The varangoi looked to one another in mild disgust. Apion and Dederic shared a spontaneous grin at this.
Despite their hardy origins in the frozen northlands, the Varangoi had been reared on the finest spiced meats, exotic fruits and poached seafood in their years of service in the palace. Thus, the perfunctory food of the armies had not gone down at all well. Indeed, one of them had spent the previous evening groaning after persevering with the gruel, his skin almost as white as his armour before he retched his meal into the fire. This had served to trigger a similar response from another two of his comrades.
‘It’s only for another few days – then you can reacquaint yourselves with oak-smoked octopus and the like!’ Dederic chirped, sliding from his saddle and juggling two compact balls of dried yoghurt, almonds and sesame oil in his hands as he strolled off to the stream.
Apion turned to Igor and pointed to the nearest two foothills. ‘I want one man on each of those hills.’
Igor nodded two of his men forward.
‘Keep your thoughts focussed and your bows nocked,’ Apion called after them as they jogged to their posts. Then he glanced to the spare ration pack he had brought with him from the palace kitchens. ‘I’ll have toasted bread and cheese sent up to you as soon as it’s ready.’ A spring was added to their step at this promise.
Apion watched as Igor and the rest of the varangoi set about kindling a fire, bantering in their native tongue. He prised his helmet from his head, then removed one glove and ran his fingers through his matted locks.
He took up his water skin and sipped absently upon it as he looked around this green, well-watered country. So far removed from the baked, terracotta and gold lands of home. Then his thoughts drifted to Sha, Blastares and Procopius, out in the east. Damn but I miss them, he thought.
Equally, he had only been parted from old Cydones for a few days, yet he missed the old man’s banter already. They had played shatranj on the afternoon before Apion and the riders had slipped from the city. The loss of his sight had done little to dampen Cydones’ enthusiasm – and deft skill – for the game. So you will leave me behind while you ride? Cydones had mused as they picked their moves. Quite right; my body is as worn as my mind, and my bones would surely crumble at the mere thought of the gallop! Then, in his next move, he had pinned Apion’s King to the edge of the board. Checkmate! The retired strategos had croaked gently, a grin spreading across his features as he set the pieces up to begin another game immediately, not satisfied with this victory alone. Apion could not contain an equal grin at the infectious memory, and he cast a glance back to the south, wondering how the old man would fare in the palace without familiar company. Well, there was Eudokia, he realised, then chided himself for thinking of her.
Since leaving the imperial yacht, he had resolved to lock away any memory of their warm and lasting bout of lovemaking. Her scent, her beauty and her softness had permeated his every thought and laced his dreams every night since. But through it all, he had thought only of Maria, of what could have been with her in another life. He smiled wryly, shaking the thoughts away; just as Eudokia had used the coming together as a harbour of respite, so had he.
Then his distant gaze faded and settled on the forest from which they had come, now far to the south. His eyes narrowed. Something wasn’t right. The flight from the city had felt too smooth and that thought had nagged him all the way here. The numeroi were thin on the walls that night – conspicuously so. He searched the sky, littered with circling wagtails. Where are you when I need you, old lady?
Then a hand slapped on his shoulder and his heart lurched in his chest.
‘Sir!’
Apion spun to Igor. The varangos’ eyes were wide with alarm. Behind him, the pair of varangoi atop the foothills were crouched and waving.
‘They’ve spotted something, coming this way,’ Igor said, interpreting the signal.
Apion’s vision narrowed on the cleft between the two hills. From the rift beyond, he heard a baritone, inhuman roar. A waft of sweet woodsmoke drifted under Apion’s nostrils and he shot a glare at the newly kindled fire. ‘Douse it!’ he hissed. Silently, he beckoned the men with him, fanning his fingers out to have them separate and line the hillsides.
‘Have them guard these hills as if they were the palace gates,’ he whispered to Igor. Then he picked up a free spear from beside the doused fire, placed his helmet back on and turned to Dederic. ‘With me!’
Apion stalked forward, around the rightmost hillock and then ahead of the varangoi. Then he moved along and up the slope of the uneven ridge that ran northwards from the twin hillocks. As they came to the tip of the ridge, another roar pierced the air. This time it was only paces away, from the other side of the ridge. More, the stench of rotting meat wafted in the chill, northerly breeze.
‘Sir?’ Dederic’s eyes were wide.
‘Stay your fears, Dederic,’ Apion whispered. ‘Has ever a roar and foul breath hurt a man?’
Then he stretched his neck up and over the ridge to look down into the narrow corridor on the other side. What he saw, only a few strides away, turned his blood to ice.
‘No, but that thing surely has,’ Dederic whispered, gawping beside him.
The beast was as magnificent as it was ferocious. Tawny gold fur and a golden mane, its paws as large as a man’s head, the tips of dagger-like claws visible under the fur. The lion’s jaw hung slightly open, revealing yellowed fangs and a lolling, pink tongue. These mighty creatures were long thought gone from this part of the world. Indeed, even way out east, in the Armenian mountains, they were becoming a rare sight.
Then Apion frowned, noticing the lion’s belly as it padded towards the twin hillocks – its skin was taut and its ribs jutted like blades. The beast was starving.
‘It is weak?’ Dederic suggested, nodding to the beast’s belly as it approached.
‘Maybe,’ Apion said, ‘but never is a predator more dangerous than when it is starved.’
‘Then we must slay it?’ Dederic’s eyes bulged in fear as he shot glances at the distance between them and the rest of the varangoi.
‘No, we let it pass,’ Apion asserted as the lion padded on towards the south. ‘It will find prey on the plain.’
‘That’s not likely to happen, sir,’ Dederic nodded to the cleft between the hillocks that stood between the lion and the plain.
Apion turned to see that the varangoi had spilled to the lower ground and levelled their axes towards the lion, barricading the beast’s exit from the corridor. The lion stopped at this, then its growl filled the small valley. Apion closed his eyes and muttered a curse. ‘Then we must drive it north, back up the rift in the land.’
The little Norman raised his eyebrows. ‘We?’
‘Think of this beast as the fat lord back in Rouen!’ Apion cocked an eyebrow, issuing a mischievous smirk at the same time. ‘Now come!’ He hissed, then launched up and over the lip and slid down the steep valley embankment, stumbling to a halt before the lion with the aid of his spear shaft. The beast started, took a few tentative steps backwards, then stood tall and emitted a roar that shook Apion’s bones. Having displayed its fangs and the wet of the back of its throat, the beast lowered its head, its eyes trained on Apion, its back legs wriggling and then steadying.
Apion’s heart thundered.
But, just as the beast was about to launch forward, Dederic tumbled down the banking less than graciously, his mail hauberk jingling like a whore’s purse. Then he righted himself, straightened his helmet and quickly levelled his spear at the lion, following Apion’s lead. At the same time, the varangoi rushed up to form a line behind the pair.
At this, the lion aborted its attack and paced backwards, snatching glances at them all. Then it risked a glance over its shoulder. Once, twice, and then once more. But it seemed hesitant to flee to the north.
‘It doesn’t want to go that way, sir?’ Dederic surmised.
‘No,’ Apion’s eyes narrowed, looking past the beast to the
north. The rift wound on for a hundred paces or so and then it adopted a jagged path, concealing the trail ahead. ‘Because it is being hunted. Listen!’
To a man, the party fell silent. Then they heard it; the drumming of hooves, echoing through the rift.
‘Coming this way?’ Dederic deduced.
‘With haste,’ Apion nodded. His mind spun with thoughts of the Magyar and Pecheneg warbands it could easily be, for this land was just as volatile and permeable as the eastern borderlands. ‘Back to the hillocks,’ he waved the men back. ‘Let the beast through and . . . ’ his words were cut off as a clutch of riders burst into view from the north, rounding the jagged edge of the rift.
Startled by this threat to its rear, the lion roared out and, in a flash, leapt for Apion at the heart of the line of varangoi, intent on breaking through to the south.
Apion felt the beast’s paws thud against his chest like a rock from a trebuchet. The wind was knocked from his lungs and he crashed back onto the earth. His mind flashed with white light and he was lost momentarily. He heard the grating of the lion’s claws against his klibanion, iron segments coming free of the armour. Then his vision cleared, and he saw the beast’s face, only inches from his. Its pupils were dilated in terror. Its lips curled back and its jaws extended to crush his neck.
Then there was a crunching of bone and flesh and Apion was showered in hot blood. But there was no pain. The beast’s eyes dimmed at this, the fear replaced by resignation as blood washed from its mouth.
Apion wheezed as the creature toppled from his chest, a spear lodged between its shoulder blades. He rolled back from its corpse and looked around him to see that Dederic and the varangoi still held their spears and axes, halted mid-stride in coming to his aid.
‘No! This was not to be!’ A voice called out from the pack of approaching riders.
Apion stood, gasping for breath and grappling for his sword hilt. But the tension eased from him when he saw that the clutch of horsemen – sixty of them, he estimated – were clearly Byzantine. They were adorned in the fine iron garb of the kataphractoi. Their boots, tunics and armour bore scrapes and stains that told of recent conflict.
From the armies of the north? Apion wondered as they slowed to a trot.
The lead rider trotted forward – a man a few years Apion’s senior. His armour was particularly finely crafted, and he wore a fine, white silk cloak on his sturdy shoulders. His broad and handsome face was wrinkled in a scowl, his teeth bared. His flaxen locks were swept back from his forehead and his cobalt glare pinned the lion’s corpse.
The rider did not look to any of Apion and his party. Instead, he flicked his glare from the lion to the rider by his side who had thrown the spear. ‘You fool,’ he grappled the man by the collar and shook him. ‘If I wanted another cadaver I could have had my pick from the battlefields!’
‘Sir, I was not aiming to strike the beast. I wanted to halt its flight . . . ’
While the man who had killed the beast mumbled an apology, Apion eyed the leader, and his gaze fell on something – a tiny trinket that hung around the man’s neck. A chain with a small heart pendant dangling over his breastbone. It was pure gold. The hairs on Apion’s neck lifted.
The Golden Heart will rise in the west. At dawn, he will wear the guise of a lion hunter. Apion saw the crone’s features in his mind’s eye. He had forgotten her words in the turmoil of these last months, now they were as crisp and clear as winter meltwater. At noon, he will march to the east as if to counter the sun itself. At dusk you will stand with him in the final battle, like an island in the storm . . .
Yet his first words to the man were instinctive. ‘Something of an uneven contest, was it not?’ He nodded to the lion’s corpse then swept a hand around the man and his sixty riders.
The man twisted to Apion, releasing his grip on the spearless rider as he did so. Then, as if waking from a dream, the scowl fell from the man’s face. He blinked, almost as if just realising that Apion and the varangoi were present.
‘I had no intention of killing such a fine beast,’ the man shook his head. ‘The Magyar Prince who bestowed him upon me thought I would delight in having such a creature to parade.’ His gaze darkened under a frown. ‘But the animal was terrified, from the moment the Pecheneg traders dragged him from Armenia and shipped him across the Pontus Euxinus, then for every moment of his wretched life in the war zone along the Istros in these last months.’ The man sighed. ‘No, I came to recapture the beast after it escaped my camp,’ he shot a saturnine look at the rider by his side. ‘I did not come to kill it, I wished only to see it returned to its homeland. However, perhaps this outcome is a bittersweet providence – for it is at peace now and will suffer no more torturous journeys.’
‘Aye,’ Apion nodded at this, ‘perhaps.’
‘But the spectacle of a lion in these parts is almost rivalled by the sight of imperial Varangoi,’ the man mused, stroking his chin. ‘Who are you and where are you headed?’
Apion hesitated, searching the man’s eyes. Instinct told him that he could trust this one. ‘We are in search of the commander of the armies of the north.’
The man’s face fell expressionless. ‘Romanus Diogenes?’
Apion took a breath to answer and then hesitated. He juggled with the possibility of revealing his mission, remembering his sense of unease, earlier. Then he glanced to the golden heart pendant once more and his doubts faded. He held out a roll of paper, the seal unbroken. ‘Lady Eudokia has sent for him.’
The man took the paper and traced a finger across the seal, then he held it to his nose and inhaled the sweet scent Eudokia had laced it with and broke into a broad grin.
‘Then you have found him.’
Apion’s eyes widened. All around him, the varangoi stooped to one knee, hands across their hearts, heads bowed.
***
Romanus’ camp was vast. Apion had seen such a sight only few times in the east; the riders of the Hikanatoi Tagma, together with the infantry of the Paradunavum Thema, stationed together on the plain with innumerable bands of mercenary Oghuz, Pechenegs, Magyars, Normans and Rus. The sea of tents stretched from the banks of the River Istros to the hills in the west and the horizon in the east, all wrapped in a ditch and palisade wall. Banners fluttered in the breeze under a murky sky that threatened snow. The soldiers wandered between the campfires and tents, pulling their cloaks tighter, muttering in muted tones and chewing on their rations.
‘This land reeks of conflict,’ Dederic spoke.
Apion turned to him. The Norman was standing by a fire with Igor and the other varangoi, just inside the main gate of the camp. The Rus bantered amongst themselves, toasting bread in the flames and supping on their soured wine, some grooming their mounts.
‘Aye,’ Apion replied, ‘So very different from the borderlands I know, yet so very similar.’ He looked into the sea of tents. They had ridden north at haste for three more days to finalise Romanus’ departure from his armies. Now they waited on the emperor-to-be to return from the depths of the camp and begin the swift journey back to Constantinople. He looked to the south, through the camp gates. ‘And that’s what worries me – we must stay sharp on our return journey.’
‘Why so grim?’ A voice called out. ‘Bitter at the prospect of leaving such luxury behind after only a short visit?’
Apion turned to face front again; Romanus trotted from the heart of the camp on his white stallion. He led twelve kataphractoi with him, and another twelve scout riders carried supplies on their backs. The soldiers at every point in the camp had risen to their feet, saluting and cheering their leader.
Apion smiled at this. ‘Aye, back to bleakness of marble halls, platters of goose meat and jugs of rich wine.’
Romanus returned his wry grin. His riders formed up with Apion’s and they readied to leave the camp. Then, at the last, Romanus lifted his sword from his scabbard, pumping it in the air. The men of the camp erupted in a unified roar this time.
‘Basi
leus!’
***
They headed south across the plains at a steady gallop. On the third day they rose early and set off without eating, stopping only at midday to cook a meal of cheese on toasted bread then nuts and honey washed down with soured wine. Then they rode once more. Just as the light began to fade, they reached the conifer forest, thick with the scent of pine. They slowed here, picking through the soft bracken trail. Romanus had pinpointed a small dell with a stream nearby about three miles into the woods where they could make camp for the night, and this would leave them only two days distant from Constantinople.
A pair of varangoi rode ahead as a vanguard, then Apion and Romanus followed behind, the rest of the riders forming a double breasted column in their wake.
Their chat had been awkward at first, with Apion unable to shake off the memory of the lustful encounter he and Eudokia had shared, and the guilt that came with it whenever he looked her betrothed in the eye. But Romanus seemed as tentative as Eudokia had been with regard to the romantic side of their coming marriage. A beauty with a heart of pure ice, he had scoffed bitterly. Did she tell you she had me exiled and even threatened to have me executed?
This had set him at ease somewhat. Still, he was glad when the conversation moved on to Romanus’ thoughts on how the empire’s ills should be addressed.
‘The empire has been contracting for too long. Loss has become acceptable,’ Romanus continued, his breath clouding in the chill. ‘From the loss of Syria and the lucrative trade routes that disappeared with it, to the loss of Tunisia and the precious cereal crop and olive groves.’ He shook his head. ‘There are many ills to be tackled, Strategos. From the tax system to the armies. From the heart of the empire, stretching out to the borderlands that you and I know only too well.’
Apion nodded. ‘In the past, the empire would fund the armies of the outlying themata, allowing them to defend their homes. Now it takes from us, preferring to entrust the empire’s welfare to mercenary tagmata loyal only to imperial gold. We are in a sorry state, sir.’
Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart Page 16
