Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Move aside for the strategos!’

  At this, all heads turned, then wagons and animals drew in to the roadside.

  The skutatoi above the gatehouse cried out as they approached and the gates groaned open.

  Inside, the broad main street stretched out before them. Islands of palms in the centre of the street hung motionless in the windless air, while a sea of citizens swarmed to and fro. It was market day, and the populace of the city was out in force, joined by the swathes of thematic farmers, here to trade their crops and wares and buy tools and fodder. This throng was hemmed on one side by the towering red-tiled dome of the Church of St Andreas and on the other by the tall-walled granary. Overlooking all of this from the far end of the street was the citadel, perched on the green hillside by the coast.

  Apion slowed as he and his riders entered the bustle of bodies. The air was thick with the chatter of friends, the yelling of traders, the crying of babies and the cackling of drunks. The stench of horse dung was ripe, only combated by the succulent tang of sizzling goat meat, garlic and strong wine. They trotted into the heart of the city, past the market square and the gushing fountain at its centre, then peeled from the main street and rounded the squat stone walls of the city barracks at the foot of the citadel hill. Here, the streets were narrow, cool, shaded and blessedly quiet.

  To the rear of the barracks was the imperial stable compound; a run of timber sheds with a small patch of enclosed, hay-strewn ground for the mounts to be exercised. Piles of fodder and a water trough lay at one end, where stablehands groomed the precious few spare mounts. The tink-tink of iron upon iron rang out from the larger shed at the end of the compound where the stable smith worked on new stirrups and snaffle bits for the beasts.

  Apion slid from the saddle as they entered the stable area, his legs numb from the ride. He offered his reins to the nearest hand then removed his helmet, running his fingers through his sweat-matted locks. ‘Where is Cydones?’

  The hand opened his mouth to speak and then stopped.

  ‘I know the clop-clop of a Thessalian from a mile away!’ a voice croaked.

  Apion spun to see old Cydones hobbling through the narrow arched entrance that led from the main barrack compound. He was dressed in a white woollen robe and sandals, resting his weight on a cane as he moved. The man who had been strategos of Chaldia before him was now in his sixty-seventh year. The onset of age had been swift since he had laid down his sword for the last time. He was now a frail and withered form, bald-headed, with snow-white hair around the back and sides and a rather unkempt white beard. This sparked a tinge of sadness in Apion’s heart. He remembered the tall and broad figure that had mentored him through his early years as an officer. Back then, Cydones sported a dark and pristinely forked beard, and would seldom be seen without his iron klibanion hugging his torso and his swordbelt strapped to his waist. Now, without family to care for him in his retirement, he resided here at the barracks, advising Apion and the men.

  Cydones hobbled over to the dismounting riders. Then he reached out a knotted hand, grasping at Apion’s wrist.

  ‘I knew you’d be back soon,’ Cydones spoke warmly, his sightless eyes darting all around and his hand moving to touch Apion’s jaw. ‘I have momentous news for you, Ferro . . . sorry . . . Apion.’

  Apion winced at the old man’s forgetfulness. Age had taken its toll on Cydones’ mind as much as it had on his body. Ferro had been Cydones’ chief tourmarches, but had died over ten years ago – impaled by a raiding ghazi warband before the walls of Argyroupolis.

  ‘We rushed back to see this old bastard?’ a foreign voice chuckled in a muted tone. ‘He doesn’t even know the strategos’ name!’

  Apion spun to the voice. It was one of Dederic’s men. A tall and red-haired Norman rider with a bent nose. His smirk dropped immediately as Apion’s glare fell upon him. Then Apion strode forward, his face twisting into a grimace, his fingers curling into fists. Under Apion’s glare, the big Norman wilted, his gaze dropping to his boots.

  ‘Sir!’ Dederic cut in, moving to stand before the big Norman. ‘Let me discipline him, if you will allow it?’

  Apion looked down to Dederic. His first urge was to shove the little rider out of the way and smash the teeth from the big man’s mouth. Then Cydones spoke in a mirthful tone;

  ‘Ah, but he is right, Apion. An old bastard I am,’ then he moved towards the big red-haired Norman, tapping his cane before him to find his way, ‘ . . . but a wily old bastard. So he’d better watch his tongue around me.’ With that, Cydones swished his cane up and whipped it down, striking the calves of the big Norman. The Norman howled and sunk to his knees.

  At this, a chorus of laughter erupted from all watching on.

  Apion looked on, eyebrows raised for a heartbeat. Then he looked back to Dederic and issued a sigh that morphed into a dry chuckle.

  ‘No need. I think he has learned his lesson.’

  ‘Sir!’ Dederic backed away, relief etched on his features.

  Apion offered him a faint nod, then raised his voice to address his men. ‘Now, tend to your armour and weapons, then fall out. You will return to your farms soon, but first we have much work ahead of us to reform and replenish the ranks. Visit the taverns if you must, but be ready for morning muster.’

  With a guttural cheering, the men dispersed, leaving Apion and Cydones alone. They walked together into the barracks and strolled around the near-deserted muster yard.

  ‘The workers have discovered a fresh seam in the silver mines,’ Cydones enthused, ‘so the next mustering should see the new men we gather clad in good fighting garb.’

  Apion nodded. The silver caves had been mined for these last twelve years unbeknownst to the imperial tax collectors. Those seams had been the difference between the Chaldian army standing firm along the borders and falling out of existence like some neighbouring themata. This was indeed good news, but not momentous – surely not the reason he had been called back to Trebizond in a rush. ‘So tell me, sir, what trouble is brewing?’ he asked the old man.

  Cydones snorted. ‘You insist on calling me sir, even years into your stewardship of this land. I remember when I was first promoted, I would never dream of calling the stubborn bastard I replaced sir. In fact I . . .’

  ‘Cydones?’ Apion cut in, barely masking his frustration.

  ‘Oh, right . . . I,’ Cydones started, then a frown wrinkled his brow as he searched through his thoughts. Then his face lit up in realisation and was momentarily free of wrinkles. ‘Ah, yes!’ he wagged his index finger in the air. ‘There is no trouble, Apion.’

  Apion frowned.

  ‘No, instead there is news that may change the ills of these lands.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Cydones’ face fell stony. ‘Emperor Doukas is dead, Apion.’

  The breath stilled in Apion’s lungs. Many emperors had risen and fallen in his lifetime; some had abdicated, a lucky few had died a peaceful death, but many had been slain in their sleep and some even mutilated by the fervent masses of Constantinople. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘He died of a lung infection, on the ides of May. Word travelled slowly and we only found out last month. I’ve had scouts looking for you since then.’

  Apion frowned. ‘That a man has passed gives me no pleasure. But Emperor Doukas has a lot to answer for, and now he never will. Sir, I fail to see anything to be joyous of in this news? If there has been no coup, no shift in power, then surely one of Doukas’ sons will take the throne and continue his policies of neglect?’

  Cydones stopped, rested his weight on his cane and wagged one finger from side to side. ‘No, it is not to be – and that is where the hope lies. Doukas’ wife, Eudokia, has contested the succession of her own son, Michael.’

  Apion spluttered at this, turning to Cydones. ‘In that snakepit? How have we even come to hear of this? Usually such an act all but guarantees a stealthy dagger blade between the ribs, does it not?’

  ‘Eudokia is a brave
spirit, Apion. She went against her late husband’s demands that she should never remarry. She signed an oath to that effect. But after Doukas’ passing, she appealed to the patriarch, Xiphilinos. I can only imagine what discussions took place or what dealings were made, but now she is to remarry. Her new husband will become emperor. The Doukid dynasty is over, Apion.’

  Apion’s eyes widened. Doukas had overseen eight years of military neglect. He had quickly filled the senate with his supporters and tuned taxation to punish the poor and keep the rich magnates happy and supportive of his reign. He was hated throughout the capital and the themata. But the end of his dynasty could easily be the start of another, more loathsome one. ‘That alone is not cause to rejoice, sir. It is entirely possible that Eudokia will wed another haughty figure who is equally damaging, or more so.’

  Cydones reached out to grasp Apion by the shoulders. ‘No, Apion. For she is to wed a man of the army. Romanus Diogenes; a legend from the battlefields of the west. He understands the plight of the empire’s borders. The cause has been reignited. There is once more hope that this land can be saved!’

  One word echoed in Apion’s ears.

  Hope.

  His eyes darted across Cydones’ face, then he glanced to the barrack gates. ‘I must tell my men. They have gone so long with only harsh news.’

  ‘Aye, tell your men, Apion. Then select the best of them to accompany you and wish the rest farewell.’

  Apion frowned at this. ‘Farewell?’

  Cydones face lit up. ‘Eudokia has summoned every strategos and doux to the capital to set out her plans and to hail the new emperor. A berth awaits you in the harbour.’ He stretched out an arm, pointing westwards. ‘You are to set sail for Constantinople.’

  A shiver danced over Apion’s skin.

  The Golden Heart will rise in the west.

  8. The Snakepit

  The imperial dromon cut through the choppy waters of the Pontus Euxinus, headed west. Its twin triangular linen sails were sun-bleached and patched with leather, and they billowed in the morning winds, carrying the craft along at a fine pace. Every wave that crashed against the bow dissolved into a cool salt spray that soaked the decks of the vessel. Free from the oars, the kopelatoi roamed the deck, tying down cargo and shinning up the rigging to tighten and twist the sails. The kentarches also strode the decks, roaring encouragement to his crewmen.

  ‘Cleanses the body and the mind, does it not?’ Cydones spoke, inhaling deeply at the lip of the boat, his chin thrust out defiantly. His robe was sodden with brine.

  Apion, sitting nearby, chuckled at this. ‘Get any closer to the edge and it’ll cleanse you a little more thoroughly than you might wish!’ But he could not deny the freshness of the sea air. He was dressed in a faded red tunic and leather boots. His amber locks whipped back with the breeze as he cut at an apple with his dagger, lifting slices to his lips. The sea stretched out unbroken to the northern horizon where the waters met with the hazy blue sky. Then he glanced to the other side of the ship; about three miles to the south, the northern coastline of Anatolia rolled past. The mountains and thick forests of the Bucellarion Thema were occasionally punctuated by sun-baked city walls or timber port-towns and imperial watchtowers. Finally, he stood to join Cydones, looking west. A faint outline of the coastline far ahead betrayed a break in the hinterland. This was the Bosphorus strait, the narrow channel that would take them right into the heart of the empire.

  To Constantinople.

  Cydones sighed, clenching a fist. ‘We are on the cusp, Apion. When Romanus Diogenes takes the throne, he will revitalise our armies.’

  Apion felt a swirl of emotion in his blood. Hope had indeed sparked in his heart at the prospect of a military man rising to the purple. But the days since the news had given him time enough to realise that such hope was sure to be fraught with danger. ‘Perhaps. But until then, we must deal with those he left behind, those who oversee the empire in the interregnum.’ For a moment, he recalled the dark spectre of the Agentes. The shadowy organisation that murdered and plotted on the emperor’s whims had collapsed some years ago. But darkness never truly disappeared, he mused, it only ever seemed to change its form. He turned his mind to those they were to meet; Doukas’ widow, Eudokia, and the rest of his bloodline and advisers. ‘I have seen what a droplet of power can do, even to a good soul. Do you not wonder endlessly of their motives in summoning us to the capital?’

  The old man frowned and turned to Apion, his sightless eyes narrowed. ‘I’d be sick with worry if I was to allow myself to dwell upon it, Apion.’ For an instant, he wore a sharp expression, the fog of age falling away. ‘I have not set foot inside the city since I was a young man. Back then I had no dealings with the imperial court or the military, but that matters little; emperors and beggars find little providence in that place . . . you said it yourself, Constantinople is a snakepit, and you have never even been there. Yes, the coming of a new emperor brings with it a promise of rejuvenation. But the Doukids will be livid at Eudokia’s actions, and they are but one faction that covets the imperial throne.’ Then Cydones shook his head and grinned wryly. ‘In fact, if I had any sight at all I would certainly sleep with one eye open for the duration of our stay.’

  Apion roared with laughter at this, and the effect was cathartic. The tension that had started to cluster around his heart dissipated like the salt spray. He swigged fresh water from the skin on his belt and mused instead on the positive. ‘But if it is true. If we are to have an emperor who will invest in the themata armies once more . . . ’

  Cydones nodded. ‘We could dispense with the mercenaries who protect our lands when it suits them. Yes, I can see in my mind a time when the themata return to their past greatness. Every warrior with good boots and a fine iron vest. A helm that is crafted to fit him well. A spathion honed to perfection and a shield painted freshly. Every household would have a bow and forty arrows so a man could protect his family whether he was a man of the ranks or not. Every imperial stable replete with tall and muscular mounts. The forts and watchtowers across the land in good repair and with full garrison, watching the tracks, passes and highways across the land. That is the dream I once strived for.’

  ‘And I,’ Apion added.

  Cydones smiled. ‘Then that’s one thing we agree on. Still, your choice of best men to accompany you on this journey still befuddles me. Dragging along a blind, dithering old fellow like me when you could have brought any of your fine tourmarchai?’

  Apion smiled at this. ‘You don’t know your own strengths, sir. You see far more than many a sharp-eyed youth,’ he grinned, ‘and you are a fine shatranj opponent. Besides, Sha, Blastares and Procopius are best placed to stay in Chaldia. They will keep the people safe in my absence.’

  He turned to rest his back against the lip of the dromon then gazed to the aft, his hair whipping up across his face. While the crew scuttled across the deck and shinned up and down the mast and rigging, one figure was bent double over the edge of the vessel, near the stern. Dederic’s shoulders lurched as he retched violently into the white churn that stretched out behind the dromon. Apion had brought him because he had proved a worthy addition to the thema, helping his Norman riders integrate well with the kataphractoi. Dederic had a dry sense of humour and a shrewd mind as well. Added to that, the Norman had spent some months in Constantinople within the last few years, and his knowledge of the place could be useful.

  ‘You think Dederic has it in him to lead a tourma for you?’ Cydones said as if reading his mind.

  ‘Aye, he’s already a leader, even if he doesn’t realise it yet,’ Apion said, thinking of how the Norman had led thirty lost and frightened serfs and moulded them into a disciplined band of lancers. Then he recalled Dederic’s steadfast commitment to saving the citizens of Caesarea. ‘And he has a good heart.’

  ‘A good heart? There is no such thing,’ Cydones replied wistfully. ‘All men can do is struggle to stave off the darkness in there. Light cannot exist without darkne
ss. To be a man is to be both.’

  Apion saw the old man’s brow furrow and wondered at what grim memory he was replaying right now.

  Then the shrieking of gulls pierced the air. They turned to the coast to see a series of broad stone watchtowers dotted along the shores as they approached the Bosphorus strait. Atop each, purple banners fluttered bearing the Chi-Rho and the Cross.

  They were coming to the city of God.

  ***

  The sails were brought down and the oars extended as the dromon entered the warm, turquoise and placid waters of the Bosphorus strait. The surface ahead was dotted with fishing vessels and trade cogs. Ferries cut to and fro, from one rocky and verdant coastline to the other. Thick shoals of silvery fish darted this way and that before the dromon, and then a school of dolphins broke the surface and tumbled through the waters alongside the vessel.

  Apion stood at the prow with Cydones and Dederic – the Norman having at last lost the green tinge to his skin.

  The three were silent in anticipation, until Cydones cupped a hand to his ear at the gentle splashing of oars from the ferries up ahead. ‘Ah, Europe to Asia and back in a single morning – that brings back memories!’

  Then the old man clasped a hand on Apion’s shoulder as they approached a jutting outcrop of headland. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he said, his nostrils flaring and his sightless eyes closed, ‘I can smell it . . . the fruits of the palace orchards, the sweat of the mounts in the Hippodrome, the dust of the emperor’s stonemasons, the spices of the traders . . . and the bullshit of the senate!’

  Apion and Dederic roared at this. Then they rounded the headland and all three fell silent.

  Constantinople was revealed, dominating the western skyline, conquering the peninsula that spliced the waters.

  Apion wondered at the sight. Never in all his years in the borderlands had he seen a city to rival this. The ancient walls were broad and all-encompassing with pristine purple banners fluttering in the faint breeze atop every fortress-like tower. Silvery flashes along the battlements affirmed that it was well garrisoned at every section. Behind the walls, the city rose up on its seven hills. The gentle, lush green slopes of the first hill curved around the tip of the peninsula in the shape of a hawk’s beak. The mountainous domed church of the Hagia Sofia was perched there, then, a stone’s throw away was the Imperial Palace. This magnificent gilded marble complex was ringed by collonaded walkways and topped with a wide, red-domed portico.