Strategos: Island in the Storm

by Gordon Doherty

  Sha roared with laughter first, Apion and Procopius were quick to follow. The men nearby broke out in laughter too.

  ‘Out there,’ Apion smiled, ‘I will think of nothing more than the crushing hangover that is to be my reward.’

  The buccinas blared once more for final formations. ‘Until this day is done, my Tourmarchai. Until victory, my friends,’ he nodded to his trusted three. The three saluted then turned away, heeling their mounts back to the front of each of their tourmae of Chaldian infantrymen.

  Apion trotted over to Alyates’ riders on the Byzantine right. There, he dismounted to throw the iron scale apron and face mask over his mount, stroking its mane as he did so. Next, he set about tying the flexible splinted greaves around his forearms. Finally, he lifted the veil to clip it on across his face. But something caught his eye and he hesitated. The morning heat haze separating the armies flickered. A party was approaching from the Seljuk lines. Just seven riders, wearing not the armour of warriors but the robes of delegates. He saw that the party was headed for the Byzantine centre. They came to within paces of the front then, at some barked command from the imperial command tent, the infantry ranks parted, opening a corridor to let the delegation through. Alyates sidled over just then. ‘The sultan means to offer terms? Perhaps we should lend an ear,’ he said, dismounting and beckoning Apion with him towards the command tent.

  They arrived at the command tent just as the delegates were dismounting. They were older, grey-bearded Seljuk men, dressed in fine silk yalmas and caps. The lead delegate, draped in gold brocade, moved to stand before the white and silver-armoured Romanus, who had dismounted also to sit on a gilded throne, flanked by the great bejewelled campaign cross on one side and the Icon of the Holy Virgin of Blachernae on the other. The Seljuk delegate bowed before him.

  ‘Our great sultan sends you a fine gift, Emperor of Byzantium. He wishes to see all of your men return to their homes unharmed.’ Apion noticed that the delegate’s voice was booming, so many of the ranks nearby could hear this. ‘So you can all be with your wives and children once more.’

  Apion’s eyes narrowed, sensing the true motive for this parley. He caught Romanus’ eye at that moment, and saw the emperor’s gaze harden too.

  ‘Disperse your armies, Emperor of Byzantium, and leave these lands. Have your garrison walk unharmed from Manzikert and return to the west. This offer is most gracious and comes to you only once.’

  Apion swept his gaze around the nearest ranks of soldiers. He saw many of them charmed by the sudden and unexpected promise of safety. On the cusp of battle, such words always played havoc with a man’s heart. He thought of the soldiers who had deserted overnight. He loathed them for it, yet he understood. They had families, no doubt, cherished ones they longed to be with instead of standing to face the Seljuk wrath. He reached a hand inside his purse and stroked the dark lock of Maria’s hair. For an instant he envied those craven men, fleeing into the arms of those they loved.

  The envoy continued; ‘Already, the vast wing of riders and archers you sent to Lake Van’s shores have taken this path.’ He stopped, a haughty smile spreading over his face as he gazed around the watching men. ‘They turned and rode back to the west.’

  Gasps rang out. Hundreds of voices whispered.

  ‘Tarchianotes has fled?’ Alyates hissed by Apion’s ear.

  Apion could not bring himself to reply.

  ‘Never,’ Romanus insisted.

  The envoy’s eyes grew hooded, a look of satisfaction settling upon his mottled face. ‘Our scouts have been tracking them, and at the last report, those fine forces of yours were still on their retreat to the west, nearly ninety miles away.’

  The watching Byzantine soldiers erupted in a panicked chorus.

  Romanus’ eyes darted, the panic almost taking him too. But he shot up from his chair, silencing the babble, standing tall to glower at the envoy. ‘Tell your noble sultan that we will walk from these lands,’ he replied in a low growl. A flurry of muttering spread around the crowd. ‘But not on this fine morning. No, we will leave these lands only when we are victorious, with Manzikert and Chliat as our prizes, or as spirits, slain on the battlefield as we fight to the last. To the last!’

  The delegate’s earnest and warm expression faded at this, his top lip twitching. The watching ranks had their nascent doubts swept away, many breaking into a defiant, thunderous cheer. The emperor slid on his silver, purple-plumed battle helm and seized the momentary fervour. ‘Tell your sultan that we will talk again on the battlefield. Our swords will sing until they grow hoarse!’

  The Byzantine ranks erupted now in a lasting, raucous chorus of chanting and cheering, Romanus’ glare never leaving the departing delegates as they rode off back to the Seljuk lines.

  ‘That was well handled, Basileus,’ Apion whispered, sidling up next to the emperor. ‘The delegate’s words had the men spellbound for a moment there. They even had me.’

  ‘Then they had us all, Strategos,’ Romanus flashed a half-smile. ‘As he spoke, I saw only Eudokia and little Nikephoros. How I longed to be with them, to guarantee that I would see them again.’ He clutched the golden heart pendant as he said this.

  ‘I am certain the sultan made the offer in the same hope of seeing his own loved ones, Basileus.’

  ‘Yet he, like I, cannot be seen to yield. Not even an inch. Each of us has to return to our realm with these lands secured. But only one of us can.’

  Apion nodded, knowing full well that Psellos and the Doukas family would be awaiting news of this clash like vultures. Indeed, he mused bitterly, thinking of Diabatenus the missing rider and Tarchianotes the absent doux, they appeared to have invested heavily in a Seljuk victory. ‘So what now, Basileus?’

  The emperor held his gaze, slipping on his purple-plumed battle helm. ‘Now, Haga, we go to war.’

  ***

  Atop the hummock in the middle of the plain, Alp Arslan watched the sheepish envoys shuffle to the back of the tent. The Byzantine Emperor’s response was not unexpected, yet it angered him greatly. Battle could not be avoided, it seemed. He threw down his green silk cloak, cast off his gold bracelets and neck chains, then took up the white garment he had asked for.

  ‘Sultan!’ Bey Gulten gasped. ‘This is a terrible omen. Please, don the fine garments that befit you. Not this death-robe!’

  Alp Arslan continued to dress in the garment as if he had not heard, pulling it over his iron-plate coat.

  ‘Stand back,’ Bey Taylan urged the aged Gulten.

  But Bey Gulten insisted again, picking up the sultan’s battle cloak and striding towards him to force it into his hands. ‘You mean to inspire your ranks with such a morbid gesture? What kind of man leads his people in such a-’

  Gulten’s words were cut short by a chorus of blades being ripped from sheaths. He looked this way and that – first at Kilic’s dagger, pressed to his jugular, then to Bey Taylan’s scimitar, resting on his breastbone. The bey backed away, bowing, his skin paling and sweat spidering down his skin.

  ‘The sultan will teach you how to inspire men, bold bey,’ Taylan hissed.

  The bey’s nose wrinkled at being spoken to like this. ‘Sultan, this boy means to talk to me, a man nearly three times his years, in such a fashion?’

  Alp Arslan looked to Taylan and then to Gulten, his gaze distant, his face pinched with tension. ‘He may possess just a third of your years, Bey Gulten, but he has thrice your wisdom. Now go back to your riders, you offer me nothing today but a grating voice.’

  Gulten’s indignation remained buried under his fear of the sultan. Gingerly, he backed away, bowing. ‘Yes, Great Sultan.’

  Alp Arslan looped the ends of his thick and long moustache round the back of his neck and tied them there, then he swung around to Taylan. The boy wore a stiff expression, his jaw squared and his tuft-beard oiled and combed. His armour was polished to perfection, Bey Nasir’s old scale vest glimmering on his broad shoulders. The sultan picked up a finely crafted composite
bow, slung it over his shoulder and strode to his dappled steppe pony. ‘Come, young bey.’

  They rode together down the hummock, through the ring of mail and scale-clad ghulam lancers, and across the short distance north towards the main Seljuk lines.

  ‘You were certain the Byzantines would reject your offer, weren’t you?’ Taylan asked.

  ‘I do not believe in certainty, Bey. The offer had to be made,’ the sultan replied.

  ‘But their campaign is crumbling. Half of their army fled back to the west.’

  ‘And half remain,’ Alp Arslan replied swiftly. ‘In equal number to our forces. Their centre is lethal. Should our riders be caught in that spearline in this open terrain, the crows will feast on our corpses before noon.’

  ‘But our riders are swift and nimble, they will not be so slow as to become snagged on their lances.’

  ‘Perhaps, but look at their flanks. Their kataphractoi are their biggest weapon. Should they bring their outflankers round to bear upon our ghazis at the right moment, then we will find ourselves snagged whether we wish to be or not.’

  ‘Bring the kataphractoi, I say, I have sharpened my blade for just that possibility,’ Taylan replied.

  Alp Arslan shook his head. ‘The future of our people hangs in the balance today, Taylan. Yet still you think only of the Haga? He killed your father in battle. It was a noble fight in which Nasir fought bravely. Why such thirst for revenge? He is but one of many thousands of blades who we must fight today.’

  Taylan’s expression grew steely. ‘I only know that I must face him.’

  Alp Arslan eyed the young rider. Taylan’s obsession with slaying the Byzantine Strategos had grown unwieldy. It was all the boy thought of. Why? he wondered. What was the Haga to Taylan but yet another enemy blade? ‘I need you to put your mind to the task we discussed, Bey Taylan. The reserves need you to lead them. Now go to them.’

  Taylan seemed set to protest, but he sighed and nodded instead. ‘Then I will see you in the fray, Sultan.’ His gaze grew distant as he peeled away, turning to ride back in the direction he had come, back past the Seljuk command tent and off towards the southern mountains and Lake Van.

  The sultan watched him go, then faced forward as he came to the rear of the main Seljuk battle lines. The three blocks of riders twisted in their saddles and hailed their sultan, cheering and throwing their hands aloft, parting to let him come to the fore. Their cries made the plain shudder, then they fell silent in expectation.

  ‘Do not look to me as your sultan today,’ Alp Arslan boomed. As he said this, he leapt from the saddle and threw down the ornate scimitar from his belt. ‘Give me a warrior’s scimitar – a simple blade not weighed down with jewels. And give me a mace,’ he cried. Moments later, he plucked a sword and bludgeon from the many proffered and held the weapons up. ‘I have come to fight with you today. I am a ghazi, just like you. Whether today brings glory in victory or in defeat, I will share it with you, as one of you.’ He leapt back onto his horse and placed his well-weathered battle helm on his crown, the nose guard slipping into place between his fierce eyes. Then he kicked his mount into a trot up and down the Seljuk front, grasping the material of the shroud in his fingers. ‘I come dressed to die, for my life is but a single leaf in a great forest, and I would gladly fall just to see this battle won!’

  The roar that this conjured shook the land. ‘Allahu Akbar!’

  ‘Now sound the war horns – take me to war!’ he bellowed.

  ***

  Apion gawped as the Sultan’s battle cry and the roar of the Seljuk ranks echoed then faded. He shook his head, disbelieving, sure it was the heat haze lying to him. The sultan was dressed in some brilliant white garment . . . a shroud? The crone’s words echoed shrilly in his mind, as if mocking him for ever doubting her.

  I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The mighty Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud . . .

  For a blessed moment there was only the gentle, whistling breeze, the chattering cicadas and the heat of the morning sun on his skin. He could hear every breath, every thump of his heart inside his carapace of kataphractos armour, every nagging demand for water from his parched throat, feel every trickle of sweat dancing down his skin, the steely touch of the mail face veil that hid all but his eyes. He saw the Byzantine buccinators look to the emperor for the word. He imagined old Cydones by his side, dryly eyeing the wraith of Mansur on the opposing ranks. A poignant smile touched the corners of his lips. He thought of Maria as he scanned the Seljuk ranks. He thought of Taylan.

  Let my choices today be the right ones, he mouthed into the ether.

  Then the Seljuk war horns wailed. The plain of Manzikert came alive with noise as the guttural roars of men, the keening of retorting Byzantine buccinas, the stamping of boots and the rattling of spears and shields set the earth to tremor. Both armies rippled like two great silver-scaled creatures, caged and raring to be unleashed.

  The Seljuk banners chopped down first and the horde poured forward at a canter. The purple imperial banners sliced forward in reply, and the Byzantine lines coursed forward. The half mile separating the two sides dissolved as the two iron tides rumbled towards one another.

  The infantry in the Byzantine centre moved at a jog, whilst the cavalry trotted to keep pace. Alyates took to encouraging the kursores riders to stay in line and be ready for what was to come. Apion twisted in his saddle to offer his heavier riders a few last words likewise. ‘Ride at pace with the infantry and your left flank will be secure,’ he cried over the rumble of hooves. ‘We will break forward when the moment is right and only then. If we choose the moment well, we can be the key to victory today. For we are the outflankers, the hammer. Our lances might write history on this plain. When the moment is right, we can charge the enemy before us, drive them round and pin them to our infantry anvil. The Seljuk horsemen ahead know this and they quake with fear!’

  The kataphractoi roared in approval as Apion turned swiftly to face forward again, seeing the gap was just a quarter-mile now.

  ‘We can ensnare them if we charge now!’ one gravel-voiced kataphractos insisted, ranging beside him at a brisk trot, his heels poised to kick his mount into a gallop.

  ‘The moment is not yet here,’ Apion growled in reply. ‘Now – stay in line!’

  As the cowed rider fell back, Apion scoured the faces of the approaching ghazi, now barely three hundred paces away. He saw their snarling mouths, their levelled spears, their braced shields. He saw only shaded eyes, and wondered if Taylan was amongst them.

  Suddenly, across the Byzantine lines on the left, some commotion occurred. One wing of some three hundred kataphractoi had broken ahead of Bryennios’ flankguard, leaving the furious doux howling for their return. The majority of the Byzantine line cheered, eager to see their comrades strike a vicious blow into the Seljuk ranks, especially after the impotence they had felt during the arrow storm the previous evening.

  ‘No!’ Apion hissed, seeing this impetuous wedge plunge ahead like a dagger, racing at a full charge for the Seljuk right. The emperor too was signalling frantically for them to return. Buccinas howled and banners waved in futility as the riders bore down on their target.

  Then, as if turned by a strong wind and a double moan of the Seljuk war horn, the entire advancing ghazi line swung around into a well-ordered retreat. The kataphractoi wedge drove into the space the enemy had occupied moments ago, the brunt of the charge wasted on thin air. They raced on after the retreating Seljuk riders, but the nimble ghazis melted away before them and reformed behind them like droplets of oil in water. The kataphractoi charge slowed now, the horses tired from the exertion, the impulsive riders realising their folly in being cut off from the allied lines. Worse, each ghazi rider had now stowed their lance and pulled their bow from their back. Those nearest raced to encircle the impetuous kataphractoi and in a heartbeat they had nocked, aimed and loosed. A chorus of thock-thock-thock echoed across
the plain. At such close range and at such volume, many of the kataphractoi were stricken – arrows aimed for the few gaps in their armour at the knees, eyes and upper arms. Likewise, horses reared up, limbs peppered with shafts. In moments, the wedge of three hundred riders were in pieces. Many dead, many groaning where they had fallen. Another clutch of ghazi swept in to strike down the few who remained, hacking them with their scimitars or knocking them from their saddles and running them through with their lances.

  The rest of the Byzantine line watched this, the gap remaining at some three hundred paces as the Seljuk retreat matched the Byzantine advance. Apion looked over his shoulder to the gruff-voiced kataphractos behind him. ‘Now, you will stay in line, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Haga,’ the rider replied sheepishly.

  As the Seljuk lines continued to fall back to the south, the emperor gave the signal to slow to a walk. At this, the Seljuks also took to walking their mounts away from the Byzantine advance, keeping the gap steady. Then they twisted in their saddles, lifted their bows skywards and loosed a volley of many thousands of arrows at the Byzantine infantry centre. Every skutatoi heart there froze.

  ‘Keep your shields high, lift them when I say and we will be fine,’ he heard Sha bawl from the walking ranks, the Malian watching the dark cloud of missiles that cast the Chaldians in shade momentarily. ‘Shields!’ he cried. The rattle of iron arrowheads on shields was cacophonous, and vastly outweighed the meaty thuds and yelps of those caught out.

  Without hesitation, the ghazis then turned their bows as one to aim at Apion’s cavalry flank. The volley rained down on Alyates and his lightly-armoured kursores. With a series of guttural grunts and shrieks, those riders were punched from their saddles and mounts stricken likewise.

  ‘Kursores, fall back!’ Alyates bawled, snapping off one arrow shaft that had lodged in his klibanion. ‘Strategos, you have the front,’ he nodded as he and his more lightly armoured kursores fell back behind Apion’s heavier riders, out of arrow range.