Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (14 page)

11.
Under Darkening Skies

Cydones sniffed at the peach and a smile spread across his face. He squeezed the fruit gently. ‘Ripe as a young lady’s . . . ’

‘We’ll take three,’ Apion cut in, tossing three folles to the stallholder.

The pair stepped out from under the stall’s awning and back into the grey autumn morning that hung over the Forum of the Ox. The scent of roasting meat, honey and spices hung in the air as they took in their surroundings again.

Sitting in a valley, the forum was overlooked by the city’s third and seventh hills. The square itself was hemmed in by vine-clad porticoes which were packed with stalls, workshops and traders selling their wares. At the western end of the forum was a towering arched gallery, housing a grand statue of Constantine the Great and his Mother Helena clutching at a gilded Cross.

Apion led Cydones towards the centre of the forum, manoeuvring through the throng of shoppers and traders. They were followed closely by the four varangoi Igor had assigned to protect them. The pair stopped by a clutch of Judas trees clustered around a babbling fountain, the golden-brown leaves piling around the roots where they had fallen and some floating on the fountain’s waters.

They sat and munched into their fruit.

‘When I used to live here as a lad,’ Cydones pointed vaguely to the centre of the forum, ‘they said there used to be a hollow bronze statue of an ox, right about there. Do you know why it was hollow?’

Apion shrugged absently.

Cydones leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. ‘Because the people used to gather to watch as Christians were bundled inside the belly. Kindling and brush would be lit underneath, and then they would be incinerated alive, their screams echoing across the city.’ The old man shook his head.

‘We are a knotted rope of contradiction,’ Apion mused, brushing at the stigma on his forearm and the white band of skin where his prayer rope had once been tied. His fruit seemed less ripe all of a sudden. Then he noticed another furtive glance from the nearest of the four varangoi; they were afraid. Now the peach tasted almost sour and he stopped chewing.

Another doux had been killed the previous day, mutilated under the hooves and wheels of a trade wagon as he strolled the city streets. The wagon driver was discovered later that night, emasculated, eviscerated and left in a dank alley for the rats to feed upon. He cast his gaze around the forum; the spearmen of the numeroi posted at each street corner and atop the higher buildings wore stern grimaces. But he was sure he caught more than one of them glancing at the four varangoi.

‘Eat,’ Cydones sighed, wiping peach juice from his lips. ‘If someone wishes to cut off our balls and gut us then they will. But they’ll have to get through those axemen first!’

Apion cocked an eyebrow at the old man’s turn of phrase. ‘I do not fear being slain, sir. You know me better than that. I merely worry that Eudokia’s fears will come to pass.’ He thought of the evening a few days past when he, Cydones and Dederic had dined with Eudokia, Igor and a select few of the doukes and strategoi whom Eudokia seemed to trust. She had laid out her concerns and intimated to each of them that tough weeks and months lay ahead. ‘She has the loyalty of the patriarch, but he is just one man and his followers are few. The people claim piety but seem to favour Psellos and the games and races he funds. The Varangoi are loyal to her also, but there are only a few hundred posted around the city and less than fifty in the palace. Meanwhile, Psellos can call upon the thousands of spears of the Numeroi at any time he wishes.

‘So why does he not force home his massive numerical advantage?’ Cydones summarised Apion’s question.

‘Exactly. The palace could be taken within a morning.’

‘This is true,’ Cydones nodded, licking his fingers and tossing the peach stone to the ground for the birds. ‘But it would be a short-lived victory. Yes, the Numeroi could easily force home the wills of Psellos and see John and Michael seize the throne permanently. But that would incite many more thousands of spears to converge on this city. The themata armies of Lykandos and Paphlagonia would come to avenge any such act, for their strategoi have been slain. Nilos, the Strategos of Opsikon, is loyal to his core – he too would rouse his armies to march against Psellos. Then there are the imperial tagmata, stationed across the Bosphorus. Many thousands of the finest soldiers the empire has to offer – their loyalty is unknown and it would undoubtedly be tested should such a coup occur. The balance is too fine to risk a coup as things stand.’

Apion nodded, smiling. At times, old Cydones’ mind was still as sharp as a blade. ‘Aye, I know this. But ambition clouds the minds of men. I fear that ambition might drive Psellos to take that risk.’

Cydones frowned. ‘I have met that snake only briefly in my time here, and yes, I could smell the ambition seeping from his pores. You are right to be wary of him, not the members of the Doukas family he controls or the thousands of blades he can call upon. For it is the head of the snake that bears the fangs. But Psellos is a cool and shrewd individual. He will not take that risk until the time is right. I am sure of it.’

Apion chewed on the last piece of flesh from his peach, tossed the stone to the ground and washed it down with a swig from his skin of well-watered wine. ‘Then it is all we can do to maintain the balance. We must ensure Psellos cannot either slay the remaining strategoi and doukes loyal to Eudokia or buy those whose hearts are venal before Romanus Diogenes arrives.’

Cydones turned to him, his sightless eyes bright as a smile stretched across his lined features. ‘Aye, and you have it in your power to do that, Apion. Stay alive, stay true, and Psellos will be thwarted!’

Just then, a sweet aroma of roasted lamb and garlic wafted over them. They looked up. Dederic was wandering over to them, carrying with him a clay pot. He scraped the remaining stew from it, licking at his spoon. There was something about Dederic’s swagger that Apion appreciated – as if he cared little for the threat that hung on these streets. The Norman reminded him greatly of Sha, Blastares and Procopius, and it warmed him to know that he had found another with a good heart. Dederic had seemed buoyed by his daily dawn runs at the Hippodrome and Apion hoped that by introducing him to the routine, he had helped the man find some peace of mind.

Just then, a fussing varangos tried to usher Dederic back to where Apion and Cydones sat, but Dederic ignored this, glancing to a brass sundial, then frowning and looking to the sky. The grey clouds were darkening in a portent of rain.

‘It must be close to noon, sir. Should we not be heading back, for the gathering?’

Apion tossed the remaining peach to the Norman. ‘Aye, we should. And I must say, I do wonder if I’ve been anticipating anything with less joy.’

Dederic grinned at this, catching the fruit.

Cydones groaned as he stood, then a wry grin spread across his face. ‘Indeed! I’d rather face a hundred thousand Seljuks with a wooden sword – splinters on the handle, no less.’

The three chuckled at this, then strode back through the crowd towards the palace, flanked by the varangoi. The first splodges of rain stained the streets before them as they walked.

As the rain grew heavier, Apion snatched glances to the top of the portico from under a furrowed brow.

The numeroi were watching his every footstep.

***

The rain thundered on the palace roof and echoed throughout the main hall. But Eudokia’s words boomed over this din;

‘On the first day of the new year of our lord, the souls of God’s empire will gather to watch as noble Romanus Diogenes joins me in marriage. The empire will have a new leader, a new man who will act under God’s will to see our people prosper and our borders secure.’

There were ninety men in her audience. They had set down their klibania, helms and weapons at the gates of the palace and wore only boots, tunics and cloaks. These were the doukes of the provincial tagmata and the strategoi of the themata together with their closest aides. Men who commanded armies of thousands, to victory or death. They listened intently.

Apion stood with Cydones and Dederic. He watched Eudokia as she spoke frankly, her gaze icy. He wondered how many people had ever seen that gaze melt. Few, he reckoned. He had seen it for those precious few moments on the rooftop portico. He had seen it again when they had dined as a group and she had offered him a ghost of a warm smile. No wonder she was so guarded, he thought, given that she had lived in the presence of Psellos and his ilk for so long. Apion furtively eyed the squat, hawk-faced old man who was standing beside Eudokia, his hands clasped and a peaceable expression on his features. Ostensibly, the pair represented imperial unity. But his eyes – his eyes were scouring the room like a predator’s, as if seeking out those who had not yet pledged their allegiance to him.

Beside Apion stood Nilos, the strategos of the Opsikon Thema. The big, bearded Greek had embraced him warmly when they had first been introduced over a week past.
Ah, the Haga - the legend of the borderlands!
But when Apion changed the subject to Psellos’ background, he became guarded, his eyes darting as he spoke.

A leech!
The strategos had hissed under his breath.
The man is a damned leech who seeks puppets for the imperial throne! If you seek reasons for the decline of your borderlands, Haga, then the foremost of them is Psellos.

Apion realised he was staring at Psellos, and that Psellos was staring back with added intensity. He turned to Eudokia and focused on her words.

‘There should be no doubt in your minds,’ Eudokia continued, ‘that imperial taxes will no longer be squandered on embellishment of the capital or bloating of imperial court bureaucracy.’ A rumble of approval broke the silence of the crowd.

Apion could not help but notice Psellos’ eyes narrowing at this, darting to a handful of faces in the crowd. Apion glanced sideways to those targeted. One, a young doux, seemed cowed by Psellos’ glare and offered a faint nod. Another doux, a wiry, older man with an eyepatch, seemed to hold Psellos’ pinched glare momentarily. Apion felt a glow of hope at this, but then the wiry man’s forehead broke out in a sweat, then he gulped and dropped his gaze to the floor, offering another faint nod. Psellos then turned his gaze on Nilos, who returned the glare, squaring his jaw. Nilos did not yield, and Apion’s heart lifted at this. But Nilos was only one man.

Apion leant to one side, where Cydones and Dederic stood. ‘It is as we thought,’ he whispered. ‘Psellos seeks to tip the balance.’

Cydones’ sightless eyes gazed far into the distance. ‘Aye, treachery is in the air,’ he agreed, his nose wrinkling. ‘I can smell it.’

‘The armies of the themata will no longer be neglected and the outlying tagmata will be bolstered,’ Eudokia continued, ‘recruiting Byzantine souls and lessening the dependency on mercenary soldiers.’ Eudokia continued. This time, a cheer broke out from the crowd. But nearly half of them remained mute and wary of any show of support.

Psellos’ lips tightened at this, as if resisting a satisfied sneer.

Then, Eudokia brought her speech to a close, making sure to catch the eye of every man in the crowd; ‘I asked you here to welcome Romanus Diogenes to the city. Now,’ she hesitated for just a heartbeat, and Apion saw her lip tremble just a little, ‘I ask that you remain here to see us wed.’

Apion’s eyebrows shot up at this. He looked to Dederic, who looked equally stunned.

An unfortunately timed clap of thunder rippled through the air outside and reverberated through the hall.

‘Tell me I’m going deaf, Apion?’ Cydones croaked by his side. ‘Did she just say that we are to remain here until the year is out?’

‘Aye, unfortunately,’ Apion said in a muted tone, his gaze returning to Psellos. ‘I feel it will be a long, cold winter.’

***

The rainstorm had raged for days, and the streets of the city were slick and shiny. A clap of thunder tumbled across the night sky and brought with it another sheet-like barrage. Many guttering torches hissed, spat and died at this.

Wrapped in a brown hemp hooded cloak, Psellos splashed through the streets, past the
Milareum Aureum
, the gilded bronze pillar casting him momentarily in its ghostly golden light. When a pair of sunken-cheeked wretches emerged from an alley nearby, Psellos halted and raised one hand just a fraction. Then, as if spawned by the rainstorm, three gleaming numeroi spearmen stole from the shadows behind him and half drew their spathions. The screech of iron was enough to send the wretches scurrying back from whence they came.

Psellos looked at his hand, marvelling at the power it wielded. The city was his. The empire would soon follow.

Then he set off once more towards his destination – the Numera, the barracks of the Numeroi Tagma.

But they’re so much more than a simple barracks,
he grinned to himself.

Two more numeroi stood in the gloom either side of the entrance, their helms and cloaks fending off the worst of the rain. When he approached they threw up a hand in salute.

Then a komes, denoted by the white sash knotted at his right shoulder, emerged from the door to greet him. ‘I will take you to him, sir,’ he said.