Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (15 page)

Psellos nodded in silence as he stepped out of the rainstorm and entered the barracks.

The komes led him through a musty-smelling and dark corridor, until they emerged into the Numera muster ground. It was deserted apart from the sentries who looked down on them from the soaked, grey barrack walls and watchtowers. They skirted round the collonaded edge of the muster ground to stay clear of the rain. Then they came to an iron-lattice gate on the far side, behind which was a corridor lit by a flickering and faint orange torchlight. The komes nodded to the soldier posted here, who fumbled with keys then opened the gate. This revealed a worn stone staircase that descended steeply underground, slick with damp. The komes plucked a torch from the wall and they began their descent.

‘He struggled, sir. He killed one of my men. But a club to the back of his head put paid to his resistance. Now he is yours to dispose of as you see fit.’

‘Your continued distinction has been noted,’ Psellos enthused.

They descended until they reached the prison complex, a series of pitch-black, stinking spaces gouged into the bedrock and fronted by rusting iron bars. Gaunt, sickly faces gawped as the torchlight bobbed past them, some scurrying to the backs of their cells in terror like rats, others lying like broken men, simply rolling their eyes to watch the passing pair.

Then they came to a tall, timber chest that rested against the bedrock. The komes braced his shoulder against one end of the chest and then grunted, putting his full weight into shoving it to one side. The grating of timber on rock echoed around the prison.

Psellos gazed into the opening and down the roughly-hewn stone staircase that was revealed. He could smell the rankness of burnt and rotting flesh, wafting up at them like a wolf’s breath. He could even taste the metallic tang of blood. As they descended the staircase, a muffled roar of agony escaped from the depths. Psellos’ face split into a grin at this.

Then they finally reached the torture chamber of the
Portatioi
. The most devious of the Numeroi, some would say.
The most efficacious,
Psellos thought.

The air was thin and hot in this small and enclosed chamber, probably composed of the dying breaths of the many hundreds he had consigned here.

The only light came from the brazier in one corner, loaded with iron rods and tongs that glowed like hell itself. One torturer was dressed only in a loincloth, his muscular frame dripping with sweat in the stifling heat and the veins pulsing through his shaved scalp as he sharpened a sickle. Meanwhile, from the darker corner of the room, a ghostly figure lurked, his lank hair as white as his skin. This was Zenobius, his chief torturer and a man without a soul. He stoked at a cage in the shadows with a hot poker. This elicited animal grunting and screeching and illuminated fleeting glimpses of some inhuman form, wrinkled and glistening.

Psellos frowned as he scanned the room, then he grinned as he turned round to the wall nearest the door. There his prize lay, like a goose awaiting the butcher. The huge and muscular figure of Nilos the strategos was chained to a table, on his back and spread-eagled, naked. His torso glistened with sweat and blood, and his muscles strained at the shackles. His face was a swollen mess.

Psellos walked over to join him. ‘Ah, Nilos, you have inconvenienced yourself so,’ he bent over so his nose was inches from Nilos’ battered features. ‘How much less trouble I would have had with you if you had been as weak-willed as the others.’

Nilos uttered an inhuman roar at this, straining at the irons that held him in place, and aiming a headbutt at Psellos. But the strike fell short as the irons clanked tight. Yet Nilos hovered there, the bulging masses of flesh that were his eyes cracking open just enough for him to glare at Psellos. ‘You’ll never buy my loyalty, you
whoreson!
’ he spat, his words slurred and rasping through his shattered teeth, blood and saliva spraying onto Psellos’ face.

Psellos stood back, his nose wrinkling as took a silk cloth from his purse and dabbed at the mess. ‘Some I can buy. Some I cannot. I need only one thing from those in the latter group . . . I need you to
die,
’ he rubbed his hands together, his eyes glinting in the brazier-light, ‘and to die in an appalling manner. Then your corpse will serve to persuade the next of my targets.’

At this, Nilos seemed to be fired with a fresh wave of fury. He wrenched up from the table, bawling from the bottom of his lungs.

Psellos erupted in laughter at this.

But then the shackle holding Nilos’ right wrist shattered.

Shards of iron sprayed across the room, and the strategos’ fist swung round in a powerful hook.

Psellos leapt back, the blow flashing only inches from his face. His bowels turned over and icy fear stabbed at his heart. A shrill cry leapt from his lips as Nilos then wrenched at the shackle on his left wrist.

Then Zenobius stepped forward deftly, snatched the sickle from the big torturer and slashed at Nilos’ forearm, cleaving the limb clean off. Nilos crumpled back onto the table, writhing, mouth agape in silent agony, blood pumping from the wound.

Zenobius stepped back, cleaning his sickle in silence, his blood-spattered face expressionless. At this, the bald torturer’s hoarse cackle rang out once more, the foetid stench of his breath cutting through the vile smell in the chamber.

Psellos righted himself, then barked at Zenobius. ‘Staunch the wound, I want him to die as planned!’

The albino wrenched at the haemorrhaging limb and wrapped a length of filthy cloth around it, tying it as if strangling a victim. Then he barked to his colleague.

The bald torturer used the tongs to pluck an iron mask from the coals. It was glowing white, sparks spiralling and dancing from it.

Nilos’ pained cries fell silent at this sight. Then Psellos grasped his jaw and glared at him. ‘The death mask is but the finishing touch, Strategos,’ he purred.

Taking his cue, Zenobius lifted the bolts from the cage in the corner, and the pair of starved hogs were released from their prison. They immediately took to licking and gnawing at Nilos’ arm stump. Then Zenobius punched the sickle into Nilos’ gut and ripped it across the length of the strategos’ belly. As Nilos’ guts tumbled from the wound, the hogs leapt upon him, tearing at the steaming entrails.

At that moment, footsteps sounded from the stairs, and another figure entered the chamber. John Doukas’ eyes glinted with bloodlust at the sight before him. That and disappointment at having missed some of the proceedings.

‘You have joined us just in time, master,’ Psellos enthused to John, before turning back to Nilos, writhing under the frenzied hogs. ‘Another stubborn strategos is about to breathe his last.’

Nilos could not even utter a croak as the beasts feasted upon his innards. His only solace was that the darkness was closing in. All he could see before him was the trio of faces: Psellos, the man who would be the death of the empire; John Doukas, who looked on like a hungry wolf; and a pale and emotionless creature whose glare cut through him like a blade. This was surely the realm of the Godless.

Then he heard the albino speak calmly to the bald, burly torturer; ‘Finish him.’

Nilos’ mind swirled with confusion until the tongs and the golden mask filled his field of vision, and descended upon his face. With an untold agony and a stench of searing flesh, the blackness took him. The hoarse cackling of the big torturer was the last thing he heard.

As Nilos’ body fell limp, the grin faded from John’s face. ‘Now we must turn the screw upon our more stubborn visitors.’

Psellos nodded. ‘Ah, yes. The Strategos of Chaldia, yet to see sense.’

John shook his head. ‘He is even more tenacious than this whoreson ever was.’

‘Give me one more chance to speak with him, master.’ Psellos’ face opened up into a wicked grin. ‘He will turn, or he will die.’

***

It was the first morning of December and the rainstorms had abated at last. The air was crisp and a heavy frost had settled across the palace gardens. Near the centre, the parakeets squawked as Apion and young Konstantious played. Apion roared like a lion and stomped forward, arms outstretched, scooping the boy up and swinging him from side to side. Konstantious squealed in mock terror, then wriggled free of Apion’s grasp and stumbled towards the orange trees, giggling.

‘It is a blessing that I had a thick and restful sleep last night,’ Apion panted, doubling over and resting his palms on his knees. Indeed, his body was already tired after his extended morning run with Dederic. Still, this horseplay was refreshing, lightening his mind of troubles.

‘I thought you said you were a
brave
lion?’ Konstantious jibed. ‘You don’t seem very brave to me. My parakeets are bigger and stronger than you, and they eat only the seed I feed them.’ At this, one fledgling bird fluttered clumsily down to rest upon his shoulder.

‘Now the worst thing you can do,’ Apion wagged a finger, stalking around the orange trees with accentuated footsteps, ‘is to goad a wild creature.’ His footsteps slowed and he fell silent, then he sprung forward with another roar. Konstantious squealed and then sped away with only inches to spare, darting into the rhododendron bush. The parakeet fled back to its nest.

Apion stood tall, then stalked around the bush. He could see Konstantious hiding in there, waiting, but he pretended not to notice. Then, when he ‘carelessly’ turned his back on the bush, the youngster burst from the undergrowth, hoisting a thick twig in one hand and leaping into the air.

‘
Ya
!’ Konstantious yelled and thrust the ‘spear’ into Apion’s leg.

Apion fell to the ground in an exaggerated fit of choking and thrashing, before falling limp, eyes closed. He held his breath and lay motionless.

Then, when Konstantious stepped closer to inspect his kill, Apion burst back into life, grappling the boy and roaring, lifting him from the ground and swinging him round in circles once more. The pair collapsed into a giggling heap before Konstantious got up and darted to the far side of the garden, his laughter filling the place.

Apion stood, still chuckling. Then, as he stretched his shoulders, his gaze snagged on something. High on the balcony overlooking the gardens.

Eudokia looked back at him, the frosty veneer she wore like a klibanion was absent. She was smiling, and it illuminated her beauty.

Apion found it infectious, and let out a hearty chuckle, resting his hands on his hips.

But the moment was fleeting. A varangos’ hand on Eudokia’s shoulder and a whispered word in her ear saw her expression fall icy once more. She turned and left the balcony without a word. Apion felt his own smile wane at this.

Then it dissolved completely as he heard a familiar voice behind him.

‘These gardens are truly compelling. Once a man knows such finery, he can only think with horror of leaving it behind.’

Apion turned to Psellos. The shrivelled adviser wore a fur-lined purple cloak trimmed with gold thread, hands clasped behind his back.

Apion pinned him with a flinty gaze. ‘There may be some comforts I will miss, but I will gladly return to the dirt-tracks and scree-strewn hillsides of Chaldia.’

Psellos smiled coldly at this, then reached up and held out a hand to the orange tree. He clicked his tongue and the striped mother parakeet fluttered down from the tree to rest on his wrist, its three nestlings screeching from above. He stroked the bird’s ruby and buttercup yellow feathers and it pecked around his fingers in curiosity.

‘A magnificent creature, is it not?’ Psellos purred, stroking the bird’s neck with one finger. ‘A beast of majesty, safe in its opulent home . . . yet cupped in my palm. Watch how its ignorance brings about its fate.’

The bird, angry at the lack of seed in Psellos’ hand, pecked a little too hard, pinching the old man’s skin and drawing a spot of blood. Psellos did not wince at this. He simply wrapped his free hand around the bird’s neck. The creature flapped its wings and squawked in terror and then Psellos wrenched at its body with the other hand. With a snap of bone, it was still. He looked up at Apion once more. ‘Emperors, regents and those who sit, ostensibly, in positions of power should be wary of those who lifted them there, Strategos. Remember that.’

‘Say your piece, adviser, then leave me.’ Apion shot furtive glances around the overlooking balconies and roofs of the palace. The few varangoi who were normally stationed there were absent, doubtless drawn away by the same issue that had troubled Eudokia.

‘The axemen are occupied for the moment, Strategos. It is just you and I, and you are one of a . . .
dying
breed,’ Psellos said. ‘One of the few who choose not to support the continuation of the Doukid line. A wise choice?’

Apion nodded. ‘A man’s choices define him, so he should always stand by them. There are others who stand with me.’

‘Hmm . . .
 
hmmm,’ Psellos nodded. ‘To the last, it would seem.’

Apion felt a chill on his skin as they gazed at one another in silence. Then a distant, chilling scream pierced the air, from the streets at the far side of the palace. Psellos did not flinch at this. Indeed, his smile only broadened. Then a buccina blared out and the babble of troubled citizens filled the air.