Strategos: Born in the Borderlands (3 page)

As they stepped out into the full glare of the mid-afternoon sunlight, the bustle of the city enveloped them. The salty tang from the nearby waters of the
Pontus
Euxinus
mixed with the arid, red dust that clouded the air and caught in the throat, thrown up by the throngs of determined citizens and wagons that pressed past the pair and into the market square. All around them was an incessant rabble of shouting traders, barking skutatoi, whinnying horses and cackling drunks. Clusters of verdant green palms and beeches stood fastidiously in the swell of activity, providing precious shade in the wide street between the sturdy structures of the church and the granary. At the end of the street, away from the market square, the baked battlements of the city walls shimmered, punctuated by iron-garbed skutatoi and cotton-armoured
toxotai
bowmen. The boy looked up, eyes glassy. Mansur followed his gaze; towering above all other buildings and the high masts of the warships at the city dock, the Chi-Rho atop the red-tiled church dome pierced the eggshell-blue sky.

Mansur put an arm around him. ‘Come with me, lad,’ he whispered, turning to push back through the crowd towards the south gate. ‘You can trust me . . . and I hope in time you will.’

The boy looked up at him, his emerald eyes meeting Mansur’s at last.

‘I’m Mansur.’ He squatted to be level with the boy, who was already tired from the effort of walking this short distance. ‘So what’s your name, lad?’

The boy licked his lips and pulled in a deep breath before replying.

‘I’m Apion,’ he jolted free of Mansur’s arm, steadying himself on his crutch, eyes searing under his frown. ‘I’m Apion . . . and I am nobody’s slave.’

2.
The Anatolian Highway

‘You okay back there, lad?’ A gravel voice called back from the wagon driver’s berth.

Apion sat in the corner of the cabin, a timber box, closed on all sides with a door on the right. He heard Mansur’s words but his mind remained elsewhere. Early evening sunlight flitted across him through the slats in the wagon roof, illuminating the crimson of long dried blood and red dust from the road crusting his tunic. The wagon sunk and then lurched on a pothole and a streak of white-hot pain burst from his scar, engulfing his leg in an invisible fire. He clutched at his thigh and winced, grimacing through the worst of the pain before slumping back. As the pain subsided, he peered through the slats on the side of the wagon, gazing at the speeding countryside outside, the patchwork of farmhouses and crop squares worked by stooped forms of the soldier-farmers of the thema becoming less frequent as they progressed.

He noticed the landscape grow more uneven on either side of the road and the colour of the land changing as well, the verdant blanket that hugged the northern coast drying out into baked terracotta and gold hillsides, strewn with rocks and dappled with bursts of green shrub, gatherings of lazy palms and shimmering olive groves. The wagon jolted again as it hit a lone flagstone, harking back to a time when the road from the city had been well-maintained. Now only a dirt track remained, weaving across the hills and never straying too far from the rapids of the Piksidis, the river that snaked to Trebizond through the southern Parhar Mountains. A sad familiarity gripped his heart; the rush of the water, the rolling hills, and the old rope bridge up ahead – it was just as he remembered.

Then he realised what was coming next. He twisted round and pressed his eyes to the gap in the slats. Then he saw it: some fifty paces from the road and the riverbank was a mound of rubble, coated in lichen and almost swallowed by long grass, the visible patches of bare stone still charred. He craned his neck as the wagon sped past, eyes hanging on the ruin until he could see it no more. He longed to shout for Mansur to stop, but the words would not come. He slunk back down, biting his lower lip until he tasted metallic blood. One word echoed through his mind.

Home.

He traced his forefinger back and forth over the knotted prayer rope on his wrist, remembering the day mother had tied it there, but the words of the Prayer of the Heart would not come to him. His sorrow swirled into anger and at once the image that plagued his nights shot to the fore: an arched door, floating in darkness. A harmless scene, he had reasoned a thousand times, yet he could not work out why it chilled him with foreboding. With a grunt, he forced the image from his mind. The wagon slowed momentarily.

The gravel voice called again from the front. ‘You need to stop to do your business or something?’

Apion stared at the timber slats separating him from the driver. He could make out only the outline of Mansur’s portly figure. Why he could not respond, Apion was not sure. How many words had he spoken since that awful night, then throughout the following year at the slave market and then the filthy inn? A handful at most. Perhaps it was the fear of breaking some spell, perhaps speaking would mean it was all real?

‘Just rap on the front if you want to stop, you hear?’ Mansur waited again for a few breaths before the wagon accelerated.

Apion did not reply, instead tracing the knots on his prayer rope once more, eyes on the sliver of skyline visible through the roof.

After some time, the sun had turned a darker orange and the wagon slowed again. This time there were voices. Foreign voices.

‘Halt!’ one called in a jagged Rus accent.

‘
Bracchus
. . . ’ Mansur grunted, his words tapering off with a growl. ‘Stay quiet back there, lad, you hear? You’ve got to keep out of sight, okay? I’ll deal with this.’

‘Ah, it’s Mansur,’ another voice cut in, baritone and abrupt.

With a frown, Apion leaned forward to the gap in the slats. He saw two figures stood by the driver’s bench; Byzantine kataphractoi, armed and armoured well. One was young, with ginger eyebrows and stubble, standing by his mount tall and broad and wearing a battered iron helmet; the other remained mounted and had a pointed face and was tall and lean, probably in his mid-twenties, his garb made distinctive by the helmet with a tuft of golden plumage and the leather gloves with iron studs on the knuckles.

‘Bracchus? We have no business together, so why do you stop me?’ Mansur addressed the plumed soldier, his gravel voice dry. ‘You want to examine my wagon, check for trading papers like a good officer?’

Bracchus shot a leaden glare at Mansur. Apion felt his mouth dry as the rider then reached to drum his fingers on his spathion hilt, his razor of a nose bending over a sharp grin.

‘You know very well why you have been stopped. Hand over your coins, they will be used for a . . . higher purpose,’ Bracchus beckoned with his free hand.

A moment of silence hung in the air before a purple purse slapped into the dust by the big Rus soldier’s feet with the thick clunk.

‘I’ll be going now,’ Mansur spat.

‘And you’ll be thankful your throat is not opened,’ Bracchus snarled, weighing the purse in his hand, eyes fixed on Mansur as the wagon moved off, ‘Remember your place in this land,
Seljuk scum!
’

Apion shuddered as Bracchus’ words cut through the air and he stared at the man’s expression. Anger crackled in those eyes.

‘Don’t be afraid, lad. That one rears his head every so often, but I know how to handle him,’ he spoke over the rumble of the road, but despite Mansur’s words, the old man’s tone suggested he had been rattled by the encounter with the rogue kataphractoi. ‘Anyway, we’re nearly there,’ Mansur added. ‘At my house you can eat, you can sleep and you will be safe. I promise you.’

Apion could only stare at the back of Mansur’s head. Promises were cheap.

They travelled south for some time until the land was cast in a rich orange glow and striped with shadows as the sun dipped into the western hills. Eventually, they entered a wide valley, the ubiquitous terracotta and green valley sides arcing out to frame a wide and sheltered oval of flatland, the Piksidis flowing broad and calm at its centre. The wagon slowed to cross a stone bridge before wheeling round at a canter through a pair of gateless posts. The nutty scent of barley and the bleating of goats filled the air, then a farm building rolled into sight.

The squat structure was ramshackle at best, baked brickwork subsiding, crumbling and unpainted, the roof missing almost as many tiles as it possessed. Nature had kindly done her best to disguise the state of disrepair with clematis and ivy tendrils hugging the walls and framing the shutters. Crop fields lay behind the house and stretched for a good quarter of a mile up to the slope of the valley. In front of the house there was a yard with an axe and a pile of chopped logs lying in the centre. The yard was framed on one side by a small, rectangular storehouse adjoined to the main house and a simple timber goat pen hemming in some thirty woad-marked animals, and on the other side by a little chicken coop built on the end of a small stable shed packed out with hay. As the portly figure of Mansur leapt to the ground to untether the horses, Apion eyed the place for some clue of what this next chapter of life was to hold, fear and doubt stabbing at his gut. He traced the barley and hay strewn path up to a cracked oak door, lying ajar. Then a rattle of footsteps filled the porch inside and a delicate, fawn hand, smaller even than Apion’s, wrapped around the edge of the door, low down, to pull it open.

‘Father!’ the girl squealed. ‘You’re late! I was worried, even the goats were worried!’ the words tumbled from her, trilling as she skipped forward to throw herself into Mansur’s arms.

Apion squinted: she was probably his age. All he could make out from the distance was a toothy grin framed with tousled charcoal locks, her knees black with dirt and her hemp robe frayed as though the goats had been chewing at the hem.

‘Maria, you worry when you shouldn’t. I said I would return before sunset, and here I am, you silly girl!’ Mansur squatted to be level with her, taking off his felt cap to wipe the sweat from his brow.

‘But it
is
sunset! Well . . . nearly,’ she protested. ‘I’ve had food
on the table for ages; I’ve made salad
and
stew
and
I’ve gathered fresh eggs
and
I’ve opened a cheese!’

Mansur nodded, a wide grin lifting his moustache as he stood and ran a hand down the mane of each of his horses, muttering words of comfort to them as they munched from their troughs. He turned back to the ever-less patient girl, now grimacing, hands pressed into her hips. ‘Sounds delicious and my belly’s roaring already . . . but before we sit down to eat, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

The girl pursed her lips and frowned, then stared at the wagon. She couldn’t see Apion but he returned her gaze through the slats.

‘A boy.’

‘A boy?’

‘Same age as you, I reckon. He’s not well and,’ Mansur paused, ‘he needs looking after. He’ll stay with us. Our house will be his home.’

Home
. Apion thought of the sorry heap of rubble downriver.
Somewhere I can never return to
.

Mansur flicked his head toward the wagon. ‘Come, I’ll introduce you.’

Apion’s heart hammered, his mouth drained of moisture and anxiety needled his skin. Reality beckoned.

He braced himself as the wagon door swung open with a groan and the dying evening sunlight fell upon him. His eyes narrowed and he pulled a hand over them, peering through the cracks.

‘He’s a Byzantine,’ she uttered almost accusingly, taking a step back.

Apion bristled, proud of Mother’s Rus ancestry, proud of Father fighting for the empire. A retort formed in his mind but the words lodged in his throat.

‘He’s a boy who needs a family,’ Mansur sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders.

Apion’s eyesight tuned into the brightness at last and Maria’s face was the first thing he set eyes upon. She was boyish, her eyebrows fuzzy and unkempt, her nose broad and her chin rounded like her father’s.

‘Well his hair’s a funny colour - like the sunset,’ she wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips, her head tilting to one side as she beheld him and then the sun as it slipped behind the hillside.

Apion felt a surge of self-consciousness, reaching to brush his locks from his brow, sitting up straight on the wagon bench.

‘Aye and he might think you’re a bit different too, madam,’ Mansur added with a chuckle. ‘Maria, I’d like you to meet Apion. Apion, Maria.’

Maria continued to eye him in a petulant standoff.

‘Well, you two are welcome to stand out here till it gets dark,’ Mansur sighed, ‘but I’m going in for supper . . . as ordered! Join me if you wish,’ Mansur fixed his cap back on his head and strolled towards the farmhouse, whistling. He pushed open the door, revealing a simple hearth room with three cobbled chairs around an oak table bedecked with Maria’s feast. He glanced back at Maria, who remained fixed to the spot, scrutinising Apion, then he groaned and went inside.

Apion held Maria’s glare with a mix of terror and defiance until, with a dismissive sigh, she turned, following her father’s steps with exaggerated strides and made for the farmhouse too. He watched her matted hair swing behind her all the way to the door, which she slammed behind her with gusto. He stared at the farmhouse, mind awash. A gust rattled the wagon, bringing with it the first bite of night chill, then he glanced up as a lone bat rapped across the sky, black against the coming twilight. A shiver danced across his skin.

Suddenly, the farmhouse door was pulled open again and an exaggerated sigh pierced the air. Apion blinked: Maria stood in the doorway, arms folded, face creased with impatience.

‘Well are you coming in or not?’ She scowled. ‘It’s extremely rude not to eat what someone has cooked for you!’