Gordon Doherty - Island in the Storm

‘I bring news that will sweeten your banquet,’ the tall, elegant lady said. She wore a dark blue robe that clung to her lithe figure, and her silvery locks were swept together in a swirl atop her head. Her fine-boned features were alive with a smile that was at odds with her cold stare.

John twisted only to glower at her.

‘Ah, Lady Eudokia,’ Psellos purred, rising now to bow as if in deference. This woman was the widow of the last member of the Doukas family who had held the throne. By wedding Romanus Diogenes and supporting his rise to power, she had broken the Doukid line and caused the rift in power.

Eudokia ignored John’s glare and continued as if Psellos had not spoken. ‘The rumours we heard have been confirmed; the rogue mercenary of Colonea, Crispin of Normandy, was taken captive by the Strategos of Chaldia some months ago. He now languishes in exile and will trouble my husband’s campaign no longer.’

Psellos held her defiant gaze as long as he could, until he felt an incessant itching on his chest. ‘That is good news, indeed,’ he said, his top lip quivering in suppressed ire.

With that, Eudokia swept from the room and Psellos slumped back to sitting. He glared at the spot where Eudokia had stood, his mood black, the itch on his chest growing ferocious.

John threw down a duck bone and sighed. ‘We can eat and drink and pretend we are kings. But when the morning comes, we will wake as mere courtiers.’

‘You are unhappy, Master?’ Psellos asked through taut lips.

John snorted. ‘You spent much of my family’s money buying off those useless curs in the border tagmata — and what of them?’ he roared with a mocking laugh. ‘Crispin languishes in exile, and the others you bought were little but an annoyance to Diogenes’ march east. What reason have I to smile?’

Psellos issued a terse smile. Without my wits, oaf, you would already be in exile or dead. He sucked in a breath through flared nostrils and held John’s gaze. More, the itch on his chest stung like fire. This often happened when he became vexed. He scratched and scratched at the coin-sized spot there. Well, it was coin-sized at first, when that crazed old crone had inflicted the mark upon him — with some hidden brand, he guessed — last winter. But in recent weeks it had grown. Now it was the size of a small plate. Angry red, the flesh was blistered and it wept when he scratched at it too much. He felt the skin split as he scratched at it now and this broke his semblance of calm.

John leaned forward and repeated in a flat tone; ‘I said; what reason have I to smi-’

‘Diogenes is at a critical juncture,’ Psellos snapped, grabbing a cup of cool water and holding it against his chest — this seemed to calm the itch. ‘He has withdrawn all but the scantest of funding from the cities. Almost every coin from the treasury goes to the armies. The people are unsettled,’ he gestured to the Hippodrome, lying empty and unused as had been the case for some six months, ‘they need their races and their games!’

John shrugged at this. ‘This will not tip the balance. We need Diogenes to fail at the head of his army. When the people and the army give up on him, only then have we won.’

Psellos smiled coldly, sensing an opportunity to toy with his puppet. ‘Yet the balance might yet swing against us, Master. If he succeeds in strengthening the imperial hold on Manzikert and in seizing Chliat, the eastern passes will be protected and the borders will be safe, the spending can be balanced once more. The people will love him and the army will revere him. . and his legacy as emperor will be assured.’

John’s jaw dropped, strings of meat dangling from his teeth and a foul look in his eyes. ‘If you are trying to encourage me, advisor, then you have failed. Remember, it is your job to ensure that the balance tilts in our favour.’

Psellos ignored the overbearing rebuke. ‘If I was to guarantee you that Diogenes will not take Chliat this year, would this calm you?’

John frowned. ‘What? No man can make such a guarantee.’

‘Oh, but I am no ordinary man,’ Psellos smiled. His thoughts flashed to the numeroi scout riders he had despatched some months ago. Ride into enemy lands. Spread word amongst our foe of the emperor’s planned route.

‘What have you done?’ John whispered, a savage grin rippling across his lips.

Psellos simply reached out to pour more wine into their cups. ‘I will explain all as we eat and drink, Master. As kings!’

***

Doux Philaretos stood on the edge of the timber jetty as the last of the pamphyloi fleet returned from the far banks to be re-moored here. He ran a hand over his sweat-soaked scalp, burning in the morning sun, then looked across the river and off to the east, watching the last silvery flashes and plumes of dust dissipate at the tail of the departing campaign army. They moved with a broad front towards Lake Van. When they slipped into the heat haze and could be seen no more, he issued a contented grunt, then swung round to look over the camp that would serve as the rearguard’s headquarters.

Six thousand men had been entrusted to him. The sixteen hundred toxotai loosed arrow after arrow at a practice range outside the camp’s western gate, by the saddle of land in the shady valleys. The rest were inside the camp. Some four thousand of them were skutatoi; the majority of these men had laid down their weapons and iron jackets and now milled about their tents, jabbering, cleaning their kit or praying. Meanwhile, the bandon of three hundred kursores riders busied themselves grooming and exercising their mounts. They were content in their activities in this still and warm land, and rations and water were plentiful. He squinted up at the sun. ‘With a little shade, this place will make a fine home for the next few weeks,’ he surmised.

When an odd rumbling noise sounded from the north, he instinctively swept a suspicious eye around the camp’s mountainous surroundings, then squinted at the shaded face of Mount Taurus. A shower of rocks tumbled from the heights there, the noise echoing across the riverbank. He chuckled and shook his head. Then he remembered the advice of the tourmarches, Procopius, who served under the Haga . Before setting off with the Chaldians in the emperor’s column, the prune-faced old officer had implored him;

Decrease the size of the camp. Fill in the ditches and throw up new ones that will be more easily defensible for your reduced numbers. You can rebuild the original camp when the emperor returns. And keep a strong watch at all times.

Philaretos snorted at the notion. ‘Perhaps, old man,’ he spoke into the ether, then turned back to look across the river and east, shading his eyes from the sun. He imagined the emperor’s army moving along the broad, winding tracts of land that led to Lake Van. ‘But you should first concern yourself with your own marching camp — for it will likely be you who encounters any Seljuk foe.’ Then he smirked, drawing his gaze in across the tumbling torrents of the Euphrates. ‘And unless they bring ferries of their own, any invading riders from the east might have to content themselves with watching our fine camp from the far riverbanks.’

He jostled with laughter at his own joke, then turned away from the river and strode towards the heart of the camp, where his tent now stood in place of the emperor’s. A cup or two of wine? he mused as his guards parted. He made to sweep his tent flap open, but his hand froze. He noticed his mount, tethered nearby, scuffing its hooves in agitation. Then it snorted, its ears pricking up.

‘What’s wrong, boy?’ he cooed, stepping over to the piebald stallion.

His question was answered by a chorus of panicked cries from the western valleys. His eyes widened as he saw the archers out there break into a reckless run, racing back towards the camp. He licked his lips and felt his throat shrink as he saw a dust plume and dark shapes cresting the saddle of land in the shady valley. An instant later, the thrum of loosing arrows sounded, and the air behind the fleeing Byzantine archers darkened as a storm of arrows plunged down upon their fleeing backs. Hundreds fell and hundreds more stumbled over the fallen.