Strategos: Born in the Borderlands (43 page)

Muhammud nodded to Kilic then frowned, eyeing the rider. He did not seem to be nervous.

The rider knelt on one knee. ‘Alp Arslan, I trust you already know of the . . . situation . . . in the west?’

Muhammud’s eyes narrowed at this. He looked to Kilic, hesitated, then almost imperceptibly shook his head. Kilic’s shoulder slumped and the bodyguard moved away. ‘I do. So, why do you come before me?’ He motioned with his hands for the rider to stand.

The rider stood. ‘I am Bey Soundaq, and I have fought in the west for many years now. I come before you to tell you of the man who you must destroy if our glory is to be realised.’

‘One man?’

‘One man, Alp Arslan. I have spoken with him, he is no ordinary soul; he is one man who fights and leads an army like no other I have seen.’

Muhammud’s eyes narrowed.

‘The
Haga
stands between us and glory.’

***

Peleus lifted his skin and poured another handful of the brackish water over his face but the desert air dried him like crackling in seconds.

‘Bloody murder, this,’ Stypiotes croaked, slumping back onto the sand. ‘Did I cark it in the battle and get fired down to hell? That’s what it bloody feels like. If the strategos reckons this is such a good idea then he should have stayed out here to build the bleedin’ towers himself?’

‘Well, the strategos likes the new beacon system around the town and this is just an extension to it. Apparently the idea came from Apion,’ Peleus said.

‘Aye, the
Haga
. Well he’s certainly got something about him, I’ll give him that. Remember the hobblin’ runt that turned up at the town gates last spring? Now he’s a tourmarches? That takes some doin’. They’re even sayin’ he’ll be the next strategos. Still though, he could have hauled his arse out here and helped.’

Peleus nodded, eyeing the wooden stumps marking out the four corners of this tower, rope joining them to form a square. He saw the point in the initiative of building the chain of desert watchtowers, but Stypiotes would take none too kindly to being lectured at the moment, he figured.

A bandon of infantry, four master carpenters, two blacksmiths, an architect and an engineer were accompanied by a detachment of fifty kataphractoi and some thirty Armenian camel scout riders. Numbering nearly four hundred, this group had been sent out east by Cydones while the rest of the thema returned to Chaldia. Everyone was less than delighted but the strategos had won over the majority with a promise of triple pay for a month. The idea was to stamp home the advantage gained during the usual lull after such a decisive victory. So while the Seljuks licked their wounds, Byzantium would stake its borders physically with these wooden watchtowers, the lantern chain would act as an early warning system against the next attack, whenever it came. After a few days marching they had now delineated the first leg of the chain, coming in from the borders of Armenia and out into the sands and hills of the eastern reaches of Anatolia.

With a grimace, Stypiotes scratched roughly at his crotch. ‘There’s no bloody point in wearin’ this armour. It makes my arse really itchy in this heat. We could walk about with targets on our backs; there’s nobody around for miles. The Seljuks are broken, for now.’

Peleus chuckled and pulled the parcel of smoked fish and dried fruit from his ration pack. Cydones had been keen to give the detachment privileges and these prime rations were one such measure. ‘Take a seat, Stypiotes, you’re making me nervous pacing around like that and you’ll only make yourself hotter.’

‘Cah!’ The big soldier grunted, flopping down onto the sand next to Peleus, ‘Here, let’s have some of that.’ He pulled a strip of smoked fish for himself. ‘I tell you, when you’ve been dreaming of sitting in the inn at Argyroupolis, sinking ale after ale then picking your woman, then you get this,’ he widened his arms to the endless dunes that rolled out ahead and shook his head.

Peleus wondered just what orders Cydones would relay next. If these watchtowers were to be of any use, someone would have to man them permanently. He felt a moan coming on.

‘Peleus, Stypiotes!’ A voice called. It was young Atticus the skutatos, on the back of a camel ridden by a swarthy Armenian. ‘We’re setting up camp at the next watchtower site. The komes wants you to gather your tools and fall in to help prepare the camp.’

‘Grand! More graft!’ Stypiotes grumbled.

‘Come on,’ Peleus nudged him with a grin, rolling up his ration pack and standing up to offer a hand to his friend, ‘they might have stashed a secret barrel of ale on the mule train?’

Stypiotes clasped his forearm and hoisted himself to standing. ‘Aye, one barrel would do
me
but what about y . . . ’ the big soldier’s words trailed off as he squinted into the coming dusk.

‘Stypiotes?’ Peleus frowned, and then spun round.

The dark-blue horizon of the coming twilight seemed to writhe. Peleus’ skin rippled. ‘Get down!’ He hissed, pushing Stypiotes and himself to the sand.

The zip of an arrow ended with a thud and then a gurgling. Young Atticus clutched at his throat and the dark-red froth that bubbled from the shaft. Another arrow hammered into the chest of the Armenian rider and with that, the camel took flight, the two bodies sloping from its back and onto the sand.

‘Ghazis!’ Stypiotes gasped, clutching at his sword hilt.

‘A raider party?’ Peleus replied, then poked his head just over the lip of the dune. His brow furrowed at the dusk-masked plume of a marching column, far to the east. ‘No, a vanguard!’ He and Stypiotes’ stayed locked in a wide-eyed stare.

‘They wouldn’t come west again so soon?’ Stypiotes started.

Peleus’s eyes grew wide in terror. ‘We’ve got to get word back to the strategos!’

***

Apion fixed his eyes on the horizon, willing the valley to roll into view, but resisted heeling his mount, weary as the gelding already was. He wondered how Nepos had fared since fleeing the camp. His instructions had been garbled and panicked at best, though that was understandable given the life or death cusp they had both stood on at the time.

Stay true to the valleys until you reach the source of the Piksidis. Be wary, for Bracchus has men everywhere and they are cold killers. Believe me, I’ve faced them. You will come to a small farm just off the highway to Trebizond, you’ll recognise it as the only one for miles that looks like it’s about to cave in on itself. The valleyside behind this farm rises to a modest peak a quarter of a mile to the north. Climb this peak. Up there, there is a beech thicket. Push through the thicket and you will come to a small clearing. You will come to a cairn with an ancient emblem of the Haga on it. Pull the rocks from the base. You will see what looks like a rabbit warren, but loosen the earth around it. There is a cave where you can shelter . . .

It was now well into the afternoon and a heat haze rippled the land in front of him. The hill and the cluster of beech trees shimmered up ahead. Every ounce of his will was pulling him just south, the farm just obscured by the rise of the valley.

‘Only a little longer,’ he whispered, inhaling the familiar summer scents of the place. He slid from his mount and rubbed a hand along the gelding’s nose. ‘Easy, boy. You’ll be fed and watered soon, and then you can meet with my old mare. Then you can rest or run for the next few days.’ With that, he stalked up the hillside, armour chinking.

The air was still and his breath quickened as he walked, blinking sweat from his eyes, removing his plumed helmet and untying his pleated hair. Nepos would be too smart to come running out, he was sure. The man was a shrewd creature; thanks to God he was good-hearted. Between them they could surely plan a way to rid themselves of Bracchus. One thought had nagged him the whole way home: perhaps he should have been candid with the strategos about Bracchus when he had the chance; surely there was a way that the man could be outed as the poisonous cyst he was, despite his imperial connections? Then Bracchus’ fate could be decided by others, perhaps? He shook his head clear of the rabble of thoughts. That was all to come.

The hilltop came into view and he pushed through the beech grove. With a grin, he considered calling for his friend or sneaking up on him. He pushed into the clearing then stopped, blinking.

A still, shadowy and inhuman form filled the space in front of the cairn, and the carving of the
Haga
was spattered with crimson. His heartbeat died to nothing, the blood thudding in his ears changed to a piercing ringing.

Apion stared.

Nepos’ lifeless body hung limp, impaled upon a kontarion dug into the earth. The Slav’s eyes stared hopelessly skywards.

Apion retched, unable to tear his gaze from the horror.

Then a weak bleating rang out. Apion looked up. A lone goat, barely more than a kid, stumbled along the hillside. On its fleece it bore Mansur’s woad marking. That and a foreign, crimson streak.

The sweat on his skin felt like ice-water as he turned to the dip in the valley. Then he sprung into a sprint. He leapt up and onto the Thessallian’s saddle and heeled it into a gallop, guttural roars accompanying every kick. Their speed sent a howling wind past his ears as he ducked low in the saddle, his hair and the crimson cloak whipping behind him. The valley opened out in front of them. Then the bowed roof of the farm appeared. Terror grappled his heart.

Please do not let it be true
.

A ringing in his ears grew into a shrill whistle as he saw it all: the ground outside the door was a carpet of crimson. The goat herd was scattered, many lying motionless or thrashing in their death throes. The grey mare lay still, a broken spear shaft embedded in her guts, entrails spread across the ground where she lay. Apion felt his chest bellow and then sting and he heard his own roar, distant and other-worldly. The front door was ajar, hanging on one hinge. He slid from his mount and stumbled inside, seeing his scimitar held out before him, his arms numb, the world around him shaking, buzzing.

Inside, the darkness blinded him, but he clawed forward, feeling for first the old oak table and then the hearth. Panting, he glanced around at the dimness that was slowly sharpening before him. Then he saw it.

Proud Mansur lay sprawled across the hearth, an awful wound in his belly gaped from where the dagger had gone in to where it rested now, just below his throat. His face bulged; swollen and discoloured in a frenzy of cuts and his eyes had been gouged from their sockets. Four bodies of irregularly armoured men lay around him, torn with scimitar wounds. So the old man had fought one last time. Then he saw the tiny wooden shatranj piece clutched in the old man’s palm; the war chariot given to Nepos. Apion trembled where he stood. Fear was no part of it.

Then he saw the dark red robe. Maria’s robe. It lay, discarded, torn and soiled with gore. Beside it a tuft of her dark hair lay in a pool of blood. Before he could piece together what would have happened to her, his mind washed clear of thought, his vision narrowed. He felt the thud of his knees hit the flagstones, the sting of his hands slapping over his eyes, the stabbing pain of the flesh in his throat tearing from his own screaming.

As the afternoon dimmed towards dusk, Apion remained on the floor. His chest heaved and his heart emptied what was left in it. After that, he remained there still, gazing up at the old oak table, his mind replaying the times long past when they had sat together. He saw Mansur and Maria, smiling, laughing. Beside them he saw Mother and Father. Father held Mother’s hand as they all ate together.

When Apion reached out a shaking hand at the image, it all disappeared, leaving only empty twilight.

***

The air changed as night descended on the valley and a warm drizzle broke the drought at last. A hooded figure on horseback trotted down the hill behind the farm. Then the figure dismounted and entered the farmhouse.

Inside, Apion heard the scraping of a footstep on the flagstones, then sensed a shadow stand over him. He did not realise that the figure was really there until it spoke.

‘I come here to honour their bodies,’ the voice seemed to be shaking, enraged, ‘but you . . . you have the nerve to come back here now?’ The figure lowered the hood to reveal Nasir’s contorted features, shaded in the half light. He held blankets, brushes and a spade.

‘Nasir?’ Apion stammered, pushing himself up to stand. Then a rasp of iron sent sparks across the gloom. Nasir held his scimitar out, pointed at Apion’s throat.