Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (39 page)

23.
The Few

Winter had gripped the lands of the Sebastae Thema like a predator’s claws. A winding track snaked across the land, still, empty and frozen hard with sparkling frost. A dark-red sun dipped towards the western horizon, retreating from the blanket of chill darkness encroaching from the east.

Then a steady crunching of boots and clopping of hooves stirred the icy stillness. From the horizon on the south-east, a weary column of men bearing tattered banners and a smoke-stained campaign Cross marched into view, their breath clouding above them as if to compensate for the lack of a dust plume. The priests carrying the Cross chanted as they marched, lamenting the fallen.

Some way back from the head of the column, Tourmarches Sha rode solemnly, flanked by Blastares and Procopius. He stared dead ahead when the thud of another man falling to the ground sounded from not far behind him. Of the sixteen hundred wretches that had survived the Syrian campaign, nearly a third had died on this march home, succumbing to their injuries and the cold. As such, the path behind them was littered with dead men and mules. Hierapolis had been secured and with it, the beginnings of a new, more defensible borderland in the southeast. But at what cost, he mused, thinking of the six thousand men who would never return home.

Then his eyes fell upon the crimson cloak, tied up to form a parcel and balanced on the front of his saddle. It contained an ivory-hilted scimitar, a battered helmet plumed with black eagle feathers and a folded iron klibanion scarred with a russet, blood-encrusted tear near the midriff.

‘Many widows we make of waiting wives, with so little thought we squander men’s lives,’ Sha spoke gently, his breath clouding before him.

‘Aye,’ Procopius nodded, his aged features creasing as he squinted into the sunset. ‘For an old bastard like me to ride home unscathed while so many boys and young men lie buried back in that dusty plain is strange indeed.’ He pointed upwards furtively. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

Blastares frowned. ‘Eh?’

Procopius glanced this way and that, eyes wide. ‘If God has chosen those who live and those who die, then on a day like today, you have to question his judgement.’

‘You shouldn’t question him,’ Blastares replied flatly, clutching the Chi-Rho amulet dangling around his neck. A troubled frown wrinkled the big tourmarches’ features.

‘The strategos gave up on God a long time ago,’ Sha said, looking to the parcel of armour he carried. ‘What that tells us, I don’t know.’ He looked up to the sky with the other two as if searching the coming gloom for an answer.

A chill wind whistled around them.

‘Tourmarchai of Chaldia,’ a hoarse voice called out from behind.

They turned to the voice. The gaunt and pale, amber-bearded rider was saddled on a scarred chestnut Thessalian, shivering under a pair of thick woollen blankets. He held one hand to his ribs and his face was wrinkled in pain.

‘Strategos!’ Sha gasped, dropping back to ride level with Apion.

‘Ah, so you have my armour, I’ve been all along the touldon looking for that,’ Apion said as if Sha hadn’t spoken. He reached out to lift the crimson bundle from the Malian, poorly disguising another wince of pain as he did so.

‘Sir?’ Sha searched Apion’s battered features. His eyes were open for the first time in weeks. Only that morning, the strategos had been strapped to a stretcher, wrapped in blankets. He was muttering and feverish. ‘The skribones insisted you would be confined to the stretcher for the rest of the journey,’ Sha frowned. ‘Even then, they were sure you were . . . ‘

‘Aye, well, they were wrong,’ Apion replied, his eyes avoiding Sha’s, a bead of cold sweat dancing down his forehead.

Sha’s brow furrowed. ‘Sir, for the last two weeks, you have been near-lifeless, face tinged with blue.’

‘True, I feel well rested,’ he started to chuckle and then stopped, flinching and clutching his ribs. ‘The skribones have done their job. My wound is already healing well.’

‘Then perhaps that old hag should join the skribones?’ Procopius added with a dry snort.

Apion’s gaze snapped round on the white-haired officer. ‘Tourmarches?’

Procopius jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘About a week ago, after we came back through the mountains, she started walking with the column. She was bare-footed and withered like a dried berry. The men grew tired of heckling her after a few days and then she started walking alongside you. The skribones saw no harm in this, until they caught her smoothing some foul-smelling paste into your wound.’

‘I was there,’ Blastares cut in. ‘The open flesh had absorbed most of it by the time they hauled her away and cast her out of the column. We feared she had poisoned you, but that evening, the colour returned to your face and you started to show signs of life once more. But still it was not pleasant; you were feverish, moaning, crying out in pain. You really should be at rest, sir.’

‘I’ll journey as I see fit,’ Apion grunted, scowling, then failing to disguise another shudder of agony. ‘Besides, the skribones fed me a pot of warm stew and bread – I am in fine fettle.’ Sha, Blastares and Procopius stared at him, their brows knitted in frowns.

‘What’s wrong – do I command no respect without my armour?’ Apion barked, patting the parcel then pinning each of them with a flinty glare. The three gawped back at him until at
last
his features melted into a weak smile; ‘Or does the mighty
Haga
look more like a wounded sparrow in his current state?’

The three could not stop laughter tumbling from their lungs at this, rousing the attention of those nearby.

Apion nodded back down the column. ‘Now fall back and ready the men. For we will soon depart for Chaldia. We’re going home.’

‘Aye, sir,’ Sha grinned in reply.

***

As his tourmarchai fell back, Apion rode for the head of the column. Every stride of the Thessalian’s canter sent fiery waves of agony through his torso. Every wave washed at the memory of that curious grey place, pushing it back into the depths of his mind like a fading dream. Not for the first time since he had crawled from the stretcher, he looked to the palm of his hand. Empty. The lock of hair was absent. He looked to the sky in search of an answer. It offered nothing.

When we speak again, I have much to ask you, old woman.

He slowed as he approached the front of the column. Romanus rode there, back straight and jaw squared, his cobalt eyes narrowed as he looked to the deep-red sunset. He carried his purple-plumed helmet underarm. His moulded breastplate was battered and scarred. The golden pendant hung on his breast, glinting in the sunset. Igor and the four surviving varangoi flanked him, their braided locks caked in dust and their armour in tatters.

The Golden Heart lived on. This was the spoil of victory. But then sadness and a dying ember of anger touched his heart as he thought of Dederic, lying in the gore by Zenobius’ side. He had shed blood with the Norman. He had allowed himself to trust the rider. But the man had betrayed him. Yet Dederic had died a hero, Apion having concealed the rider’s shame. Then he thought of Nasir, their days together in adolescence, the war that had torn them apart and the festering scar that had remained between them in the years since. Then that last moment, that unspoken truth. Damn, but I miss you both like brothers, despite it all, he thought, tears pushing into his eyes.

He rubbed his eyes clear and looked ahead. Romanus was the talisman of hope. Romanus was the future.

Psellos’ minions had been slain, but the adviser himself still loomed like a venomous asp. Indeed, Apion wondered what troubled the emperor more; the vast Seljuk armies that would doubtless fall upon Byzantium’s eastern flank in retaliation for the taking of Hierapolis, or the snakepit in the west he was to return to. Romanus’ hard stare at the western horizon suggested the latter.

A cry pierced the air as the Strategos of Sebastae ordered his handful of men to fall out from the column, readying to lead them back to the farms and forts of their homeland.

Romanus turned to the noise, then gawped as he saw Apion. ‘Strategos? Are you sure you are fit to ride?’ Philaretos, Igor and the varangoi frowned in concern likewise.

Apion pulled his woollen blanket tighter and cocked a half-smile at the question he had become so familiar with since prising himself from the stretcher. ‘I’ll ride until I drop.’

Romanus frowned at this. ‘Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘I will recover my strength soon, Basileus. For I must,’ Apion looked to the north. ‘It will soon be time for my men and me to depart for Chaldia. The people of my thema have been without the protection of their army for too long.’

Romanus nodded earnestly. ‘Return to Chaldia and aid your people, Strategos. Then turn your thoughts to readying your army for what is to come. Syria will serve as our south-eastern border now, and a fine one at that; Hierapolis will be garrisoned by the Doux of Mesopotamia and his army, and the city’s walls will be rebuilt taller and stronger. The passes through the Antitaurus Mountains will be maintained and the city will never be starved of reinforcements or supplies. But Eastern Anatolia is still porous, as you well know. Before long we must march into that rugged land. The forts and passes there must be secured if we are to have any hope of holding the sultan’s armies at bay.’ He balled one fist and punched it twice against his palm. ‘Manzikert, Chliat. These strongholds must be secured. With them under imperial control, Lake Van and the surrounding lands will be stable once more.’

A shiver passed over Apion’s skin. I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The mighty Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud. Then he looked to Romanus as the rest of her words echoed in his mind. At dusk you and the Golden Heart will stand together in the final battle, like an island in the storm . . .

Then Romanus rode a little closer, his voice dropping. ‘For Alp Arslan’s Fatimid troubles appear to be over. He will never again turn away from battle as he did in Syria.’

‘He will never relent, Basileus,’ Apion said, thinking of the sultan’s steely resolve. ‘Likewise I will always be there to stand against his armies.’

‘Then we will always have hope, Haga,’ Romanus’ eyes sparkled and he held out his forearm.

Apion clasped his forearm to the emperor’s. He thought of a thousand words that demanded to be spoken. To plead that Romanus stay clear of Psellos and his minions. To stay close to the axes of Igor and his men at all times. To protect Eudokia and her boys. But behind Romanus’ assured gaze, Apion saw a sharpness, and awareness of all the ills he would return to. The words did not need to be said.

‘Until we meet again, Basileus.’

They shared a lasting and earnest gaze and then they parted.

As the imperial banners marched on towards the setting sun, Apion dropped back to the ranks of the Chaldian army. Blastares was leading them in the chorus of a song extolling the benefits of a plump woman’s figure. On seeing Apion approach, the men abandoned the song and threw up their hands in salute.

‘Haga!’

He eyed each of them. One hundred and sixty three men. Each bore scars, bruises, bloodied bandages and some walked on crutches. ‘We have fought long and hard. Now another long march lies ahead of us. But it is the march home.’

At this, a raucous cheer erupted and the crimson banners were pumped in the air.

He smiled at this and heeled his mount round to lead them north, away from the column.

‘Sir,’ a voice called as they peeled away from the column.

Apion frowned, looking down on the lean, gaunt man. It was one of the skribones who had carried him on the stretcher. He offered something in his hand.

‘This fell from your grip, when you were feverish,’ the man said, dropping the object and then jogging back down the Chaldian ranks.

Apion stared at the dark lock of hair and the golden thread that bound it.

The pain inside him was swept away and tears welled in his emerald eyes.

24.
As You Sow

A chill winter wind swept around Trebizond’s market square and searched under Apion’s crimson cloak and thick woollen tunic. His wounds were bandaged and healing well, and the pain had dulled. He weighed the purse in his palm. It had been stripped from the body of Zenobius. The gold coins clunked together, lifeless and cold.

‘Sir, I must leave before sunset,’ the rider said nervously.

Apion looked up. The scrawny lad was mounted and the mules of the fast post were burdened with two wagon-loads of papers and small parcels. Two impatient kursores flanked him, wearing thick woollen cloaks and felt caps and holding spears, their muscular mounts snorting and their breath clouding in the winter dusk.

‘Aye, the empire never sleeps,’ he said with a wry grin, tossing the purse into the lad’s hand.

The rider looked at the purse. ‘Where is this to be taken?’

Apion’s thoughts drifted back to those first days when Dederic had ridden with him. The Norman had won his trust swiftly, proving himself a good-hearted soul. Yet he had blackened his blood by taking Psellos’ gold. Then the Norman had shone once more, at the last, giving his life by way of atonement. So was Dederic a good man poisoned by evil, or an evil man struggling to be good? Darkness or light?

‘To be a man is to be both,’ he muttered absently, a thousand dark memories flashing through his mind, ‘and the struggle is endless.’

‘Sir,’ the rider frowned, ‘the purse?’

Apion looked up, his thoughts falling away. ‘The purse is to go west. Far to the west. Outside the city of Rouen in Normandy, there is a smallholding by a clear brook, ringed by gnarled and aged oaks. A widow by the name of Emelin lives there with her children. See to it that this reaches her uncorrupted.’

The lad nodded earnestly. ‘Yes, Strategos. On my life I will see that it reaches this place.’

Apion stood back from the rider’s path and the mule train clopped into motion, rumbling to the southern city gate.

He watched the train leave and head to the west. From the barrack compound nearby – glowing orange in firelight – he could hear Blastares and Procopius recounting some ribald tale with their comrades. Every passage was punctuated with a roar of wine-fuelled laughter from those they entertained.

Then a biting wind howled over the chatter, and Apion realised the last of the market-goers had retreated indoors to their warm homes. He was utterly alone in the deserted streets of the city and now the sky was near-black. The stars over the eastern horizon sparkled brightest. So much lay out there. The sultan’s vast armies. The empire’s hopes of salvation. But what else?

He reached into his purse and stroked at the dark lock of hair as he gazed eastwards.

Can it be true?

***

Taylan finished the last of his meal of flatbread and cheese, then rose from the table. He pulled on a woollen cloak and opened the door to the bitter, clear night that cloaked the streets of Damascus. A chill draught filled the hearth room of the small house and caused the dying fire to gutter.

‘Come straight back as soon as you have the firewood, you hear?’ Maria called after him. The streets of this vast city were foreign to her and she knew Taylan was but a spark away from trouble. Indeed, he had been foul-
mooded
since the refugees had arrived here.

‘Aye, Mother,’ Taylan called back.

The door swung shut and at once the room was still and quiet apart from the crackling of the embers in the hearth. Maria washed down her meal with a mouthful of warm salep, before lifting the two plates from the tiled table. Then her smile faded as it fell upon the third plate - clean and unused.

She traced a finger along its edge, her thoughts flitting with images of Hierapolis, of Nasir’s insistence that he should stay. Indeed, he had tricked young Taylan into leaving the city, swearing that he would be following them shortly.

She took the plates to the water barrel, humming a tune from her childhood in an attempt to stave off the unwelcome thoughts. Then she heard footsteps approaching the door. She twisted around, smiling, expecting Taylan to enter. But the footsteps died right outside but the door did not open. Then knuckles rapped on the timbers.

She frowned, then moved to the door, drying her hands on her robe. Something caused her blood to ice as she reached for the handle and opened it. Outside stood a grim-faced and weary akhi. One of Nasir’s men. The man’s eyes told her everything before he uttered a word.

She felt little other than numbness in her heart.

‘I bring dire news,’ he started. ‘Bey Nasir finally confronted the
Haga.
’ She heard nothing else, seeing only his lips repeating something, his brow wrinkling in concern. He reached out a hand to her, but she stared through him.

Then she realised he had gone. The man had placed one of Nasir’s cloaks, neatly folded, into her arms.

She felt no sadness in her heart, only a raking guilt at its absence.

Suddenly, the room grew warmer, and the dying fire rose into full flame once more.

‘Grief can take many forms, Maria,’ a croaky voice said behind her.

She spun to the corner of the room. In the shadows, a withered crone sat in the wooden chair there. It was the old lady who had nursed her back from near-death, all those years ago after the murder of her father. The crone’s milky-white eyes sparkled in the firelight and she wore a benevolent half-smile. Maria’s heart warmed at her presence.

‘Most grieve for dead loved ones, and that grief comes in floods, thick and fast. But some must watch as those they love die inside, and that grief is long and wearing. You have grieved long enough, Maria.’

The crone leaned forward and reached out to place a hand on her shoulder. Maria felt the weight lift from her heart at this. The crone’s sightless gaze searched hers, and then she felt something being summoned from the recesses of her mind. A rich and treasured memory. For a moment she was there – on the hillside by Father’s farm. The nutty scent of barley hung in the air, cicadas chattered incessantly and oxen lowed in the fields. She heard chattering voices behind her and spun round. Young Nasir was there, climbing up the hill towards her. His cinnamon skin was unblemished with the scars of war, his grey eyes bright and youthful, his charcoal locks swept back into a pony tail and he toyed with a stalk of wheat as if it was his only care in the world. Beside him was another; a smiling, amber-haired boy, resting his weight on a crutch, emerald eyes sparkling as he climbed.
Apion!

The image faded. The tears had fallen, staining Maria’s cheeks.

‘I loved both of them once.’

‘They both loved you, Maria. Nasir may have neglected to show you just how much he cared for you, but believe me, he did. As for Apion . . . he carries your memory in his heart to this day. And it is Apion you love still, is it not?’

Maria’s gaze fell to the floor at this.

‘Do not trouble yourself with guilt, Maria.’

‘I promised Nasir I would never so much as speak of him.’ She looked up, her eyes glassy. ‘Apion has lived out all these years believing me to be dead, and that it was his doing. I tried to get word to him, but Nasir begged me not to. I granted him this.’

‘A sad day. For that was the start of the long, slow death of Nasir’s soul,’ the crone concluded. ‘But do not loathe your husband for his choices. He made them only to protect you.’

Maria looked to the crackling flames in the hearth. ‘Perhaps those choices were for the best, for I hear that Apion’s life has mirrored Nasir’s.’ She shook her head, a tear dancing down her cheek. ‘Why are men drawn to bloodshed so?’

The crone’s face fell. ‘Just as the sun marches west every day, it is man’s very nature to seek out war.’

Maria’s heart grew heavy at this. ‘Then Taylan will doubtless follow in his father’s path,’ she said, her gaze falling to the floor as she thought of her son.

At that moment, the door opened behind her and the winter chill swept around the room once more. The fire died to a dull glow and the room darkened.

‘Who are you talking to, Mother?’ Taylan’s voice broke the silence.

Maria twisted to his silhouetted figure, then back to the chair in the corner. The crone was gone and in her place was a dancing shadow. In the howling gust outside, the faint screeching of a lone eagle sounded. ‘Nobody, I . . . ’

‘Father’s cloak!’ Taylan cut her off, dropping the firewood he carried. For an instant, his face lifted as he searched the room and the bedroom doorways for sight of Nasir. ‘The Byzantines were repelled? The city stands?’ Then his face fell, mouth agape, eyes wide as he saw his mother’s expression. ‘No . . . ’

Maria shot to standing and embraced her boy. As Taylan sobbed on her shoulder, he shuddered with grief. In between sobs, she heard muffled growling. ‘The Byzantines will pay for this. I will slay his killer, Mother. I swear it to you. I swear it to Allah!’

At this, her heart froze. The truth that she and Nasir had withheld from the boy could remain tacit no longer. The truth that had riven their marriage from the start and sent Nasir spiralling into bitterness.

‘Taylan, there is something you must know,’ she started.

He pulled back from her, his face contorted in grief and confusion.

As she sought out the words, she searched over his features. His charcoal dark hair, his fine, fawn skin.

His sparkling emerald eyes.

***

I stretch my wings and the zephyrs lift me high above the frozen Anatolian plateau. I look down upon the white-capped mountains like a god. But if any man could take my place they would understand the bitter truth of my existence. Yet I must go to where I am drawn, and on this dark and chill night, I am drawn west, to a place I loathe, for it is infested with the darkest of hearts.

I swoop across a frost-coated forest and then the heavens open, unleashing a driving snow-storm across my path, as if willing me to turn back. But I cannot. I battle through the whiteness until I come to the narrow strait that takes me from Anatolia to Europa. Greeting me on the far shore are the tall and broad walls of the place they call God’s city. Here, I must seek out one man and find out what lies within his soul . . .

***

A blizzard howled around the Boukoleon Palace. On one balcony looking out over the sea walls, Psellos stood with John Doukas.

‘It cannot be!’ John spat over the howling wind, thumping a balled fist onto the edge of the balcony, sending settled snow toppling down into the gardens.

Psellos remained silent, gazing stonily through the storm. Just for a moment, the blizzard slowed to change direction, revealing the sea walls. The torches there pierced the night, illuminating patches of the choppy grey surface of the Bosphorus.

‘Our assassins failed? Despite months of planning – he lives?’ John raked his fingers through his hair.

Psellos’ nose wrinkled at John’s panic. The man was just like every other Doukid puppet he had operated in the last twelve years; a blunt and witless character that would do well to stay on his good side.
After all, the
portatioi act on my word alone
. But he swallowed his annoyance and replied calmly; ‘Unfortunately, yes. Romanus will return to Constantinople in the next few weeks, and he will herald the re-taking of Hierapolis.’

‘He will be the people’s new hero,’ John laughed mirthlessly.

‘All we need is another chance – and there will be plenty,’ Psellos offered. He clasped a hand to John’s shoulder. ‘The people will love him for now, but he cannot live off of this victory for long. When winter lifts from the land, he will have to campaign once more. Every stride he takes will be watched by one of our own. Watching, waiting . . . ’ he clenched his other fist as if throttling an imaginary foe.

John Doukas’ scowl faded at this, and then his face bent into a determined grimace. ‘Aye,’ he nodded, ‘and the sooner his blood is spilled, the sooner the throne will belong to its rightful owners once more . . . ’

Psellos smiled, satisfied that he had his puppet under control once more.

‘We will speak again tomorrow,’ John nodded, then turned and strode from the balcony and back into the palace.

Psellos allowed himself a moment of reflection. So many wretches had died – and died horribly – on this initiative, yet he had not even a bruise on his skin nor a dent on his grip on power to complain about.
God’s city, where the emperor reigns as God’s chosen one,
he thought with a sense of satisfaction. ‘Then he who chooses the emperor must be . . . ’ he started, grinning like a shark.

‘ . . . a dark soul indeed,’ a voice spoke, inches from his ear.

Psellos stumbled back, startled. Where John had stood moments ago, a cloaked and hooded figure loomed. The storm picked up with a ferocious howl. He panicked, backing up against the balcony edge. An assassin? No, this figure was knotted and withered. The numeros spearman posted on the adjacent balcony looked out to the Bosphorus, seemingly oblivious to the presence of the stranger. His lungs filled to call the spearman, yet his tongue was tied and his voice was but a whisper.