Strategos: Island in the Storm (16 page)

So handsome! With your looks you could summon a smile to a dead woman’s face.

This memory cut through the fog of the hangover and he grinned. He eyed the fine riding helm and recalled how his looks had indeed guided him down a glorious path. He had been a good rider, no more, but his looks had given him a sturdy confidence, and he had used this to charm women and men with ease. He had worked his way into the racing stables, becoming the champion rider of one stable master while sleeping with the fellow’s wife at every given opportunity. At just twenty he had become the famous Diabatenus, Lord of the Hippodrome, swiftest rider in God’s City. He gazed into his memories, reliving the glory of his many victories: the cacophonous roar of the crowds, the adulation, the fawning of the city’s elite, the prize money that had paved his path with gold. And then his memories juddered to a halt as one image flashed before him: the scything chariot axle that had torn out his eye. He lowered the helm to his lap, the reflection now revealing the craggy shards of bone and pustule-ridden skin that remained of his ruined eye. Anger and pity fought to take hold of him.

It had broken his reputation, stolen his famous looks and snatched away his fortune. Only a fool would bet their all on one race, he had been told. And an overconfident fool he had been: his villa, his stable on Constantinople’s sixth hill, his landholdings outwith the city – all staked on that fateful contest. The worst of it was that with only one eye he could race no longer. He could ride swiftly in an open field, yes, but his career at the Hippodrome was over. Four months had passed since that day. Four months of wallowing in self-pity and soaking his mind in cheap wine.

He picked his eyepatch up from the floor and slipped it on. Purple veins shuddered from the edges of the eyepatch, but at least it disguised the full detail of his injury, he thought as he threw on a tunic and pulled on his boots. And in the new career that was due to begin today, he could get by with just one eye. The riders of the Vigla Tagma were eager to have him for his speed, if nothing else. It would provide a paltry wage in comparison with his takings as a racer, but he had little choice; work or starve.

A rat scurried across the floor in front of him as he stretched and chuckled dryly. ‘You’re welcome to this place, rodent. Like a palace to you I imag-’

Knuckles rapped on the door, cutting him off. He frowned, glancing to the snoring whore. ‘I’ve paid you, you fat dog!’ he cried, imagining the corpulent slum landlord out there. No reply. Just another rap on the door. He cocked an eyebrow. Perhaps the Vigla had sent someone to summon him early?

He opened the door and frowned. This guest was entirely unexpected.

***

Apion stood atop the battlements of Sebastae, gazing out into the dank, cool September night, wrapped in his crimson cloak with a felt cap on his head for warmth. A pan of milk, orchid root and cinnamon boiled on a brazier beside him, but a warming cup of salep would be little comfort. Regardless, he poured the bubbling mixture into a cup and supped at the sweet drink, closing his eyes, trying to think.

Two weeks had passed since the clash at the gorge. Of his nine hundred foot soldiers, three hundred and sixty had died. Of his fifty precious kataphractoi riders, thirteen had fallen. To a man, those who survived were scarred, tired and afraid. They had come to little harm inside the city walls, but they had heard the rumours spread by those outlying Byzantine farmers and herders who had fled into the city in that time. Rumours of the Seljuk horde – ten thousand strong – rampaging around Sebastae unchecked, burning crops and slaying villagers, with no Byzantine force left strong enough to face them. Mustering an army to counter them would take months, and so the pillage went on unbridled.

And the rumours had darkened; some said the riders had roved on to the neighbouring themata, sacking and looting with ease. Word spread that they had even pillaged as far west as the city of Chonai, putting the populace to the sword. Tales had been whispered that the young bey leading them had desecrated the shrine of St Michael within Chonai’s walls, using the building as a stable for his best horses. Now the towns of Chaldia and even its capital, Trebizond, were at risk of such a fate. Indeed, Apion had heard his Chaldians pray at night for their loved ones, near-defenceless while his beleaguered force was holed up here. He turned to look down into the city. There, standing around another brazier at the centre of an old, oval forum, were his trusted three.

Big Blastares had been uncharacteristically quiet in these last few weeks – no doubt wracked with worry about his new bride, Tetradia, back in Trebizond. The big man’s emotions normally ranged from drunk to furious with little in between, and Apion had rarely before seen this battlefield lion so perturbed. Sha stood beside the big man, bending and twisting a sprig of thyme with his fingers, his thoughts faraway and surely on his farm and the freed woman with whom he had found love. Then there was Procopius. The old artillery expert looked gaunt and hollow. Time really had taken its toll on him, but this last fortnight seemed to have etched an extra few years onto his well-lined features. The old soldier had nobody to fret for but his troubled brothers in these very ranks.

Apion let his head loll. Shame crept over him. Shame that his actions, his choices, had brought this about. Taylan had grown into a white-hot coal of hatred because of him. Maria was a widow because of him. Then a fiercer, talon-sharp shame raked down the centre of his heart – shame that he was impotent to do anything to prevent Taylan’s marauding horde. The mighty
Haga
, legend of the borderlands – powerless. He ran a finger over the red-ink stigma of the mythical two-headed eagle, shaking his head in disgust. No ruse, no ploy, no subterfuge came to the surface.

Perhaps you could stop him? Offer him your head?
A sibilant thought taunted him.

The scuffing of boots shook him from his malaise. He looked up to see Sha ascending the stone staircase. He stood with Apion wordlessly for some time, just gazing out into the night and the countryside of Sebastae, his dark skin glistening in the moonlight.

‘This night,’ he said at last. ‘It seems to be darker and colder than most.’

‘It may be the first of many, Sha,’ Apion replied. He thought of the Imperial Palace back in Constantinople. After the failed campaign of last year, and now this – an outright defeat – Romanus Diogenes’ place on the imperial throne would doubtless come under the gaze of covetous eyes once more. Psellos and his Doukas puppets would be rubbing their hands in glee. On their first day in this city, he had despatched a trio of swift riders for Constantinople to alert Romanus of Manuel Komnenos’ defeat – and of his suspicion that treachery lay behind the defeat. The dying archer’s words came to him again.

They knew we were coming. They knew exactly where we planned to stop and make camp.

He just hoped that knowledge would be of some use to Romanus in the dark days that would surely come. ‘We can only stay vigilant. Trust in the emperor.’

Just then, a commotion near the city’s southern gate roused him. He and Sha craned over the battlements and looked down while the city garrison archers stretched their bows. There were just three men out there. Two wore the gold tunics of the Vigla Tagma, but torn and filthy. Neither wore boots or armour. Apion recognised the other man. Tall and lean, but stooped, his long, dark locks clumped together with filth and gore. ‘Manuel?’ Then he shouted to the archers and the men at the gate. ‘Let them in.’

He and Sha hurried down to the gatehouse, Blastares and Procopius joining them as Manuel staggered in. His face was bruised and cut. One eye was swollen and his hooked nose was badly broken.

‘Kouropalates?’

‘They let me go,’ he rasped, his lungs wet with some internal bleeding.

‘They are near?’ Apion shot his gaze this way and that out into the darkness of night as the gates were hurriedly closed again.

‘No, they are gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Back to Seljuk lands.’

Apion frowned. While some of the troops nearby took to cheering this news and crying out in prayer, knowing their homes were now safe, Apion felt a creeping sense of doubt. ‘Why?’

‘Because they have completed their mission. Bey Taylan released me purely so I could spread the word.’

‘Word? Of what?’

Manuel’s bronze skin seemed to drain of colour at that moment. ‘Strategos, you must prepare a messenger immediately. The emperor must be informed. We fought Taylan’s horde, thinking they were the sultan’s main initiative for this year. But they were merely a diversion. While we paid them our full attention, something terrible has happened elsewhere.’

Manuel’s next words turned Apion’s blood to ice.

***

The late September nights brought with them a chill squall that swept across Constantinople and saw the populace deserting the streets early each night, or wrapping up well in woollen robes and cloaks. The rooftops of the Imperial Palace felt the full wrath of these gales, the winds howling around the domes and balconies there.

Inside his planning room near the top of the palace, Romanus sat on a padded chair with his back to the crackling log fire, studying a scroll again and again, one hand balled into a fist and pressed to his lips. This message had come in from the west, all the way from Italy.

. . . and so our ancient city of Barion has fallen, and with it, the heel of Italy has slipped from imperial control and into the hands of Guiscard and his Normans. The imperial garrison were executed, the outlying armies were scattered, and those that I have gathered together are ill-equipped to . . .

The letter rambled on with a tale of woe he had become all too familiar with. The gale outside screamed like a mocking laughter, the shutters rattling like an absurd applause.

‘Barion’s fate cannot be laid at your feet,’ Eudokia said.

He looked up to the darkened corner of the room where she sat, nursing their baby boy, Nikephoros.

‘Defeat wanders like an orphaned wraith until it can cling to a man and call him its father. I am that man. Every dent in imperial fortune will be laid at my feet,’ he replied. ‘The Doukid acolytes will laud this; Barion, the loss of the great slave-trading capital of the empire to the Normans. Just as they heralded the news about the slaughter of Manuel Komnenos’ army. Just as they cheered the sack of Chonai. The people are restless. They have gone two years with nothing other than frugal urban spending and tales of defeat or stalemate for the armies that have soaked up their monies.’

He cast his mind back to the recent races. They had staved off the growing threats of riots in the capital. But the money was gone and now the populace were sullen and seditious once more. He had sold all but his armour, a few horses and a small, modest villa in his native Cappadocia to fund those few days of entertainment in the Hippodrome and to equip the themata marching with Manuel Komnenos. They had been furnished with soft leather boots, fine iron klibania, fresh shields, sharp weapons and expertly woven banners. All now – according to the scroll delivered to him from Apion – lying tangled, torn and ruined with the corpses of that slaughtered army. All that remained of that force was the few thousand Komnenos had despatched to the south, to relieve the siege of Hierapolis, before the disaster at Sebastae. His thoughts turned to Apion’s suggestion that the ruination of Manuel Komnenos’ army had been a result of subterfuge. His lips grew taut, his fists balled like rocks. Then he fell limp with a sigh, his head shaking. ‘Soon they will begin to listen to Psellos and the Doukids. Soon they too will loathe me utterly.’

‘And so you choose to wallow in this darkest hour?’ Eudokia replied calmly.

Romanus looked up, confused by her blunt words.

She held his gaze, her eyes sparkling. ‘I never told you why I chose to wed you, did I, when it would have been so easy for me to accept my late husband’s demand that I remain a widow?’

Romanus frowned, shaking his head slowly, unsure he wanted to know her reasoning.

‘Because amongst the many ranting, black-tongued and venal snakes that moved in noble circles, there was one who was different. One I knew who spoke with his actions and took little pleasure in wealth.’ She stared at him, unblinking. ‘You of all people can change the empire’s fortunes. One swift and decisive move can wash away the doubt, turn the despair into hope.’

He looked to her, smiling despite his troubles. Their son had brought them together in a way he never thought possible. Where once there was only cold convenience, there was now a warmth, a true bond.
But damn, she is still a shrewd one,
he mused.

‘The Strategos of Chaldia and others like him will never desert you. Take strength in their faith,’ she continued. ‘And know that they will take strength from you. It has been so before and it can be so again.’

Her words stirred a tingle of hope in his heart. He rose from his chair to approach her, to hold her, when footsteps rattled from the staircase outside the door.

‘
Basileus!
’ Igor panted, his face glowing red from exertion.

‘Komes?’ Romanus cocked an eyebrow.

‘Manuel Komnenos lives . . . but he sends grave news,’ the white-armoured varangoi leader gasped. ‘The sultan has seized the fortresses.’