Dear Reader,
Writing Apion’s tale has been a massive part of my life for these last four years. In that time I’ve immersed myself in Byzantine history, travelled to parts of the old empire and even taken up running in an attempt to understand the hero of the tale and the world he lived in. Apion, of course, has lived only in my imagination (and hopefully now, yours too), but the world I had him endure was very much based on my historical research. As always, I feel it is my duty to discuss the main areas where I have deviated from fact or speculated where detail has been thin on the ground.
Emperor Romanus Diogenes granted the Black Fortress at Mavrokastro to a mercenary Norman general, Crispin, around 1068. Crispin’s brief was to protect the border doukate that encompassed Chaldia and the lands immediately east of it. Instead, he took offence at something – possibly lack of reward or title from the emperor – and began hoarding the imperial tax levy and harassing any who tried to bring him to heel. I have exaggerated his brutality (the eyewitness historian, Michael Attaleiates, states that Crispin did not harm any Byzantines until they tried to attack his men), but there is no doubt he was a rogue. After a few failed attempts, he was finally captured and sent into exile, only to be recalled by the Doukas family in 1072 for the civil wars against Romanus. Indeed, Attaleiates attests that Crispin personally saw to gouging out Alyates of Cappadocia’s eyes with rusty tent pegs, before dying of poisoning shortly afterwards. Incidentally, my depiction of Apion instructing his men to use the menavlion (a weighty, extremely lengthy spear usually made out of a sapling tree trunk) against Crispin is little more than a nod to his understanding of past military tactics – the menavlion was a vital part of the 10th century military machine engineered by Basil II.
The 1069 campaign saw Romanus Diogenes set off for Lake Van, crossing the Euphrates near Romanopolis with the intention of taking Chliat from Seljuk hands. He was but days from achieving his goal when he heard news of the arrival of a Seljuk army at his rear and of the fate of Philaretos Brachiamos and the rearguard he had left stationed at the river’s western banks. Thus, he had to swing his campaign army round and pursue and harry the marauding Seljuks around inner Anatolia. The Seljuks made it as far west as Iconium, besieging that city before swinging back round towards Cilicia. It was here that the Byzantines managed to finally strike back at their foe, calling upon Armenian allies to pelt the fleeing Seljuk horde from the heights of the Cilician mountains. Anatolia was free of the raiding army, but Romanus’ stock was low with the people of the empire. They had watched their taxes being poured into the armies, while the cities were neglected. Thus, Romanus elected to remain in the capital the following year, in an attempt to remedy the situation.
In 1070, I have depicted Romanus selling off his lands and possessions in order to stage games in the capital and appease the people. This is speculative, but I think it helps illustrate the man’s desperation. He knew he needed to buy time in preparation for a future campaign that could bring lasting victory and security. Part of his plan was to despatch Manuel Komnenos on an intermediary expedition in his stead, to fend off any Seljuk incursions while he stabilised affairs at the capital and prepared for the next year’s campaign. The disaster which befell Manuel Komnenos’ army near Sebastae is all too true, though history has it that Manuel actually escaped captivity (with the aid of a turncoat Turkic commander by the name of Yunus), as opposed to being freed to bring word of Sultan Alp Arslan’s taking of Manzikert. But Manzikert (and effectively all of the Lake Van region) did fall into Seljuk hands that year, and this only fortified Romanus’ convictions that a decisive campaign to seize those holdings was essential.
1071 began with the exile of John Doukas and Michael Psellos – sent from Constantinople to some remote villa in the Bithynian countryside (note that the suggestion in the story that Psellos or his minions burnt down the Palace of Blachernae is purely this author’s imagination). With the city clear of his greatest foes, Romanus now set out on his grand campaign to finally seize the Lake Van fortresses.
From the beginning, the expedition was riddled with ill-omens. The blood-red comet, the grey dove on the sea voyage across the Hellespont and the snapping of the imperial tent pole at Helenopolis all sparked fear in the hearts of the army. Perhaps, for once, they did not have God’s blessing? Worse, something seems to have happened to Romanus after they set out from Helenopolis. He began acting very oddly. His hovel camp on the hills above Malagina, his sudden bursts ahead of the imperial column and his outrageously provocative behaviour at the banks of the Halys must have come close to destroying morale. My only thoughts were that he was either maddened by the pressure of the campaign, or that he had been poisoned. I chose the latter as it seems he was suddenly ‘himself’ again after they crossed the Halys – more in keeping with a poisoning that had been stopped than some chronic and worsening mental state. That said, the rhinokopia incident happened not at the banks of the Halys as I have described, but at Manzikert itself, many weeks later, so perhaps poisoning is too simple an explanation.
Regarding the make-up of the 1071 campaign army, I have tried to juxtapose the various accounts of what regiments of tagmata, themata and foreign mercenaries were present. The numbers in each corps are a best estimate to fit my choice of the forty thousand who set off from the mustering ground at Malagina. The murkiest aspect of the campaign force was that of the magnate armies. The term itself is the best fit I could find to describe the men who formed the treacherous rearguard. Some sources identify them as the Hetairoi, a pseudo-tagmatic corps composed of mercenary or non-imperial troops. The historical sources describe Andronikos Doukas leading these forces. Andronikos was a proven military man, but I simply could not overlook the fact that he was a member of the Doukas family, and so I had to portray him as riding in shackles.
The campaign route through Anatolia is as true as I could ascertain, passing the imperial cities of Dorylaeum, Amorium, Ancyra, Caesarea, Sebastae, then taking the northerly pass into Armenia via Theodosiopolis (you can see the full map on my website). Here, or shortly after they left this abandoned city, the army split in two, one half going to secure the lands around Chliat, the other to take Manzikert. Alp Arslan’s movements at this time are also as close to the history as I could determine, with the exception of his siege of Edessa – the sources state that the siege took place in April, not June as I have suggested.
Romanus Diogenes’ offer to Alp Arlsan of a swap of Hierapolis for the Lake Van fortresses might have fended off battlefield conflict that year, but it seems that something odd happened. History has it that Romanus offered the exchange once, then again in a somewhat demanding, insulting tone. I opted to modify this, instead having the messenger Leo Diabatenus (a true historical figure from the events of 1071 – though almost certainly not a Hippodrome champion), poison the message and ensure that Alp Arslan, already enraged – the anecdote of the black veil around the tower at Aleppo is quite true – would march to Manzikert and to war.
Friday, 26th August 1071 is a date that is scorched into history. Some believe the defeat at Manzikert was the single event that broke the Byzantine Empire. Others reckon the battle was a bloodbath that saw the empire’s armies reduced to nothing. In fact, it was neither of these things. But it was a grievous blow to the image of imperial invincibility and a catalyst for the disastrous sequence of events that followed.
The battle was a fraught clash indeed and many lives were lost – though not as many as some estimates once suggested. It is thought that the Byzantines lined up on Manzikert’s plains with anything between 20,000 and 40,000 soldiers, and the Seljuks faced them with a similar number. I have adopted the lower end of this scale as I find it more feasible given the lack of manpower available at the time (considering the 1070 disaster and other recent military losses). Modern estimates show that probably only as much as 20% of each army fell or were captured in the battle. But the Seljuks won and won well. How? Well, the telling factor was treachery rather than the tactical nous or ferocity of the sultan’s army. The perfidious behaviour of Joseph Tarchianotes in his flight from Lake Van (though there is much debate over whether he had an ‘innocent’ reason for fleeing back to imperial territory without telling anyone) left Romanus Diogenes with just half of the army he had set out with. Still, Romanus’ numbers matched the sultan’s on the day of the battle. It was only at dusk, when the call for an ordered retreat descended into chaos, that the tide turned. The false cries of the emperor’s death sent the lines into panic and flight, exposing huge gaps to the onlooking, probably dumbfounded Seljuk army. The loyal regiments who stayed with the emperor and tried to repair the collapsing retreat were swamped by masses of ghazi warriors. If Andronikos Doukas had come to the emperor’s call, the day could yet have been saved. Instead, he calmly led the Byzantine rearguard from the field. The battle was lost at that moment.
History details several days before the battle, where the Byzantines were camped outside of the newly-taken Manzikert. I have omitted some of this time period to keep the narrative (hopefully) flowing and engaging. In particular, on the day when Apion, Bryennios and their riders go south, across the plains and into the valleys in search of the Seljuk raiders who shot upon their foragers, the sources tell of a secondary advance in aid of Bryennios, led by an Armenian horseman named Vasilakes. Unfortunately, it seems Vasilakes had been in the sun too long that morning, for he charged blindly at a feigned Seljuk retreat. His cavalry were cut to pieces in the southern valleys near Mount Tzipan and he ended up in captivity. Also, the sources have it that there was a day in between the Seljuk night attack on the Byzantine camp and the battle itself, whereas I have the battle coming the morning after the attack.
Moving on to the days after the battle: it seems that most of the Byzantine armies (those who fled or deserted and those who stood) survived to fight on in the ensuing civil wars between Romanus Diogenes and the Doukas family. And it was these civil wars that truly broke Byzantium. Romanus fought with what forces he had left and after his ignominious death, Philaretos fought on against the Doukas family, carving out a rebel empire around Melitene – it is even thought that he might have converted to Islam at this point! Bryennios fought on against the Doukids also, albeit politically (at first, anyway). Determined to seal his place on the throne against these men and others, John Doukas welcomed mercenary Seljuk hordes into Anatolia, promising them riches if they would support his cause. Instead, when the Byzantine factions had exhausted each other, the Seljuks decided to claim the imperial heartland for themselves. Worse, having deposed Romanus Diogenes, the Doukas family dismissed the peaceful handover of land and cities that Romanus had agreed with Alp Arslan. This incited Malik Shah – after he had acceded Alp Arslan to the Seljuk throne – to urge the many Seljuk warbands from his lands and into Anatolia, firing their blood with the following rhetoric;
All of you be like lion cubs and eagle young, racing through the countryside day and night, slaying the Christians and not sparing any mercy on the Byzantine Nation.
I have described Malik Shah’s conquests occurring in the first few years after Manzikert – mainly to tie in with Apion’s journey home. In reality, they were spread over the next six to eight years.
Certainly though, by 1081, Byzantium had lost her heartland and Anatolia was a largely Seljuk dominion. It was the start of the decline of the empire. But, as the crone showed Apion, the age of heroes was not quite over. Alexios Komnenos (the lad who, as the sources have it, turned up at the 1071 mustering camp at Malagina, eager to fight, only to be turned away by Romanus Diogenes for his own safety) led what has come to be known as the Komnenian Restoration, halting the Norman advance into the Balkans and stabilising the losses in Anatolia. The following centuries would be bumpy indeed for the empire, especially with the arrival of the crusades at the end of the 11th century (something the Byzantines welcomed . . . at first), but Alexios Komnenos is thought to have strived for the ideals of secure borders and a strong army once held dear by Romanus Diogenes. Regarding my description of Alexios Komnenos ushering in the use of the double-headed eagle as the icon of the empire; this is speculative, although the symbol did grow in prominence in this period and was firmly in use in the centuries that followed. One theory is that the symbol was adopted from the many ancient Hittite rock carvings of the mythical Haga found throughout Anatolia.
As for the delightful pairing of John Doukas and Michael Psellos (both of whom I have admittedly painted in an extremely unfortunate light); their time hovering by the imperial throne came to an end when an even more noxious individual – a eunuch by the name of Nikephoritzes – managed to gain the favour of Emperor Michael Doukas, poisoning the young emperor against Psellos and John.
John ended up in exile once again, dying there without the power that he had coveted for so long. Psellos’ end is uncertain. One theory is that he died of a grotesque illness in throes of unearthly pain. This fate seemed fitting for the loathsome and clandestine kingmaker I have portrayed him as.
Regarding the Seljuk Sultanate: in the first volume of the trilogy I depicted the expansion of Seljuk territory as inexorable and the peoples within unified. The previous volume and this one try to examine the reality of the situation: Alp Arslan faced many of the domestic challenges his Byzantine counterpart did, including opposition factions, assassination attempts, tensions amongst an ethnically diverse people and a constant need to prove his worth as the leader of this great world power.
Apropos the Seljuk armies: I have portrayed Taylan ‘inventing’ flat-bottomed stirrups. These almost certainly had been around for some time by 1071, but I wanted to highlight the expertise in horse archery the Seljuk riders had honed so well. Likewise, Taylan’s White Falcons’ practice of wearing raptor feathers in their helms is something the original Seljuk steppe peoples had once practiced many years previously. As the Battle of Manzikert saw Alp Arslan throw off the trappings of the armies he had assimilated in his time (the Persian artillerymen, lancers and spear infantry) and fall back to the guile of the ghazis – the closest thing to those original steppe riders – I thought the return of the falcon feathers was rather apt.
There are probably many more points for discussion, but I’ll leave it at that. Please do feel free to get in touch if you’d like to chat over any other details or theories.
Usually at this point, I would inform you when you could expect the next volume in the series. But instead I have to bring the curtain down on the story of ‘Strategos’. Apion’s tale is over, yet the journey in telling it is one I will never forget. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking that journey with me.
Yours faithfully,
Gordon Doherty
P.S. If you fell in love with Byzantium and the tale of the Strategos of Chaldia, please help others to do so also – a short review on Amazon is the best way of spreading the word, and I’d be most grateful if you could do so. In fact, if you do leave a review on Amazon, drop me a line at my website to let me know, and I’ll send you a free ecopy of ‘Legionary’, the opening volume of my other series (see below), as a token of my appreciation.
The Legionary Series, by Gordon Doherty
The Roman Empire is crumbling, and a shadow looms in the east . . .
In the 4th Century AD, countless barbarian tribes surge against the Eastern Roman Empire's borders, driven by a dark horde that has arrived from the great steppe. On the Danubian frontier, the situation is critical: the crumbling, neglected forts and watchtowers along the riverbank are thinly garrisoned by 'mere' limitanei – the impoverished border legions. Pavo, a slave freed and sent to serve with the XI Claudia in this precarious land, finds himself thrust into a tumultuous sequence of events that will shape his destiny and the fate of the Empire.