Strategos: Born in the Borderlands (16 page)

A black-robed and veiled rider trotted up to the gateposts, stopped and waited.

Apion eyed the figure, uncertain, then hobbled forward. ‘What do you want, rider?’

The rider was stock-still. ‘You wanted answers?’

Apion’s eyes narrowed and his skin prickled. ‘Who sent you?’

‘My boss will tell you what you want to know. Tomorrow, noon, downriver by the old mill. Bring five nomismata and come alone.

With that, the rider heeled his mount into a gallop back downriver and was gone.

Apion watched the dust trail in the moonlight. Of all those who had scoffed at his enquiries, or fallen silent at the first mention of the Agentes, there was one who had offered him just a sliver of hope. At the dockside inn, Apion had placed a purse of coins on the table and old Kyros had eyed it in silence. After what felt like an eternity, Apion thought this was another dead end. Resigned, he stood, scooped up the purse and began to hobble away. But Kyros called him back. The old rogue nodded to Apion and said he couldn’t promise anything, but would see what he could do, insisting that more money would be needed. Apion had expected that he would never hear from Kyros again, but it now seemed that the old rogue had been serious. If money was what it took then so be it, Apion thought. He had acquired a purse of nomismata through bartering for just this purpose. But one question hung on his mind.

What price for revenge?

10.
Oath

The warm valley winds let me soar high over the farmlands. Here and now, all is peaceable, but I know this cannot last, for I have been drawn here for a reason. Then I see him, the solitary figure on horseback, and at that moment I know what he is to become.

I cannot bend his will, but my heart weeps when I see what fate has in store for him, from this moment and on through the years. So wretched that this being has it in him to be the saviour of an empire but must also dwell in an ill-deserved perdition. If his life is to be as fate will have it then I can only try to prepare him, to show him what lies in his path.

***

Downriver from the farm, the air was still and tinged with the scent of honeysuckle as the land bathed in the early autumn heat. Only the rush of the Piksidis pierced the serenity. As Apion rode at a canter on the grey mare through the placid scene, he wished for a future where his mind could be free to enjoy such calm.

He slowed his mount and once again glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. Ever since he had set out he hadn’t been able to shake a distinctly uneasy feeling that he was being followed. He shook his head of the thought and checked his equipment again: he wore just a green knee-length tunic, satchel, leather boots, a belt equipped with Mansur’s scimitar and his crutch strapped across his back. If he found this elusive master agente, he wondered, would he be ready to tackle him? He had a good technique with the sword, his sword arm muscular and precise, and his crutch arm sturdy and robust just like his good leg. His mind was sharp too; he had beaten almost everyone he had faced at shatranj: Kutalmish, Petzeas and his sons and many an over-confident trader at the market towns. But not Mansur, he mused with a shake of the head.

Scanning the land ahead, he lifted a linen parcel from his satchel and unwrapped a goats’ cheese round, biting from it as he turned over the possibilities of the meeting at the mill. When an eagle screeched somewhere above, he looked up, but could see nothing other than unbroken blue.

‘You are a long way from home?’ A voice spoke.

Apion turned to the voice. A woman was crouched by the riverbank, back turned. Her silver hair hung to her shoulders and her body was frail under an off-white robe. He moved a little closer and saw she was bathing her gnarled feet. He could not see her face but a warm familiarity touched his heart.

‘I am, though maybe not for too much longer.’ He frowned, looking downriver.

‘Where are you headed?’

‘North, trading,’ he lied.

‘Ah, very well. You have no goods to trade though?’

Apion saw her reflection in the water but the ripples hid her features. ‘I’m hoping to buy something valuable,’ he patted his purse.

‘Be careful what you value,’ she cut in sharply. ‘Remember what happened the last time you ignored my advice?’

‘It is you, isn’t it, the old lady from the dell?’ Apion’s spine tingled as he remembered her distant humming of a tune when she had nursed his wound. If, he mused, he had taken her advice and resisted the instinctive urge to return to the burnt out farmhouse, he would not have fallen into the hands of the slave traders. ‘You saved me. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you before. I was lost in those days. I never thanked you for what you did for me.’

‘Don’t thank me, just heed my words.’ She turned to him, her puckered face was longer, sadder than he had remembered, but those milky white eyes remained all seeing and utterly blind at once. She stepped forward and grasped his arms. Then her shoulders sagged and she looked resigned. ‘You must know where your choices will take you.’

‘I don’t understand?’

She turned back to the river and crouched to bathe her feet again. ‘You may not see it now, but you will choose a path. A path that leads to conflict and pain. Much pain. Fate teases you with that illusion of choice.’

He frowned. Once he had found the master agente and dealt justice, Apion intended only to live a quiet life on the farm, to bring happiness to Maria and Mansur for all they had done for him and to make up for this last year of his foul moods. How could that bring such pain? ‘Then what you foresee is false. Conflict and pain? I have no wish for such a future.’

‘Really? Then where are you headed right now? And spare me the rot about trading!’

Apion shook his head. ‘If you know where I am going then you’ll know why I am headed there. I will never be able to rest and accept the happy life I want until I have resolution on what happened that night, before you found me. I’m closer to achieving it now than I’ve ever been. All I have to do is go north and meet . . . ’

She raised a hand and cut him off. ‘And fate is victorious again. When the falcon has flown, the mountain lion will charge from the east and all Byzantium will quake. Only one man can save the empire . . . the
Haga!
’ Her tone grew dry. ‘Are you ready for what lies ahead, Apion?’

He scoured the riverbank, seeking words in reply. Then the lone eagle screeched again and Apion shot a glance up to the sky. Again, nothing. When he looked back to the riverbank it was empty, just the base of a felled beech lying where the woman had been, its spindly roots dipped in the water. He stood, gazing at the spot, turning the woman’s words over in his head, a chill dancing across his skin. She was deluded, he thought, surely a man’s actions defined his destiny, and he was free to choose those actions? Then he looked north. Conflict did indeed lie ahead for him but only for a short while. He heeled his mount on and tried to clear his thoughts. Then he stopped and listened; was there another set of hooves somewhere behind him? He shot a glance round, expecting to see another traveller, but there was nobody. He was alone on the road.

Morning became noon and finally he trotted into the valley where the ruined mill lay in the midst of the carpet of long grass, swaying in the breeze. High mountains enclosed the valley, streamlets of mountain water trickling down their steep sides to fertilise the grasslands and then to add their strength to the Piksidis’ current. Despite the recent drought, the broad river was ferocious here, knots punctuating every part of the surface and the tumbled stone bridgeheads downriver stood quietly in disrepair, alluding to the full strength the waters could muster.

He stroked the mare’s mane and slid down onto his crutch, then moved to the riverbank, stooped and cupped water into his mouth, washing the dust of the ride from his throat, then pulled another handful over his amber locks, soaking them and cooling his scalp. He examined his reflection, rubbing his jaw, wondering if it had become broader in recent months. Then he blinked at the other dark reflection in the water’s surface.

‘So, you are alone?’

Apion spun up and round, wincing and righting himself on his crutch
. It was old Kyros. The old man was just as he remembered: short and slight, wearing a felt cap and padded jacket that reached his shins. His face spoke of a hard life: a crooked nose and a heavily wrinkled, withered chin and teeth that were a motley collection of charred bumps peeking from his gums.

‘I am,’ Apion replied. ‘So, you have information for me about this man, the master agente?’

Kyros smiled and nodded. ‘Yes of course, boy. If you have the nomismata, as discussed, we can talk . . . and I have much to tell you.’

Apion instinctively moved his hand to pat his purse, hanging by his buttock, but stopped. Something wasn’t right; Kyros stood here in the valley with no horse or wagon nearby. ‘How did you get here?’

‘I got here,’ Kyros grinned, ‘and that is all that matters. Now, the money . . . ’

Apion’s gut fluttered in unease at the glint in the little man’s eyes. ‘The money is nearby and you will have it when you tell me what you know.’

At this Kyros erupted in laughter and then shouted towards the bridge. ‘Cockier than a veteran rider, this one, and he’s only a boy . . . a crippled boy!’ At this a whinny of horses and chorus of gruff laughter split the air. Three hulking men in grubby felt vests and woollen leggings moved from under the bridge to flank Kyros and encircle Apion, pinning him to the riverbank. They all bore longswords.

‘Ah, don’t mind my men, they travel with me always. Just in case things get a little rough.’

Then, as suddenly as they had started laughing, all four fell silent and Kyros’ face fell stony. ‘You come into the city asking about the master agente. You are a fool, boy. Nobody knows his identity and only fools seek it. I simply pay my dues to him through his underlings and hope never to stray across his path. I could have raised word of your enquiry and believe me you would be cold and dead long before now if I had. However, I did not. I thought I could take care of this business myself,’ he pulled a dagger from his belt, ‘and take your purse into the bargain.’

Apion’s skin crawled as the other three drew their swords, grinning.

‘Like slaughtering a lamb . . . ’ Kyros purred, then stepped forward and slashed his dagger at Apion’s face. The blade stung like fire, ripping across his cheek. ‘Now, hand over your purse, boy.’

Shaking, Apion reached round to his belt. Then he hesitated, noticing the glint in Kyros’ eyes, realising that as soon as he handed the purse over, they were certain to kill him, throw his body in the river and carry on with their business. At that moment he felt like such a fool and it was all of his own doing. He had been safe at the farm, with the people who cared for him. Yet he had sought out this meeting, kicked the hornets’ nest.
A path that leads to conflict and pain.

‘I understand,’ he whispered to himself. ‘But I do have a choice. If I survive this, I will seek another path.’

‘What’s that, boy? Come on, hand over your purse and we’ll give you a quick death, tear your throat out maybe.’

Apion affixed the old man with a glare from under his furrowed brow. His top lip curled into a snarl and he clutched a hand to his belt, but not for his purse. Instead, he grappled the scimitar hilt and ripped it free of the scabbard with an iron rasp. The blade glinted in the sunlight and the four stood back in mock fright.

‘Well, now the odds have changed,’ Kyros cooed. ‘Now we have to kill not just a cripple, but a cripple with a sword!’

The words did not register for Apion; instead he saw only the dark door, the fire behind it growing intense, orange
tendrils licking under the timbers
.

Kyros nodded to one of his men. ‘Take that dirty Seljuk blade from him.’

The big man walked forward and reached out for the scimitar. Apion swiped the blade up, scoring the man’s arm, causing him to fall back with a howl.

‘Bad idea, boy.’ Kyros clicked his fingers and the other two men came for him.

The first of the men hacked down with a powerful blow and Apion could only pivot on his crutch to dodge the blade. Then the second man swiped his blade from the side and Apion ducked just under its arc. He shuffled back as the first man with the bleeding arm rushed in to join them. ‘He’s mine,’ the man spat, then rushed for Apion with a roar
, sword arcing to strike. Then Apion saw the moment: the man’s arm was raised, armpit exposed. Crumpling to his knees, he punched the scimitar up with all the strength of his well-trained arms. There was a dull grumble of sinew, cartilage and bone being torn apart and blood showered over him, accompanied by the foul stench of innards. At that moment he saw only the dark door in his mind, smashed back on its hinges, a wall of hellfire on the other side, the knotted arm reaching out like talons into the flames. He heard screaming; only realising it was his own when his lungs were spent. A stunned croaking came from the man, weight resting on Apion’s sword. His scar flared in agony as he pulled the scimitar free and pushed back to standing.

The other two men were frozen for just an instant and even Kyros’ expression had changed. Then the old man coiled into a crouch and stalked forward with his dagger raised to eye level. ‘So the cripple can use a sword? You will pay dearly for that, boy; it’ll cost me another two coins to hire another to replace him. A slow death waits for you now. I’ll put your eyes out first, then cut out your tongue.’

At that the two men flanking Kyros lunged for Apion and Apion could only parry each blow, the tremendous power shuddering through his body. His scarred leg weakened with every strike and he was being pushed back, one foot in the shallows of the river. He glanced back and was ready to leap into the water, to let the current carry him away; the weakness of his scarred leg would surely see him drown but at least he would deny these cretins their kill. Then Kyros scuttled round to splash into the shallows. ‘No escape that way, boy. Your eyeballs will burst on the tip of my dagger.’