This was Emperor Constantine Doukas, the ruler of all Byzantium. God’s chosen one. He was bald, and what little hair remained was plastered to the back and sides of his scalp with sweat. His beard was unkempt and he was dressed only in a linen shirt that failed to hide his jutting ribs.
His emaciated form was a pitiful sight, yet she was bereft of pity for him. Indeed, she had never loved him, and it was all she could manage not to fear him. Their marriage had been more of a business arrangement between their families – wine and oil magnates of Paphlagonia and Ephesus – and they had barely met before the wedding ceremony. Regardless, she had hoped they would learn to love one another early in their marriage, but that hope had quickly dissolved when, pressed by his father, Doukas set out to ascend to the imperial throne. He swiftly became a guarded and devious creature, suspicious of all around him, sure they were eager to snatch his power away. She had hoped this was just a carapace he had adopted on his quest for power. But when he had found her writing a letter to her family in Ephesus, she realised his ambition had truly pickled his soul. He had torn the half-written letter from her, his eyes bulging, accusing her of plotting to ruin his bid to become emperor. He had ripped the paper in half, pinned her by the throat to the wall and then pulled out a dagger, pressing it to her breast until a droplet of blood darted from the skin. Never before had she seen such coldness in another’s eyes as he glared at her. You have no family. You are mine and mine alone. You will provide me with heirs. You will obey me.
When he had taken the imperial throne, Constantine’s advisers played upon his fears, whispering suggestions of duplicity in his ear, and these ideas burrowed like the tentacles of a parasite into his mind. Members of the court were tortured and executed on the merest hint of subterfuge or resistance to his designs. She shuddered, remembering the time he had summoned her into the underground torture chambers to watch one mild-mannered senator having his rib cage prised open and his lungs plucked from his chest to be held before his disbelieving eyes.
Equally, the populace hated him as much as they feared him. At first, the bravest of the citizens heckled him at the races in the Hippodrome, their cries vociferous. But then they were bundled away by his loyal garrison, never to be seen again. Soon the cries stopped altogether, and an air of oppression settled across the city. A stifling air that had remained ever since.
Until today, she thought without a hint of emotion.
An audience watched the emperor’s last moments in silence. A pair of red-haired and white-armoured varangoi stood either side of the bed. These loyal Rus axemen were good-hearted yet bound to serve the emperor, whoever he may be, to the last. A handful of slaves and attendants knelt by the foot of the bed, cradling bowls of hot and cold water, salves and tinctures. Xiphilinos, the Patriarch of Constantinople, stood at the head of the bed, flanked by sceptre-wielding priests, leading them in their incantations.
At the near side of the bed stood her three sons: broad and tall Michael, young Andronikos, barely ten, and little Konstantious, just seven years old. Michael bore the cold scowl he had learned from his father, while Andronikos and Konstantious wore wrinkled looks of fear and sadness.
At the far side of the bed, the emperor’s brothers, advisers and sycophants clustered like a colony of vultures, watching the body of the man whose death they waited on like a fresh meal. For once her husband was dead, the dice of power would be cast into the air.
The emperor looked up at this point, pinning her with his bloodshot glare. His breath was shallow and his skin bathed was with sweat as he reached out a hand to her. ‘Come to my side, my dear,’ he croaked. ‘I fear that my time is short. I have something I must tell you.’
Eudokia saw the fear in his eyes, and for the first time in so many years, her heart responded with just a trace of pity. At first she was disgusted with herself. After all he has done? She looked to his outstretched hand and thought of the two slaves sitting outside. It was too late for any notion of companionship. But could this be one final act that would set her free? An apology for his deeds? She strode forward, hiding her emotion impeccably as she had learned to do, then sat on the bedside. She took his hand. ‘My Emperor?’
‘We have had many years together, Eudokia,’ He held her gaze, his eyes moistening, ‘and in that time I have been a poor husband to you.’
That does little justice to your foul deeds, Eudokia thought, keeping her face expressionless. Then she leaned in to whisper in his ear. ‘Do not trouble your mind with what has gone before, just tell me you are sorry. Just once.’ She even squeezed his hand just a fraction in reassurance, leaning back.
But the emperor continued as if she had not spoken. ‘I expect that you will seek such companionship when I am gone by marrying another.’ At this, he tightened his grip on her hand. The grip was fierce and belied his frailty, his bloodshot and bulging eyes searching hers. It was that look again. Colder than a winter’s night.
Constantine hauled himself to sitting, his face only inches from hers. ‘But you must not!’ his teeth were rotten and his breath reeked of decay. ‘Any stranger in this palace is a threat to the Doukid line, a line that must . . . will continue to sit on the imperial throne!’ He said, a hint of his old booming tones breaking through his infirmity. But it was fleeting, and he collapsed back in a fit of coughing and wheezing, his eyes glazing over from the effort.
Eudokia’s breath grew short and she felt numb inside. Across from her, she sensed the barely disguised grins from the watching vultures. Then an adviser sidled over to her and thrust a sheaf of paper before her. She did not look up.
‘Make the oath that your emperor asks of you,’ the adviser purred.
Eudokia snatched at the paper and scanned the wording of the agreement; she was to remain a widow. Her son, Michael, was to take the title of emperor. That alone would have been palatable, but the document also stated that Constantine’s brother, John, was to be Michael’s chief regent. The first inchoate tears blurred her vision as she realised that this was the parting demand of her husband – to have their son as a puppet and his vile brother and his advisers as the masters. Then she bit back on the urge to let her sorrow flow freely. Stay strong, she chided herself as she signed the document, pledging her acceptance of this.
She took a deep breath, blinked her eyes clear and then shot to standing. Rage pounded through her veins. But she was statue-still and unflinching as she glared across at those on the opposite side of the bed. John and his colony of advisers replied with barely disguised sneers. You arrogant fool, when the husk of man who calls himself my husband breathes his last, power will go not to those with sheaves of paper. It will go to the strongest.
Then, without another glance at the dying emperor, she strode from the room.
6. Into the Lion’s Den
Apion led the remainder of his thema through a sun-bleached plain studded with green shrubs. The crunch of boots and the incessant cicada song had grown entrancing. This and the late May afternoon sun had a way of lulling men into a relaxed state.
Some men, Apion thought, looking to Blastares who rode alongside him.
The big tourmarches’ scarred face was twisted in a sweat-bathed scowl. He suppressed a sigh as he crammed the last of his ration – a chunk of cheese wrapped in charred flatbread – into his mouth and chewed vigorously before washing it down with a swig of watered wine. Then he shuffled in his saddle and scratched roughly at his crotch.
Apion sensed the question coming before it was asked.
‘Remind me exactly why, sir, we are trailing across the dust, throwing ourselves at the back of a massive Seljuk army, just to save that arsehole, Fulco? The men long to return to Chaldia.’
Apion did well to stifle a chuckle at Blastares’ obvious agitation. But the big tourmarches’ question was fair.
‘What good can we do?’ Blastares continued, twisting in his saddle, scanning the depleted banda and riders behind them. ‘We have just one hundred and forty six men left. The scouts insi
st that Afsin has some seven thousand warriors in his army, and Bey Nasir and those that we scattered will surely have retreated to swell his ranks as well.’
‘We won’t be fighting when we get there, Blastares,’ Apion replied calmly. ‘We’ll be looking to save as many of those trapped inside the city as possible.’
‘Including Doux Fulco?’ Blastares cocked an eyebrow with a hint of mischief.
Apion thought of the recalcitrant Doux. Fulco’s brazen and blood-stirring rhetoric on the muster yard was matched only by his vagary for self-preservation on the battlefield.
‘I don’t value Doux Fulco’s life any more highly than I do those of the smiths, tanners, beggars and whores within those walls,’ Apion replied.
At this, Blastares relented. ‘Aye, well we agree on that.’
They rode on in silence until they came to a rise in the plain where a stream cut across the land. A baked-red ridge lay ahead. Apion raised a hand and the column slowed to a halt. ‘Rest your legs and slake your thirst, men,’ he said. Then he slid from his mount and beckoned his trusted three with him. Sha, Procopius and Blastares followed him on foot as he stalked up to the rocky ridge.
They crouched as they reached the lip, and were silent for some time as they took in the sight before them. Below them, the land opened out in a vast, shallow bowl, baked terracotta and gold, shimmering in the heat haze, framed to the south by the magnificent Mount Argaeus, its tip teasingly capped with cool, crisp snow. In the centre of the bowl lay Caesarea. The city walls were, tall, solid and broad, constructed of huge blocks of dark, sombre stone. The battlements were speckled with the glinting iron helmets and speartips of Fulco’s garrison and the vibrant fabrics of the Virgin Mary and the saints were erected above the towers. The domes, columns and aqueduct within the city seemed to huddle together behind those walls. For outside the walls, a horde of Seljuks lay wrapped around the city. It was like a grotesque magnification of the scene around Kryapege only weeks ago.
There was an almost permanent dust cloud above the Seljuk lines that enshrouded the city as ghazi riders galloped to and fro, relaying commands to each of the large tents pitched at regular intervals around the blockade. Some of them cursed at the inhabitants as they rode, others loosed arrows upon the walls like a cat toying with its catch. Then a faint breeze brought with it shouting and the clashing of iron upon iron as the Seljuk infantry were drilled by their commanders. All the while the tap-tapping of hammers rang out from the Seljuk siege works as trebuchets, catapults and great towers were constructed.
‘So the reports were wrong,’ Blastares gawped, breaking the silence at last, ‘seven thousand strong they said – but there are nearly nine thousand, I’d say.’
Apion scoured the siege lines. ‘nine thousand or one hundred thousand – it doesn’t matter; we’re not taking them on, Blastares. We just need to find a way in.’
Sha whistled as he looked along the unbroken siege line. ‘We’ll need stealth or deception.’
Apion cut into an apple with his dagger, lifting a slice and chewing on it. ‘Both,’ he said.
Procopius nodded. ‘Aye, but we need to plan this carefully. This won’t be like sliding into a whore’s bed.’
Apion was momentarily thrown by the turn of phrase. Then his gaze snagged on the wagons that rumbled into the bowl-shaped landscape. There was a thin train of them, skirting round the base of Mount Argaeus and then along the track towards the siege lines. He watched the nearest one; it seemed destined for a compound that formed part of the siege line. The enclosure was basic, presenting palisade stakes to the city and a strapped timber gate to the south, and it was manned by only a handful of akhi. The wagon entered the compound via the timber gate. Inside, forage, game, fodder and barrels of water were unloaded before the driver whipped his horses and set off to the south once more. Interestingly, this wagon and the others approaching had no armed escort.
He looked to see that his trusted three were shrewdly watching the wagons too. Then they looked to one another, their eyes sparkling.
‘We wait until dark then we make our move,’ he said calmly.
***
Apion shivered and pulled his woollen cloak a little tighter as he crouched in the undergrowth, his face and hair blackened with soot and earth. The waning moon betrayed little of the track that lay a few metres before them. This kept the narrow rut they had dug in the path obscured. This was a blessing, the bitter night chill and agonising wait were not.
‘Come on, come on,’ Sha whispered in the darkness beside him. The Malian was rubbing his calves to prevent his muscles from seizing up. Like the rest of them, the tourmarches wore only a tunic, cloak and swordbelt.
Then, at last, a crunching of wheels on scree betrayed an approaching vehicle and snapped Apion from his thoughts. All of them fell silent and utterly still. He gestured to them to remain that way and peered into the blackness. A single wagon. This was perfect – they would spring from the brush and the driver would surely spur his mounts on, taking a wheel over the rut at speed, stalling the vehicle for a few precious moments. ‘On my command,’ Apion hissed, raising one finger as the wagon neared.
But then the clopping of more hooves halted him just as the words tumbled towards his lips.
Ghazis.
The two riders trotted along behind the flanks of the wagon, arrows nocked to their bows, eyes keen and alert. A night escort. So Bey Afsin was shrewder than he had anticipated.
His mind spun. Should they withdraw and come back with more men the following night? By then it could be too late – Caesarea might have fallen. His eyes darted this way and that, until the groan of a straining cartwheel rang out. A front wheel of the vehicle had sunk into the rut and the driver called out in alarm. The two ghazis instantly pulled back, ignoring the driver’s protests, first scouring the tracksides for bandits. Then the gaze of one of them pinned Apion where he crouched. The whites of the man’s eyes bulged. His bow loosed and Apion froze. The arrow smacked into the dirt, an inch from his boot.
As the rider fumbled to nock another bow, Apion realised the decision was made. He leapt up, drew his scimitar and roared his men forward.
***
Mezut rested his elbows on the edge of the squat timber watchtower at the southern edge of the supply enclosure. From his vantage point he could smell the cooking meat and baked bread waft in from all around the yurts and fires forming the blockade. Yet he was stuck here with sack upon sack of grain, raw, bloodied animal corpses and cursed horse fodder. It summarised his feelings about this whole endeavour.
Bey Afsin had promised much to him and the many men he had led away from the east against Alp Arslan’s wishes. They had ridden from the Seljuk lands, hearts full of hubris and in awe of Afsin’s dream to finally conquer Byzantium. Allah seemed to be truly with them at first. But after many months far from home, the men had become disillusioned with their leader, who now seemed to be hungrier for the spoils of victory than the glory of conquest. Indeed, rumours had spread that his tent was piled high with gold and silver stripped from the Byzantine settlements they had raided so far. Worse, whispers were spreading that Alp Arslan had broken from his Fatimid campaign, assembled a vast army and now marched this way, intent on crushing his renegade Bey.
Mezut shook his head at this. ‘Afsin is a fool,’ he realised with a weary heart, ‘and I am a fool also for following him.’ He sighed, then stood a little straighter. Soon, his shift would be over. It would not do to be anything other than diligent whilst looking after the stores. Afsin was notorious for his brutality. Indiscipline amongst his ranks in these last months had been swiftly and ruthlessly ended at the end of a blade or a barbed whip.
At that moment, the crunching of cartwheels on scree and the clopping of hooves rang out. Mezut lifted a torch and peered into the darkness to see the next supply wagon approach with the two night escort riders.
The wagon driver wore a blue felt cap and a woollen robe and was hunched over his reins, no doubt tired of his wo
rk. ‘Open the gates,’ the driver called again in an odd Seljuk twang.
He called to the two akhi down below. The pair hauled the palisade gate open, the strapped timber groaning. Mezut descended the ladder as the wagon rolled in and wheeled round to a halt, then the riders followed it. Mezut stepped from the compound and gazed south.
‘There are no more?’ He asked, scanning the darkness outside. Two thuds sounded behind him and a cold wave of fear washed across his heart. He turned just in time to see the driver lurching for him. He saw the dirt-streaked face and the piercing, emerald eyes. Then, with a flash of iron, the flat of a scimitar blade smacked against his temple.
Bright lights filled Mezut’s vision and he toppled to the ground. He watched, helpless, as a group of five figures, blackened and crouched, stole over the southern palisade then flitted across to the walls of Caesarea.
***
Inside the map room atop the thick-walled citadel at the heart of Caesarea, Doux Fulco felt the wine swash in his belly and knew the precious moments of gladness were over. He rubbed his pale, polished bald pate as a dry throbbing began in the centre of his head. This was accompanied by a dull, bloating nausea in his gut. He pulled his chair closer to the cracked oak table, rested his weight on his elbows and sighed, gazing across the plethora of maps and city plans that were spread before him. The diagrams and texts were but a blur now. He lifted the wine jug and, when only the last few droplets trickled into his mouth, he snarled and hurled the terracotta piece to the hearth.
Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart Page 6
