Psellos smiled, extending his arms wide. ‘Ah, set your mind at ease, Strategos. I come here only to welcome you.’
Apion noticed that Psellos’ smile never reached his eyes.
‘And to offer you a morsel of advice,’ Psellos continued. ‘In my years as adviser, I have seen how vital you and your kind are in making or breaking an emperor, or even a whole dynasty. That is why you have been called here; to make choices that will determine the fate of the empire.’
‘Weighty choices plague my every day back in the east, but not here,’ Apion replied prosaically. ‘I have come here simply to hail the arrival of the new emperor. Then the rebuilding of the borderlands can begin as soon as Romanus Diogenes takes the throne.’
The little man’s features creased with a tight and bitter smile. He raised a hand, one finger extended and wagging. ‘Ah, now there is the first of the problems. An assumption that has little basis in legality . . . contrary to current thinking, the throne does not lie unoccupied. The young Michael Doukas sits upon it. His father’s dynasty is unbroken.’
‘I understand that it is merely a formality that he and his regents will step aside when Romanus Diogenes comes to be crowned?’
Psellos was unblinking. ‘That remains to be seen, Strategos. As I said; the coming months will reveal many truths. In that time, I urge you to remain open to those who choose to confer with you.’
‘Why would I be anything but?’
Psellos chuckled mirthlessly at this, stroking his chin as he strolled to the door. ‘Why indeed?’ he said as he left the room.
Apion’s mind darkened as his thoughts tangled. He had been lured here by the promise of hope. Yet he had been received with only dark insinuations. But they can wait, he thought, shaking his head clear of this muddle as he slid on his boots, focusing only on the fine-featured woman on the balcony, for I have an apology to make.
He stood and swept his crimson cloak across his shoulders. Then he hurried downstairs and past the two varangoi bookending the archway that led outside into the gardens. The afternoon sunlight was warm and a welcome contrast to the cool, shady interior of the palace. Indeed, the trilling cicada song reminded him of home. He glanced up at the balcony above the far side of the gardens where he had seen the woman. She was not there so he picked his way along the narrow paths that wound between the fruit trees and colourful blooms. The tang of oranges spiced the air first, and then the lazy scent of jasmine and narcissus. Fountains babbled near the heart of the gardens, and he found it an effort not to forget his troubles.
Until he heard footsteps, rushing towards him. At once, he was alert.
He looked this way and that, then spun to his right. The dark-green leaves of a rhododendron bush wriggled and rustled. He grasped at his absent scimitar hilt and cursed aloud, bracing himself for this unseen attacker.
Then the tension washed from him as a boy tumbled from the bush, giggling, twigs in his blonde hair. The broad grin on his cherubic face fell as he skidded to a halt before Apion. The lad was no more than seven. Apion’s eyes fell to the sword belt the boy carried. It contained a spathion.
‘A weighty weapon for a young lad, is it not?’ he cocked an eyebrow.
The boy squared his shoulders and lifted his chin at this insult, and Apion had to work to resist chuckling at this.
‘I’m going to be emperor one day, so I must be ready!’ the boy replied. Then he jabbed a finger at a nesting parakeet and its hatchlings, high up on one orange tree, an impish grin creeping onto his face. ‘My feathered army are loyal to me!’
Just then, a weightier set of footsteps sounded nearby, accompanied by a low growl. ‘Konstantious! I have no time for your foolish games!’
The boy’s haughty look faltered at this and he spun round, lifting the sword from the belt, two-handed. His limbs shook under the weight of the blade.
A small but broad-shouldered young man stomped into view. He was sixteen, perhaps. He wore a purple tunic hemmed with gold thread. His jaw was broad and well-defined, his hair light brown and short and his eyes shaded under a scowl. Apion saw the resemblance between the two as the young man marched up to little Konstantious and tore the sword from his grip, threw the blade to the ground, then moved towards the young lad, fists balled.
Apion stepped between the two, frowning at the young man. ‘Perhaps in ten years or so you two could have a fair fight. Until then, you should keep your sword belt somewhere safe.’
The young man’s face burned with anger. ‘How dare you address your emperor in such a tone?’
Apion’s breath froze in his lungs. So this was Michael. Constantine Doukas’ eldest son and acting emperor. The boy whose grasp of the purple would be torn from him when Eudokia remarried.
Michael Doukas continued to glare up at him. ‘Drop your gaze and fall to one knee or I’ll have you flogged until the bones in your back are shattered.’
Apion simply gazed back at the boy. Then Konstantious, hiding behind Apion, peeked round to yell; ‘Nobody has to do what you say, puppet emperor!’
At this, Michael’s face turned crimson, and he readied to leap for little Konstantious.
‘Easy, easy!’ Apion held up his hands, then bowed on one knee. They were at eye level now. ‘You are emperor and so I will kneel before you. But know that in the past I’ve been flogged until the barbs on the whip wrenched at my ribs. So I do not wilt under such threats, Michael. Men who do may fear you, but they will never respect you.’
Michael’s gratified grin faded a fraction at this and he looked every inch the lost young man that he was.
Then a woman’s voice pierced the air and the young man’s face fell completely; ‘You’ll control that foul temper of yours, Michael.’
Apion glanced up. The tall, slender lady from the balcony walked towards them. She was draped in red silken robes and he could now see her face clearly; beauty sullied only slightly with age, her golden locks flecked with silver. Most interestingly, she was flanked by two varangoi, each bearing their heavy axes as if ready to strike.
Konstantious ran to her, throwing his arms around her waist. ‘Mother!’ he sobbed.
Apion’s ears perked up at this. So this was Lady Eudokia.
She wrapped an arm around Konstantious then stabbed a finger at her elder son. ‘You will adhere to my rules, Michael. Until the new emperor arrives, you will obey my every word.’
‘What if Uncle John contradicts your word, Mother?’ Michael spat back. He glared at Eudokia, Konstantious and then Apion in turn, then stormed off into the main wing of the palace. Apion watched him go, frowning. He felt only sympathy for the young man. Snared in some power-struggle like a butterfly in a web, anger seemed to be Michael’s only way of venting his frustration.
‘And you,’ Eudokia spoke in an accusatory tone.
Apion spun back round and looked up at her, wide-eyed.
‘I can only congratulate you on your success in putting on clothes this time!’ She barked.
Apion felt the beginnings of an embarrassed smile creep onto his face, only for it to fall away as Eudokia’s face twisted further in scorn.
‘And stand up, you fool. There is no true emperor in this palace.’
He stood and her gaze narrowed on him for a heartbeat as he rose above her.
Then she nodded to her guards, turned and swept back towards the palace, taking Konstantious by the hand. As she disappeared under the shadows of the brightly-painted colonnade, she raised a hand and snapped her fingers.
At this, the two varangoi grinned, then one of them motioned with his axe, beckoning Apion.
‘Come with us – Lady Eudokia requests your presence.’
***
Apion stood in the magnificent rooftop portico, the pinnacle of the imperial palace. A circle of narrow, finely sculpted marble columns supported the red-tiled dome overhead. This offered him a pleasant shade from which to enjoy the almost unbroken vista of the magnificent city. Young Konstantious played with wooden blocks and carved so
ldiers on the polished floor. A pair of the omnipresent varangoi stood guard by the top of the marble stairs that led back down into the depths of the palace. But it was Eudokia who held his attention.
She had not spoken a word since they had come up here, preferring instead to prepare herself a drink of iced water and crushed petals. Then she had moved to the edge of the portico, sipping from a silver cup, her eyes darting across the western city skyline, lost in thought as she traced a fingertip along the sun-warmed balcony edge. Her fine-boned face was bathed in the hue of sunset, and this washed away the lines of age and gave her hair a fiery-golden sheen.
Apion glimpsed the nape of her neck. His unease faded a little as the delicate skin there conjured up a lost memory of Maria. Of kissing her there, his arms around her waist, her scent dancing in his nostrils.
‘It is for the simplest of reasons that you are here,’ she spoke at last, shrilly and suddenly. ‘Absurdly simple.’
Apion snapped to attention. ‘Basileia?’
‘I am no empress,’ she replied flatly, ‘do not address me as such.’
Apion felt her rebuke sting like the lash. ‘Very well . . . my lady.’
She turned to him, her face expressionless. ‘The reason I had you brought up here,’ she reached out to clasp the fabric of his tunic, ‘is because of this.’
Apion frowned.
‘Earlier, when you were bathing, I had the silk robe sent to you. I wanted to see how quickly you would accept such finery. But instead you chose to keep your filthy, worn tunic. That tells me something about you. You may yet turn out to be an untrustworthy snake, but I can afford you a sliver of doubt. And,’ she looked away, sipping her drink again, ‘I was not watching you for any other reason, and certainly did not expect your vulgar display of nudity.’
Apion’s skin burned in embarrassment again. ‘I can only apologise, my lady. I have spent so long with my armies that sometimes I forget myself.’ A memory barged into his thoughts uninvited: Blastares strutting through the barracks in the nude, cupping his testicles, breaking wind every few paces and grunting the words to a song about two whores smearing each other with honey. His eyes widened and he quickly shook the thought from his head.
‘Well, I suppose much about this place must be unfamiliar to you,’ she conceded. ‘The border themata . . . I hear those distant lands are rife with warfare. Life there is brutal and short, is it not?’
‘For many,’ Apion agreed.
Then she frowned at the red-ink stigma on his arm. ‘What of this – is it some symbol of your army?’
Apion shook his head. ‘This is the Haga. An ancient Hittite myth. My men laud me with this moniker as if it represents only glory. But for me it is a constant reminder of all that I have lost.’
Eudokia’s eyes darted across his face. Apion braced for another abrupt and awkward question. ‘What is your name, Strategos?’
Apion felt the tension ease from him at this. She was the first person to ask this since he had arrived at the capital. Indeed, she was the first to ask this for many months. To all others he was simply the Strategos of Chaldia. ‘Apion,’ he replied.
‘So tell me, Apion, this loss, does it bring you sadness?’ she asked, gazing into the horizon once more.
Apion’s expression turned grave as dark memories surfaced. ‘Sometimes, my lady. Sometimes it brings only anger.’ He saw her flex her fingers on her cup, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips, her fine neck swelling a little as she gulped. The sunset betrayed a hint of glassiness in her eyes. He felt a question tingle on his lips.
‘You have something to say, Apion?’ she said, sensing his hesitation.
Apion braced himself. ‘Do you miss your husband, my lady?’
She raised her eyebrows at this, as if taken aback. ‘I hated him with all my being.’
Apion nodded, dropping his gaze. ‘You can still yearn for someone, even if you did not like them.’
Her lips trembled as if to reply, but she simply looked away, falling silent once more. She paced around the edge of the portico, one hand tracing the marble balcony.
‘Perhaps. But I did not bring you here to talk of loss, or of the past,’ she said at last, her gaze falling on the waters to the south, bathed in shimmering crimson as the sun slipped behind the western hills of the city. ‘I wanted to speak of the dark intrigue that hangs over this city like a thundercloud.’
Apion felt a wave of relief at her frankness. ‘I would welcome such talk. For I came here in search of hope, hope that might see my homelands free of the strife that plagues its peoples. Yet since I stepped onto the harbour this morning, I have heard nothing but insinuation, uncertainty and barely veiled swipes at those who occupy this palace in the interregnum. Tell me, my lady, what is afoot? Who can I trust? Who must I be wary of?’
She pointed to the south.
Apion looked to the grand vessel anchored just outside the Theodosian Harbour. The hull was painted brilliant white and the lip of the vessel was gilt and sculpted. It had three banks of oars and its crew scurried up and down the network of rigging on its broad masts, unfurling two vast, white linen sails, each adorned with a purple Chi-Rho emblem. On the deck, there were silk awnings shading an area ringed with cushions and padded seats. Slaves dashed around this area, carrying platters of food and amphorae of wine. Anchored around this vessel were ten dromons, utilitarian in contrast. These smaller war galleys were utterly free of finery, each deck studded with a glimmering square of fifty numeroi.
‘Now I understand why the imperial fleet lies in such ruin – if such funds have been poured into the decoration of this one vessel and its escort,’ Apion said. Then he turned to her. ‘I mean no offence . . . ’
‘The offence comes not from you, Apion. The opulence lavished on the imperial flagship is but one of the follies of my dead husband.’ Then she stabbed a finger at a small white rowing boat cutting through the still waters towards the flagship. ‘The greatest of his follies, however, was his failure to shed the malignant leech that clung to him throughout his reign.’
The tiny boat drew alongside the huge vessel, docking with a timber staircase that led to the decks. The figures on the rowing boat boarded the larger vessel. Apion made out a clutch of six numeroi and a pair of slaves amongst their number. But one central figure was the focus of attention, slaves dashing from below deck to hold silken canopies above his head and to offer silver platters laden with jugs and fine foods. It was Psellos, the shrivelled adviser.
‘I have met with this one already,’ Apion said.
At this, Eudokia balked, glancing to the varangoi. The nearest of the Rus axemen shook his head. ‘They spoke only for moments, my lady.’
Apion pinned her with his gaze. ‘My lady, what is this?’
Eudokia composed herself. ‘I have to be sure of you, Apion.’
‘I can offer you only my word.’
She searched his eyes, and he wondered what she found in there.
Finally, she nodded. ‘Psellos is a parasite. He rose to prominence after establishing the University of Constantinople. He used that leverage to worm his way into the political sphere. From there, he attached himself to the emperor’s court, and that was over twenty years ago. The man has sponsored the rise of the last three emperors, feeding from them during their reign and lurking at each of their deathbeds. It is he who conjures the thundercloud over this city. The continuation of the Doukid dynasty is his only hope of retaining control. He has my late husband’s brother John on his side, and already he poisons the mind of my eldest boy against my designs to break the Doukid line.’
Apion watched as the purple robed Psellos reclined on the cushions and took bread from the slaves. Then another figure emerged from below deck. Tall and dark-bearded. He greeted Psellos heartily, then took to gulping at a cup of wine.
‘John has always aspired to the throne,’ Eudokia said, ‘yet he is a wrathful and short-sighted man – even more so than his brother was. It took little for Psellos to tether
him. Indeed, Psellos calls him master without a hint of irony.’
Apion’s gaze hardened as he watched. John Doukas pushed away a young slave who offered to water his wine, then took to punching the cowering, screaming boy. He stopped when the slave collapsed to the deck. Then he took up a baton and proceeded to thrash at the slave’s head.
Cold memories of Apion’s days as a slave surfaced. ‘Then you have chosen well in contesting their push for power. Equally, from what I hear, you have chosen well in summoning Romanus Diogenes to be the new emperor.’
Eudokia looked to him with an expression of mild shock. ‘You believe my choice to be wise and well thought out? Are you aware that I had Romanus Diogenes exiled, only days after my husband died?’
‘My lady?’ Apion frowned.
‘He could have been executed on my word. There were strong rumours that he planned to seize the throne in a violent coup. Had he done so, my sons would have been blinded,’ her voice hushed a little and she darted a glance at young Konstantious, ‘or killed.’ Then she turned her gaze back upon the flagship, and her face wrinkled in fury. ‘Now, in those intervening months I have found out that those rumours were fuelled by those they served best.’
Apion nodded. ‘Regardless of what journey brought us here, my lady, we are here now.’
Eudokia nodded. ‘Yet Romanus Diogenes is still engaged in campaigning on the Istrian frontier and will not arrive in the capital until December. Much can happen in that time. Can I count on your support until then, Strategos?’
Apion nodded. ‘The promise of a new emperor spirited my men and I here all the way from Chaldia, my lady. I do not intend for that to be a wasted journey.’
‘That pleases me,’ she replied.
The pair gazed bitterly at the scene on the flagship. Now the slave lay still and lifeless, a crimson pool forming around his head as John Doukas poured another cup of neat wine. All the while, Psellos looked on, reclined and sipping from a goblet.
Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart Page 12
