Strategos: Island in the Storm (43 page)

‘Ach,’ he muttered, swiping a hand through the air before him, ‘let the journey provide the answers!’

They travelled north and west just a few miles a day, allowing Maria plenty of time to eat the healing paste and to rest well. It was November when they finally crossed into Chaldia, and that month was drawing to a close when they reached its heartlands and arrived at the banks of the Piksidis. Just a few miles downriver lay Mansur’s farm and all the memories they both shared. The terracotta and gold shrub-speckled hillsides sparkled in the morning sunlight, dusted with a light frost. The waters of the river babbled like an old friend, welcoming them. He turned to Maria, unable to fend off the warm smile that their surroundings conjured.

‘By nightfall we will be there-’ he stopped, his face falling. Her eyes were nearly closed, her lips tinged with blue, her head lolling. ‘Maria!’ he cried, leaping from the saddle of his pony and scooping her from hers, then laying her down by the reeds at the river bank. He hurried to dig out the hemp sack of white powder. Then, with fumbling hands, he crouched in the shallows to fill his water skin before tipping a splash of it into an empty bowl and adding some of the powder. He stirred the mixture with a spoon, then cradled Maria’s head, resting it upon his legs and bringing the spoon to her lips.

‘If you love me,’ she croaked, summoning just a hint of mischief to her voice, ‘then you’ll throw that damned paste in the river.’

‘But Maria, you have to - ’

‘Just hold me, Apion,’ she sighed. Moments later, she was asleep. Apion threw a woollen blanket over her, then watched her chest rising and falling and sought out his next actions.

A rumble of approaching hooves stirred him from his worry. He looked up. A lone kursoris on a white gelding hared down the valley side and then came charging along the riverbank, towards him. The man was Chaldian, going by the crimson triangle of cloth he had tied to the end of his spear. Apion rested Maria’s head gently down on the grass and reeds, then stood. This was the first Byzantine soldier he had seen in well over a year. Instinct told him that the rider would recognise him and halt at once, but the young kursoris seemed set to knock him down and ride onwards.

‘Whoa!’ Apion yelled, waving his arms, at last pulling the rider from his trance. The lad was barely sixteen, Apion realised. He wore a conical helm with a brim to shade his eyes, and an ill-fitting leather klibanion vest. His eyes were wide with agitation.

‘Move aside, old man!’ the rider barked. ‘I have an urgent message to deliver!’

It hit Apion at that moment. His faded and frayed tunic, his grey locks and his haggard features. Thirty seven years’ worth of scars and bitterness. ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

The rider frowned, eyeing him. ‘No, and nor should I care. Now step aside.’

Apion lunged forward, grappling the reins from the boy’s hands and wrenching the gelding towards him. The boy’s hubris left him at once. ‘Know that I have lost more than most in the wars that have ravaged these lands – and then you will know enough of me. Now, you can go on your way soon. But first water your mount – it is close to exhaustion,’ he nodded to the froth gathering at the horse’s lips. ‘And while your gelding drinks, you can tell me – what is happening? Is there some trouble in the border themata?’

‘The border themata?’ the boy frowned, then a look of realisation overcame him. ‘You don’t know?’ he gawped, sliding from the saddle and leading his mount to the shallows before turning back to Apion. ‘The border themata fell some months ago. The empire is in flames! Malik Shah and his Seljuk hordes have poured into the heart of Anatolia. His words set fire to the hearts of his men, and were oft repeated as the Seljuk riders rode through our broken cities, chasing us into the hills;
All of you be like lion cubs and eagle young, racing through the countryside day and night, slaying the Christians and not sparing any mercy on the Byzantine Nation.
What men are left of our thematic armies fight on, but they are in disarray, pressed back to the coastal strongholds of Anatolia.’

Apion’s heart turned to ice. ‘Malik Shah leads this army of conquest?’ he repeated, thinking of Alp Arslan’s son. The previously solid promise of peace between Alp Arslan and Romanus seemed to evaporate in his hopes at that moment. ‘The sultan allowed this?’

The boy blinked, still struggling to comprehend. ‘Where have you been, old man? Malik Shah
is
the sultan.’

Apion frowned. ‘Then Alp Arslan - ’

‘Slain by a rival. Some traitor called Yusuf was to be shot through with arrows for his plotting against the old sultan. But somehow, the man smuggled a concealed dagger to his own execution and managed to leap up and tear out the Mountain Lion’s throat before he was cut down by the sultan’s bodyguard.’

The words rang in Apion’s head, refusing to settle. His thoughts turned to Constantinople, to the Golden Heart.

‘What of the emperor?’

The boy spat on the ground, his nose wrinkling. ‘The emperor brought all this upon us. Had he adhered to the concessions and the peace proposed by Alp Arslan, then none of this would have happened. Instead, he refused, sent Malik Shah foul letters, and then he cowered in terror when the son of the Mountain Lion roared in reply.’

Apion bristled at this. Romanus would never do such things. He was sure there was some mistake. Then he realised there was. A mistake on his part. ‘Romanus is no longer our emperor, is he?’

The boy’s look of disgust faded and he offered Apion an apologetic look, shaking his head. ‘Just weeks after the battle at Manzikert, the Doukids rose from exile and swooped upon Constantinople. They marched upon the Imperial Palace, arrested Lady Eudokia and seated Michael Doukas on the throne as their puppet emperor. They raised armies to intercept Romanus Diogenes in his attempts to return to and secure the capital. Twice they clashed and twice Diogenes’ forces were routed. Many Byzantines have died on the swords of their kinsmen in this last year. Our armies were in tatters and the Doukids took to inviting rogue Seljuk hordes to the battle, to side with them for gold and glory. Those same hordes now take our cities for themselves and side with Malik Shah once more.’

‘And Romanus Diogenes?’ Apion asked.

The boy shook his head. ‘I was there in his ranks at the last clash with the Doukids. He surrendered in order to see his men spared, and he himself was promised no harm would come to him. Yet his men were slaughtered as soon as he had given himself over – I was one of the few to escape. Then they treated him like a pauper, tying him to an ass and leading him back to the capital like that, pelting him with rotten vegetables. Finally, his eyes were put out with hot pins.’ The lad’s words faltered. ‘They say the infection that followed was vicious, his eye sockets festering. They say the dog, Psellos, sent him a letter congratulating him on the loss of his eyes. It was only merciful that the emperor succumbed to an infection in his eye-wounds within weeks.’

Apion heard the lad’s words as but an echo. The Golden Heart was gone and his fierce but noble adversary, the Mountain Lion, gone too. Two great leaders who had hoped to end the struggle. Hope was dead. ‘So Psellos and the Doukids . . . have won?’ he stammered, imagining Psellos and John Doukas perched like vultures either side of Michael in the heart of the palace.

The rider sat straighter in his saddle at this. ‘Won? Never! Aye, Diogenes’ supporters are scattered, and many of his best generals are wanted men. Doux Philaretos holds out – he has control over the city of Melitene and has gathered a strong mercenary army to defend it in the hope that one day he might be able to overthrow the Doukids. And Bryennios now fights in the west, trying at once to regain Thracia for the empire and to remain vigilant to the Doukid assassins who are known to want his head. But while they live on, others were not so fortunate. Alyates of Cappadocia fought in one of the battles against the Doukid armies. He was hunted down on the battlefield and had his eyes gouged from his skull with rusty tent pegs,’ the lad said with a shiver. ‘And then there is the
Haga
. No one is sure what became of him. Some say he fell at Manzikert. Others are sure he will one day return from some exile. All pray that he does.’

Apion held the lad’s gaze. ‘And where are you headed now?’ he uttered numbly.

‘South, to rendezvous with an Armenian army raised by Doux Philaretos. With them we might be able to stave off the Seljuk advance on Trebizond,’ the boy said, remounting his gelding and kicking it round to face south.

‘Then ride on, lad. Ride fast.’

The rider moved off at a trot. ‘And you, old man, be wary – for Malik Shah’s war bands are circling in this part of Chaldia – they mean to add it to their rapidly growing conquests!’ he threw back over his shoulder as he kicked his steed into a gallop.

He watched the rider disappear in a dust plume, then turned back to Maria. His heart wept at the sight of her and the storm of thoughts raised by the boy-rider cleared. Her usually dusky skin had a blue-ish pall about it, her cheeks were gaunt and her breathing shallow. He scooped her up and hugged her close, longing for the coldness in her skin to be gone. He lifted her onto the saddle of his pony and climbed up there behind her, clasping his arms around her waist and holding her there. With that, he kicked his mount into a gentle walk for the valleys to the north.

‘We’re almost home,’ he whispered into the nape of her neck, his voice cracking.

***

It was late afternoon. Mansur’s farm was but a few valleys away. The pony swayed as he walked, his gaze fixed on the uneven scree of the riverside. He felt Maria’s every heartbeat on his back, heard her weakening breaths. He looked to Maria’s pony that he was leading along with them, then let go of its reins. It slowed and then fell back, grazing and drinking from the shallows. A moment later, he heard a familiar cry from high above. An eagle’s cry. He did not look up, knowing the sky would be empty.

‘It has been a cursed day,’ the crone said, coming into view in the corner of his eye. She walked alongside, where Maria’s pony had been. Her withered, knotted frame jostled as she stepped along on the scree. Her face was long, more drawn and aged than ever, and her wispy white locks seemed almost translucent.

‘Is this what I fought for?’ Apion replied numbly. ‘Peace in these lands and my love by my side was what I sought. One is lost and the other is . . . ’ he clasped a hand to Maria’s waist more tightly.

The crone sighed. ‘What matters is that you did all you could to save these things that were dear to your heart. What matters is that you tried.’

‘She told me you came to her. You drove off her illness. Can you - ’

‘Her time was long ago, Apion. I used what strength I had left to interact with this world in order to give her long enough. To give you long enough. For you both to meet again.’

‘Then our year together was a gift from you?’ he frowned, tears stinging behind his eyes. ‘What kind of gift is it to give someone the chance to watch their loved one die?’

‘I understand your pain, Apion, believe me I do. If you had walked this world as long as I have, you too would lose count of those who slip away before your eyes. Love and loss are inseparable. One must learn to love while they can, and accept the loss that must come. I know you two have shared great love in this last year. Now must come the loss.’ She bowed her head as if expecting some pained retort.

But Apion reached out and clasped a hand to her shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

They walked on in silence and came to a familiar hill. Atop it was a beech thicket and a rocky cairn with an ancient Hittite etching of the
Haga
on it – the two-headed eagle emblem just as ancient as those days when Apion had first set eyes upon it. He clutched Maria’s hand again, remembering the first times they had sat up there together as children. And then in their adolescence, the first time they had made love. His mind flashed with many more long forgotten memories as they climbed the hill, knowing that just beyond the brow lay the valley and Mansur’s farm. A place he had not visited in seventeen summers. He wondered at that moment: for all that had happened in those years, what had he achieved?

Apion’s eyes darted. ‘What is to come next? What will become of the empire, of these lands?’

‘Ha!’ the crone uttered. ‘You should know well by now not to ask me such questions!’

‘Then tell me at least, that those who brought about so much strife and bloodshed will not go unpunished.’

Wordlessly, she reached up to touch his hand. His head swam and for a moment he felt warm all over, the aches and pains of the ride gone from his body. His vision swirled and he was spirited from the present. He saw before him the throne room in Constantinople. Young Michael Doukas was seated upon the gilded chair. Beside him, as he had feared, were two figures: Psellos and John Doukas. But there was a shadow behind them. Another figure. A eunuch dressed in white, his eyes sparkling with malice. Moments later, he saw John Doukas being dragged in chains, tossed into some dank and foul, lightless dungeon. The cur screamed and bellowed until the door to his cell was bolted shut. His screaming grew weak as his hair sprouted and whitened, his skin puckered and eventually, life deserted him. In the end, he was but a pile of dust and bones, long forgotten in that miserable underground cell. Then he saw another scene. This time it was Psellos, lying in a bed of silk sheets in some fine chamber. But the advisor was writhing in agony, his face white and his skin shrivelled like some over-ripe fruit. His screams were shrill and piercing, and only abated when the physicians came over to tend to him. They drew open his robes to reveal a black, rotting hole the size of a small shield, dominating his chest and belly. Each of the physicians stepped back, aghast and heedless of what to do. For it was as if a lion had gouged away Psellos’ flesh and cleaved out a great portion of his breast bone. Maggots squirmed in the rotting wound, with pink-red organs losing the battle against the putrefaction. At the centre of the wound was a weakly pulsing heart . . . encrusted in dried matter and as black as night. A cluster of maggots writhed here, like a besieging army at a city’s walls, hungry to pierce the organ and feast upon it. The advisor’s eyes were aflame with terror.