Fire

A Desperate Defense of Constantinople

Rumors came first. Merchants sailing down the coast from Sinope said they saw hundreds of ships dotting the beaches near Heraclea, smoke rising in the morning sky. Soon boats of all sizes came from Chrysopolis. I could see them on guard duty, thousands of refugees, fleeing the raiders. They crowded into the taverna, lamenting their burned farms and shops, their slain and captured kin. Rus. That’s what they said, huge blonde men, thousands of them. 

“They appeared out of nowhere,” the man slurred, “like demons from the shadows. I barely escaped with my wife. When we rode through the next village, the Rus had already passed through. Burned every building. The old and young were hacked to pieces. Everyone else fled or were taken for slaves.”

“We passed a monastery on our way to The City,” another said, “those barbarians ransacked the place. They smashed the icons to get the gold and silver and burned the church. They crucified the monks in the orchards. Lord have mercy!”

“I was passing through Chalcedon, and there was a barn at the edge of the town. It hadn’t burned all the way and there were three people hanging from the lintel, nailed through the head,” another patron recounted.

Tales of atrocities echoed throughout the city and a nervous air settled over its inhabitants. One morning I walked to my post on the sea wall. The sun rose from the Anatolian shore and lit the calm waters in oranges and reds. The dome of the Hagia Sophia shone behind me in the cool morning air. 

“Good Morning, John.”

“Leo, how was it?”

“Quiet, dark. Another day of action for the Emperor’s greatest wall-watchers.”

“Well it’s not so bad,” I replied.

“Gives us plenty of time to think about all the loot Nikephoros and Bardas will be bringing home when they come back from the frontier. Should’ve been us, we’ve been on the docket to fill those Excubitor slots for a year now.”

“Yeah, maybe they’ll buy a few rounds in Nicholas’s taverna for us, huh? In appreciation for keeping their womenfolk safe.”

Leo scoffed, “maybe after rubbing all that Arab silver in our faces… If I had my way I wou-,” Leo froze as he looked across the water, “Most Blessed Mother, protect us.”

It was hard to make out at first but clouds billowed in front of the rising sun. Crysopolis was burning and desperate residents crowded into boats, trying to leave the harbor as it filled with Rus warriors. Their sleek, dragon-prowled ships and long narrow canoes overtook most of the fleeing civilians as their ships struggled across the straits to the safety of Constantinople’s harbors.

“We need to get down there!” Leo said.

I raced to the bell at the rear battlements of the tower and began ringing it furiously.

“Rus! Rus!”

Men began to stumble out of the barracks half-dressed, throwing on helmets and grabbing spears. Leo and I flew down the stairs of the tower and ran along the wall to the Kontoskalion Harbour. 

“Follow me!” I yelled to the other soldiers on the wall.

The men overcame their shock at the barbarian flotilla paddling furiously toward the city and by the time Leo and I made it to the walls above the Kontoskalion we had collected 30-odd men. A scene of chaos greeted us on the docks. Boats crashed into one another in the roiling water, stirred by the commotion. The entrance to the harbor was clogged and many refugees beached their boats along the mole that protected the harbor from the Marmara’s waves. The refugees ran down the narrow causeway to the docks. People clustered near the gates, banging loudly to be let in. In the distance, long canoes and sleek ships with full sails bore down on the harbor. 

“We need to get to the gate!” I yelled.

 We ran to the gatehouse and found the portarion and his men barricading the door.

“Open the gates! There are people in the harbor!” Leo said.

“No, do you see those ships in the water?” The commander responded.

“Yes, that’s why we must let those people inside!” Leo shouted.

“If I open those gates I won’t be able to close them again! The crowd is too large for my men to push back and the Rus will simply follow them through the gate and into the city, slaughtering all of us.” The commander quipped. 

“I will not stand by and let those people die!” I responded.

The men barricading the door had stopped working and looked around hesitantly. The portarion only had seven men with him and all of them had put down their weapons to grab benches and tables to stack at the door. 

“Arrest him,” I told the men behind me.

“What? This is outrageous! You have no right!”

The portarion put a hand on his sword. Leo hit him in the face and he spun, collapsing on the ground.

“Lock him in the room,” I told the other soldiers and they carried him into the guardroom.

“You can join him or help open the gate,” I told his guards. 

The men began pushing the benches and tables away and unbarred the door.

“I want both doors opened. Leo, take fifteen men and stay by the gate, keep people on their feet and moving quickly into the city. Leave one man on the tower, when he sees the last of us fall, push the crowd back and bar the doors.” 

“It will be done.”

I nodded to him.

“John, be careful.”

“Numeroi! Let’s teach these savages to fear our name!”

The men cheered and unbarred the gate, sunlight and civilians immediately flooded inside. I struggled through the crowd, pushing people aside with my shield. 

Once I reached the wharf the severity of the scene unfolded before me. The first canoes were no more than 200 meters away from the mole and the entire harbor was now packed with boats and desperate refugees, clambering toward the gate. Many had climbed onto the few dromon in the harbor to reach the gate faster than hopping from boat to boat. 

“To the mole! Hurry!” 

My men ran with me to the mole as the first Rus began to disembark their canoes and climb onto the abandoned boats. I had seen Rus before. The merchants at Saint Mamas sold the finest furs available and my mother once took us to buy my father a warm coat during a cold winter. The towering men of the colony had blonde hair and long beards. These warriors looked much the same. Some of them were covered in tattoos of swirling symbols, naked from the waist up and brandishing huge axes. These warriors hacked at those unfortunate enough to be stuck on their boats. Screams emanated from the gruesome scene and blood coated the tattooed men.

“We need to stop them from running across the mole,” I told my men and set them in a shield wall underneath the tower at the near end of the mole leading to the docks.

Rus warriors made their way to the mole and ran at us with reckless abandon. Axes splintered shields and a guard’s head was cleaved in. The crunch of his helmet sickened me, but the line held and a half a dozen dead Rus laid at our shields. The barbarians were no longer so confident and massed for an organized charge. They whooped and banged their swords and axes against the iron rims of their shields. My men shuffled nervously. 

“Hold your ground, cover the man to your left, and thrust with your spear. Remember your drills!”

I glanced toward the gate and saw that most of the people had made it through, only a few more minutes and everyone who had made it to the docks would be safe.

As the Rus made their way down the mole, arrows and javelins poured from the battlements and thudded against their shields. The men from the barracks had finally arrived, and their attacks softened the Rus, weakening their shield wall. Every once in a while an arrow disappeared into the mass of men and a scream echoed from an unfortunate warrior.

Soon the Rus were so close I could see their frenzied eyes underneath their helmets and smell the alcohol on their breath. Swords and shields clattered, axes and daggers flashed, sinking into flesh. Some of the men at the front began to fall, but we were getting the better of them. The Rus slowly pulled themselves away from us and left their dead and dying at our feet.

“I think we’ve made an impression. Time to ease our way back, one step at a time, in formation.”

Our formation began to walk back onto the docks and toward the gatehouse. The final stragglers were coming through and the soldiers on the walls kept the Rus at bay with a flurry of arrows. We had almost made it to the door when I noticed men pushing their way through the enemy shield wall. These men wore chainmail of expert craftsmanship, covering them from the eyes to their knees. Each man wore a pointed iron helmet gilded in gold and carried a large axe or sword and shield. Only one man kept his face uncovered. He wore steel greaves and carried a two-handed axe, his short grey beard partially obscuring his scarred face. The men around him moved their shields to protect the man from arrows and made their way quickly toward us. 

“Steady! Keep formation!”

We were five steps from the door when the armored men met our shield wall. They attacked with a furious hail of ax blows and thrusts. I could hear my men scream in agony as the Rus found their targets.

“Pull the wounded through the door!”

Leo had closed one of the heavy doors of the gatehouse and was guarding the entrance himself, helping the injured men into the city. My attention was pulled back to the enemy by a roar. The bearded man had swung his axe over his head and brought it down powerfully on the man to my left. His shield was split in two and one of the other warriors thrust his sword through my comrade’s neck. 

“Into the gatehouse, one at a time! Quickly!”

The men began to disengage as we inched agonizingly toward the door. Arrows, stones, and javelins rained on the Rus and distracted them from our dwindling numbers. As more of my men reached safety, those remaining desperately caught blow after blow on their shields, prodding the Rus with their spears in an attempt to maintain distance. By the time it was just me and one other man we stood just feet from the gatehouse.

“Run!” I told the man, but as he turned to look at me an axe embedded itself in his helmet. Blood ran down his shattered face as he crumpled on the ground. I turned to see the bearded man pulling back to swing at me. I caught his ax in my shield, and he tried to rip it away from my body to expose me and let his men finish the job. I let go of the shield and jabbed at his leg with my spear, slicing his leg just below the armor. The man let out a great roar and drew a hatchet from his belt, abandoning the axe buried in my shield. I said a silent prayer to Christ and prepared for the blows that would certainly kill me. Suddenly a javelin raced past my head and toward the bearded man. The bearded man’s shieldbearer dove forward and caught it in the rim of his shield inches from his lord’s face. A moment of hesitation followed and a hand grabbed me by the collar and threw me into the gatehouse.

“Close it!” Leo shouted.

The soldiers forced the door shut and barred it. I laid on the ground in disbelief and exhaustion.

“Up you go, we need to get on those walls,” Leo told me as he pulled me to my feet. 

The harbor was even more chaotic than before, Rus warriors retreated to their ships and canoes under withering missile fire. Numeroi, civilians, and Rus laid in heaps, their bodies turning the water of the harbor red. Many crawled on the ground and writhed in death throes, moaning in agony. The bearded man and his warriors marched back to a large ship with a white sail in good order, deftly catching our arrows and javelins with their shields. The bearded man grabbed a torch from the docks and launched it onto a dromon. By the time the Rus left the harbor, the fire had spread widely among the packed boats, thick smoke obscuring the retreat of the enemy.

“How many men did we lose?” I asked Leo as we watched the city’s naval squadron burn.

“Ten men dead, seven wounded. Three of them won’t see tomorrow.”

I turned away.

“John, you did the right thing. Hundreds are alive and safe in the city because of your quick thinking. Those men knew what they were fighting for.”

I walked down to the gatehouse and opened the guardroom. 

“You can come out now.”

The officer opened his mouth to speak, but as he looked up at me his face contorted in bewilderment. I looked down at my ruined uniform, covered in the blood of my comrades and enemies.

The portarion walked out of the gatehouse, followed by Leo and I. Hundreds of frightened citizens huddled on the street, priests walked among them handing out bread and passing jugs of water around the crowd. Men thundered down the road on horseback, the scales of their armor reflecting the morning sun peeking above the walls. 

The commander of these men dismounted his white charger and walked towards us. 

“What happened here? Who is responsible for this?” The man demanded. As he removed his helmet I recognized him. The Domestikos of the Noumeroi, our commander. 

The officer kneeled, “Domestikos, the Rus followed these civilians into the harbor. I had barred the door to prevent their entry into the city. Should they have followed the refugees into the city my men would not have been able to stop them.”

“And yet these people are inside the walls.”

“Yes, your excellency. I was overpowered by this man,” the officer pointed at me. “He imprisoned me and opened the gates, putting the city in great danger.”

The Domestikos turned to me. His scarred face attested to a life of battle, his grey eyes demanding truth. Every man in the Numeroi had heard the stories about Andronikos Bryennios. Andronikos had won fame as a young man for being first on the walls of the Theodosiopolis when it was sacked. After many winters commanding the fortresses around Melitene, John Kourkous approved his request for transfer to Constantinople. Andronikos wanted to grow old near his family, and the Nomeroi needed a grizzled veteran to whip them into shape. The men loved and feared him in equal measure.

“Yes, your excellency. What the portarion says is true,” I knelt and placed my spear on the ground.

“Then you have my thanks for saving these people from those beasts,” the Domestikos said, “get up, what’s your name, soldier?”

“John, sir.”

“John, I have a great need for men such as yourself. Meet me at the Chalke Gate at sunset. My newest tribouno should be at the war council and make an official report on the enemy.”

My jaw hung loose.

“Yes, sir,” I managed.

“As for this gate. I think it needs a new portarion. I trust you to find a suitable man.”

The Domestikos rode away and his retinue followed. I turned around to see Leo grinning in disbelief.

“Did that really happen?”

“I guess so, portarion.”

Leo looked puzzled, “No, there are better men.”

“You were the one who held the gate against the enemy. You brought the civilians in safely and kept the Rus out. I can think of no other soldier who can claim the same.”

“I’m honored,” Leo replied, and saluted me.

Leo walked to his predecessor.

“Your epaulets, soldier.”

*

The sun bathed the icon of Christ at the Chalke in shimmering light as the shadows stretched their way up the Mese. I had spent the day scrubbing my armor and finding a suitable uniform for the meeting, when Andronikos walked to the gate I felt woefully underdressed. Andronikos had a blue silken tunic and fine leather boots on, over the tunic he had clasped a cloak with an intricate golden brooch. The tunic and his green cloak were both embroidered. Over his heart, artful stitchwork had woven the Golden Gate, the symbol of the Numeroi.

“Shall we?”

“Yes, sir.”

Andronikos led the way into the palace and past the guards. We walked by the barracks of the Scholai and Excubitores, virtually abandoned with the army and emperor on campaign, and then entered the labyrinthine palace. We navigated through a forest of marble and granite columns, polished floors and heavenly mosaics. I couldn’t help but gawk at the magnificence of it all.

“Hurry up, The War Room is still a ways off.”

After passing through several more buildings and under collonaded walkways we arrived at an indiscreet oaken door. Two soldiers stood on either side in glistening chainmail, spears at the ready. At the sight of Andronikos the men quickly opened the doors and we entered a large brick room lit by small oil lamps hanging on the walls. A dozen well-dressed men stood hunched over a large table, discussing fervently.

“Andronikos, welcome!” A voice rang out from the crowd.

“Your excellency,” Andronikos responded.

As the man walked over to us Andronikos bowed and I hastily followed suit. By the time I stood back up the man was standing before us. He was a man of moderate stature, with kind, intelligent eyes. He wore an orange silk tunic threaded with gold displaying animals and patterns. Several gold rings clutching large gems sat on his fingers. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could tell this man was the Protovestiarios, Theophanes. I had only seen the man from afar during Imperial processions and he seemed much less congenial during those haunty ceremonies.

“Sir, this is my tribouno, John. He led the defense at the Kontoskalion.”

“John, I’ve been told all about your heroics. We are all grateful for the service you rendered to the Empire today.”

“I was just doing my job, your excellency.”

Theophanes smiled, “Indeed.”

With a knowing nod, the Protovestiarios returned to the head of the table.

“Gentlemen, the Rus are upon us. As you are all aware the fleet remains in the Cyclades and the army in the East. We can’t expect any aid for some time. Even with the attack on the city today, I am not authorizing the removal of Thracian garrisons. They will be vulnerable on the road and removing them will leave those towns utterly defenseless. Are there any objections?”

The men stood around the table in silence, as they shifted I could see a large map of the city and its surroundings spread across the table.

“Good, the Rus returned to Chrysopolis after their attack. We suspect they will use the port as a base of operations for future attacks on the city itself. We also believe their forces are still regrouping after plundering Bithynia. It will take some time for them to all gather in Chrysopolis, and then they will lay siege to the city.”

The men nodded and Andronikos grunted in agreement. 

“I am expecting them to land at Sycae and try to move their monoxyla into the Golden Horn. Your fathers remember the success of this strategy and so do theirs.”

“Sir,” a man at the table interjected, “I went to Kontoskalion today. Every dromon left in the city burned there. If the enemy is going to pull their boats into the Golden Horn, we have nothing to oppose them with.”

“And there is our predicament, gentlemen. Civilian craft can’t offer any real resistance and once the Rus enter the Golden Horn we will have to defend the entire circuit of the walls with extreme vigilance.”

“Your excellency, how many soldiers are in the city?”

“All together, just under 3,000. If we include the militia we can most likely put 15,000 men under arms.”

“How many Rus are there?”

“Today the men on the walls counted 478 ships. We believe roughly 18,000 are already at Chrysopolis, most of the fleet has not arrived yet. Some refugees have claimed they saw no less than 1,000 ships on the move in Bithynia.”

The room erupted into nervous murmuring.

“The Greens will fight, my boys will do what they have to,” a man in a green cloak responded.

“The Blues will do the same,” another answered.

Theophanes nodded solemnly and turned to a man at his right.

“Manuel, ensure the armories are open in the morning to distribute arms. I want 2,000 of your best men to get armed and ready to fight. In the morning, I want Sycae burned and the citizens brought into the city. Double the men on guard duty. When they climb onto the walls we fight like demons. Pray that we hold long enough for Kourkouas to return.”

Some of the men began to shake their heads, recognizing the futility of the situation. 15,000 men, mostly militia, outnumbered two-to-one by the ferocious Rus. My friends had talked about the savagery of the Rus during the Italian Campaign some years ago, and now I had witnessed first-hand their prowess in battle. If the Rus approached the walls in their full numbers they would overwhelm the thinly stretched defenders and take Constantinople.

“Your excellency, if I may,” I started.

Andronikos shot me a quizzical look.

“Yes, John?”

“I think there might be another way to defeat them.”

“I’m open to any ideas.”

“The Rus know we are caught off guard. The ones I met in the harbor were brash, they think we are just waiting for them to walk in. They believe we are defenseless and will relax their guard.”

“Yes, yes, but what is your plan?”

“Sir, a few weeks ago some old chelandion were brought to the Harbor of Eleutherios. I remember talking to some sailors there that said they were going to be sold or scrapped. Why don’t we repair the ships and put some Greek Fire on them? The Rus will see it as an easy victory and try to capture the ships, when they get close we can torch their fleet. Even if we lose the ships they will be more wary in their assaults and it could buy us the time we need until Kourkouas arrives.” 

Andronikos nodded approvingly and murmuring broke out among the men. Theophanes stroked his bare chin pensively. After a moment the Protovestiarios raised his hand and the room fell silent.

“This plan could work. John, I want you to lead this.”

I was stunned.

“Go to the harbor at sunrise. I will have my men meet you there. I will speak to the Demes and Domestikos later to determine who will sail. Dismissed.”

With a curt nod, Theophanes exited the room followed by the other palace officials.

“Sounds like you have your work cut out for you,” Andronikos laughed.

*

The docks were bustling the next day. Plenty of soldiers stood on the walls that enclosed the harbor, offering better protection than the mole at the Kontoskelion. Hundreds of sailors milled about chatting and waiting for the foremen to give them the tasks for the day. A short man in a white tunic smeared with pitch strode down the creaking docks and up to me.

“You! John!” The man shouted and pointed a stubby finger at me.

“Yes?”

“You crazy bastard!”

The man clapped me on the back.

“You’re a mad genius!”

I opened my mouth to speak.

“How impolite of me, my name is Demetrius. I’m the captain of the Imperial Flotilla, well until you got me reassigned to where the excitement is, eh?”

Demetrius gestured to a gaunt man behind him.

“This is Anastasius. The Fylakas tis Fotias, Guardian of the Fire. He’s a first rate magician, runs the shop that makes all the Greek Fire.”

“It is not magic, it is chemistry. Although I would not expect you to know the difference,” Anastasius replied monotonically.

“Whatever it is, you keep it far away from me,” Demetrius shot back.

“Anastasius, what kind of equipment do you have on hand?” I asked.

“Plenty of braziers, siphons, pumps, bellows, cauldrons, enough liquid to set fire to the whole Marmara.”

“How many ships could you outfit?”

“I count fifteen here. There is enough for one siphon on the fore, aft, and either side of each ship.”

“How long will it take?”

“Three days. I have twenty siphōnarioi on hand to teach and operate the equipment.”

“Excellent. Demetrius, can you have the ships ready in three days?”

Demetrius took a long look at the sagging ships in the harbor. Splintered masts and rotted planks made for a sorry sight.

“I’ll need every carpenter in the city and as many sailors as you can chase out of the taverna… but if my men have wine and pay they’ll make these hulks seaworthy in no time.”

“Your men will have whatever they need.”

Demetrius smiled and laughed heartily. Anastasius remained as uninterested as he had been at the beginning of our conversation.

Demetrius clapped my shoulder again and started gruffly barking orders to the men on the docks. Anastasius retreated from the chaotic scene to collect his men and equipment. 

Constantinople was electrified by the activity in the harbor. Men and carts brought wood, nails, wool sails, ropes, charcoal, bellows, bronze vats, tubes, and pumps. Day and night men could be heard hammering and yelling at one another, the whole scene lit by torchlight. In the ruined Kontoskelion, Anastasius trained his recruits in the science of Fire, their flames danced across the water and emitted a glow that could be seen from most of Constantinople.

On the evening of the third day, the ships were nearing completion. Oars were placed in their locks and bronze vats and siphons hooked together on the decks. I took a walk along the walls to clear my mind. The next day, we would sail across the Bosphorus and offer battle.

I walked on the southern sea walls and back to my old post. I passed The Arsenal and climbed up to the tower that overlooked the small harbor of the Boukoleon Palace. Leo was leaning against the parapets and turned to see who was coming up the stairs.

“Hey, John.”

“Hey.”

I leaned against the battlements next to him and watched the Rus ships sail about the calm waters. 

“My men counted 814 ships today, there is a steady stream of them from the north. Last night a few of them sailed by the walls and taunted the guards, threw a few spears at my men too. That really shook the boys up.”

“They held their own in the harbor. I trust they’ll do the same tomorrow,” I responded. 

Leo nodded, “There sure are plenty of volunteers. I’ve heard you started turning men away.”

“I did.”

“Let me come.”

“I can’t, I need you on the walls. If we don’t return, the city needs competent soldiers to lead its defense.”

Leo looked back over the darkening water.

“If you win this thing, you have to promise to never let Bardas and Nikephoros hear the last of it.”

“Of course,” I laughed.

“And!” Leo raised a finger, “ You have to wingman me at Nicholas’s taverna. Having a war hero in my corner might finally get Ariadne to take me seriously.”

“I doubt she would do that.”

“Why not?”

“There are some things even a hero can’t fix, your love life is one of them.”

Leo punched me in the shoulder.

“Shut up.”

*

I couldn’t sleep that night. The Rus warrior I had stabbed haunted my thoughts. I saw his face contorted in rage and winced at the thought of his ax sinking deep into my skull, his spear ripping my gut open, dreading the searing pain of mangled flesh. 

Before dawn I walked the deserted streets of the city. If we failed, tonight they could be running with blood, the statues toppled and homes consumed by flames. After donning the sturdy iron helmet and lamellar Andronikos gave me, I made my way to the harbor. The ships bustled with silent activity, the tension of what lay ahead giving each man reason for personal reflection. The ships rolled in the gray dawn and after checking to ensure everything was ready, I walked onto the deck and signaled to Demetrius. The drums beat rhythmically and the oarsmen strained in time, the ships lurching out of the harbor and into the calm sea.

“God is with us,” Anastasius said, “Look at how calm the Marmara is. It’s perfect for our Fire.”

I nodded and looked out across the smooth water.

It did not take long for the Rus to take notice of us, and monoxyla soon began paddling into the open water. Anastasius had recommended we spread the fleet out to maximize the effectiveness of the Greek Fire and so the ships fanned out loosely as we rowed toward the charred remains of Chrysopolis. Demetrius busied himself with the oarsmen.

“You row like a bunch of nuns! Faster! There will be plenty of time for lounging tonight. I’m looking forward to a jug of wine, a girl on my arm, and a Rus scalp in my hand!”

Some of the oarsmen chuckled.

Anastasius watched carefully as the braziers were lit and the liquid heated, teams of two men pumped bellows to stoke the fire ever hotter. I dared not ask how the contraption worked, or what the liquid was, I knew Anastasius wouldn’t tell, even if his life depended on it.

The men on the decks were an eclectic mix of Demes militiamen and my Numeroi. All looked anxiously toward the rising Sun and the growing mass of ships making their way towards us.

I said a silent prayer to the Theotokos, beseeching her to protect my men and my city. The war cries of the Rus carried over the water, chilling shrills and unnatural sounds to make hair stand straight.

Soon I could make out the individual men on the monoxyla. Many Rus were disheveled and seemed groggy with last night’s drink. A sliver of hope grew in me, we had surprised them.

“Romans! Today we have a chance to send these barbarians to the bottom of the Marmara! Don’t let a single one on the decks! Give them a taste of the Hell Fire in store for pagans!”

The men cheered and arrows and javelins began to thud against the sides of the ship. I could see the other ships similarly engaged, swarms of monoxyla of all sizes bumping against their prows and Rus warriors tangled in their oars.

In the distance I could see the larger Rus ships making their way towards us with sails taunt in the morning breeze. The Rus were keen on destroying us and had committed their entire fleet to do so.

“Remember! Do not light the fire until you have my command!” Anastasius scolded his siphōnarioi as they lit a wick in front of the siphon.

“Yes, sir.”

Men began climbing out of the monoxyla and onto our ships. Our soldiers speared them as they scaled the planks or lopped off hands and arms that cling to the gunwale. Slowly, the men tired. A stray javelin or arrow would pick off a man every now and then and soon Rus warriors were able to pull themselves up over the gunwale, swinging furiously with axe and sword.

“Release!” Anastasius bellowed.

I looked to the prow of the ship. One man pumped a bronze tube furiously and another turned a valve under the siphon and slung the contraption toward the nearest monoxylon. A jet of liquid ignited at the wick placed at the mouth of the tube and transformed into a roaring flame. The monoxylon was immediately engulfed and men jumped from it screaming in agony. The melting men found no relief in the sea, such were the properties of Greek Fire that it burned on top of the water.

“Aim farther away from the ship unless you want to share their fate!” Anastasius hissed to the siphōnarioi.

I looked around at the sea. Chaos had broken out. The fire was spreading across the water and reaching other boats full of horrified men. Jets of fire spewed out of every one of our vessels in all directions, orange rays of morning sunlight dancing on the water between the flames.

This development had broken the men in canoes and those who were not burning fled toward Chrysopolis. No such trepidation had touched the Rus ships. They cut swiftly through the water toward us, overturning monoxyla in their wake. As they approached, I could see symbols painted onto their sails. Ravens, coiled sea serpents, oxen, wolves. The largest ship bore down on us, the great blue trident on its white sail growing swiftly.

“Anastasius, look!”

I pointed at the ship making for us.

Anastasius sprung into action.

“Spray a wall of fire in front of the prow! Make them think twice!”

The siphōnarioi pumped furiously and great spurts of fire blanketed the sea in front of us. The ship shimmered in the haze of the fires and cut right through, undaunted.

“Brace!” 

The ship smashed into our starboard side and splinters of the gunwale went flying. Men tumbled across the deck and others hugged the mast or railing. Rus warriors poured over the dragon-headed prow of their ship. Huge, blonde men wearing chain mail and swinging axes and swords in a frenzy. Some wore helmets with chain mail curtains hanging from their eye openings. 

“With me!”

I led my men into the fray and fought desperately to keep the enemies from spilling across the deck and attacking the siphōnarioi or the oarsmen below. The way that the Rus ship had hit ours had knocked over the brazier on the prow and the pump had been bent beyond repair, preventing us from pouring fire onto our fearless attackers.

The Rus fought with reckless abandon, axes cleaving shields and caving in skulls. I caught an axe swing on the boss of my shield and sunk my spatha into the man’s neck. The man slid off my sword, limp. The next man slammed into me with his shield and I felt his sword scrap against my helmet. I fell to one knee as I stumbled. The warrior swung his sword down on me and I caught it with the rim of my shield. With my shield now above my head I could see the warrior’s exposed legs and slashed at his right knee, mangling his leg. The man screamed as he collapsed on the ground, one of my comrades swiftly finishing him with a spear thrust through his eye. 

I looked up from the fighting on the deck and took in the battle around us. The Rus were in retreat, monoxyla collided with one another as they paddled furiously to shore. Men burned on the boats and in the water, many sunk quickly under the waves, weighed down by their armor. Hundreds of ships of all sizes burned and Greek Fire floated in great patches, making it seem like the sea itself was made of fire. 

My attention was brought back to the battle by a man roaring as he jumped from the dragon prow of the Rus ship and onto our deck. The firelight made the warrior’s armor shimmer. The mysterious man wore a cuirass of iron lamellar over his chainmail. The warrior wore an iron helmet gilded with a golden snake that slithered from the top of the helmet down to form the nasal guard. The warrior’s axe flashed behind his head and then into the shoulder of a militiaman. The axe embedded itself deep in the unlucky man’s chest and he fell silently on the blood-slick deck. After removing the axe from his victim the warrior limped forward and looked at me. Beneath his short beard I saw his scarred face. The warrior must have recognized me as well and shouted something at his men before limping toward me, swinging his axe idly, making the air gasp with his powerful strokes. As the warrior swung within reach of me, I quickly caught his axe on the boss of my shield, and pushed within his reach. I slashed my spatha against his chest but my sword only rasped against his formidable armor. The warrior hit me in the face with the butt of his axe and I stumbled backwards.

My world shrunk to the four feet between the giant warrior and I. I caught blow after blow on my shield, all of my attention trained on the gleaming axe as it swung back and forth. I could feel my arm growing limp and the bruised flesh of my shield arm grew tender. I swiped at the warrior's face with my spatha but he caught my sword with the staff of his axe. I was tiring and knew I needed to end this quickly, or else one of the warrior’s strokes would get past my shield and kill me. I watched the warrior swing his axe over his head, confident that I was defenseless after my failed swing at his face. Without thinking I put my left arm up and caught the axe on the iron rim of my shield. The axe split the shield to the iron boss where my arm was, but the warrior could not remove it from the wood. I swiftly jumped back and fell on the deck, ripping the axe out of the man’s hands. I discarded my shield and slashed my spatha at the warrior. 

My spatha slid off the warriors iron bracers he had deftly raised in front of his face. The warrior backed up out of my reach and his retinue brought their shields around him. I looked around the deck of the ship and saw Rus and Roman bodies tangled on the planks, the militiamen and my Numeroi had repulsed the attackers after both sides had taken heavy losses. The Rus formed a shieldwall on the prow and the scarred warrior leapt onto the gunwale and back to his ship without a glance. As the Rus filed off the ship one-by-one, some of my men threw javelins or shot arrows at the cluster of warriors to little effect. After the last Rus warrior dove into his ship, it began pulling away from us, the oars splashed among fire, bodies, charred monoxyla, and flotsam. 

I looked out over the water and our ships remained afloat, still spurting fire at the retreating Rus. Some Rus warriors had surrendered in their boats and were being pulled aboard. I turned around and looked toward my battered men. Their exhausted faces smiled weakly, limp arms turned their weapons down to the blood-soaked deck. Oarsmen hugged their poles, bare backs heaving from the morning’s exertion.

I raised my spatha above my head, the red blade glistened in the morning Sun’s rays.

“Nika!”

The men erupted in a triumphant reply.

“Nika! Nika! Nika!”

Postscript:

This is a fictional account of the Rus-Byzantine War of 941 AD. One of the largest conflicts between the two states, the Rus attack on Constantinople is famous for the ingenuity of the Byzantine defense. Theophanes used 15 retired galleys outfitted with Greek Fire to beat back the Rus army and prevent the fall of the city. I have relied on the accounts of Liutprand of Cremona, John Skylitzes’s Synopsis of History, and the Russian Primary Chronicle as sources for the siege. Although the story draws inspiration from the siege, there are elements of fiction to fill in the gaps in the historical record. Despite my inventions, I have tried to keep the story within the realm of the plausible while crafting a compelling narrative. I hope you’ve enjoyed this short venture into the Byzantine World, thank you for reading!

Translations:

Chelandion = A Byzantine galley commonly used as a naval cargo transport.

Demes = Once associated with the chariot-racing factions of the Hippodrome, the groups served as functionaries for public services, festivals, spectacles, and Constantinople’s militia.

Dromon = War Galley, the standard ship of the Byzantine Navy.

Domestikos = “Of The Household,” a high-ranking official. The commander of a military regiment, Tagma, such as the Noumeroi.

Excubitores = The second-most renown tagma. Originally an imperial bodyguard, the unit degenerated into a parade organization that rarely left Constantintople until reformed into an elite military organization by Constantine V in the early 8th century, returning to its roots as the Emperor’s bodyguard.

Fylakas tis Fotias = The title of the expert in charge of production, training, and utilization of Greek Fire. This is a position that I have invented in absence of historical documentation surrounding the men who guarded and used this state secret.

Harbor of Eleutherios = A large, walled harbor on the southern shore of Constantinople. 

Kontoskalion = A small harbor on the southern shore of Constantinople. 

Monoxyla = Dug-out canoes used by the Rus. Made by the Slavic tribes of Eastern Europe, many were up to 20 meters in length and could carry a crew of 40 men.

Nika = Victory, Conquers. Famously used as the chant of the Nika riots in 532 AD against the Emperor Justinian. Also used in ‘IC XC NIKA’ or Jesus Christ Conquers, a popular Christogram in the Orthodox Church.

Numeroi = The regiment in charge of the defense of Constantinople’s walls, prisons, and other important sites. The regiment was a professional corps of infantry and never left the city.

Protovestiarios = The Emperor’s Chamberlain. Reserved for eunuchs, this high-ranking court position conferred great power.

Portarion = Door or Gate-Keeper. A rank in the Numeroi used for those that held rank in the prisons and gates of Constantinople. 

Scholai =  Elite army regiment established by Constantine the Great. The oldest and most renown of the Tagmata, the commander of the Scholai would command the army in the absence of the Emperor or his appointee. 

Saint Mamas = A monastery in the southwestern corner of Constantinople. A Rus merchant colony existed here.

Siphōnarioi = Trained men who operated the Greek Fire equipment.

Spatha = A straight, one-handed sword that was the standard weapon of Byzantine soldiers.

Taverna = Tavern

Tribouno = Tribune, a high-ranking officer in the Noumeroi.

Pictures:

Illustration of Greek Fire in the Synopsis Of History