Strategos: Island in the Storm (18 page)

‘My friend,’ Romanus rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Your time has come. The imperial cavalry tagmata – the Scholae, the Vigla, the Stratelatai and the Hikanatoi – will ride under your command, and the infantry of the Optimates Tagma will march for you too. You will be my deputy for the coming campaign.’

‘This is a great honour you have bestowed upon me,
Basileus
,’ he bowed.

Romanus nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to the third of his summoned men. ‘And you,’ he said, ‘have grown into a fine leader of men in the years since last we met.’

Alyates, Strategos of Cappadocia, stepped forward, embracing the emperor as a brother would. He was in his early twenties, built like a sapling with lank, dark hair hanging to his cheeks and framing his fine-boned and handsome features. ‘The people of Cappadocia, your homeland, are with you in your every coming step,
Basileus!
’ Alyates exclaimed. His words were firm despite his soft tone. ‘I have mustered what men I could,’ he added with a whisper, ‘but barely two thousand march with me.’

Romanus felt his heart sink. He had hoped Alyates might raise twice that number from the lands of Cappadocia. He buried his disappointment and grinned, then cast his eyes around the other men he had called here; doukes of the tagmata and strategoi of the inner themata. These men would be his officers in what was to come. The campaign that would seal his destiny. He tapped on the campaign map. All gathered round the table.

‘Now, the goal that has eluded us in these last three years of campaigning lies here,’ he pointed forked fingers at the two dots lying near a lake, far to the east. ‘The fortress-towns of Chliat and Manzikert are akin to watchtowers, overseeing the Gateway to Anatolia. For many years, no one power held both. Now, Sultan Alp Arslan’s men garrison the walls of those citadels. He has a dagger poised at our flank. Unimpeded, he could channel his armies into inner Anatolia. In the past, we have suffered raids with bands of Seljuk riders, sometimes numbering several thousand, ravaging our borderlands and penetrating deep into the interior. The forts and watchtowers lie broken and unmanned across the heart of Anatolia in testament. And God will not let us forget what happened to Caesarea and Chonai in these last years.’

At this, the gathered men offered a muttering of prayer for the thousands of souls who died in the sacking of those mighty and once-invincible walled cities.

‘But should the Sultan bring the full might of his armies to bear through that eastern gateway, then we will not be hearing tales of ruination from the east. That ruination will befall all Anatolia and might threaten even the great walls of Constantinople itself. God’s very city is at risk. The empire could fall in these next months. It could fall, or,’ he looked each man in the eye, all faces illuminated in lamplight, ‘or we could seize a legendary victory,’ he finished, clenching a shaking fist. ‘In the past we have held either the desert cities to the southeast – such as Hierapolis, Antioch – or key Armenian fortresses – such as Manzikert or Chliat – in the east. Seldom both. Thus the interior of Anatolia has always been susceptible to invasion. Currently we have both Hierapolis and Antioch garrisoned by imperial troops and standing fastidiously against the Sultan’s annual sieges – so the southeast is secure. Bringing Manzikert and Chliat under Byzantine control also would see the eastern border secured.’

It was then he heard a muttering amongst the men.

‘What’s that you say?’ he said sharply, identifying one of the strategoi.

‘I . . . I said how can we secure those two fortresses? For two years running we have set out to do so and failed. And just last year the strongest of our themata were all but wiped out under Manuel Komnenos’ stewardship,’ the man’s words echoed around the chamber until he dropped his gaze, almost ashamed that he had spoken up against the emperor.

‘Your words were spoken in earnest, man, do not shy away from them,’ Romanus replied. ‘He is right,’ he said to the others. ‘The three themata wiped out near Sebastae last year were supposed to be the backbone of the regional armies we would summon this year. Finely armoured and equipped, they harked back to a bygone era. Now they are part of history. To equip more themata in a similar fashion to replace them requires funding – funding that is simply not there.’

‘Then how do we amass a campaign army,
Basileus?
’ Another man spoke. ‘The themata are battered and broken and the tagmata armies number too few to guarantee victory and seizure of the Armenian forts.’

‘Guarantee?’ Romanus cocked an eyebrow. ‘There is no such thing as a guarantee. I once placed a wager on Xerus and his Phrygian chargers at the Hippodrome. The musclebound rider had won every race he entered – by nearly half the track. This day he was up against Ampelas, a slip of a lad on his first ever race. The boy was trembling visibly as he went to his chariot. But then Xerus turned up, white as a sheet, sweating profusely. He rode like a drunken beggar that day, coming in a full track behind Ampelas. Turns out he ate a bowl of oats shortly before his race that went through him like a blade. Spent the next three days shitting out every last morsel in his guts. So don’t talk to me of guarantees!’

A hearty chorus of chuckling rang out at this, even the man who had spoken was grinning. ‘Foul gruel for our enemies, then?’ he smiled.

‘Perhaps,’ Romanus nodded with a smirk. ‘But first, let us address how we will cope with the shortcoming in the thematic forces.’ He swept a hand across the map. ‘We can muster but a few hundred from each of the themata shattered in last year’s campaign – so I propose the men of those lands are left to defend their homes and tend to their farms. But from the other themata,’ he dotted a finger to the themata of Charsianon, Anatolikon, and Colonea, ‘we will be able to muster a greater number. Perhaps eight or ten thousand spears and bows plus maybe two thousand horse overall, including Alyates’ Cappadocians. Doux Philaretos is currently organising the thematic mustering in the upper Sangarios River valley,’ he pointed to a stretch of flatland in the northwestern corner of Anatolia. ‘Philaretos will see what shape he can pull those ranks into. They must be drilled and equipped to form a fine anvil for our cavalry hammer.’

Alyates’ cocked an eyebrow and he cast his gaze around the room. ‘You do not plan to muster the Chaldians? The
Haga,
he is not coming?’ Alyates asked.

Romanus looked up with a grin. ‘Ah, I had not come to that yet! The Strategos of Chaldia is assembling men in the east as we speak. His numbers are also few, but they are well equipped and expertly drilled. More, I have tasked him with mustering a mercenary army from our Armenian allies in the eastern hills and what nomadic riders he can gather too. He will gather this force and station them in the east at a point on our campaign trail, then come west with his retinue to join us at the mustering ground.’

A murmur of consent rang around the table at this.

‘Still, though,’ Tarchianotes interjected, ‘the combined forces of the themata and the
Haga’s
mercenary armies might still not be enough. Last year, Manuel Komnenos and his twenty thousand were crushed. You have talked of gathering an army thrice that size this year. But with the tagma and themata combined, I foresee only some thirty three thousand men. Not quite the hammer blow we hoped to deliver to the Sultan, is it?’

Romanus eyed the man carefully. His dark brown eyes were masked in shade.
This one is a shrewd fellow – does he know of my plans already?

‘Indeed. Thus, we must look beyond the themata, or rather, within their lands. The wine and oil magnates own vast tracts of Anatolia. They reap great dividends from their produce.’

‘They are self-serving curs, to a man!’ Bryennios cut in, thumping a fist to the table. A heartbeat later, he bowed his head. ‘I am sorry,
Basileus!
’

Romanus let the outburst pass. He knew Bryennios’ son had been slain in some power struggle between the wine magnates of Paphlagonia.

‘They have paid vast sums of taxes into the imperial treasury in the past, but you are right, they have also profited greatly from imperial soil. Now it is time to call upon them. Some own sizeable private armies; companies of spearmen, retinues of riders. Many employ Norman lancers from the west or Rus mercenaries from the north. Some even organise their infantry into banda. Others have scant forces – just a handful of thugs and brigands to guard their countryside villas – but vaults brimming with gold. Should they wish to stave off invasion of their precious lands, then now is the time they should seek to spend that money in bolstering their ranks and joining the campaign. I estimate that we could add at least another seven thousand to our campaign army if we call upon them. An army of forty thousand combined. Not quite what I had hoped for, but a strong force indeed. Stronger than the empire has mustered in many years.’

Silence rang around the room, and Romanus could feel the uncertainty growing. Many felt just as Bryennios did about these greedy and proud lords of plenty. A log snapped in the fire, breaking the tension.

‘We have no choice, do we?’ Bryennios asked.

Romanus nodded earnestly. ‘This year demands victory. The Lake Van fortresses must be taken and the Gateway to Anatolia secured.’

‘Then I give you my backing,
Basileus,
as always,’ Bryennios replied, bowing then looking to his comrades to follow suit. And they did, one by one, some albeit grudgingly.

Romanus felt an all too brief flush of relief. They had bought into his mustering plan. But now he would have to broach a far more contentious subject. ‘As you are all aware, I am sure, I must also take measures to protect my throne whilst I am absent from the capital.’ He clapped his hands.

The two varangoi at the door parted, and another pair marshalled a young man in. This one wore a leather tunic and a white woollen cloak. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with thick, dark, cropped hair and a flat-boned, fair-skinned face. His dark, almond-shaped eyes lent him a look of openness.

‘Andronikos Doukas will be joining us on this campaign.’

‘You are taking John Doukas’ son on this campaign?’ Alyates gasped.

‘John Doukas and his acolytes may be in exile, but only a fool would think them content with their lot. Having his son in my ranks will ensure they remain so for the duration of the campaign, at least.’

All eyes fell upon Andronikos. The young man’s nose wrinkled. ‘Are you seeking out my hidden blade?’ he said, meeting each gaze upon him. His voice was throaty and firm. ‘I have no wish to join my father in exile. I am to ride with you like a wretch – in chains. And I will do so gladly, if only to prove my valour.’

‘Aye, until you can sink a blade into the emperor’s back?’ one voice called out.

Andronikos came to the edge of the table and stood tall, stretching his neck to see who had spoken. ‘I will ride with neither shield nor blade. And I have the courage to do so, unlike you, who casts his words from a veil of shadows.’

The doux who had spoken out leaned forward over the table so his face was fully illuminated. It was Tarchianotes. His bulbous nose was wrinkled in distaste.

‘I won’t let you out of my sight for a moment . . .
boy!
’

Romanus leaned in between the pair, cutting through the simmering tension. ‘So be it. Now, let us eat and discuss the finer detail. There is much to organise. As soon as the snow lifts from the city, we will make haste across the Bosphorus and meet with our mustered armies on the banks of the Sangarios. Then, with God’s will, we will see our empire secured and our people free of strife,’ he boomed, lifting a cup of watered wine and urging the others to do likewise.

‘
Nobiscum Deus!
’ the gathered military men roared in reply, then broke into clusters of conversation, each man taking bread and wine for himself and discussing their roles with their comrades.

At last, Romanus realised, there were no eyes upon him. He slipped from the chamber and out onto the balcony once more. His gaze lifted to the heavens and rested once more on the blood-red comet, like a fresh wound in the night sky. His mind tumbled with thoughts of what might happen in this city in his absence, of the patchwork and suspect nature of the magnate armies who would supplement his ranks, of what might happen when they reached Lake Van, far to the east.
And the road to that far flung outpost is long and treacherous
, he thought, his gaze falling to the eastern horizon. A chill wind danced across every inch of his flesh.

***

The second week of March drove out the last of the ice and snow. Three fresh but clear-weathered days saw the ceremonial gilded shield hung on the gates of the Imperial Palace. This age-old sign meant the campaign was to begin in earnest. Crowds gathered and a thick stench of dung permeated the air as, all that morning, the city streets were flooded with mules, oxen, carts and men, shouting and heckling over the whinnying, lowing and snorting as they guided this, the makings of the
touldon
train that would supply the campaign, towards the fortified Port of Julian.

When Romanus entered the port gates on foot dressed in his white and silver moulded bronze breastplate, white tunic and trousers and fine doeskin boots, all stopped to salute.

‘Basileus
,’ they called out.

He saluted in return, then motioned for them to get back to their business. He took just a moment to glance up and over the walls of the port, across the fluttering banners atop the Hippodrome and up to the red dome at the pinnacle of the Imperial Palace. He saw her there, the woman he had come to love. He stroked the golden heart pendant she had given him as a wedding gift, then tucked it inside his armour and thought of her and young Nikephoros.