Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

by Gordon Doherty

  Apion noticed a contented smile touch the corners of Romanus’ lips as he watched. Then the emperor turned to those with him, recounting the next steps for the campaign once more. ‘A trade flotilla is due to come downriver within the week. They will bring the last shipment of arms and armour from Ancyra and they will ferry us upriver.’

  ‘Another week of training should surely see the vermin of the themata hardy enough for the march,’ Doux Philaretos said with a sneer as they peeled away from the riverbank.

  Apion bit his tongue at this.

  Then they came to the men of the Thrakesion Thema. They had been bolstered with the extra few hundred that had been mustered in the last weeks.

  Apion eyed the man who barked them into formation. It was Gregoras, the ruddy-faced strategos. The new recruits of his thema were easy to spot, their shoulders bowed under the weight of all they carried. Apion thought of Philaretos’ jibe and sighed. Then he strode from the emperor’s group and past Gregoras. All the men in the Thrakesion ranks broke into a muted murmur at the disturbance.

  ‘What do you think you’re . . . ’ Gregoras barked at Apion.

  Apion turned to him. ‘Permit me this one thing, sir.’

  Gregoras’ eyes narrowed and his lips grew pursed. ‘Be swift, strategos.’

  Apion carried on before stopping in front of the recruit at the end of the line. He was gaunt and unshaven, with nervous eyes and foul teeth.

  ‘At ease,’ Apion said.

  He lifted the pack from the recruit’s shoulders. ‘A column is only as strong as its weakest point,’ he barked to the line, lifting from the hemp bag three pots, a hand-held grain mill, a small sack of barley, another sack of wheat. Then he shook his head and crouched, lifting the sack by its corners and tipping out a pile of tools and blankets.

  ‘A marching soldier must carry only what he needs. The temptation is always there to be prepared with everything you might need, but think only of the essentials.’ He kicked the sack of barley to one side, then all but one blanket, then the majority of the tools. ‘You carry your weapons and your armour, a cloak or a blanket – not both, two skins of water, one sack of grain, one pot, a cup, and a mill,’ he said, scooping each of these things back into the pack. ‘I have spent months in the arid east with only these things.’

  He noticed one squat recruit nearby stifling a smug grin, firing glances at the man whose possessions were on display. ‘Don’t look at this man,’ Apion patted the gaunt recruit on the shoulder, handing him back his pack, then scowled at the short recruit’s pack before sweeping his gaze across the rest of the line, ‘for he isn’t the worst offender.’ At this, the squat man’s face froze in alarm, fearful that he would be made an example of next. ‘Sell what you do not need to the touldon or at the next market we cross. When you are clashing swords with a seven foot Seljuk, you will not be glad of an extra cooking pot. Though he may find use for it after he has cut off your balls and fancies a meal.’

  A flurry of nervous laughter was followed by the thudding of knees hitting the dust and the clatter of packs being unloaded.

  As he left the line, he nodded to the seething Gregoras then made to catch up with the emperor and his party. He noticed that one deathly pale recruit was kneeling but not unloading his pack nor chatting with his comrades. He seemed to be more interested in Romanus and his party, still walking some distance away.

  ‘Zenobius!’ a komes cried at the soldier. ‘Get on with it - empty your pack!’

  ***

  The Halys babbled incessantly in the darkness and the sky was studded with stars and a waning moon. At the heart of the camp, crackling torches illuminated the night and cast an ethereal glow up onto the gilded campaign Cross erected by the emperor’s tent.

  Gregoras, the Strategos of Thrakesion, was seated at the campfire, eating a strip of greasy goat meat, staring silently into the flames. Paces away, Apion, Romanus, Philaretos and Dederic sat around a small table just outside the tent. On the table was a shatranj board, a plate of fruit and a jug of wine.

  Philaretos’ eyelids drooped, then he jolted awake. Hearing Igor and the pair of nearby varangoi sentries chuckling at him, he rubbed at his eyes and scowled them into silence. Then he drummed his fingers on his knee and tapped his foot. Then he shuffled and scoffed, drained his wine cup and stood, casting an accusing finger at the shatranj board. ‘Torture, this is. Watching even more so than playing. Give me a sword and a thousand men any day.’ With a further sigh, he stood and stalked over to sit next to Gregoras at the nearby campfire, where he took to honing his spathion on a whetstone.

  Apion and Romanus looked at one another, chuckling.

  At the same time, Dederic stood. ‘The doux has a point; there is a certain level of patience required for this,’ he said, nodding to the board. ‘A level of patience that turns the mind to otherwise loathsome tasks.’ He strolled over to his fawn stallion, tethered only paces away, then took to brushing at the beast’s mane and coat.

  Romanus chewed on a piece of dried fish then supped at his watered wine. ‘Just us then, Strategos?’

  ‘Aye,’ Apion nodded, lifting a pawn forward from his front rank.

  The emperor lifted a pawn of his own, moving it out over two squares to allow development of his chariot piece. His face was stern, his mind clearly not on the game. ‘There is one thing the men must learn. Something long forgotten by all but our border armies. Not just how to fight, but how to fight the Seljuk war machine.’

  Apion nodded, shuffling to sit forward. ‘The Seljuks employ more than one style of warfare, Basileus. When they muster the armies of Persia, they present spearmen, archers and cavalry – a mix not unlike our forces. But the core of the Seljuk armies is and always has been their mounted archers. The steppe cavalry that swept across and seized all of the lands that they now possess are still the beating heart of their forces. They ride their sturdy steppe ponies like centaurs, and they only ride mares – always mares. They can fire an arrow for every heartbeat, so while one is being nocked, another is in flight and another is punching into its target.’ His gaze grew distant. ‘Like flies that can be beaten off but not driven away. They call themselves ghazis now, but they are the jewel in Alp Arslan’s hordes. He knows this and that is why he is a master of the feigned retreat, employing the ghazis as the lure and the Persian might as the snare. It is vital to disarm to lure first.’ He leaned forward and plucked a war elephant piece and had it shoot across the board, taking the emperor’s vizier.

  Romanus rubbed at his temples, ignoring the loss. ‘Tell me though, Strategos; I am walking into hell in the east, yet I fear more for what is going on in my absence, in Constantinople. Why is that?’

  Apion’s mind flashed with images of Psellos, John Doukas and the Numeroi, then of Eudokia and her boys. A trace of guilt spidered through Apion’s veins as the image of Eudokia stayed a little longer than the others.

  ‘You fear for Lady Eudokia?’

  Romanus burst out with laughter. It was mirthless. ‘I fear more for any who would try to harm her – Eudokia is very capable of defending herself.’ His face fell sombre. ‘I do not wish her to come to any harm, Apion, but there is no love there. Yes, we rut. It is often fraught and frantic. But it is never with the passion of lovers. It serves its purpose, as does our marriage.’ Romanus leant forward, his eyes bloodshot and weary in the torchlight. ‘It is the presence of Psellos writhing like an asp in my palace that troubles me. He has been quiet for some months, yes, but I see him as a wounded wolf. I know he will never accept my reign.’ He shook his head, punching a fist into his palm. ‘That is why this campaign must succeed, Apion, at all costs. Failure will see him prise me from the throne and the Doukids will reign once more.’

  Apion nodded. ‘Then let us fix our minds on the east, Basileus. Let us take victory in Syria. The people of the empire will never accept a coup against a victorious leader.’

  Romanus’ sour look dissolved into a grin. ‘Leave the rousing homilies to me, Strategos.’r />
  Apion found the grin infectious. ‘Gladly,’ he said, sitting back, crunching into an apple.

  Romanus chuckled, then stifled a yawn and tapped the shatranj board. ‘My body is telling me that it is late, and that I should retire. But we will finish this game one evening soon.’ He swigged the last of his wine and readied to stand. ‘But the east is indeed where we must focus. Firstly we must look at the march that will take us there. Lykandos lies in our path. Our touldon is light and so we must march through the heart of that torn land and the supply points I have organised. I hear that the valleys there are notorious?’

  Apion nodded. Lykandos was one area of the borderlands that he particularly loathed visiting. Ostensibly it was a Byzantine Thema, but, pressed against Seljuk-held territory, it was even more permeable a border than Chaldia. ‘The valleys are stifling, even in this month. We must take the widest of those valleys, but even that is long and winding. The sunlight blinds you as you ride, and you hear only the echo of your mount’s hooves. It can feel like you are the only man alive after a while, and that is when it is at its most dangerous.’

  Romanus stood, then clasped a hand to Apion’s shoulder. ‘Then that will be when I need my finest men by my side. Until tomorrow, Strategos.’ With that, he turned and spoke with the varangoi, before entering his tent.

  Then Apion stood and stretched. He stepped over to feed his apple core to Dederic’s stallion. ‘Feed him well, for the march to come will be arduous.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Dederic nodded, busying himself brushing the stallion’s coat.

  ‘And don’t wake me when you come back to the tent,’ he grinned.

  Dederic flashed a smile in reply.

  Then Apion turned to the campfire. Philaretos and Gregoras were in a whispered discussion there. He offered his half-full wine cup to the pair. ‘Any more of this and I’ll be in a foul mood come the morning.’

  They fell silent instantly. Gregoras shot a prickly glare up at him. Philaretos looked up too; the sleepiness in his eyes from moments ago was gone. Apion noticed the whetstone in his other hand had barely been used. Then, in a heartbeat, the Doux’s features melted into a smile and took the cup. ‘Aye, it would be a shame for Paphlagonian red go to waste.’

  Apion nodded to the pair. ‘Savour it . . . and let it wash the tension from your mind,’ he said, trying to disguise a frown.

  Then he wandered over to where Igor and the varangoi stood. ‘Until morning,’ he said.

  Igor offered him a warm grin. ‘Sleep well, Strategos. Tomorrow is the start of a long journey.’

  ‘As is every day, Komes,’ Apion smiled. ‘As is every day.’

  As he walked through the torchlit camp, he glanced back to the campfire and wondered at the mood of some of the men. The tension of the campaign was building, it seemed.

  ***

  Zenobius knelt in his kontoubernion tent, hands on his thighs, his eyes closed. In the darkness, he was truly alone. Just like those days he had hidden under the floor of his father’s house. Four winter days without food or water, insects crawling in his hair, rats biting at his flesh. Meanwhile the villagers searched for him outside, baying for his blood, sure that he had been responsible for the death of a newborn baby. That the baby’s corpse bore the scratches of a wildcat meant nothing to them. They wanted his blood. Father seemed happy to let them have it and even helped the mob in their quest. That was when he had first killed, emerging from beneath the floor late on the fourth night, then clubbing to death the sot who had spawned him. The power had first flowed through him in those moments as the blood spilled.

  His memories were wrenched away when he heard footsteps approaching. He glanced around the circle of nine unoccupied sets of bedding in the tent. Was it one of the nine fools of his kontoubernion he had been forced to endure? Then the tent flap was pulled back gingerly. His glower melted into a cold smile as he recognised the shadowy figure stood there. It was his accomplice, the one in the emperor’s party who had signalled him on their approach to Ancyra.

  ‘Ah, you have something new for me at last? You had better or I will see to it that you never receive the gold my master promised you.’

  ‘I heard everything. The emperor is to march the column through Lykandos,’ the figure said, flatly. ‘Through the central valleys.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Zenobius mused. ‘Then they will come to the Scorpion Pass on their journey.’

  ‘What is to happen there?’ The shadowy figure asked.

  Zenobius stared at him. ‘Do not plead ignorance to the consequences of your actions. You know well what will happen.’ Then the albino leaned forward, just far enough for the moonlight to dance in his ghostly silver eyes. ‘They will come to the Scorpion Pass . . . and they will die there. All of them.’

  16. The Scorpion Pass

  It was a baking-hot morning when the imperial campaign crossed into the golden, steep-sided valleys of the Lykandos Thema.

  Apion rode alongside Igor, Dederic, Romanus and Gregoras. He found plentiful excuse to cast a look over his shoulder and take pride in the spectacle of the column. Over seven thousand men, snaking out for miles behind them like a silvery asp. In the few weeks they had been stationed by the Halys, the army had been transformed.

  At the tail, Doux Philaretos had been entrusted with the rearguard. He along with five hundred kataphractoi – a mixture of riders from the themata and the Scholae Tagma – and a large detachment of toxotai were on the lookout for ambushers and deserters. Fortunately, since the bolstering of the column’s fortunes, there had been few of the latter.

  In front of this rearguard, and forming the bulk of the column, the much-improved infantry banda of the themata marched, sixteen abreast. Those who had previously been filthy and unarmed now possessed a shield, spear and sword. The majority were clad in quilted vests and leather klibania, and the select few who would fight on the front ranks had been afforded iron klibania. The medley of bright, clean banners identifying each of the banda bobbed on a sea of vertical speartips as they strode, bulging around the centre to protect the supply touldon. Equally rejuvenated, the toxotai marching with them each had a bow, a full quiver and a wide-brimmed felt hat to keep the sun from their eyes, affording them a truer aim.

  Leading the thematic infantry were the all-iron-garbed skutatoi of the Optimates Tagma. Then, heading up the column were the rest of the Scholae Tagma; twelve hundred riders on muscular mounts. The priests marched before these riders, carrying the bejewelled campaign Cross. The signophoroi flanked them, carrying their purple Chi-Rho campaign banners with pride. Then, at the head, the emperor rode, surrounded by his white-armoured varangoi.

  Since leaving his Chaldian army behind almost a year ago, Apion had felt short of a limb. This sight, however, was a fine comfort. Having equipped the men well, their self-belief and attitude had lifted also – just as old Cydones had always preached.

  ‘A well-tempered anvil, indeed,’ Romanus spoke in a hushed tone, ‘probably the finest I have led in some years.’

  Apion turned to see that the emperor was grinning at him.

  ‘Not quite; wait until we rendezvous with the men of Chaldia . . . ’ Apion grinned in reply.

  Romanus frowned momentarily, then threw his head back and boomed with laughter.

  ***

  The mood of the march had been buoyant for the next few days. The priests had led prayers and chanting as the column wound its way deeper into the valleys of Lykandos. Apion had dropped back from time to time, offering words of encouragement to the marching men. He had noticed to his amusement that, when the priests were well out of earshot, some of the men struck up more ribald songs. Indeed, the further away the priests were the more bawdy the men became.

  At the end of each day they would set up a vast, palisade-ringed marching camp, with each thema and tagma forming smaller camps within for their own ranks. After evening prayer, the men laughed as they ground their grain, cooked their porridge and sipped their soured wine by the campfires. The nig
hts passed without incident and the soldiers awoke refreshed in the mornings, ready for another days’ march.

  Vitally, each man had set out from the eastern banks of the Halys with two full skins of water, knowing that the heart of Lykandos was notoriously dry. Those skins had served them well for those first few days. Indeed, they should have been enough to see them to the first well and the supply dump the emperor had arranged.

  But then, on the fourth day, things changed.

  They came to the wide valley with the well at its centre, the column had slowed to a standstill and looked on in silence, the ribald tunes and prayer falling away.

  There were no wagons, no sacks of grain, fodder or water skins. Likewise, the group of skutatoi they had expected to find guarding the well was nowhere to be seen. The valley floor was deserted. Romanus had sent a clutch of kursores scout riders on to the end of the valley to check for signs of the men or even for ambush. But the land was deserted in every direction. Then they approached the well, but it yielded only sand. The mood had understandably darkened at this. But out in these parched valleys, they could do little other than carry on to the next well with only the emergency water rations on the touldon wagons to fall back on.