Tears clouded Leo's sight, and he almost sagged with relief. He was no child to expect the Emperor's presence to save him, when Romanus could not save his own life or his Empire. But at least, Leo would die vindicated, revealed as no traitor before God.
That is, if he could reach the Emperor's side before Turks or traitors cut him down.
Leo's horse lowered his head. Poor beast was tired. Well enough: they would all be sleeping soon.
“Ducas, go back to your own!” a cavalry officer screamed at him. “Go back!”
“I am with my own,” Leo shouted back.
His sword was out; he would cut a path with the flat of it if he had to.
“Came back to die with us? You ass...” the man's voice choked as an arrow took him in the throat. He gurgled; blood poured from his mouth; and he fell from his saddle.
Leo rode over him.
Up ahead, the Varangians had encircled the Emperor. Their axes rose and fell, almost as if they chopped wood in those faraway lands they would never see again now. Leo could even see the Emperor, no splendor, no panoply about him now, fighting as fiercely as any of the big, blond guards.
One of them saw him and pointed.
"Nobiscum!" he shouted. Would the man understand? “The Emperor! For Miklagard!” If he used their word for Constantine's jeopardized city, maybe they would ...
His horse screamed and crashed down, an arrow in its chest. In time, Leo kicked free of the stirrups and leapt free, almost into the arms of some of the guardsmen, who dashed out to draw him to—he could not call it safety.
Someone was swearing without cease or originality about the folly of unlicked cubs who rode toward danger and had not even the excuse of being Varangian. Leo felt the breath of the man who reached him first gust against his ear, felt himself steadied against the immense man. There was no safety, yet there was reassurance in being where he had fought to be, in the circle of loyal men defending their emperor.
To his astonishment, the man began to sing.
Leo struck out at a Turk who had aimed a swordslash at them.
“Good stroke, boy!”
Abruptly, he was furious. “I am not boy!"
“No,” said the Varangian in guttural Greek, “you are a loyal man. Like those at Maldon, when Beorhtwald the faithful swore ‘Let our spirits be higher, our hearts more keen; our courage the more as our might dwindles.'”
“Save your breath!” bellowed another Varangian. He sluiced blood off his axe. “Were you struck on your head at Hastings?”
The big man, Leo's rescuer, laughed. "Ic sceal nat fleon fotes trym ac sceal furõyer gan. I vow not to retreat the space of a foot, but to go on further. Like this, you sneaking bastards!”
He thrust himself forward, closer to the Emperor, taking Leo with him.
“Go to your own!” one of the nobles shouted at him. He was going to get mortally tired of that taunt, if he weren't mortally wounded first.
“I am with my own,” he snapped, testing the muscles of his neck. He saluted the Emperor, then looked around, a worker awaiting the command to begin his bloody work.
A hand on his shoulder stopped him.
It was Romanus himself, leaning down from his horse.
“I shouldn't let you stay,” said the Emperor. “I have a son with your name, a boy I won't see again. But your horse is down, and I've no way of getting you out safe.”
“I,” not the “We” of Empire.
“We all owe God a death, sir,” Leo said. Greatly daring, he twisted his neck and tried to kiss the Autocrator's filthy glove.
“Don't be a fool, boy,” said the Emperor. The word did not sting, coming from him.
A litany of defeats rang in Leo's head; Cannae; Carrhae; the legions in the West, Adrianople itself, when an Emperor was taken captive. God grant that this one die before that happened again, and God forgive Leo for praying thus—when he knew he would not have the courage to ensure it. Oh God, he was tired.
It would be better to die and abide Judgment than to live as what his family would call him: fool, dreamer, too weak even for the politics in a monastery. Compared with that, to be Romanus's “fool” was an accolade.
A Varangian howled, dropped his axe, and lunged forward, sometimes running on two legs, sometimes dropping to all fours. He hurled himself at a mounted Turk whose splendid silk coat was scarcely sweated and brought man and horse down. It took an entire band of horsemen to pull him off his prey and cut his head off. When a man held it up in triumph, its teeth were bloody.
"Berserkrgang," a man nearby said. And laughed.
“We have enough fools around here,” said the Emperor. His face was set with despair that had become a form of resolve. “And the biggest one—well, there's no fool like the man who forgets what he's learned.”
“He is Ducas!" another officer put in.
“A Ducas’ death answers for a Ducas’ shame,” said Romanus. “He came back here to join us. That makes him my son or my brother—like the rest of you. Now, do we fight, or gossip until they cut us down?”
Sweet Mother of God, Imperial favor here at the end of all things. Leo could have laughed or wept, if either would not have spoiled his sight of his Emperor, bloodied, filthy with a day's fighting, the knowledge of certain defeat hollowing his cheeks until he had the look of an ancient tomb sculpture. But his hand was on Leo's shoulder, and strength seemed to flow down into him and back up into the man he served until his smile burst through the fear of impending death.
He was the Emperor's son. He even had the same name as the Emperor's son by birth. They were all the Emperor's sons or brothers.
Ah, that made the Varangians roar.
“Brave fellows!” cried Romanus. “Let's do it your way. Why wait for the Turks to come to us? Let's take our war to them and make them pay for it!”
Leo asked permission with a glance. Slinging his shield, he took hold of the Emperor's bridle. His weight, added to the horse's, ought to give them some advantage.
For a very little while.
The Emperor nodded. Now!
Leo grasped his sword more firmly. They pushed forward, testing the Turks, attacking first with the deliberation of fighting professionals, and then with an abandoned glee.
"NOBISCUM!" they shouted. The air burned in Leo's lungs from the weight of his armor as he ran. His temples throbbed and a queer red mist seemed to haze the night, as if a ring shone around the moon. There was no moon. He must be seeing things. Well enough, as long as one of the things he saw was dead Turks.
Around them, the Varangians bellowed out their war cries, and even the Turks’ black eyes filled with the light of battle against a foe that proved worthier than they had dreamed.
Shouts rose all over the field of Manzikert. Leo's heart rose and he begged for a miracle. Surely, this Emperor's fighting heart would put heart into what remained of the armies, and they would rally, rally and advance and drive the Turks back from Vaspurakan and the bounds of the Empire.
He screamed with a kind of mad delight and forced his now-wavering legs forward, his hand tugging at the bridle of the Emperor's mount.
The horse's head plunged down upon his shoulder. Romanus sprang free, the rags of the clothing he had put on that morning flying about him. Leo could see the knowledge in his Emperor's eyes. There would be no rally. No miracle. Hopes like that were for boys.
Romanus shouted for his guard and those of the archontes remaining loyal—and alive—to re-form. There were far fewer of both.
Hoofbeats raced across the uplands as the Turks broke into wings the size of hunting parties—parties, however, to hunt Romans, not wild beasts. More closed in on the center of what had once been the Army of the Romans. He could hear them gabbling, see them pointing behind their deadly bows.
They had recognized the Emperor.
Someone brought up the labarum. Romanus muttered what was probably a twin to the prayer on Leo's tongue. With one hand, he grasped the holy banner's tattered folds and brought it to
his cracked and bleeding lips, then let it fall. Blood spurted across it from a terrible wound in Romanus's hand. His face whitened, and Leo darted in to support him.
"Enough," said the Emperor. “Now we make an end.”
There were more Seljuks on the field than there were demons in Hell. And they had all gathered round. The red mist shone in Leo's eyes; he could not see the full count of his enemies. But that was as well: the hosts of Hell were innumerable.
“Into thy hands...” he breathed.
He could hear a buzzing in his ears—not just his blood, but words, wishing him to falter, reminding him of his own unworthiness, his incapacity. He was incapable, all right—incapable of heeding the words of a man who had meant him no good, who had tested him and found him incapable of being twisted to his use. Traitors did that, aye, and mages. Hard to think of that prim old scholar as a mage, so like the Persians he detested, but Leo had indeed learned some logic; and when you eliminated all that was impossible, what you had left might well prove true.
An arrow stuck in the fleshy part of his arm where he had it around his Emperor. One less wound for Romanus: well enough. It was not as if he could feel it, or anything else, except overmastering weariness. Perhaps it would kill him before the Turks: his heart would just give out.
Another footstep. Forward. Damn you, forward! He met a Varangian's eyes, saw their bleak-sea color warm into praise and won strength enough for another step.
The haze was very bright now. If this were a harbor, they would be calling out to passing ships, lest they crash together and be overwhelmed. The trampled earth felt curiously insubstantial, as if it, too, could not be relied upon.
A mounted man tore through the mist that had so beclouded Leo's consciousness, his mace swinging down.
Not you again! Leo had time to think before the mace all but missed the side of his head. A glancing blow, or his brains would have bespattered his Emperor. Bad enough to have been hit once, let alone twice in what was close enough to the same spot to make no difference.
But no, that first blow had been Roman traitor striking at loyal man. This, however, was enemy against enemy ...
He flung up his blade in hopeless defense. He could feel his eyes rolling back in his head, losing focus as he stared up at the sky, seeking—what? Hope? Consolation? An axe crashed down nearby upon metal, and sparks flew up. The light seemed to shift, to form the letters Chi and Rho. But Leo had not conquered. He had failed. The Emperor had failed. Their world was surely ending, and if the dead did not rise, it was only because there were so many slain that not even Christ the Redeemer Who would harry Hell could bring them back to life.
Leo cried out in despair. He reeled and staggered, lurching hard against Romanus. Wounded, the Emperor could not sustain him: he whined as Leo fell—pain and shock and apology, even as he fought on. That sound drained Leo of the last of his strength. He toppled at Romanus's crimson boots, a useless prostration before a doomed Emperor. The fog of battle wrapped him and swept him out into blackness.
Face up, eyes open to the stars, Leo drifted through the long night of defeat like a sailor too newly dead to sink.
Not dead, then. Not yet. The Turks had won the day and the field. Whether or not he wore chains now or later, he and anyone left out here alive was a captive—for however long they lived. He flinched, remembering the last intolerable sight: Turks closing in on his Emperor. Romanus had fought until he could no longer hold a sword.
Leo had no feeling in one arm—where was his arm? Where were his legs? In a panic, he tried to kick to see if he could even move. Someone groaned. Leo was sorry he had tried.
He turned his head—a wave of dizzy nausea and a wet, hot rush he identified with appalled disgust as his own blood pouring across his brow overcame him.
Wait. Moving more cautiously, this time, he managed to shift his head. The dizziness returned, bearable this time. Now, he saw the cause of his arm's numbness: a trooper lay across it, a dead Varangian atop him.
Dear Bearer of God, which one of all those corpses might be the Emperor?
The knowledge that he lay in a tangle of flesh, unable to tell the quick from the dead, panicked him. Leo thrashed his other arm and both legs to free himself. The dizziness returned in a rush of blood and darkness.
After a long while, the stars came back. Careful even of so small a movement, Leo blinked his eyes clear of clotted blood. He lay still: too spent to move; too afraid.
At least I can say, I lie like an Emperor, he thought. He would be buried like one too—or left to lie unburied. And that would have to be glory enough.
Would anyone ever see or know? Thou conquerest, Psellus!
But Psellus was not Emperor, but the servant who manipulated their rise and fall, and who protected his position by ... what had Psellus learned in those long years of scholarship; and why had he withdrawn from the monastery where he had enrolled?
Leo chuckled bitterly. It hurt his head and turned too quickly into a cackle too near hysteria for his liking. He had no desire for Turks or Armenians or other robbers to find him while he yet lived. A pity the night was no colder.
The Varangians, he knew from their songs, prized noble deaths. Surely, they were all dead. He would follow them.
A few weak tears coursed unwilled down his face. Certainly, he was dying. Would he weep, otherwise? It was proper to weep at the fall of Empire, more proper still to weep for his sins.
Since he was dying, perhaps he ought to pray.
Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison.
Help.
But there was no mercy anywhere.
Faces floated across the moonless sky: Andronicus Ducas, that Judas, for all he looked like such a prince. The Emperor's face, trusting Leo, welcoming him, even, but regretting his presence on the field since that meant another death. The Varangians, laughing as they fought, grinning in the face of death.
He had better tend his soul.
“I am heartily sorry I have offended Thee...” Leo mumbled. Those were the right words, the abject words. But they were not the words that Leo wanted. More like: Why have You turned against us? What have we done?
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? Christ's lament on the cross: My father, why hast Thou forsaken me? See, he had an authority for his despair.
Curse God and die. Well, the Jews had not done that, and there were still Jews in Constantinople and scattered throughout the Empire, not that it made any sense to think about them right now. His head whirled, and then such sense as he had returned to him.
Oh, but it does, it does. It did make sense. Now, the Greeks would be strangers in a strange land that had once been their empire. Had they oppressed Vaspurakan? They had been punished. The Christians of Byzantium would face an even more cruel fate, a Babylonian captivity in their own land.
How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land!
Could they do less, at the last, than the Jews they were taught to scorn?
Pain tightened like a torturer's vise across Leo's temples. He turned his head and vomited.
If the Rhomaioi had won the day, after prayers, medical assistants and burial details would have emerged from the camp. In that case, Leo could have counted on being found. But here, the Turks had won the day. The riders of Alp Arslan would rove the battlefield. Perhaps they would give him the mercy-stroke.
Thieves would be slinking onto the field too. Robbers laired in the caves in these hills. The poor Armenians of the villages, poorer now that battles had floundered and bled back and forth across their fields, would come out looking for coin. Even a runaway troop or so might search for whatever they could bear away: horses not too badly wounded to save, usable harness; plundering from the dead and the not yet dead.
No matter how much blood and filth covered him, they would find the Emperor. They would find Leo, too. Hearing of how he fell and where he lay, his mother would finally have to admit that he had done something right. But she was no Spartan: she was a Greek of Constantinople. She was as
likely to call him a traitor and a fool for going against Family.
He pressed his head against the mucky earth, which trembled beneath him as if it, too, had been assailed. The arch of sky shivered. As above, so below, he thought, wondering if fever had set in to teach him such words. They seemed right. The clouds seemed to shift, forming plumes of smoke rising above pallid mountains, and to shift again, shaping the very form of the land. Grafting an aspect of the Empire—as fragile as clouds, as swift now to pass away in the storms sure now to follow, sweeping its people before it into exile.
The sky held it all, from the weathered teeth of the hills of Vaspurakan to the sanctified caves of Cappadocia, where perhaps the monks praying within the living rock itself might pray for a lost emperor, to the ransacked fields of the Anatolikon theme. Under the skull-like gaze of ancient fortresses looming over them on cliffs, soldiers fought back and forth over the land, for it was an ancient one. Some survived to build, abandoning the others, bodies and blood, to lie in those fields, to become part of the land. Hittites, Midas, Alexander, Rome and Constantine's New Rome; and now, would the Turks replace them, only to have, in generations to come, their blood and bones overlay all the others in these ancient, battered fields?
Wave after wave of invaders had flowed over the land in a bloody tide. It was old in the time of Christ, older than Troy. It was even old when Byzantium rose upon the Golden Horn, long before Constantine left the West to found a City of God on Byzas's foundations. The land had survived, though people had come and gone, leaving their treasures, their ruined houses, their bones, and, for all Leo knew, all their false gods. Doubtless, the land would survive this new onslaught of victors; and, in generations to come, farmers would lift from their fields hacked bones and battered weapons and wonder what manner of men left these. It was a land built as much of blood and bones as it was built on them.
Shards of Empire Page 3
