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of spearmen. In just a few heartbeats, the outside of the square had been bolstered by some three hundred spears.
    Apion smiled fully now. ‘This is a play on the formations of the past,’ he realised.
    ‘Indeed,’ Manuel nodded.
    Apion scoured the square one more time, then his eye snagged on something. Three spearmen on the front ranks of the square wore mail shirts, and another two donned felt coats, while all the rest on the front were clad in iron lamellar klibania.
    ‘Speak, man!’ Romanus chuckled, seeing Apion’s eyes narrow. ‘Manuel was eager to hear your advice.’
    Apion pointed to the mismatched men in the front. ‘You should keep your front uniform at all costs. The square will only be as strong as its weakest point. These five should be afforded iron klibania like the men they stand with.’
    ‘Mail is a sturdy armour,’ Manuel countered.
    ‘For a sword slash, maybe.’ He patted his own klibania-clad chest. ‘But the overlapping iron plates on a klibanion help to spread the blow of Seljuk arrows more evenly than mail or felt. And believe me, even then a single arrow can still feel like the kick of an angry mule.’
    Manuel nodded with a grin. ‘Then the smith will be busy tonight. Is there anything else, Strategos?’
    Apion cast his eye across the square again. ‘Have the men had a chance to use these manoeuvres in anger – and in particular, against the Seljuks?’
    Manuel shook his head. ‘That is one part of their training I cannot provide. The lash of a drillmaster’s tongue and swish of his cane can only do so much. And I too have yet to face them in the field.’
    Romanus clasped a hand to each man’s shoulder and looked to Apion. ‘That’s why we need men like you, Strategos. There is plenty of bread and wine in my tent, not to mention a shatranj board. You should use the rest of today to share your knowledge of our foe. Then tomorrow, we will march, strengthened by it.’
    Apion beheld Manuel, Romanus and the sea of serried ranks throughout the camp. For that moment he experienced an odd feeling. All, for once, felt right.

     
    ***
     

     
    The sun dipped behind the western skyline of Constantinople, bathing the lofty heights of the Imperial Palace in its last light and casting a shaft of deep red inside one set of tall, open shutters there.
    Michael Psellos leaned back in his chair, his belly full of lark tongues and falcon eggs and his skin bathed in the fiery sunset. He swirled his cup of well-watered wine, inhaled its sharp, fruity aroma, then took a deep gulp to wash the meal down. He smoothed at his tightly curled, short grey locks, adjusted the purple felt cap on his crown and looked around the grand dining chamber, shivering with delight at the possibilities. The palace was devoid of its emperor. Then he glanced through the tall shutters, his gaze trawling across the Hippodrome, the Forum of Constantine and the forest of marble columns, statues and fine domes. The city was at his behest. He flexed his gem-ringed fingers on the collar of the gold brocade robe he had taken from the emperor’s chambers that morning. With a tailor’s skilled hand, this could be a fine fit, he mused.
    A watery belch from the far side of the table stirred him from his reverie. His age-lined, pinched features creased even further in distaste. John Doukas, tall and black-bearded, simply wiped a hand across his mouth and continued eating, unperturbed. This oaf was to be endured only because he held the key to the imperial throne – the Doukas family having long insisted that they should be returned to the helm of the empire. He wondered who else from that family line might make a more suitable pawn. Anyone? He concluded, bitterly.
    Just then, Psellos noticed movement at the main chamber door. The two numeroi spearmen standing guard there stepped aside. Before Psellos could rise from his seat to berate them, a figure strode in and stood at the head of the table.
    ‘I bring news that will