Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (29 page)

‘So, Zenobius,’ Trolius, the pug-nosed
dekarchos
slurred, ‘tell us a story. You’re from . . . ’ he frowned.

‘Ancyra,’ Zenobius lied, disguising his disdain for this weak man. The leader of his kontoubernion, like the rest of the men, had been cold and guarded around him. Just like everyone else in his life had. It was only now they were drunk that they seemed to warm to him.

‘Aye, Ancyra,’ Trolius snapped his fingers. ‘So, what are the women like in Ancyra?’

Zenobius looked at them, their faces expectant. Then he forced a smile, mimicking their inebriate expressions. ‘I’ll need another cup of this stuff before I can talk about the women of Ancyra!’

He took his leave as the men roared with laughter at this. He had no intention of returning. Instead, he passed around the feasting area. He glowered at a pair of buxom women who barged past him; the pair shared the warmth of a green woollen cloak as they jabbered about some burly soldier who only seemed to want to talk about his problems – the main one being a bulbous wart on his genitals. The two women shared a look of disgust, then they both shrieked with laughter. Then a staggering drunk fell across his path, slurring an apology, his breath wretched.

Finally, Zenobius reached the table where the emperor sat, whispering with the
Haga
. He offered a faint and cold nod to his accomplice, sat there too. Then he picked a seat nearby – close enough that he could see the emperor’s face
.
He pretended to swill from his empty cup, all the time watching their lips move. He read it all; the emperor’s plans for his forces and his ambitions once they reached Syria.

At last he turned away, looking south to the tall and treacherous shadow of the Antitaurus Mountains.

If
they reach Syria, he mused.

***

Dekarchos Trolius hiccupped as he swaggered back through the dark streets of Melitene. The air was still spiced with the tang of roasted meat and woodsmoke from the feast. The few torches that still glowed showed that the streets were empty bar the odd inebriate soldier like himself. His thoughts were on the curvy and milky-skinned Rus woman, Tetradia, he had just left behind in the brothel. He could still smell her sweet scent, and could still see her pendulous breasts bobbing in his mind’s eye. Guilt and pleasure tugged at his conscience. Then a grin stretched over his face.

‘Ah, just wait till I tell the others,’ he grinned inanely, thinking of his fellow soldiers who had run out of money earlier that evening. ‘They’ll be raging!’

He looked up, his eyelids half covering his pupils, and a hiccup escaped from his lips.

‘Now which way was it?’ he muttered, dragging a finger along the streets before him, looking for the way to the main gate on the southern walls that would take him back to the imperial camp. He chose one shadowy alley behind the granary and set off that way.

The shadows danced around him as he stumbled over the loose and worn flagstones. Then the alley opened up to reveal the main gate, only paces ahead. A grin spread across his features, then settled into a frown. Locating the main gate was the easy part of it. Sneaking through it and then back into the imperial camp and his pavilion tent during the hours of curfew would be somewhat stickier though. He thought again of the others in his kontoubernion – probably sound asleep in their tents by now, obeying the curfew just as he had drilled them to do. Guilt touched his thoughts once more.

He looked up to the walkway above the gate and saw that the two skutatoi on sentry duty up there were talking, doubtless trying to fend off the urge to sleep. The single sentry by the gate hatch inside the city was less fortunate. He rested against the gate, head slumped, chest heaving to the rhythm of his snoring. Satisfied with this, Trolius strode forward and slipped under the shadows of the gatehouse, lifting the iron latch carefully despite his blurring vision. Then he opened the hatch and readied to slip outside. He cast one last glance at the sleeping sentry and shook his head. ‘Disgraceful . . . ’ he whispered, then clamped a hand over his mouth just in time to stifle a hiccup.

The sentry stirred but only enough to grumble and reposition himself.

Trolius closed the hatch and made haste through the imperial camp. The sky was peppered with scudding clouds, and this caused the moonlight to come and go. Right now, the full moon shone strongly, revealing the imperial banners fluttering in a light breeze in the centre of the camp where the emperor and his varangoi were situated. Surrounding them was the sea of pavilion tents of the themata and tagmata, each cluster marked out by the fluttering, multi-tailed banners of those armies. He tried to pick out the distinctive colours of his banda standard – yellow cloth emblazoned with the Chi-Rho, then three coloured tails: yellow for the thema, blue for the tourma and green for his bandon. Locating it by the outer edge of the camp, he picked his way forward through the tent ropes, avoiding the main thoroughfare for fear of being spotted. He stifled a curse as the moonlight faded under a veil of cloud, causing him to nearly skewer his foot on a tent peg.

Eventually, he reached the tent. A warm sense of relief washed over him. He paused for a moment before entering. He yawned, groaned and stretched then cast a glance out over the palisade camp wall. The darkness to the south betrayed only the dark outline of the Antitaurus Mountains. A sliver of fear snaked through his heart as he remembered what lay ahead tomorrow. A few hours with the busty Rus lady had served only as a distraction. He shrugged and turned to enter the tent.

But then he spun back to the south and froze.

Out there, in the darkness, something had moved.

He rubbed at his eyes, then crept towards the palisade, gripping it, lifting up onto his toes to peer out.

Again, the shadows rippled.

Suddenly, he became very sober.

He glanced up to the nearest watchtower; the sentry there appeared to be sleeping at his post, head lolled forward on his chest.

He squinted back out at the shadows, desperate to be wrong. But then he saw it; a horseman passed under a brief shaft of moonlight, galloping for the mountains. The rider shot a glance over his shoulder and Trolius’ heart thundered. A ghazi rider? But there was another figure out there too – someone in a dark cloak, standing where the rider had set off from. Trolius gasped, filling his lungs to raise the alarm. But then a cloud covered the plain in darkness once more.

The breath stuck in his throat, and he rubbed his eyes, peering into the blackness. Then the cloud passed from the moon and the plain was illuminated again in an eerie grey light. It was deserted. No rider, no cloaked figure. The panic faded from his breast. Was it a trick of the light? He scratched at his jaw; if he was to report it, reeking of wine whilst breaking the curfew, the skin would be flogged from his back. But if there was to be some kind of Seljuk attack on the camp tonight . . . his head ached with indecision. Then he recognised the sleeping sentry in the nearest watchtower. It was Sittas, a good man and a friend. Perhaps he could waken Sittas, pass on the warning and then retire to his tent quietly.

Satisfied with this, he jogged over to the timber watchtower, trying to keep the image of what he had seen fresh in his mind. A rider and a dark cloaked figure. The rider was racing to the mountains and the dark cloaked figure was . . .

His brow knitted into a frown as he saw some dark stain on Sittas’ chest, then he saw the blood washing from the wound on the man’s throat.

Trolius sucked in a breath to cry out in alarm, but the breath never left his lungs.

The cloaked figure from the plain leapt over the palisade to land in the camp only paces ahead of him, then plunged a dagger in his heart. Trolius saw only silver eyes and a ghostly pallor under the figure’s hood.
Zenobius?
He mouthed silently.

Then he fell to his knees. A bitter cold gripped his body as the lifeblood pumped from the wound. Behind the albino, he saw some other figure slinging Sittas’ body over one shoulder, then bringing it down from the watchtower. As he toppled to the ground to bleed his last, this second figure dropped Sittas’ corpse beside him.

Trolius’ last thoughts were for his brothers in the camp all around him.

What devilment was to befall them?

18.
Mountains of the Bull

The lofty and narrow path that clung to the side of the grey-gold limestone mountain shimmered as the imperial army traversed it like an iron serpent. The kataphractoi vanguard led the way like the tongue and the fangs. Then, some distance back, the head was formed by the emperor, the Cross-bearing priests, the varangoi and the rest of the cavalry. Behind them, the body of infantry writhed like silvery scales for miles, wrapping around this mountainside and the one before it. Then came the supply touldon, the wagons nose to tail in single file, the mules blinkered to the precipitous drop by their sides and the ravine far below. Then the Pecheneg and Oghuz archer cavalry formed the tail.

The sky above was azure and flecked with white cloud. A wake of red-beaked Egyptian vultures circled above the imperial column, eagerly anticipating a meal. Then one bird grew tired of waiting to be fed; it swooped down over the column, gliding over the chain of iron helmets and speartips until it came to the crimson banners of the Chaldian infantry. Here it screeched as it passed over the pair of riders heading them up.

‘What the?’ Blastares stabbed his spear up in fright then squinted up into the morning sun, scowling as the bird
rejoined
its shameless comrades. He tilted his helmet back to scratch at his stubbled scalp. ‘They’re a bit bloody presumptuous are they not?’

‘Aye, if I perish up here I hope the feathery bastards break their beaks on this,’ Procopius tapped at the chest of his iron klibanion. Then he looked to his fellow tourmarches and shrugged. ‘To be fair, though, they could probably smell you from a few miles away.’

Blastares eyed his friend, then whistled as he nodded to the precipice only inches from Procopius’ horse’s hooves. ‘Big drop, that . . . ’

As if to side with the big tourmarches, a section of the rocky path crumbled away, dust and scree toppling silently down towards the foaming waters in the ravine.

Procopius gulped. ‘Look I told you, I’m not good with heights. Next time this track broadens, we swap places.’

Blastares grinned at this then looked away and all around him, nostrils flared, shoulders squared. ‘Perhaps. Depends on the impudence I get from you before then.’

Procopius frowned and fell silent like a scorned child. His wrinkled features were tinged with a shade of green and his eyes took to darting along the precipice.

Then Blastares thought of the echoing scream that had filled the mountain passes a few days ago, when the column was becoming bold and confident of traversing these tracks. A kataphractoi of the vanguard had trodden and slipped on a patch of slime near a waterfall. The man and his mount had no chance of halting their fall. It was a blessing indeed that the column did not hear the impact of the pair on the rocks far below. Blastares had the misfortune to see the tangle of both bodies being washed downstream like broken kindling. Since then, the column had marched with extreme care. He looked to Procopius; ‘Aye, fair enough, we’ll swap,’ he relented. ‘I tell you though, if I was to plot our route through these mountains, this certainly wouldn’t be it.’

Procopius nodded. ‘Goes without saying that I agree. I understand why the emperor has chosen it though.’

‘Next to no chance of a pitched assault along the way? Aye, I can see that,’ Blastares looked around again. The place was majestic and barren at once. The towering mountainsides were pierced with a smattering of hardy shrubs and vulture nests, but otherwise they seemed devoid of life. The central mountains towered above all else, their snow-capped peaks ghostly in the haze. For the last eight days, they had marched in daylight and the temperature had been cool and pleasant. In the evenings, they had camped on what patches of broader track they could find, huddling together to stave off the bitter chill that came with the darkness. This ferocious cold had been the only enemy they had encountered – that along with the thin air and the wretched carrion birds. Still, Blastares was sure he preferred this to the heat.

Just then, Sha and Dederic fell back from the cluster of varangoi and the Imperial Tagmata to ride just ahead of them. ‘Good news!’

‘I’m about to wake up back in Melitene?’ Procopius muttered, never looking away from the precipice.

Dederic frowned at this, then shook his head. ‘No, the
Haga
and the kursores of the vanguard have ridden well ahead and returned to report that the Syrian plain is within a day’s march.’

Blastares and Procopius shared a grin. The skutatoi marching behind Procopius and Blastares heard this and erupted in a cheer, a welcome sound after so long marching in nervous silence.

‘The strategos encountered no signs of danger?’ Blastares asked.

‘No, not yet at least,’ Sha replied. ‘He and a handful of kursores have remained out front. They’re plotting the best path for the rest of the column to take. He will
rejoin
us by the afternoon.’

‘Then on to Syria. Where the ground is flat!’ Procopius marvelled. ‘Flatter than the piss-brew from the tavern in Kryapege!’

Blastares cocked an eyebrow. ‘Aye, and it’s hotter than fire and the place is swarming with insects and Seljuks.’

Procopius sighed and shrugged, then motioned with one hand to the inside of the mountain track. ‘Look, can we just swap places now?’

***

Apion stood by his gelding, stroking its mane as it drank from a babbling waterfall that tumbled down the cliff-face. Here the warm Syrian air mixed with the cool mountain climes and thus the grey-gold rock was dappled with verdant growth. Vines clung to the mountainside and clusters of Syrian Juniper trees sprouted along the edges of the track, lending a tang of pine to the air. A short distance down the track behind him, the three kursores who accompanied him were sitting by their mounts, eating and drinking from their rations. Apion reached up to pluck the berries from the nearest tree and then fed the waxy fruit to his mount. Then he took a dried fig from his rations and chewed upon it as he squinted at the forked path ahead.

One route would take them on a short but high and narrow track to the plateau that marked the end of this mountain range. The other path was long and winding, but wider. The second route was definitely safer but it would mean they would not be clear of the mountains until the following day, probably around noon. Morale had been poor since they had entered the thin air of these passes, so perhaps the safer, longer option was not necessarily the best. He uncorked his water skin and held it up to the waterfall to fill it, then sipped at the meltwater – still ice cold.

The truth was there was little to suggest that any danger lay between them and the Syrian plain on either route – he and the kursores had already ridden to the end of each trail and spotted nothing to be wary of. But something itched at the back of his mind, something that had niggled his thoughts since they had left Melitene. On that last morning before they left, one of the officers of the Thrakesion Thema had been found dead. Murdered. It was the Dekarchos, Trolius. His heart had been cleaved by a blade. They suspected he had been quarrelling with the sentry, Sittas, whose body they found beside him. They thought that perhaps Sittas had deserted his watchtower and, when Trolius had questioned him, the pair had taken up their daggers and torn the life from one another.

During his years in the ranks, Apion had grown well-used to seeing good soldiers die on the battlefield. But that good men should die in their own camp, over what? Some quarrel? And at the end of a comrade’s blade . . . his lips grew taut in disgust as dark memories of his past swirled. If only that was the end to it, but it wasn’t. That nobody had seen anything, anything at all, provoked doubt in Apion’s heart. That the bodies had been found right at the camp perimeter only stoked his misgivings further. His thoughts churned. He plucked a nomisma from his purse. He had found this wedged into the dust near the dead sentry’s body. It was no ordinary coin – it was pure-gold and recently minted.

And it was identical to those used by Psellos to buy loyalty.

What if this was the work of the traitor amongst the ranks? And if so, there had to be more than one individual at work here – slaying a sentry and stealing from the camp unnoticed was near impossible for a single man when there was a full watch. He frowned and gazed through the waterfall, his thoughts spinning.

‘Sir, it’s nearly mid-morning, we should be getting back to the column,’ a scout rider interrupted his thoughts.

Apion blinked, turning to the three riders. They were saddled and ready to move out. ‘Aye, we should.’ He led his Thessalian from the waterfall and slipped one foot in the stirrup, then hoisted himself onto the saddle. He heeled the gelding back along the track towards the column, and the kursores fell in behind him.

They rode until the sun was nearly overhead. At this point, the smattering of white cloud had gathered and had taken on a dark and portentous shade of grey. Indeed, the first spots of rain pattered down around them before long, giving rise to an earthy scent and casting a vibrant rainbow across the mountains. Then a wind picked up. At this the clouds seemed to grow bolder, taking over most of the sky, until the sun was hidden and there was not a patch of blue left. The land was gloomy and grey. Finally, to seal their misery, the gentle rain suddenly turned sheet-like.

When Apion reached for his helmet, a rumble of thunder echoed across the sky and a fork of lightning streaked from the darkest part of the storm clouds. He placed his helmet back on his saddle and cast a contemptuous look towards the heavens. In moments his hair and his cloak were sodden, and the rain lashed from his beard. The kursores barely disguised their distaste for the change in weather, grimacing as their felt caps and jackets grew soaked and heavy. Apion called out to them over the next clap of thunder; ‘Let’s make haste. This looks like it will last for some time, and I don’t relish the prospect of being exposed to a thunderstorm up here any longer than is necessary.’ He waited for the three kursores to nod their assent, then dug his heels into his gelding’s flanks, moving from a canter to a gallop. ‘
Ya
!’

Now the rain picked up a fresh impetus, driving into their faces as the wind became a gale. The mounts hurled up mud in their wake from the mire underfoot.

‘This would have been a blessing back in the valleys of Lykandos!’ One of the kursores roared over the howling wind, shivering with his shoulders hunched.

Apion laughed at this, turning his head from the storm, his drenched locks plastered to his face. ‘Aye, so enjoy it while you can. For it will be a rarity once more when we reach the deserts of Syria.’

The rider responded with a mirthless laugh through chattering teeth. Then another of them called out. ‘Look, sir – the column!’

Apion shielded his eyes from the rain and slowed a little as he looked ahead.

The last stretch of the most treacherous track, clinging to the sheer face of the mountain, dipped and rose like a saddle. Halfway along it, the vanguard had dismounted and now inched along. The rain was driving at them, soaking the cliff face, and their boots slithered and slipped as the path grew slick. He thought back to the kataphractos whose mount had lost its footing on a wet piece of track only days ago. He made out the figure of Romanus, further back. He and his varangoi had also dismounted. The water was rushing past their heels in floods before toppling into the ravine below – its depths now obscured by the spray of the falling rain and the swollen torrents. The priests chanted as they inched along the path. Apion hoped their God would not desert them now. Yet at just that moment, lightning flashed across the sky and illuminated the soaked cliff face and the gilded campaign Cross – and then the storm clouds unleashed an even more ferocious torrent of rain.

First, one skutatoi was washed from his feet. He clawed frantically at the edge of the precipice, only to grasp at loose root and earth before falling into the spray, his scream drowned out by the tumult of the storm. Then, in the distance, a braying rang out as a pack of mules and a supply wagon of the touldon toppled into the foggy abyss, armour and grain sacks spinning free as they fell.

Apion spun to the kursores and spotted the length of rope looped on the
nearest’s
saddle. ‘With me – bring your rope and stakes.’

The three dismounted and followed Apion. He took a stake and rope offered by one rider, then looped the rope around the wood. Then he battered the stake into the earth with his heel. The earth was muddy and soft, but at a depth of half a foot it took to the drier ground below. He looked up to see that the three riders had read his plan and were staking the ground further along, connecting each one by a length of rope. He grabbed another rope and stake and edged onto the cliff-path. It was slick with rainwater and every step felt doubtful. He called out to the kataphractoi at the head of the column, only a handful of paces away but pinned where they stood for fear of falling;

‘Do as I do – if you can!’

He squatted to tie and stake another rope into the inner edge of the path. The kataphractoi threw him one end of their rope and he tied this to the stake also. In the moments when the storm changed direction and the tumult hushed, he heard the dull thud of stakes being kicked and hammered into the ground likewise, all along the column.

Then the storm grew ferocious once more. He beckoned the nearest of the kataphractoi, then cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed; ‘come forward!’