Strategos: Born in the Borderlands (17 page)

Apion parried again but now his vision was spotting over, his strength sapped by his weak leg, and he could see Kyros readying to strike at his unprotected back.

Then a whinny pierced the air.

In the gaps between the two big men smashing at him, Apion saw a stallion racing for the melee, a veiled and capped rider flat in the saddle.

‘One of you, turn!’ Kyros rasped, eyes widening at the newcomer, but before either of the big men could spin around, the stallion wheeled past them, the rider swiping a sword across the back of one. The stricken man fell, screaming, a section of white bone and pink lung visible in his cleaved back; he shuddered, blood haemorrhaging from his nose and mouth and then he was still. At this the melee broke apart and Apion hobbled from the riverbank, gasping for breath, readying himself for the next attack, eyes darting from the last big man to Kyros.

As the rider circled to come back, Apion could see the doubt ripple across Kyros’ face. ‘Now it is you who should pray for a quick death, old man.’

Kyros set his face into a grimace again, then lunged forward. Apion readied his scimitar to parry once more but the old man slid onto one knee and stuck his other foot forward to kick into Apion’s crutch, the wood snapping instantly. Apion felt his own weight pull on him like an anvil and his scarred leg trembled and then buckled. Prone, he saw the big man and Kyros rush for him. He lashed out with his scimitar but the big man smashed his sword down, swatting the curved blade from Apion’s hand.

‘Gut him!’ Kyros snarled, darting a glance back to the approaching rider. ‘The horseman’s not going to save you this time, cripple!’

The big man raised his sword over his head and roared as he hammered it down. Apion felt only sadness at that moment, wishing he could say goodbye to those he loved and had let down. He closed his eyes and heard the whirring of a sling, a thwack and then a gurgling and a thud of something large hitting the ground. He opened his eyes: the last of Kyros’ thugs lay shuddering in the grass, a rock embedded in his temple, grey matter and blood sputtering from the wound.

Kyros froze momentarily, then turned and leapt on top of Apion, pushing the dagger down for his heart. The old man was more powerful than he looked, and all the strength in Apion’s arms was not enough to resist as the blade pierced his tunic and dug into his flesh. He roared as it ground against his ribcage, splintering the bone. He summoned his failing strength to smash his head forward, his jutting brow crashing into Kyros’ nose. With a crack of cartilage and a yowl, Kyros relaxed his grip on the dagger momentarily. Apion grappled for the blade and turned it on Kyros, pushing the old crook onto his back, but Kyros held the blade back, his slight frame belying his strength for what seemed like an eternity until, suddenly, there was a crunch of iron piercing bone and a warm wash engulfed Apion as the blade sunk into the little man’s chest.

‘You’ve just signed your own death warrant, boy,’ Kyros hissed, grinning maniacally, teeth flooding with blood. With that, the life left the man, his eyes growing distant as his body stilled. Apion scrambled back, panting, staring at the dagger, embedded up to the hilt in the old man’s chest.

Apion checked himself. He was drenched in blood with cuts to his ribs, cheek and arms, but there were no mortal wounds. The rider slowed to a trot and stopped beside him. Apion, shivering, looked up as the rider dismounted. He recognised the stallion and the sling, then looked up to the veiled rider’s eyes

‘You saved me again, Nasir.’ Apion said.

Nasir removed the veil from his face, his expression cold as usual. ‘Maria asked me to follow you. She knew you were up to something and was worried for you.’

‘Still, you risked your life for me.’

Nasir’s face finally fell with a sigh of relief. ‘What were you doing, Apion? Chasing these Byzantine Agentes?’ He slid from his mount and crouched next to Apion and handed him a water skin. ‘Why do you pursue this? You said it to me yourself, you have a loving family. Do you know how hurt they would be if you were killed today? And do you know how much you have upset them with this insane quest?’

Apion nodded, holding the boy’s gaze. ‘I thought I was only a step away from having vengeance for what happened to my parents, Nasir. You must understand how that would feel.’

Nasir looked guarded momentarily.

‘Maria has told me, not in any detail, but I know you lost your mother to the sword.’

Nasir nodded, glancing away as his eyes glassed over.

‘But then I met someone today. She talked to me about choosing a path.’

Nasir frowned but nodded.

‘Now I realise that I will never find the truth I seek. There will be no happy resolution. So I have chosen my path.’ He glanced around the corpses that surrounded them. ‘I am leaving all this behind. My family is what matters.’

Nasir smiled at him. It was the first time the boy had done so in all the time he had been at Mansur’s farm. ‘I never thought I would say this, Byzantine, but for once, we agree!’

Apion smiled back then spat on his hand and held it out. ‘I owe you my life. Not just for today. I will be there for you when you need my help. That’s something my mother taught me and that’s the best way I can honour my parents.’

‘I’ll watch out for you too. Until we’re both dust?’ Nasir cocked an eyebrow.

‘Until we’re both dust,’ Apion nodded.

The pair clasped hands, grinning.

***

A spark of hope touches my soul as I see the two boys, vowing to pursue a life of virtue, but that spark is quickly snuffed out as I see what is to come: Apion will learn to live in the coming years, but the dark future will find him, then fate will be served.

Part 2: 1053 AD

11.
The Creaking of the Door

Six more winters passed over Anatolia, each one as bitter as the summers were unforgivingly hot. Five years ago, Tugrul had marched his hordes west and hammered against a staunch resistance from a combined force of the Scholae Tagma, Cydones’ Chaldian Thema and the Armenian themata, led by their loyal princes. Tugrul was stopped but certainly not defeated, yet a deal was struck to put in place a truce. All had been quiet for the next four years with fewer and fewer ghazi raids. Then rumours started of a rejuvenated Seljuk war machine. Far to the east, Tugrul had swamped the lands of old Persia, revitalising the ancient cities and studding the landscape with garrisoned forts. All the armies of the Abbasid Caliphate, once bitterly opposed to Sultan Tugrul’s expediency, were now under his control. The
Falcon
was now at the helm of an army more numerous than the world had seen in centuries, and people said that now he looked east to Byzantium and south to the Fatimid Caliphate of Egypt, weighing the ripeness of each like fruit.

Then, as the harsh winter set in again, official word spread across Byzantium like a blizzard:
Emperor Constantine Monomachus
had seen prudence in effectively disbanding the Armenian themata, the loyal buffer states that had patrolled the eastern lip of the Byzantine Empire throughout the truce. Fifty thousand loyal men at once became estranged to Byzantium. Tugrul’s decision was made for him: The
Falcon
was set to march on Byzantium and take his glory.

***

High up on the narrow cliff path, sat on the wagon, a winter wind whipped around Apion’s legs, even through the woollen leggings he had bought at market. He lifted the extra cloak and placed it around Maria’s shoulders.

‘I’m fine!’ she grumbled. The wagon horses spluttered in a supporting chorus of agitation.

He replaced the garment with a cocked eyebrow and then drew his own cloak tighter. Then he turned back to the problem: an obstinate rock filled the road, smugly insisting that they turn back. The earthquake had felt little more than a tremor a days’ ride downriver in Cheriana, but up here, he could see the countryside littered with new features: chasms, landslides and rockfall like this. Nevertheless, in Maria’s eyes their predicament was his fault for trying this new shortcut. He hopped down onto the road, wincing as the iron brace around his knee bit at his scar.

The crutch had been like a living limb to him for that first year at Mansur’s farm but as his body developed, growing muscular and lean from his riding and swordplay, his scarred leg remained withered and underdeveloped, as if trapped in time. Eventually, the crutch had become a burden and another solution was required. So, five years ago, Mansur had paid a blacksmith in Cheriana to smelt a mail vest and use it to mould a brace to the shape of Apion’s knee. The result had been revitalising. Although he was still stooped to one side, slow and easily tired, he could walk without the aid of the crutch and for that he was eternally grateful to the old man.

And much else had changed for Apion in those years since he had discarded the crutch. Now in his eighteenth year, he had grown broad in the jaw and shoulders, his pleated amber locks draped down his back and the wispy beginnings of a beard had sprouted on his chin. His brow had grown prominent like his father’s, casting his emerald eyes in a permanent shade and his aquiline nose was now even more battered and knotted from his adolescent misadventure. For all the physical changes in his life, Apion was grateful only for the peaceful years he had enjoyed: teasing Maria; indulging in horseplay with Nasir; pushing for that still-elusive shatranj victory over Mansur and relishing his trips around the thema market towns. For this simple and pleasant life he had thanked God every morning and night.

He hobbled over to the rock: the impact of the thing had created a hairline fracture in the surface of the road, marking out a crescent from the base of the rock to the cliff edge and bedding the monolith into the road surface ever so slightly. He sighed: he was an experienced hand at dealing with problems on the roads and working a deal at the markets; his Seljuk tongue was now fluent and if the trader was from the east then a few words of the native tongue usually clinched a healthy discount. But no amount of experience could have prepared him for the comedy of disasters this trip had been: a splintered wheel, a horse with rampant diarrhoea and then a thief in the market inn who stealthily relieved him of his purse while he played shatranj with the innkeeper. Now this; a rocky path with a towering cliff face on one side and a gut-churning plummet on the other. Both he and Maria’s hands were scraped and bruised at their attempts to move the monolith so far without success. The strength of another big lad was just what he needed right now. He thought of his good friend.

Where are you when I need you, Nasir?

It had been a long year since the boy with whom he had shared so many days of play and mischief had upped from Kutalmish’s farmhouse and rode east to enlist with the Seljuk riders. The boy had accepted Apion and shared his will to leave the dark past and the death of his mother behind, but his heart burned with a desire for a slice of the glory that the mighty Tugrul was taking in his relentless push westwards. Invasion was the word on everyone’s lips and the pull of war won, dragging Nasir into its midst.

‘Look, we should loop back and go the other route,’ Maria leant forward, hissing as if to disguise her words from the horses, startling Apion from his thoughts. ‘You’ve gotten nowhere so far,’ she jabbed a finger up at the early afternoon sun, ‘and I don’t fancy being stuck out here when it gets cold and dark.’

A tad melodramatic, Apion thought, gulping back the snarling response he wanted to give. He watched as she cooed soothingly into the horses’ ears, brushing her cheek against their faces. His frustration quelled.

He would never have recognised this girl seven years ago. She was still short, her eyes only level with his shoulders. However, her matted tufts of hair had blossomed into sleek charcoal locks, her chocolate eyes had stretched into a fine almond shape – probably helped by the kohl from market she had begun to line them with – and she now kept her eyebrows plucked to a fine arc. She was not what others might call beautiful but in another sense that he couldn’t quite grasp, she was just that in every way. Over the last few years he had begun to notice how her body moved as she walked, the generous curve of her hips rolling smoothly with each step. So smooth, so soft. An idea sparked in his mind.

‘The oil!’ He yelped.

Maria shot him a disparaging glance. ‘Eh?’

‘The oil will shift it!’ He hobbled around to the rear of the wagon, pulled the door and jabbed a finger at the neat row of amphorae containing freshly pressed olive oil.

‘Or the original route home?’ Maria added stoically, hands on hips.

‘It’d take us the rest of the day; this way will take us half that time.’ He grabbed an amphora and two stakes of wood.

‘Oh, going to do some cooking?’ Maria cooed as he hobbled over to the rock. ‘Why if I’d known I’d have brought a wineskin.’

‘Look, if this doesn’t work we go your way. It won’t take long. Here we go,’ Apion popped the cork and let the amphora tumble over behind the rock, the slick green-tinged liquid coating the ground instantly, breaking around the base of the obstacle. ‘Come on, give me a hand,’ Apion handed her one of the stakes. He wedged the first in under a tiny crevice near the base of the fallen rock. ‘Now you do the same,’ he pointed to a similar crevice a few hand widths along the base. He looked at her as she sighed, lifting the winch as though it was cursed, her nose wrinkling in distaste. Then the savoury tang of olive oil evaporating hit them both at that moment and a rumble pierced the air.

Maria’s face darkened in embarrassment and she clutched her belly. ‘Look, I’m hungry, and this is all your fault, so get on with it.’

Apion grinned. ‘Then let’s get this moved and we’ll be back home and eating in no time.’

She shrugged, muttering, then stabbed the winch into the rock.

‘On three: one, two . . .
three!
’

With a grunt, they pressed down onto the winches to lift the rock by the tiniest distance and at once the oil flooded into the gap.

‘That’s it,’ Apion yelped with the last scraps of air in his lungs, ‘it’s moving!’

The rock reluctantly swivelled on the slick of oil, its weight no longer invincible. Apion ground the stake in and forward, driving at the mass and Maria followed suit. It gathered speed and slipped like soap, silently and without fuss, plummeting over the cliff edge. Apion panted, then stood tall and made to punch the air in victory.

Then, with an almighty crack, the earth shifted under him. He glanced down as the hairline fracture at the edge of the road disintegrated under his feet, rubble tumbling over the cliff edge, pulling him and Maria with it.

‘Apion!’ Maria screamed, flailing.

‘No!’ He lunged to grab her, his hand clasping hers just as her legs slipped from the edge. She shrieked, nails splitting the skin of his forearm. He fell to his knees, clawing at the disintegrating road, but each piece of rock he caught hold of came away in his hand. In desperation, he ripped his dagger free of its sheath and stabbed it into the edge of the track. Maria’s piercing scream abated. They were halted at last.

‘I’ve got you,’ he panted. ‘I’ve got you, now pull up, come on, pull up on my arm.’

Whimpering, Maria clambered up and over Apion, then he hoisted himself up and onto the solid, remaining section of the road.

They sat in silence for a few moments, gasping for air. Time skipped past as they avoided each other’s eyes, limbs throbbing, giddiness ruling their minds, until at last Apion stood up, sheathing his dagger. ‘We did it, we can go home now!’ He panted, grasping Maria’s hand to lift her.

As she rose, she slipped and he steadied her by cupping the small of her back. He felt her warmth, her softness against his chest.

Her face wrinkled. ‘You idiot!’ she spat, her fist crunching into his jaw. ‘You could have killed us both!’

Apion reeled back, metallic blood coating his tongue.

‘Next time, we do it my way.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he groaned. ‘I didn’t think it would . . . ’

‘You didn’t think? Then we agree on something. Now let’s get the road cleared so we can get the wagon over this mess safely.’ She turned from him with a groan and strode over to the horses.

Apion held a hand to his stinging jaw and watched her hips sway.

***

The wagon rumbled into the yard at the front of the farmhouse and Apion’s heart warmed at the sight of the place, the excited clucking of chickens and bleating of goats growing into a crescendo as they slowed. A thick scent of root stew – Mansur’s speciality – curled from the kitchen. The old man had become quite the cook since Apion had taken over the majority of market trips. A bowl of this and a hunk of fresh bread would ease his aches and pains and maybe wash the guilt from his thoughts over the oil idea. He fired a quick sideways glance at Maria, who was still sat, arms folded, lips pursed and staring straight ahead, just as she had the whole way home from the cliff path. He opened his mouth to speak to her when a troubled whinny sounded from the stable.

Apion and Maria shared a confused glance; both of Mansur’s horses were with them, tethered to the wagon.

‘Visitors?’ Apion quizzed, his stomach tightening. He thought of Bracchus and his bull of a sidekick Vadim. Every visit of the pair had seen Mansur hand over a purse of coins. At first Apion had wished for the strategos, Cydones, to call and catch his men in the act. Then, as the extortion had continued unchecked, he felt a sense of shame at standing by as his family was mugged time after time, every exhausting trip to the market towns, every day working the fields counting for little after the vile kataphractos and his mutt had their way. Every area of every thema had just this problem, Mansur insisted, never losing his cool. The irony was that two years ago, the pair had suddenly stopped coming round, just when Apion felt his physique was such that he could stand up to the pair, despite his braced leg. Rumour had it that the two had been promoted to run some border outpost, something that smacked of bribery or some such underhand measure given their corrupt ways and blatant disrespect for the strategos. Whatever the reason, they were gone, or so he had thought.

Then something moved by his side. ‘Maria!’ he hissed, seeing her hop down from the wagon, ignoring him as he knew she would. Apion grimaced, lifting the cloth-wrapped scimitar from behind the bench and sliding down gently onto his brace to go after her.