Gordon Doherty - Island in the Storm

Next, they came to the workshops, a series of tents where the tink-tink of hammers and sawing of timber filled the air. A small furnace had been set up and the blaze seemed to distort the air around it with its ferocious heat. A smith worked to pattern-weld a spathion, a technique that would give the blade a supple core but a hard edge. A pile of recently crafted weapons lay stacked nearby. This army was indeed well-prepared and eager.

‘So we are to leave in the morning?’ Apion asked.

‘As soon as dawn breaks. I have arranged for Doux Philaretos to remain here as a rearguard.’ He pointed to a figure standing atop a small wooden dais by the riverbank, barking his riders into formation.

Apion squinted and spotted the unmistakable doux there. Philaretos had the look of some villainous, murderous type, his face red and scowling under his close-cropped, receding hair. This and his somewhat testy and firebrand nature had troubled Apion when they first met, but he had proved himself valorous and noble in the taking of Hierapolis and Apion had been more than happy to judge him on those deeds during that fraught campaign.

‘He will stay at the camp with a third of our forces, protecting us from any attack on our rear as we march east and blocking any westwards Seljuk push into Anatolia.’

They came to the camp’s north gate then climbed a ladder to the top of one of the watchtowers flanking it. From this vantage point, he could see the spearmen and archers of the Opsikon Thema going through their manoeuvres on the flatland outside. They worked under an incessant barrage of orders from the kampidoktores — a squat, bald man who swished his cane around as if batting the soldiers into line whenever they strayed. The space was overlooked by the towering Mount Taurus, its lofty summit dusted with snow, as if mocking those toiling in the oppressive heat below. Apion imagined himself up there, looking down. His lips played with a smile as he imagined the men like pieces on a giant shatranj board, just as old Mansur had taught him to.

Manuel Komnenos called down to the kampidoktores mid-tirade, halting him. ‘Have them practice the square variations,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir!’ The kampidoktores yelled, then flicked a finger at the buccinator by his side. Moments later, the buccina cry sent the ranks of men scurrying back and forth. Their flat line dissolved and they reformed in a square, hollow in the centre.

‘A fine square. It protects our men, and dilutes the front of our enemy,’ Apion observed.

‘Indeed, Strategos. A square, but with a difference,’ Manuel countered.

It took Apion a moment to notice, then he saw it; as usual, spearmen formed the outer layer of the square, three ranks deep. They protected the smaller square of archers inside, again, three ranks deep. This way, the toxotes could loose upon outlying enemies without fear of attack. But there was also another layer of three spearmen inside the square, ringing the backs of the archers and framing the small hollow centre. ‘Insurance should the square be compromised?’

‘Exactly!’ Manuel said. ‘Should a pack of Seljuk lancers break inside, there will be no easy slaughter of our archers, just a nest of spears!’ He pressed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘A hardy formation like this could be the key to staving off our enemies and keeping our borders safe.’

Apion felt a smile touch one edge of his lips, seeing Manuel’s eyes sparkle at the notion of bringing peace to the borderlands. An earnest fellow, it seemed. But something troubled him about the square. ‘Yet this lessens the number of spears on your front.’

‘It would, but should we need their number then-’ he stopped and waved to the kampidoktores. Another buccina cry. Another stampede of boots. Almost faultlessly, the spearmen inside the square hurried through the ranks of archers and into the outer ranks of spearmen. In just a few heartbeats, the outside of the square had been bolstered by some three hundred spears.

Apion smiled fully now. ‘This is a play on the formations of the past,’ he realised.

‘Indeed,’ Manuel nodded.

Apion scoured the square one more time, then his eye snagged on something. Three spearmen on the front ranks of the square wore mail shirts, and another two donned felt coats, while all the rest on the front were clad in iron lamellar klibania.

‘Speak, man!’ Romanus chuckled, seeing Apion’s eyes narrow. ‘Manuel was eager to hear your advice.’

Apion pointed to the mismatched men in the front. ‘You should keep your front uniform at all costs. The square will only be as strong as its weakest point. These five should be afforded iron klibania like the men they stand with.’

‘Mail is a sturdy armour,’ Manuel countered.

‘For a sword slash, maybe.’ He patted his own klibania-clad chest. ‘But the overlapping iron plates on a klibanion help to spread the blow of Seljuk arrows more evenly than mail or felt. And believe me, even then a single arrow can still feel like the kick of an angry mule.’

Manuel nodded with a grin. ‘Then the smith will be busy tonight. Is there anything else, Strategos?’

Apion cast his eye across the square again. ‘Have the men had a chance to use these manoeuvres in anger — and in particular, against the Seljuks?’

Manuel shook his head. ‘That is one part of their training I cannot provide. The lash of a drillmaster’s tongue and swish of his cane can only do so much. And I too have yet to face them in the field.’

Romanus clasped a hand to each man’s shoulder and looked to Apion. ‘That’s why we need men like you, Strategos. There is plenty of bread and wine in my tent, not to mention a shatranj board. You should use the rest of today to share your knowledge of our foe. Then tomorrow, we will march, strengthened by it.’

Apion beheld Manuel, Romanus and the sea of serried ranks throughout the camp. For that moment he experienced an odd feeling. All, for once, felt right.

***

The sun dipped behind the western skyline of Constantinople, bathing the lofty heights of the Imperial Palace in its last light and casting a shaft of deep red inside one set of tall, open shutters there.

Michael Psellos leaned back in his chair, his belly full of lark tongues and falcon eggs and his skin bathed in the fiery sunset. He swirled his cup of well-watered wine, inhaled its sharp, fruity aroma, then took a deep gulp to wash the meal down. He smoothed at his tightly curled, short grey locks, adjusted the purple felt cap on his crown and looked around the grand dining chamber, shivering with delight at the possibilities. The palace was devoid of its emperor. Then he glanced through the tall shutters, his gaze trawling across the Hippodrome, the Forum of Constantine and the forest of marble columns, statues and fine domes. The city was at his behest. He flexed his gem-ringed fingers on the collar of the gold brocade robe he had taken from the emperor’s chambers that morning. With a tailor’s skilled hand, this could be a fine fit, he mused.

A watery belch from the far side of the table stirred him from his reverie. His age-lined, pinched features creased even further in distaste. John Doukas, tall and black-bearded, simply wiped a hand across his mouth and continued eating, unperturbed. This oaf was to be endured only because he held the key to the imperial throne — the Doukas family having long insisted that they should be returned to the helm of the empire. He wondered who else from that family line might make a more suitable pawn. Anyone? He concluded, bitterly.

Just then, Psellos noticed movement at the main chamber door. The two numeroi spearmen standing guard there stepped aside. Before Psellos could rise from his seat to berate them, a figure strode in and stood at the head of the table.