomed to fighting in phalanx formation--’
Again Dalassena burst forward. ‘I must protest, Domestic. You are ill. I will summon your unit physician to attend you in the field hospital immediately. You imagine all sorts of mythical warriors have joined our campaign. Next you will call out for the Achilieus himself to lead the strong-greaved Achaians in this attack of yours!’ Dalassena guffawed boorishly at his own joke.
‘Majesty,’ resumed the long-suffering Camytzes, ‘the force to which I am referring is the Varangians of the Grand and Middle Hetairia. I have heard reports of the effectiveness of the wedge formation employed by the Manglavite and his unit against the Seljuks in Asia Minor’ - here Dalassena snorted again, since that battle had, in the balance, gone to the Seljuks - ‘and of course the effectiveness of the Grand Hetairia we have all seen with our own eyes.’ Camytzes stepped forward and struck his fist into his hand in a Blymmedes-like gesture. ‘We have a superior striking force here. We should use it to shatter the Hun front’ -
Hun
was the derisive sobriquet for the Bulgars - ‘and split their strength. Then we would find that the altogether worthwhile light cavalry tactics suggested by the author of the
Taktika
could be used to surprise, pursue and annihilate these remnants. But without a crushing frontal assault, the Hun will be like a fist we cannot open.’ Camytzes smacked his fist again. ‘With the fist open, we can easily hack the fingers off one by one.’
The Emperor looked at Dalassena for a rebuttal. Dalassena paused, weighing his options. He decided that if there was a chance of success for this strategy, he would oppose it; if not, this could be a defeat that would firmly entrench his prudent strategies as well as destroy this absurd myth of Varangian invincibility. The plan is crudely stated, Majesty, but not without merits in its primitive configuration, as it does combine elements of both the
Taktika
and
Strateghikon.
However, I would like to consult the meteorologist on this matter.’
The Emperor signed for the meteorologist to step forward. An elderly man who walked with a stick carved like a serpent, the meteorologist spoke in a breathless, gasping fashion; he had been with the Bulgar-Slayer during his campaigns decades ago. ‘Rain tonight. Rain early. Rain midday. Rain late day. You will wonder that the forty days and nights have commenced,’ he concluded, gulping as if he were already submerged by the Biblical Deluge.
‘Majesty,’ said Camyztes, ‘wet conditions will not favour an attack such as I have described. I believe in this case the author of the
Strateghikon
would caution us to postpone or revise our strategy.’
‘Majesty,’ said Dalassena, ‘we cannot postpone. The dispatches we have received by messenger pigeon from Thessalonica indicate preparations for an assault on the city. Once the Hun is invested in Thessalonica, our problems multiply a hundredfold. The Domestic has proposed an innovative and excellent strategy. He should learn to posit his theories with more conviction. And our dauntless Varangians, who cringe from nothing; surely we insult them with the suggestion that they would retreat before a foe as ephemeral as the rain.’
‘Hetairarch.’ The Emperor turned to Mar, who stood just to the side of his throne. ‘Can you execute this attack in the conditions described?’
Mar bowed. ‘Majesty, I have consulted with the minsoratores who have surveyed the terrain. I am convinced that the drainage is adequate to permit the Grand Hetairia to advance resolutely and without delay.’
‘Manglavite?’ The Emperor’s acute gaze identified Haraldr in the pack of junior officers. Haraldr was still puzzling over Mar’s comments about the terrain. Haraldr had also talked to the minsoratores - the army’s field surveyors - who had reported difficult footing in the event of rain. And Mar had discounted Haraldr’s suggestion about footwear suited to muddy conditions. Still, Haraldr was convinced that his own men, properly shod, could deal with the footing. ‘Majesty,’ said Haraldr, ‘the Middle Hetairia is also prepared to execute this attack.’
The Emperor placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward slightly. Then after suitable preliminaries, our initial assault will be conducted by the Grand and Middle Hetairia.’ The Emperor paused and looked around the room, his eyes so intense that it seemed as if he were personally addressing each man. ‘I will take direct command of, and participate in, the Varangian assault.’
Mar looked out over the lights of the Imperial encampment. It was as if a city had grown up in one evening on this empty plain north of Thessalonica. The fizzling, smoking torches and campfires outlined a broad cruciform shape, with the Emperor’s brocade-domed tent, a virtual portable palace, at the nexus. Around this orderly city was a ring of pack animals and wagons, dimly visible in the rain, forming a substantial portable wall. Mar stamped his boot in a puddle. The Romans usually frightened off their enemies with this sheer display of material. The Bulgars knew better; they had been under the Roman yoke long enough to have borrowed Roman equipment and tactics. The truth was, a good bit of this display had nothing to do with fighting capacity, but with maintaining the Emperor’s ceremonial magnificence out in the field; in many cases, particularly with commanders like Dalassena, the army seemed more intent on protecting the Imperial baggage train than on attacking the enemy. What fools. Two thousand Norsemen, their leader sleeping in his gear bag alongside his men, could best the entire Imperial Taghmata.
Mar looked for a tent on the northern wing of the temporary city’s cruciform, in a section allocated to junior officers of the Imperial Hyknatoi. An incredible affront to the Caesar, thought Mar; he had not believed the Emperor capable of such petty animosity and jealousy. But it was just as well, he realized; it would make what he must do that much easier. A single akrites stood outside the tent; apparently the Caesar was not even allowed a mandator to relay orders to him from the senior command.
‘Hetairarch!’ blurted Michael Kalaphates. The Caesar was, Mar reflected, almost as genuinely surprised and happy as a man learning of his release from the Numera. Odin favours this, Mar told himself. Let the pieces fall as they may.
Michael offered Mar a camp stool and a goblet of poor local wine; they are even begrudging him Imperial-quality drink, thought Mar. ‘Highness,’ said Mar, ‘I know you as a man who understands risks, and who has also seen a good bit of warfare in the bargain. Since our Father for some reason neglected to solicit your opinion on tomorrow’s enterprise, I have taken the initiative - and I hope I am not overly bold in this - of seeking out your advice.’
Michael didn’t believe the flattery for a moment but realized that it was an auspicious signal. Mar wanted something. At least somebody still had use for him. ‘I would be happy to help as eminent a warrior as yourself in any way I could, Hetairarch, but I must confess I know vastly more of the risks of wagering on charioteers than I do of the risks of battle. Perhaps I could offer you some other assistance.’
Good,
thought Mar.
I didn’t think Kalaphates was a fool.
‘Well, Highness, I did come to discuss a wager of sorts. Perhaps - to use a term familiar in commerce - a speculation.’ Mar spread out his huge, elegant hands as if displaying the sincerity of what he was about to say, or perhaps his ability to impose whatever he intended to declare, sincere or not. ‘Let us say that it concerns the price of a certain piece of jewellery.’ Michael’s eyes sparkled with interest. ‘The bauble that I am interested in is presently worthless, because although there was a brief flurry of speculation in this particular piece of jewellery, the prospective buyer - let us call this hypothetical buyer “uncle” - quite vanished when he discovered himself already in possession of a similar piece, which he had previously thought lost. This is a dreadful circumstance for the owner of this now worthless bauble, for it is virtually all he has of value, and without the income he had expected the sale to bring him, he might not be able to eat. He might even starve to death. So there he is, wandering the streets, alone, destitute, when a friend sees his plight and offers to do him a favour.’ Mar locked eyes with Kalaphates. ‘This friend offers to destroy the other piece of jewellery, immediately raising the value of the remaining item beyond reason.’ Mar continued his manic, glacial, almost mesmerising stare. ‘This friend asks scant reward for this incredible benefaction.’
‘For what scant reward would this friend ask, Hetairarch?’ Michael’s dark eyes were almost as crazed as Mar’s.
Mar stood up, his huge bulk seeming to fill the tent. His voice, in sinister contrast, was a whisper. ‘Your friend asks that once you receive payment from this “uncle” for this piece of jewellery and are assured that you will want for nothing for the rest of your life, that you permit your friend to kill this “uncle” and snatch the bauble back. You keep the money you have been paid for the bauble, and your friend now has the bauble.’
Michael looked up at Mar, his voice like a falling feather. ‘The money, as I see it, is my life, I keep that.’
Mar nodded. ‘The life of, let us envision, a Caesar of Rome, a well-respected, extremely well-protected Caesar, with his own personal treasury financed by a new land tax, an income he can enjoy free from the burden of attending to affairs of state.’
Michael’s eyes already savoured the vision. ‘And the bauble you receive, Hetairarch, is . . .’
‘The diadem, and the attendant office, of the Emperor, Autocrator and Basileus of the Romans.’
The dawn was unexpectedly luminous, the cloud vault high overhead like pewter, the clean, steady rain almost like a glass that captured and intensified the light. To a hawk soaring high above, the armies of Rome would have seemed a broad, rectangular belt of gold, silver and scarlet spread out over a dull green plain.
The Emperor spurred his horse to the ranks of his senior aides, who were grouped in front of the standards of the Grand Hetairia and wore gold-tinted mail shirts and plumed golden helms of the Imperial retinue. The Emperor, armoured identically to his officers, differentiated only by his purple boots and cape, directed a command to his principal orderly. ‘Droungarios, the report of the Mandator General!’
The Mandator General rode forward and bowed; a stout, not particularly military-looking man who always wore a small enamel icon round his neck, he was responsible for the final summary of all intelligence gathered by the akrites whom he supervised, his spies in the enemy camp, and the local peasants. ‘Majesty, they are encamped roughly according to the Roman practice, though not without critical variation. In lieu of an earthwork perimeter and a cordon of caltrops, they have simply spread stakes. They may also have dug leg-breaking pits. They assume we will pursue a limited engagement today, striking at their flanks with light cavalry. As the ground is quite soggy at the Bulgar front, their deployment there will be light initially. However, the site is suitably graded to allow them to move reinforcements quickly.’
The Emperor wheeled his horse and studied the Bulgar line, visible as a jumbled mass of wagons, horses and mules. Behind this defence, the smoke from the morning camp-fires rose in thin tendrils that blurred, greyed and merged into a huge foggy column, finally disappearing among the high clouds. It was a strange portent, as if the sky had hung a vast ashen shroud round the Bulgar camp. ‘Let the priests go among the men,’ said the Emperor softly. The hundreds of priests began to circulate, the wisps from their smoking censers marking their passage through the ranks, their sonorous chants like a dirge.
When the priests had worked all the way to the rear guard, the Emperor removed his simple gold-and-pearl diadem, handed it to an attendant eunuch; a second eunuch brought him his engraved gold helm on a silk pillow. The Emperor placed the conical helmet on his head. His chest worked in slow heaves. ‘Grand Domestic,’ he said evenly, ‘begin your diversion.’