Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (12 page)

At that moment, the iron gates groaned open. From the shadows, a block of eight broad and tall warriors marched purposefully towards Apion. They were markedly different from the numeroi. They wore pristine white breastplates and white cloaks trimmed with gold thread. Even their boots were white, and emblazoned with a black motif of a long-legged spider on the shin. Their hair was red or blonde, hanging in richly oiled-curls and braids and they wore kohl under their eyes – Rus who had fallen for the charms of Byzantium, Apion reckoned. Decorative shields hung like turtle-shells on their backs and they carried thick-shafted axes, the finely honed edges glinting in the sun. Their leader was a granite-faced individual. His features were creased with age and a scar ran vertically over one eye. His grey locks were braided into two tails, his moustache was thick and full and his eyes were shaded by the kohl and a heavy brow. He threw up an arm promptly.

‘Igor, Komes of the Varangoi, sworn protectors of the imperial blood.’

Apion returned the salute. ‘Apion, Strategos of Chaldia,’ he replied.

‘My men and I will escort you to the palace, sir,’ Igor barked. ‘Many of the other doukes and strategoi are already here,’ he faltered momentarily and his voice grew hushed, ‘ . . . but there have been some unfortunate events since their arrival.’

Apion’s brow dipped. ‘Komes?’

‘Walk with us,’ Igor replied, ‘and do not stray.’

Apion shot Dederic a troubled look, then he took Cydones’ elbow and the three followed the varangoi. He noticed Igor glancing furtively at the watching numeroi on the harbour walls. In reply, the numeroi burned equally baleful glares at the Rus.

‘The populace are . . . excitable,’ Igor continued in a muted tone. ‘The races are on today and have been every day for the last week – funded by those who see the contested throne as an opportunity.’

The iron gates before them groaned once more, opening up to reveal a blur of citizens darting to and fro. As they passed under the gateway and out into the broad street, the rabble broke around them like a river. Many faces washed past, some lost in thought, some inebriated, many more bearing malignant scowls. The jabbering of a thousand voices was incessant, until it was suddenly drowned out by the deafening wall of noise that tumbled from the Hippodrome; a raucous cheer that shook Apion to his bones, the likes of which he had only ever heard on the battlefield. A shiver danced up his spine, despite the stifling heat, as he craned his neck to look up at the vast arena’s towering collonaded walls and the purple banners fluttering above.

Then he turned back to the Varangoi komes.

‘Tell me, Igor,’ he said, ‘tell me what you could not under the gaze of the numeroi?’

Igor leaned in close, still darting glances to see who was within earshot. ‘There are some within the palace who seek to ruin Lady Eudokia’s plan to bring Romanus Diogenes to the throne. They see the gathering of your ilk as an opportunity to leverage support for their cause. And those who spurn their advances . . . ’ Igor’s face fell grave and he shook his head. ‘The Strategos of Paphlagonia was found in his palace bedchamber the night before last, dead in only his twenty third year. Then the Doux of Lykandos was killed by thieves in the Forum of the Ox while he browsed for spices – they sliced his head from his body.’ He looked up, above the Hippodrome, where the rooftop portico of the Imperial Palace pierced the skyline. ‘Out here and in there, it would be wise to stay on your guard, Strategos.’

Apion followed the Rus’ solemn gaze. ‘So this is the heart of the empire I have fought for all these years? I will heed your words well, Komes.’

***

Zenobius rested his palms on the crenellations of the inner harbour walls and swept his gaze along the packed streets of Constantinople. He was a young man still, but his lank hair was pure white, like his skin, and his eyes were ghostly silver. Behind those eyes lay bitterness and a primal instinct to survive. When he was a tot, his mother had assured him that his striking appearance had marked him out as one destined for greatness. Yet when she had died, Father had shunned him as much as Mother had coddled him. Father had taken to drinking neat wine at every hour of the day when their crop failed, and had then taken to blaming Zenobius, insisting he was a curse from God. Then, one day, Father had even joined in when the villagers had battered Zenobius until blood ran from his eyes and ears. Zenobius had quickly learned to disguise all emotion and to show little reaction to the taunts of his aggressors. He did not wince. He did not cry. Neither did he smile – but this came easy. This veneer caused the beatings to be no less painful, but it did deny his attackers much of their enjoyment. After years of this, he realised he could not remember what it was to be human.

It was shortly after this that he had come here, to the heart of the empire, to seek out the destiny his mother had promised him. Indeed, he had found it in his new employ.
Yes
, he thought, examining the pale skin of his fingers,
now they cannot hurt me. For I am the master of pain
. Then his gaze swept back to the party of three that stood below, like a rock in the river of pedestrians. A broad-shouldered warrior with battered, bearded features and amber locks stood with a short, dark-haired Norman and a feeble and sightless old man.

‘Is it him?’ a voice grunted.

Zenobius turned to the bald, burly torturer by his side. ‘Aye, it is the Strategos of Chaldia,’ he said, then nodded to the clutch of varangoi who milled around the three newcomers. ‘Look, proud Igor is with them.’

The burly torturer uttered a hushed, baritone laugh, emitting a waft of vile breath as he did so. ‘Then I look forward to welcoming them.’

9.
The Cold Heart

Apion waded into the cool, scented water, tracing his fingers across the surface. He glanced at the marbled opulence surrounding him – all was still apart from the delicate corner fountains, carved from blood-red porphyry, babbling as they spilled fresh water into the pool. The palace baths were empty and he was alone. So he lay back and sunk under the surface, washing the dust and salt from his skin. For an instant he could hear only the gentle thumping of his heart and the water coursing in his ears. It was a blissful moment of calm. Then he opened his eyes and through the waters he saw the ceiling frescoes ripple. Dancing reflections from the water’s surface lent a vivid lustre to the colourful figures there. Emperors past, reaching up to the sky as if to talk with God. Warriors of the arena streaked in crimson, standing over slain opponents and saluting fervent crowds. Chariots racing, riders crying out, mounts’ eyes wide and bulging. Around the edges were images of wild beasts; lions, elephants, wolves and scorpions. Then his gaze fell on one creature; an olive-scaled serpent, glaring down on him, its eyes a portent of the venom in its fangs.

Igor’s words of warning from earlier that day rang in his ears. Suddenly feeling less than calm, he rose to standing, sweeping his locks back from his face. As the water drained from his ears, he heard a noise.

A sandal scraping on the tiles behind him.

He spun to the doorway, muscles tensed. The two slave girls there yelped in fright, then ran from the room, giggling. With a sigh and brisk shake of the head, he waded from the pool to the chair where his tunic hung.

He wiped the excess water from his body and lifted the filthy and faded garment. But he hesitated, noticing the blue silk robe the slave girls had left for him. He touched it, then reticently lifted it and dropped it over his body. It was cool and soft on his skin. Then he sat by the platter of fruit, bread and honey the girls had also left. Blueberries, apricots, figs, freshly baked bread and rose-scented water. He took a mouthful of blueberries, the skin bursting to release their tart and fresh juices.

Still not a patch on Chaldian crop,
he mused with a pensive half-smile, thinking back to those lost days on Mansur’s farm.

He tore at the still-warm bread, dipping it in the honey before chewing. As he washed it down with a swig of rosewater, a warming shaft of afternoon sunlight crept across his legs. He followed the light over to the collonaded outer wall of the bath chamber. Most of the arches were covered by timber lattice screens to provide bathers with privacy, but the sunlight was pouring in through the one archway with no screen. Outside, a vibrant garden square shimmered. There were orange trees, palms and exotic blooms jostling for space while parakeets flitted to and fro between the branches. This was in pleasant contrast to the packed city streets pulsating against the other side of the palace. Such beauty should have soothed his thoughts. Instead, he found his foot tapping incessantly. For now he could only imagine big Blastares’ waggish reaction to seeing his strategos in such luxury, wearing a silken robe. He grumbled then hurriedly stood to change back into his grubby tunic, lifting the robe off and dropping it to the floor. But as he picked up his tunic, something caught his eye.

There, on the central balcony above the colonnade on the far side of the gardens, a figure looked down upon him. She was tall and slender and wore her golden, silver-flecked hair tied up on her head. Apion frowned, wondering why she stared at him with such a foul look on her fine features. He stepped forward, towards the sunlit ground under the open archway. From there he could see that her expression was more one of shock than disdain. It was then that a sudden breeze reminded him he was stark naked.

To save further embarrassment, he fumbled to wrap his tunic around his waist and started to mouth an apology. But she turned from the balcony and was gone in a heartbeat.

Cursing under his breath, he pulled his tunic on and strode from the room through the inner doorway, glowering at the silk robe as if it was to blame. He was intent on dressing fully and then seeking out the woman to apologise to her but found his pace somewhat cowed by the vastness of the palace interior. The cavernous ceilings shone with a gilt lustre and the forest of veined marble columns and sparkling porphyry served to remind him how far from home he was. His every footstep echoed and the eyes of the white-garbed varangoi followed him as he flitted up the marble staircase. At last he reached the upper floor then made his way along a corridor lined with tall, arched windows through which the afternoon sun bathed the mosaics on the walls and floors. He came to the three rooms assigned to Dederic, Cydones and himself. A serrated snoring echoed from old Cydones’ room. This took the edge off of his annoyance, and his lips played with a smile. ‘Aye, the noise from the streets will not be an issue with you nearby, Cydones,’
 
he thought aloud.

Then he stepped inside his own chamber, a high-ceilinged, cool, light and spacious room with a wide oak bed, a chest and a table. He stretched his calves and his shoulders and then sat by the chest, reaching for his boots and his cloak. But he stopped, his blood chilling as he felt a breeze from the arched windows.

They had been closed when he left the room earlier.

His eyes locked upon the pure-white, silken veil that hung over the central window and the faint shadow behind it. Then the veil billowed as the breeze picked up once more, revealing a short and aged man, back turned, hands clasped. The man looked through the open window and down the slopes of the first hill, where the grounds of the imperial palace deigned to merge with the city streets. He wore a gold-trimmed, purple cloak and a purple felt cap atop his tightly curled, grey crop of hair.

Apion stood, frowning, cursing the absence of his swordbelt. Indeed, Igor had seemed reluctant to relieve him of his weapons when they entered the palace, but could not risk letting anyone bar the Varangoi bear arms within the building. Apion considered his next move.

Just then, a roar erupted from the Hippodrome. At this, the man tilted his head back, extending his hands to his sides as if refreshed by the incoming breeze.

‘Can you hear it?’ the man said. ‘The people are exultant. It is a golden melody.’

‘I hear only the bleating of a stranger in my quarters,’ Apion replied flatly.

‘The people are so easily swayed,’ the figure continued as if Apion had not spoken. ‘A dash of entertainment, a shipment of Paphlagonian wine,’ he snapped his fingers, adorned with thick gold rings, ‘and they are acquired. A prudent expense, it would seem.’

‘I will ask you once; who are you?’ Apion said, his voice echoing around the room.

The man turned to him at last, fixing him with the kind of gaze a gull would cast upon a discarded fish head. He was narrow-eyed with a shrivelled, pinched face. ‘Psellos, chief adviser to the imperial throne.’ He bowed slightly, his eyes never leaving Apion. ‘And you are the Strategos of Chaldia, I believe?’

Apion nodded.

‘Many of your ilk have arrived here in recent weeks,’ Psellos started.

‘So I have heard,’ Apion spoke over him. ‘and some of those have had their visits . . . cut short. So forgive my abruptness, but when I find a stranger in my quarters, I have little time for decorum.’

Psellos smiled, extending his arms wide. ‘Ah, set your mind at ease, Strategos. I come here only to welcome you.’

Apion noticed that Psellos’ smile never reached his eyes.

‘And to offer you a morsel of advice,’ Psellos continued. ‘In my years as adviser, I have seen how vital you and your kind are in making or breaking an emperor, or even a whole dynasty. That is why you have been called here; to make choices that will determine the fate of the empire.’

‘Weighty choices plague my every day back in the east, but not here,’ Apion replied prosaically. ‘I have come here simply to hail the arrival of the new emperor. Then the rebuilding of the borderlands can begin as soon as Romanus Diogenes takes the throne.’

The little man’s features creased with a tight and bitter smile. He raised a hand, one finger extended and wagging. ‘Ah, now there is the first of the problems. An assumption that has little basis in legality . . . contrary to current thinking, the throne does not lie unoccupied. The young Michael Doukas sits upon it. His father’s dynasty is unbroken.’

‘I understand that it is merely a formality that he and his regents will step aside when Romanus Diogenes comes to be crowned?’

Psellos was unblinking. ‘That remains to be seen, Strategos. As I said; the coming months will reveal many truths. In that time, I urge you to remain open to those who choose to confer with you.’

‘Why would I be anything but?’

Psellos chuckled mirthlessly at this, stroking his chin as he strolled to the door. ‘Why indeed?’ he said as he left the room.

Apion’s mind darkened as his thoughts tangled. He had been lured here by the promise of hope. Yet he had been received with only dark insinuations.
But they can wait,
he thought, shaking his head clear of this muddle as he slid on his boots, focusing only on the fine-featured woman on the balcony,
for I have an apology to make.

He stood and swept his crimson cloak across his shoulders. Then he hurried downstairs and past the two varangoi
bookending the archway that led outside into the gardens. The afternoon sunlight was warm and a welcome contrast to the cool, shady interior of the palace. Indeed, the trilling cicada song reminded him of home. He glanced up at the balcony above the far side of the gardens where he had seen the woman. She was not there so he picked his way along the narrow paths that wound between the fruit trees and colourful blooms. The tang of oranges spiced the air first, and then the lazy scent of jasmine and narcissus. Fountains babbled near the heart of the gardens, and he found it an effort not to forget his troubles.

Until he heard footsteps, rushing towards him. At once, he was alert.

He looked this way and that, then spun to his right. The dark-green leaves of a rhododendron bush wriggled and rustled. He grasped at his absent scimitar hilt and cursed aloud, bracing himself for this unseen attacker.

Then the tension washed from him as a boy tumbled from the bush, giggling, twigs in his blonde hair. The broad grin on his cherubic face fell as he skidded to a halt before Apion. The lad was no more than seven. Apion’s eyes fell to the sword belt the boy carried. It contained a spathion.

‘A weighty weapon for a young lad, is it not?’ he cocked an eyebrow.

The boy squared his shoulders and lifted his chin at this insult, and Apion had to work to resist chuckling at this.

‘I’m going to be emperor one day, so I must be ready!’ the boy replied. Then he jabbed a finger at a nesting parakeet and its hatchlings, high up on one orange tree, an impish grin creeping onto his face. ‘My feathered army are loyal to me!’

Just then, a weightier set of footsteps sounded nearby, accompanied by a low growl. ‘Konstantious! I have no time for your foolish games!’

The boy’s haughty look faltered at this and he spun round, lifting the sword from the belt, two-handed. His limbs shook under the weight of the blade.

A small but broad-shouldered young man stomped into view. He was sixteen, perhaps. He wore a purple tunic hemmed with gold thread. His jaw was broad and well-defined, his hair light brown and short and his eyes shaded under a scowl. Apion saw the resemblance between the two as the young man marched up to little Konstantious and tore the sword from his grip, threw the blade to the ground, then moved towards the young lad, fists balled.

Apion stepped between the two, frowning at the young man. ‘Perhaps in ten years or so you two could have a fair fight. Until then, you should keep your sword belt somewhere safe.’

The young man’s face burned with anger. ‘How dare you address your emperor in such a tone?’

Apion’s breath froze in his lungs. So this was Michael. Constantine Doukas’ eldest son and acting emperor. The boy whose grasp of the purple would be torn from him when Eudokia remarried.

Michael Doukas continued to glare up at him. ‘Drop your gaze and fall to one knee or I’ll have you flogged until the bones in your back are shattered.’

Apion simply gazed back at the boy. Then Konstantious, hiding behind Apion, peeked round to yell; ‘Nobody has to do what you say, puppet emperor!’

At this, Michael’s face turned crimson, and he readied to leap for little Konstantious.

‘Easy, easy!’ Apion held up his hands, then bowed on one knee. They were at eye level now. ‘You are emperor and so I will kneel before you. But know that in the past I’ve been flogged until the barbs on the whip wrenched at my ribs. So I do not wilt under such threats, Michael. Men who do may fear you, but they will never respect you.’

Michael’s gratified grin faded a fraction at this and he looked every inch the lost young man that he was.

Then a woman’s voice pierced the air and the young man’s face fell completely; ‘You’ll control that foul temper of yours, Michael.’

Apion glanced up. The tall, slender lady from the balcony walked towards them. She was draped in red silken robes and he could now see her face clearly; beauty sullied only slightly with age, her golden locks flecked with silver. Most interestingly, she was flanked by two varangoi, each bearing their heavy axes as if ready to strike.