Crouching low, Alexius jerked the reins back hard, wheeled his mount and led the Byzantines in full flight up the hill. The barbarians, amazed at the ease with which they had blunted the imperial attack, rushed forward to press their advantage. The three main bodies, followed by the great rolling wave-twenty thousand barbarians wide and twenty deep-swept on up the hill at a run, determined not to allow the Byzantines enough time to regroup for another charge.
With an earth-trembling roar, the barbarians rushed to the kill, their feet pounding the hillside, weapons gleaming in the bright sunlight. The Immortals, unable to order the ranks and prepare the charge, had no other choice but to retreat further up the hill. The trumpets shrilled the call to retreat.
Within moments, the imperial horsemen were fleeing the field, cresting the hill and disappearing over the other side. The barbarians, screaming in triumph, pounded after them, baying for blood.
Upon reaching the hilltop, the enemy saw the Immortals galloping down the far slope towards a loop of the river. Eager to catch the horsemen as they floundered through the ford, the barbarians flew after the retreating troops, shrieking in triumph.
Down and down they came, streaming headlong into the valley, racing for the river. As the first barbarians reached the fording place, however, ten thousand foot soldiers suddenly appeared on either Desperate now to retake the high ground lest they find themselves pinched between the two opposing forces, the foemen turned and fled back the way they had come.
It was then that the Cuman mercenaries appeared on the hilltop behind them: an entire barbarian nation, thirty thousand strong, and each and every one of them nursing a long-standing hatred of their Pecheneg and Bogomil neighbours.
The trap was sprung, and the slaughter commenced.
Alexius, confident of the outcome, withdrew from the battle. Summoning his Varangian bodyguard, he charged Dalassenus to bring word as soon as the victory was complete, then rode at once to his tent.
That was where the Grand Drungarius found the emperor, bathed, shaved, dressed in his clean robes, dictating a letter to the Magister Praepositus, who was taking Alexius' words and inscribing them on a wax tablet.
'Ah, Dalassenus! Enter!' he called as the young man appeared behind Gerontius. He waved the chief scribe away, saying, 'That is all – bring it to me to sign as soon as you are finished. It will be sent immediately.' The scribe bowed once and withdrew. 'Well? Tell me, how did the battle end?'
'As you predicted, Basileus,' answered the commander.
'Indeed?'
'Down to the last detail. The Cuman auxiliary were merciless. Once they had the scent of blood in their nostrils, we had no need to engage the Immortals. We merely stood by to prevent the survivors escaping into the hills.' He paused, and added, 'There were no survivors.'
'Gerontius, did you hear?' called the emperor. 'Our victory is absolute! Pour the wine! Dalassenus and I will drink to the triumph.'
The elderly magister bent to the table, and turned a moment later bearing golden cups. The emperor lofted one of the cups and said, 'All praise to God, who has delivered our enemies into our hands, and driven them into the dust of death!'
'All praise to God,' the Grand Drungarius answered.
They drank together and Alexius, laying aside his cup quickly, said, 'See here, Dalassenus. I have already sent messengers back to the city. The ships will be ready to sail upon your arrival. It is a cruel thing to dispatch a man fresh from the battlefield, I know. But you will have a good few days' rest aboard ship.'
The young commander nodded. 'It is no hardship, Basileus, I assure you.'
'It is not that I do not trust the Logothete or the Syneculla,' Alexius continued. 'Indeed, they will go with you. But this is primarily a military matter, and the Patriarch of Rome must know the importance I place on the victory we have achieved today, and how much I value his aid. Now that the northern border is secure, we can turn our attention to the south and east.'
The emperor began pacing back and forth, clenching his fists. 'We can begin taking back the lands the Arabs have stolen. At long last, all we have worked for is within our grasp. Think of it, Dalassenus!'
Alexius stopped, regaining control of his free-racing hopes. 'Alas, the army is not ready to meet the challenge.'
'Your troops fight well, Basileus,' Dalassenus disagreed mildly. 'We could not ask for better soldiers, nor would we find them.'
'Do not misunderstand me. I agree: they are brave men-the most disciplined and courageous soldiers in the world-but they are too few. The constant warring has taken its toll, and we must begin rebuilding the themes. There is so much to be done, but it is within our very grasp now, and -'
The smile on Dalassenus' face arrested his kinsman's familiar tirade.
'Forgive me, cousin,' Alexius said, 'I am forgetting myself. You, who have been with me from the beginning, know it all as well as I. Better, perhaps, in many respects.'
Dalassenus turned to the table, refilled the emperor's cup and handed it to him. 'Let us savour the victory a moment longer, Basileus.' Raising his cup, he said, 'For the glory of God, and the welfare of the empire.'
'Amen!' replied the emperor, adding, 'May the peace we have won this day last a thousand years.'
THREE
Murdo wilted under the abbot's interminable prayers and wished he was far away from Kirkjuvagr. His knees ached from kneeling so long, and the smoke from the incense made his empty stomach queasy. The dim interior of the great church reminded him of a cave: dank and cool and dark. Save for a smattering of candles around the altar, and a few tiny slit windows, he might have been deep in an earth-howe, or one of the ancient chambered tombs scattered among the low hills. Outside it was balmy midsummer, but here inside the cathedral it was, ever and always, dreary mid-November.
Craning his neck sharply to the right, he could see the stern countenances of saints Luke and John staring from the nearest wall in sharp disapproval at his fidgeting. Higher up, under the roof-tree, a frog-eyed gargoyle grinned down from a corbel-as if in merry mockery of Murdo's growing discomfort. To his left knelt his mother and father, and before him his brothers and cousin. None of them, he knew, shared his distress, which made it all the worse.
The Feast of Saint John was one of the few holy days Murdo truly enjoyed, and here he was spending it in the worst way possible. If he had been at the bu, the morning service would have been over long since and he would be filling himself with roast pork and barley wine. Instead, he was trapped in a damp, dark cavern of a church listening to some lickspit priest gabble on and on and on in irksome Latin.
Why, of all possible days, did it have to be this one? He moaned inwardly, contemplating the ruin of the day. The waste of a good feast-day was a mortal sin, yet the bishop, in typical ignorant clerical selfishness, had decreed the Feast of Saint John for the cross-taking. The only consolation, and it was cold comfort indeed, lay in the fact that at least Murdo was not alone in his misery.
Indeed, the entire church was full and so was the yard outside -full of men and women of rank, as well as merchants and tenants of various holdings large and small, from many of Orkney's low-scattered isles: hundreds of islanders in clutches and knots, all of them kneeling, like himself, heads down, faces almost touching the clammy stone, intoning their dull responses in a low, mumbled drone. Murdo imagined they were each and every one praying that the abbot would, for God's sake, stop.
Seeing them like this, their backs all bent, put Murdo in mind of a field of boulders, and it was all he could do to stop himself leaping up and making his escape by skipping from one humped back to the next like stepping stones. Instead, he lowered his head once more, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to think of the succulent roast pork and sweet ale he was missing.