Strategos: Island in the Storm

by Gordon Doherty

  Alp Arslan smoothed at his moustache. ‘A fine strategy, Vizier. I trust you with my life and value your every word. I don’t doubt your wisdom and knowledge in all that is non-martial; you have embellished the cities of the sultanate with fine schools, monuments and palaces, and established an infrastructure of roads, law and trade that will see it last. And I like your policy of limiting the power of the factions within our armies. But I’m not so wary of my army turning against me as I am of the single, hired blades that Yusuf seems to be able to bring within an inch of my throat.’

  Kilic hung his head in shame a few feet behind.

  ‘Ah, that seems to be the lot of any great leader, Sultan. Perhaps you should see the coveting of your golden throne as a measure of your power?’ Nizam replied.

  ‘Perhaps I should have a timber chair made in its place?’ Alp Arslan countered wryly.

  They walked on and Alp Arslan’s gaze hung on the regiment of ghulam and akhi just off of the mustering field. ‘They are ready to ride?’ he asked Nizam.

  ‘As you decreed, Sultan.’

  ‘Good, for I am ready to lead them. But equally important is the army I despatch to screen our movements from enemy eyes.’

  ‘Quite,’ Nizam nodded.

  They paused by the ghazi training area, and he noticed Taylan seemed particularly captivated by these riders. ‘You have been training your riders, I hear?’

  Taylan started, unaware he was being watched. ‘Sultan,’ he bowed.

  ‘The future bodes well for you to one day rise to be a bey and lead a ghulam wing, as your father did.’

  Taylan shook his head. ‘I have no wish to lead ghulam. The ghazis are a finer weapon – nimble and deadly. They ride mares, and a mare is a Seljuk mount. They fight first with bows, and the bow is a Seljuk weapon. My father always said as much.’

  ‘Bey Nasir lives on in your heart, doesn’t he?’

  Taylan fell silent again. Alp Arslan recalled when the boy was younger and he would come along with Nasir to musterings like this. Young Taylan had hung on his father’s every word, always eager to impress and show what he had learned. But there was always something missing; for all Taylan’s affection, there was no love shown in return from Nasir. Indeed, Nasir had often shouted Taylan down, regardless of the validity of the boy’s comments. His lips played with a dry smile as he remembered his blood-dream.

  ‘I once loved my Uncle Tugrul unconditionally. But when I was old enough to understand his flaws, I hated him too. It is a curious thing.’

  Taylan avoided the sultan’s gaze, seemingly watching the ghazis intently once more, but Alp Arslan saw him wipe at his eye. Then he thought to ask after the boy’s mother, but decided against this, recalling the rumour he had heard regarding her health. This young man would soon be alone, it seemed.

  ‘Break them, then ride them hard for three years,’ Taylan exclaimed suddenly as his wing of eighty ghazis swept past. ‘Three years pasture after that and then,’ he punched a fist into his palm, ‘then you have a war horse!’

  Alp Arslan smiled at this. ‘You have trained them well, it seems.’

  Taylan nodded, the look of a wizened general crossing his face – no doubt learned from the beys he had been serving under in this last year. ‘I have put my all into their development. Indeed, they have acquired some new skills, and rediscovered some long forgotten ones too. Skills that could change the fortunes of our army. Do you notice anything about the stirrups, Sultan?’

  Alp Arslan studied one rider as he sped past. The leather straps hanging down on each of the horse’s flanks were knotted onto the usual foot-sized iron ring. But the ring was different – flat-bottomed. ‘For stability?’

  ‘Exactly. A firmer foothold to rise from the saddle than ever before. It was something Bey Nasir planned to try out, before . . . ’ his words fell away, then he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out to one of his riders. The rider’s head twisted towards Taylan and he read the command. In the blink of an eye he stood tall on his iron stirrups, continuing to loose arrow after arrow as fast as he had done when seated – one every five or six heartbeats. ‘See how he does not quaver when standing tall?’

  Alp Arslan’s eyes narrowed, his attention snagged.

  ‘And that is not all,’ Taylan continued, pointing to one squat and slightly-built rider with a yellowish complexion. While the other riders clasped their next few arrows in the palms of their draw hands, this man clutched two arrows in each knuckle of his draw-hand.

  ‘Ah, the mark of an archer who has mastered the reverse shot?’ Alp Arslan grinned, noticing this one wore white falcon feathers on the rim of his helm. ‘I have not seen those feathers in our ranks for many years.’

  ‘I have reintroduced the custom. This man is the champion of this wing. He can loose an arrow every heartbeat,’ Taylan said, then barked a command to the rider. ‘He and the others with these skills call themselves the White Falcons.’

  The rider loosed at a lightning rate, nocking a new arrow from his knuckles in a flurry of dexterity. Thock-thock-thock-thock-thock-thock! The arrows rattled into the timber post one after another, barely a heartbeat between each, splinters flying.

  Alp Arslan stopped in his tracks. ‘You have many riders capable of this?’

  ‘A handful right now, but enough to train the rest,’ Taylan nodded, pointing out the sixteen or so riders amongst his eighty who also wore the white falcon plumes. ‘Soon, I hope to have a whole regiment of them.’

  Alp Arslan looked to the aged Bey Gulten on the training area. This grey-bearded old warrior was to lead the next push into Byzantium – leading the army that would screen his own regiments’ movements along the borderlands. Gulten was a fierce old horse, but not one known for his innovation. Perhaps now was the time for new blood to lead. He placed a hand on Taylan’s shoulder.

  ***

  While the sultan strolled off to chat with Nizam, Taylan’s mind spun. For a moment his fears for mother and the swirling gale of angst over his slain father ebbed. Instead, the sultan’s words swam in his mind. He turned to look over his ghazi riders. The swarm swept around again, loosing another quiverful of arrows into the shredded timber post. Thock-thock-thock-thock! All hit home bar a few. While most of the riders had over half a quiver of arrows remaining, the squat champion’s was empty, and he started on his second quiver as they arced round to the far side of the training field.

  Taylan made to stride over to his swarm.

  But at that moment, Bey Gulten and his riders nearly cut across Taylan’s path, stopping only paces away from trampling him. The old bey’s face creased in a scowl, his nose wrinkling as he glowered down at Taylan. ‘Move back from the training field, boy!’ Gulten snapped, swiping a hand across his path as if swatting a fly. His men chuckled at this.

  Gulten had been good to him when he first joined the aged bey’s ranks a year ago. Back then, the mottled old warrior seemed to revel in showing him how things were done. It was when Taylan had started to show innovation in how he led his own eighty that Gulten’s stance had changed. Jealousy had blackened the man’s demeanour like a scudding cloud passing over the sun. Taylan and his riders were soon given the most dangerous sorties – in the vanguard, usually. But when Taylan excelled in these forays, it only served to enrage Gulten further. Then, when he had tried to warn Bey Gulten about the danger of being pressed towards the Cilician Gates last year, the bitter Bey had mocked Taylan in front of the whole army. The very same army that had been shattered the following day in that narrow pass.

  ‘What are you here for?’ Gulten continued, eyeing the rough, grubby yalma Taylan wore, ‘to shovel horse shit for your eighty cart ponies?’ This brought his men into an even rowdier chorus of laughter.

  Taylan felt his blood chill under the glare of so many, all significantly older than him. His throat seemed dry and his tongue reluctant to reply, but he steeled himself and ignored the watching masses, focusing only on Bey Gulten. ‘How many riders do you have here on the fiel
d today?’ he asked.

  ‘I do not answer to boys, now get off the field, whelp!’ Gulten snapped, then nocked and stretched his bow as if to loose at the ground near Taylan’s feet. He trotted forward from his pack, as if to intimidate. His men gasped in anticipation of some clash.

  ‘Aye, you have plenty of arrows left with which to torment me, unlike my champion rider!’ Taylan scoffed, gesturing to the far side of the field and the rider with the white plume. Bey Gulten’s men shared wide-eyed glances now, some even stifling laughter. Gulten caught wind of this and his bold posture in the saddle faltered as he shot a sour glare over his shoulder at his men. Then, when Gulten came to within a few paces of Taylan, bow nocked and stretched, Taylan found the strength to hold his glower. ‘Close enough for you? I watched you and your men practice. I saw that only a few arrows missed every time you swept past that post. I saw that they were yours, every time.’

  Now a low murmur broke into a babble of chuckling as the riders failed to contain their amusement.

  ‘And you will address me as Bey Taylan from now on,’ Taylan added.

  Bey Gulten, mounted and armed yet separated from his pack, suddenly lost his remaining pluck, his bow slackening and his tongue darting out to wet his lips in search of some riposte that Taylan knew would never come.

  ‘You are a bey now?’ Gulten muttered, glancing over to the spot where Taylan had been in conversation with the sultan just moments ago, his face creasing in confusion. ‘You are my equal?’

  ‘I am Bey Taylan bin Nasir. And no, I am not your equal. I am your superior. You are to hand over your army to me.’

  The man’s face now blanched and his eyes widened. ‘You, but I . . . ’ he frowned, looking from Taylan to the side of the training field, where Alp Arslan stood. The sultan gave him a nod that spoke a thousand words. Gulten slid from his saddle and bowed before Taylan, casting a foul gaze to the dust. ‘Very well. Forgive me, Bey Taylan.’

  At the same time, the rest of the riders straightened up, shoulders stiffening, throats bulging as they gulped in realisation. Taylan’s eighty riders clustered around them at this point, including the white-feathered champion.

  ‘Stand up, Bey Gulten. Have your men ready their mounts well for the coming days. I will grant you a quarter of the riders, for you are to go south to tackle the ever-rebellious Fatimids.’ Far, far from me, you dog, he thought. Then he raised his voice so all could hear. ‘The rest of you, groom and feed your mares well, for you are to come northwest with me. You will all be part of the sword that sinks into Byzantium’s flesh.’

  The men roared in delight at this, only Gulten was hesitant, his eyes still smouldering with anger and shame.

  7. A Dagger in the Dark

  A hot spring day bathed Constantinople, and every street pulsed with masses of citizens eager to forge their way to the Hippodrome. The tips of the horseshoe-shaped arena were lined with purple imperial banners, rippling gently in a northerly breeze from the Golden Horn that carried a salt-tang with it. The air seemed to crackle in expectation at the races that were to come after so many months of austerity.

  Inside, Psellos took his seat in the upper tiers of the eastern stand, with two numeroi spearmen flanking him. His ears stung at the incessant cheering and babble of the crowd – already some one hundred thousand strong – and his nose wrinkled at their stench. This was the first day of races for nearly a year, yet the wretches of this city who had been dangerously close to rebellion just months ago now fawned over their emperor for bending to their will and reinstating the much-loved spectacle. He glanced across the arena. Beyond the tip of the western stand and across the city skyline, he could see the hazy blackened ruin of the Shrine of Blachernae, jutting like a rotting tooth at the northern end of the land walls. He had paid handsomely to have the holy shrine put to the torch one chilly December night at the tail end of last year. It was supposed to be the omen that would tip the people into outright rebellion against Diogenes. Yet somehow, Psellos sighed, the cur still has the throne.

  Suddenly, the babble died and all heads looked to the kathisma – the imperial box shaded by a purple silk awning – perched a few rows behind Psellos on the tip of the eastern stand’s midpoint. Following the crowd’s lead, Psellos also twisted round to look up to the kathisma. Two varangoi had ascended the spiral staircase leading directly from the Cochlia Gate of the Imperial Palace and entered the box. They stepped to either side of the ornate chairs set up in there and stared out at the crowd like sentinels. Psellos scowled at the two empty chairs, remembering that the emperor had been absent from the city over the previous two summers – on campaign and at the mercy of hired blades and saboteurs. During those precious months he had been seated there in the kathisma’s shade with John Doukas, manipulating the fickle people to his own ends, lavishing them with games bought with Doukid money. Now, it seemed, Diogenes was wise to what had gone on, choosing to remain in the capital while appointing Manuel Komnenos to lead an eastern campaign in his stead. This would allow Diogenes’ armies to at once fight off the empire’s foes and for the man himself to quell the unrest of the citizens. Psellos’ spies had told him of the emperor’s designs: to empty the imperial treasury in an effort to train and strengthen the themata armies serving under Komnenos – to make them powerful and numerous. Surely, Psellos had thought, this meant the people would still be deprived of their games, for the imperial treasury was nearly bare. How, then, had the cur managed to fund today’s races? Such a spectacle was not cheap. Not at all.

  Just then, the crowd erupted into a chorus of ‘Dio-genes! Dio-genes!’ followed with ‘Ba-si-le-us! Ba-si-le-us! Ba-si-le-us!’ as two figures emerged from the back of the kathisma. Romanus Diogenes and Lady Eudokia. The emperor wore a cloak of gold brocade, a chequered klibanion – the small iron squares gold then bronze in turn – that hugged his torso, and the bejewelled imperial diadem on his head, gold crosses dangling from each side. Eudokia wore a green silk robe and cradled her pregnant belly with a gentle hand, but glowered down upon the crowd like a warrior. Cold, austere and aloof as always. Psellos’ top lip twitched as they bathed in the adulation. He had backed the Doukas family in expectation that they would swiftly dethrone Diogenes and seize power again. So far, he had backed a losing horse.

  The announcer cried out then, bringing the crowd to a sudden hush. ‘First, we are blessed to witness the greatest rider of recent years return to the track. After three years of retirement, he will ride for us one last time. I speak of the champion of the races, the breaker of hearts, the swiftest of all Greeks. I give you . . . Diabatenus of Athens!’ The crowd erupted again, confetti blossoming into the air and flitting down onto the sand of the racetrack as a handsome rider drove his gilded chariot out onto the circuit. His fine, almost sculpted nose and cheekbones were framed to perfection by his thick, shiny, dark brown locks, swept across his forehead and tucked behind his ears. Four stallions snorted and shuffled under the burden – a steeldust, two bays and a chestnut, each of them strong and tall and as fine-looking as their rider. Psellos gazed through the man, bored while the announcer called the other riders out onto the starting line. Flurries of hands shot up as the many bookmakers dotted around the stands were besieged by eager gamblers, most jostling to place their money on Diabatenus. In moments the horns sounded and the chariots burst forth, conjuring a guttural roar from the spectators that shook the sky over Constantinople.

  Suddenly, the lesion on his chest burned. The mere itching was but a distant memory. Now when it came it was as if a glowing brand was being held to his skin. He clamped a hand to it, wincing, feeling the glutinous mesh of unhealing skin stick to the fibres of his robe, peeling away, leaving, raw, pink flesh which burned all the more fiercely. He tried to bury the pain, focusing on the racing chariots.

  Just then, another figure barged through the crowd and past the two numeroi to sit beside him. John Doukas wore black robes and a shifty gaze. His eyes flicked over his shoulder to the kathisma. ‘Did you hear it? The peo
ple’s cries are an affront to my name. And that bitch carries the death of my family line in her belly,’ he growled.

  ‘The people are fickle and their cries change with the wind,’ Psellos whispered. ‘And when Diogenes is ousted from his throne, Eudokia will be dealt with also.’

  ‘And her babe too?’ John’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Diogenes’ line will be extinguished, Master,’ Psellos nodded.

  The pair turned their attentions to the race for a moment. The crowd roared as Diabatenus sped round onto his third lap, leading, of course. The cacophony was spliced by a sudden crack of timber as the lead chariot pitched over on itself. The axel of Diabatenus’ chariot had snapped and his mounts collapsed in a whinnying heap. The rider himself was catapulted forward, tumbling head over heels through the sand. A chorus of gasps rang out. Diabatenus scrambled to his knees, disbelieving as he glared back at his ruined vehicle, then gawping in terror as the next chariot hurtled round the bend. The second chariot rider lashed furiously at his mounts to steer them around the felled Diabatenus. Likewise, Diabatenus scrambled back from their hooves. They missed him by inches, only for the protruding spoke of the chariot wheel to tear across his handsome face, putting out an eye in a spurt of blood and white matter. His scream seemed to pierce the heavens. Many thousands of spectators groaned at their lost bets, while the bookmakers punched the air in delight.