Strategos: Island in the Storm

by Gordon Doherty

  Igor pulled a perplexed frown. ‘Not a word. As I say, he wears a veneer of normality this morning, but . . . ’

  Romanus boomed over his shoulder; ‘This might just be the most important choice of the entire campaign.’ the emperor strode up the short ramp leading to the gates of the Fortress of Malagina. The gates swung open before them to a chorus of salutes from the wall garrison. Inside, Apion looked to the armamenta, the three-storey arms warehouse – perhaps they would be calling in there to pick up extra supplies? Or the granary, for more rations? But instead, the emperor veered towards the small, domed church nestled in the corner of the fortress walls.

  ‘Basileus?’ Apion frowned, seeing the confusion of the others in the retinue.

  But Romanus continued as if he hadn’t heard. ‘The final part of our campaign route has yet to be finalised. When we march east, beyond the themata, how should we approach Lake Van? Do we take the more northerly route, into the Armenian highlands and through Theodosiopolis – mountainous but direct. Or the southerly route we used two years ago, across the Euphrates and through Mesopotamia – flatter ground but many more miles through hostile territory?’

  ‘I would opt for a smooth march over a fast one, Basileus,’ Apion answered. ‘But in any case, I would suggest this is a matter best decided over a map table as opposed to a church.’

  Romanus seemed oblivious to his words, coming to the tall arched doors of the church and sweeping them open. Inside, candles flickered on the altar. Two scrolls lay before them, pooled in the dim orange light.

  Apion stepped inside, his footsteps reverberating like the echoes of his past. He felt the flesh on his wrist where he had once worn the Christian prayer rope tingle, as if trying to conjure guilt from him. Mosaics on the domed ceiling glared down upon him sombrely, the faces of the Apostles and the Virgin Mary unsympathetic. And where were you in my darkest hour? he mouthed, glaring back with equal austerity.

  He, Romanus and the retinue stopped before the altar. All but the emperor shuffled uncomfortably, glancing around the cold, shadowy and otherwise deserted chamber. Finally, a scraping of sandals sounded from behind a screen. A trembling, ancient-looking priest hobbled into view, his shoulders crooked and his head bowed awkwardly. The old man shuffled over to the altar. When the aged priest looked up, Apion saw straight away a distant dimness in his eyes. It was clear that the man was absent in all but body.

  ‘Now, as we agreed; let God direct us,’ Romanus coaxed the old man, pointing to the two scrolls.

  Apion felt his blood cool.

  ‘Basileus?’ Igor gasped.

  ‘Select a map, priest,’ Romanus said, again seemingly unhearing.

  The old man lifted a badly shaking hand to clutch his Chi-Rho necklace, and then reached out with the other to lift the leftmost scroll. Romanus took it, unfurling it and grinning broadly. ‘We take the northerly route – past Theodosiopolis!’ he said, flashing his grin around the gathered generals.

  Apion felt his optimism of earlier melt away. As pious as any other Byzantine, Romanus had never in the past let his faith and his rational, military judgement collide. Now he was asking God to make his choices. The emperor was clearly still not himself. A glance to the others confirmed they shared his thinking.

  Romanus was oblivious to their doubt. He marched from the church as boldly as he had entered, then back down to the camp. Reaching the central tent, he stopped, frowning, rubbing at his temples and blinking, sweat lashing from his ruddy skin. Finally, he swung round to Apion and the others following. ‘Tell me, where is my horse?’

  11. The Strangeness

  The Byzantine column marched on past the great cities of Dorylaeum and Amorium, and by late May they had reached the plains south of Ancyra’s walls. Here, they rendezvoused with the six thousand strong army Apion had left stationed there; two thousand Chaldian infantry and fifty precious kataphractoi riders, Prince Vardan and his two thousand hardy Armenian spearmen and a swathe of Oghuz horse archers. Now complete and numbering forty thousand overall, the campaign army journeyed on eastwards and entered the lands of the Cappadocian Thema, the column now resembling a giant silvery serpent, nearly twenty miles from tip to tail, scales glinting in the baking midday sun and vast plumes of gold and red dust spiralling skywards as it moved along this arid highland. The vanguard – composed of a bandon of iron-vested kursores and the five hundred mercenary Norman lancers – led the way. Fine and well-ordered wedges of the tagmata riders rode a quarter of a mile behind the van, with the white-armoured varangoi forming a circle around the emperor. Behind them marched seemingly infinite ranks of iron-helmed skutatoi spearmen and their bobbing banners. Dotted amongst them were packs of toxotai archers mercifully shaded from the sun in their wide-brimmed hats and enjoying wearing only light linen tunics and boots. The touldon of supply wagons and mules rumbled along in the midpoint of the column, giving the serpent a swollen belly. The Pecheneg horse archers rode wide of the column, as flank-screening outriders. To the rear, a mass of mercenary cavalry rode. The heterogeneous rabble of the magnates were nominally led by the trident-bearded Scleros, but in truth their armies were kept in order only by the fifty Chaldian kataphractoi led by Apion and his trusted three.

  One cluster of the magnate riders strayed from the column, trotting nonchalantly to the south to squint at the ruin of a farmhouse. One of them wore ancient, baked leather armour, no doubt harvested from some battlefield years ago. The others wore just ragged tunics and sported untidy beards and rotten teeth.

  ‘Get back in line, you dogs!’ Procopius howled, the sinews in his neck straining and his eyes bulging. ‘You can turn your mind to plunder once you’ve ridden as far as the emperor demands, and risked your bloody necks against the empire’s enemies.’

  The leather-vested leader of this pack turned to look Procopius up and down with disdain, his lips wrinkling as if preparing to fire back some venomous retort. Only when Scleros called to him did he halt, the words remaining unsaid. With a dipped brow and a barely disguised grimace at Procopius, the leather-vested one and his small band of cronies heeded their master’s words, falling in with the main pack again. Once there, they instantly set about bickering and arguing amongst themselves.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Procopius growled, riding back to join the head of the wedge of fifty.

  ‘This lot are supposed to be a rearguard,’ Blastares grumbled, slapping a fly from his wrist, then lifting his helm to sweep a sheet of sweat from his stubbled scalp, ‘and at seven thousand strong, they should make a bloody formidable one.’

  ‘I’d rather have a single lion watching my back than a pack of quarrelling wolves,’ Sha said, chewing on the flesh of an apple.

  ‘True,’ Apion commented, digging out and biting into an apple himself. ‘But in any case, I fear our greatest danger lies not here, but at the head of the column.’

  Sha, Blastares and Procopius followed Apion’s gaze into the eastern horizon. Somewhere beyond the cloud of dust and the iron snake, beyond the shimmering haze where land and sky melted together, and nearly a half day’s hard ride ahead, the emperor and his retinue led this vast column.

  ‘You speak of the Seljuks . . . or the narrow-eyed dogs who ride with the emperor?’ Sha asked with a hint of a grin.

  Apion snorted, thinking of Alp Arslan, Taylan and the hordes. That ever-present threat hung like a blade in the sky over Byzantine Anatolia. Then he thought of the men the emperor had surrounded himself with. Philaretos was a firebrand, but a loyal one. There was Tarchianotes, the gnarled and guarded doux. Bryennios, the lithe giant with the grin of a sly hunting dog but the reputation of a military genius. And then there was Alyates, a loyal and well-meaning young man on the surface. But what colour is his core? Apion wondered, the words stoked by bitter experience. He then thought of Andronikos Doukas, riding in chains alongside the emperor too. He shook his head, his thoughts tangling. ‘Both trouble me equally, but not as much as the emperor himself,’ Apion replied at last. ‘He is suffering from some
illness still, I am sure of it.’

  ‘The madness from the mustering?’ Procopius cocked an eyebrow. ‘That was unsettling, aye. But now we are on the march. I have heard of no incident since. Even when we camped near Cryapege, all was quiet.’

  ‘This is true,’ Apion mused, stroking his beard. Camp had been still and peaceful that night and in the nights since. The last flashpoint had been the sight of young Alexios Komnenos being led back to Constantinople, escorted by a troop of determined varangoi. Alexios’ howls of protest had unsettled many of the watching soldiers. Apion regretted that he would not have further chance to talk with the lad. But perhaps it was a sensible move by the emperor. Alexios, a steadfast ally, would be a fine asset to have back in the capital.

  ‘And you haven’t heard anything from Komes Peleus or Komes Stypiotes since we set off from Malagina, have you?’ Blastares added.

  Apion thought of the loyal pair of skutatoi commanders who marched near the column head with the Chaldian infantry. He had insisted that they were to relay any news of the emperor’s behaviour to him via a kursoris scout rider. ‘No, but then I do not equate silence with surety.’

  ‘I could ride ahead, check on them?’ Sha offered.

  ‘No, I need you here,’ Apion replied, leaning forward to feed his apple core to his mount. ‘But watch the horizon, watch for the kursoris.’

  ***

  Near the front of the column, Komes Stypiotes marched at the head of one bandon of Chaldian spearmen. The hulking soldier fought to suppress a groan. Despite being afforded the ‘luxury’ of marching without their heavy armour jackets, the going was tough. Dust coated his skin, his mouth was parched, his feet were blistered and swollen and his head throbbed from the crunch-crunch of marching boots. Tiring rapidly of the sight of swaying horse buttocks in front of him, he glanced to either side of the column to the shimmering heat haze that blended dust with sky. To the south, there was a faint sparkle of blue. Lake Tus. He watched the rippling air and imagined the cool, clean waters rushing towards them. Most of the infantry in the campaign army would have welcomed such a relief from the blazing afternoon sun.

  The bandophoros was the only one to enjoy a sliver of shade, offered by the crimson Chi-Rho standard of the bandon. Stypiotes eyed the patch of shade jealously, then winced as the linen cloth that acted as padding between his helm and his scalp slipped, the hot metal stinging his skin. Feeling the irritation growing in his chest, he shot a glance over to Komes Peleus, leading the adjacent bandon. ‘How long since we last stopped for water?’ he hissed.

  Komes Peleus shot him a glare in return, frowning, nodding faintly to the men who marched behind him. Then he barked an order for his own bandophoros to take the lead before sidling over to march with Stypiotes ‘Why? Oh, let me guess, because you’re thirsty and too hot?’

  Stypiotes made to retort, but a waft of dust kicked up by the hooves of the kataphractos before him caught in his throat and he broke down in a coughing fit. ‘Look,’ he stabbed a finger ahead at the swaying cavalry, ‘I’m bloody sick and tired of watching a collection of horses’ arses, complete with flies and regular consignments of turds, in this bloody inferno.’

  Peleus smirked sardonically. ‘Really? That’s odd, because we all love it. Anyway, I told you not to drink all that wine last night.’

  Stypiotes thought of the game of dice after evening prayer that had seen him gleefully collect in the wine rations of four of his skutatoi. It had tasted ever so sweet . . . last night at least.

  ‘That’s why you’re so thirsty,’ Peleus continued, ‘and testy.’

  Stypiotes grumbled and sought a reply, when suddenly, the men of the Chaldian Thema broke out in a murmur, necks craning to get a view of some activity ahead. ‘Hello, what’s this?’ he cooed.

  ‘The emperor, he’s leaving the head of the column,’ Peleus gasped.

  Sure enough, a silver and white-armoured figure with a purple-plumed battle helm saddled on a dark stallion emerged from the many wings of cavalry at the front of the column. He moved at a trot, riding off at a tangent to the south. A clutch of varangoi riders hurried to follow him. Over the gasping of the ranks, the emperor’s booming laughter rang out as he kicked his stallion into a gallop across the dusty plain heading towards the distant, sparkling waters of Lake Tus. Then he tore off his helm and tossed it to the dust with a metallic clunk.

  ‘What the?’ Peleus gasped. ‘What is he doing?’

  ‘Look at the colour of his face – seems like he was on the wine last night,’ Stypiotes mused, squinting at the emperor’s florid skin.

  ‘Why would I want to ride with a shower of sweating men and horses,’ the emperor’s distant cry was only just audible, his arms outstretched to the sky. The varangoi pursuing him caught up and gathered around him, Igor remonstrating with him most fervently.

  ‘I can sympathise with him . . . but I’d say it is time to send the kursoris back to the strategos?’ Stypiotes nodded to the lone Chaldian scout rider trotting with the column on the northern flank.

  ‘Hold on,’ Peleus said. ‘He’s coming back.’

  Sure enough, the emperor had turned his stallion around and was now trotting back with Igor and his men. One of the Rus guardsmen stopped to collect the discarded helmet.

  They marched on until late afternoon without further incident until they came to the banks of the River Halys. As arranged, a fleet of round-hulled pamphyloi were already waiting there to ferry the column across the river. The operation would take the rest of the day and most of tomorrow.

  The tagmata were first to cross, those reaching the far banks setting to work on a camp over there, while those who waited on the near bank did likewise there. When the last of the tagmata were safely on the far banks, the varangoi turned to Romanus and gestured to the next free pamphylos, expecting the emperor to lead them on board. But Romanus looked at them blankly, then snorted.

  ‘I’ll not be crossing today. I think I’d prefer to remain here,’ he said. Then he took to squinting at the shingle banks and poplar groves downriver. ‘Yes, I think that shady dell there would make a fine spot for a new imperial manor.’ His eyes swung round and rested on Stypiotes and Peleus. ‘You, Chaldians. You will set to work on this immediately. You can quarry good limestone in these lands. I know this,’ he patted his silver and white breastplate with pride, ‘for Cappadocia is my homeland!’

  Stypiotes stared back, stunned. Until now he had been in awe when in the emperor’s presence. Until now – or a few weeks ago at least – the emperor had commanded such awe. But this? This was lunacy.

  ‘You will find strong and supple timbers in the valleys further downriver. Some of you will have to go to the hill town of Nyssa, of course, to buy textiles and furnishings.’ His gaze swept over to the far banks of the river. ‘And perhaps we should bring the Scholae Tagma back, denude them of their horses. Those mounts could seed a new imperial stud farm here.’

  Igor and the other varangoi pleaded with the emperor in hushed tones, but he waved their appeals away with an arrogant sweep of one arm. ‘Enough!’ he snarled, his hands shooting up to rub his temples as if some crushing headache had overcome him. He heeled his mount into a walk to stand and face the shimmering body of the vast column, stretching off to the west as far as the eye could see. His eyes fell upon Stypiotes and Peleus. ‘Well? I asked you to quarry me fine stone and fell me the tallest trees. Be about your duties, soldiers!’

  Stypiotes and Peleus hesitated only because of their incredulity. It lasted just moments. Then, as one, they turned and barked to their men. ‘You heard your emperor. Drop your weapons, take up your axes and picks. Make your way for the trees and the limestone cliffs.’ In mute disbelief, the Chaldian infantry did as they were told. Spears, shields and bows clattered to the dust. Two thousand men trudged off, heads bowed in disillusionment. Stypiotes shared a wide-eyed glance with Igor, then turned with Peleus to follow the ranks.

  But Romanus was not finished. He jabbed a finger at Prince Vardan and th
e Armenian spearmen, mustered by Apion, who had been marching just behind the Chaldian ranks. ‘And take those eastern, godless whoresons with you!’

  Prince Vardan bristled at this. Teeth bared, he swept a hand towards his swordbelt. It was only the cooler-headed men by his side who calmed him, persuaded him to play along. Vardan lifted the trembling hand to adjust his gold silk headscarf, then nodded, albeit with twitching lips and fire in his eyes. ‘Spearmen, follow me,’ he bawled hoarsely, then led them towards the groves and cliffs.

  ‘Now . . . we must get word to the kursoris,’ Peleus hissed under his breath as they walked from the column.

  ‘It is taken care of,’ Stypiotes replied, glancing over his shoulder to see Igor already whispering to the lone rider.

  ***

  Apion hurried his gelding along the side of the column, passing rank after rank of thematic infantry as night fell. The closer he came to the head of the column where the ranks were spilling into the vast camp on the Halys’ western banks, the more troubled the voices around him became.

  ‘He has truly lost his mind!’ one cried out. ‘Gave the lash to an Armenian soldier for accidentally shredding a plank of timber. The man’s back is hanging in strips.’

  ‘He refuses to cross the river with us. The campaign is dead in the water.’

  Apion scowled at this talk and turned to wave his trusted three on at haste. ‘Ya!’ he yelled, heeling his own mount. He slowed as they reached the western gate of this riverbank camp. Men babbled in confusion now. As he pushed through the masses, he saw that many men had left their tents unconstructed, their attentions on something going on by the river. Sha, Blastares and Procopius flanked Apion as he dismounted and barged through. Here, the air was spiced with shouts of anger and the gloom speckled with torchlit faces twisted with ire. The ranks had gathered in a dense crescent around the end of the camp adjacent to the riverbank with just Igor and a wall of varangoi holding them back.