Supported by Leo, her face discreetly veiled in crimson gauze, Zoe watched as her commanders fell to their faces before her. When they stood again, she spoke to Gregory in a husky, fearless tone.
‘The Strategus Attalietes is the ranking military commander, and as such he represents the will of my husband, our Father, in the matter of my defence. Komes Haraldr, if you do not carry out his order, I will command your centurion here to administer summarily the punishment for treason.’ She turned and fixed Halldor with a stare that blanched even his face. ‘If your centurion will not perform this duty, I will order the Domestic Blymmedes to carry out the execution of both traitors.’
Haraldr looked at Blymmedes and saw no indication that his friend would not do as his Empress had commanded. He mastered his rage at his own impotence, but his breast was leaden with the thought that Maria would share her Empress’s fate. But perhaps Blymmedes was right; the baggage train would be the objective. What could he achieve, anyway, now forced to place Halldor’s head on the block and challenge his friend, Blymmedes. And it seemed the Empress was determined to perform her own execution. Almost unable to breathe, Haraldr bowed deeply, gave the order for the Varangians to re-deploy, and backed up to his horse with his arms crossed over his breast. At least he had another answer. It was the Strategus Meletius Attalietes who wanted his Empress dead.
Shielded by her parasol from the glancing late-afternoon sun, Zoe kissed Michael Kalaphates on the forehead and wished him the Beneficence of the Theotokos. Then, assisted by her eunuchs, she returned to her carriage and settled beside Maria.
‘We will wait here,’ Zoe said calmly. Her lips mused sensuously. ‘When we are finally put away and at our privacy, you must tell me about your . . . interview last night with the Komes. You have put such a fire in his eyes, and, my darling . . . well, I have never seen your countenance quite so … avid. We will talk of it during the long days ahead. You know your Mother is fascinated by . . .details.’
Maria said nothing, lost in her labyrinth of fear and desire. Could this be the death his eyes had promised her the night before? Was this where the three lines crossed?
‘Little Daughter!’ the Empress said soothingly. ‘Surely you are not worried about . . . this’ Zoe waved her hand languidly. ‘Symeon assures us that the Emir of Aleppo is most hospitable.’
Blymmedes pointed to the dust cyclones that had appeared at the head and tail of the long, motionless Imperial columns. His infantry were raising their own reddish clouds as they returned to formation after spreading thousands of spiked iron balls, called caltrops, on the plain between the road and the sea. ‘There, Komes Haraldr. You see how they are flanking the column at both ends. Now they will circle back to come in with the sun behind them. That’s why I spread my caltrops to the seaward side. If I were giving the orders, I would send my light cavalry there’ – he pointed north to a distant point along the coast – ‘and there’ – now Blymmedes pointed south – ‘and crush them in my pincers when they fell on the baggage train.’ Blymmedes slapped his hands together and looked with admiration at the line of Varangians in gleaming byrnnies.
‘Fortunately your men are adept at static defence. Well, good luck, Komes Haraldr.’ Blymmedes waved dashingly as he galloped back to the Imperial baggage train.
Haraldr turned to his men, dismounted, and lined up facing the sea as Blymmedes had suggested; Haraldr had placed archers behind the first spear-wielding, shield-raised rank. The overloaded mules behind the archers wheezed and brayed, and the batmen chattered with nervous excitement. Haraldr rode out in front of the Varangians, stood in his stirrups, and tried to strike a balance between his own utter despair and the kind of valiant exhortation that would merely humiliate his men further; they knew they guarded mules and rugs.
‘This time the Maumet’s men will not be ghosts,’ he shouted evenly, as if giving routine instructions. ‘Remember, we must first shoot horses, then spear horses. Then, if the men still come against us, we will let them feel the bite of Hunland steel!’ Haraldr had expected the half-hearted acknowledgement he received, but the muttering only fuelled his anxiety. The men had every right to be dispirited, he thought, stallions asked to pull the plough alongside the ox and the mule.
After perhaps a quarter of an hour the sound came from the sea. At first the noise was almost like wind whistling through a narrow opening, but it quickly rose and fragmented into the trillings of an enormous and angry flock. A rusty pall soon shrouded the sea, and then the glittering cloud of dust boiled out of the sun. The noise seemed to advance and retreat in a horrible, shrill wailing. The Saracen host rode forward at a pace that seemed unreal, as if nature had somehow compressed time. They were dressed much like the Romans’ own akrites, spectacularly in silver and white, helms and curved blades glimmering before the dust cloud that they seemed to out-race. Their unearthly shrieking, rising and falling in violent rhythm, scraped the nerves. Haraldr stood at the centre of his Varangian wall, his shield set, and gave his bowmen the order to fire. Almost instantly the huge white and black and grey dappled horses in the vanguard toppled, legs buckling and skewing. But the rest leapt over the writhing beasts and their hapless riders, making little attempt to avoid crushing their own men. Haraldr took a step forward and set his spear. Arrows clattered against the Varangian shields – Haraldr wondered how men on horses were attaining such prodigious bowshots – but the return salvo brought down another rank of horsemen. Still the rest came on, now only a hundred ells away.
The horsemen abruptly veered, whipping light throwing-spears against the Varangian shields as they turned off towards the north. Another salvo from the Varangian archers and the horses and riders began to pile up; the following ranks were refusing to advance beyond the flailing parapet of fallen mounts. Saracen arrows still rained with surprising force against the Norse wall of shields, but Haraldr could not see a single Varangian down. Haraldr yelled for Halldor and Ulfr to come to the centre.
‘Have we slain enough of their horses?’ asked Halldor dryly.
Haraldr shook his head. ‘They seemed bold enough even within our bowshot. Perhaps they are tempting us to begin our own offensive . . . Kristr!’ Haraldr’s sudden epiphany clutched at his belly. ‘This is only the feint! The Empress!’ Haraldr brought his head back and bellowed so that he was heard over even the cataclysmic shrilling of the Saracens. ‘Boar!’
The line of Varangians almost instantly re-formed into the impenetrable wedge of the swine-array. Haraldr took the snout, flanked by Halldor and Ulfr. The Saracens quieted for a moment as Varangian axes pounded on shields. As the boar moved to the south, the mounted fury of the Saracens raced to blunt its snout.
Haraldr did not know how long the Rage seized him. So immense was the relief of feeling Odin’s favour again, he thought he could slash and hack until his blade wore to a nub. The Saracens were indeed brave; they came forward in endless files with their howling black faces and agate eyes, their silver arcs swishing. And they fell relentlessly to the Norse blades. Haraldr’s boots were soaked with blood when the Saracen horde finally disappeared, almost vaporously, like a sea mist rolling back from a morning sun.
The road ahead was littered with corpses. Like terrible blossoms, white robes and quilted cotton jerkins were spotted with brilliant crimson. Roman and Saracen corpses at first, then a growing preponderance of Romans, quilted armour soaked, sleeveless byrnnies glazed red, conical helms cast everywhere. Horses bleated in agony, joined by the screams of men. The vultures made obscene circles above. The thematic army of Cilicia had been virtually annihilated.