‘Hmm. I wonder if they’d be interested in a trade?’ Procopius grumbled. His grey stallion snorted and shook its head as if in protest. ‘This one gives me nothing but a mean eye and blisters on my arse!’
Sha chuckled. ‘Perhaps your mount means to trade you in?’
‘Ha,’ Blastares cut in, ‘for what, a sack of hay?’
Procopius’ eyes widened and he squared his shoulders indignantly. ‘Alright, alright, you pair of bast-’
‘Look, to the south!’ Sha cut in.
Apion blinked and peered to the green hills there. From a fold in the land, another column snaked towards the camp. He spotted the silver banners they carried. And a mile further south again, another column sporting green banners. ‘The Colonean Thema and the Charsianon Thema!’ he grinned. ‘They must have some two thousand men each. That is a fine sight.’ Then he eyed his trusted three with a mischievous grin. ‘Still, I’m not in the mood to let those beggars beat us to the gates. Ya!’ he cried, heeling his Thessalian downhill towards the camp.
Apion noticed many things inside the camp. There were many soldiers moving to and fro in the full glare of the mid-morning sun. The tagmata men seemed well prepared and equipped for this campaign, but the themata armies seemed to present a jumble of issues. The Anatolikon Thema and the Cappadocian Thema were already encamped, but their ranks seemed to consist of very old men with good armour and weapons but lacking the physique of soldiers. When the Colonean and Charsianon ranks came in, it was a different story; they had indeed mustered nearly three thousand young men, but in such haste, they had found little time to provide basic kit for these recruits. Most had shields, spears and felt caps or helms, but many marched in bare feet and few had swords.
‘Ah, there is much organisation to be done,’ he muttered to himself, sliding from his saddle. Amongst the sea of tents, the incessant babble and the packs of men hurrying this way and that, Apion realised one thing was missing. The campaign Cross was nowhere to be seen. Indeed, the usual central compound with the emperor’s tent was missing. ‘Sha, set up our tent. I’ll be with you soon.’
‘Sir,’ Sha nodded, waving Blastares and Procopius with him.
Apion frowned, stalking over to the centre of the vast camp, where the emperor’s tent would normally be. There was nothing bar a pile of crates and barrels. A man of some fifty years was sitting on one of these crates, cross-legged, with a slat of wood on his knees, a pot of ink in one hand and a quill pen in the other. He had a bookish look about him, his eyes shaded under his mop of curly silver locks and his slender frame draped in some grey silk robe. He seemed to be taking in all that was going on around him, gazing across the sea of tents, over the surrounding hills and up to the pleasant sky. Then he took to scribbling furiously on a sheaf of paper stretched across the timber slat.
‘A fine place you choose to write – this is the place where the emperor’s tent should be, is it not?’
The man looked up, as if having been awoken from a daydream. ‘Indeed it is.’
Apion cocked an eyebrow. ‘And you are?’
‘Michael Attaleiates. I am the emperor’s scribe. It is my job to capture every detail of this campaign. I don’t know where he is – I only know that there has been some . . . confusion.’
‘So you choose to sit and write?’ Apion frowned, scanning the goings-on nearby for some familiar face.
Michael smiled. ‘Future generations must know what transpires – virtuous or wicked,’ he said with a wry grin.
Apion snorted, recalling old Cydones’ disdain for the scribes and chroniclers. ‘Virtuous or wicked? Surely that depends on the eye of the beholder . . . and his agenda.’
Michael’s grin grew a little taut at this. He looked Apion up and down. ‘And you, you must be an officer?’
‘Apion, Strategos of Chaldia.’
Michael’s eyes sparkled shrewdly at this. ‘Ah, the Haga is here? I have heard your name mentioned by more than a few. Perhaps I should write of you in my chronicle?’
Apion smiled and shook his head. ‘I am but one blade amongst thousands. Save your ink for those who matter, writer. For now I’d like to know where the emperor is. Who here can help me?’ he asked, looking round but seeing only unfamiliar faces striding to and fro.
‘Perhaps the Komes of the Varangoi might be best placed to explain,’ Michael pointed over Apion’s shoulder.
Apion twisted round to see Igor stalking towards him, his armour brilliant white, his face lobster pink – almost blending in with the vertical scar that ran over one eye – and his braided locks bobbing with every step.
Apion held out an arm, ready to greet the big warrior as he had done at the Euphrates camp two years ago. But this time, Igor’s face was a picture of dread. ‘Haga! You are here at last,’ he said, clutching Apion’s outstretched arm. ‘And not a moment too soon.’
Apion frowned. ‘The emperor, what is-’
Igor held their embrace, whispering; ‘The emperor is not himself.’
Apion saw the dark look in the Rus’ eyes. Igor’s gaze stayed locked with Apion’s and then flicked up, beyond the fortress of Malagina to the cluster of rocky hills that loomed over the mustering plains.
‘Come, ride with me, I will take you to him,’ the Rus said, hefting up a cloth-wrapped parcel from the pile of crates and looking to the hills.
Apion mounted his Thessalian and followed Igor out of the camp, trotting through the long grass around the Malagina Fortress hillock. The Rus remained silent as they passed a pair of varangoi who seemed to be guarding the dirt track that led up into the hills. They picked their way up this track until they came to the rougher ground near the cliffs at the top of this range.
The path was mercifully shaded by the cliff face, but the going was treacherous, the track winding up around the cliff side, growing steeper with every stride. They came to a perilously steep section. Apion’s Thessalian stumbled in the scree here, sliding to the side of the long-disused path and halting only inches from the edge. Apion’s eyes bulged as he clutched at his reins and swayed in his saddle to balance, catching sight of the sheer drop into a rocky gully he had only just avoided. A vulture swooped by overhead and screeched as if thwarted of its chance of a meal.
‘Igor, for pity’s sake, will you tell me what is going on and why you are leading me into the sky – preferably before I fall and break my neck!’
Igor looked all around, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as if looking for some observer.
‘We are alone, I can assure you,’ Apion spat. ‘No other cur would be so mad as to come up here!’
Igor snorted at this. ‘Ah, if only that were true. But no, our emperor languishes atop these cliffs.’
‘What, why?’
‘Walk with me,’ Igor said, dismounting.
Apion followed suit, patting his Thessalian’s neck and crunching on up the scree.
‘There have been ill-portents in every direction since the start of this campaign. Blood-comets, freak storms at sea and grey doves suffering from wanderlust,’ Igor panted as they neared the top of the cliffs. ‘All brushed aside by the emperor’s hubris and his stirring homilies. But when we camped at Helenopolis, something changed. In the dead of night, his tent collapsed, the centre pole shredded and it fell in upon him.’
Apion sighed, knowing full well how such incidents were usually perceived by the Christian ranks. ‘And the men think it was a sign from God?’
‘They do. But the worst of it is that God had no hand in this. The emperor himself brought his tent down in some blind fit, throwing himself around.’
Apion cocked his head to one side. ‘But surely a few words from him, would have remedied the situation? A dash of humour and bravado?’
‘They would, had he not been acting so strangely since. After we pulled him from the tent, he was suffering some blinding headache. He said nothing to the men before he blacked out. Then, when he awoke the next day, he was – as I said – not himself. He was sullen and highly irritable.�
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‘Has he been seen by an archiatros?’ Apion asked, knowing full-well that the emperor would have brought some of the fine physicians from Constantinople along with him.
‘They tried to examine him, but he would not have it. He lashed out, blackening the eye of one orderly. When we deconstructed the camp, he then insisted on riding as part of the vanguard.’
Apion’s gut tightened at this. The emperor was a brave soul, but not a fool. Even in firm imperial territory, he would never risk riding in the van in case he might fall to some enemy ambush.
‘And when we came here, he watched the men build the camp, but insisted the imperial tent should not be pitched. And then . . . then he rode from the camp at haste, alone. We pursued him, all the way up here.’
Apion looked up to see they were approaching the clifftop. ‘Here, why?’
The steep path levelled off and the shade fell away as they stepped onto the clifftop. Apion squinted in the sunlight at what lay up there. Three huts stood, all of them ruins, deserted long ago. Hovels at best. The roofs had caved in, the clumsily piled stone walls lay tumbled and broken in places, and the remnant splinters of what had once been a door hung from the entrance to the nearest one. Cicadas sang in the weeds. Clouds of flies buzzed in the shade of the doorway, next to which the emperor’s white stallion was tethered. Then Apion saw smoke puff from this roofless abode.
‘Because the emperor insisted he preferred to be away from his men. He said he favoured these hovels over the fresh and open wheat banks of the river. He has slept here for the last week and has had food brought to him,’ Igor tapped the parcel.
Apion heard a scuffling from inside the tumbledown ruin then.
‘Basileus,’ Igor called out.
Apion removed his helm, readying to salute his emperor, the one man who promised to bring an end to the empire’s constant struggles. But his blood iced when he saw the figure that emerged from the hovel. Romanus’ flaxen locks were unwashed and tangled, his skin was awash with profuse sweat and his chin was covered in unkempt bristles. His lips were taut and twitching, his cobalt eyes darting. His white tunic and trousers were encrusted in filth.
He barely made eye contact with Apion or Igor, instead seemingly more interested in the ashes of a fire. He crouched beside it and poked at the ashes with a stick, sighing and muttering to himself.
‘Basileus, the Haga is here,’ Igor said, crouching by the emperor’s side, placing the parcel down. ‘Only weeks ago you talked of how glad you would be to see him.’
‘Hmm, the Haga? I don’t need him. I just need to be left alone. Away with you both. Away!’ he snarled.
Igor stood back, blanching.
‘Basileus,’ Apion said. ‘The men need you. But I understand you are not well. You need to allow the archiatros to examine you.’
‘I am well. I have my home,’ he gestured to the hovel, then unwrapped the cloth parcel to reveal a round of cheese, a loaf of bread, dates, honey and a small amphora. ‘I have food in my belly and the sun on my skin,’ he looked up to the sky, then winced, looking away and clutching at his temples. ‘I need no physician.’
Igor and Apion shared a wary look, then bade the emperor farewell.
‘Perhaps tomorrow you will feel better,’ Apion said.
Romanus said nothing, remaining crouched, his eyes screwed tight shut with a hand on his forehead.
‘He is unwell, there is no doubt about it,’ Apion whispered to Igor as they made their way back down to their mounts.
‘What are we to do?’ Igor shrugged. ‘My men are guarding the tracks up here, so he is safe from attack, but the armies are becoming restless.’
Apion tucked his hair behind his ears and slid his helm back on. ‘If tomorrow, he still insists on dwelling in that ruin, then we must take matters into our own hands – have the archiatros see to him whether he likes it or not.’
Igor smoothed his moustache and shook his head. ‘I truly hope it does not come to that.’
***
Apion sat on a log under a clear and starry summer night sky at the heart of the camp where the emperor’s tent should have been. The fire before him was dulling. The cooks who had prepared food to be taken to the emperor cleared away their implements and stored their supplies. The other men of the emperor’s retinue sat alongside him, jabbering about what should be done.
He glanced around each of them. Alyates, the young, lean, Strategos of Cappadocia seemed a good sort if a little naïve – insisting that the emperor just needed time to come back to his senses. Doux Bryennios, on the other hand, seemed a shrewd and bullish character, keen to assert his authority in the emperor’s absence. Meanwhile, Doux Philaretos was eager to force the emperor to return to the camp. Doux Tarchianotes was the most aged and seemingly the most balanced individual; he listened to the arguments of the others while stroking his tidy beard, then countered their thoughts with his own. Each of them pitched their ideas as to how to deal with the emperor’s strangeness, each of them jabbing fingers up to the dark silhouette of the cliffs that loomed over the camp.
Only one other around the fire remained silent. Andronikos Doukas. The young man sat there, staring into the fire, one arm chained to a post and constantly under the glare of the two varangoi permanently assigned to watch him. The flames illuminated his broad, flat-boned face and betrayed a sadness in his eyes. Apion thought of the man’s cousins – Eudokia’s sons; young Michael Doukas and his younger brother, Konstantious. In his time in Constantinople, Apion had got to know them both; one a confused young man and the other an innocent and scared boy. Being a member of the Doukas family did not make Andronikos an enemy, but Apion felt a distinct discomfort at his presence in the camp. No man is born evil, he reminded himself, then countered; nor into virtue.
Suddenly, a scream rang out. The chatter ceased and all heads swung round. ‘Fire! Fire!’
Apion looked this way and that. There were no flames, no clouds of smoke.
‘God have mercy!’ Alyates gasped by his side, shooting to his feet and pointing to the cliff tops.
Apion followed his gaze. Up there, an inferno raged. The outline of the hovels were just visible in the blaze.
‘The emperor!’ Bryennios gasped.
‘Take water, form a chain!’ Tarchianotes cried.
Men rushed to and fro. A pack of varangoi hurried up the narrow dirt track that clung to the cliff side, focused on rescuing Romanus. Several banda of infantry formed a line from the river’s edge all the way up to the hill track, passing buckets of water hurriedly. ‘More, we need more!’ Alyates yelled, beckoning more men to the end of the chain which barely reached the lower slopes of the rocky hills.
The faint cry of the varangoi rang out from the cliff top. ‘We cannot find him!’
Apion looked up to see their tiny, silhouetted forms up there, arms waving. Then he heard a chorus of laments from the chain of men now winding up the steep dirt track. That and hooves thundering and a horrific, pained whinnying. Apion’s eyes locked on the dirt track just as the source of the commotion burst into view. The emperor’s white stallion charged down and around the track, its coat and saddle utterly ablaze. It shook and thrashed its mane, bucking and kicking, biting, knocking water-bearing soldiers from the dirt path and into the treacherous gullies. The beast’s struggle only intensified the flames. The stallion barged down onto the flat ground and raced into the camp. The stench of burning hair and flesh was rife, bringing memories of the dreadful Greek fire to Apion. Swathes of soldiers fell back and gawped at the sight of their emperor’s horse in flames. The tortured beast circled the camp, setting light to tents, then charged from the northern gate and into the imperial stables beside the fortress of Malagina. There it took to throwing itself against the stable pens, terrifying the other beasts in there and setting the timber structures ablaze too.
Apion saw from the sea of dumbstruck faces all around that somebody had to act. He ran for the gate, plucked a spear from the trembling hands of a skutatos on s
entry duty, then rushed to the stables. The stallion charged for him, maddened. Apion braced, thinking of the many battles this brave creature had fought in with Romanus. Then he plunged the spear into the beast’s breast. At once, the stallion slumped, pulling the spear down with it. Apion crouched by the dead war horse, his eyes moistening. Moans and laments rang out all around.
‘Get water to these fires!’ Igor cried over the tumult.
A flurry of crunching boots, splashing water and shouting ensued. Apion felt distant from it all. He stared into the stallion’s burnt-out eyes and wondered if this was it. With Romanus burnt alive on the cliff top, the campaign was over. The enemies of the Golden Heart would seize the throne.
The next voice he heard spoke calmly. Oddly so, given the circumstances.
‘Ah, Haga, you made it at last!’
Apion looked up to see Romanus, soot-stained and dishevelled, his knees and elbows bloodied where he had somehow scrambled down the mountainside to escape the blaze up there. Yet he was smiling as though this was an ordinary night, his eyes sharp. ‘Basileus?’
Romanus looked around the camp, seeing the panting, gawping men of his army, the half-ruined stables, and then the corpse of his beloved war horse. ‘It seems we should move on from here?’ he said, showing little emotion. Then he nodded as if agreeing with some inner voice. ‘Yes, yes, we will move on tomorrow.’
***
After a sleepless night, Apion rose before dawn and set off on a run, barefoot. He jogged along the main way through the camp, where the dewy air was still spiced with the tang of charred wood and the burnt remnants of the stables and tents blackened his peripheral vision. When he slipped from the camp’s southern gate, he ran south, along the western banks of the Sangarios, on past the Zompos Bridge.
He had run some seven miles when the sun broached the horizon and cast a purple-pink light across the sky. Normally, a morning run would purge his mind of troubles. Today, though, the jabbering thoughts seemed eager to cling to him. Even when he pushed himself into a sprint, they followed like wolves chasing a bloodied deer. Frustrated, he slowed, panting, then waded into the shallows of the river, throwing off his tunic and ducking under the surface. When he rose, he swept his silver-amber locks back from his face and inhaled deeply. Here, at last, he felt his troubles fade. Here, he could see only the grassy hills and valleys, hear only the chattering cicada song. For the briefest of moments, a treasured memory came to him. He saw the valley of Mansur’s farm, imagined himself as a boy, leading the goat herd onto the hills, watching Maria as she went about her business, pretending she didn’t know he was watching her.
Strategos: Island in the Storm Page 19
