‘We have no choice, do we?’ Bryennios asked.
Romanus nodded earnestly. ‘This year demands victory. The Lake Van fortresses must be taken and the Gateway to Anatolia secured.’
‘Then I give you my backing, Basileus, as always,’ Bryennios replied, bowing then looking to his comrades to follow suit. And they did, one by one, some albeit grudgingly.
Romanus felt an all too brief flush of relief. They had bought into his mustering plan. But now he would have to broach a far more contentious subject. ‘As you are all aware, I am sure, I must also take measures to protect my throne whilst I am absent from the capital.’ He clapped his hands.
The two varangoi at the door parted, and another pair marshalled a young man in. This one wore a leather tunic and a white woollen cloak. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with thick, dark, cropped hair and a flat-boned, fair-skinned face. His dark, almond-shaped eyes lent him a look of openness.
‘Andronikos Doukas will be joining us on this campaign.’
‘You are taking John Doukas’ son on this campaign?’ Alyates gasped.
‘John Doukas and his acolytes may be in exile, but only a fool would think them content with their lot. Having his son in my ranks will ensure they remain so for the duration of the campaign, at least.’
All eyes fell upon Andronikos. The young man’s nose wrinkled. ‘Are you seeking out my hidden blade?’ he said, meeting each gaze upon him. His voice was throaty and firm. ‘I have no wish to join my father in exile. I am to ride with you like a wretch – in chains. And I will do so gladly, if only to prove my valour.’
‘Aye, until you can sink a blade into the emperor’s back?’ one voice called out.
Andronikos came to the edge of the table and stood tall, stretching his neck to see who had spoken. ‘I will ride with neither shield nor blade. And I have the courage to do so, unlike you, who casts his words from a veil of shadows.’
The doux who had spoken out leaned forward over the table so his face was fully illuminated. It was Tarchianotes. His bulbous nose was wrinkled in distaste.
‘I won’t let you out of my sight for a moment . . . boy!’
Romanus leaned in between the pair, cutting through the simmering tension. ‘So be it. Now, let us eat and discuss the finer detail. There is much to organise. As soon as the snow lifts from the city, we will make haste across the Bosphorus and meet with our mustered armies on the banks of the Sangarios. Then, with God’s will, we will see our empire secured and our people free of strife,’ he boomed, lifting a cup of watered wine and urging the others to do likewise.
‘Nobiscum Deus!’ the gathered military men roared in reply, then broke into clusters of conversation, each man taking bread and wine for himself and discussing their roles with their comrades.
At last, Romanus realised, there were no eyes upon him. He slipped from the chamber and out onto the balcony once more. His gaze lifted to the heavens and rested once more on the blood-red comet, like a fresh wound in the night sky. His mind tumbled with thoughts of what might happen in this city in his absence, of the patchwork and suspect nature of the magnate armies who would supplement his ranks, of what might happen when they reached Lake Van, far to the east. And the road to that far flung outpost is long and treacherous, he thought, his gaze falling to the eastern horizon. A chill wind danced across every inch of his flesh.
***
The second week of March drove out the last of the ice and snow. Three fresh but clear-weathered days saw the ceremonial gilded shield hung on the gates of the Imperial Palace. This age-old sign meant the campaign was to begin in earnest. Crowds gathered and a thick stench of dung permeated the air as, all that morning, the city streets were flooded with mules, oxen, carts and men, shouting and heckling over the whinnying, lowing and snorting as they guided this, the makings of the touldon train that would supply the campaign, towards the fortified Port of Julian.
When Romanus entered the port gates on foot dressed in his white and silver moulded bronze breastplate, white tunic and trousers and fine doeskin boots, all stopped to salute.
‘Basileus,’ they called out.
He saluted in return, then motioned for them to get back to their business. He took just a moment to glance up and over the walls of the port, across the fluttering banners atop the Hippodrome and up to the red dome at the pinnacle of the Imperial Palace. He saw her there, the woman he had come to love. He stroked the golden heart pendant she had given him as a wedding gift, then tucked it inside his armour and thought of her and young Nikephoros.
‘Until I return to your side,’ he whispered. If you return, a cruel voice countered in his mind. He ignored the voice of doubt, slipped his purple cloak over his shoulders and boarded the imperial flagship, his escort of varangoi flooding onboard with him.
Igor and his men were resplendent in their pure-white armour, fine silk cloaks, shell-like shields clinging to their shoulders and battle axes slung over their backs. Most wore simple helms or none at all – letting their blonde and red braided locks hang free. The sight of one thousand of these hardy and ruddy-faced curs filled his heart with hope. Another two thousand such men were to remain here in the city with a brief to stay vigilant of any manoeuvrings. For although Psellos was in exile, the man’s claws were long and insidious. His gaze had unwittingly drifted to the form of Andronikos Doukas, being led on board the flagship, his wrists bound in chains. The young man had done nothing to suggest he was of the same ilk as his father, and this brought a dark cloud of guilt over Romanus’ heart. A hard choice, but the right one, he affirmed.
‘We are ready to embark, Basileus,’ the ship’s kentarches said, panting, his hands lined with rope-burns from working the rigging.
‘Good. Take us out,’ Romanus nodded, then moved over to the prow, resting his palms on the edge of the ship to look ahead as the vessel moved under oar out through the sea gates and into the Propontus. Then the purple and white Chi-Rho sail was unfurled – at once billowing proudly in the stiff sea breeze. Romanus inhaled deeply. The salt spray made it all real – always the first step of a campaign to the east. The scent of the ocean, the stinging chill of the water, the sight of the foaming, choppy surf offering the first hint of defiance, the crash of the waves against the hull and the crying of gulls and cormorants.
Let’s see what you have for me this time, he said with a nervous but defiant grin.
All around him, clusters of round-hulled pamphyloi bobbed, ferrying horses, fodder, supplies and artillery components. Just ahead, dromons – each with three banks of oars –brimmed with spearmen and riders from the imperial tagmata. The completion of this small but fine fleet was one of the few rewards for abstaining from campaign the previous year.
He looked east in the rough direction of Helenopolis, the small port-town in Bithynia that was their destination, then up to the sky, taking heart at the unbroken blue that promised of the spring and summer to come. His memories of the grim comet had faded. Even the populace seemed to have gotten over the spectacle without too many predictions of doom. The voyage continued throughout the morning, swift and steady. It was only when they cut away from the coast and out across the Propontus that the skies greyed. The turquoise waters turned sombre in reflection, the choppy peaks growing higher and causing the timbers of the vessel to groan. Some soldiers, unused to the buck and swell of the sea, took to throwing down their bread rations and retching overboard. Then the grey clouds conspired to unleash a chill rain that swiftly turned into a hailstorm. Chunks of ice as large as a sword pommel smashed down on the deck. Soldiers yelped and ran for cover, clustering under the sails.
Romanus braved the storm until it became ferocious, some chunks of hail even splintering a barrel of wine stowed on the deck. At this, he hurried to join his men under the precarious shelter of the sail, slipping and sliding through the slick of red wine. There, he watched as the sky continued to hurl down its wrath, turning the water all around the boat into a foaming cauldron. The stench of sweat and da
mp clothing soon filled his nostrils.
‘It is a sign,’ he heard a squat vigla soldier say, behind him. ‘We should be going to Pylai, not Helenopolis. The men of my bandon, they all have been on campaign before, and they say they have always travelled to Pylai and then set off overland from there.’
Romanus made to contest the man’s fears, but another voice cut in;
‘And if the men told you they always drank each other’s piss on campaign, would you yearn to do likewise?’ the voice said. It was Andronikos Doukas, his haughty posture and calm expression untroubled by the squall.
The vigla soldier scowled and grappled Andronikos by the throat; ‘Close your mouth, cur! You are in shackles, remember. Be thankful you still have your tongue!’
Andronikos gazed down upon the man, barely flustered.
‘Enough!’ Romanus stepped in. The pair parted. Romanus offered Andronikos a barely noticeable nod of appreciation, then turned to the vigla soldier.
The vigla soldier gawped, meltwater running from his nose. He saw the emperor’s features, flaxen hair plastered to his face, cobalt eyes glinting, and at once paled.
‘Basileus, I . . . I apologise,’ he stuttered over the rattle of the hail.
‘Why? Because I am your emperor or because you understand this man’s point?’ Romanus countered, opening a hand towards Andronikos. ‘Tell me as you would any of your comrades; why would Helenopolis be any sort of cursed move?’ he shrugged. ‘It is some ten miles more easterly then Pylai. Ten miles less to march!’ he cocked an eyebrow, awaiting an answer.
The vigla soldier gulped then nodded. ‘Yes, Basileus, that is true. But it is a damp and unpleasant place. The miserable city, some call it. Campaigns that have been victorious in the past have all gone via Pylai.’
Romanus snorted. ‘As have many disastrous ones!’
The men chuckled at this, and the vigla man nodded in acceptance.
‘Think not of omens and portents,’ he clasped a hand to his breast. ‘If we are showered with hail today then we will drink chilled water with our meal tonight!’
At this, the men broke out in a cheer. Then, as if the storm had been conquered by his words, the sky brightened, the hail lessened and then stopped. He strode from the shade of the sail, welcoming a modicum of warmth from the watery sun. As he gazed up at the thinning clouds, he saw a bird in trouble up there in the zephyrs. He walked to the prow of the vessel again, seeing the creature flail to right itself. It tumbled lower and lower. Finally, just a few feet above the deck of the boat, it caught the breeze and began to glide. Romanus watched as it then arced round and came to land on the prow right before him. It was a grey dove – rarely seen this far from land. He frowned at the creature’s boldness, then started as it hopped forward along the rim of the ship and onto the back of his hand. Romanus lifted his hand back, drawing the creature closer to examine it. An ordinary dove, bar the distinctively grey feathers and almost laughable impudence. Just an ordinary dove.
But he heard the murmurs from the deck behind him, and knew all eyes were upon him.
‘Another sign from God. He chooses to send a grey dove and not a white one. A truly ill-omen,’ they whispered.
Romanus set the creature to flight once more, then bowed his head in frustration.
***
The weather had turned back to mizzle when the fleet reached the grassy headland of Helenopolis – a tiny promontory jutting into the Gulf of Nicomedia. Soon, the campaign army had disembarked at the broad timber wharf side where a few round-hulled pamphyloi listed in the shallows, badly in need of repair. The small port-town itself was indeed rather sorry-looking. Unwalled, with a collection of timber shacks and a few dilapidated stone buildings that served as the offices of the local tourmarches, it had the look of a muddy stain on the otherwise verdant countryside surrounding it. A handful of garrison skutatoi in grubby tunics and rusting armour stood guard around the streets and atop the rickety watchtowers that overlooked the town and the disembarking fleet.
The army flooded through the town to set up camp south of the settlement. Romanus strode around the earthworks as the men busied themselves preparing the camp’s ditch and rampart, the scent of damp earth and sweet woodsmoke spicing the air. He stayed out in the relentless drizzle for the rest of the day, helping to erect the gates at the camp’s eastern side. By dusk, he was filthy, sodden and exhausted, but the camp was complete. Men settled down to pray and to kindle cooking fires, melting down cakes of dried yoghurt, sesame seeds and honey or cooking meaty stews. His appetite awoke at that moment, and he swung round to see the red satin dome of his tent at the heart of the camp. He strode towards it, then stopped before the ring of vigla skutatoi demarcating the imperial tent area, turning to sweep his gaze around the rest of the camp in the fading light. More tents than he could count. Myriad vivid banners standing proudly albeit soaked. And by his sodden imperial tent stood two symbols of greatness – the glittering campaign Cross and the blue-gold Icon of the Holy Virgin of Blachernae. The core of this campaign army was ready to stride forth and make history. ‘It seems the omen of the dove was somewhat exaggerated!’ he chuckled to himself.
He acknowledged the salutes of the vigla guards, who parted to let him through, then nodded to Igor and the eight varangoi who formed the inner layer of sentries, dotted around the edges of the imperial tent. Sweeping the tent flap back and entering, he saw that his bed had been prepared. A lamp glowed beside it, casting the tent in a warm and inviting orange. He slumped down, sliding off his cloak and boots with a sigh. A dull rumble emanated from his belly, and he realised he had not eaten all day. He noticed a tray in the corner of the tent, containing his evening meal of stew, fresh bread and more wine. He pulled a chunk of bread from the still-warm loaf and dipped this in the thick, delicious-smelling stew. The warm, meaty meal swiftly innervated his weary limbs and he finished the lot soon after. He washed this hearty meal down with a cup of watered wine from the jug. The wine had a bitter edge to it, spoiling the drink somewhat. ‘Pah,’ he scoffed, ‘you’re too used to the finest Paphlagonian, man!’
With that, he slipped off his tunic and sunk back onto his warm, dry bedding. The tension in his muscles seeped away and sleep overcame him in moments. It was dark and dreamless.
Until he heard something crashing like a war drum.
He sat bolt upright; all was dark – the lamp having burnt out – and the camp was silent outside. Had it been a trick of the mind? Then . . . Boom! Boom! Boom! The blood hammered in his ears rhythmically. He clutched the sides of his head, wincing, feeling a wave of nausea rush over him. He stumbled from his bed, falling to his knees, retching. Only a thin, acidic bile came up. The floor seemed to melt away before him and he was overcome by a terrible sense of falling endlessly. He cried out, flailing, lurching to his feet in order to grasp out at something, anything. He crashed against the centre pole of the tent and heard a dull and distant crack amidst the rapid drumming of blood in his head. He barely noticed the pole shredding or the canvas of the tent falling down around him, covering him. He barely heard the cries of alarm from outside when this happened. He scarcely recognised Igor and the other varangoi who pulled him out of the collapsed tent. He did, however, recognise the panicked mutterings of the vast number of soldiers who had rushed from their tents to the scene of the incident and now stood, gathered and gawping in torchlight.
‘The tent pole snapped and nearly saw our emperor suffocated. God have mercy on us. Another dark portent!’
‘No . . . I,’ he croaked, reaching a hand out to the staring masses. But a rush of nausea snatched his words away and sent him spinning into the blackness.
10. Adnoumion
The first weeks of April were dry and hot. Spring had arrived and the once barren inland hillsides of the Opsikon Thema were now alive with the chirruping cicada song and dappled with thick green grasses, wheat fields and shady groves of ash and poplar.
A flock of starlings scattered from one such thicket as four horsemen
rose over the tip of a grassy hill, silhouetted in early morning sunlight. One of them, sporting three black eagle feathers in his helm, raised a finger and pointed downhill.
‘Let your weary eyes rejoice,’ Apion grinned, scratching at his iron-grey beard.
Sha, Blastares and Procopius looked with him, gazing across the vast army camp that spread across the banks of the Sangarios, interrupting the tracts of wheat that clung to the sides of the calm, teal river. The camp was just downriver from the Zompos Bridge, an ancient-looking stone structure that had long allowed imperial armies to march east without the need of a ferry fleet. This was the adnoumion, the ritual mustering. The land where the emperor assembled his armies, summoning the regional themata to join his tagmata corps. He spotted the bright banners of the imperial tagmata; the Scholae, the Vigla, the Stratelatai and the Hikanatoi. And the fluttering emblems of the Cappadocian Thema and the Anatolikon too. Then there were standards he did not recognise – western tagmata, it seemed. More than twenty thousand here, he reckoned on a rough count of the tents, and doubtless many more to come. This was the emperor’s response to the news of Alp Arslan’s taking of Manzikert. Once more, the Golden Heart filled Apion with that precious commodity; hope.
Realising his trusted three had never witnessed the mustering before, he pointed to the sturdy fortress that sat on a small hillock overlooking the vast camp and was framed by a backdrop of tall, rocky hills. ‘That is the fortress of Malagina. That is where the last blades will be forged, the last garments woven and the supplies will be gathered, ready to be loaded onto the mules and wagons of the touldon before the campaign continues eastwards.’
Next, he pointed to the rows of timber stalls that hemmed a patchwork of lush green meadows, dotted with horses. ‘And here we have the imperial stables. Thousands of the finest battle horses are reared, broken in and put to stud and pasture right here.’
Strategos: Island in the Storm Page 18
