Two days later, they had approached the second well in weariness, the men bearing dark lines under their eyes. Again there were no supplies and no guards. They were apprehensive as they moved to the well, then spirits soared as the bucket splashed into the darkness at the bottom. The cheering and expectation plummeted though, when the bucket became wedged. Apion had tossed a flaming torch into its depths, and then recoiled at the rotting body of the skutatos that lay down there – his neck and back snapped at absurd angles and the water slick with his putrefying flesh. Again, they had little option but to move on.
Now, another three days on from that second well, they trekked in silence, all water long gone. As if to mock them, the noon sky was pure azure and the heat in the valley was relentless, the air stale and dry. The bulk of the kataphractoi had taken to riding only in their tunics, boots and swordbelts, their weighty armour stowed in the touldon. Many of the skutatoi had done likewise, now marching only with their packs, spears and shields. Even the usually hardy mules of the supply train brayed in exhaustion.
Apion too rode in his light linen tunic and boots, with a felt cap on his head to shield his scalp from the worst of the sun. His hair hung loose around his face and neck. His mind was foggy, having slept fitfully the past few evenings, waking unrefreshed. His throat was as dry as his tunic was damp with sweat – he had drained the last of his water the previous day.
Damn, but this land is dryer than the wit of a Cretan.
He felt guilt at his own discomfort, wondering how the infantry behind him, largely from the more temperate north-western themata and unaccustomed to this parched land, would be faring right now. Then he looked ahead to the vanguard of three hundred kataphractoi, riding a half-mile in front of the main column. Their role required them to remain in full armour, and they were but a shimmering dot of iron on the horizon. Poor bastards, he sympathised, no doubt cooked through by now.
Gregoras, the Strategos of Thrakesion, rode nearby in silence, his ruddy skin dripping with sweat. Apion noticed how his eyes seemed to be alive though, combing the valleysides, taking everything in. He felt both reassured and unnerved by this.
In contrast, Dederic rode with his head down, his eyes on the dust before him. The Norman was shorn of his weighty mail hauberk. His neck was burnt red.
‘I’d cut off my cock for a skinful of water,’ Igor croaked beside him. The Rus’ face was the shade of cooked salmon, giving him a demonic appearance.
‘It is enough to drive a man to madness,’ Romanus observed, frowning slightly at Igor’s choice of words. ‘The echo of boots and hooves grows spellbinding, and all my thoughts are fixed only on when we will next enjoy a modicum of shade.’
‘Aye,’ Apion straightened up on his saddle, ‘yet thirst and heatstroke are but a few of the dangers out here.’ He took to scouring the valley sides as he said this. In their discomfort the vigilance had ebbed, he realised. ‘We must keep the men focused, Basileus.’
At that moment, a clopping of galloping hooves rang out. Doux Philaretos slowed alongside them, having rode from the rearguard. ‘Fresh water would focus the mind like nothing else right now,’ he suggested, then cast his narrowed eyes around the emperor’s retinue. ‘Perhaps we should stop here and find a source?’
Romanus punched a fist into his palm, then swivelled his gaze along the valley sides. ‘But if we stay on our route, the River Pyramos is, what, just over a day’s march from here?’
At this, Gregoras’ eyes shot to the emperor. ‘A day’s march for well-watered men, perhaps. I would agree with the doux, Basileus. Let us stop here and find a closer source.’
‘It seems that the River Saros is but a short distance from here – just over two miles,’ Philaretos continued, squinting at a dog-eared map. ‘Look, there,’ the doux said, tapping his map then pointing at a narrow crevasse a few hundred paces ahead in the southern valleyside. A finger of rock jutted into the sky from one side of the opening, curving round like a half coiled finger, the tip weathered to a fine point. ‘That’s it, the only passable terrain to the banks of the Saros, by the looks of it. It’s called . . . the Scorpion Pass.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ Igor muttered.
Apion looked to the jagged opening, struggling to hear anything other than the trickling of water in his mind. He rubbed at his eyes and examined the fissure again. It was narrow, and even from here he could see that the ground was uneven and littered with rockfall. The men would have to march two abreast at best, and the horses in single file. ‘That valley is narrow and treacherous underfoot – we could only send a few men through it to bring water to the column and it would take many trips to slake the thirst of our ranks. It would mean halting here for some time. I feel we should press on to the east, Basileus.’
Romanus mulled over a response. ‘Yes, we should not be distracted from our course . . . ’
Before he had finished his sentence a groan came from behind them, followed by a thudding. They twisted in their saddles to see that a pair of skutatoi at the head of the Thrakesion Thema had crumpled, one to his knees, the other flat-out, face down. The one on his knees panted, his eyes like slits, his limbs trembling, his face pale. Ghostly white, Apion thought, seeing a lock of pure white hair hanging from the felt cap the man wore. It was the albino recruit he had noticed before.
‘Clearly, we must stop here,’ Gregoras raised his eyebrows at this as if to underline the point. The other banda of the thema looked on, their faces a sea of weariness.
‘Basileus, morale is low,’ Doux Philaretos agreed. ‘At the rear of the column, we have had to ride down deserters – it started this morning.’
Romanus swithered. Then he looked to Apion. ‘I can’t let morale fall away, Strategos. Worse, I can’t afford to have them perish. They need water.’ His gaze darted from his weary men to the silent, shimmering valley sides.
Philaretos and Gregoras shared a shrewd glance then looked to the emperor with narrowed eyes.
At last, the emperor nodded, heeling his mount round to face the head of the column. ‘Down your burdens and rest,’ he boomed. ‘We will remain here until the midday heat relents.’ He motioned to the blanket of shade that had formed on the northern side of the valley as the afternoon begun. ‘Keep your weapons close and maintain a stringent watch. But know that your water rations will be replenished before long.’
As the news filtered back along the column, a chorus of relieved sighs broke out and then escalated into a raucous cheering. Like a silver asp, the body of men moved from the centre of the valley into the shade at the northern edge. Then a clatter of helmets and shields hitting the dust filled the air. The vanguard trotted back to join their comrades.
‘Kursores!’ Romanus barked.
A pack of thirty scout riders trotted over on their lithe mounts. Their leader was Himerius, an aged man. His crisp bald pate was an angry shade of red from the sun. His face was fixed in a sour and puckered grimace, as if he had been sucking on a ripe lemon. ‘Basileus!’ the rider barked.
‘Load your saddles with water skins, as much as you can carry when full. Make your way to the Saros then ferry the skins back to the column. It will take many trips, but know this;’ Romanus’ cobalt eyes sparkled, ‘today, you can be our saviour.’
***
Zenobius stepped away from the collapsed skutatos and moved into the shade. Here, he offered a furtive nod to his accomplice, mounted by the emperor’s side. Then he abandoned his pretence of feebleness and watched as the skribones tried in vain to revive the fallen man he had been marching alongside. Perhaps if the man merely had heatstroke then they would be able to bring him round, Zenobius thought. Then he reached into his purse and thumbed at the small pewter vial in there, half of its contents gone. No, there would be no reviving of this one, he grinned. Then his eyes drifted to the Scorpion Pass.
Perhaps I have offered him a small mercy, given what is to come . . .
***
Atop a sun-baked plateau in the north of Lykandos, Sha chewed o
n a strip of goat meat as he eyed his weary men. There were nearly four thousand of them. They were gathered round small cooking fires, munching on their rations of hardtack, slurping at their stew of honey, almonds and yoghurt, stopping only to slake their thirst with their plentiful water supply. They needed every last drop, for up here they were exposed to the mid-afternoon sun that baked them as they ate. Their necks were angry red and their faces slick with sweat. He considered giving the order to move out, then hesitated. Give them a little longer, he affirmed, after all, it has been a long and tiring march.
It had been three weeks since the eighteen hundred men of the Chaldian Thema – four banda of skutatoi, one of toxotai and nearly two hundred kataphractoi – had set off from the verdant coastal area near Trebizond. They had headed south-west, mustering the men of the eastern themata as the letter from Apion had instructed.
Their first stop had been the city of Nicopolis to levy a tourma from the narrow-shouldered Strategos of Colonea. Sha smiled as he recalled the man’s initial belligerence and refusal. The man’s stance had quickly melted when Sha mentioned that the order came from the emperor and that the Haga would be coming to enforce the order. On paper, they should have complemented his column with another two thousand four hundred men; six banda of skutatoi and two of toxotai. In reality, there were less than four hundred men, and he could barely tell the spearmen and the archers apart – each wearing only a tunic, a few with boots, and a handful with shields and weapons. He had hidden his dismay though. At least these thematic troops had mixed well with their Chaldian brothers – some of them exchanging food and others playing dice, their banter rising and falling.
Next they had marched south-west from Colonea to cross into the rocky highlands of the Sebastae Thema. Some years ago, the thema soldiers there had retired to their farms permanently, stowing their swords and putting their lives in the hands of Doux Ausinalios and his mercenary tagma that had been sent to replace them. Now Ausinalios was to join Sha’s column. The doux brought with him two hundred Norman riders, five hundred Pecheneg horse archers, five hundred Oghuz steppe cavalry and over a thousand Rus axemen. Ausinalios’ army was welcome in terms of the numbers, but there had been an uncomfortable rift between them and the native Byzantine troops. Fights and goading had been commonplace on the march and in camp. One man had even been blinded in a dagger fight.
The sooner we meet with Apion and the emperor, he thought, glancing south, the sooner I will be relieved of this lot. Decision made, he filled his lungs. ‘Rest is over. Douse the fires and ready yourselves to move out!’
‘Aye, we’re not far from the rendezvous point now,’ Procopius sighed.
‘By tomorrow we’ll be there,’ Sha replied.
Then a tinkling of water and an angry hiss split the air. Sha and Procopius spun to see Blastares, staring skywards, a look of bliss on his face. A plume of grey smoke billowed around his ankles as he emptied his bladder onto a campfire and the skutatoi nearby yelped as they scrambled clear of the spray.
The big tourmarches grunted and shuffled a few times to get every last drop out, then blinked, realising Sha and Procopius were gawping at him in disbelief. His blissful expression morphed swiftly into a scowl. ‘What’re you looking at?’ he growled.
Procopius screwed up his eyes in exaggerated fashion; ‘Not sure – hard to tell from here.’
‘Aye, well at least I can do more than piss through this, you old bastard,’ Blastares fired back, and then cackled, shaking his head in disbelief at his own comeback as he tucked himself away again.
Sha stifled a chuckle then turned to the edge of the plateau, looking out over the wrinkled network of valleys below. He raised a hand, readying to wave the men into a march towards the snaking path that led down there. But as he did so, something caught his eye and his breath. Many miles away, a dust plume approached from the west, rising from the broad valley that spliced Lykandos.
‘Ours?’ Procopius whispered, crouching by his side, an elbow resting on Sha’s shoulder. Then Blastares moved to his other side.
‘Got to be,’ Blastares affirmed.
‘They may well be,’ Sha agreed. ‘But if they are, then who or what is that?’
Blastares and Procopius followed Sha’s stabbed finger. There along the hilly ground south of the dust plume, a faint glinting pierced the heat haze. It was there and then not there at the same time . . . and it was moving, like an arrowhead shooting for the flank of an unsuspecting warrior.
***
Hooves echoed through the narrow, shaded pass. Himerius, the komes of the scout riders muttered under his breath. He had lost his felt cap that morning and now his bald pate was lobster-pink and crisp. The dust all around him was thick and clung to the throat. He winced as his mare stumbled and whinnied. No part of this pass was even close to level, with slivers of broken bedrock and scree under every step. So far, they had been forced to dismount to round piles of rockfall and to lead their horses through the narrowest parts. Then, when they ducked low in their saddles to ride under yet another jagged overhang, the serrated rock scraped his angry scalp.
‘The only damned grace is that we are in the shade,’ he croaked, shaking a fist at the offending rock as he sat tall once more.
Niketas, the young rider behind him, laughed stoically at this. ‘Just think of ducking into the shallows of the river, sir.’
‘I’m thinking of the state of my mount after six or seven sessions of stumbling through this crack in the ground.’ He patted his grey on the neck. ‘They won’t be replaced or tended to if they are injured – we’re not tagma riders, lad.’ The spite in his tone silenced his fellow rider. He closed his eyes, sighed and then twisted in his saddle to the youngster. ‘I’m sorry, Niketas. A grumpy old bastard like me and heat like this do not mix well.’
But Niketas’ gaunt features were illuminated with a smile. He was pointing ahead.
Himerius spun forward again to see that the pass was opening out above them, the blue sky yawning overhead. The rushing of the rapids met his ears before the tumbling waters came into sight. A smile cracked across his aged features. He closed his eyes, clutched the Chi-Rho on his neck chain and mouthed a prayer to God.
Then he blinked at the clatter of a small rock tumbling down the side of the crevasse. He squinted up into the sunlight. Confusion wrinkled his features at what he saw up above.
A single man, crouching. He wore a jet-black pony tail and grey eyes that seared under a v-shaped brow. One side of his face was an angry smear of scars and drooping flesh. He wore a scale vest and a fine Seljuk conical helm. Then the man stood tall and barked. At once, both sides of the pass writhed as warriors rose. There were hundreds of them, and hundreds more behind. Himerius dropped the Chi-Rho, his entire being suddenly awash with icy cold dread.
‘Get back to the column!’ he roared. ‘Warn the emp . . . ’
His words were ended in a gurgling roar as a spear punched through his throat and a pair of arrows hammered into his chest.
***
Nasir crouched above the craggy pass, biting his lip in vexation. All along the high flat ground beside him, his three thousand men were stilled likewise, breath bated, crouched or lying flat. His eyes never left the thirty scrawny imperial scout riders below. They could not be allowed to foil his plan.
When the sultan had given him the opportunity to redeem himself, sending him west to seek out and counter Romanus’ expected campaign, it had been a fine gift indeed. Then, when a lone rider had come to him just days ago advising him of the Byzantine route, it had been like a gift from Allah. This was his chance to seize glory. This was his chance to slay the Haga. But now, only a mile from the edge of the broad valley where the ambush was to take place, these scout riders could ruin it all. One glance upwards. One careless noise from his warband.
Then the clack-clack of a tumbling pebble rang out. He shot a deathly glare at the akhi whose shuffling had dislodged the stone. Then his breath stilled as the echo of the falling stone die
d.
The lead rider gawped at it and then up at the edges of the pass.
The Byzantine locked eyes with Nasir.
There was no turning back now. Nasir stood to his full height, filled his lungs and ripped his scimitar from its sheath. ‘At them! Kill them all!’
As one, his warband rose to hurls spears and loose arrows upon the Byzantine scout riders. The old rider crumpled mid-cry, convulsing, his body punctured. The cluster of riders behind him descended into chaos. The quickest to react kicked their mounts into a turn, only to crash into those behind them. Backs exposed, these riders were swiftly pierced with missiles and slid from their mounts, corpses tangling under hooves.
Nasir slid down the scree-strewn pass side then leapt forward to hack at the panicked mass of riders. A clutch of akhi joined him, jabbing their spears forward at man and mount alike. He wrenched one fleeing rider from the saddle and smashed his mace into the back of the man’s skull, crushing his head. Then he tossed the corpse aside and looked for his next foe.
Only a few Byzantines fought on. One, a gaunt-faced young rider who had fallen from his horse, hobbled towards a riderless stallion further back in the pass.
‘That one!’ Nasir stabbed his mace towards the fleeing young rider, sinew, skin and bone dangling from the tip. ‘Stop him!’
Nasir leapt over the pile of the dead and hurled his mace as the young rider reached out to mount the stallion. The weighty metal bludgeon spun towards the man’s head and Nasir grinned in bloodlust. But the young rider stumbled and the mace only scraped across his crown, tearing the felt cap and a section of scalp clear. Heedless of this gruesome injury, the rider mounted and heeled the stallion into a frantic gallop.
Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart Page 23
