The thunder of pursuing hooves faded, only to be replaced by the shudder of bending bows. He swung his shield round onto his back, knowing he would be their primary target, then heeled the mount again and again, bringing it to a frantic charge as soon as he reached the plain. Arrows thwacked down on his shield, glanced from his helm and ricocheted from the mount’s scale apron. Many more thudded down in the dust around him. He looked up, seeing that he was catching Bryennios, the western tagma riders and the Normans.
Bryennios turned to urge him on faster, then cried out as two arrows thudded home, finding gaps in the iron squares of his klibanion, also knocking down a clutch of the kursores racing by his side. The next volley of arrows sailed down upon the Normans’ hauberks, punching through the mail and felling at least sixty of the western riders.
‘Get your heads down, lie flat on the saddle! Shields on your backs!’ Apion screamed at the panicked Normans over the rushing wind as they hared north, back across the plain towards Manzikert. Only then did the arrow hail thin.
‘They’re not following?’ Bryennios gasped, blood pouring from the wound on his back where two arrows quivered. ‘I’ll be damned if they were a small raiding party . . . or the garrison of Chliat!’
Apion twisted to look back, up to the top of the hill they had just descended. It was now glimmering with silver riders. At the heart of this glittering horizon, a figure stood under the Seljuk golden bow banner. The figure was but a speck in the distance. But even from here, he knew exactly who it was.
Sultan Alp Arslan, the Mountain Lion.
‘No, Doux. It seems the Sultan has come to the field of battle.’
Bryennios’ silence spoke a thousand words. Likewise, Apion’s skin danced in a cold shiver. If the sultan had come to these plains to face the imperial army, then it was a certainty that another had followed.
Taylan, he mouthed, twisting once more and scanning the gathering, thickening crowds of riders up there.
***
Nearing sunset, Apion, Romanus and a clutch of twenty varangoi climbed to the tallest of the northern hills, a safe distance from their camp where they could enjoy a good vantage point across the great plain to view the southern ranges, Mount Tzipan and Lake Van. The only good news to be shared since they returned from the scouting sortie to the south was the discovery of forty barrels of grain inside the cellar of Manzikert’s keep. Thus, the men would eat fresh bread tonight. But it was scant solace given Apion and the other scout riders’ discovery of what lay only a handful of miles to the south.
‘They were there,’ Apion squinted, pointing across the deep orange and shadow dappled land to the tiny, almost indiscernible bump that was the valley of the ambush.
Romanus sighed, his unshaven jaw tensing. ‘Yet I see nothing, nothing but the coming sunset.’
Apion frowned. ‘The arrows in Doux Bryennios’ flesh were real enough, were they not?’ The western doux was somewhere in the Byzantine camp below, being tended to. Fortunately, his wounds were light, the arrows breaking the flesh but not deeply enough to pierce any organs. He would likely be fit to ride again within a day or so. And the chances were he would have to be.
Romanus’ expression grew dark. ‘The sultan was definitely with them? How can a man be cowering in the centre of old Persia and in those hills at the same time?’
Apion sighed, understanding Romanus’ ire. He thought of Diabatenus’ reports that Alp Arslan had fled back into his heartlands upon hearing of the Byzantine advance. Then he thought of that handsome rider’s unexplained disappearance at Theodosiopolis. A dark shadowy truth settled on his thoughts, but he decided not to air them. ‘Who knows what really happened between him and Diabatenus when they parleyed. But believe me, Basileus, the sultan is here.’
‘Then we must ready to resist what forces the sultan has brought to the field,’ Romanus shook his head with a deep sigh. ‘Tarchianotes and his half of the army will be vital – the bulk of my finest cavalry and foot archers. Perhaps the division of the forces might even prove fortuitous – for if we can lure the Sultan’s army onto the plains then perhaps Tarchianotes can fall upon their rear.’
Apion nodded, gazing to the south again. He thought of dampening the emperor’s optimism, then chided himself. ‘Perhaps.’
***
That night, a waxing moon lit the plain of Manzikert, its light coming and going as grey clouds crawled across the sky on lofty zephyrs. The frantic sortie to the southern hills seemed such a long time ago as Apion wandered between the tents of the various regiments in his tunic, boots and a cloak to keep the gentle night chill at bay. The men prayed or chattered gaily, happy to have their bread, ignorant as yet to what lay in the southern hills. Some had grown suspicious when the emperor ordered a double-strength watch, but none yet knew the full story.
Outside the camp, a small band of Armenian traders had come by this otherwise deserted plain and they stopped outside the camp’s southern gate. There were just a few of them, but they brought with them eight ox-drawn wagons laden with trinkets: precious stones set in carved wood, dyed animal hair scarves and fine ostrich feathers for plumage. The Byzantines had little interest in these wares, bar a few who bought up the small amount of prayer ropes the traders had. The Armenian spearmen had browsed the wares with some interest, but the Oghuz had been enthralled by the trinkets, a few hundred of the rugged steppe riders spending hours bantering and bartering with the traders. They even shared some of their bread and wine with the travellers.
Apion headed out to see how they were getting on, taking with him a skin of watered wine. He saw the flat-faced and black-humoured Tamis, leader of the Oghuz wing. The man was squat and sturdy like his fellow riders. He wore black furs on his shoulders, crude leather armour around his torso and an ancient-looking but deadly composite bow on his back. These nimble horse archers – eighteen hundred of them all told including the sixteen hundred or so inside the camp – were the only true archer cavalry left in this half of the bisected army. A vital part of any well balanced force.
‘Ah, Haga!’ Tamis turned to him, arms out wide.
Apion accepted his embrace. ‘Will your men still be able to ride with all these new trinkets?’ he chuckled, seeing one Oghuz rider showing off his purchases – a weighty bronze greave, engraved with spiralling patterns, and a thick iron torc around his neck.
‘Ah, yes, the horses might need a few more handfuls of fodder to carry that one,’ Tamis grinned. Then his smile faded and he beckoned Apion with him on a stroll away from the gathered men and traders and a little further out onto the empty plain. ‘Tell me, Strategos, are these rumours I hear true?’
Apion feigned ignorance.
‘Come on, I know you are as close to the emperor as anyone. The grain and silage Doux Tarchianotes and his men were to send from the southern mountains – it has not arrived, has it? We have been watching and we saw no wagons.’ He stopped and faced Apion, checking he was out of earshot of his men. ‘And that sortie today – it was not merely a skirmish with the Chliat garrison, was it? I saw the state of the men who returned – a good number less than set out.’
Apion sighed. ‘Tamis, you are a wise and noble leader. You know the swiftness with which fear spreads on the wind of such news. Aye, there is a Seljuk army in those hills,’ he looked across the plain to the south. ‘But tonight your men and all the others need nourishment and rest – not rumours.’
Tamis nodded, his expression darkening. ‘I understand. But tomorrow, we will all be told things as they are, yes? Some of my men think it is only them who are not being told - ’ his words faded and his eyes bulged, fixed over Apion’s shoulder. ‘Strategos!’ he gasped.
Apion swung round. To the west, the darkness swirled. Something was moving, flitting between patches of moonlight. A rider, then another, then a vast pack, thundering towards the Oghuz.
Seljuk ghazis.
‘To arms!’ Tamis cried.
‘No – get inside the camp!’ Apion cried, seeing that there
were many of the Seljuk riders. Three thousand, perhaps.
The Oghuz, dismounted, swung round, sure this was some joke, then saw the mass coming for them. They wailed, throwing down their goods, staggering from the trade wagons, some rushing to their horses, others plucking the bows from their backs. Their response was chaotic and all too late. The Oghuz arrows spat forth wildly and without aim. Some riders fell from their mounts in their haste to ride for the nearby safety of the Byzantine camp. In contrast, the Seljuk ghazis unleashed a storm of thousands of arrows on the panicked Oghuz.
Apion threw himself under one of the trade wagons as the hail hammered down. Screams were cut short and bodies thudded to the earth, many twitching or crying out. The wagon shuddered as a shower of the arrows smacked into it – the two unarmoured traders pirouetting and crumpling, riddled with shafts, eyes rolling in their sockets.
The ghazis howled in delight as they swept past, loosing another volley on the remaining eighty or so Oghuz who stood their ground. Over half of these riders were also punched to the dust, having felled only a few of the ghazis in return.
Apion saw the ghazis sweep round, readying to circle and come back again. He pounced on the moment, scrambling from under the wagon, rushing for the camp’s southern gate, where the majority of the Oghuz who had leapt on their mounts were cramming to get inside. But something was wrong. Shouts of despair rang up from the men nearest the gate, and cries of pain followed. Apion heard the lashing of iron swords and the shouting of Greek voices. ‘Ghazis at the gate! Cut them down!’
No! Apion barged through the mass of milling Oghuz mounts. He pushed through to the front, where he saw the snarling Byzantine skutatoi sentries – a thick triple line of ninety of these spearmen blockading the gateway, punching forward with their lances, more rushing to the call of alarm. In their fear at the sudden rush of cavalry and blinded by the darkness, they had mistaken the retreating Oghuz for attacking Seljuk riders. The Oghuz, blinded by panic at the real mass of Seljuk riders sweeping to and fro behind them on the plain, babbled frantically but went unheard. Man and mount were skewered on Byzantine spears and fell, thrashing. He saw Tamis trying to pull his men back, realising the confusion of the sentries, when a javelin hurled form inside the camp took the rugged Oghuz leader clean through the throat, bringing sheets of blood from the wound. His eyes, hope fading, met Apion’s as he toppled from his horse. This only panicked his comrades even more. Some even took to trying to have their mounts leap over the tall palisade wall of the camp. All bar a few of these mounts ended up skewered on the sharpened stakes, thrashing, broken.
‘They’re our men!’ Apion roared over the tumult. The skutatos facing him thrust his spear out again, teeth bared and eyes ablaze, thinking he was fighting for his life. Apion grappled the shaft of the spear and wrenched the man from the spear line. ‘They’re our riders!’ he yelled again. The mist of battle faded from the soldier’s face, only to be replaced by a look of horror as he saw the Oghuz for what they were.
‘Stop!’ the soldier cried, his voice joining Apion’s. Buccinas blared all across the camp and the empty tracts between the sea of tents inside became abuzz with men stumbling from sleep, rushing to arms.
By now, the Oghuz were falling away from the gate, racing off into the plain to take their chances there. Panting and bloodied, the sentry line realised what had happened. They lowered their spears, gawping at the dead allies on the reddened earth before them.
‘Keep your spears high!’ Apion cried, exasperated. ‘The ghazis are out there, in the darkness,’ he fell in behind them, pointing out onto the plain. The drifting clouds had covered the moon, and they could see nothing. The Varangoi and a raft of skutatoi now clustered around the camp’s southern gate, readying to defend the palisade walls. But for a moment there was nothing. Nothing bar the death rattle of one of the stricken Oghuz on the ground before them.
Then a chorus of howling, wraith-like voices split the darkness along with a thunder of hooves. A sliver of moonlight betrayed eyes, flashing armour and gritted teeth. The ghazi pack swept past the southern gate like an ethereal gust, loosing a cloud of arrows before sweeping away into the blackness again.
‘Shields!’ Apion roared. This time they listened. Hundreds of Byzantine shields shot up like a brightly tiled roof. The hail battered down, catching out only a handful. Moments later, the men lowered their shields, looking this way and that. Blackness. Then, from the western gate, cries rang out. Apion swung to peer through the sea of tents. Outside the western gate, the ghazis were wheeling away, a rain of arrows hammering down on the tents and soldiers just inside the gate – many not as swift to raise their shields. Again, silence. A short while later, the rain of arrows and chorus of screams came from the eastern gate.
‘We must go out to engage them!’ the skutatoi komes nearest him snarled, grappling his spear.
‘Go out there in the blackness on foot, armed with a spear . . . against them?’ Apion hissed. ‘Save yourself time and throw yourself upon your own sword! You stay here, you guard the camp. You are the anvil, remember?’
The man blinked and nodded, his senses coming to him. ‘Yes, Haga.’
‘Strategos!’ A gruff voice called out from somewhere inside the camp. Apion looked round to see Igor beckoning him. Romanus was fitting the last of his armour, tying on his greaves.
‘How many?’ the emperor said flatly.
‘At least three thousand,’ Apion replied. ‘Ghazis, all of them.’
The howling cries of the passing riders sounded again, another volley of arrows – this time wrapped in blazing strips of cloth – reaching deep into the camp, setting tents ablaze and felling men as they ran to and fro, taking one varangos in the eye moments after he had leapt onto his horse. The area where the mass of the magnate armies were camped was in utter confusion, the men of these private armies new to such an attack and bewildered as to how to respond. Their leader, Scleros, fuelled by hubris and panic, roared his men into mindless action with his animal cries. They rushed in mobs to the spots where the hail smacked down, as if they could fight off their harassers by chasing their arrows. Igor lunged forward to stand before Romanus, arms spread, as an arrow plunged into the dirt where the emperor had been about to tread. Moments later, a larger object hurtled down, smacking into the dirt and bouncing to come to a rest before Romanus’ feet. The blood and dirt encrusted features of one of Bryennios’ riders – felled earlier that day in the valley – gawped up lifelessly, face still fixed in the terror of the wretch’s last few moments.
Romanus growled like an angered mastiff, swinging a clenched fist into the air before him. Then, as if to rub salt in his wounds, a thunder of hooves sounded from inside the camp. A pack of the Oghuz riders – nine hundred of them – burst from the area they were camped, lashing out at any Byzantines in their way, then broke through the spearline defending the western gate and hared off out into the plain, arcing round to the south before vanishing into the darkness.
A skutatos rushed over to the emperor. ‘They heard news of Tamis’ slaying, Basileus,’ he gasped. They were not for standing with an army who slay their kin. It seems that they have headed south to join the Seljuk forces. Some of them chose to stay, however,’ he pointed to the Oghuz camping area, where nearly a thousand still remained, helping to marshal the defence of the camp and fight the blazing fires.
Romanus’ top lip quivered in ire. ‘Their defection is a blessing. Best that I know the colour of their hearts tonight rather than tomorrow.’ Another shower of arrows pattered down only feet from the emperor.
Apion glanced up to the high southern walls of Manzikert, illuminated by torchlight just a hundred feet from the camp’s northern gate. ‘It is cramped in there, Basileus, but safe. We can’t all take shelter inside, but I suggest you do.’
‘Stow your suggestions, Strategos. I did not march to the edge of the world just to hide,’ he snapped.
‘Basileus, these riders choose not to engage. They know that to attack a for
tified camp is folly. They are here to wear us down,’ Apion insisted.
‘Wear us down?’ Romanus frowned.
‘For tomorrow,’ he and Apion concluded in unison. ‘I am certain that they will attack then.’
‘If you come to any harm from these rogues tonight, the men will be distraught tomorrow.’
Romanus nodded. ‘True, omens are rarely missed by the men of the ranks.’
‘But we have to disperse those riders!’ Igor insisted as another volley rained down on the area where the mules of the touldon were grazing on fodder. Hundreds of them fell with piercing brays.
‘Basileus, with your permission, I will lead a counter attack,’ Apion said.
‘Very well. But do not take unnecessary risks, Strategos. The men will need to see you standing with them tomorrow . . . come what may,’ Romanus nodded. ‘Igor, bring the rest of the retinue to the fortress.’
Apion turned away, rushing to the Chaldian tents, ducking down under his shield as another storm of arrows smacked down inside the camp. Some of the tents had fallen and caught light from the camp fires. Men struggled to douse the fires, and he saw Blastares, Sha and Procopius amongst them. ‘Tourmarches!’ he bellowed to Sha. ‘Summon what archers we have!’
Strategos: Island in the Storm Page 31
