Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

by Gordon Doherty

  The wine coursed through his blood and his heart thundered. He lifted his cup once more and drained it in one gulp, then stalked through the crowd after the pair.

  The babble fell away as he broke from the crowd and into the backstreets. The chill air stung at his nostrils as he stalked down the darkness of the alley, his brow dipped in determination. It was only when he stumbled and flailed to right himself that he realised how drunk he was. At that moment, Emelin’s voice echoed through his mind and he saw her, hands on hips, berating him after he had dropped and smashed a clay pot in the hearth room of their home.

  Sometimes, you are as clumsy as a one-eyed ox!

  A ghost of a smile passed across his lips for a moment as he remembered how he had calmed her by wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling into her neck.

  He thought of turning back at that moment, then he saw Psellos’ and Doukas’ silhouettes slipping down another alley, and imagined what misery the fat lord was subjecting Emelin to right now. After them! He gritted his teeth and hurried round the corner.

  Then he skidded to a halt as he saw that Psellos and Doukas had stopped up ahead and now others had joined them. He ducked down behind a pile of half-rotten timber crates, then stretched his neck to peer out at this clandestine encounter. Psellos was talking to a clutch of hooded figures, flanked by a pair of ironclad numeroi. Dederic’s vision was blurring and he shook his head. He could make out a pale face and lank, white hair under one hood.

  What intrigue is this? Dederic mused, his eyes narrowing.

  Psellos’ features were shrivelled and grey like a corpse as he spoke in muted tones, then held out a bulging purse. The pale, hooded figure took the purse and folded the edges down. At once, the faces of Psellos, John Doukas, the hooded figures and the numeroi were illuminated with the lustre of gold. Thick and pure nomismata. Hundreds of them.

  Dederic stared at the sight, more coin than he had ever seen in his life. For a few heartbeats he forgot where he was, the lustre of the gold hypnotic.

  Then, the scuffing of a boot on the flagstones snapped him back to reality. Three more numeroi had entered the alley at the far end.

  ‘Keep watch at either end of the alley,’ John Doukas barked at them. Then two of the three spearmen jogged towards the timber crates.

  Panic shot through Dederic’s blood. He stumbled back through the shadows, his mind awash with wine and confusion.

  15. To Conquer the Sun

  Apion finished his morning run and then ascended the stairs of the Hippodrome. He nodded to the pair of varangoi seated in the otherwise deserted arena as he passed them. ‘I won’t be long,’ he panted.

  He carried on up the stairs until he reached the southern lip. Up here, a gentle salt-tanged breeze from the Propontus offered some respite from the fiery July heat, cooling his sweat-slicked skin. He inhaled deeply and looked far to the west, where the hazy and distant Mount Olympus pierced the azure skyline, still capped with snow at its summit. Then he drew his gaze in along the southern edge of the bustling city.

  The waters of the Propontus were coral blue and peaceful. Storks and herons picked through the shallows while dolphin schools tumbled and played further out amidst the fishing vessels dotted on the placid surface. Inside the sun-baked sea walls, the marbled finery of the southern wards were cloaked in a verdant blanket of vines, rooftop gardens and orchards. Bullfinches, skylarks and parakeets chirruped in competition with the cicada song, and the populace babbled throughout the streets. Crowds clustered around the fish market by the Harbour of Theodosius, where oysters and tuna seemed to be in high demand.

  But the busiest part of all was around the fortified Harbour of Julian. Here, the infantry of the finely armoured Optimates Tagma and the riders of the Scholae Tagma filtered towards the harbour. Following them was the touldon, the precious supply train of mules and wagons that would pull rations, tents, artillery, spare weapons and armour along with an assortment of tools such as mallets, axes, sickles and shovels. This gathering of an army had been inevitable since the ceremonial gilded shield had been hung from the gates of the Imperial Palace.

  For today, the first great campaign for many years was to set off to the east.

  He turned to look across the Bosphorus strait. Beyond the woods on the far shore, the mountains of Anatolia lined the eastern horizon. A shiver danced up his spine. Beyond those mountains lay Chaldia and the borderlands. But they were headed beyond the borderlands – right into the Seljuk dominion. He cast his mind back to Romanus’ brash address in this very arena in the early summer.

  The armies of God’s empire will march to the east. Rejuvenated, with pride in our hearts, we will recoup the vital lands that have been long lost to us. We will walk over fire to see the Seljuk threat quelled. To the east and into the flames! To Syria!

  His heart beat just a fraction faster at the memory. The words became intermingled with those of the crone.

  In the afternoon, he will march to the east as if to conquer the sun itself.

  At last, it all seemed possible. Psellos and the Doukids had been tempered, apparently. They still clung to the imperial court, but the murders and plotting had ceased since Romanus had taken the throne. Romanus had wanted to have Psellos exiled. But Eudokia had insisted that to do so would incite bitter retribution and that he could still garner enough support to spark a civil war. Let the snake slither in our midst. Is it not better that he is within our sights than plotting unseen?

  Apion frowned, weighing this logic, not for the first time in recent months.

  Then the rippling of heavy linen snapped him from his thoughts. He looked down into the interior of the fortified harbour. There, the newly crafted fleet was readying to sail. Each of the thirty dromons had fresh white sails adorned with purple Chi-Rho emblems. Their timbers were supple and fresh, their hulls high in the water and their sides studded with fire siphons. It was in stark contrast to the crippled, rotting hulks they had witnessed upon their arrival in the city.

  This was just one of Romanus’ immediate reforms. The rotting fleet had been scuttled. The senate had protested vigorously about this, but to Apion it had seemed like the merciful thrust of a blade into a wounded stallion’s chest. What use is a fleet that cannot sail even from its own harbour? Romanus had insisted. The empire needs a fresh and compact fleet to allow us to cross the Bosphorus without need of private ferrymen. The church had backed his stance. Then they had recoiled in horror as the emperor had set the Varangoi loose to strip the gilded artifices of the city’s churches to pay for the initiative. But Romanus was undeterred. Apion had led the Rus in their endeavours, the pleas of the clergy like distant echoes as he set about chiselling obscene quantities of precious metal from the holy buildings all across the city. Only the Hagia Sofia was spared this harvesting.

  Then he heard the tink-tink of hammer upon metal from the armamenta workshop. The long-neglected furnaces had been fired into life once more, devouring the vast quantities of iron ore purchased with the church gold. Over these last months, great stockpiles of spathion swords, kite shields, kontarion lances, iron and leather klibania, well-crafted leather boots and iron helms were formed. Now each and every man in the ranks of the Scholae and Optimates tagmata had been furnished with full armour and weapons. Indeed, as they gathered inside the harbour, they formed up in neat squares and wedges of shimmering iron.

  The Optimates Tagma were two thousand strong, comprising fifteen hundred skutatoi in full iron garb, carrying spears, spathions and shields, and five hundred toxotai in wide brimmed felt hats with bows and full quivers.

  The Scholae Tagma was fifteen hundred strong and all cavalry, man and mount encased in iron. They would form the hammer to the anvil of the infantry. They were led by Doux Philaretos, a scowling man with receding cropped hair who Apion placed as shrewd and easily angered. But Romanus trusted him implicitly, it seemed. The most loyal of my men, he had spoken of the doux with a sparkle in his eye. Apion was less enamoured with the man, and could n
ot decide whether his judgement was coloured by his experiences with the late Doux Fulco and his like. Regardless, the Scholae riders under Philaretos’ command seemed like good men.

  These two tagmata were to form the core of the campaign army. But the spears of the Optimates Tagma alone were too few. More infantry were needed. Far more. As such, Romanus planned to muster the themata. They were to cross the Bosphorus and disembark in Anatolia, then march to the centre of the Bucellarion Thema where the armies would muster. Apion had worked hard to convince Romanus that the themata needed a vast investment if they were to be ready – significantly more than the funds used to bring the tagmata up to scratch. So, Romanus had despatched wagons of gold to each of the themata they were to call upon for this campaign. That moment had been like water to a parched throat for Apion, as he thought of the many thousands of lives that would be saved under the protection of finely garbed soldiers.

  You would have been proud, Apion whispered, seeing Cydones’ features in his mind. A refreshing breeze lifted his grey-flecked amber locks as he saw the old man standing alongside Mother, Father, Mansur . . . Maria. The memories ached like an open wound.

  Then footsteps scraped behind him, echoing around the arena and jolting him from his thoughts.

  ‘Sir!’ A voice spoke, echoing like the announcer at the races.

  Apion turned to scan the arena. The two varangoi had not spoken. Finally, his gaze snagged on Dederic, standing near the centre of the track, dwarfed by the central array of columns and obelisks.

  ‘Sir?’ Dederic repeated.

  Apion flitted down the steps and padded out across the racecourse, the varangoi following a handful of paces behind. As he approached the Norman, he noticed once again how much the little man had changed. His skin was burnished from the summer sun. He had even taken to wearing kohl under his eyes like some of the varangoi, and had let the severely shaved back and sides of his hair grow into long, dark curls.

  ‘It is time?’ Apion asked.

  ‘Aye, our dromon will set sail before noon.’

  The pair shared a taciturn gaze for a few moments.

  ‘Then let us not keep fate waiting,’ Apion said at last, clasping a hand to Dederic’s shoulder and smiling. ‘We will meet my army on the voyage ahead, and I know you will lead your tourma well. This campaign will be arduous, but it can be won.’

  ‘Whatever it takes, sir,’ Dederic replied with an earnest gaze.

  They walked into the western tunnel. There, Dederic stopped. ‘Sir?’ he said, his voice echoing in the cool space. ‘I’ve fought in central Anatolia, but that’s as far as I’ve been. What awaits us beyond the borderlands?’

  Apion looked through the Norman as his mind replayed the years of bitter bloodshed.

  ‘You believe in God and heaven don’t you, Dederic?’

  The Norman frowned, then nodded. ‘Of course I do, sir.’

  ‘Then you will soon know hell also . . . ’

  ***

  A hot, dry August breeze swept across the mustering point near the banks of the River Halys in the heart of Anatolia. Outside the vast marching camp, weed and dust whipped up and over the gathered men of the Thrakesion Thema, who shuffled in discomfort under the afternoon sun.

  Emperor Romanus Diogenes stood in full armour; a white and silver moulded bronze breastplate over a white linen tunic and trousers, iron greaves and fine doeskin boots. He carried his silver, purple-plumed helm underarm. Once more he swept his steely glare across the few hundred who stood before him – their appearance in stark contrast to his. They were gaunt, with soot-blackened faces, motley teeth and tousled hair. They wore ripped and darned tunics, faded and stained. Only a handful of them wore quilted and felt armour jackets, and even less had iron helms – the majority wearing only felt caps. Precious few carried the shield, spathion and spear of a skutatos or the composite bow of a toxotes. Most were armed only with farming tools and rudimentary weapons; hoes, scythes, clubs and woodcutting axes. But the banners were most telling of all. Each of these was supposed to represent an infantry bandon of between two hundred and three hundred men. He had bargained on each thema bringing anything up to thirty of these banners, yet here before him were only six, frayed, faded and smoke-stained. Barely fifty men clustered under each.

  Anger bubbled in Romanus’ veins. Where were the thousands that he had been told to expect? What had become of the gold he had released to these themata from the imperial treasury to equip them? He cast a dry look to Igor and Apion, by his side, then turned his gaze on the man who had presented this ragged bunch to him.

  Gregoras, the Strategos of Thrakesion, was a ruddy-faced individual with shifty eyes. He was mounted with his retinue of ninety kataphractoi. Few of his riders wore armour while he wore a fine, moulded breastplate. In the previous year, Gregoras had held firm and stayed loyal to Romanus’ rise to the throne while others sided with Psellos. But in the months leading up to this campaign, Romanus had received little communication from the man, and what word he did receive was brief and terse.

  Under Romanus’ glare, Gregoras’ gaze faltered, his eyes darting to the left. Romanus noticed how his chin bulged over the collar of his klibanion. A man who had enjoyed plenty in recent times, unlike his men.

  ‘I assume that others will be coming?’ Romanus asked through taut lips.

  Gregoras’ tongue darted out to dampen his lips before he spoke. ‘These have been hard times, Basileus. The availability of fighting men has dwindled. Many have paid their exemption tax for this year in order to tend to their farms.’

  And I have a damned good idea as to where a wedge of that tax has ended up, Romanus seethed, eyeing the pure-gold chain Gregoras wore around his neck. ‘What became of the gold that was issued earlier this year? It was supposed to see each man armed and armoured as they should be.’

  Gregoras’ gaze once again faltered. ‘There were . . . complications. The armamenta struggled to acquire the resources needed to produce the goods on time.’

  ‘So they produced nothing? In six months?’ Romanus hissed, striding over to reach up and grapple Gregoras’ klibanion. ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Basileus!’ Igor spoke in a low but demanding tone.

  Romanus glowered at the plump strategos. Then, with a sigh, he released his grip and gestured over his shoulder. ‘Take your rabble into the camp and have them set up their tents. I had space reserved for many thousands,’ he said, barely containing a sneer, ‘so you will have ample room to sleep in comfort.’

  ‘As you command, Basileus,’ Gregoras gushed, backing away before barking orders to his weary infantry.

  Romanus turned to the marching camp as Gregoras, his riders and his ragged collection of men flooded past them and inside. The camp was vast, ringed by an outer ditch and then palisade stakes punctuated by timber watchtowers. The tips of pavilion tents and vivid banners were visible above these defence works. But so were the yawning stretches where there should have been more. The strategoi of two other themata they had summoned – the Bucellarion and Anatolikon – had turned up with a similar following and suspicious tale of woe to that of the Strategos of Thrakesion. Only the Strategos of Opsikon – a young man who had succeeded the murdered Nilos – had mustered a decent number of spearmen and archers to complement his two hundred kataphractoi. The campaign army now numbered barely seven thousand men, when Romanus had planned to have at least twice that number, and over half of them resembled little more than a peasant militia.

  ‘We only have your men and the border tagmata to add to this rabble,’ Romanus muttered to Apion absently.

  ‘I cannot speak for the border tagmata, Basileus,’ Apion said, a shadow crossing his thoughts as he recalled the odious Doux Fulco and his ilk, ‘but the men of Chaldia will not disappoint you.’ The shadow lifted as he thought of Sha, Blastares and Procopius and the well-drilled if depleted tourmae they led.

  ‘I don’t doubt you, Strategos,’ Romanus sighed. ‘But even if the army of Chaldia offered a full complement, we
still could not set out for Syria in this condition. Despite our efforts in these last months, there is still much work to be done.’ The emperor scoured the camp again and again, as if in search of an answer. ‘It seems that intrigue clings to this campaign like a plague carried from Constantinople – that three of the four themata have been unable to utilise the grants we provided is interesting indeed.’ He sighed through taut lips. ‘At this, the most desperate days for the empire, must I fight a war in my own camp?’

  Both men looked at one another. One name remained tacit between them.

  Psellos.

  ‘Basileus,’ Apion spoke firmly, his emerald eyes fixed on Romanus. ‘Indeed, there is much to be done. But we must start somewhere,’ Apion said.

  ‘Aye. Suggestions?’ Romanus asked wearily.

  Apion raised a finger to point at the trudging smatter of infantry as they filed inside the camp. ‘Those filthy banners, they epitomise the poverty of the ranks. The men feel as worthless as those rags look. Have the craftsmen set up their looms – fresh banners can be woven within the week.’

  Romanus cracked a grin. ‘Aye, that seems a fine place to start. Then tomorrow, we ride to visit these armamenta who, in over half a year, could not stitch together a single felt vest.’

  Then Igor joined in, a manic grin sweeping across his face as he drummed his fingers on his axe shaft. ‘Yes, tomorrow we will crack some heads!’

  The group split up and Apion wandered through the camp picking through the sea of fluttering banners and brightly coloured tents to reach the one he shared with Dederic and some of the varangoi. Inside was empty and stifling hot, so he pegged the tent flap back to allow fresh air to circulate. The ten sets of quilted bedding were laid out around the centre pole and the spears and armour of each man were balanced at the head. He ate a light meal of cheese and hard tack biscuit, washing it down with a swig of rather tepid water. Then he took the opportunity to rest, slipping off his cloak and boots then reclining on his blanket. As he closed his eyes, a merciful breeze danced over his tired limbs, lulling him to sleep.