Strategos: Island in the Storm

by Gordon Doherty

  Apion nodded in understanding, then bawled to his riders as, with a rattling thrum, another dark cloud of Seljuk missiles was loosed; ‘They fire from the edge of their range, and their arrows will be lucky to harm you. For you are encased in steel, as are your mounts, slide your shields into your backs, keep moving at a walk . . . and do not look up!’

  ‘What, why?’ the mouthy, gravel-voiced kataphractos behind him grunted.

  Apion braced as the arrow hail pelted down all around them. The missiles danced from his helm and armour and the men around him. Only one man fell foul of the volley, a grim, wet, thwacking sound coming from behind Apion’s shoulder. He glanced round to see the gravel-voiced rider there gawping upwards, an arrow shaft quivering in his ruined eye socket, the tip buried deep in his brain, blood spilling through his mail veil in gouts. The rider slid from his mount in silence and crunched to the ground, dead. ‘That’s why,’ Apion growled to the others.

  ‘We cannot offer any counter attack?’ Alyates spat, riding level with Apion again. His eyes swept along the Byzantine lines as if seeking out some form of answer.

  Apion replied curtly. ‘That is exactly what they want. Look,’ he nodded along the Byzantine lines to the mere handful of bodies that had fallen in the first two volleys, ‘they cannot break our lines if we stay together. They mean to anger us into abandoning our formation. If the balance of numbers was not so delicate then we might have been able to charge them, but - ’

  ‘But that dog, Tarchianotes, has melted into the ether with half of our army?’

  Apion nodded with a caustic gurn.

  ‘Does Tarchianotes realise just what he has done? If I live beyond today, it will be with great pleasure that I track down and slice the cur’s wart-ridden, scowling head from his shoulders.’ Alyates snarled as he raised his shield, falling back as the next cloud of arrows hissed for the right flank.

  Apion braced as the arrows thudded down around him, one jarring his shoulder as it smacked against a lamellar plate there – the armour holding good. ‘Think only of the foe before you today,’ he called back to Alyates.

  The morning wore on and the tense procession continued, the Byzantine line progressing southwards across the plain as a solid front with the magnate armies and the Oghuz riders following a quarter-mile to the rear. The Seljuk riders kept the constant gap between them as they continued their retreat at a walk, loosing fearsome clouds of arrows at leisure. They proved skilled at this, as when the emperor gave the order to slow or speed up even by just a fraction, the Seljuk lines adjusted their pace to maintain the gap at the farthest possible killing distance. Worse, when the Byzantines took to loosing arrows in reply from their own modest companies of archers and archer cavalry, the missiles fell just short of the withdrawing Seljuk host.

  Apion glanced over his shoulder, seeing the path they had taken from the camp and the Fortress of Manzikert – now a few miles behind them to the north. The parched plain they had advanced across was sparsely littered with the bodies of the infantry and riders who had fallen to the constant rain of arrows – no more than a hundred though – easy to spot given the clouds of flies that buzzed over the corpses and the vultures that swooped to peck at the flesh. They had some time ago passed by the spot where the headstrong kataphractoi had broken ranks and raced headlong into their own slaughter, and the vultures were thickest there. Another volley of arrows pattered down on Apion’s wedge, shaking him from his observations. A missile skated from the rim of his helm, sending a shower of sparks across his eyes.

  ‘Now, they must offer battle!’ Alyates said, the young Strategos of Cappadocia pointing just ahead.

  Apion squinted through the heat haze to see the hummock in the plain with the silk awning atop it. The Seljuk command tent. The retreating ghazi line had all but backed onto the bottom of this hummock and as the Seljuk riders looked this way and that for direction, the gap between them and the Byzantine advance was narrowing rapidly in their hesitation and their arrow hail faltered. The hummock itself was ringed by akhi spearmen on the lower slopes and a thick cluster of some eight hundred ghulam riders at the top. These iron masked riders were every bit as fierce as the Byzantine kataphractoi. Suddenly, from the ghazi line, the white-garbed Alp Arslan and a handful of bodyguards broke back, up the hill, through the double ring of defenders and into the shade of the awning.

  Alyates’ eyes scoured the small hill. ‘The sultan took to battle in a death shroud. Now, perhaps, he will find use for it!’

  ‘He wears that garment only to inspire his men to victory,’ Apion countered, ‘their resolve will only be stronger for it.’

  ‘Let us test that theory, Strategos,’ Alyates said, breaking out in a broad grin, his eyes darting to the Byzantine centre.

  Apion twisted round to see the source of Alyates’ sudden encouragement. There in the Byzantine centre, the campaign cross had been hefted aloft, and the purple imperial banners were being chopped down, signalling both flanks should advance like pincers in an attempt to envelop the ghazi line and the hilltop tent. The buccinas sang to confirm it.

  ‘This is it,’ Alyates gasped. ‘Take the kataphractoi forward, Strategos, let us seize the Seljuk camp! I will have the kursores rain their arrows on the defenders in support.’

  ‘Nobiscum Deus!’ the men of the Byzantine line roared as they broke forward, the two wings of cavalry at each end folding round the foot of the hummock in an attempt to corral the ghazi horde there. But the ghazi were swift to break, flooding round the hill’s lower slopes and slipping from the closing Byzantine pincers and off to the south. A few hundred fell to Byzantine horse archers, but the rest burst south towards Mount Tzipan in a plume of dust, leaving the hill tent and those guarding it to their fate.

  ‘Ignore them!’ some unseen commander bellowed. ‘Take the Sultan’s tent!’

  Apion swept round towards the hill’s southern slope as part of the right cavalry pincer. He afforded a southwards glance at the fleeing ghazi. Too easy? He wondered. His musing lasted only an instant, the first cries of engagement tearing him back to the hill and the command tent. He lay flat in his saddle and levelled his lance. He saw the triple-line of akhi spearmen halfway up the hummock brace, snarling faces peering over turquoise and tan shields, spear butts wedged into the burnt gold scree for stability. Behind them, hundreds of ghulam riders atop the hummock shuffled, readying to spur their mounts into a downhill charge at their attackers should the akhi line be breached and the Seljuk command tent threatened.

  ‘Break the spear wall!’ Apion cried to his kataphractoi wedge and the other two wedges riding just ahead. ‘Take one man down and the rest will follow!’

  The rightmost wedge of kataphractoi hit the akhi spear line first. A dull, crunching noise marked the shattering of bones on shield bosses and the piercing or crumpling of armour on akhi lances. This first wedge fell back downhill, the momentum lost along with six riders. The second wedge punched into the akhi, desperate to break the hardy ring of defenders. This time, one akhi was run through on the tip of a kataphractos’ lance, dark blood showering through the air, the man lifted from his place in the line and carried with the rider on inside, trampling the spearmen in the two ranks behind. But the victorious rider’s joy was short lived. A clutch of the ghulam riders rushed down from the tip of the hummock to thrust their spears into him at all angles. His body fell, torn and sheeting blood. Meanwhile the rest of the second wedge found themselves repelled as the akhi line closed up, shrinking the defensive ring by shuffling uphill a few steps.

  Apion led his charging wedge at the akhi line next. He set eyes upon one giant of an akhi, moustachioed and roaring, his face covered in battle scars. This foe’s face came and went as the dark door pulsed into his vision, rushing for him, crashing back on its hinges, the flames beyond engulfing him.

  He felt a dull roar topple from his lungs as he punched his lance through the giant’s chest, showering organs and dark blood from the man’s back, the tip of the spear tearing the throa
t of the akhi behind as well and pulling the weapon from his grasp. Trampling over another akhi, he realised he was inside the momentarily ruptured akhi ring with just a handful of his riders. Here, the polyglot cries of war were thick and desperate. He twisted this way and that, seeing the tear-streaked and snarling faces of the other akhi as they lunged for him and his men. One leapt up to slide his spear under the klibanion of the nearest kataphractos. The rider fell and was butchered in seconds, white bone and blood gaping through his mangled armour. Apion felt his limbs move in a numb and sickeningly familiar sequence. In a single motion, he drew his scimitar from his belt and swept it round, hacking the lance tip from one Seljuk spearman, scoring another across that foe’s chest and then punching the tip into the next’s shoulder. His Thessalian reared, kicked and gnashed, its hooves crushing the face of one foe and its teeth crippling the spear hand of another. Still, the akhi line fought fiercely, desperate to close the breach.

  ‘Hold the breach!’ Apion roared, a few more of his riders bursting inside the akhi ring – thirty or so men in total. ‘Hold the-’ his cry halted as he felt the ground judder. His head snapped round to the rise of the hummock and the tide of iron ghulam riders pouring down from there, their lethal lance tips only paces away and trained on him.

  ‘Turn!’ Apion bellowed to the smattering of his riders – all engaged in the melee with the Seljuk spearmen. They did their best. Twelve or so managed to swing away from the clash with the akhi and face the coming threat.

  The clang of iron upon iron that followed shook the plain. Apion felt his heart thunder as the ghulam riders swept over him and his riders. A lance tip aimed for his heart stayed true until he brought the hilt of his scimitar round on it, diverting it so the spear ploughed through and dislodged a handful of plates from his klibanion, scoring the flesh of his hip. But the sheer momentum of the ghulam rider hit him like a rock thrown from an onager, punching him back from the saddle. As he fell, he dropped his scimitar and grappled at the rider, wrapping his arms around his attacker’s torso and pulling the man down with him. They tumbled over and over in the dust as the rest of the ghulam wedge charged on past them. The fallen ghulam rider brought his steel-gloved fist crashing into Apion’s face. The thick and familiar crack of his nose breaking filled Apion’s head and coppery blood trickled down his throat. Apion swung a knee up into the man’s gut to send him sprawling, winded. He leapt up, only to stagger back from the man’s sudden recovery and lunge with a scimitar. Instinctively, Apion drew the savagely flanged mace from his belt and the pair circled. He ducked just under the swipe of the man’s scimitar then reached up to grapple his foe’s wrist and brought his mace sweeping down onto the man’s crown. The ghulam’s helmet and skull crumpled under the fierce blow. Blood and eye matter spurted from the rider’s veil and he at once fell limp and collapsed.

  All around him, the screams of Byzantine kataphractoi rang out as the ghulam hacked into them. Apion swung this way and that in the confusion. Through the forest of horse limbs and fallen men he saw that the other two wedges of kataphractoi had come to aid his. They were holding their own, just, and the breach in the akhi line remained open. His fleeting thoughts of barging through the chaos to aid his comrades were scattered by the sound of onrushing hooves behind him. He swung to see a pair of ghulam, lances levelled for his chest, eyes fixed on him. He braced, readying his mace to take one of these curs down with him. At that moment, Igor and a wave of white-steel varangoi riders broke through the akhi ring just a handful of paces away, and crashed into the flanks of these two riders, dashing and trampling over them. Moments later, the Rus riders were swarming around Apion and hacking down the other nearby ghulam. The Varangoi swung their fierce breidox axes to and fro, taking Seljuk riders in the flank and crushing them. Limbs were lopped off and skulls spliced in showers of blood. The infantry of the themata poured in through the gap Apion’s riders had made and through the second gap the Rus riders had forced in the akhi ring. Thousands of them flooded onto the slopes of the hummock, cheering in victory. They pulled the ghulam from their mounts, despatching them with swift jabs of their spears and swipes of their spathions, then they turned upon the remnant of the akhi ring. Apion saw Romanus surging through the fray now also. His silver and white armour glistening as he urged his army on to the command tent, now only guarded by a clutch of panicked ghulam riders.

  A hand grasped Apion’s bicep. ‘Victory is in sight!’ Blastares panted, pointing up to the Seljuk command tent, his face streaked with other men’s blood and his chest heaving. The big man ran on with the men of his tourma. Apion saw Sha and the less sprightly Procopius move for the command tent likewise, streams of Chaldian spearmen and archers flooding in their wake. The ghulam there threw down their weapons, and the last few clusters of akhi spearmen did likewise.

  A cheer rang out, guttural and desperate. Romanus rode to and fro before the Seljuk tent rousing further choruses of this. ‘Nobiscum Deus!’ they cried over and over, all eyes falling on the campaign cross, being hefted to the top of the hillock by the priests.

  Apion sought out and sheathed his lost scimitar, then pushed through the crowds of cheering soldiers to join the emperor. Igor was there, along with Alyates, Bryennios and Philaretos. He heard them conversing.

  ‘We have lost but a few hundred kataphractoi and skutatoi, Basileus. This is a decisive victory,’ Philaretos enthused, ‘and a magnificent one!’

  Apion bypassed them, then glanced around the shade of the silk awning at the crest of the hillock. It was devoid of life bar the handful of kneeling ghulam. A few timber chests sat there, open but empty. A table stood, a half-finished cup of red wine sitting beside four daggers dug into the table top, still bearing the torn corners of the map that had been splayed out there. He traced a finger over the cracked oak surface. ‘This is not victory,’ he muttered to himself, looking south to see that the ghazi lines had withdrawn just a mile or so and now waited there. Galloping to join them was the white-garbed sultan and his bodyguards.

  ‘But the men need to believe it is,’ Romanus whispered, having come alongside him. ‘It is a start, but no more.’

  ‘So what now?’ Apion asked, looking out from the shade of the awning around the shimmering and parched plain. ‘The hottest part of the day lies ahead. Perhaps we should retire to Manzikert to rest the men?’

  Romanus shook his head. ‘We have taken a regiment of the sultan’s spearmen and a wing of his heavy cavalry. But the man himself and the vast majority of his army still loom out there.’

  Apion squinted to the south with the emperor. A heat haze danced on the plain, part masking the thick Seljuk ghazi lines that had withdrawn there. Watching, waiting.

  ‘And Manzikert?’ the emperor continued, nodding to the north and the distant outline of the black-walled bastion. ‘The fortress offers shelter but little else. It has been stripped bare of the food and fodder we found in its cellars, Strategos. We cannot return there lest we wish to starve or fight on tomorrow as weaker men. We must push on and seize victory on this fine plain today.’

  Apion nodded. ‘Then push on we must, Basileus. But we should be careful, for the sultan seems eager not to offer battle on this plain,’ he pointed to the area a few miles behind the Seljuk mass. ‘See how the flat ground breaks up there? Rocky tracts, scree, folds, ditches and hills speckle the land. And then a few miles further on there are the valleys and the mountains that ring Lake Van,’ he said, thinking back to the snare in the valley and the snarling Bey Soundaq.

  ‘I will pursue him, but not into those valleys,’ the emperor ceded. ‘Better starving men tomorrow than corpses this evening.’

  Apion looked over his shoulder. There, Philaretos, Alyates and Bryennios were discussing the next moves amongst themselves, and the vast Byzantine ranks were moving down the hummock’s slopes, back down onto the plain. Some distance north, he noticed the rabble of the magnate armies still catching up. Nearly seven thousand men. Untouched, untested. A sea of sweating, scowling faces, ha
nds clutching spears, axes, clubs and ornate blades. Scleros was mounted at their head, in his preposterous armour, with the prisoner, Andronikos Doukas, by his side. At that moment, Doukas squinted up towards the awning, his sweating, handsome features glistening like his shackles. ‘And what of our reserve, Basileus?’

  ‘Let us hope that today does not call for us to use them,’ he cocked an eyebrow. ‘But they might yet make the difference. They look fearsome enough, after all,’ he grinned wryly. ‘Now, Strategos, let us focus our thoughts on what lies ahead. Go, help Alyates reform the outflankers on the right. I need you to be ready. For when we engage with the sultan’s horde – and engage we must – I need you by my side.’

  ***

  The Byzantine advance and the cautious Seljuk retreat continued as the afternoon wore on and soon the hillock with the awning – like the Fortress of Manzikert – was but a bump in the northern horizon behind the Byzantine line. Now the rocky majesty of Mount Tzipan and the surrounding green hills and valleys loomed over them, less than a mile away. As they came onto the rougher ground leading to these hills, the march was plagued by the rasp of parched throats and the stench of drying blood. But still they marched, slowly, steadily, driving the ghazi line back onto the first of the coarser terrain. Still though, the ghazi arrows came in rhythmic showers, and handfuls of Byzantine men were felled by each volley.

  ‘Soon they must run short of arrows?’ Alyates panted, riding near Apion.

  ‘No, they each carry three, sometimes four quivers. They will have enough to loose upon us until dusk.’ Apion replied, ducking as the latest volley smacked down around them.

  ‘Then we will accept their surrender at dusk!’ Alyates grinned, plucking a shaft from his shield and throwing it down.