Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (31 page)

Dederic’s eyes darted, then locked onto Apion’s. ‘A spy could infiltrate the city, sir?’ he suggested.

Sha nodded at this, slapping a mosquito from his neck. ‘That could be the perfect balance. We need to be swift in our taking of this city and sure of the forces we will face.’

‘Aye, but it will still take some time to get a man in there and then back out again . . . ’ Procopius started.

‘Then we leave him inside,’ Dederic finished for him.

All looked to the little Norman.

‘We send someone in disguised as a trader. They ascertain the true strength of the garrison. If they look susceptible to a sudden, blunt attack, then our man could signal from the walls.’ He pointed to the battlements, and the tower on the left side of the main gate – larger than all the others. ‘By noon tomorrow we could be here with the whole army, waiting on the signal; three flashes for an advance, five flashes to hold back?’

Apion looked around his men.

Sha was the first to offer his opinion. ‘It’d take a brave man to wander in there alone, but it sounds like a plan, sir.’

Apion clicked his tongue and then nodded. ‘Then I will suggest this to the emperor.’ He looked up to the sky to see that it was almost overcome with blackness. ‘Now let us return to the camp – else the men will presume we have taken leave of our senses and tried to storm the place ourselves.’

***

Laskaris always knew he had been destined for greatness. When he joined the Chaldian Thema as a skutatos, he knew he was going to be led by a fine man. Indeed, the
Haga
and he shared certain traits; Laskaris had been brought up by a Seljuk mother and an Armenian father, thus he could speak the Greek tongue and the Seljuk tongue interchangeably just like the strategos. Yet, after four years in the tourma led by the Malian, Sha, it had become clear that perhaps he was not destined to excel as a warrior of the ranks. He was twenty four now, and had fought in many battles. Yet he hadn’t even been promoted to the front rank and provided with the iron klibanion and helmet that distinguished the brave warriors who fought in that most perilous position. Despite this, the strategos had regularly taken the time to encourage him, telling him that he was a valued soldier, and that his time would come.

And today, it seemed, was that time. For he was to ride forth to Hierapolis and infiltrate the city dressed as a lone Seljuk trader. He had inherited his mother’s swarthy complexion and bore the jet black hair and moustache that was the common style for the Seljuks.

He checked his things once more; a water skin, a bag of orchid root, a parcel of saffron and a purse of coins minted in the eastern Seljuk heartlands. He glanced around his kontoubernion tent at that which he was to leave behind; his felt jacket, cap, spear, spathion and shield, all piled up next to his bedding. It was ironic that his rise to recognition would come without his skutatoi equipment.

He sucked in a deep breath and pushed back the tent flap. The morning sunlight blinded him for a moment and the contrast in temperature was stark. He walked through the camp. A crowd of soldiers followed him, wishing him well. They all wore anxious but excited grins. All except the ghostly white skutatos from the ranks of the Thrakesion Thema. He realised he was staring at the albino and dropped his gaze. Then he approached the
Haga
, who held the reins of a small, thick-necked fawn steppe pony. He was flanked by Sha and the other three tourmarchai.

Laskaris saluted to each of them. His salute to Dederic was subconsciously diluted just a fraction. Dederic had proved to be a noble warrior in his time with the Chaldian Thema and the man had a pleasant and unassuming way about him. Despite this, Laskaris could not help but feel the tendrils of jealousy coil around his heart. This westerner had shot to prominence with such apparent ease while he had languished in the ranks, undistinguished.

Perhaps that was about to change with his efforts today, he reasoned, his mood brightening.

‘Sir,’ he looked to the strategos, taking the reins of the pony, ‘I am ready.’

The strategos nodded. ‘Take great care, Laskaris, for today, the fate of your comrades lies in your hands.’ Then he stepped forward and clasped a hand to Laskaris’ bicep. ‘These are weighty expectations to place upon a man’s shoulders, but I know you have it in you. That is why I have chosen you for this task.’

Laskaris felt a few inches taller at this reassurance. He sprung into the saddle and nodded to the gathering crowd of skutatoi. The albino had disappeared, it seemed. But the others called out to him as he trotted through the camp, and more came to offer salutes and pats on the back. Hubris coursed through his veins until he left the south gate of the camp. There, the bustle fell away as he wound his way up the rise in the land. Out here the patches of greenery and the merciful breeze of the riverside fell away sharply. Out here it was scorching hot and silent. Finally the land levelled out and he came onto the vast Syrian plain. Hierapolis beckoned him.

He made his way across the featureless plain towards the city’s north gate. The walls flickered in the heat haze ahead, and then he noticed the licks of silver atop the gatehouse; akhi and their sharpened spears. His mouth was suddenly as dry as the dust around him and his bowels took to turning over with a series of groans. The cicada song seemed to grow in intensity at this moment, as if the insects were screaming at him to reconsider.

Then a distant clopping of hooves caught his attention. He shot a glance to the east. There, ambling along the east-west track about a half-mile away was a small caravan of traders. They rode from the banks of the Euphrates to the city’s east gate, their wagons pulled by Arabian horses. A contingent of men stumbled along behind them, their wrists in chains. One of the Seljuks lifted and swung something. The sharp cracking of a whip rang out and one of the shackled men stumbled as if broken by the blow. Laskaris gulped at the sight; were they slaves, being taken to market – or perhaps Byzantine captives, being taken for execution? He dropped his gaze to the ground, trying to stay his fears. Then he noticed something odd there on the dust before him.

Hoofprints. Relatively fresh. They led all the way to the north gate as if mapping out a path for him. He frowned and twisted in his saddle to locate their origin; the hoofprints weaved around his own, all the way back to the dip in the land and the sunken crescent that hid the camp. He frowned at this.

Just then, a voice split the air.

‘Who goes there?’

Laskaris spun round to the ancient-looking gatehouse. The moustachioed sentry up there was wrapped in a white linen robe and wore a red felt cap. The man leant on his spear and peered at Laskaris, brow furrowed.

Laskaris licked his lips and realised just how much dust had lined his throat in this short ride. He coughed and held up the sacks of orchid root and saffron. ‘I bring spices for the market,’ he bellowed.

The sentry eyed him, then spoke to some unseen other within the gate tower. Laskaris’ heart thundered under the silent scrutiny that ensued. He was sure the sentry could see right through his ruse, and at that moment he was also convinced he had inadvertently kept some piece of giveaway Byzantine equipment on his person.

Then the sentry shrugged. ‘Be on about your business then.’

Laskaris’ terror turned to relief for a moment, then his blood iced over once more as he passed under the shadow of the gatehouse and into the sun-bleached interior of the ancient city. The noise was in stark contrast to the arid plain outside. The hubbub of bartering and gossip echoed down the broad street that led into the palm-lined market square. Here, the babble of man was mixed with a chorus of animal noises; lowing oxen, groaning camels, the clucking and screeching of distressed chickens and the bleating of goats. Men hauled sacks of grain. Traders pulled carts, yelling to their customers. Women carried babies and led children through this throng. They seemed to be in a hurry, many packing grain and clothing in carts.

Laskaris guided his mount through the swell, trying desperately to avoid making eye contact with anyone in the sea of sweating faces all around him. It felt as if, at any moment, his veil of disguise could fall away.

He slid from his mount and led the pony along the southern and western edges of the square. He took care to shade his eyes whenever he looked around, to disguise the subject of his gaze. The squat lower city walls were indeed thinly manned with akhi in little or no armour – militia rather than battle-hardened warriors. Still, it would be no simple task for the campaign army to take these walls, he thought, noticing the pair of ballistae mounted on each of the towers and the thick and well bolstered gates. And no doubt there would be a reserve garrison, he affirmed, a number of men who could rush to strengthen the wall guard at the first call of alarm. Ascertaining their number was his next task, he realised, turning his sights uphill towards the acropolis. The old red-bricked Byzantine barrack compound at the foot of the acropolis mount was just visible through the jumble of buildings.

He led his pony along the main street, thick with people cutting across his path, barging ahead of him or coming towards him. One, an aged man with a false eye, seemed to glare at him in the way a wolf would eye a wounded deer. His step grew erratic under this perceived scrutiny.
Compose yourself,
he chided himself.

The broad main street tapered off after a few hundred feet as it rose up the slope towards the acropolis. Then it disintegrated into a dozen or more spidering streets and tight alleys – this was the layout of the original town. He glanced up to see which path would take him closest to the barracks; one narrow, shaded alley lined with stained, whitewashed tenements looked like the best bet. This took him past a few craggy-faced beggars and a three legged, mangy dog – even it seemed to cast him a suspicious glare.

At last, he reached the end of the alley when it joined a less claustrophobic street. The crumbling barrack compound was on the other side of this street. He pretended to fasten his belt as he scanned the few patches of shade nearby. Then his eyes locked onto one spot; an unplanned, triangular gap between the barracks and the Seljuk granary that had been built adjacent to it. The space was thick with gathered dust and tapered off at the far end where the barrack and granary walls touched. There, a pile of tumbled red bricks presented a rough set of stepping stones leading up to the top of the crenelated barrack wall.

Perfect
, he thought, leading his pony across the street and into the gap.

Then a hand slapped on his shoulder.

Laskaris spun to face the pair of akhi who glowered at him. All his fears surged into his heart at once, and he barely controlled his instinctive urge to grasp for his spathion – which was back in his tent anyway. He was sure he shook visibly from the thudding of his every heartbeat. The two were dark-eyed, sallow-skinned and moustachioed. One was tall with a razor-nose and the other shorter and flat-faced. Both were finely armoured and equipped, wearing felt caps and horn klibania over pristine white, long-sleeved linen tunics. Their fingers flexed on the freshly-hewn spear shafts they carried. Laskaris’ brow knitted momentarily at the condition of their garb.

‘What are you doing?’ the tallest of the two asked him abruptly, interrupting his flicker of thought.

‘Stopping for a little shade,’ he heard himself say, wiping his sweating brow.

‘Where are you headed?’ the shorter one continued, his tone a little less terse.

‘To the spice market by the south gate,’ Laskaris heard himself say. He held up the two sacks. ‘Though when I get there I may keep some of this orchid root for myself,’ he forced a grin. ‘A mouthful of warm salep on a day like this drains the heat from you.’

The two soldiers looked to one another and a painful silence ensued. Then the tall, razor-nosed soldier nodded. ‘You’ll do us a deal, yes?’ he muttered, rummaging in his purse.

Laskaris’ lips opened and closed wordlessly.

Then the big soldier’s face cracked into a grin and he produced a silver
dirham
. ‘For some orchid root?’

Laskaris suppressed a gulp and nodded, taking the coin. He loosened the orchid root sack and poured a generous measure of the root into the small pouch the shorter akhi held out.

‘We will raise a toast to you when we drink, trader!’ the taller one grinned once more and then the pair turned and marched away, downhill towards the northern market square.

Laskaris watched them go. Something about them stuck in his mind. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t place his finger on exactly what. He shook the doubt from his mind and glanced around to check that nobody else was watching him.

He tethered his pony to an iron ring jutting from the granary wall, before slinking back into the shadows of the dusty, dead-end gap by the barracks. He clutched at the collapsed pile of red bricks. Some crumbled in his grasp, throwing puffs of dust into his eyes and he had to stifle a curse when this happened. But he climbed swiftly and in a few moments he was almost level with the parapet. He waited there for a heartbeat, hearing the snorting of horses inside the compound. Then, he pushed up ever so carefully. The crenelated roof of the citadel stronghold overlooked the barracks. But, on snatching a glance up to the top of its lofty roof, he saw that just one sentry stood there, gazing lazily out to the south, back turned. Reassured by this, he pushed up just a little more, then looked down into the heart of the barrack compound.