Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (11 page)

‘He died of a lung infection, on the ides of May. Word travelled slowly and we only found out last month. I’ve had scouts looking for you since then.’

Apion frowned. ‘That a man has passed gives me no pleasure. But Emperor Doukas has a lot to answer for, and now he never will. Sir, I fail to see anything to be joyous of in this news? If there has been no coup, no shift in power, then surely one of Doukas’ sons will take the throne and continue his policies of neglect?’

Cydones stopped, rested his weight on his cane and wagged one finger from side to side. ‘No, it is not to be – and that is where the hope lies. Doukas’ wife, Eudokia, has contested the succession of her own son, Michael.’

Apion spluttered at this, turning to Cydones. ‘In that snakepit? How have we even come to hear of this? Usually such an act all but guarantees a stealthy dagger blade between the ribs, does it not?’

‘Eudokia is a brave spirit, Apion. She went against her late husband’s demands that she should never remarry. She signed an oath to that effect. But after Doukas’ passing, she appealed to the patriarch, Xiphilinos. I can only imagine what discussions took place or what dealings were made, but now she is to remarry. Her new husband will become emperor. The Doukid dynasty is over, Apion.’

Apion’s eyes widened. Doukas had overseen eight years of military neglect. He had quickly filled the senate with his supporters and tuned taxation to punish the poor and keep the rich magnates happy and supportive of his reign. He was hated throughout the capital and the themata. But the end of his dynasty could easily be the start of another, more loathsome one. ‘That alone is not cause to rejoice, sir. It is entirely possible that Eudokia will wed another haughty figure who is equally damaging, or more so.’

Cydones reached out to grasp Apion by the shoulders. ‘No, Apion. For she is to wed a man of the army. Romanus Diogenes; a legend from the battlefields of the west. He understands the plight of the empire’s borders. The cause has been reignited. There is once more hope that this land
can
be saved!’

One word echoed in Apion’s ears.

Hope.

His eyes darted across Cydones’ face, then he glanced to the barrack gates. ‘I must tell my men. They have gone so long with only harsh news.’

‘Aye, tell your men, Apion. Then select the best of them to accompany you and wish the rest farewell.’

Apion frowned at this. ‘Farewell?’

Cydones face lit up. ‘Eudokia has summoned every strategos and doux to the capital to set out her plans and to hail the new emperor. A berth awaits you in the harbour.’ He stretched out an arm, pointing westwards. ‘You are to set sail for Constantinople.’

A shiver danced over Apion’s skin.

The Golden Heart will rise in the west.

8.
The Snakepit

The imperial
dromon
cut through the choppy waters of the
Pontus Euxinus
, headed west. Its twin triangular linen sails were sun-bleached and patched with leather, and they billowed in the morning winds, carrying the craft along at a fine pace. Every wave that crashed against the bow dissolved into a cool salt spray that soaked the decks of the vessel. Free from the oars, the
kopelatoi
roamed the deck, tying down cargo and shinning up the rigging to tighten and twist the sails. The
kentarches
also strode the decks, roaring encouragement to his crewmen.

‘Cleanses the body and the mind, does it not?’ Cydones spoke, inhaling deeply at the lip of the boat, his chin thrust out defiantly. His robe was sodden with brine.

Apion, sitting nearby, chuckled at this. ‘Get any closer to the edge and it’ll cleanse you a little more thoroughly than you might wish!’ But he could not deny the freshness of the sea air. He was dressed in a faded red tunic and leather boots. His amber locks whipped back with the breeze as he cut at an apple with his dagger, lifting slices to his lips. The sea stretched out unbroken to the northern horizon where the waters met with the hazy blue sky. Then he glanced to the other side of the ship; about three miles to the south, the northern coastline of Anatolia rolled past. The mountains and thick forests of the Bucellarion Thema were occasionally punctuated by sun-baked city walls or timber port-towns and imperial watchtowers. Finally, he stood to join Cydones, looking west. A faint outline of the coastline far ahead betrayed a break in the hinterland. This was the Bosphorus strait, the narrow channel that would take them right into the heart of the empire.

To Constantinople.

Cydones sighed, clenching a fist. ‘We are on the cusp, Apion. When Romanus Diogenes takes the throne, he will revitalise our armies.’

Apion felt a swirl of emotion in his blood. Hope had indeed sparked in his heart at the prospect of a military man rising to the purple. But the days since the news had given him time enough to realise that such hope was sure to be fraught with danger. ‘Perhaps. But until then, we must deal with those he left behind, those who oversee the empire in the interregnum.’ For a moment, he recalled the dark spectre of the
Agentes
. The shadowy organisation that murdered and plotted on the emperor’s whims had collapsed some years ago. But darkness never truly disappeared, he mused, it only ever seemed to change its form. He turned his mind to those they were to meet; Doukas’ widow, Eudokia, and the rest of his bloodline and advisers. ‘I have seen what a droplet of power can do, even to a good soul. Do you not wonder endlessly of their motives in summoning us to the capital?’

The old man frowned and turned to Apion, his sightless eyes narrowed. ‘I’d be sick with worry if I was to allow myself to dwell upon it, Apion.’ For an instant, he wore a sharp expression, the fog of age falling away. ‘I have not set foot inside the city since I was a young man. Back then I had no dealings with the imperial court or the military, but that matters little; emperors and beggars find little providence in that place . . . you said it yourself, Constantinople is a snakepit, and you have never even been there. Yes, the coming of a new emperor brings with it a promise of rejuvenation. But the Doukids will be livid at Eudokia’s actions, and they are but one faction that covets the imperial throne.’ Then Cydones shook his head and grinned wryly. ‘In fact, if I had any sight at all I would certainly sleep with one eye open for the duration of our stay.’

Apion roared with laughter at this, and the effect was cathartic. The tension that had started to cluster around his heart dissipated like the salt spray. He swigged fresh water from the skin on his belt and mused instead on the positive. ‘But if it is true. If we are to have an emperor who will invest in the themata armies once more . . . ’

Cydones nodded. ‘We could dispense with the mercenaries who protect our lands when it suits them. Yes, I can see in my mind a time when the themata return to their past greatness. Every warrior with good boots and a fine iron vest. A helm that is crafted to fit him well. A spathion honed to perfection and a shield painted freshly. Every household would have a bow and forty arrows so a man could protect his family whether he was a man of the ranks or not. Every imperial stable replete with tall and muscular mounts. The forts and watchtowers across the land in good repair and with full garrison, watching the tracks, passes and highways across the land. That is the dream I once strived for.’

‘And I,’ Apion added.

Cydones smiled. ‘Then that’s one thing we agree on. Still, your choice of
best
men to accompany you on this journey still befuddles me. Dragging along a blind, dithering old fellow like me when you could have brought any of your fine tourmarchai?’

Apion smiled at this. ‘You don’t know your own strengths, sir. You see far more than many a sharp-eyed youth,’ he grinned, ‘and you are a fine shatranj opponent. Besides, Sha, Blastares and Procopius are best placed to stay in Chaldia. They will keep the people safe in my absence.’

He turned to rest his back against the lip of the dromon then gazed to the aft, his hair whipping up across his face. While the crew scuttled across the deck and shinned up and down the mast and rigging, one figure was bent double over the edge of the vessel, near the stern. Dederic’s shoulders lurched as he retched violently into the white churn that stretched out behind the dromon. Apion had brought him because he had proved a worthy addition to the thema, helping his Norman riders integrate well with the kataphractoi. Dederic had a dry sense of humour and a shrewd mind as well. Added to that, the Norman had spent some months in Constantinople within the last few years, and his knowledge of the place could be useful.

‘You think Dederic has it in him to lead a tourma for you?’ Cydones said as if reading his mind.

‘Aye, he’s already a leader, even if he doesn’t realise it yet,’ Apion said, thinking of how the Norman had led thirty lost and frightened serfs and moulded them into a disciplined band of lancers. Then he recalled Dederic’s steadfast commitment to saving the citizens of Caesarea. ‘And he has a good heart.’

‘A good heart? There is no such thing,’ Cydones replied wistfully. ‘All men can do is struggle to stave off the darkness in there. Light cannot exist without darkness. To be a man is to be both.’

Apion saw the old man’s brow furrow and wondered at what grim memory he was replaying right now.

Then the shrieking of gulls pierced the air. They turned to the coast to see a series of broad stone watchtowers dotted along the shores as they approached the Bosphorus strait. Atop each, purple banners fluttered bearing the Chi-Rho and the Cross.

They were coming to the city of God.

***

The sails were brought down and the oars extended as the dromon entered the warm, turquoise and placid waters of the Bosphorus strait. The surface ahead was dotted with fishing vessels and trade cogs. Ferries cut to and fro, from one rocky and verdant coastline to the other. Thick shoals of silvery fish darted this way and that before the dromon, and then a school of dolphins broke the surface and tumbled through the waters alongside the vessel.

Apion stood at the prow with Cydones and Dederic – the Norman having at last lost the green tinge to his skin.

The three were silent in anticipation, until Cydones cupped a hand to his ear at the gentle splashing of oars from the ferries up ahead. ‘Ah, Europe to Asia and back in a single morning – that brings back memories!’

Then the old man clasped a hand on Apion’s shoulder as they approached a jutting outcrop of headland. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he said, his nostrils flaring and his sightless eyes closed, ‘I can smell it . . . the fruits of the palace orchards, the sweat of the mounts in the Hippodrome, the dust of the emperor’s stonemasons, the spices of the traders . . . and the bullshit of the senate!’

Apion and Dederic roared at this. Then they rounded the headland and all three fell silent.

Constantinople was revealed, dominating the western skyline, conquering the peninsula that spliced the waters.

Apion wondered at the sight. Never in all his years in the borderlands had he seen a city to rival this. The ancient walls were broad and all-encompassing with pristine purple banners fluttering in the faint breeze atop every fortress-like tower. Silvery flashes along the battlements affirmed that it was well garrisoned at every section. Behind the walls, the city rose up on its seven hills. The gentle, lush green slopes of the first hill curved around the tip of the peninsula in the shape of a hawk’s beak. The mountainous domed church of the Hagia Sofia was perched there, then, a stone’s throw away was the Imperial Palace. This magnificent gilded marble complex was ringed by collonaded walkways and topped with a wide, red-domed portico.

‘This is our destination?’ Dederic said with a touch of disbelief in his voice as he eyed the palace. ‘The last time I was in this city I slept in a pile of hay next to a cesspit that was shared by a brothel and a tanner’s yard.’

Behind the first hill, the dark-brick walls of the Hippodrome seemed to mark an end to the fertile area around the palace. After this was a sea of marble. The aqueduct of Valens rose up and picked its way through the other slopes of the city, each seeming to jostle for supremacy. Domes studded every hilltop and arches, obelisks and columns stretched for the sky, bearing brass and gold statues of heroes and emperors. Around this finery, a sea of red-tiled tenements and villas, stairs, streets and alleys filled every available inch.

The dromon slowed and the oarsmen guided it around the tip of the peninsula and under the gaze of a thick cloud of circling gulls. They came to a section of the sea walls that jutted out into the waters – a spacious, fortified harbour complex, with a sturdy timber bar blocking entry.

‘We must be nearing the Port of Julian?’ Cydones asked, feeling the direction of the sun on his face and cocking an ear to the gentle lapping of water on the harbour walls.

‘Aye, it would seem so,’ Apion answered, casting his gaze up to the nearest of the two towers overlooking the harbour mouth. An iron fire siphon lay still and silent up there, and he wondered when they would next be put to use.

Then a finely-garbed skutatos appeared atop the tower and yelled down to the ship. ‘State your business.’

‘I bring wine and oil . . . ’ the ship’s kentarches yelled back from the decks.

The skutatos looked irritated at this, waving one hand to the north. ‘Merchant vessels are to dock at the Neorion harbour. You can trade for honey, wax, hides and slaves in the northern city mar . . . ’

‘ . . . and I bring the Strategos of Chaldia!’ the kentarches cut him off.

At this, the skutatos fell silent, then waved down into the harbour. The timber bar groaned as it was hoisted clear.

The capital had so far presented an image of polished invincibility, but as the dromon manoeuvred inside the harbour, there was no pristine imperial fleet. Instead, Apion frowned as the ship drew into an empty berth alongside a row of nearly forty dilapidated war galleys. The best of these ships were dried out with damaged rigging and hulls. The rest were semi-submerged, water lapping over parts of the deck.

‘The crafts of the imperial fleet used to sit proudly with their hulls well above the water and their masts stretching for the sky,’ Cydones said, hearing the creaking of damp timber all around him. ‘But not
any more
? The
vasilikoploimon
is not what it once was?’

‘It appears not,’ Apion agreed.

‘Then it has been this way for some time,’ Dederic offered. ‘At least, it was in this condition when I first came east. There are only ten galleys maintained, and they exist merely to sail this strait and escort the imperial flagship – a vessel less suited to war than to entertaining those of the palace court,’ he snorted in derision. ‘The riders I served had to purchase a berth on a trade ferry to cross the water on our way to meet with Doux Fulco. We sailed to war with cattle!’

The kentarches laid the gangplank onto the flagstoned harbour side then saluted to Apion. The gulls shrieked all around, swooping and darting in the sunshine, convinced a meal was to be had.

‘Well the fleet may be neglected,’ Apion nodded to the skutatoi all around the harbour walls as they disembarked, ‘but the imperial tagmata are certainly not.’ These were the armies traditionally stationed in and around Constantinople. Unlike the wretched mercenary border tagmata, these soldiers were the cream of the empire’s fighting force.

‘Describe them to me,’ Cydones asked as, all around the three, the crew began unloading crates and hemp sacks onto the wharfside.

Apion looked to the two skutatoi who stood either side of the iron-studded gateway that separated the harbour from the city. Like the others, these two were tall and broad-shouldered, their jaws set in determined grimaces – a far cry from the often ragged and rake-thin themata skutatoi. But it was their garb that set them apart. ‘Finely armoured – each of them wears an iron klibanion over a pure-white tunic. On their heads they wear a helm and a scale aventail. Their shields are painted purple with a white Cross in the centre.’

Cydones nodded. ‘So the
Numeroi
still run the city walls? Aye, you will seldom find a meagrely armed soldier in this city, Apion. While the emperors have let their outlying armies and their fleet rot, they would never let the blades that protect them succumb to rust.’