Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

by Gordon Doherty

  Apion pinned him with a flinty gaze. ‘There may be some comforts I will miss, but I will gladly return to the dirt-tracks and scree-strewn hillsides of Chaldia.’

  Psellos smiled coldly at this, then reached up and held out a hand to the orange tree. He clicked his tongue and the striped mother parakeet fluttered down from the tree to rest on his wrist, its three nestlings screeching from above. He stroked the bird’s ruby and buttercup yellow feathers and it pecked around his fingers in curiosity.

  ‘A magnificent creature, is it not?’ Psellos purred, stroking the bird’s neck with one finger. ‘A beast of majesty, safe in its opulent home . . . yet cupped in my palm. Watch how its ignorance brings about its fate.’

  The bird, angry at the lack of seed in Psellos’ hand, pecked a little too hard, pinching the old man’s skin and drawing a spot of blood. Psellos did not wince at this. He simply wrapped his free hand around the bird’s neck. The creature flapped its wings and squawked in terror and then Psellos wrenched at its body with the other hand. With a snap of bone, it was still. He looked up at Apion once more. ‘Emperors, regents and those who sit, ostensibly, in positions of power should be wary of those who lifted them there, Strategos. Remember that.’

  ‘Say your piece, adviser, then leave me.’ Apion shot furtive glances around the overlooking balconies and roofs of the palace. The few varangoi who were normally stationed there were absent, doubtless drawn away by the same issue that had troubled Eudokia.

  ‘The axemen are occupied for the moment, Strategos. It is just you and I, and you are one of a . . . dying breed,’ Psellos said. ‘One of the few who choose not to support the continuation of the Doukid line. A wise choice?’

  Apion nodded. ‘A man’s choices define him, so he should always stand by them. There are others who stand with me.’

  ‘Hmm . . . hmmm,’ Psellos nodded. ‘To the last, it would seem.’

  Apion felt a chill on his skin as they gazed at one another in silence. Then a distant, chilling scream pierced the air, from the streets at the far side of the palace. Psellos did not flinch at this. Indeed, his smile only broadened. Then a buccina blared out and the babble of troubled citizens filled the air.

  ‘What have you done?’ Apion snarled.

  At that moment, Konstantious rushed from the trees, ready to resume play. But he skidded to a halt before Apion and Psellos. His impish grin fell away when he saw the dead parakeet in the adviser’s hands. ‘What happened?’ He gulped, his eyes welling with tears.

  ‘The bird must have fallen from its nest whilst sleeping,’ Psellos lied. Then he glanced to Apion with a glint in his eye. ‘It would have died instantly, ignorant of its fate.’

  Konstantious reached out, taking the parakeet’s body from Psellos. ‘Then I shall bury her,’ he sobbed, ‘and make sure she rests well now.’ Then he looked up to the mass of twigs in the tree and the screeching nestlings peering over the edge. ‘But they will starve without her to nurture them and they will never grow strong enough to leave the nest.’

  Apion’s thoughts swirled with imaginings of what had happened on the streets. The urge to rush through the palace to see for himself was overwhelming, but that was exactly what Psellos wanted.

  He glowered at the adviser, then crouched beside Konstantious, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Then we can lower the nest and you can feed them yourself. The nestlings will live on and be strong.’

  ***

  Constantinople was cloaked in frost, the wind was bitter and the sky was brushed with wispy, white clouds. The imperial flagship bobbed in the morning swell of the Golden Horn, the oars propelling her gently along the waters of the inlet that hemmed the northern edge of the city. For once, the customary escort of dromons was absent.

  On the centre of the flagship, a purple silk tent had been erected. Twenty varangoi stood around this, their faces set in grimaces, their axes held as if they were readying for battle. A small rowing boat approached the vessel. A crimson-cloaked figure stood at the prow, his amber locks billowing in the breeze.

  Inside the tent, Eudokia sat at the centre of the plush, quilted floor. But she ignored the comfort of her surroundings and the bountiful platters and amphorae that lined the tent. Neither could she concentrate on the sheaf of paper in her hand. Instead, she could think of nothing but the horrific discovery of the mutilated strategos, Nilos.

  The big man’s carcass had been found, tied to the foot of the Milareum Aureum, gulls and carrion birds stripping what flesh was left from his bones. Above the corpse on the gilded column’s surface, a message had been daubed in blood.

  God’s wrath will fall upon Diogenes.

  The populace had gathered around the sight, babbling in panic, eyes wide and hands covering mouths in disgust. Hyperbole broke out almost immediately, and spread around the streets like wildfire. Some cried out that the impending succession of Romanus Diogenes was folly, that God had chosen another. Others jabbered of a monster that stalked the streets at night. A demon. The antichrist incarnate.

  Eudokia looked up from the papers, her lips taut. Indeed, there was a demon in the city, and his scheming had never before been so dark. Such was her mistrust of those who lurked in and around the palace, she had retreated to this yacht with an escort of varangoi in an attempt to understand how she could counter Psellos’ push for power.

  Like her enemy, she understood that to retaliate directly would only incite the possibility of civil war, dragging the tagmata and the themata into battle against one another around the capital. At a time when the Seljuk forces were rumoured to be readying for a decisive push into Anatolia, this could not be allowed to happen. She tried to piece together the plan in her head once more when a hand swept the tent flap open, sending the winter chill around her bare ankles.

  ‘My lady,’ the varangos bowed on one knee to her.

  Behind him stood a figure, features silhouetted by the morning sun, eagle feathers rippling in the wind atop his helm.

  ‘Come, sit,’ she beckoned him.

  Apion handed his swordbelt to the varangos and then entered. It was the first time she had seen him dressed in his full soldier’s garb – and he was a fearsome sight. The iron klibanion hugged his torso like the skin of a reptile and the conical helm and scale aventail hid all but his battered face. His emerald gaze was shaded under his brow, his expression dark as he sat before her.

  ‘Nilos’ murder still troubles you too?’ she asked.

  ‘I cannot change that he was slain, so no, his death does not trouble me.’ Apion replied prosaically. He removed his helm and his amber locks tumbled around his face. ‘But I worry for the others, those whom Psellos has not yet turned his sights upon.’

  ‘As do I,’ she replied.

  ‘Then why summon only me?’ Apion replied, his gaze unblinking.

  ‘Because,’ Eudokia hesitated at this. ‘Because of all the military leaders who have gathered in the palace. You are the only one I still trust.’ There was another reason, but that was foolish, she chided herself. Foolish and weak.

  ‘That is praise indeed,’ Apion raised his eyebrow at this, smoothing his beard. ‘But you know little of me.’

  ‘I know enough, and time is scarce.’ She looked over his scarred features and again her gaze locked onto his. For a moment she saw herself on a dusty track that stretched across an open plain. Behind her, the grey, rotting corpse of Constantine Doukas marched for her, arms outstretched as if trying to claw at her. Ahead, she saw Romanus Diogenes, the man she was to marry, the man she had exiled, the man who would gladly take the imperial throne but would never love her. Under Apion’s gaze, she felt something she feared she might never feel again. Her heartbeat surged for just a moment, then she buried the thoughts that crept into her mind. ‘So, we must turn our attention to the days ahead.’

  Apion nodded at this, his expression sincere.

  She pushed the sheaf of paper towards him. It was etched with diagrams depicting the walls, towers, barracks and docks of Cons
tantinople. ‘Psellos knows that once Romanus Diogenes enters the city, his grasp on power will be as good as over.’

  Apion looked up at her, his expression lightening, the edges of his lips lifting.

  ‘Something amuses you?’ she frowned.

  ‘Do not take it as a slight. I have spent time with many strategoi, many doukes. Some encounters were pleasurable, others were endured and no more. Few of those men were as succinct and practical as you, my lady.’

  She shook her head at this digression and then tapped a finger on the Numeroi barracks and the various strongholds and watchtowers around the city that Psellos’ men controlled. ‘Psellos’ allies within the city will be powerless to flex their muscle without a guarantee of support from the themata and the other tagmata. Thus, I fear that in the coming weeks, he will accelerate his campaign of aggression. He will do whatever it takes to turn the bulk of the empire’s armies to his cause. Thus, we cannot allow him the time he needs to achieve this.’ She picked out a map of the Balkan region, depicting the empire from the tip of Mystras in southern Greece to the River Istros in the North. She tapped the plains that lay between the city of Adrianople and the great river. ‘Diogenes is ending his campaign on the plains, here.’ Then she tapped a spot further up, near the river. ‘Then he means to establish a winter camp on the banks of the Istros and see that his officers are well bedded in before he travels south in the last week of December, more than three weeks from now. But by then it may be too late.’ She looked up to him, her expression earnest. ‘You are to ride out to him, Strategos. You are to escort him into the city before then. The fate of the empire rests upon your shoulders.’

  Apion took a deep breath at this. ‘This is not the first time I have had such weighty expectation placed upon me, my lady.’ Then he nodded, his eyes darting across the diagram. ‘But I came here in search of hope, hope that the empire could be saved. So I will do as you ask.’ Then he made to stand. ‘And I should waste no time?’

  ‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘Psellos must not see you leave the city. So you will leave under cover of night.’

  ‘Then today will be a long day, knowing what lies ahead,’ Apion mused wryly, sitting once more.

  She nodded, then gestured to the platters around them; bread, cheeses, cured meats, fish, fruit, honey, nuts, yoghurt and wine. ‘Have your fill, you will need strength and focus for the journey.’

  She realised he was looking at her lips when she said this, and she turned away in embarrassment.

  He seemed not to notice, or at least he pretended he had not. He lifted the platter nearest, laden with apricots, blueberries, bread and a fresh honeycomb. ‘When I return to Chaldia,’ he chuckled, ‘I will remember this fare fondly. Sesame porridge does lose its appeal after the hundredth day on campaign.’ He grinned at her, tearing the bread in half and holding one piece out to her.

  She reached out to take it, then dipped it into the honeycomb, breaking the wax, the golden syrup spilling free onto the platter. Then, when she ate, the sweetness of the honey warmed her heart. It had been days since she had eaten properly, and it felt good. She realised that, despite herself, she was smiling. Then she noticed that Apion’s gaze hung on her features, his lips playing with a redolent smile. Then his face fell. In the next heartbeat, he averted his eyes. ‘Apion? What is it?’

  He shook his head. ‘I just,’ he started, his words trailing off. ‘You remind me of someone.’

  ‘A woman?’ she asked, averting his gaze. ‘I did not think to ask of your family, your wife. I hope you do not think me rude . . . ’

  ‘I have no family,’ Apion cut in. ‘War is my only mistress, and a ferocious one she is at that.’ He nodded, his stare growing distant. ‘No, you reminded me of someone I once broke bread with many years ago. A woman as brash and strident as you, my lady.’ Then he looked up, pinning her once more with his gaze. ‘And, if I may say, as beautiful.’

  ‘Did you love her?’ she asked, shuffling where she sat.

  A long silence passed.

  ‘I did,’ Apion replied at last. ‘There have been other women, but she is the only one I have ever truly loved.’ He shrugged. ‘But, like so many others, she was lost to me. Now I often wonder if love and loss are inseparable; if one cannot exist without the other.’

  A silence passed between them until something twinged in her heart. This brought forth words she had long ago resolved to never speak to another soul. ‘When I was a girl, I lived near Ephesus. I gave my word to a boy, the son of a smith, that I would one day marry him. We walked together every day, we rode in the fields, and we made love in the rain, caring little for anything other than each other’s embrace. I have never felt such a bond with any other. I have often wondered if it was love I experienced.’ She looked to Apion. ‘That love came with loss. A brutal loss that I will never forget.’

  ‘He was killed?’

  She hesitated at this, unsure if she could let the next words pass her lips. ‘God forgive me, yes.’ She clasped a hand to her chest and steadied her thudding heart. ‘When the boy raped my sister, he took from her, me and my family more than he could ever give. He took her dignity. The wounds he had inflicted upon her were grave, and she bled until she breathed no more.’ She barely disguised the choking of a sob.

  Apion reached out, tentatively at first, to place a hand upon her shoulder. ‘Loss leaves a bitterness in the veins that never fades.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes . . . yes it does.’ She locked her gaze onto Apion’s. ‘I found him slumped in an inebriate doze later that night, in the straw behind a tavern. I threw water upon his face until he stirred. I wanted to look into his eyes when I did it . . . I took up a dagger and I . . . I . . . ’ she fell silent, searching his eyes for revulsion.

  Apion held her gaze, his expression unflinching. ‘Then we are more alike than I first realised.’

  They hovered there, only inches from one another. She blinked at this, confused at the forgotten sensation of true feeling in her blood.

  Then he pressed his lips against hers.

  She raised her arms as if to strike him. After years of abhorrence of the asp-like men who stalked the palace corridors, this was her instinct. But she realised she was kissing him back, and her arms wrapped around him, pulling at his cloak until it fell free.

  He pushed back at this, grasping her by the shoulders, panting, his eyes shaded under a troubled frown. ‘Forgive me, my lady.’

  She shook her head, unclasping her robe, which slipped silently from her shoulders to reveal her breasts, her nipples erect and tender. ‘Don’t speak, Apion. For I sense that a long, dark road lies ahead. Let us have one moment of light.’ With that, she drew him closer.

  Apion unbuckled his klibanion in silence and then it fell to the floor. Then they came together in a passionate embrace.

  ***

  As the small rowing boat parted from the imperial flagship, Psellos watched from the dromon anchored outside the Neorion Harbour, his eyes fixed on the crimson-cloaked figure. He nodded, his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘Is it as we suspected? He is to ride to Romanus Diogenes?’ John Doukas gasped, leaning over the lip of the vessel as if the truth would be revealed to him under scrutiny.

  Psellos grinned at the naiveté, the bluntness. This man was a parody of his hot-headed brother. He would make a fine puppet emperor. ‘We have forced Eudokia into a corner, master. We have limited her options to the one we know will serve us best. The Haga will make a break for the north in the coming days. That, you can be sure of.’

  ‘Then he must die at the gates,’ John hissed, punching a fist down onto the rim of the ship.

  ‘That would be folly, master.’

  John turned to scowl at him. ‘What? Then you suggest we let him live?’

  Psellos nodded, a grin bending under his hooked nose. ‘Yes, master. But only for a matter of days. When he meets with Diogenes, then we can slay this troublesome strategos and the whoreson who shapes to steal your throne . . . �
�

  12. The Golden Heart

  The lush green plains of northern Thracia sparkled with morning frost. Overhead, the sky was an unbroken blue, and the winter sun tried in vain to warm the land. To the south, a band of Macedonian Pine forest stretched across the plain, still and silent.

  Then a distant rumbling grew in intensity until the treeline rustled and the ground shook. A flock of bullfinches scattered, chirping a fluted song, before a wedge of thirteen horsemen burst from the forest, lowered in their saddles.

  Apion rode at the fore, his crimson cloak and plumage billowing in his slipstream, his arms clad in splinted greaves and his torso hugged by his iron klibanion. Immediately behind him on his right rode Dederic in his hooded mail hauberk, with a conical helm and noseguard and a woollen cloak for warmth. Behind him on his left was Igor, the gruff Komes of the Varangoi, whose braided grey locks whipped up behind him. He, like his ten charges, wore their distinctive snow-white armour, tunics, trousers and gold-edged cloaks. The Rus were notoriously awkward horsemen, but they had kept the pace well.

  On this, the third morning of their ride from the capital, they had made good ground northwards and were now in sight of the towering Haemus Mountains. Here, the land became a little more ragged and they soon reached a series of grassy foothills, sparkling with the remaining frost and lined by trickling meltwater streams descending from the rocky heights some miles away. Nearing mid-morning, Apion noticed froth on his Thessalian’s iron snaffle bit, and the beast’s skin was slick with sweat despite the winter chill. He sat up in his saddle and tugged on the reins. The wedge slowed and then stopped with him.

  Dismounting, he smoothed the gelding’s mane and whispered soothing words in its ear. As he did so, the men of the wedge gathered around him, awaiting orders. ‘We can fill our skins while our mounts recover,’ he nodded to the nearest stream, ‘and cook some hot porridge to warm our blood.’