Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (21 page)

Apion stepped forward into the centre of the room, his eyes cast in shadow and his snarl illuminated by the glow from the brazier. Dederic sidled up to stand beside him. The tall, bald torturer lifted the blade he was polishing, then looked in the reflection and saw the pair. He cried out.

Then the three spun. The flat-faced man took up a glowing poker from the brazier while the slight one grappled the shaft of an axe. The bald one in the middle hefted a blade in each hand.

Then the big torturer’s gaze dropped to the red-ink stigma on Apion’s arm. ‘You are him? You are the
Haga!
You have made a big mistake,’ he rasped, his face twisting into a motley-toothed grin and his breath poisoning the air. ‘You make my job too easy. Now you will die like the old fool did!’ The big man’s hoarse cackling filled the cavern.

Apion simply glared until the torturer’s confidence faltered. The dark door barged to the forefront of his mind like a pulsing black heart. Then his eyes bulged and he bared his teeth, roaring as he leapt for them, ripping his scimitar from its sheath.

From the prison cells above, the hoarse cackling that had haunted the dreams of those in the cells tapered off nervously. Then there was a rhythmic scything of iron into flesh and the wet splatter of gore, followed by the searing of burning flesh and cries of pain like they had never heard before. On and on this noise continued, until at
last
it fell silent.

Then, at the sound of ascending footsteps, Zenobius shuffled back into the shadows of the cell in which he had hidden. The two figures that emerged from the stairs were coated in blood. The leader of the pair wore the look of a predator that had just fed, his emerald eyes staring through a mask of crimson.

His time would come, Zenobius vowed.

14.
Raising the Shield

The morning of the first day of January, 1068 was the bitterest of the winter so far. Many farmers woke to find their flocks had perished from the cold overnight, and this was the morning that broke even the hardier winter crops of rye and barley. On the northern borders, the Pechenegs were pressing and penetrating into Byzantine lands. In the east, reports of Seljuk raids were widespread and rumours were rife that Alp Arslan was almost free of the Fatimid rebellions and was now readying to turn his armies upon the empire’s borders once more.

Despite such woes, the city at the very heart of the empire was more vibrant and joyful than it had been in many years. Romanus and Eudokia stirred the people’s hearts with rousing promises of a return to greatness for the people of Byzantium. Today it would culminate with their wedding and then the new emperor’s rise to the throne.

The Imperial Way was abuzz with anticipation of the procession that was to come. This broad, flagstoned street, running from the Golden Gate in the west to the Milareum Aureum by the northern end of the Hippodrome, was bathed in crisp winter sunshine. The way was lined with cheering crowds, hemmed in on either side by the Varangoi and the loyal Optimates Tagma, summoned to the city to oversee the ceremony. Every edifice along the way, marble or brick, was topped with finely-robed archers and draped with vibrant fabrics depicting gilt Crosses and images of the saints. Even nature had given the ceremony its blessing, festooning the hardy cypress trees dotted along the processional avenue with a glittering layer of frost.

Near the end of the Imperial Way, the street passed through the collonaded and circular Forum of Constantine. Statues of dolphins, elephants and the old gods competed with the towering effigy of Constantine in the centre of the forum. Sanguine and inebriated citizens clung to these statues and crowded behind the wall of varangoi axemen, vying to get a good view of the procession. The scent of spilled wine, roasting meat and garlic hung in the air. Flutes whistled, kettledrums thundered and the strings of a lyre danced to this melody.

On the western edge of the forum, Apion sat with Dederic atop the steps at the foot of an ancient, blue-speckled marble statue of Minerva, like two men stranded on a tiny island.

‘
Aaah
!’ Dederic sucked on his wineskin and marvelled at the festivities all around them. He smacked his lips together. ‘Running certainly clears the mind. But this, sir,’ he patted his wineskin, ‘washes the troubles away in half the time, doesn’t it? I haven’t thought about that fat bastard of a lord back in Rouen once this morning!’ He took another swig. ‘Warms the blood!’

‘Aye, it should,’ Apion shot back with a cocked eyebrow. ‘But by any man’s measure, your blood should be ablaze by now!’

Dederic cackled at this, then swigged some more. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’ The Norman said, offering the skin.

Apion shook his head and tore a piece from a round of still-warm bread. As he chewed on it, he glanced around the crowd. In the days since he had dealt the most ruthless of deaths to Psellos’ torturers, he had let nothing but pure water pass his lips. But this was pragmatism as opposed to penance. Since they had returned to the city, Romanus had not drawn breath without a ring of varangoi close enough to hear it. Apion had slept little in these last nights, his eyes darting at every noise in the towering palace corridors. But there had been no more incidents. The doukes and the strategoi had remained unharmed, and it seemed as if they would, as agreed, return to their armies at the end of the week. But for Apion, Psellos’ seeming withdrawal of hostilities was ominous.

‘It’s only a morning away, sir.’ Dederic spoke as if reading his thoughts. ‘By noon today, Romanus will be wed and then he will be emperor. Then we will be free to set out for Chaldia once more.’

Apion stopped chewing and eyed his comrade. ‘Ah, I meant to break this to you earlier . . . ’

‘Sir?’ Dederic frowned.

‘We are to stay on. Romanus wants counsel in planning his first campaign, to the east, to strike back at Alp Arslan. But there is much to do to consolidate his reign and revitalise the armies before we can set out. So we will remain here for some months.’ He grinned as he saw Dederic’s initial expression of disappointment faltering. ‘I knew you would not be wholly disheartened by this news. You do not have to pretend that you miss the bleakness of the borderlands.’

Dederic held up his wine skin and shrugged as he eyed it. ‘Aye, this place has its merits. But for all the wine and fine food I’ve grown accustomed to in these last months, it is like living in a boiling cauldron.’ Then he sighed. ‘And the longer I am here, the longer it will take me to earn the coins I need to free my family of the fat lord’s attentions.’

‘Set your mind at ease,’ Apion replied. ‘When we do return to Chaldia, I’ll see to it that you’re paid a tourmarches’ wage in arrears.’

‘A fine gesture, sir,’ Dederic’s face widened with a broad smile. Then it faltered.

‘Something still plays on your mind?’ Apion frowned, thinking of the lost days when he had divulged his dark quandaries to old Mansur. ‘A trouble left brewing in your thoughts can be worse than a pox.’

Dederic looked up, his eyes shaded under a perplexed frown. ‘It will still take me some years to earn the wealth I need.’ Then he shook his head. ‘But it is graceless of me to mutter and complain when you have shown such generosity.’

‘The wine does that to the best of men,’ Apion grinned.

Just then, the crowds erupted in a cheer that grew louder and louder. The pair looked up. The procession approached along the Imperial Way. Patriarch Xiphilinos was dressed in a purple robe that reached to the ground and he carried a tall, gilded and jewel-studded Cross. He walked with silent sobriety – in stark contrast to those who cried out in fervent prayer and inebriate well-wishing. Behind him, a thick wall of white-armoured varangoi marched. Behind them, Romanus rode on a gilded chariot, his flaxen hair whipping in the breeze as he saluted his people.

At this, Apion stood, washing his hands in a fountain at the foot of the statue of Minerva. Then he clasped a hand on Dederic’s shoulder. ‘I’d best make my way to the Boukoleon Palace for the ceremony. We’ll talk later. In the meantime, let your troubles wander and lose themselves in the alleys. I’ll leave you to tolerate the celebrations?’

Dederic’s frown remained. Then he relaxed into a smile, lifted his wineskin and sucked on it once more. ‘Aye, sir.’

***

Apion stood on a balcony, looking down on the smoky grey marble of the Boukoleon Palace floor. This, the ceremonial palace just south of the Imperial Palace and the Hippodrome, was as sedate and ordered as the streets outside were chaotic. Sweet scented oils spiced the air and candles flickered silently all around the cavernous interior, spliced with red-veined marble columns, yawning archways and latticed screens. Senators, priests, military leaders and provincial magnates were packed on the ground floor, leaving only a narrow corridor from the doors to the gilded altar. The corridor was lined with varangoi, and ten more stood vigil either side of the altar. Igor stood there, shuffling in discomfort at being under the gaze of so many, his hair groomed out of its usual braids – doubtless against his will.

Xiphilinos stood before the altar. Eudokia and Romanus stood facing the patriarch. Eudokia wore a rich red silken robe that wound around her slender figure, and was studded with gemstones, just like the headdress that framed her delicate features. Romanus wore fine and embellished armour – a glistening klibanion formed of polished, alternating gold and bronze plates – with white, silk trousers and supple leather boots.

Xiphilinos’ joining of the pair had been stilted at best. They had followed the age-old ritual, with the patriarch placing the ceremonial wedding crown on each of their heads, then leading them behind a painted screen to offer them the Eucharist – a sliver of leavened bread and a goblet of wine from which they both sipped. Eudokia had then placed the golden heart chain around Romanus’ neck, and Romanus had in turn pinned a gilded brooch to her breast. The exchange of these items was to symbolise their acceptance of one another. As much as Apion saw hope in their joining, he also pitied the loveless relationship that seemed certain to follow.

The imperial coronation that followed at least seemed outright in its intentions. First, Romanus donned the purple cloak, clasping it over his ornate klibanion. Then Xiphilinos brought forth the imperial diadem – a gilded crown, studded with emeralds and rubies, a golden Cross rising from the forehead. Romanus accepted the diadem, placing it upon his head. Twin chains of pearl dangled on each side of his jaw, golden Crosses swinging from the end. Then the patriarch delivered another Eucharist to the new emperor. After this, the palace fell utterly silent. Romanus then turned to the audience, and raised his arms up, looking to the heavens before bowing. Then Xiphilinos called out to the onlookers.

‘Bow your heads to the Lord!’

At this, all watching did as commanded. All except Apion. Instead, he thought of all those he had lost, and wondered at their unquestioning faith.

‘To you, O Lord!’ Romanus and the crowd called out in unison.

Next, Romanus stepped forward, onto a brightly painted circular shield laid on the marbled floor.

Then four varangoi strode forward and hoisted the shield and the man up to their shoulders. With this final gesture, Romanus Diogenes was Emperor of all Byzantium.

A slave boy scampered across the back of the hall and slipped from the grand doorway and cried out; ‘All hail Emperor Romanus Diogenes!’ Then, from outside a huge roar erupted, shaking the very foundations of the palace.

‘Ba-
si
-le-us! Ba-
si
-le-us! Ba-
si
-le-us!’

Apion wondered how many men had been subject to this ceremony in the thousand years of imperial history, and how many of those had been foul-blooded. Not this one, he affirmed, dismissing the distraction of all other finery to focus on one thing. The golden heart pendant.

He had come here in search of hope and he had found it.

***

Psellos’ eyes never left Romanus as he was carried from the palace. Every cheer felt like neat acid on his skin, and the man’s jutting jaw and bold gaze seemed designed to taunt him. This, after the discovery that three of his finest torturers had been reduced to little more than piles of mutilated skin and bone.

‘You said this would
never
happen!’ John Doukas hissed by his side.

‘I said Romanus would not end the Doukid dynasty, Master. That is very different.’ Psellos spoke while barely moving his lips, wary of the magnates, military leaders and priests packed around them either side of the hall.

‘But it is too late now. Have you lost your sight?’ John shot a hand up at Romanus as he was carried past.

Psellos grabbed his arm before anyone noticed. ‘Bide your time, Master, and you will have the throne. Via your nephew, or even for yourself.’

John’s face was glowing red now. ‘How? He now benefits from Eudokia’s guard, and the loyal tagmata surround him also. We cannot get to him.’

Psellos leaned in closer to him. ‘Perhaps that is for the best. Look at him, the oaf puffs out his chest upon that shield, and the people will love him for such a cheap show of bravado. If we were to sink a blade in his ribs now, in the city, they would mourn his loss, Master. Equally, they would resent any usurper.’

Psellos and John found themselves left behind as the audience poured from the Boukoleon Palace in Romanus’ wake to join the populace for the celebrations that were sure to last for many days.

John’s lips were taut. ‘Very well, so what do you propose?’

‘We have him fail his people, Master. He comes into power on the back of bold designs to reclaim the eastern borderlands for the empire. In the coming months, he will have to vindicate such claims. A campaign will be announced and he will leave for the east. If he was to fail out there, then the people could have no complaint over your succession.’

John’s eyes darted as he contemplated the possibilities. ‘And if he was to die on the end of a blade . . . ’ his whispered words cast a sibilant echo around the now empty palace.

Psellos’ brow dipped. ‘Oh, I think that in the heat of battle such a thing is commonplace, especially if the sultan’s armies were to be one step ahead of the emperor’s movements.’ Then Psellos placed a hand on John’s shoulder and pointed up to the gallery where the
Haga
had stood moments ago. It was deserted apart from one figure, cloaked and hooded, pure white skin and silver eyes bathed in shadow. ‘Yes, my finest man will keep abreast of the emperor’s plans and weaken his initiatives from within.’

But John’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yet one man alone may not be enough. Perhaps we should also look to seed Romanus’ ranks with another? A man in his very retinue, one who will ride by his side in this coming campaign. A man who answers to us?’

Psellos’ nose bent over a shark-like grin. He had led his puppet to yet another conclusion. ‘A fine idea, master. But those who can get close to the emperor are loyal to him.’

John plucked a thick, pure-gold nomisma from his purse, then stroked it as if it was a pet. ‘Even the fiercest loyalty has its price,’ he grinned.