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reins of his Thessalian. ‘I’ll have the men set up our tents.’ Then he grinned and added; ‘Seems like we got here just too late to help fortify the camp . . . what a shame.’
    As the Chaldians moved off to the eastern section of the camp demarcated for them, Apion and Igor strode on towards the ring of Vigla guards, who parted their pristine golden shields and let them into the emperor’s tent area.
    Emperor Romanus Diogenes was there, in the stretch of dust beside his tent. He wore a simple white tunic and boots as he stretched and aimed a composite bow at a target some sixty paces away within the tent area, left eye screwed shut, the open cobalt eye narrowed as he took aim. Beside him was a tall, lean man with bronze skin, a hooked nose and flowing dark locks that hung to the chest of his rough, black tunic. This one was coaching the emperor on his archery technique, it seemed. Apion and Igor sidled up behind, taking care not to distract Romanus from his shot.
    ‘Exhale and then hold your breath. Nock and raise the bow, begin your draw as you lift. Remember – two fingers and the thumb, no more, no less,’ the dark one demonstrated this as the emperor carried out the instructions. ‘Draw until your fingers near your face, then roll your shoulder back to stretch a little more until the string is almost at the corner of your lips. The air is dry and the arrow should fly true, so do not aim too high. Now . . . loose!’
    Thock!
    Romanus allowed a smile to creep over his face, lowering his bow and admiring the arrow quivering near the centre of the target. The dark man threw up his hands in delight. ‘And that, Basileus , is the thumb draw – the draw of the Seljuks.’
    ‘A steadier shot, a faster nock, and even a more powerful release,’ Romanus mused, running a hand through his swept-back flaxen locks, his gaze lost in the target. ‘If we can understand our enemy well enough, then he cannot surprise us.’
    ‘Exactly,’ the dark one said.
    Apion spoke at last; ‘Wise words, but who will teach the stubborn Greeks to abandon their traditional draw?’
    Romanus and the dark one swung round to see who had spoken. ‘Strategos!’ Romanus beamed, his cobalt gaze flashing in the sunlight. Casting decorum aside, he strode forward and embraced Apion. ‘It has been hard work keeping my men focused while we waited on you, but I insisted that we would not cross the river until the Haga was with us.’
    ‘The ranks are eager, I hear?’ Apion said.
    ‘They are hungry to march on to Lake Van, to bolster Manzikert, to take Chliat and to seal the eastern borders. And tomorrow, Strategos, we will set off,’ he gestured to the timber jetty on the section of riverbank that formed the camp’s eastern perimeter. A fleet of eight round-hulled pamphyloi ferries bobbed there.
    Apion noticed the dark one by the emperor’s side eyeing the red-ink stigma on his arm. Romanus saw this too. ‘Ah, permit me to introduce another of my finest officers. Manuel Komnenos, Protoproedros , a fine tactician . . . and a master archer to boot.’
    ‘I have heard many tales of your efforts in these borderlands, Haga, ’ Manuel smiled.
    Apion nodded curtly. Bitter experience had long ago taught him to withhold judgement and err on the side of caution whenever he met some new member of the imperial retinue. He managed a smile. That would do for now.
    ‘Perhaps you can share some of your drills with the strategos?’ Romanus suggested.
    Manuel nodded. ‘Certainly. Come, the men are still on the training field,’ he said, stooping to feed a clump of hay to his nearby tethered mount – a fine, muscular grey stallion with a white blaze on its face.
    The three made their way through the northern sector of the camp, trailed – as ever – by a clutch of varangoi axemen. A tangy scent of stewing goat meat and a waft of baking bread greeted them as they made their way past the tents of the Thrakesion Thema. Men rose from around their