Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (17 page)

‘Then he must die at the gates,’ John hissed, punching a fist down onto the rim of the ship.

‘That would be folly, master.’

John turned to scowl at him. ‘What? Then you suggest we let him live?’

Psellos nodded, a grin bending under his hooked nose. ‘Yes, master. But only for a matter of days. When he meets with Diogenes, then we can slay this troublesome strategos
and
the whoreson who shapes to steal your throne . . . ’

12.
The Golden Heart

The lush green plains of northern Thracia sparkled with morning frost. Overhead, the sky was an unbroken blue, and the winter sun tried in vain to warm the land. To the south, a band of Macedonian Pine forest stretched across the plain, still and silent.

Then a distant rumbling grew in intensity until the treeline rustled and the ground shook. A flock of bullfinches scattered, chirping a fluted song, before a wedge of thirteen horsemen burst from the forest, lowered in their saddles.

Apion rode at the fore, his crimson cloak and plumage billowing in his slipstream, his arms clad in splinted greaves and his torso hugged by his iron klibanion. Immediately behind him on his right rode Dederic in his hooded mail hauberk, with a conical helm and noseguard and a woollen cloak for warmth. Behind him on his left was Igor, the gruff Komes of the Varangoi, whose braided grey locks whipped up behind him. He, like his ten charges, wore their distinctive snow-white armour, tunics, trousers and gold-edged cloaks. The Rus were notoriously awkward horsemen, but they had kept the pace well.

On this, the third morning of their ride from the capital, they had made good ground northwards and were now in sight of the towering Haemus Mountains. Here, the land became a little more ragged and they soon reached a series of grassy foothills, sparkling with the remaining frost and lined by trickling meltwater streams descending from the rocky heights some miles away. Nearing mid-morning, Apion noticed froth on his Thessalian’s iron snaffle bit, and the beast’s skin was slick with sweat despite the winter chill. He sat up in his saddle and tugged on the reins. The wedge slowed and then stopped with him.

Dismounting, he smoothed the gelding’s mane and whispered soothing words in its ear. As he did so, the men of the wedge gathered around him, awaiting orders. ‘We can fill our skins while our mounts recover,’ he nodded to the nearest stream, ‘and cook some hot porridge to warm our blood.’

The varangoi looked to one another in mild disgust. Apion and Dederic shared a spontaneous grin at this.

Despite their hardy origins in the frozen northlands, the Varangoi had been reared on the finest spiced meats, exotic fruits and poached seafood in their years of service in the palace. Thus, the perfunctory food of the armies had not gone down at all well. Indeed, one of them had spent the previous evening groaning after persevering with the gruel, his skin almost as white as his armour before he
retched
his meal into the fire. This had served to trigger a similar response from another two of his comrades.

‘It’s only for another few days – then you can reacquaint yourselves with oak-smoked octopus and the like!’ Dederic chirped, sliding from his saddle and juggling two compact balls of dried yoghurt, almonds and sesame oil in his hands as he strolled off to the stream.

Apion turned to Igor and pointed to the nearest two foothills. ‘I want one man on each of those hills.’

Igor nodded two of his men forward.

‘Keep your thoughts focussed and your bows nocked,’ Apion called after them as they jogged to their posts. Then he glanced to the spare ration pack he had brought with him from the palace kitchens. ‘I’ll have toasted bread and cheese sent up to you as soon as it’s ready.’ A spring was added to their step at this promise.

Apion watched as Igor and the rest of the varangoi set about kindling a fire, bantering in their native tongue. He
prised
his helmet from his head, then removed one glove and ran his fingers through his matted locks.

He took up his water skin and sipped absently upon it as he looked around this green, well-watered country. So far removed from the baked, terracotta and gold lands of home. Then his thoughts drifted to Sha, Blastares and Procopius, out in the east.
Damn but I miss them,
he thought.

Equally, he had only been parted from old Cydones for a few days, yet he missed the old man’s banter already. They had played shatranj on the afternoon before Apion and the riders had slipped from the city. The loss of his sight had done little to dampen Cydones’ enthusiasm – and deft skill – for the game.
So you will leave me behind while you ride?
Cydones had mused as they picked their moves.
Quite right; my body is as worn as my mind, and my bones would surely crumble at the mere thought of the gallop!
Then, in his next move, he had pinned Apion’s King to the edge of the board.
Checkmate!
The retired strategos had croaked gently, a grin spreading across his features as he set the pieces up to begin another game immediately, not satisfied with this victory alone. Apion could not contain an equal grin at the infectious memory, and he cast a glance back to the south, wondering how the old man would fare in the palace without familiar company. Well, there was Eudokia, he realised, then chided himself for thinking of her.

Since leaving the imperial yacht, he had resolved to lock away any memory of their warm and lasting bout of lovemaking. Her scent, her beauty and her softness had permeated his every thought and laced his dreams every night since. But through it all, he had thought only of Maria, of what could have been with her in another life. He smiled wryly, shaking the thoughts away; just as Eudokia had used the coming together as a harbour of respite, so had he.

Then his distant gaze faded and settled on the forest from which they had come, now far to the south. His eyes narrowed. Something wasn’t right. The flight from the city had felt too smooth and that thought had nagged him all the way here. The numeroi were thin on the walls that night – conspicuously so. He searched the sky, littered with circling wagtails.
Where are you when I need you, old lady?

Then a hand slapped on his shoulder and his heart lurched in his chest.

‘Sir!’

Apion spun to Igor. The varangos’ eyes were wide with alarm. Behind him, the pair of varangoi atop the foothills were crouched and waving.

‘They’ve spotted something, coming this way,’ Igor said, interpreting the signal.

Apion’s vision narrowed on the cleft between the two hills. From the rift beyond, he heard a baritone, inhuman roar. A waft of sweet woodsmoke drifted under Apion’s nostrils and he shot a glare at the newly kindled fire. ‘Douse it!’ he hissed. Silently, he beckoned the men with him, fanning his fingers out to have them separate and line the hillsides.

‘Have them guard these hills as if they were the palace gates,’ he whispered to Igor. Then he picked up a free spear from beside the doused fire, placed his helmet back on and turned to Dederic. ‘With me!’

Apion stalked forward, around the rightmost hillock and then ahead of the varangoi. Then he moved along and up the slope of the uneven ridge that ran northwards from the twin hillocks. As they came to the tip of the ridge, another roar pierced the air. This time it was only paces away, from the other side of the ridge. More, the stench of rotting meat wafted in the chill, northerly breeze.

‘Sir?’ Dederic’s eyes were wide.

‘Stay your fears, Dederic,’ Apion whispered. ‘Has ever a roar and foul breath hurt a man?’

Then he stretched his neck up and over the ridge to look down into the narrow corridor on the other side. What he saw, only a few strides away, turned his blood to ice.

‘No, but that thing surely has,’ Dederic whispered, gawping beside him.

The beast was as magnificent as it was ferocious. Tawny gold fur and a golden mane, its paws as large as a man’s head, the tips of dagger-like claws visible under the fur. The lion’s jaw hung slightly open, revealing yellowed fangs and a lolling, pink tongue. These mighty creatures were long thought gone from this part of the world. Indeed, even way out east, in the Armenian mountains, they were becoming a rare sight.

Then Apion frowned, noticing the lion’s belly as it padded towards the twin hillocks – its skin was taut and its ribs jutted like blades. The beast was starving.

‘It is weak?’ Dederic suggested, nodding to the beast’s belly as it approached.

‘Maybe,’ Apion said, ‘but never is a predator more dangerous than when it is starved.’

‘Then we must slay it?’ Dederic’s eyes bulged in fear as he shot glances at the distance between them and the rest of the varangoi.

‘No, we let it pass,’ Apion asserted as the lion padded on towards the south. ‘It will find prey on the plain.’

‘That’s not likely to happen, sir,’ Dederic nodded to the cleft between the hillocks that stood between the lion and the plain.

Apion turned to see that the varangoi had spilled to the lower ground and levelled their axes towards the lion, barricading the beast’s exit from the corridor. The lion stopped at this, then its growl filled the small valley. Apion closed his eyes and muttered a curse. ‘Then we must drive it north, back up the rift in the land.’

The little Norman raised his eyebrows. ‘We?’

‘Think of this beast as the fat lord back in Rouen!’ Apion cocked an eyebrow, issuing a mischievous smirk at the same time. ‘Now come!’ He hissed, then launched up and over the lip and slid down the steep valley embankment, stumbling to a halt before the lion with the aid of his spear shaft. The beast started, took a few tentative steps backwards, then stood tall and emitted a roar that shook Apion’s bones. Having displayed its fangs and the wet of the back of its throat, the beast lowered its head, its eyes trained on Apion, its back legs wriggling and then steadying.

Apion’s heart thundered.

But, just as the beast was about to launch forward, Dederic tumbled down the banking less than graciously, his mail hauberk jingling like a whore’s purse. Then he righted himself, straightened his helmet and quickly levelled his spear at the lion, following Apion’s lead. At the same time, the varangoi rushed up to form a line behind the pair.

At this, the lion aborted its attack and paced backwards, snatching glances at them all. Then it risked a glance over its shoulder. Once, twice, and then once more. But it seemed hesitant to flee to the north.

‘It doesn’t want to go that way, sir?’ Dederic surmised.

‘No,’ Apion’s eyes narrowed, looking past the beast to the north. The rift wound on for a hundred paces or so and then it adopted a jagged path, concealing the trail ahead. ‘Because it is being hunted. Listen!’

To a man, the party fell silent. Then they heard it; the drumming of hooves, echoing through the rift.

‘Coming this way?’ Dederic deduced.

‘With haste,’ Apion nodded. His mind spun with thoughts of the Magyar and Pecheneg
warbands
it could easily be, for this land was just as volatile and permeable as the eastern borderlands. ‘Back to the hillocks,’ he waved the men back. ‘Let the beast through and . . . ’ his words were cut off as a clutch of riders burst into view from the north, rounding the jagged edge of the rift.

Startled by this threat to its rear, the lion roared out and, in a flash, leapt for Apion at the heart of the line of varangoi, intent on breaking through to the south.

Apion felt the beast’s paws thud against his chest like a rock from a trebuchet. The wind was knocked from his lungs and he crashed back onto the earth. His mind flashed with white light and he was lost momentarily. He heard the grating of the lion’s claws against his klibanion, iron segments coming free of the armour. Then his vision cleared, and he saw the beast’s face, only inches from his. Its pupils were dilated in terror. Its lips curled back and its jaws extended to crush his neck.

Then there was a crunching of bone and flesh and Apion was showered in hot blood. But there was no pain. The beast’s eyes dimmed at this, the fear replaced by resignation as blood washed from its mouth.

Apion wheezed as the creature toppled from his chest, a spear lodged between its shoulder blades. He rolled back from its corpse and looked around him to see that Dederic and the varangoi still held their spears and axes, halted mid-stride in coming to his aid.

‘No! This was not to be!’ A voice called out from the pack of approaching riders.

Apion stood, gasping for breath and grappling for his sword hilt. But the tension eased from him when he saw that the clutch of horsemen – sixty of them, he estimated – were clearly Byzantine. They were adorned in the fine iron garb of the kataphractoi. Their boots, tunics and armour bore scrapes and stains that told of recent conflict.

From the armies of the north?
Apion wondered as they slowed to a trot.

The lead rider trotted forward – a man a few years Apion’s senior. His armour was particularly finely crafted, and he wore a fine, white silk cloak on his sturdy shoulders. His broad and handsome face was wrinkled in a scowl, his teeth bared. His flaxen locks were swept back from his forehead and his cobalt glare pinned the lion’s corpse.

The rider did not look to any of Apion and his party. Instead, he flicked his glare from the lion to the rider by his side who had thrown the spear. ‘You fool,’ he grappled the man by the collar and shook him. ‘If I wanted another cadaver I could have had my pick from the battlefields!’

‘Sir, I was not aiming to strike the beast. I wanted to halt its flight . . . ’

While the man who had killed the beast mumbled an apology, Apion eyed the leader, and his gaze fell on something – a tiny trinket that hung around the man’s neck. A chain with a small heart pendant dangling over his breastbone. It was pure gold. The hairs on Apion’s neck lifted.