Strategos: Island in the Storm (7 page)

The lead sentry brought them to the doors of the fortified manor then motioned for Apion to enter, alone. Apion nodded to the others, then slipped from his saddle and stepped forward.

Inside was just one cavernous hall, with a mezzanine of sleeping areas up above. A roaring log fire crackled in a hearth at one end of the hall, and in the centre, a well-weathered man with a thick brown beard and a jacket of leather armour sat at the head of a feasting table laden with wine, fresh and aromatic bread, cooked birds, bowls of blueberries, dates, figs and pots of yoghurt and honey. A motley collection of others lined the sides of the table, cackling and babbling in drunken banter. Slaves scurried to and fro around the dining area and an old, black mongrel lay asleep in front of the fire.

The sentry hurried over to whisper in the brown-bearded one’s ear, then came back to him. ‘Prince Vardan invites you to join him,’ he said, gesturing to an empty seat at the table, a few places away from the prince.

Apion stepped forward, removing his helm and drawing a stool to sit. At once, the chatter ceased. All eyes swung to him. A fawn-skinned bald man with a nose like a sickle frowned. ‘What have we got here,’ he said, his tone serrated and his demeanour glacial, ‘a Rus?’

‘My mother was Rus. My father was Byzantine.’

‘Aye?’ snorted another fellow, plump and ruddy, his teeth stained with wine. ‘Then what does that make you?’

‘I’m just a man,’ Apion replied, refusing the offer of a cup of wine from a passing slave girl. As the slave carried on around the table, he winced as the hook-nosed one seized her by the wrist and pulled her to his lap. He groped her breasts and pawed at her crotch, his bald head wrinkling as he cackled. Most around the table cheered at his lewd behaviour. Only Apion noticed that the man had slipped a tiny clay vial into her bosom.

‘What kind of man comes to a mountaintop village in the dead of night?’ the plump one scoffed, tearing his attention away from the slave. ‘Were you lost?’ His cronies hooted in laughter at this. Prince Vardan remained silent.

Apion pinned the plump one with a stare. ‘What kind of man drinks himself into oblivion when there is a Seljuk horde rampaging on the fringes of his lands?’

The chatter died again. The plump one gawped, outraged. Prince Vardan’s eyes narrowed on Apion.

But it was the bald, hook-nosed one who spoke; ‘How dare you speak in such a tone?’ His face was pinched as if Apion had just spat on his mother’s corpse.

Apion snorted. ‘You condemn my tone yet you ignore my words? There is a horde not three miles from - ’

‘Be careful, wanderer,’ hook-nose countered. ‘The last man to speak to me so was a slave of mine. I had his throat cut with just a click of my fingers,’ he raised his fingers as if to panic Apion. ‘Kept his head until it putrefied.’

‘Enough,’ Vardan spoke in a throaty voice from the end of the table. ‘The man is here at the behest of Emperor Diogenes. He is my guest and he will be treated as such.’ He clapped his hands, bringing more slaves scurrying from the darkness at the edges of the hall. ‘And he is right. It is late, you are all drunk. Leave me!’

With a groaning of chairs and stools on the stone floor, the prince’s guests stood to leave. The plump one cast him a mean eye. Hook-nose stepped round behind Apion as he made to leave. ‘Be careful, Byzantine,’ he whispered, his breath foetid, ‘for although Vardan may shield you tonight, tomorrow is a new day. Who knows what it might bring?’

His sibilant words rang in Apion’s ears until they were all gone. Now just two spearmen in vivid green and yellow tunics and trews stood guard at the door, and a single slave girl remained to prepare some herbal brew for the prince. Vardan beckoned Apion over to sit on the stool beside him.

‘What you said, it is true, Apion of Chaldia?’ Vardan asked, one hand ruffling his beard, his eyes gazing into the middle-distance.

‘Just three miles to the south, over seven thousand ghazi riders roam. They have destroyed all in their path so far. Farms, towns, even walled cities have fallen to them.’

‘Many of my kin have been summoned by Byzantine Emperors of the past, few have returned,’ Vardan replied swiftly. ‘I presume that is why you are here – to plead for the help of my army?’

Apion nodded. ‘Our infantry are still a week’s march away. We need just enough foot soldiers to pin the Seljuk horde, then we can bring our cavalry to bear.’

Vardan smiled wryly. ‘So you
do
come to prize away the young men of my villages? You have yet to persuade me why I should grant you this.’ He sat back in his chair and sighed, eyeing Apion. ‘Who am I speaking to?’ he mused. ‘Are you a delegate, a learned man of some sort, Apion of Chaldia?’

‘I have neither studied the scrolls of the great libraries, nor attended the new universities of the empire far to the west. But I have been schooled in war – the cruellest of mistresses. I have learned many black lessons on the plains and passes of these borderlands. Many times I have been certain that I have seen all war has to show me, yet she still astonishes me at every turn.’

The prince chuckled at this, eyeing Apion’s battered nose and scarred features. ‘I thought as much. You do not have the look of some soft-skinned envoy. Tell me who you really are.’

Apion hesitated, judging the situation. If hook-nose and his cronies had still been here, he would have lied. But he needed this man to trust him.
Truth breeds truth,
he decided. He pulled up his sleeve, revealing the red-ink stigma of a two-headed eagle.

Vardan’s face split in a not altogether reassuring smile. ‘The
Haga?
’

Apion nodded.

Vardan laughed under his breath. A laugh that chilled Apion. ‘If you had come to my gates and hailed my sentries as so, I would have had you shot through without a second thought. Your trail is black indeed.’

Apion did not flinch. ‘I understand. When farmers see me setting light to their village, they do not realise I do it only to deny shelter to invading riders. When I burn or cut down my enemy in their hundreds, I do it only to save the thousands they would otherwise slay.’

Vardan tilted his head to one side. ‘Hmm. They used to call me Vardan the head-taker. You know why? Because when I was a boy, the warriors of a neighbouring tribe stopped my father’s grain wagon. They raped and killed my sister. They tortured my father, nailing him to a tree. It took him three days to die. It was me who found him, on that last day. His dying gaze was on my sister’s corpse. He had seen all they did to her. My grandfather was the prince of this town at the time. He reacted weakly. He demanded the killers pay my mother for her loss. They paid, yet the coins did not soothe our pain one scrap. Only months later, I heard they had murdered again. So I took up my sword one morning, and came back at night with their heads. I never heard of any further suffering at their hands.’ He gazed into the fire with a wistful half-smile.

Apion’s mind flashed with memories of his early days in the ranks, of his slain parents, of the vile Bracchus. ‘Then we may be more alike than you might imagine.’

Vardan beheld him for a moment, then chuckled. ‘Perhaps,
Haga,
though my name is known only in these mountains. Yours echoes all across the borderlands.’ He sat a little straighter. ‘You know much of war, that much is clear. But what do you truly know of my people, of whose lives you ask?’

‘I know that your tribe and the others of the hills have suffered as the great empires of east and west have clashed on these lands. Your home has been used as a buffer, your strong young men have been treated like dogs of war, led away to die for some foreign king.’

Vardan laughed heartily now. ‘You are doing a fine job in making my decision an easy one!’

Apion leaned forward, holding Vardan’s gaze. He reached down to lift up the hemp sack of coins by his feet. ‘I was sent to tempt you with this,’ he dropped the sack on the table with a thick
clunk
, ‘but I know already you care little for coins. I can see you are a prince who cares for his people. My empire’s history is stained in places. But for the first time in so long, Byzantium has at its head a man who seeks to end the strife on these mountains, on the plains of Cilicia, in the valleys of Chaldia . . . in all of the blood-weary borderlands. He strives to seal the borders and end the relentless struggle. Bring your men to fight with us, Noble Prince. Let us drive off these warring Seljuks.’

Vardan said nothing, his face expressionless. He looked in Apion’s eyes for some time, then turned to gaze into the fire. The only noise in the hall was the spitting and crackling fire.

As Apion waited on the prince’s decision, he noticed something in the corner of the room; the slave girl preparing the herbal brew had a way about her, the swaying hips, the dark hair and dusky skin. For an instant, he could not help but see her as Maria. When she saw Apion watching her, she started, then smiled sweetly, before turning her back on him, finishing the brew-making process before coming over to place the cups down. He noticed now that she looked nothing like Maria and his eye snagged on the bruises around the girl’s wrist where hook-nose had grabbed her. She flashed him a swift and nervous smile then scuttled off into the shadows.

‘Drink,’ Vardan said, pushing one cup towards Apion. ‘It clears the head.’

When the prince lifted the cup to his lips, Apion lifted his own. At that moment, he saw the slave girl looking on from the shadows, her face wrinkled with anxiety. His gaze swung to the table where she had been preparing the brew. There lay a small vial, cracked open, its contents gone. Without hesitation, he swung out a hand, grasping the prince’s wrist. ‘Stop.’

‘What is this?’ the prince jerked his arm free, brew spilling from his cup and splattering to the floor. At once, the old black mongrel that had been sleeping by the fire woke and hobbled over to lap at the spilled brew.

‘Your aide, the bald one who did not take to me. He means to usurp you.’

‘What? Hurik is my cousin, one of my most able generals.’

Apion held his gaze. ‘And one of your most ambitious, it would seem. For he has had your brew poisoned?’

Vardan looked at his cup and back to Apion, then roared with laughter. ‘You are mistaken, Byzantine. Hurik is a surly man, but he would not dare to-’ the prince fell silent as the mongrel’s whimpering filled the hall. Apion and he looked on as the dog retched, foam bubbling from its mouth. The creature’s torment lasted only a few moments before it fell on its side, convulsing, then fell still. The noise of the crackling fire filled the hall once more.

The prince stared at his dead pet, his eyes reddening. After a lengthy silence, he spoke at last; ‘You will have your infantry,
Haga.
And Hurik will watch them march from this town. He will have a fine view, what with his head on a tall spike above the walls.’

4.
The Cilician Gates

A pleasant autumn morning bathed the Cilician plain. In the north, the Byzantine cavalry stood in a crescent, facing south, waiting, watching. Somewhere beyond the hazy southern horizon, the Seljuk horde roamed.

On the right wing of this crescent, Apion stood by his Thessalian in just his helm, tunic, cloak and boots – his klibanion and greaves stowed away on one of the
touldon
supply wagons. Likewise, Sha, Blastares, Procopius, Kaspax and the rest of the fifty Chaldians were without their usual heavy kataphractoi armour. He stooped to pluck a handful of long grass and fed it to his gelding. ‘I promise you at least a week of grooming, sleeping and eating when we return to Chaldia,’ he whispered to the beast. ‘But ride swiftly today.’

‘The mighty
Haga
and his riders see no need for their armour today, it seems?’ Philaretos snorted as he trotted past, looking down from his saddle at Apion.

Apion glanced up, squinting in the sunlight. ‘We need to ride fast today, Doux. And if it is merely my armour that panics our enemy, then send it on ahead! Tell it to return when it has brought peace to our borders. I’ll be in my tent feasting on goose, awaiting it eagerly.’

The men nearby laughed at this. Philaretos tried to disguise his discomfort at being the butt of the joke by shrugging and laughing too. Then he took to switching his gaze this way and that, before shaking his head and sighing. ‘It’ll never work,’ he concluded. ‘What if the horde swings back to the west to ravage the inner themata once more?’

Apion smoothed his gelding’s mane and smiled. ‘They won’t, Doux. They have burnt or overgrazed the lands to the west.’ He pointed to the swaying long grass stretched out before them. ‘This is the only place they can come to for fodder, and when they do, we must drive them to the east,’ he nodded in that direction where in the hazy distance the Cilician mountains loomed.

‘Hmm, we’ll see,’ Philaretos moaned, before turning to walk his mount over to the head of the four hundred vigla riders who were also on the right of the crescent.

‘What an arse!’ Blastares muttered by Apion’s side.

‘An arse indeed, but a loyal arse,’ Apion chuckled.

‘True. I’d rather have a loyal arse than a treacherous one any day,’ Sha added, throwing his saddle over his stallion and buckling it into place.

Procopius hobbled over to join the chat. ‘Is that Blastares talking about arses again? Loves the arses, I tell you.’

Blastares frowned as Kaspax and Sha laughed aloud. ‘The only arse I’ll be talking about in a minute is yours, when it’s impaled on the end of my boot!’ But the big man’s grumbling fell away, melting into a chuckle too.

Suddenly, all of them looked up as the crescent of Byzantine riders bristled. There, coming from the south, was a band of colour and a russet dust plume, heading due north, directly for the Byzantine lines.

‘They’re coming!’ a familiar voice boomed from the centre of the crescent. There, Romanus was mounted and ready on his white stallion. He was clad in his silver and white armour, his silver, purple-plumed helm and his purple cloak. ‘Ready!’ Beside the emperor, the Varangoi and the Scholae horsemen settled in their saddles. On the left, the rest of the thematic riders – a mix of heavy kataphractoi and lighter kursores – readied likewise. Banners were raised, lances levelled, buccinas lifted to lips.

Apion leapt into his saddle as the horns keened. Across the plain, he saw the emerging horde take form. The Seljuk horns wailed as they sighted the Byzantine bullhorn awaiting them. Like a drift of hornets, they swept to the east, towards the mountains.

Yes!
Apion punched a fist to his palm.

‘After them!’ Romanus bellowed, waving the crescent forward.

The ground shuddered as more than three thousand Byzantine riders broke into a trot and then a gallop. Apion watched as the hazy mountains ahead grew larger and larger.
Stay true,
he mouthed, willing the fleeing Seljuk raiders not to divert north or south.

The skyline grew rugged as the mountains loomed ever closer. Directly ahead, two mountains jutted, their adjacent sides almost perfectly sheer, like two limestone walls. A narrow corridor wove between these two monoliths and wound on for some distance like a furrow ploughed by some ancient god. This was it, the only direct path from these lands to the east. At that moment, Apion remembered old Cydones reminiscing;
Many have breathed their last at the Cilician Gates. It is a wonder they are not stained red.

The Seljuk horde narrowed and funnelled into this corridor, the thunder of their hooves echoing like drums, their hearts confident of escape and further plunder on the far side of the pass. Apion hoisted his lance overhead and waved it to and fro frantically, looking to the tops of the rocky corridor high above. But the high sides of the pass remained lifeless, despite his signal. ‘No!’ he gasped.

Beside him, Sha snarled, scanning the deserted tops of the rocky pass likewise; ‘Treacherous bast-’

‘Look!’ Blastares cried, pointing up there. First a single spearman rose tall. Then another, then in moments hundreds lined either side of the pass, armoured in felt and mail, some with vivid purple, green and red eastern-style silks wrapped around their heads. The Armenian Prince and his army. More than a thousand men. They carried with them bundles of missiles – spears, bows, quivers and slings.

‘Loose!’ the unmistakable voice of Vardan boomed from up there. It echoed down through the corridor like a clap of thunder, and every Seljuk neck bent to look up. At once, they saw the snare, and a heartbeat later, they broke out in a chorus of panicked wails. Their good order at once descended into horrified flight as each of them grew frantic to race on and out of the corridor. But the Armenian spearmen hurled their lances down on the thick swathes of ghazis and nearly every one struck home with deadly effect. Wails were cut short as men were pinned to their horses, thrashing together in their shared death throes, blood pumping across their comrades. Next, a pack of Armenian slingers hurried to the edge of the mountaintop overlooking the corridor, swiftly loosing volleys of shot. Holes were punched in helms, and blood leapt from the broken heads within. Hundreds more toppled. The remaining ghazis raced now – desperate to be clear of the corridor. However, the Armenians were swift to draw their bows; known as a nation of fine bowmen, they showed their skill, loosing volley after volley upon the Seljuk mass. Many more enemy horsemen fell, writhing, peppered with shafts. Moments later the Armenians took to rolling great boulders from the cliff tops. These monoliths crashed down, pulping clusters of riders like insects, all but blocking the corridor.

Some Seljuk riders broke through the narrow gaps that remained and raced on to the east, but many others – thousands of them – took to wheeling around like a shoal of silvery fish avoiding a preying shark. They swung back to face west, set on taking their chances against the onrushing Byzantine crescent – now galloping to close the door at the western end of the corridor and pen them in. When they threw down their bows, Apion longed to hear them cry out:
Mercy.
But the cry did not come. Instead, they tore out their scimitars and spears, intent on battle.

Apion watched the rider coming for him, and this merged with the pulsing image of the dark door. The man’s face was creased in a war cry, his dark moustache whipping in the wind, his spear arm drawn back. The flames roared from behind the dark door, blowing it open. He jinked to his left as the man loosed his lance, the shaft skimming past his neck. A moment later, a flanged mace from one of the Byzantine kataphractoi plunged down into the spearless ghazi’s forehead, crushing his helmet and skull like an egg, sending a shower of blood and brains across his comrades and throwing the man back from his saddle. Then the two cavalry lines clashed with a clatter of shields, iron and the screaming of man and beast.

Apion felt the flames of darkness roar all around him as the first few riders that met his lance tip simply vanished, torn through or punched from their saddles, trampled like kindling. Blood whipped across his face in a constant spray, and he smelt the all too familiar coppery stench of death. He ran another three of them through, and saw many more scattering, kicking their mounts into a disordered flight. His Chaldians swept along with him, tearing Seljuk riders asunder, throwing some from their saddles. When his spear was lost, embedded in a Seljuk’s chest, he swept his scimitar from his scabbard and lashed it round at those who tried to break past him. He felt Seljuk blades scrape at his skin, death only inches away. He saw throats torn open before him, his sword hand numb yet relentless.
Yield!
he mouthed, sickened at the crunch of bone and tearing of flesh. Yet still they came, maddened and panicked. On the slaughter went.

The sun was high in the sky when at last the Seljuks thinned. Bar a few who had broken past the Byzantine crescent and raced off into the western countryside and the riders who had survived the Armenian hail and forged on to the east, all lay dead before the panting Byzantine cavalry.

Apion gazed around numbly. The Cilician Gates were red once more. Clouds of flies buzzed over the gore, and carrion birds circled and lined the sides of the corridor. Crispin’s words rang in his thoughts.

A slayer of souls, a burner, a death-bringer.

A hand clasped his shoulder. ‘A fine ploy, Strategos,’ Romanus said, catching his breath. ‘And not just for today. A lasting bond with the Armenian princes is something that must be forged if the borders are ever to be truly secure.’

From the corner of his eye, Apion noticed the Armenians flooding down the mountainside to meet with the Byzantine lines in celebration.

‘Did we finish them? All of them?’ Doux Philaretos panted, arriving alongside the emperor.

‘No,’ Apion scowled, ‘but those who made it through the gates are gone. Their raid is over.’

‘Gone? Not quite. Some wait to goad us, it seems?’ One finger of Philaretos’ iron gauntlet stretched out to pinpoint a lone rider, nestled in the shade of one of the giant rocks thrown down by the Armenians. ‘I recognise that one – from the camp by the Euphrates . . . a fierce whoreson, he was . . . ’

Apion squinted along the corridor. The unseen hands of a wraith stroked his neck as he recognised the tall, broad-shouldered warrior’s garb. A fine scale vest, a silver helm with a distinctive studded rim and nose guard –
Nasir?
He mouthed, confused, images of his dead, one-time brother flitting through his mind. Was this some kind of demon? He locked eyes with this masked figure, and his blood ran cold. The stranger’s face was bathed in half-shadow, but he was certain the eyes in there were fixed on him. And there was something about those eyes . . .

Apion’s thoughts evaporated when Philaretos grunted and loosed a wayward javelin at the rider. It punched down some twelve feet short, quivering in the dust. Without alarm, the rider turned and rode on to the east.

‘Come, Strategos,’ Romanus pulled him away from the scene. Apion nodded, tearing his gaze from the sight. As they walked away, he could not help but glance back, sure the shadows had been playing with him.

***

Above the Cilician Gates the sky was jet black, dotted with stars and a waning moon. The Armenian warriors were long gone from this vantage point where they had rained death on the ghazi horde. But the high mountain tops were not entirely deserted.

Having escaped to the east and then doubled back with just his bodyguard, one young Seljuk rider crouched atop the rocky outcrop near the corridor mouth. His skin and hair were coated in dust, his throat parched and his scale armour encrusted in dried blood where his comrades had been struck down around him. He glanced at his reflection in the stud-rimmed helm he cradled, then gazed down to the Cilician plain below, where a thousand torches and campfires demarcated the Byzantine imperial camp. He had heard them pray, now he heard them laugh and cheer their victory, cups clacking together, overflowing with wine. This angered him. When he imagined the
Haga
celebrating with them, the wrath grew fiery.

His bodyguard crept up beside him. ‘Sir, our men will have made camp by now, some miles to the east. Should we not return to them? Some of your riders might think you have been captured should you not come back to them before first light. And Bey Gulten is known for his fierce discipline.’

The young rider ignored his bodyguard’s plea and snorted at the idea that Bey Gulten, the leader of this expedition, was any form of threat. ‘After today, Bey Gulten will be known only for his failure.’ The howling of some wild dog sounded across the plain. ‘Now take my armour,’ he said, unbuckling his scale vest and sweeping on a tattered robe, ‘then you can return to camp. I have business to attend to first.’

‘Sir?’

The young rider looked to his bodyguard, the moonlight flashing in his green eyes. ‘Sometimes, to slay a wolf, you must separate him from his pack.’

***

The thick red satin of the imperial tent muffled the jovial babbling from outside. Inside it was muggy, still and tense. Apion sat alone with the emperor, a table between them bearing a shatranj board, a jug of nearly finished wine and a platter of barely touched bread, honey and cheese. He saw the torchlight dance in Romanus’ eyes, as if trying to ignite the emperor’s vim once more. His veneer of the victorious leader had been shed as quickly as his armour as soon as he had come inside. The white and silver klibanion and ornamented silver helm retained their proud, broad-shouldered stance on the timber frame they rested upon, while the man sat in dejection, shoulders slumped.