Strategos: Born in the Borderlands (11 page)

***

Petzeas’ story of his eldest son’s first attempts to harvest the honey from his hives was entertaining in its delivery if a little stale by the third time of its telling, but Apion enjoyed the ferry crossing regardless. He munched on the bread loaf Petzeas had on board for his passengers to enjoy, watching the waters of the Lykos shimmering all around them while the ferryman operated the tiller and his sons, Isaac and Maro, rowed on either side of the ferry. The flat-bottomed vessel held the wagon, wheels fixed with wooden blocks, the horses, with sacks over their heads to keep them calm, and the six passengers and crew with ample room to spare. A squat timber ridge around the sides added stability to the craft and prevented items rolling off.

The soldier, whose mood had lightened, slurred an introduction as Tarsites, then happily accepted a chunk of bread from Apion. Then, after roaring at Petzeas’ first rendition of the hive story, Tarsites toppled into a dead man’s sleep, his snoring almost drowning out the rush of the rapids. After that, the ferryman’s tone had grown bitter as he told of the brigands who had been operating in the forest but had recently turned to flexing their muscle near the riverbank.

‘Damned parasites! That’s what they are, wriggling like maggots on the body of their own empire! I tell you, if I was twenty years younger and I still had my skutatoi armour . . . ’

‘Maybe you should leave that to your boys, Petzeas?’ Mansur mused while the two sons carried on rowing regardless. ‘They are of age to serve in the thema within the next few years, are they not?’

‘They are. I worry for them as they are of the age where young men die on the sword easily. Yet I worry that if they stay here the parasites will see them as some kind of threat.’

‘Whatever happens, you should feel safe here. You’re providing a service to the empire, so,’ he glanced over to the slumbering form of Tarsites and cocked an eyebrow, ‘the empire should protect you.’

Petzeas issued a deep throaty sigh. ‘Aye but we both know what direction this empire is heading in. Like an ancient candle guttering its last.’

His tone sent a shiver over Apion’s skin.

They docked on the opposite bank and Petzeas waived payment, insisting that Mansur could settle with him on the return journey. With that, they set off again, down the track that clung to the southern banks of the Lykos. Some distance later, Apion wondered at Mansur’s ease in what was effectively a foreign land. He lived as a citizen of Byzantium, had friends in this empire of his one-time enemies, spoke fluent Greek – more fluent than some of the natives, he mused, eyeing Tarsites, who now sat wedged between Mansur and he, twitching and grunting happily in some inebriate fantasy dream. Indeed, if Mansur had not been able to speak Greek to the man, blood would surely have been spilled.

Later that day, they dropped Tarsites by the roadside. The man was weary but an altogether more pleasant character without wine in his blood.

‘I can only apologise for my behaviour . . . before.’ He patted his wineskin and raised his eyebrows. ‘I normally don’t touch the stuff; I just carry it so I can use it for barter.’ He turned to Mansur. ‘How can I repay you, farmer?’ He rummaged in the purse hanging from his belt.

Mansur raised a hand in refusal. ‘Those roads are part of your empire. They need to be policed. If you could lobby your commander on that front, it’d be appreciated. It’d see old Petzeas and I at ease.’

The soldier cast them a weary but genuine grin in return. ‘Couldn’t agree more, I’ll see what I can do.’ With that, he set off to his hilltop fort, one of the few with iron speartips and Byzantine crimson Chi-Rho banners adorning the battlements.

‘Don’t you fear they might take you up on that suggestion?’ Apion asked as they set off again. ‘The last thing we need is another Bracchus and Vadim.’

‘As I said, that is the nature of a soldier far from the front line, and better a corrupt Byzantine than a cutthroat brigand.’

They rode on until the sun turned a tired orange, dipping below the horizon. It was a clear and fine night when they pulled over at a small brook running by the roadside and into the river, leaving Cheriana within an easy ride in the morning. They set up a fire by the wagon as the land dimmed and the navy blue of the twilight sky yawned over them, sparkling with stars. Apion’s energy levels were low after such a long day and the gathering of the kindling was enough to make him think of sleep. But first, Mansur insisted, they would eat and then sleep better on a full belly. So they prepared a meal of cheese on toasted bread, followed by figs with honey for dipping.

Apion sipped his skin of stream water, watching Mansur in the firelight as the old man examined the stars to the east, his eyes distant. ‘Why did you come to live in Byzantine lands?’

Mansur blinked, hesitated, then gave a wry chuckle. ‘For a fresh start, lad. At least that was the plan.’

Apion thought of all Maria had told him of the attack on Mansur and Kutalmish’s caravan. A fresh start ended in the most harrowing manner. He hoped one day the old man would want to talk about it with him. ‘I think you were incredibly brave to come here. Every time you face a man like Bracchus, or Tarsites – before we calmed him – do you not crave to be where you are not a stranger in a foreign land?’

‘To feel like a stranger in a foreign land, a man must first have a place he can call home, in order to miss it.’

‘You don’t miss the east?’

‘In ways, yes, perhaps I miss the east as it was when I was a boy, but not the east as it is now. I became tired of the constant warfare and bloodshed.’ His eyes hung on the fire. ‘The Seljuk people have become something alien to me; in many ways they are as belligerent and power-hungry as the Byzantines whose land they crave. No offence intended,’ he winked.

Apion smiled. ‘What was it like when you were a boy?’

‘We were a simple people. Born on the steppe, living our lives on horseback, hunting in the tall grass of the infinite plains, riding in the surf of the Aral Sea. Simple pleasures still held for us then: returning to the yurts of the tribe at night with the spoils of the hunt. I remember that vividly; in the saddle with my father, the women and younger children rushing to greet us, their faces bright with joy at our return.’

‘Why did it all change?’

‘Even then it was changing, lad. The tribes were living in the old way but they were being united, for the first time, to act as one people, one military.’

‘By Tugrul?’ Apion leaned in over the fire. The name of the Seljuk Sultan had been spat like a poisoned grape by the drunks at the inn where he served as a slave, but behind their merry hubris, fear had laced their words. Tugrul, the
Falcon
, the warlord who had harnessed ancient Persia and all the peripheral kingdoms, was coming to topple Byzantium.

Mansur shook his head. ‘No, it was Tugrul’s father and the elders of the tribes who started the push for unity. Tugrul was a boy, just a little older than me, at this time. He has grown to lead them now on their incessant hunt for glory.’

‘Did you ever fight under Tugrul’s banner?’

Mansur looked off to the east again instead of returning Apion’s engrossed stare. ‘I was a Seljuk boy who grew up with a mantra to seek glory in the name of Allah. I served my time in the ranks while Tugrul rose to power. I saw what it did to him; he became a great and lethal leader, but a bitter and troubled man. I could feel the same thing happening to me. Coming west was my attempt to leave all that behind.’

Apion nodded and wondered at the corpulent old man sat across from him now, anything but soldierly. ‘You did a fine job of talking Tarsites round. I was terrified that he was going to strike you. We had no weapons to attack him with.’

‘Even if we did, Apion, Tarsites was not looking for blood; he was looking for help. A desperate soldier on the road, on his own without food or water. I could see the good-hearted and articulate man inside the drunk that swayed before us. The answer does not always lie with the sword and today was a prime example of that.’

Apion nodded, then eyed his scarred leg. Perhaps if he ever found himself confronted by a trouble-minded Seljuk, diplomacy could be his only real option. ‘You said you would teach me, Mansur?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Mansur cocked an eyebrow wearily.

‘Then teach me to speak the Seljuk tongue,’ Apion asked.

Mansur grinned at this, then pulled his cap over his eyes, lay back and sighed. ‘Tomorrow, lad. We’ll start tomorrow.’

Apion rolled over onto his side. He untied and kissed the prayer rope and mouthed the Prayer of the Heart, searching for an image of Mother and Father.

***

After a long day of trading and a welcome night’s sleep at the inn, they were ready to leave Cheriana. The wagon was so full that the wheels groaned as they turned around in the market square under the shadow of the town church’s red-tiled dome.

‘She’s good to go!’ Mansur nodded, watching as Apion drove the horses forward just a little. Then he pulled himself onto the drivers berth with a groan.

Apion lightly whipped the horses and the wagon moved off. The townsfolk meandered casually, only steps away from the wagon. Then, with a chorus of squealing, two pigs scuttled loose from their owner and barged across the road. Apion’s heart leapt as both wagon horses tensed and then reared up, whinnying in terror.

‘Whoa!’ Mansur grabbed the reins from him. ‘Easy there!’ He cried and then reached forward to pat each of their flanks. ‘One of the reasons we don’t have pigs on the farm, the horses are terrified of them – terrified!’ He looked to Apion. ‘Almost comical when you think about it, eh?’

They set off again and the wagon settled into a rhythm and he took one last look around the town as they left. The place was walled with a rudimentary wooden palisade, the original stone walls of the town having fallen into terminal disrepair. The place was about a quarter the size of Trebizond, he reckoned. Apart from the wide main thoroughfare from the entrance gate to the market square, the dusty streets were narrow and the buildings closely packed, none more than two storeys high and most looking very makeshift in their construction. The people were a mixed bag: mainly Byzantines but also tall Slavs, charcoal-skinned Africans and pale westerners punctuating the crowd. All these cultures seemed to blend into the market environment as one people, but Apion had noticed a distinctly frosty attitude towards Mansur as he had bartered. Mansur always spoke to the traders in a warm but assertive tone, much as he had done with Tarsites, and the underlying hostility of the traders never surfaced because of this. He grinned, reciting the words of a simple greeting in Seljuk that Mansur had taught him that morning as they rode into town. Then a voice barked in front of them.

‘Halt!’

Apion yanked on the reins, startled. Two skutatoi stood either side of the gate, their spears raised, faces twisted.

‘Your business?’ The first sneered.

Apion looked to Mansur, eyes wide. On entering the town it had been just after dawn and the night guards were weary. Now they were clearly spoiling for trouble.

Mansur replied to the guards. ‘Trade; tools and oil,’ he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to the wagon cabin.

The guard scrutinised him. ‘Your kind ain’t welcome here, you’ve been told before. Now go.’

Face straight, Mansur nodded to Apion to whip the horses onwards.

As they rode clear of the town, the throngs of traders on foot and on horseback thinned, but Apion was still troubled by the confrontation with the guards. ‘Don’t they realise you are a citizen? Farming, paying taxes to the Empire?’ He asked Mansur.

‘If they sat down and thought about it they might realise that, lad. But no, they see a Seljuk and they hate me.’

***

It was nearing the end of the day when they reached Petzeas’ ferry crossing again. Mansur reckoned they could get across and bite another few miles from their journey home before it would become too dark. Apion had agreed, despite his rumbling gut demanding that they stop to camp and eat sooner.