The roar of the crowd died with a chorus of gasps and pained yelps. Silence prevailed for a heartbeat. Then, in the midst of the long eastern terrace, one sweat-basted bookmaker turned from the disaster and drew his bulging eyes around the crowd, wagging one finger in the air.
‘Next race – wager just a single follis on the swift and nimble Xerus and his Phrygian chargers and I’ll give you twelve in return!’
As if the poor wretches writhing on the track were little more than an inconvenience, the spectators burst into an excited babble once more, clamouring around the bookmaker, waving fistfuls of coin in the air.
Psellos’ nose wrinkled as he looked down on the populace from the kathisma, shaded by a purple silk awning. The imperial box was perched high enough over the terracing to catch the southerly breeze and prevent their foul odour from offending him. Then his chest prickled in agitation at the figure shuffling and sighing in the emperor’s chair next to him.
John Doukas glowered at the gold and silver coins being passed around on the terrace below, scratching his dark beard in irritation. Then he took to shuffling and wriggling his shoulders despite the cushioned, silk-lined comfort of the chair.
‘It is money well spent,’ Psellos whispered in reassurance. ‘The people must remain our pawns.’
But John merely grumbled at this. ‘It is not the spending of my family’s money that concerns me. Paphlagonia will always produce rich and flavoursome wines and furnish us with riches. No, it is the continued occupation of the imperial throne that boils my blood.’ He twisted to look behind him, to the spiral stairway that led up here. Only the pair of numeroi that had escorted them here were present. ‘Yet all day I have been tormented with the possibility that my troubles could be over?’
‘Be patient, Master,’ Psellos urged him, twisting to look over his shoulder. Through the latticed arches to the rear of the imperial box, the tower on the far side of the Bosphorus was just visible in the midday haze. ‘The signal from Chalcedon was only a short while ago. The messenger will be escorted here without delay once his ferry docks in the Neorion Harbour.’ Then his gaze snagged on the rooftop portico at the heart of the palace. There stood a silhouette, gazing eastwards. Eudokia. Flanking her as ever were the stocky shapes of her precious varangoi. If Romanus has fallen, then no number of axes will protect you from my forces, my lady.
A panting broke through his thoughts. He turned round to see a dusty, red-faced young man ascend to the top of the spiral staircase. He held a simple scroll. Yet he has no comprehension as to its weight, Psellos mused. He and John shared a rapacious grin. Then he beckoned the messenger, snatched the scroll and unfurled it. His eyes darted across the text.
Master, our designs have been thwarted so far. Romanus and his armies have reached Syria, and I write this as we march onto that arid plain . . .
‘It is done?’ John Doukas asked, hands grasping the arms of the emperor’s seat like claws. ‘The signal can be given today, the Numeroi can move on the palace.’
Psellos’ chest tightened as he crumpled the scroll. ‘Romanus lives.’
John’s face reddened and his hands trembled. ‘He lives? I chose you to be my adviser, and I could just as easily have you exiled!’ John roared, grappling Psellos by the collar. ‘Or worse!’
Spectators below looked up, squinting in the sunshine, frowning.
I could let the ignorant fool boil himself into a seizure, Psellos mused as he eyed the man who would be his puppet.
‘Be at ease, Master,’ Psellos calmed him. ‘Our men within the campaign ranks have prepared for this eventuality.’
John frowned in confusion, his nostrils flared. But he set Psellos down nonetheless.
Psellos held his gaze. ‘Now that Romanus and his loyal retinue are in Seljuk lands, subtlety is no longer a necessity.’
John’s eyes darted. ‘The campaign army will doubtless meet vast Seljuk armies and be battered by them, yes. But how can we be sure that Romanus falls in any such onslaught?’
Psellos’ grin stretched and his eyes sparkled. ‘Whether Romanus falls to a Seljuk blade or a Byzantine one matters little. Should the sultan’s men fail, then our men will make sure that it happens. Indeed, in the days it has taken for this messenger to arrive, it may already have happened.’
John’s face split with a baleful grin at this. He released Psellos and threw back his head, roaring with laughter. Then he stood and spread his arms wide.
As one, the crowd rose with him, roaring in applause.
21. Light in the Darkness
The Seljuk war horns wailed across the sweltering Syrian plain as the Byzantine army rushed to man the western walls of Hierapolis.
‘Ten thousand men, Strategos?’ Romanus gasped to Apion as they galloped downhill from the citadel towards the western gate. The emperor was wide-eyed, his face and hair streaked with grime and gore, his armour laced with battle scars.
‘At least.’ Apion fumbled to fasten his klibanion buckle as he galloped, then slid on his helmet. From the slope he could see the slaughter outside the walls. The emir’s army dominated the plain, part-silhouetted in the late afternoon sun. A thick pack of ghulam were ripping the Scholae camp asunder, swooping and darting through the screaming and unprepared kataphractoi, cutting off limbs, sending heads spinning clear of bodies. A broad wall of akhi stood back from this, flanked by two packs of ghazis, bows nocked, mounts shuffling in anticipation. To the rear of this assembly, a pair of green banners fluttered in the dust storm kicked up from the fight. The emir was between them, clad in gilt armour and saddled on a grey mare. Then, emerging from the western horizon, a fleet of a dozen war towers, a dozen more tall trebuchets and some forty catapults were being hauled forward, eager to smash the city walls from their path and capture the emperor as a prize for their sultan.
‘We have barely three thousand men!’ Romanus growled through gritted teeth, pointing to the western wall. The battered remnant of the Optimates Tagma had reached the battlements there first, and now filtered into a thin line. The ragged remnants of the themata spilled up there to join them; banda of spearmen missing helms and shields, carrying blunted blades and limping on bloodied limbs, many of their comrades lost. Pockets of archers scrambled onto the gatehouse with their quivers depleted, their numbers thin. To a man, they glanced to the storm on the plain and then over their shoulders, seeking out their emperor, seeking out hope. ‘The outer walls will not hold their artillery back. And the citadel is breached – so we cannot fall back to its walls. Defending this place is nigh on impossible.’
‘The emir knows this. Yet he is bargaining on us clinging to the battlements like fearful limpets, defending to the last. That is what Byzantium has become in the eyes of men like the emir,’ Apion shouted back, ‘and that is why we must abandon the walls.’
Romanus’ face curled into an incredulous frown. ‘Retreat, Haga?’
Apion’s brow dipped and he stabbed a finger out to the plain. ‘No, Basileus. We must ride out to meet them in the field.’
‘I have stolen some unlikely victories in my time, Strategos. But the emir’s men are fresh and numerous . . . ’ Romanus frowned.
‘They expect an easy victory, Basileus.’ Apion pointed to the ragged few of the Scholae who fought their last out on the plain. ‘They think they have slain all of our riders, no doubt.
Romanus looked to him. ‘They all but have!’
‘Do not discount the riders of the themata, Basileus,’ Apion pointed to the packs of ironclad kataphractoi just ahead, milling inside the western gate. ‘Three hundred, three hundred and twenty, perhaps. Let the emir feel the wrath of their steel. If we engage the Seljuks in the field, then their artillery will count for little. What use is a war tower against a swarm of skutatoi? Will they fire their trebuchets or catapults into a mass of fighting men?’
Romanus looked to him wordlessly as they slowed under the shade of the western gatehouse.
All around them, men cried out, appealing for their emperor�
��s words.
Apion, Romanus and Doux Philaretos gathered together to discuss their next move.
Then, at last, Romanus nodded. ‘Doux, you have the infantry. Lead them out onto the plain to face down the emir,’ he said to Philaretos, nodding to the western gate. With that, the emperor kicked his stallion round. ‘Sally forth!’ he roared to the amassed ranks. ‘It is time to end this long and bloody day. With God by our side, victory will be ours! Nobiscum Deus!’ he boomed, emptying his lungs.
‘Nobiscum Deus!’ the men of the ranks roared in reply, the panic shaken from their hearts by the emperor’s hubris.
Doux Philaretos dismounted and strode forward to head up the exodus. ‘Onto the plain!’
The signophoroi waved and their banners and the western gates were thrown open. Men streamed onto the plain to the song of the buccinas.
Then Romanus turned to Apion. ‘Take half of the riders to the southern gate, Strategos. I will lead the other half to the north.’ He heeled his mount round, a dry grin spreading across his face as he clutched a hand across his heart, the golden pendant dangling there. ‘And I will see you out there in the fray.’
Then the emperor waved Igor, the varangoi, half of the thematic kataphractoi and the Pecheneg riders with him, northwards along the inside of the western wall.
Apion waved the kataphractoi of Chaldia plus a handful of those from the Bucellarion Thema – some one hundred and thirty riders combined – over to him. Then he waved the cluster of Oghuz riders over too. Just over five hundred men in total.
He kicked his Thessalian along the inside of the western wall to the south and in contraflow to the flood of infantry. He slowed momentarily as he came to the torn crimson banners of Chaldia as they made for the western gate. Sha, Blastares, Procopius and Dederic led them. They were matted in the filth of battle like the few hundred spearmen and archers that remained of the Chaldian army.
‘Haga!’ Sha barked. ‘You will lead us out?’
Apion slowed his mount and shook his head. ‘No, but I will be joining you soon.’ He looked each of them in the eye. ‘Have the men proceed in a line. Present the emir’s men with an irresistible target. Then . . . ’ he pressed his hands together, making a diamond shape. ‘Doux Philaretos knows this already,’ he paused, shooting a furtive glance at the scowling doux. A traitor was still amongst their ranks. Apion longed for it not to be the man who would lead the infantry into the fray. ‘Just be sure your ranks are ready for the move. And stay strong. Today can still be ours!’’
‘Aye, sir,’ Sha nodded firmly.
‘Aye, sir!’ Blastares and Procopius barked in reply.
Dederic offered him a solemn gaze. ‘Whatever it takes, sir.’
Turning from his trusted four, he waved his riders with him. ‘To the southern gate!’ he cried.
***
The earth trembled beneath Sha’s feet as the Byzantine spearmen marched forward in a phalanx. It was only two men deep and an atypical formation for the banda, and even then it barely stretched to match the breadth of the emir’s horde. All along the line, faces were stained with blood, wrinkled in defiance, jaws jutting, tears streaming from eyes. Banners were held proudly, spears and shields grappled in white-knuckles. Doux Philaretos led the centre on foot, heading the few hundred remaining spearmen of the Optimates Tagma. The Chaldian army marched left centre, with Sha, Blastares, Procopius and Dederic on foot at the head of their depleted tourmae. Behind them, the toxotai rumbled forward in a pack of six hundred, arrows nocked to bows, wide-brimmed hats cocked forward to shield their eyes from the dropping sun. With them marched eight siphonarioi, their fire siphons grasped tightly, their iron masks betraying nothing of the fear they doubtless felt. Then, to the rear, the priests held the campaign Cross high and chanted, eyes closed.
‘Halt!’ Doux Philaretos cried when they were some two hundred paces from the smoking remnant of the Scholae camp. The buccinas sang and the bandophoroi waved their banners to reinforce this. As one, the phalanx slowed to a standstill.
Ahead of them, the Seljuk centre was obscured by the devastation of the Scholae camp. Tents lay ablaze, smoke smudging the air. A smattering of the broken tagma fled, some on their mounts, some on foot, precious few unwounded and carrying arms. Those who did escape – thirty seven, Sha counted – thundered in behind the phalanx where they formed together once more.
The flames ahead died, the smoke grew thinner, and through the sweltering heat haze, the full might of the emir’s forces were revealed. The two wings of ghulam reformed on the Seljuk wings, cleaning their bloodied lances. Ghazi archer cavalry milled close behind, and a broad and deep wall of some eight thousand akhi spearmen formed the centre.
He glanced to his side. Blastares and Procopius returned his solemn look.
If today is to be my last, then it has been a pleasure fighting alongside you, he thought. Then he saw Dederic. The Norman was muttering some prayer, his gaze sombre. Aye, he thought, his mouth drying and his bladder swelling, let us pray our riders come soon.
Then his thoughts dissolved as the emir raised both hands. The babble died to silence for but a heartbeat. Then he dropped his hands forward like blades. The Seljuk war horns wailed and the battle cry rose up, then the emir’s army washed towards the phalanx like a tidal wave.
‘Allahu Akbar!’
Sha’s eyes flicked from the advance to the scowling Philaretos. The lives of the infantry lay with this man. If his order was just a fraction too early or too late, thousands would die and the Byzantine campaign would be crushed.
‘Hold!’ Philaretos cried.
‘Hold!’ Sha barked along with every other tourmarches along the lines.
Still the Seljuk horde thundered forward. Sha could see the whites of the ghulam mounts’ eyes, their grinding teeth, the glint on the scimitar blades of their riders.
‘Hold!’ Sha repeated.
The akhi now loosed javelins towards the phalanx like a hailstorm. The missiles rained down all along the front of the ranks, most falling just paces short. But one missile punched into the skutatos by Philaretos’ side. The doux gawped at the gap where the man had stood.
Then he looked back up at the advancing horde. ‘Fall back! Form square!’ he cried at the vital moment.
At once, the buccinas sang and the banners waved, but the ranks were moving even before these signals. The centre of the phalanx bunched closer, the two ranks becoming sixteen deep. The men with the longest spears and iron vests formed the front ranks, and those with shorter spears fell in behind. The left and the right of the phalanx folded round to form the other three sides of the square, enclosing the toxotai and the few surviving Scholae riders. Then the siphonarioi bustled forward to present their fire siphons alongside the wall of spears, two men posted at each corner. In just moments, the broad, thin Byzantine line had transformed into a compact square, bristling with a palisade of spears, the centre packed with readied archers.
The emir’s horde did not falter at this, curving their broad and deep line around the square like a flooding river around a feeble rock. The ghulam riders swung round at the end of this line to charge at the left and right of the square, while the wall of akhi charged towards the front.
The toxotai focused their aim on the approaching akhi wall, sending a thick cloud of arrows skywards, then nocking their bows once more while this volley rained down on the spearmen. The shafts punched into shoulders, burst through eyes and shattered the skulls of those without helms. The stricken suddenly dropped from the approaching horde as if the ground had opened up beneath them. Then the ghazi riders replied in kind, circling on their mounts a few hundred paces away. The square scrambled to pull their shields overhead. A rattle of arrowheads on shields rang out, with a chorus of screams and wet punch of iron in flesh from those too slow to react.
Then, when the akhi were some thirty paces away from the Byzantine front, Sha raised his hand like every other tourmarches.
‘Rhiptaria . . . loose!’
L
ike a bristling porcupine, the rear ranks of the skutatoi hefted and loosed their javelins. This thick cloud of iron-tipped timber crashed down on the akhi advance, punching akhi from their feet, dashing the lives from their bodies. Many hundreds fell. But many hundreds more rushed to the fore to replace them, spears trained on Byzantine throats, only paces away.
‘Stay together!’ Sha roared with all the breath in his lungs, but the din of the Seljuk cry rendered it useless. He felt his comrades’ shoulders press against his, their bodies shaking with hubris and terror.
Then the Seljuk charge met the Byzantine square with a tumultuous rattle of shields, screeching iron and screaming men. A thick spray of blood burst into the air. Many skutatoi crumpled, many akhi ran onto spears, some surging up and over the Byzantine wall such was their momentum. At the same time, the ghulam riders plunged into the square’s flanks, hacking off Byzantine speartips and heads as if they were one and the same. Mounts reared up, hooves dashing out skutatoi brains or shattering ribs, the ironclad Seljuk riders leading a dance of death through the Byzantine spearmen. In moments, the front of the square was battered out of shape and the flanks fared little better.
Sha’s spear arm jolted as he thrust his spear through an akhi warrior’s breastbone, the tip erupting through the man’s back. The akhi’s face fell expressionless, and a wash of black blood and broken cartilage vented from his lips and nostrils, the spray coating Sha’s eyes. He blinked to clear the mess. The corpse fell under the continuing akhi push and pulled Sha’s spear down with it. He clutched for his spathion hilt and lifted his shield to brace against the push, but the pressure was immense, and he felt his feet slip on the red-white mire of blood, flesh and bone underfoot. He pressed shield to shield with another screaming akhi before him and both found their arms pinned to their sides, unable to wield their weapons. He could do little but scream back in defiance at his foe. The square was wobbling, the front face bending inwards. The toxotai behind cried out in alarm at this.
Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart Page 32
