Strategos: Island in the Storm

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘See what? All I see is a bleak future. I will take to my villa in the countryside of Bithynia, and I will no doubt live in luxury. But what good is luxury when my heart and my every thought are cloaked in shame . . . shame!’ he thumped a mitted fist on the vessel’s edge.

  A trio of the fifty varangoi escorting them looked round at this, alarmed for an instant, then melting into gentle and mocking laughter.

  ‘And these curs will guard my lands. Not to protect me, but to pen me in like a dog!’ John panted, then poked a finger at Psellos, wide-eyed. ‘And you too, advisor. This is your fate too!’

  Psellos did not flinch, refusing to let John’s panic take him. ‘We have struggled for nearly four years to establish support enough to overthrow Diogenes and reinstate your family dynasty.’

  ‘Aye – four years! You seek to remind me of your failures? Not a wise move, advisor. Remember, at my countryside estate I have a company of slaves. They may only number twelve or so, but they will heed my beck and call. One word from me and they will dispose of any soul who displeases me.’

  ‘So already you seem keen to make plans for this countryside empire of yours – a few vineyards, a paltry household slave-guard and a pile of bricks?’ Psellos scoffed. ‘Will a swarm of cicadas and a field of barley stalks be your army?’

  John grappled Psellos’ purple collar, lifting him to his toes. ‘You know I would give anything to have my rightful throne back, Advisor!’

  Psellos felt the shower of spittle fleck his face. ‘Then you will listen . . . Master.’

  John set him down, nodding, his chest still heaving in ire. ‘Speak.’

  ‘For four years we have tried to garner support to oust Diogenes,’ he repeated, ‘and for four years the balance has always been too delicate to risk the coup you have long sought.’ Psellos leaned his elbows on the lip of the dromon, staring into the dark waters visible through the swirling fog. John joined him. ‘Now, it seems, we have pressed the emperor into making this rash move. Sending us into exile will instigate a backlash amongst our supporters . . . your supporters,’ he swiftly corrected himself. ‘We have a righteous cause, Master. And matters are coming to a head, both concerning the throne and the long-anticipated clash with the sultan and his Seljuk hordes. Romanus has no money and his plans to gather a vast army are listing. Yet he now has no option but to march east, to Lake Van, at the head of what forces he can muster. He must expel the sultan’s forces from Manzikert and Chliat. Only a final victory and an end to the Seljuk threat can steady his trembling grip on the throne.’

  Psellos’ own words rang in his ears for a moment. And for a moment, his chest lesion began itching furiously again. He recalled the night of that winter storm when the old crone had attacked him. Her words from that night now mixed with his own.

  On a battlefield far to the east, by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars, blood will be let like a tide . . . and it will be your doing.

  The words seemed to usher the chill air in under his robe and across his skin. He shivered, drawing his garment tighter, feeling the glutinous fluid weep from the pitted, bad flesh there. This morning, to his disgust, he had even found a maggot writhing in one of those pits, and when he had plucked it out, he saw just the whiteness of his breastbone underneath.

  It was then that something moved in his peripheral vision – along the deck from where they stood. It pulled him from his vile memory. He peered along the deck. A shape swirled in the mist; milky, sightless eyes, grey, web-like hair and one finger outstretched, pointing at him. Her lips were rolled back, her teeth like fangs. Then she swept towards him. With a yelp, he swung to face the approaching shape, only for a cloud of deathly-cold mist to sweep over him. Nothing.

  John frowned at Psellos’ sudden jumpiness. ‘A hazardous campaign awaits Diogenes. Yet what influence can we have upon its fate when we languish in exile?’ he sighed.

  ‘Probably more than ever before,’ Psellos grinned, brushing away the thought of the old crone.

  John scowled at this. ‘How so?’

  ‘We first heard of the emperor’s intentions to exile us a week ago. Do you think I used that time to pack my belongings?’ Psellos purred.

  ‘Advisor?’

  ‘I have made arrangements. This time, they shall not fail.’

  The corners of John’s mouth played with a dark grin, his belief returning. ‘Tell me what you have planned.’

  Psellos looked up and into the murky wall of fog, back in the direction of Constantinople. He stroked his gold rings, his eyes narrowing. ‘When Romanus marches east, he will find that his ranks are peppered with traitors, and his initiatives will be thwarted at every turn.’

  ***

  The fog cleared from the capital later that day, leaving the air crisp and cool air and the sky unblemished. Romanus stepped out from the red dome atop the palace and onto the balcony ringing it. Out here, the snow-covered roofs glistened and the noise of the streets below was faint, contested by the crying of gulls and the lapping of icy waves against the sea walls. He gazed off to the east, across the choppy waters of the Bosphorus Strait to the shores of Anatolia. He needed strength now more than ever. Yet his people were in sedition once more and his armies were in tatters. And the winter had claimed another of his thin band of allies. Manuel Komnenos, shamed yet unswervingly loyal and eager to redeem himself after the disaster at Sebastae, had perished not on the battlefield but in his bed, overcome by a foul ear infection that soon consumed the rest of his body. ‘So few good men left to stand with me,’ he muttered into the ether. ‘And this is truly my last throw of the dice.’

  There had been a modicum of respite, however, with the arrival of an offer from Alp Arslan. An offer of temporary truce. It seemed the sultan aimed to stabilise his hold on Seljuk Syria and wanted to have the spring to seize and garrison the rebellious cities of that baked land. He shook his head and sighed. It was an offer he could not refuse, despite the certainty that beyond the spring it would only result in a greater threat to the few Byzantine holdings in northern and western Syria.

  He closed his eyes, attempting to order his thoughts once more. But a dull murmur from the streets down by the Hippodrome suddenly erupted into a chorus of cries. Angst, terror, penance. He frowned, glancing down, seeing a throng of citizens there, heads tilted skywards, fingers pointing. A stark coldness gripped him as he looked up to behold the heavens. A fiery red streak, breaking across the sky, staining the perfect blue. A comet. It shone like a bloody beacon. The cries of the populace rang in his ears. It is a sign, one cried. We have lost God’s favour! Another shrieked. He closed his eyes and clasped a hand over his heart. Do not desert me in my hour of need.

  ‘Basileus, they have arrived!’ Igor’s words rang out over the rooftop portico. The big Rus stopped in his tracks, eyes drawn to the omen in the skies. Even this scarred, haggard brute of a warrior gawped impotently at the sight.

  Romanus bit his lip in frustration, then strode over to Igor, clasping a hand to the man’s shoulder and stirring him from his fright. ‘My generals are here? Then we must set to work at once, Komes,’ he beckoned Igor back inside the domed roof.

  Here, the fine vases and ornaments had been cleared from the large oak table in the centre of the room and a map of the empire was rolled out over its surface. The fire had been piled high with logs and the shelves at the side of the room were well stocked with watered wine, fresh and aromatic bread, cheese and fruit. A pair of varangoi guarded the door and stairwell that led up to the room, and a cluster of thirty or so military men had gathered around the map table. He sought out the three most senior amongst them. ‘Bryennios, Tarchianotes, Alyates!’ he called out, a broad grin stretching across his face.

  Bryennios, the towering Doux and Domestikos of the armies of the West, stepped forward. His dark-skinned face was gaunt and split with a feral grin. He had a thinning peak of dark hair, flashed with grey at the temples. He bowed on one knee and dipped his head. ‘Basileus!’

  ‘Up,
up!’ Romanus waved him to stand once more. ‘It is good to see you again, old friend.’

  ‘I bring with me the best of your Thracian armies. Five thousand riders of the western tagmata,’ Bryennios added. ‘Steel-skinned, iron-willed, hearts brimming with courage!’

  Romanus nodded, heartened, clasping his forearm to Bryennios’. ‘I need no reminding of the western riders’ valour – indeed, I have missed them since my days riding at their head were curtailed!’

  Then the emperor turned to Doux Tarchianotes. This bulky, swarthy individual was some ten years older than Bryennios. The tanned skin of his somewhat unhandsome face was lined with age and spoiled by a bulbous wart on one cheek, a fleshy and shapeless nose and permanently flared nostrils. His dark curls hung to his jaw and a neatly trimmed beard hugged his chin. This man was nominally the commander of the eastern border tagmata, in the hazardous lands east of Chaldia. But in recent years, the armies there had fragmented, with the likes of the odious Crispin of Normandy running riot. As such, Tarchianotes had found himself as a man with a title and little else.

  ‘My friend,’ Romanus rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Your time has come. The imperial cavalry tagmata – the Scholae, the Vigla, the Stratelatai and the Hikanatoi – will ride under your command, and the infantry of the Optimates Tagma will march for you too. You will be my deputy for the coming campaign.’

  ‘This is a great honour you have bestowed upon me, Basileus,’ he bowed.

  Romanus nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to the third of his summoned men. ‘And you,’ he said, ‘have grown into a fine leader of men in the years since last we met.’

  Alyates, Strategos of Cappadocia, stepped forward, embracing the emperor as a brother would. He was in his early twenties, built like a sapling with lank, dark hair hanging to his cheeks and framing his fine-boned and handsome features. ‘The people of Cappadocia, your homeland, are with you in your every coming step, Basileus!’ Alyates exclaimed. His words were firm despite his soft tone. ‘I have mustered what men I could,’ he added with a whisper, ‘but barely two thousand march with me.’

  Romanus felt his heart sink. He had hoped Alyates might raise twice that number from the lands of Cappadocia. He buried his disappointment and grinned, then cast his eyes around the other men he had called here; doukes of the tagmata and strategoi of the inner themata. These men would be his officers in what was to come. The campaign that would seal his destiny. He tapped on the campaign map. All gathered round the table.

  ‘Now, the goal that has eluded us in these last three years of campaigning lies here,’ he pointed forked fingers at the two dots lying near a lake, far to the east. ‘The fortress-towns of Chliat and Manzikert are akin to watchtowers, overseeing the Gateway to Anatolia. For many years, no one power held both. Now, Sultan Alp Arslan’s men garrison the walls of those citadels. He has a dagger poised at our flank. Unimpeded, he could channel his armies into inner Anatolia. In the past, we have suffered raids with bands of Seljuk riders, sometimes numbering several thousand, ravaging our borderlands and penetrating deep into the interior. The forts and watchtowers lie broken and unmanned across the heart of Anatolia in testament. And God will not let us forget what happened to Caesarea and Chonai in these last years.’

  At this, the gathered men offered a muttering of prayer for the thousands of souls who died in the sacking of those mighty and once-invincible walled cities.

  ‘But should the Sultan bring the full might of his armies to bear through that eastern gateway, then we will not be hearing tales of ruination from the east. That ruination will befall all Anatolia and might threaten even the great walls of Constantinople itself. God’s very city is at risk. The empire could fall in these next months. It could fall, or,’ he looked each man in the eye, all faces illuminated in lamplight, ‘or we could seize a legendary victory,’ he finished, clenching a shaking fist. ‘In the past we have held either the desert cities to the southeast – such as Hierapolis, Antioch – or key Armenian fortresses – such as Manzikert or Chliat – in the east. Seldom both. Thus the interior of Anatolia has always been susceptible to invasion. Currently we have both Hierapolis and Antioch garrisoned by imperial troops and standing fastidiously against the Sultan’s annual sieges – so the southeast is secure. Bringing Manzikert and Chliat under Byzantine control also would see the eastern border secured.’

  It was then he heard a muttering amongst the men.

  ‘What’s that you say?’ he said sharply, identifying one of the strategoi.

  ‘I . . . I said how can we secure those two fortresses? For two years running we have set out to do so and failed. And just last year the strongest of our themata were all but wiped out under Manuel Komnenos’ stewardship,’ the man’s words echoed around the chamber until he dropped his gaze, almost ashamed that he had spoken up against the emperor.

  ‘Your words were spoken in earnest, man, do not shy away from them,’ Romanus replied. ‘He is right,’ he said to the others. ‘The three themata wiped out near Sebastae last year were supposed to be the backbone of the regional armies we would summon this year. Finely armoured and equipped, they harked back to a bygone era. Now they are part of history. To equip more themata in a similar fashion to replace them requires funding – funding that is simply not there.’

  ‘Then how do we amass a campaign army, Basileus?’ Another man spoke. ‘The themata are battered and broken and the tagmata armies number too few to guarantee victory and seizure of the Armenian forts.’

  ‘Guarantee?’ Romanus cocked an eyebrow. ‘There is no such thing as a guarantee. I once placed a wager on Xerus and his Phrygian chargers at the Hippodrome. The musclebound rider had won every race he entered – by nearly half the track. This day he was up against Ampelas, a slip of a lad on his first ever race. The boy was trembling visibly as he went to his chariot. But then Xerus turned up, white as a sheet, sweating profusely. He rode like a drunken beggar that day, coming in a full track behind Ampelas. Turns out he ate a bowl of oats shortly before his race that went through him like a blade. Spent the next three days shitting out every last morsel in his guts. So don’t talk to me of guarantees!’

  A hearty chorus of chuckling rang out at this, even the man who had spoken was grinning. ‘Foul gruel for our enemies, then?’ he smiled.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Romanus nodded with a smirk. ‘But first, let us address how we will cope with the shortcoming in the thematic forces.’ He swept a hand across the map. ‘We can muster but a few hundred from each of the themata shattered in last year’s campaign – so I propose the men of those lands are left to defend their homes and tend to their farms. But from the other themata,’ he dotted a finger to the themata of Charsianon, Anatolikon, and Colonea, ‘we will be able to muster a greater number. Perhaps eight or ten thousand spears and bows plus maybe two thousand horse overall, including Alyates’ Cappadocians. Doux Philaretos is currently organising the thematic mustering in the upper Sangarios River valley,’ he pointed to a stretch of flatland in the northwestern corner of Anatolia. ‘Philaretos will see what shape he can pull those ranks into. They must be drilled and equipped to form a fine anvil for our cavalry hammer.’

  Alyates’ cocked an eyebrow and he cast his gaze around the room. ‘You do not plan to muster the Chaldians? The Haga, he is not coming?’ Alyates asked.

  Romanus looked up with a grin. ‘Ah, I had not come to that yet! The Strategos of Chaldia is assembling men in the east as we speak. His numbers are also few, but they are well equipped and expertly drilled. More, I have tasked him with mustering a mercenary army from our Armenian allies in the eastern hills and what nomadic riders he can gather too. He will gather this force and station them in the east at a point on our campaign trail, then come west with his retinue to join us at the mustering ground.’

  A murmur of consent rang around the table at this.

  ‘Still, though,’ Tarchianotes interjected, ‘the combined forces of the themata and the Haga’s mercenary armies might still not be
enough. Last year, Manuel Komnenos and his twenty thousand were crushed. You have talked of gathering an army thrice that size this year. But with the tagma and themata combined, I foresee only some thirty three thousand men. Not quite the hammer blow we hoped to deliver to the Sultan, is it?’

  Romanus eyed the man carefully. His dark brown eyes were masked in shade. This one is a shrewd fellow – does he know of my plans already?

  ‘Indeed. Thus, we must look beyond the themata, or rather, within their lands. The wine and oil magnates own vast tracts of Anatolia. They reap great dividends from their produce.’

  ‘They are self-serving curs, to a man!’ Bryennios cut in, thumping a fist to the table. A heartbeat later, he bowed his head. ‘I am sorry, Basileus!’

  Romanus let the outburst pass. He knew Bryennios’ son had been slain in some power struggle between the wine magnates of Paphlagonia.

  ‘They have paid vast sums of taxes into the imperial treasury in the past, but you are right, they have also profited greatly from imperial soil. Now it is time to call upon them. Some own sizeable private armies; companies of spearmen, retinues of riders. Many employ Norman lancers from the west or Rus mercenaries from the north. Some even organise their infantry into banda. Others have scant forces – just a handful of thugs and brigands to guard their countryside villas – but vaults brimming with gold. Should they wish to stave off invasion of their precious lands, then now is the time they should seek to spend that money in bolstering their ranks and joining the campaign. I estimate that we could add at least another seven thousand to our campaign army if we call upon them. An army of forty thousand combined. Not quite what I had hoped for, but a strong force indeed. Stronger than the empire has mustered in many years.’

  Silence rang around the room, and Romanus could feel the uncertainty growing. Many felt just as Bryennios did about these greedy and proud lords of plenty. A log snapped in the fire, breaking the tension.