The first shafts of full daylight bathed him at that moment, and a smile stretched across his face. He splashed out of the river and tied his hair back in a ponytail, then threw on his tunic and dug out the lock of hair from the purse sewn onto his belt.
‘I don’t know anymore what terrifies me most, Maria; not finding you, or finding you,’ he whispered, settling on a fallen hazel tree by the riverbank. ‘For if I have to come face to face with Taylan again to learn of your whereabouts, I fear that only one of us will walk away.’
He listened to the sounds of nature, as if waiting for an answer. Instead, he heard something on the log beside him: the scratching talons and rustling feathers of some settling raptor. From the corner of his eye, he saw a metamorphosing shape, growing, changing. Finally it settled. The crone’s silvery locks lifted in the gentlest of breezes.
‘Yet if you do not face Taylan, he will pursue you evermore,’ she said.
‘I know this. I know we must meet,’ he sighed.
‘It is a choice, Apion. Likewise, young Taylan has a decision to make. Together, your choices might still confirm or confound my nemesis, Fate.’
‘Fate has ploughed a crimson furrow through my life,’ Apion said flatly. ‘I spit in Fate’s eye.’
She placed a gnarled hand on his forearm. ‘And that is why I always return to you.’
‘I am but one man. Your faith in me is misplaced.’
She shook her head. ‘The deeds of one man can inspire the hearts of others. You know this.’
Apion looked north, downriver to the horizon in the direction of the camp. ‘Ha! Then I will need to perform many deeds to right things. Thousands of men wait back there – confused, angry . . . ’ his words trailed off with a sigh. He looked to her, seeing her milky eyes fixed on the rippling waters of the river, now sparkling and illuminated in a rich teal. ‘I should know better than to ask you for answers, old woman, but tell me: are these omens that have riddled my emperor’s campaign mere coincidence?’
‘Cah!’ she swept a hand through the air then broke down in a wheezing cackle. ‘Omens help weak men make poor choices.’ She extended a bony finger, pointing to a calm spot amongst the reeds. ‘See how the sunlight bathes the shallows on the far bank?’ While the morning shadows had yet to retract from the rest of the eastern banks, a wedge of morning sunlight had, indeed, conspired to shine through two eastern hills, casting a shaft of rich yellow-orange on this part of the bank. Tiny rainbow trout leapt from the surface, biting at the clouds of mayfly gathered there, and the light betrayed larger, silvery carp darting under the surface. ‘Bountiful, is it not?’ the crone said.
Apion resisted the temptation to answer, noticing a crane stalking over to the reeds, attracted by the sunlight and the leaping fish.
‘A good omen if ever there was one?’ she continued, eyeing Apion in search of an answer.
Apion remained tight-lipped.
The curious crane plucked a trout from the water at will, stopping every so often to look this way and that, somewhat disbelieving its luck. Then the bushes nearby shuddered and a leopard leapt from the undergrowth, clamping its ferocious jaws around the crane’s neck and snapping it like a dry reed.
‘I take your point,’ Apion replied.
‘Then take my next words with you as well. Not omens, but two things I have foreseen. They will not help you find your woman or confront your son, but they are vital.’
Apion looked to her; ‘I may not always comprehend your words, old woman, but I will always listen to you.’
She smiled, her age-lines fading, her whole being exuding warmth. ‘When you come by the boy on the dead man’s horse, choose your words well.’
Apion frowned, nodding.
Then, like a cloud masking the sun, her demeanour changed, her face fell grave, her gaze glacial; ‘And then beware. Beware the serpent with the amethyst eyes!’ she hissed.
Apion frowned. ‘The serpent with . . . ’
Suddenly, a shrill cry rang out from the far riverbank. Another leopard, far larger than the first, had arrived to challenge the kill. Apion looked to the confrontation then back to the crone. But she was gone, the log beside him was empty. The angered keening of an eagle rang out above, and this seemed to scare the fighting leopards into flight. Apion glanced up and all around the morning sky. Unblemished. Empty.
He set off back to the camp, enjoying the cooling dew of the pasturelands on his bare feet as he jogged. His thoughts began to gather like clouds as he tried to work out how to approach the emperor when he got back.
The camp was still a few miles distant when he noticed movement on the western track. A lone rider, emerging from the heat haze. An eerily familiar-looking military man with long, dark locks, tanned skin and a hooked nose, his fine bronze klibanion vest sparkling in the sunlight. And the grey stallion with a distinctive white blaze on its face – he had seen that fine steed once before, at the Euphrates and on the march through Mesopotamia two years previously.
Manuel Komnenos? Apion mouthed in disbelief.
He slowed to a walk, peering into the sunlight, knowing it could not be true. For Komnenos had perished – the reports had come to Apion only in the last month or so, but they had been clear; a vicious, malignant growth inside one ear had claimed the emperor’s man, and this had saddened Apion greatly. He squinted, seeing the rider behold him too. Shades had long plagued his dreams, were they now haunting his waking hours also?
But as the rider came closer, he saw that this was not Manuel Komnenos, but a young lad cast in the dead general’s image.
When you come by the boy on the dead man’s horse, choose your words well . . .
As they came to within a few paces of one another, the boy’s eyes narrowed, seeing Apion’s faded red military tunic. He cast up a hand in salute. ‘Perhaps you can help me, soldier?’
‘You seek the mustering fields of Malagina?’ Apion guessed, saluting in reply.
‘Aye,’ the boy said, peering down his nose.
‘Where is your escort?’ Apion asked.
The boy shrugged, maintaining an aloof gaze. ‘I have no need of an escort.’
Apion cocked an eyebrow. The lad’s mount and armour were fine indeed, and brigands would happily rob a lone traveller of both. ‘Very well, but if you refuse to be escorted then how can I guide you to the camp?’
The lad’s aloofness cracked for an instant as he grinned impishly. ‘Good point,’ he said, sliding from the saddle to walk his stallion. ‘So who is my escort?’ he said, the loftiness returning.
Apion could not help but chuckle at the boy’s pluck. ‘Apion, Strategos of Chaldia,’ he replied.
The boy’s face brightened and his eyes flashed with realisation, darting to the red-ink stigma on Apion’s arm. ‘You?’
Apion feigned a smile, unconsciously shielding the stigma with his other hand.
‘Then I can speak freely,’ the boy said, his reserve fading and a look of relief washing across his face. ‘I have no escort because the emperor meant to keep me from this campaign – for my own safety, apparently. It is a shame that the guards posted to retain me in Constantinople did not have the wits to match my determination.’ He said this with a grin, then his look grew earnest. ‘But I worried who I might meet first upon arriving at the mustering fields. Before my brother died, he told me that there were few men I should trust. One was the emperor, another was the Haga.’
Apion nodded, swatting away the embarrassment. Then realisation dawned as to how the lad had come by the arms and war horse. ‘Ah, so you are Manuel’s brother?’
The boy nodded, standing a little taller. ‘I am Alexios. I live to wipe the black stains from the Komnenos family name. My brother died in shame. Rumours spread that it was his poor generalship that saw his army wiped out by the Seljuks last year at Sebastae. Worse, the chance to rectify his mistakes were taken from him by disease - ’
‘Your brother was one of the most astute and loyal souls I have ever come across in all the lands
of our empire,’ Apion cut him off, but kept his tone gentle. ‘In the end, he was vanquished by a hardy Seljuk foe and a venal cur in the imperial court who betrayed him and his army to the enemy. There is no shame there for your brother, only for the cur.’
A silence passed.
‘I can see why he liked you,’ Alexios said sheepishly at last. ‘He said your name and your symbol were signs of hope to the armies of Anatolia.’
‘Ha! When I first met your brother, I felt just the same about him. His armies were in awe of him. A fine leader, a fine man. One of so few.’
Apion noticed Alexios’ eyes reddening. So he changed tack, instead asking the lad about his military experience. They ambled up the track towards the mustering fields, chatting as they went. Eventually they came back to more sensitive matters.
‘Manuel used to say that Romanus Diogenes is the last ember of hope for our empire,’ Alexios said, feeding his grey handfuls of grain as they walked. Then he lowered his voice, darting glances this way and that before adding: ‘And that the Doukas family are like a dark thundercloud, eager to extinguish it.’
Apion smiled dryly at the description. ‘You think the Doukas family will bring ruin to the empire?’
‘I am sure of it.’
‘I am certain they will try,’ Apion snorted.
‘But if Psellos and John Doukas ever find their way onto the throne . . . ’
‘They will not,’ Apion countered, willing his words to be true. ‘They are in exile and there they will remain.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Alexios frowned. ‘Neither of those dogs will ever stop in their efforts to dethrone the emperor.’
‘The empire has endured many foul characters in the past. Wolves constantly watching the throne. Some have even managed to claim the seat of power. Yet the empire has endured. That is not down to good fortune, Alexios, that is down to good men.’ He took a stalk of wheat from the trackside and twisted at it, thinking of the crone’s advice, seeking his next words carefully. ‘Most men are a blur of light and darkness, good and evil, swinging from one to another like a dead man on a noose. But there are some who refuse to let blackness tip the balance. Good men like the emperor . . . like your brother.’ He fixed Alexios with his gaze. ‘While good men stand firm and refuse to buckle under tyranny, corruption or lies . . . there is always hope. Always.’
Alexios held his head a fraction higher. His eyes reddened once again and tears escaped, yet these tears came with a smile. When the lad looked skywards and mouthed a prayer, no doubt for his lost brother’s soul, Apion looked away to afford him some privacy.
They walked on until they came over a rise in the track, then onto the plain of Malagina and the approach to the camp’s southern gate. They slowed only when a pack of Pecheneg steppe riders thundered to the gate before them, filing inside two abreast. These stocky men rode on equally squat and hardy ponies. They wore leather armour and animal hides, and each man had two or more bows on his back, plus a clutch of arrow-filled quivers. Apion counted some four hundred of them. A fine addition to the campaign army, he thought – if they stayed loyal.
‘Come,’ he said to Alexios as they entered the southern gate of the camp, ‘I will take you to the emperor.’
He picked his way past the clustered tents of each thema and tagma army, and saw that a wing of mercenary Norman riders had arrived also. Nearly five hundred men in mail hauberks and iron helms with broad nose guards, grooming their tall, powerful battle mounts or honing their lances. They bore emblems of their homeland and symbols of God on their garments. Apion could not help but think of that Norman dog, Crispin, still roaming somewhere in Byzantine lands. He thought also of Dederic, a Norman he had trusted with his life, and still missed every day, despite the little rider’s betrayal.
He stirred from the memories when he saw what lay up ahead. His eyes lit up as he beheld the red satin imperial tent, erected at last at the heart of the camp. All looked as it should, with the bejewelled campaign Cross mounted nearby and the blue-gold Icon of Blachernae sparkling in the morning sun. The emperor’s cooks were busy preparing some sweet-smelling stew. Andronikos Doukas was chained to his post nearby, pretending he was not interested in the delicious fare. Best of all, the emperor was there, talking with his retinue, looking over maps, pointing this way and that, his movements sharp and determined. He had washed the worst of the soot from his face and hair and he wore his white tunic and trousers, purple cloak, doeskin boots and his fine white and silver armour breastplate. The Golden Heart was back, it seemed.
‘Ah, Strategos,’ Igor called out, stepping away from the discussions and beckoning him over. ‘And . . . Alexios?’ Igor frowned. ‘I thought you were supposed to be - ’
‘I am exactly where I am supposed to be,’ the lad replied swiftly, donning his haughty mask again.
‘Ha!’ Igor said in an effort to disguise his discomfort. The big Rus frowned, then added; ‘Perhaps it would be best for you to wait here and speak to the emperor later?’
Alexios made to protest, then looked to Apion.
‘It will only be for a short while, lad.’
Alexios stowed his complaint, nodding and leading his horse to a nearby trough.
Apion and Igor walked together towards the emperor. ‘To see things in their right place is encouraging indeed,’ Apion whispered.
‘Things are still not right, despite how it might look . . . ’ was all Igor had time to whisper in reply.
‘Haga!’ Romanus laughed heartily, extending an arm, his eyes sparkling. Gladly, Apion clasped his arm to the emperor’s. Then they embraced. ‘Damn, but it is good to have you here at last. I trust your journey from Chaldia was smooth?’
Apion disguised a frown; so the emperor remembered nothing of their meeting at the cliff top hovels, or last night, standing over his burnt war horse? And he noticed Romanus was still unshaven, his cheeks gaunt and ruddy, his skin bathed in sweat and his hair unkempt. ‘And damn, it is good to be here,’ he offered in as genuine a tone as he could muster. ‘I bring only my three tourmarchai, but my two thousand Chaldians, another two thousand Armenian spearmen under the command of Prince Vardan and nearly eighteen hundred Oghuz horse archers wait just south of Ancyra, eager for the campaign column to come by, eager to join your ranks, Basileus. Though I see those forces will be but a grain of sand on a bay, given the numbers that have been gathered here?’
Romanus nodded, sweeping a hand around. ‘The mustering is almost complete – we have nearly twenty seven thousand men gathered. The iron riders of the tagmata, the myriad spears of the themata, and the lancers and archer cavalry of our allies. All that remains is your forces and – ’
His words were cut off by a cry from the southern gate. ‘They’re here!’
All heads looked south. Over the camp’s southern palisade, the Zompos Bridge was just visible. Writhing like a silver snake, myriad warriors poured across the river there. They moved not in ordered formations, but in a mass of riders and foot soldiers combined. More akin to a horde than an imperial army.
‘There must be four, no five thousand of them,’ Igor gasped.
‘Closer to seven thousand,’ Romanus marvelled. ‘Now we can move east with almost forty thousand men altogether. The Sultan, or any other who might choose to stand in our way, should be sure to devise a plan of retreat.’
‘You chose to call on the magnates and their private armies, Basileus?’ Apion said in a hushed voice. He had heard this rumour, but dismissed it as apocryphal. In previous years, he and Romanus had discussed the possibility but rejected it on the basis of the dubious character of these private levies.
‘Seven thousand men, Strategos,’ Romanus said brashly, not observing Apion’s quieter tone. ‘They’ll make up for the losses from last year.’
The riders at the head approached the camp’s southern gate now. He could see that they wore a mish-mash of armour and carried a selection of unorthodox weapons. Some of them wore just tunics and boots and carried simple
spears – no doubt levied farmworkers from the magnates’ lands, men who should have been serving with their local themata anyway. Others were clad in mail, some in scale. The cavalry amongst them carried axes, clubs and short stabbing swords – totally unsuitable for mounted warfare. The magnates themselves were easy to spot. These leaders wore ludicrously ornate and antique breastplates of moulded and bronze and silver – some outshining even the emperor’s armour. Most bore helmets with garishly ostentatious plumes. One even had a plume of ostrich feathers – dyed red and glued to stand proud nearly a foot higher than the tip of his helm – and a caged faceguard. When he lifted the faceguard, the expression on his face said it all. A smug, defiant grin and a dark trident beard. He glared disdainfully at the imperial regiments through bloodshot eyes.
‘Well this lot will surely provide much entertainment on the march,’ Apion muttered, seeing that the bearded one rode on a stiff and barely used leather saddle. ‘He’ll be counting the blisters on his arse by this evening.’
‘Ah, yes, Scleros will be in charge of the magnate ranks,’ Romanus said, clasping a hand to Apion’s shoulder and nodding to the trident-bearded one. ‘Now, come with us to the fortress. There is one piece of business to attend to before we set off.’
Apion nodded and fell back as Romanus took the lead, beckoning Philaretos, Alyates, Tarchianotes and Bryennios along. He leaned in to Igor’s ear as they followed. ‘Has he said anything about the fire and his behaviour in these last weeks?’
Strategos: Island in the Storm Page 20
