‘Pah – the fool thought victory was a certainty, it seems. Forgot to check his chariot over,’ John laughed heartily, heedless of the horribly injured Diabatenus’ sobbing as he was carried from the track. ‘Now, why did you call me here? You said there was some other matter?’
‘Indeed. A matter that we have neglected for some time. A matter that we should resolve at the outset of our . . . your journey to the imperial throne.’
John’s eyes narrowed. ‘Aye?’
Psellos steeled himself and straightened his robe. ‘To weaken Diogenes, we must dispose of those troublesome dogs who remain loyal to him. Some more troublesome than others.’
‘I don’t understand?’ John said.
Psellos nodded discreetly to the two figures seated a few rows down. One, a hulking, bearded brute with a jutting brow and a flat-boned face and the other wiry and lithe. Both equally skilled as assassins and torturers. ‘Plakanos and Lagudes are the finest of my portatioi. They will leave in the morning.’
‘Leave? For where?’
‘For Chaldia, Master,’ Psellos grinned.
***
Apion, fresh from bathing after his morning run, ascended the creaking timber stairs to Trebizond’s citadel rooftop, the sun-warmed flagstones soothing his bare feet.
The summer morning sky was cloudless as usual, and up here there were no palms or awnings to provide shade, just the flitting shadow of circling gulls and storks and the salt-tang breeze from the sparkling, azure waters of the Pontus Euxinus, the great northern sea whose coastline the citadel was perched over like a sentinel. The setting did much to lift his soul. He knew the moment would be fleeting – as it always was – and made sure to enjoy it.
The flat rooftop was small – about the size of a modest bedchamber – with a crenelated edge and a ballista mounted at each corner. Several smaller fortified balconies jutted from the two floors below where the citadel widened towards its foundations, set in the bedrock of the grassy citadel hill. His gaze drifted on down the hill and into the lower city, across the broad main street, lined with still palms and packed with sweating faces, shouting wagon drivers, bawling traders, camels, oxen and mules – market day once again. Behind the sweltering masses stood the Church of Saint Andreas. Just looking at the church often triggered an unconscious response, and once again he found himself smoothing at the skin on his wrist where he had once worn a prayer rope, as devout as any of the people in the streets below. He sat down in a crenel at the southern edge of the roof, one leg anchored on the rooftop, then laid down the parcel and water skin he carried. As he shuffled to find a comfortable position, a sliver of steel from the edge of one of the mounted ballistae touched his neck. Despite it being sun-warmed, the sensation sent a shiver through him, and scattered the pleasant thoughts from his mind like a wolf amongst deer.
His gaze drifted past the skutatoi-lined city walls and on to the eastern horizon. Somewhere far beyond the cliffs and lush green woods of northern Chaldia, beyond the borders of the empire, somewhere deep in Seljuk lands, Maria lived on. Of that there was no longer any doubt. But shielding her like a sentinel was his son. A boy warped by anger.
In every dream, in every waking moment, with every step you take on the battlefield, you should beware. I will be coming for you, Haga. I will not stop.
He dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes tight. But in the blackness there, he found only more troubles. He had arrived back from Mosul in February only to hear of grim news from the lands of Chaldia and the surrounding themata. Poor harvests had brought famine in places, and tax revenue had suffered as a result. It seemed that the emperor had somehow managed to stave off these crises, finding funds to cover the loss of revenue and to bolster the themata armies, feeding the people and even putting on games in the capital. As always, Romanus was the beacon of hope.
This brought his thoughts to the as yet unattended task of mustering the men of Chaldia from their farms. Manuel Komnenos and his campaign army would be marching east soon, and Manuel had already sent messengers to Apion, pleading with him to bring as many Chaldians as he could. He sighed, resolving to begin the mustering later that day, then set about opening the food parcel he had brought with him.
Just then, something bolted up the stairs and out onto the rooftop. Something small. A flash of orange. Apion started, his gaze snapping round. But there was nothing there. He frowned, craning his neck to look behind the ballista, sensing something hiding behind there. Suddenly, a ginger and white paw shot round the base of the ballista, claws extended, batting at the timber. Apion’s frown melted into a grin.
‘You have followed me, Vilyam? In your adoration of me . . . or in the hope of yet another feed?’ Apion’s thoughts drifted to the brave lad he had buried out there in the east. ‘Kaspax was right about you.’
As if incensed by this slight, Vilyam the tomcat poked his head from behind the ballista base and glared at Apion, whiskers twitching. With a somewhat demanding yowl he trotted into full view, up to Apion’s nearest leg, then his eyes narrowed to slits as he erupted into a chorus of purring, brushing his sun-warmed ginger and white coat back and forth against Apion’s shin. Then he leapt up, somewhat clumsily, onto the roof’s crenelated edge, his eyes fixed on the small parcel.
‘Ah, it is like that, I see,’ Apion chuckled, opening the parcel to reveal a round of fresh bread, a pot of honey and a small strip of salted duck meat. He put the duck meat before Vilyam, then tore at the bread, dipping it in the honey and enjoying the chewy sweetness before washing each mouthful down with cool water.
Vilyam rolled on the wall’s edge, purring shamelessly as Apion stroked his white belly. He made to take another sip of his water when he noticed a familiar sight, approaching on the road from the south. Kursores, riding at great haste.
Wordlessly, he corked his water skin, stood then flitted down through the citadel, descended the citadel hill and came to the squat, red brick barrack compound. Ducking under the narrow arched entrance into the stable yard at the rear of the barracks, he found Sha already with the two newly-arrived riders.
‘Seljuk raiders, more than two hundred of them. They have slaughtered the garrison at Argyropoulis and now they rampage across the farmlands to the south. Ghazi riders and a small pack of infantry – fierce soldiers with twin-headed spears.’
‘Daylamid spearmen,’ Apion said, recalling the rugged and ferocious hillmen of the Seljuk armies he had faced more than once. He strode forward from the shade of the archway. ‘They are holding Argyroupolis?’ he said, his thoughts fleeting with images of the dusty mountain town he had spent his first years of service in.
‘Strategos!’ the sentry saluted, straightening as he turned to Apion. ‘No, they have moved on but they shattered the gates, crippled the defences and slew every last soldier in there.’
Sha offered Apion a weary look. ‘There were only sixteen men garrisoning those walls, sir.’
‘And even that was more than we could afford, Tourmarches. Other settlements went with less watchmen – some even with none,’ Apion replied flatly. Then he turned back to the scout riders. ‘And the populace?’
‘They too were cut down. Some may have scattered and fled into the Parhar Mountains. But I rode through Argyroupolis’ streets, sir, it was a grave sight . . . ’ his voice gave out and he looked to the dust before him.
Apion looked to the barrack sleeping blocks. Barely one hundred men were permanently garrisoned here, on watch atop the battlements, patrolling and policing the sweltering city streets or resting between shifts. A handful more men were garrisoning the other settlements, forts and outposts of Chaldia equally thinly, but the vast majority of the Chaldian army were at home, tilling their lands, and would take many weeks to muster.
‘We have, what, nine riders?’ he asked Sha.
‘Seven kataphractoi and these two scouts, sir, yes.’
‘Have them ready to ride by noon.’
He saw big Blastares emerge from the sleeping quarters ju
st then, fresh from sleep and eager to know what was going on. Apion pointed to the city walls. ‘Blastares, pare the wall guard down from fifty to thirty men. Bring the other twenty here.’
Then he scruffed his beard, realising full-well that twenty nine men would have a hard time besting some two hundred raiding Seljuks, but that was all they could spare. He glanced to the eastern barrack wall and scanned the city skyline beyond it, and his gaze stuck on the tall grain silo and the supply storehouse beside it, where all the grain, meat, wine, honey, textiles and furs were kept. Then he glanced up to the citadel rooftop where he had been moments ago, his eyes locking onto the ballista there where he had eaten with Vilyam. An idea began to form.
He swivelled round to the barrack sleeping block again.
‘And will someone wake Procopius.’
***
Bey Kerim climbed atop the jagged rock to survey the land around him. From here he could see the surrounding valleys of southern Chaldia: burnt-gold and terracotta folds of land, studded with shrubs and beech thickets, shimmering in the heat haze of the late afternoon. Not a Byzantine soldier in sight. Not a sound in the air bar the trilling cicada song. Bey Taylan had sent them on ahead to disrupt this northern thema, and shield what was going on in Armenia and beyond. A plum task it had been, so far.
He had heard much of the tenacious border lord known as the Haga, and of his Chaldian forts and armies. ‘Pah!’ he swiped a hand through the air. ‘Crumbling towns with a few malnourished runts on the walls, barely able to lift their spears to my men?’ He chuckled at his own hubris, thinking back to the sack of the mountain town, Argyropoulis, the previous day. It had been a procession. He had spared the last few townsfolk until nightfall, only so he could enjoy watching them burn in the darkness while he ate like a king, draining the town’s remaining food supplies before laying waste to its defences. ‘This feared border lord’s reputation is somewhat exaggerated!’
He was interrupted from his reverie by the scuffling of feet and the grunting of men. He sighed, turning, knowing what he would set eyes upon. Indeed, down at the bottom of the rock where his men were camped on the flat ground, two burly, bearded daylami hillmen grappled with a pair of ghazi riders, kicking red dust up in their fracas. One of the daylami grappled a rider by the neck and proceeded to pummel him with a shower of punches. The other hillman seemed bested by his opponent; he was sprawling in the dust with the dark-locked and moustachioed ghazi rider pressing a knee to his neck. All around, the rest of his men bayed and snarled. Kerim sighed and scrambled down the rock, knowing he had to intervene now before it erupted into a miniature civil war. He distrusted the filthy hillmen as much as any of his fellow ghazis, but they had to be tolerated, at least for the remainder of this mission, or at least until he could find some parlous and unwinnable situation to throw them into.
‘Enough!’ he cried as he thumped down onto the flat ground, sweeping his scimitar from his scabbard and slicing it down into the ground between the two scuffling pairs. They broke apart, shrugging as if their bruises and cuts were painless, eyes glaring, refusing to be the first to look away.
The ghazi who had been on the end of the pummelling coughed and spat a gobbet of blood and phlegm into the dust. His nose was smashed and spread all across his face, and one eye had swollen over shut. Kerim mused over bringing out the lash for this one and his attacker. The words danced on his lips, but they were snatched away by a shout.
‘A wagon approaches!’
It was one of the men he had posted to a hilltop opposite.
Suddenly all of them, daylami and ghazi, were united by the prospect of easy plunder and probably some brutal torture of the wagon drivers. They needed little cajoling to clear the flat ground and line up on the hillsides like pincers. The ghazis stilled and quieted their mares, the daylami crouched behind rocks and shrubs, their two-pronged spears poised like fangs. Kerim licked his lips as he watched the bend ahead, hearing wheels grind on dust.
Then it appeared, bouncing as the wheels juddered over a small boulder. Two dark ponies hauled the open-topped cart carrying a canvas-covered heap of something round the bend in the hill, then they slowed in fright at the sight of nearly two hundred men flanking them. The wagon came to a halt.
Kerim gawped at it. For there was no wagon driver.
‘Bey Kerim, what is this?’ one of his men whispered.
One of the daylami had taken it upon himself to approach the vehicle, stalking forward, eyeing the canvas covering the wagon’s heaped contents warily. He looked to Kerim, who nodded his assent. If a Byzantine soldier leaps out of there and runs the bastard through, what do I care, he is only a daylami anyway?
The daylami swept the canvas back, braced, then cocked an eyebrow at the stack of amphorae there. He lifted one, plucking the cork from it. He sniffed the contents and threw his head back in laughter, before pouring a copious measure of the rich red wine into his mouth.
‘The drivers must have got wind of us and fled!’ he cried in delight, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Kerim frowned, uncertain, but his men did not wait on his verdict, instead sweeping down from the hillsides to take their share. Just as they were united by the prospect of slaughter and plunder, the ghazis and daylami once again came together in merriment. Red wine showered the air in place of blood, and cries of joy rang out in place of the screams of the stricken. Kerim mused over halting them, but he could see it had solved the problem of their quarrelling, and so he decided not to.
Soon, the sun began to fade, and almost every man bore ruddy-cheeks and hooded-eyes. All except Kerim. He drank slowly, still keen to ensure his men kept a vigilant watch, still making regular trips up to the top of the rock to scour the surrounding lands for himself and check the sentries were not asleep. His men laughed and joked like brothers, they shared rations, toasting bread and eating together, then as another round of amphorae were opened, they sang like a flock of gulls. It was then that Kerim’s resolve cracked. The land was as still and empty now as it had been that afternoon. He took up an amphorae and guzzled on it. Enjoy it as a conquering bey should! he enthused as the wine gripped his mind with a soft, welcome fuzziness.
***
It was well into night. Under cover of darkness and with their faces smeared with dirt, Apion and his trusted three shuffled on their bellies, snaking forward to the tip of the rock overlooking the Seljuk raiding party. The ghazi guard up here had long since fallen asleep, and then a blow to the temple from Blastares’ fist sent him into a slumber he would not wake from for many hours. The four then looked down on the chaotic scenes below.
In torchlight, one daylami stumbled in a stupor to pick up an amphorae, one handle already clutched by a slumped ghazi. The daylami tugged at the other handle, bringing the ghazi up onto his feet with a growl, but in their clumsiness, the pair clashed heads and crashed to the ground, groaning. Moments later, a ghazi decided he was a mite peckish, and tried to toast more bread over the fire. It was only when his sleeve caught fire that he realised this was a bad idea.
Blastares chuckled, ‘I’ve never been so glad to be sober.’ Then he looked to Sha, Procopius and finally to Apion. ‘I’d say now was about the right time, sir?’
‘Agreed. Ready?’ Apion nodded.
His trusted three nodded back. Sha lifted a small rock. Heavy enough to throw some distance. The Malian winked as if drawing a fine composite bow, then hefted the stone back and hurled it. The four ducked down, only their eyes peering over the ridge of the hill once more. The rock thwacked into the back of a daylami trying to empty his bladder. The big hillman yelped then roared, spinning round, his robe soaked in his own urine. His eyes scanned those sitting around, then he stabbed a finger out at the closest ghazi. ‘You, you think . . . thish . . . ish funny?’ he slurred.
Blastares’ desperately pursed lips and watering eyes suggested the answer should be yes. Apion kept his gaze fixed on the pair below. The ghazi riders from the steppes hated the daylami, and the fe
eling was mutual.
The ghazi shrugged, bemused. Then, when the daylami strode forward, a cluster of ghazis rushed to stand with their comrade. Likewise, a bunch of daylami crowded round their man. Insults were hurled between the two opposing halves of this swaying, wild-eyed Seljuk warband. Apion found some of the insults beyond his comprehension of the Seljuk tongue, but he did make out one man threaten to kick another’s genitals so hard that he would be able to fellate himself. Then the quarrelling voices were interrupted by another sound; the screeching of scimitars being drawn, the growl of the daylami as they took up their twin-pronged spears. Then the two sides advanced towards one another.
It was only when one square-jawed man – the leader of the warband, Apion reckoned. – stepped in between the two groups, that the approaching parties halted.
‘Silence!’ the man tried to calm his charges, hefting a barbed whip in the air. ‘The next man to make a move will feel the wrath of my - ’
Apion sensed the moment. ‘Now!’
At once, Sha hurled another rock. This time it crashed against the forehead of the urine-soaked daylami. There was a hiatus of disbelief and sour glares. Then, at once, the Seljuk camp erupted in chaos. Men screamed, blades clashed, blood sprayed. They fought like desert dogs until swathes had fallen and eventually the ghazis’ numerical advantage told. The last of the daylami toppled to the earth, his gut ripped open and his steaming entrails toppling to the dust. It was only the brutal reality of what they had done that brought sobriety to the remaining ghazis at last. More than half of their number lay in bloodied heaps, still or groaning, moments from death. Now some of the steppe riders slumped to their knees, dropping their swords, bowing to the earth or clutching their hearts in penance and prayer. Apion felt a black guilt touch him for what he had done; just a single word to loose a rock, and nearly one hundred men were dead. He tried instead to focus on what had happened at Argyroupolis because of those men.
Strategos: Island in the Storm Page 12
