Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (34 page)

Then, as if willed by this frustration, one brave komes burst from the next alley and onto the rising, tapering street. He held his shield overhead, his arm juddering with every arrow strike, his step faltering as he picked his way through the dead. Then, with a hoarse cry, he beckoned his ninety remaining skutatoi with him. They roared in reply, holding their shields overhead to brave the worst of the hail. They reached the ramp and came within paces of the unmanned battering ram.

Yes!
Apion clenched a fist, readying to wave his own men out to support them.

‘Take the strain!’ the komes roared, swiping his spathion forward to usher his men around the device. Then the two ballistae mounted atop the citadel dipped like the beaks of watching birds of prey. The komes’ eyes widened under the rim of his helmet and he staggered back. The ballistae loosed. One bolt hammered into the spine of the ram and a sharp crack of timber rang out; the device was ruined. The other ploughed into the skutatoi, blowing their tight formation apart. At once, the arrow storm from the rooftops turned on the scattered men. Their cries were short lived and the street was piled higher with corpses.

Apion stared at the sight. He ducked back only when another arrow smacked against the whitewashed wall, inches from his eye, sending a shower of dust and grit across his face.

‘Back!’ he hissed, waving his eighty dirt, smoke and bloodstained men flat against the wall. This alley, like all the others they had stolen through to get here, was deserted. Doors lay ajar, belongings lay discarded. The populace had been evacuated. The Seljuks had anticipated the fall of the lower city walls. Planned it, even. Doubt was taking shape in Apion’s gut as he thought of the hidden traitors in their midst.

In the alley directly across from Apion, Sha and his contingent were pinned down too. All up and down the broad street that ran steeply up the hill towards the citadel gate, the scene was the same. The army had been fragmented and immobile like this for over an hour, pinned down in the labyrinth of alleys. Apion looked to the rooftops all around the citadel. The granary, the bathhouse and the tenements were packed with Seljuk archers, pointing to targets, nocking their bows and loosing with ease. The buildings themselves were bristling with akhi, who had so far fended off Byzantine attempts to storm them.

Just then, Komes Peleus returned. He darted across the street, diving into the alley beside Apion, a storm of arrows smacking down in his wake. ‘Many hundreds of them, sir. I lost count after that,’ the little Komes panted, jabbing a finger up to the rooftops. ‘I don’t understand it. Laskaris signalled . . . ’ Peleus started.

‘Laskaris is long dead,’ Apion cut him off. ‘We have been lured into this, Komes. There are far more men garrisoning this city than we were led to believe. And they’re no militia – they are the sultan’s best men.’ He stabbed a finger at the pure white tunics and the horn vests worn by the archers. ‘And they’re keeping us pinned down here.’

‘What for?’ Peleus’ eyes widened.

‘I fear the answer to that more than any of the missiles that might tear my throat out.’

Then a defiant cry rang out from above. Apion looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. Three storeys above, a pair of skutatoi had somehow fought their way onto the bathhouse rooftop and were struggling with the Seljuk archers at the roof’s edge. Then a bundle of akhi appeared behind them. With the flash of a scimitar, one skutatos crumpled out of sight. The other toppled from the roof, screaming, limbs flailing. Then he crunched onto the ground, blood, entrails and grey matter exploding from the shattered corpse. Apion turned away, sickened.

‘We have to take the citadel, we need the high ground,’ he spat, flexing and
unflexing
his fists. Far down the hill, he could see Procopius and his crew waiting in frustration beside the two remaining catapults – the only thing capable of breaking through that citadel gate. Yet the aged tourmarches and his men could not hope to move upon the citadel while the two ballistae on the stronghold roof were trained on anything that approached. Nothing could break through. Not while the ballistae remained. He closed his eyes and breathed. His heart slowed and he imagined himself as an eagle, soaring over the sun-baked city. Then he thought of the men of the campaign army as shatranj pieces and the walls of the citadel as enemy pawns in a tight square. Every piece he tried to move had to best the enemy pawns in order to break into their midst. But the knight . . . the knight could move up, over and inside their lines.

He blinked, his eyes sharp and focused, then looked to Peleus. ‘You are a climber, Komes?’

Peleus frowned.

‘I have seen you climbing the cliffs outside Trebizond.’

Peleus nodded, bemused. ‘Aye, keeps me limber, sir, and falcon eggs fetch a good price at market. What of it?’

‘Can the citadel walls be scaled?’

‘Sir?’

Apion pinned him with his gaze. ‘Can they be scaled, Komes?’

Peleus’ face was etched with doubt. He risked a glance around the corner. ‘They look sheer and smooth, but there will be gaps in the mortar. In theory, yes. But the archers on the rooftops will pick . . . ’

‘Do not fear the archers,’ he flicked his head up, to where the Seljuk marksmen were still scouring the streets below for easy targets, ‘they are clustered on the roofs and streets here, around the northern side. They’re not paying attention to the other side, and they won’t expect climbers,’ he cocked an eyebrow with a ghost of a grin, ‘as that would be a foolish plan.’

Peleus looked up, the fear and doubt on his face dissolving as he squared his jaw and nodded briskly. ‘Then yes, we can do it.’

Apion clasped his shoulder, then looked to two toxotai near the back of his group. ‘Steal back downhill. Take word to Tourmarches Procopius. Tell him that the ballistae will soon fall silent. Tell him that when they do, he must unleash a storm of rock upon the gates.’

Then he turned to the bandophoros and pointed to the filthy crimson Chi-Rho banner on the staff he carried. ‘I’ll be needing that.’

Finally, he beckoned Peleus and seven others equally lithe and light. ‘Now, come with me.’

***

Apion pressed his back against the southern wall of the citadel and filled his lungs with a few good, deep breaths. He looked to the eight with him. Like him, they were dressed only in boots, tunics and
swordbelts
. A few were still stretching their limbs so they were supple enough for the climb.

They had picked their way through the alleys unseen to come round to the south of the acropolis mount. A brief glance around had confirmed that only a few Seljuk archers had part-sight of this area and in any case, they seemed to be focused on the scurrying Byzantines below the gates on the north side. So, Apion and his men had picked their way up the scree of the acropolis mount unseen. That had been tense enough, but the most perilous part of the plan had still to come.

He turned to the walls, running his palms across the surface. The blocks were vast indeed, but they were also old, and in places the mortar between had crumbled.

‘Good hand and footholds, sir,’ Peleus confirmed. ‘Whereas these,’ he pressed his fingers into the shallowest of depressions where the limestone had been weather worn, ‘are enough to hold you to the wall, but do not use them to climb with.’ The seven skutatoi with them nodded. Their chests were rising and falling rapidly, some darting looks to the Seljuk archers – only a glance away from spotting them.

‘You will not be sighted if you stay close to the wall,’ Apion reassured them. ‘And if you stray from the wall then an arrow will be the least of your worries,’ he added with a half-grin. They laughed at this, some of the nerves dissipating as they did so. Then he fixed each of them with an earnest look. ‘I’ll be following Peleus’ every move, so you follow me. We will get to the top.’

‘Sir!’ they replied in unison.

All eyes fell on Peleus. The limber komes nodded and turned to the wall. He crouched to pat his hands in the dust, then clapped them together.

‘Good for grip,’ he nodded, motioning for the others to do the same.

Next, he slid one foot into the first gap and then stretched out an arm to reach the next one. He groaned then swung his leg up and kicked it into the next gap in the mortar. The little komes picked his way up the citadel wall like a spider. Apion memorised his every hold, then followed suit.

As he rose, the din of battle became distant. He heard only the thudding of his own heart and every scrape of his fingers and boots in the limestone. The sun seemed intent on blinding him. His spathion seemed to pull at his belt like an anvil, and the higher they climbed, the more precarious and tenuous each hand and foothold became. Worse, his arms took to trembling with fatigue. His legs were strong from running and his arms were lean and muscular from battle but this climb seemed to pull on tendons and muscles he had not used in years. His vision became hazy and his mouth dry. It was then that a breeze served to remind him of how high he was. He glanced down to see the other skutatoi below gawping up at him, their hair flapping in the breeze, their eyes wide. He realised he could not afford to show any sign of weakness or those below him would let fear creep back into their hearts.

He reached out for the next handhold and then hesitated – it was barely a dent in the wall.
Did Peleus climb with this? He said we should avoid these but I am sure he used it.
Then he realised he had lost track of the little komes’ path above him.
No time to delay,
he affirmed, then worked his fingers into the depression and hoisted himself up.

In that instant, his grip was gone. His body jolted in alarm as he dropped, his fingertips gouging at the surface. Fingernails were ripped clear as he fell and he braced himself for death. Then his body jolted as his scimitar guard wedged into one foothold below. All was still. He panted, staring at the ivory hilt. This was not the first time old Mansur’s sword had saved him.
Don’t let it be the last,
he mouthed, seeing the old man’s solemn features in his memories,
you owe me that much
. Then he glanced down to see the skutatoi below had halted in horror at his fall.

‘Bad handhold,’ he said flatly, before continuing on the climb as if nothing had happened.

When Apion neared the top of the wall, he found Peleus waiting, clinging like a limpet. The others soon joined them.

‘Take a few moments to breathe and reinvigorate your limbs,’ Apion whispered over the gentle breeze. Their chests rose and fell and they looked all around them. On the shimmering Syrian plain, outside the western wall, the riders of the Scholae Tagma had set up tents and laid down their armour and weapons. Packs of them were now setting out to locate fodder, forage and water as Romanus had ordered them too, for it had swiftly become apparent that the city had been stripped of all food and the cisterns had been drained too. The Antitaurus Mountains stood defiant in the north. The waters of the Euphrates sparkled in the east. Then his gaze snagged on something, far to the south. A train of wagons and a disorderly mob. The populace of Hierapolis, fleeing from their homes.

Guilt stabbed at his heart at this. Relief washed around his veins too – that they would not be slain. But there was something else. A shiver passed over his skin again; there was something about this city, something about those fleeing people. He frowned, unable to turn away from the sight.

***

Maria swept her robe over her mouth to block out the worst of the dust. Then she felt Taylan wrench clear of her grip, spinning round to look north once more.

‘I should be there, to fight them off, to save our city, to save our home!’ he spat, staring back at the besieged city. His fingers flexed on his spear, knuckles white. The fleeing families and wagons broke around him like a river around a rock. Women, children and elderly flinched at his snarling expression as they passed.

Maria placed a hand on his shoulder as she looked to Hierapolis with him. She knew what was to happen there today. She could not bring herself to tell Taylan. She pulled him round from the sight, grappling him by the shoulders. ‘Your duty is to see your people safely to Damascus.’

He dropped his gaze. ‘But I should be there, by his side . . . ’

Maria placed her forehead against his, cupping his face, silencing him. ‘Turn and walk with me, Taylan. I need you to be strong.’

At last he nodded, and they set off together once more.

Maria afforded one last look back at the city. Her gaze lingered on the top of the citadel. An odd chill passed over her skin.

***

‘Sir?’ Peleus hissed.

Apion snapped out of his thoughts, turning from the distant exodus.

He eyed each of his men. They all wore flinty looks. They were ready.

Then he sucked in a breath. ‘Now!’

They scrambled up and over the crenellations, thudding down onto the rooftop. There were twelve archers lining the northern edge of the roof, and then the ballistae were each manned by crews of three akhi.

One Seljuk archer spun to the noise and loosed an arrow instinctively. It took the skutatos nearest Apion square in the throat, and he toppled back over the wall.

Apion lurched for the archer, then swept his scimitar round, knocking the bow from the man’s grip before ramming the blade into his gut. He twisted to hammer his elbow into the face of the next nearest, then wrapped an arm around the man’s neck to use him as a shield against the arrows loosed by the man’s comrades. Then he pushed the man forward, bundling him and another from the roof. Peleus and two skutatoi had already cut down six of the others, while the other four Byzantines despatched those manning the ballistae, one of the skutatoi taking a fatal cut to his belly in the process. The remaining three Seljuk archers fled, descending into the citadel. Apion ran to the leftmost ballista, chopping down on its bow with his scimitar then kicking out to snap the device. ‘Peleus, shatter the other ballista,’ he yelled. ‘The rest of you, guard the staircase!’