In the name of Allah.
Then something scuffled, just behind him. Before he could spin around, a hand clasped over his mouth and he was yanked to the ground. He saw the face of the tall, razor-nosed akhi glowering down at him, twisted in malice. He kicked and thrashed, but the akhi knelt on his shoulders, pinning his arms to the ground. Then another face appeared over him. Ghostly white, silver-eyed and laced with sweat and dust from his breakneck ride, still panting. Confusion danced through Laskaris’ thoughts.
‘This is him?’ the akhi asked the albino.
‘Yes,’ Zenobius said flatly, stooping to rummage in Laskaris’ purse, pulling free the shard of polished signalling bronze. ‘All is in hand. Now tear out his throat.’
Laskaris’ eyes bulged as he writhed but his roar was stifled by the akhi’s palm. Then the akhi ripped something under his chin. He felt a sharp pain in his throat and a warm wetness spread across his chest.
This wasn’t right, Laskaris thought as his limbs stilled. His moment of greatness was not supposed to end like this.
20. Siege
‘Once, twice . . . three times!’ Sha whispered, squinting at the flash from the tower over the north gate. ‘It’s closing in on noon,’ he shot a glance to the sun. There’s no doubting it, sir. That’s our man signalling us.’
Apion was lying prone in the hot dust alongside his tourmarches, just where the dip in the land levelled out. His heart willed him to give the word, but he hesitated. He looked immediately behind him. The emperor was crouched there, surrounded by Philaretos, Igor and the handful of varangoi who had survived this treacherous campaign so far. Blastares, Procopius and Dederic flanked them along with the doukes and strategoi of the thematic and tagamatic armies. All looked on expectantly, eyes wide. Gregoras looked on like a wily predator.
Behind this cluster of leaders, the slopes of the dip were awash with the Byzantine army. They stood in silence, their faces keen and glistening with sweat, their fingers flexing on shields, swords and reins. A sea of iron, bobbing with a thick flotsam of speartips, fluttering banners and the swishing manes of war horses. To the rear, hidden in the lowest part of the dip, the skeletal frames of siege engines stood silent and ominous.
There could be no more hesitation.
Apion looked to the emperor and nodded.
Romanus’ eyes sparkled at this. He stood tall and strode up from the dip in the land, hefting his spathion aloft. ‘Nobiscum Deus!’ He roared.
At this, the Byzantine army cried out in reply. ‘Nobiscum Deus!’ With that, they poured up the slopes, spilling onto the flatland like a tidal wave.
The skutatoi of the Optimates Tagma formed a solid centre, with their thematic counterparts marching on the wings to present a wide crescent of over three thousand spearmen. The first few ranks of the skutatoi all along this arc presented an iron-fronted spearwall, with those to the rear clutching their javelins and every tenth file carrying a siege ladder. Behind them, the thousand-strong toxotai jogged into place, stretching their muscles, readying their bows, checking their quivers one last time. Then the hardy kataphractoi of the themata formed up on the flanks, one hundred and fifty strong on either side, each wing resembling an iron talon. The five hundred Oghuz horse archers milled in loose formation behind the left flank, and the five hundred Pechenegs took up a similar stance on the right. The ironclad riders of the Scholae Tagma – three hundred and fifty in total – formed a central reserve, just behind the infantry line, with Doux Philaretos barking at them to form up in a wedge so they could punch forward at haste if required.
Behind this vast bull horn formation, two siege towers wobbled forward, the skutatoi at their bases straining as they worked the racks and pinions that drove the great devices. The towers split the infantry line evenly as they passed through and settled to a halt just in front of the centre. Then, a cluster of eight catapults rumbled into place, four either side of the towers, and an iron-tipped battering ram waited in reserve behind the stone throwers. Then, as if to add the finishing touch, sixteen siphonarioi in iron full-face masks and conical helmets stepped forward to the right of the Byzantine centre, carrying their deadly fire siphons. Each man carried a flint hook in his belt, ready to ignite their devices and set the world aflame.
At first sight of this iron tide, the sentries on Hierapolis’ walls took to scurrying back and forth, sounding horns and ushering men to the battlements. Within moments, around ninety Seljuk archers were clustered atop the gatehouse, nocking arrows to their bows, and some three hundred or more akhi spearmen lined the battlements either side of the gate. At the same time, the mounted ballistae on each of the gate towers came to life, being twisted and raised to point at maximum range, readying to fire when the Byzantine lines came into their reach.
But the Byzantine ranks were not deterred by this. The coloured banners of the skutatoi were pumped in the air again and again and the ranks cried out. Then the priests walked back and forth solemnly, the campaign Cross and the image of the Virgin Mary raised overhead.
‘Nobiscum Deus! Nobiscum Deus!’
The chant continued unabated, then it rose to an unprecedented level as Romanus took to cantering along the front ranks, hefting the imperial banner in encouragement, his purple cloak lifting behind him in his slipstream. He carried his purple-plumed helmet underarm, allowing his broad jaw, billowing flaxen hair and unrelenting distant stare to inspire his subjects. The men roared as he passed, beating their swords on their shields. Eventually he settled at the Byzantine centre, and Igor and the varangoi hurried to surround him, their pure-white armour and polished axes gleaming in the sun.
Apion, Sha, Blastares, Procopius and Dederic worked their way through to the front. Apion led his mount on foot, carrying his helm. Sha and Blastares were mounted, fully clad in helmet, greaves, veils and klibania and Dederic rode too in his weighty mail hauberk that hung to his knees. Procopius had foregone his mount, having been tasked with leading the artillery crews today.
Apion led them to the emperor.
Romanus turned to him, his eyes sparkling. ‘We are on the cusp, Strategos,’ he spoke through clenched teeth.
Apion cast his gaze to his left and then his right. Sweeping walls of iron and speartips stretched off in both directions. ‘I have rarely witnessed such a show of might from the empire, Basileus. At once it both gladdens me and strikes fear into my heart. For I feel that many men are fated to die today.’
Romanus squinted into the azure sky. ‘Then let us take a swift and clean victory. Today is a fine day to defy fate,’ he grinned.
Apion felt a flare of hope in his heart at this. Then he vaulted into the saddle, placing his black-plumed helm on his head. ‘Give the word, Basileus, and we shall make the first move.’ He motioned towards Procopius. ‘Procopius will unlock the city for you.’ Then he looked to his tourmarchai. ‘And my men will present a dogged left.’
Romanus nodded. ‘Then let us begin.’
‘Aye, Basileus,’ Apion replied. Then he heeled his gelding round into a trot along the line. Sha, Blastares and Dederic followed him while Procopius strode forward to the artillery crews. They rode past the spears of the Optimates Tagma and on to the Byzantine left-centre. Here, the crimson banners of the Chaldian Thema were clustered and waiting for him in silence. Adjacent to the Chaldian left was the ranks of the Thrakesion Thema. Gregoras stood at their head, his shifty eyes catching Apion’s gaze momentarily.
Apion’s brow dipped at this. This man would have to be watched. Lined up here he would be like a dagger hovering near Apion’s flank. Gregoras took to rallying his troops at this point.
At this, Apion turned back to Sha, Blastares and Dederic. ‘Fight well, and I know we will drink to victory tonight.’
‘Sir!’ They each saluted. Then the three tourmarchai trotted off to the head up their tourmae.
He squeezed the Thessalian’s flanks, bringing it into a gentle trot along the Chaldian front, casting his gaze along each of his men. Then he drew his scimi
tar and held it aloft. ‘The sultan has left a sparse garrison to man the walls we see before us. But walls are not taken easily, as well you know from the countless years of struggle we have faced to hold our own. So stay together, defend your brother’s flank and he will defend yours. Let every swipe of your spathion be the one that will turn the battle. Seize victory today, seize this chance to let our empire breathe once more, for your wives, for your children, for the men who have fallen for the cause!’ Their steely silence erupted at this. Sword hilts thundered on shields, the din spreading along the line like a coming storm;
‘Ha-ga! Ha-ga! Ha-ga!’
Then he turned to the city, sliding on his splinted arm greaves and then his studded leather gloves on top of them. As he did so, he saw the first fleeting glimpses of the dark door. The flames were ferocious, licking out from around its edges. Finally, he buckled the triple mail veil across his face. Only his emerald eyes remained visible to remind those he was about to meet in battle that he was human.
Then it began.
The signophoroi clustered around the emperor, strode forward a few paces. Then they hefted their purple and gold banners, before dropping them, pointing directly to the catapults. A chorus of notes rang out from the buccinators by their sides.
At this, Procopius was spurred into action. The aged tourmarches spat into his palms, then rubbed them dry, his wrinkled features scanning the walls. Silence fell across the plain and all eyes were upon him. At last, he nodded, then spun to bark orders to his crew.
‘Catapults, forwaaaaard!’ he screamed.
The stone throwers rumbled some fifty paces ahead of the front line and then halted. Then the crews rushed to stretch the ropes and load the devices with rocks. But before they could even prepare, the first of the Seljuk ballistae – one of the two on the tallest tower – let loose. With a twang and a whoosh, a five foot, iron-tipped bolt shot forth and smashed into the rightmost catapult, shattering the device and pinning the leader of the crew to the ground where he stood, his head slumping forward and a wash of blood erupting from his mouth. Then another bolt sailed over the next-nearest catapult and skated along the surface of the ground, ploughing into the front ranks of the Opsikon Thema, breaking legs and sending up a wail of terror.
‘Smash those bolt-throwers!’ Procopius yelled as the first of the catapults groaned and then bucked violently in riposte. The first rock sailed over the tower and into the city. The next one to fire hit the face of the tower, which shook but was otherwise unharmed. Then the third volley sent a rock sweetly into the crenelated tower-top. The limestone blocks shattered under the impact. Tendrils of dust and rubble shot into the air, accompanied by two screams and a thick crack of timber. One of the ballistae crew toppled soundlessly from the tower before crunching into the ground outside the walls. Then the dust cleared. The ballista hung limp, its bow was shattered and the other crewman was draped lifelessly over the gouged, bloodstained battlement like a discarded robe.
A cheer rang out from the Byzantine lines at this.
Apion watched in sombre silence. In the next heartbeat, another Seljuk ballista bolt crashed through the offending Byzantine catapult, throwing one crewman into the air and snapping the neck of another.
Then, as the catapults and ballistae exchanged fire at will, Procopius twisted to the emperor. Romanus nodded. Then the old tourmarches bawled, lifting both arms and dropping them to point forward. ‘Towers – forwaaaaard!’
At this, the skutatoi clustered in the base of the two tall and ungainly timber-wheeled towers took the strain, grappling the handles jutting from the pinion and pushing until the cog engaged with the rack. Like wakening giants, the towers rumbled towards the walls, one either side of the gate. The towers were not the tallest Apion had seen, but Procopius had designed them to perfectly match the height of the squat outer city walls of Hierapolis. He had also ensured they would have a decent rate of movement and a broad enough base and weight distribution to provide stability while they moved. The front and sides of the towers were clad in timber and scrap iron, like a cobbled together foulkon. Only the rear was uncovered, revealing the two floors and connecting timber stairs inside. A clutch of toxotai was positioned on the bottom floor. This extra weight stabilised the towers while the archers fired their bows through narrow slats in the frontage at the defenders on the walls.
The Seljuk archers were quick to react to this new threat. At once, an orange glow bobbed above the gatehouse, and then they raised their bows, each nocked with a blazing arrow. With a gentle whoosh, the fiery missiles arced skyward and then fell upon the siege towers, their flames licking up the sides of the timber.
‘Aye, it would be as easy as that,’ Apion muttered under his breath as he watched, ‘had you faced a less astute artillery master.’
The surfaces of the towers glistened in the raging heat of the arrows, but neither tower caught light. A stench of vinegar permeated the smoky air that wafted over the watching Byzantine line. Procopius had insisted on soaking the towers in vinegar that morning. The liquid would neither ignite nor evaporate too quickly in the dry heat, rendering the towers impervious to fire. The archers seemed to lose heart as volley after volley of fire arrows were ineffective. But they quickly re-nocked their bows with unlit arrows, turning their weapons instead on the Byzantine skutatoi pushing the devices. A handful fell, screaming, clutching thighs and clawing at throats, but most were shielded by the hulking towers. Then the akhi captain on the walls barked out a command. At this, the three remaining Seljuk ballista twisted, taking aim at the siege tower nearest the walls, on the Byzantine right.
The first ballista bolt smashed through the frontage of the siege tower. Shattered splinters of timber flew from the frame and the bolt punched one toxotes out of the back of the tower like a piece of slingshot. A fine cloud of his blood settled like mist on the skutatoi below.
Then another ballista bolt whooshed from the walls and destroyed the broad beam that supported the first and second floors of the tower. A crack rang out that caused all in the Byzantine ranks to gasp. The tower halted, then there was an eerie hiatus before the wooden frame groaned, buckled, then pitched forward, its structure compromised. The screams of the toxotai rang out as they scrambled to the back of the tower, but the floor turned vertical under their feet as the tower crashed into the ground like a slain giant. The toxotai were dashed on the ground, some killed by the impact, others prone, limbs snapped. They could only lie where they had fallen and watch as the Seljuk archers took aim to finish them off. The skutatoi who drove the device were likewise exposed and in range of the archers. They dropped into a foulkon formation, pulling their shields around them instinctively as the Seljuk arrows rained in upon them. But, heartbeats later, another ballista bolt smashed into their midst. Blood erupted from the strike, and the men inside the foulkon fell away, injured, bloodied or dead.
A groan of despair sounded across the Byzantine ranks.
But then, the tower on the Byzantine left clunked into place against the battlements. The skutatos leading the crew who pushed this device turned and waved his banner frantically. At this, the cries of despair turned into a defiant chorus of cheering.
‘Now,’ Apion whispered, firing glances to the centre of the line, ‘send the ladders forward now!’ He willed the emperor to think as he did once more.
Blessedly, the buccinators lifted their horns to their lips and the instruments wailed across the plain. Then the signophoroi around the emperor strode forth again. They waved their banners in a chopping, forward motion, and this was echoed up and down the line by the bandophoroi of the ranks, where every komes bawled;
‘Ladders! Forward!’
At last, the caged fury of the Byzantine line was unleashed, and the wide crescent of iron washed forward. The earth shook and the cries of men echoed across the land.
Apion rode in the midst of the Chaldian ranks, urging them onwards. The plain jostled before him. Dust stung in his eyes and the stench of blood, vinegar and fe
ar thickened the air. Arrows smacked down around him. ‘To the walls!’ he roared over the thunder of boots.
He twisted to his right and saw the fate of the brave Optimates Tagma. They were being torn asunder by the ballistae, doomed to lose many of their number just to force home the taking of the walls. Their shields and armour were pierced like paper with every strike. Men were ripped apart at the waist, others were pinned to comrades. Blood and dirt streaked the air like a gory blizzard.
He glanced up to the nearest of the gate towers; the ballista crewman there was taking aim for another strike at the Optimates. Apion lifted the javelin strapped to his back, tensed his shoulder, hefted and hurled it. The missile stayed true, arcing up and directly for the man. But at the last, the man ducked under the javelin. Then he rose again, grinning like a shark as he turned the ballista on Apion and the Chaldian ranks.
Apion’s heart froze. Until another javelin burst through the man’s chest. Apion glanced over his shoulder to see Gregoras punching the air at this, celebrating his feat of marksmanship. Apion frowned, then fell back.
‘You saved my life?’ he cried over the tumult.
‘Aye, what of it?’ Gregoras growled, ‘every man in the ranks is my brother.’
Just then, a Seljuk arrow hissed down and smacked into Gregoras’ thigh, finding a gap between the iron plates of his klibanion. Black blood pumped from the wound in gouts. Gregoras’ smile dissolved, and he solemnly slid from his mount and slumped to sit, cross-legged, panting as his lifeblood soaked the dust.
Apion leapt down from his mount, crouched and grappled the dying strategos’ hand, lifting his shield to protect them from the Seljuk arrow hail. ‘If you have any light in your heart then tell me before you die, who are you working with?’
Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart Page 29
