Strategos: Born in the Borderlands (19 page)

‘You speak of him warmly,’ Apion commented.

‘I hold my former adversary in such high regard because he was a good man. Simple as that.’ Cydones nodded. ‘I remember the time when he had a battle won and he spared Byzantine lives, let men walk home to their families.’

Apion nodded, his mind reeling. The old man had ghosts, but this was a revelation. ‘If he was so glorious a leader of men, why did he leave that life?’

Cydones smirked wryly. ‘Every man has his reasons. You would have to ask old Mansur himself.’

Apion frowned. ‘Then how do you feel about having a Seljuk strategos living in imperial lands?’

Cydones looked at him, confused. ‘I welcome him. He gave up military life to come here, to settle on these lands and farm the soil in peace.’ The strategos shook his head, ‘I don’t live for conflict, Apion, I live to prevent it. It’s God’s cruel game that in this world we only seem to be able to win peace by warring until we are exhausted or until too few live to fight anymore.’ His words trailed off and he thumbed his bronze Chi-Rho neckpiece as he spoke.

‘Mansur’s crossing over the borderlands to settle amongst those he once considered as his enemy was an example I hoped more would follow. There are other Seljuk settlers in the empire – and I welcome them too – but not nearly as many as I had hoped.’ He pointed to the semi-constructed dome near the old library. ‘One day soon my engineers will complete this mosque and erect the crescent on its peak. Way west in Constantinople they have many mosques and a myriad of cultures and peoples. It is these borderlands that are so poisonous, but we’re making small steps. One day our people might become one, with no need for war or conquest. Until that day, if it ever comes, we must live by the sword. We need good men in our ranks, Apion. Good swordsmen are in short supply. I am well aware that Mansur pays his exemption taxes in full and on time but if you are deft with that weapon then you would be most welcome under my banner.’

Apion felt a surge of pride at this, then remembered the old lady by the river.
You may not see it now, but you will choose a path. A path that leads to conflict and pain. Much pain
. He looked the strategos in the eye and steadied himself; it still took great effort to face the choice he had made since that day he had clashed with old Kyros. ‘When I was a boy I dreamt of riding with the kataphractoi, just like my father. Then my parents were slaughtered before my eyes.’

At this, Cydones face fell stony, his eyes weary.

Apion continued. ‘I spent a long time after that, too long, chasing revenge and seeking out violent justice. I can only thank god that one day I realised that in doing so I was pursuing ghosts and destroying the second chance at happiness that I had been given in Mansur’s home. That day I resolved to stay clear of conflict. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, sir, but the best. I’ll help Mansur pay the exemption tax, and I’ll even seek to purchase fine weapons and armour to equip another in my place, but I won’t be joining the ranks. Even if it were not for my resolution, it would not seem right, for I am a Byzantine and at the same time a Seljuk. I could not fight with such a mindset.’

Cydones’ eyes narrowed at this. ‘That saddens me, Apion, but at least your reasoning is well thought through, so I can only respect your conviction.’ He sighed and then continued. ‘Still, though, the thema army is to be mustered in the coming months. Five years of demobilisation makes it an onerous task indeed, but the emperor is expecting us to tackle the advance of Tugrul and his Seljuk armies and he expects us to do it alone as well. In disbanding the Armenian themata, the man in the purple buskins believes the Armenian princes and the fifty thousand men who marched with them under the imperial banner are no longer required. The borders are now here,’ he pointed to the ground, ‘right where we stand. Tugrul’s eyes are upon us. Just existing here in Chaldia means that you will be part of the war, whether you are in the ranks or not.’

Apion thought of the shatranj board, the front ranks, and the expendable blades. ‘The
Falcon’s
forces, are they not as large an army as has ever approached the empire?’

A smile touched the edge of Cydones’ lips at Apion’s interest. ‘Rumours are dangerous, Apion. Rumours can defeat a man before he even takes to the battlefield. I have heard such talk, but I hold little stock in it.’

‘But surely their number would dictate whether the thema faces them in the field or invites them to break on her city walls?’

‘A wise question and one my officers and I must mull over in the coming weeks. So Mansur has taught you to think with a tactical mind?’

‘Shatranj is my battlefield; we pit our wits against one another almost every night,’ Apion nodded, feeling the chill bite through his clothes. ‘I have still to beat him though.’

Cydones smiled wistfully. ‘That sounds very familiar, he always was one step ahead at that game. Perhaps if you are not to fight in my ranks then we could at least pit our wits over the shatranj board one day?

Apion nodded, teeth chattering as a fresh batch of snow began to fall silently around them.

‘In the meantime, I invite you to spend the evening with my men at the inn up by the docks; they have a crackling fire, hot food and limitless ale to warm the heart!’

Apion glanced back at the inn they were supposed to be staying at. The place was comfortable when he had looked inside but the ovens were off and the fire low. The inn by the docks sounded far more inviting. Then he thought of Nasir. He looked back to Cydones. ‘My friend, he is . . . Seljuk.’

Cydones nodded. ‘You tell them the strategos sent you; they’ll treat you and your friend well.’

Apion shivered. ‘Then I’ll take you up on that offer!’

Cydones trotted on after his men. Something the boy had said lingered in his thoughts.
I am a Byzantine and a Seljuk.
Though it had been many years since the crone had come to him, he often thought of her words. He looked back, his gaze hanging on Apion, hobbling around the wagon.

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 . . . f
ind the Haga!

He is one man torn to become two.

His eyes narrowed and for a moment he wondered . . . then he shook his head with a weary chuckle and heeled his mount onwards.

***

Twin flutes piped out a lilting ditty and kettledrums thumped like horse hooves. Smoke from the roaring fire coiled under the cracked timber ceiling and laughter and babble packed the little space left in the dockside inn. A grinning, rotund lady, eyes smudged black with kohl, stumbled across the legs of three rugged and rosy-cheeked skutatoi. She emitted a staged shriek as she landed in the welcoming arms of the tallest of the three, who wiped ale froth from his lips and cracked a stumpy toothed grin as one of the woman’s breasts spilled loose from her frock and her pristine blonde sculpted hair tumbled loose of its pins. The countless skutatoi and kataphractoi crammed into the alehouse cheered at her exposure as she slapped the bewildered soldier and then planted a wet kiss on his lips, before struggling up and away, leaving him gazing like a lost but happy lamb while his comrades slapped his back and shoulders.

Apion squinted at the frothing golden liquid that swam near the base of his jug. ‘Tastes . . . funny,’ he slurred.

Nasir shook his head. ‘That’s one of the reasons my people don’t drink the stuff.’

‘Maybe you need it to appreciate the, er, atmosphere in here?’ Apion mused.

Ferro had been quick to welcome Apion and Nasir into the inn with the soldiers and almost before they were seated, a pair of foaming ales were slammed down in front of them, which Nasir had politely refused. Apion drunk both greedily though and had practically inhaled the platter of duck meat and potato stew the soldiers had bought for him, the tenderness of the meat and the rich, salty gravy flooding through his enervated limbs. Now, on his third jug of ale, he felt distinctly woozy.

‘Ale is sweet most evenings, but tonight,’ Ferro nudged him with an elbow, ‘it tastes like honey from God!’

‘Aye, and it’ll burn like the piss of the devil in the morning!’ A fellow skutatos roared in reply, conducting another cacophony of shrieking laughter.

‘It feels as if I’m swimming, but inside my own head?’ Apion wondered, feeling his thoughts run wild.

Amidst another crash of laughter, Apion squinted up at Nasir, supping honeyed water steadily. His friend was nervous in the presence of the men of the thema.

‘Another ale for the boy!’ Ferro yelled at an emaciated maid as she threaded her way through the throng. She winked in acknowledgement, growing an instant, well-rehearsed and over-the-top expression of gratitude before turning to move off.

‘Not sure if I can take another,’ Apion stood to stop the maid but his hand seemed to thrash out wildly as if belonging to someone else, knocking the cups from her tray. They crashed in a foamy wash on the grime underfoot. ‘Sorry,’ the blood drained from his face and he slammed back onto the bench, elbows thudding onto the table, head flopping into his hands.

‘With that charm and wit, you’ll pull the women all night long,’ one soldier yelped.

‘Aye, he’s got a way with them, eh?’ Nasir replied nervously.

Apion squinted up, his vision blurring. ‘Hold on, what about Maria; she likes me, laughs at my jokes. Likes the ones about the goats best.’

‘Maria? I think you’re kidding yourself,’ Nasir mused, looking off into the distance with a smirk.

Apion fired a glare at his friend, and then tucked the last swill of ale down his throat. Bitter at first, it now slipped down, tasteless. ‘You’ve got something to say about her?’

Nasir flicked his eyebrows up in mock alarm. ‘Think about it. She was pleased to see me the other day.’ At this the surrounding skutatoi leant in, cooing in a sudden interest. ‘
Very
pleased.’

‘And? She and I have grown close over the last year.’ Apion spluttered. ‘
Very
close,’ he mocked.

At this, Ferro clapped his shoulder with a chuckle and stood. ‘Sounds juicy, but I’m off for a piss. Try to stay in one piece till I get back.’

Nasir threw his head back in laughter as the tourmarches upped and left for the latrines, ‘She likes you, aye, but like a brother!’

The skutatoi let out a series of mocking gasps. ‘A fight over a bit of pussy? What a surprise!’ One of them cackled, slurring. ‘What’s she like, eh? Slutty?’

Apion’s blood fizzed and he pushed up to standing, barging the table back, refusing to wince as his brace cut into his scar. Drinks toppled and foamed around him. ‘You shut your mouth!’ He roared at the soldier, who stared back wide-eyed, his face slack as he leant back in his stool. It was only then that Apion felt the weight of his sword hilt in his hand, the blade part-removed from its sheath. A wash of fiery confusion consumed him as he saw the faces of the men around him: gone was the ruddy bonhomie and in its place were frowns of disgust. He tucked the blade away and rubbed his temples.

‘What’re you doing with a blade like that?’ One red-faced soldier growled, then jabbed a finger at Nasir. ‘And you, your face doesn’t fit in around here.’

‘Leave it,’ one kataphractos from the column shouted him down. ‘The strategos sent them here tonight.’

‘Aye?’ The ruddy-faced soldier’s expression changed, and then he nodded, kicking a pair of stools out from his table. ‘Then I let my words get the better of me. Sit, have a drink with us.’

Apion and Nasir sat, gingerly at first. Under the influence of the ale, the soldier’s moods seemed to spiral like leaves on a breeze as they bantered. Apion refused any more of the ale and supped water instead, listening as the conversation turned distinctly bawdy.

As story after story was told, he found his thoughts wandering. He looked over to the corner of the inn, happy to find his vision had sharpened again despite the onset of a burning headache. Then he frowned, noticing a sharp-faced figure sat in the shadows in the corner, flanked by four massive soldiers either side. A short, bald tradesman sat in their midst talking with the sharp-faced man. No, not talking, pleading. The sharp-faced man leant forward to rest his chin on steepled fingers wrapped in iron-studded gloves. Apion’s heart skipped a beat. It was Bracchus.

‘Keep your head down around that one, lad,’ the skutatos by his side nudged him. ‘Bad news follows him like a plague. I’ve only been in this city for a year but I know to keep from his path.’