Island in the Storm

Part 2: 1070 AD
5. Lure

A pack of thirty Seljuk ghazi riders thundered across the late winter plains of northern Persia, throwing up a shiver of morning frost in their wake. When they swept across the path of two unusual, woollen-cloaked riders who ambled eastwards, the leader of the Seljuk pack turned to scowl at the pair, the cool January breeze whipping around him. The pair were pale-skinned, one sharp-eyed with amber-silver hair plaited into a tail and an iron-grey beard, the other much younger, with dark locks dangling over his eyes, barely disguising fear.

‘Ya!’ the ghazi commander yelled, bringing his riders round. He drew the composite bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow to it.

From the corner of his eye, Apion saw the riders come round. He noticed Kaspax’s knuckles whiten on his reins. ‘Ride steady, lad,’ he spoke under his breath, his lips barely moving. ‘As if this was your home.’

‘But they’ve drawn their weapons, sir,’ Kaspax croaked.

Apion risked a glance over his shoulder to see the scowling Seljuk rider scowling behind his bow. The thirty that came with him were armed with scimitars, spears and bows and armoured in quilt vests and leather helms. Surely primed for a skirmish. Perhaps even looking for one, and two troublesome travellers might make fine melee-fodder. He nipped the budding fear in his belly and leaned a little closer to Kaspax. ‘We are two western traders, that is all. No armour, no military garb, save our swords and daggers to protect ourselves with. These riders will see that and be on their way.’

Kaspax’s face was riddled with doubt, sweat spidering from every pore. Then the lad jumped as a jagged voice called out from behind them.

‘State your business, riders!’ the lead Seljuk snapped in his native tongue, his eyes shaded under the rim of his conical helm, his bow creaking.

Apion twisted in his saddle, taking care to do it slowly. He affixed the Seljuk rider with a look of annoyance. ‘We come to bargain for saffron and almonds at Mosul,’ he said in the Seljuk tongue with a shrug. ‘If we can ever find the east road to the city!’

The rider relaxed his bow at this, his scowl melting and a faint look of disappointment replacing it. ‘Ride south until sunset. When you come to the twin hills, sleep there then set off eastwards at dawn. You will be at the city by mid-morning tomorrow.’

Kaspax expelled a deep sigh of relief as the Seljuk scouting party thundered away.

At dusk, Apion and Kaspax arrived at the twin hills. They stopped at the base of the easterly one, beside a rock pool ringed with soft, green grass. There they tethered their mounts to the desiccated remains of a tamarisk trunk and gathered up the fallen branches to use as kindling. Soon, the chill of night arrived and the fire provided a welcome heat. Above, bats flitted from the caves pockmarking the twin hills, betrayed only by the starlight and the dancing orange of the flames.

Apion skewered a piece of mutton on a twig and held it over the fire. As the meat charred and bubbled, he cast his mind over the last few months. When the campaign army had disbanded at the Cilician Gates, he led his Chaldians north, each of the riders chatting eagerly about returning to their homes within the walls of Trebizond and on the farms across Chaldia. But he had found that he could not sleep. Night after night he had thrown the words of the mysterious letter around in his head. By whose hand was it penned? How did they know where he was? It was over breakfast on the fourth day of their journey home that Sha had come to him. The Malian was one of the few who knew the full story of Apion’s troubles.

‘You should do what you must, sir. The thema will be in good hands over the winter.’ Then Sha had clasped a hand to his shoulder and insisted; ‘Go, find her.’

And so he had parted from his Chaldians, their farewell chant of Ha-ga! ringing in his ears as he set off southeast, through the Antitaurus Mountain passes, alone. He had only been riding southeast for a few hours when the clopping of hooves alerted him to a follower. Kaspax had ranged alongside him, offering a stiff salute. ‘Tourmarches Sha decided you should have a squire. I volunteered.’ Apion smiled at the memory. For all his self-doubt and awkwardness, Kaspax was a good rider, a fine swordsman and a valiant soul.

Their journey had been arduous at first. The heights of the Antitaurus Mountains were unforgiving in November and early December. They wore furs and sheltered in caves from the winter blizzards that besieged those lofty peaks, eating hard-tack biscuit and strips of salted mutton as they tried to stave off the cold. After a few weeks, they had descended onto the Syrian plain and turned east, into the Seljuk dominion and on into this ancient land. Both men were now saddle-sore and weary.

The bats flitted overhead again, stirring Apion from the memories. Kaspax sat down across from him then, his hair wet and swept back, having washed in the rock pool. He shivered and pulled up close to the fire, and Apion noticed his lips move; I’ll be back to protect you. Until then, let God stay by your side.

The same words he had noticed the lad mouth every night of their journey. Apion felt a question burn on his lips. A question he had stifled so far, for Kaspax seemed uncomfortable with familiar conversation. Indeed, much of their chat on the journey so far had been focused on matters of the thema, the logistics of their trek and the plans for their return route. Even in the lonely mountain caves. ‘Who do you yearn to return to lad? I thought you were without family?’

‘I was just praying, sir.’ Kaspax said, shrugging, shaking his head then gazing off into the night.

‘Come, lad. I can be your Strategos again in the morning, but for the sake of keeping us both sane, speak to me as a friend for now.’ Apion said, throwing a wineskin across the fire.

Kaspax caught it, licked his lips, then melted into a grin before taking a long pull on it. He let out a contented sigh and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed the skin back to Apion. ‘I have no family. I was speaking to Vilyam.’

Apion cocked an eyebrow.

‘My cat,’ Kaspax grinned. ‘That’s my life. My horse, my armour, my home within the walls of Trebizond. . and a well-fed ginger tom.’ He gazed into the flames. ‘The strange thing is that I pray for him every night, yet he barely needs my help — he gets fatter when I’m away. Those who live nearby say he is a menace, raiding their stores and stealing from the market. But when I’m there and I keep him indoors they complain the mice and rats are running rampant and I have to let him out again. I think his system is a fine one,’ he said with a chuckle and a fond look into the darkness.

Apion grinned at this, thinking of the affection he had once had for the old grey mare on Mansur’s farm, and now, for his Thessalian. ‘Animals often make the truest companions.’ Then he cocked his head to one side. ‘But Vilyam is a Slavic name, is it not? Did he come from a northern trader?’

‘No,’ Kaspax replied with a blank look.

Apion frowned. ‘Then why the Slavic name?’

Kaspax shook his head and held up his sword hand — laced with old claw marks. ‘Because he’s a vicious bastard,’ he shrugged, deadpan.

Apion said nothing for a heartbeat, then roared with laughter, steadying himself at last to take another swig from the wineskin; ‘Then we’ll have to see you back to Chaldia safely, else Vilyam will be running the backstreets of Trebizond.’

Kaspax grinned, taking the skin for another drink. ‘Ha! The Tyrant of Trebizond, an apt-’ his words caught in his throat as a scuffling sounded from the darkness nearby.

Apion’s hand swept round for his swordbelt and scimitar, but halted when he saw the yellow eyes of a desert fox flash and then disappear again into the darkness. ‘At ease,’ he said. ‘Now we should try to get some sleep — we need to be sharp for tomorrow.’

Kaspax let out a tense sigh, then rose and drew two woollen blankets from the packs by their tethered mounts. ‘How do you do it, sir?’ he asked, throwing one blanket to Apion. ‘How do you rid yourself of fear?’

Apion frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I long to be a fine and brave rider like my father, yet I tremble at the thought of battle. At the Cilician Gates, I thought I would vomit before we even sighted the Seljuk horde. And here, I almost soiled my tunic at the approach of a fox. . a damned fox! But you have lived at the edge of death on the battlefield for years. You do not pale or flinch in the face of an enemy. Fear must be a distant memory for you. It would be a fine thing if it could be for me also.’

Apion shook his head with a mirthless laugh. ‘Fear has never left me.’

Kaspax frowned, sitting again and throwing his blanket around his shoulders. He hung on Apion’s words.

‘It rides with me, watches me when I sleep, counts my every breath, waiting for the opportunity to harness me with its talons. If anything it has grown throughout the years.’

Kaspax cocked his head to one side. ‘How do you live with such a monster perched on your shoulder?’

Apion prodded the fire with a twig. ‘I accept its presence. I accept that fear alone cannot hurt me. I understand that my choices must be truly mine and not guided by fear. And sometimes, just sometimes, fear can be of use — it can hone your senses like a whetstone.’

Kaspax nodded, throwing his blanket around his shoulders and rubbing his hands together for warmth. ‘My father used to say that he had never tasted fear. He said that I would be the same when I became a man.’

Apion winced at the lad’s words. ‘Atticus was a good man and a lion in my ranks. . but he didn’t half talk horseshit at times.’

Kaspax laughed, taken aback yet trying to mask a spike of grief at the memory of his father at the same time.

‘I miss the mottled whoreson too,’ Apion assured him. ‘But like me, he felt fear. I know. I stood with him on the battlefield many times. I felt the tremor of his spear arm, pressed against my shoulder as we awaited the enemy charge. Perhaps he thought he could set you a fine example with his words. It seems he might instead have left you an unattainable ideal.’

Kaspax still seemed unsure.

‘There is always someone who seems braver and stands taller than you. Always,’ Apion said. ‘You remember old Cydones, don’t you?’

Kaspax nodded, a fond smile touching his lips. ‘It is hard to believe that frail old goat was once the Strategos of Chaldia before you. . a warrior!’

‘Oh, but damn, he was. Never a bolder fellow have I met. I swear his balls were made of iron,’ Apion smiled. ‘Yet even he used to yak on for hours about the heroics of men who had gone before him. The great John Tzimices was his favourite; warrior, battlefield leader then emperor. Could leap over four horses, apparently. Could shoot an arrow through a thumb ring. Could make a ball leap from a vase with a swipe of his spatha — the vase remaining unbroken, of course,’ Apion snorted. ‘I’m surprised he couldn’t shoot Greek fire from his cock!’

Kaspax roared with laughter, rocking where he sat.

‘But you see my point?’ Apion said. ‘Cydones was a hero. He inspired men. He didn’t realise how many hearts he touched. He didn’t appreciate all that he was, instead he spent his days obsessing over the few things that he was not. Don’t waste your life comparing yourself with others. Be all you can be and be proud of your efforts.’ Apion met his eyes across the fire. ‘You volunteered to come here with me ahead of all the others, into the heart of Seljuk lands. That shows an iron nerve, lad.’

‘It is my duty, sir, that is all.’

‘You know very well I don’t come here on imperial duty,’ Apion replied promptly.

Kaspax at first made to deny this, then sighed and nodded. Apion knew that rumours of his nightmares had spread amongst the men. Some had even heard him calling her name, his cries echoing from his chambers in the citadel of Trebizond.

‘I knew only that you had some trouble from the past that you had to address. Tourmarches Sha told me about her — Lady Maria. I would be honoured to help you find her, sir.’

He beheld the young rider once more. ‘Your father would have been proud of you, Kaspax.’

The fire glinted in Kaspax’s eyes as he thought this over. ‘Instead I’ll have to make do with Vilyam’s tepid regards on my return home,’ he said with a smile.

‘That’s if the Tyrant of Trebizond is not too busy ransacking your neighbours’ larders,’ Apion said with a glint in his eye.

They finished the wine and chatted on until both men felt tiredness weigh on their eyelids. Finally, they lay back on the soft grass, each drawing warmth from their woollen blankets, finding sleep easier to come by than of late.

***

They rose at dawn to a crisp, cool morning and the sound of a passing Seljuk trade caravan. They bartered for fresh supplies from the friendly wagon drivers, then enjoyed a light breakfast of olives, toasted flatbread and a little honey, washed down with cool water from the rock pool. Replete and refreshed, they set off on the lonely east road to Mosul.

Not long before midday, the road was lonely no more. Silk traders, cattle farmers and grain-wagon drivers joined them as they ambled east. Finally, the outline of the Seljuk fortress-city emerged from the hazy horizon; vast, sun-bleached walls studded with the fluttering golden bow emblems of the sultanate, wrapping the jutting palaces and domes within. The city was perched on the near banks of the River Tigris, and a thick traffic of trade cogs slipped gently up and downriver through the sparkling turquoise waters, bringing silks and spices to the city’s markets and leaving laden with coin.

Apion stole furtive glances to the western gates, where they would enter the city. The gates lay open, yawning as if dismissive of any threat. As they approached, akhi spearmen glowered down at them from the gatehouse battlements, eyes shaded by the rims of their conical iron helms, fingers grappling talon-sharp spears and tan, turquoise or green shields, bodies wrapped in mail shirts, horn and leather lamellar or brightly-coloured felt coats.

‘Eyes forward,’ Apion whispered to Kaspax once more, acutely aware of the boy’s skittishness as they passed under the shadow of the gatehouse. ‘Again, we are traders, no more. Don’t let fear guide you.’

Inside, they were swept along amongst the throng and the cacophony of shouting traders, jabbering citizens, whinnying horses and the rhythmic patter of drums and twanging of lutes. A tang of spices and cooking meats seasoned the crisp air. Crowds swelled around them, some glancing twice at their foreign features. Apion avoided their stares, looking up and around the street that wound into the heart of the city. Ancient, towering grain silos hemmed one side of the street and a red-brick warehouse had been converted into a covered market on the other side. He dragged his gaze across to the magnificent domed mosque up ahead, tiled in brilliant white with a lacy pattern of turquoise and azure. He shaded his eyes and looked to the four minarets, stretching skywards, spotting the small, white-robed figures up there preparing to make the midday call to prayer. Behind the mosque, on the citadel hill, he saw a sturdy and high-walled keep, with another towering and finely architected building beside it. This other building had tall, arched windows, and silk curtains billowed there in the lofty breeze. For a moment, he was heedless of his surroundings, a strange sense of warmth touching him as he watched the fluttering silk.

‘Sir,’ Kaspax nudged him, stirring him from his odd musing. He saw that the young rider was nodding ahead. ‘Is that it?’

Apion followed his gaze. On its gentle path up towards the citadel hill, the street widened into a market area, thick with islands of stalls shaded under bright canopies. The masses barged and babbled all around. Traders bawled, keen to bring the shoppers to barter for the imported silks and the fine cloth that was the speciality of this city. His mind trawled over the instructions in the letter — Go to the silk market, seek Danush.

‘Aye, it would seem so. You should hang back once we’re in there. Stay vigilant, but try not to draw attention to yourself.’

They dismounted to lead their horses past a pair of akhi standing guard where the street opened out into this thriving silk bazaar. Some commotion was going on around a hulking wagon laden with hewn trunks — two men were arguing about how to safely unload the cargo. Apion led his mount past them and round the thickest of the crowds, then saw one trader, bored and tired of shouting. He gave Kaspax a deft nod and the lad took the reins of his mount and peeled away.

Apion approached the bored trader’s stall, lifting and eyeing a silk scarf.

‘For your lady?’ the trader said, at once alert.

Apion half-smiled at this. ‘Maybe,’ he replied.

‘A dirham and it is yours,’ the trader said, a glint in his eye betraying his audacious overpricing.

Apion smiled fully now, pressing a silver coin into the man’s palm, but holding onto it. ‘Tell me where I can find Danush, and I’ll give you another.’

The trader frowned, lost.

Apion pushed a second and third coin into his palm.

Now the trader grinned. ‘You look thirsty. Maybe a drink in the tavern would be best for you?’

Apion flicked his gaze to the dusty alleyway sprouting off from the market square. ‘Perhaps.’

He approached the tavern alone. The entrance to the tavern was rudimentary at best — little more than a hole in the wall. While the Seljuk conquest had done much to beautify the ancient cities of old Persia, some alleys and corners had remained untouched for many centuries. Indeed, the wall nearby still showed traces of a long-ago bricked-up Sassanid Persian archway.

Inside, the place stank of stale sweat and urine. It was a tavern by function only, its appearance little changed from the trade stable it had clearly once been. A fire crackled in the hearth and the heat in the low-ceilinged space was unpleasant and the air foul. Brick columns divided the tavern-room up into small pockets, with a timber bar at the far end. Hay covered the packed-dirt floor, barely disguising the pools of vomit or lessening the stench. Buzzing clouds of flies seemed determined to draw attention to every such stain. It brought back stark and unwelcome memories of his time as a child slave. Traders and locals were dotted around, babbling in a low murmur, their eyes red with inebriation. A dark-skinned woman with an equally drained look walked from table to table, lifting empty cups and placing down new ones.

Apion frowned, scanning the sea of faces as discreetly as possible, then he stopped on one who held his gaze. A weary-faced old man. A native Persian, fifty years old or more, with lined, fawn skin. Bald, with wispy grey wings of hair above each ear.

‘Danush?’ he muttered under his breath as he approached.

‘I knew it was you,’ the Persian said, offering a welcoming smile. ‘Sit,’ he gestured to the chair by his side. Apion looked to the chair but — still wary of his surroundings — instead took the one opposite to sit facing the man, where he could keep an eye on him. A plate lay before the man, strewn with breadcrumbs of some recent meal. At the adjacent table, a drunken Seljuk lay slumped and snoring.

The barmaid placed down two cups of oily-looking wine. Apion sipped at it and wrinkled his nose — it was hot and vinegary. He affixed Danush the Persian with a solemn look. ‘Tell me what you know.’

‘What I know?’ The man’s smile faded. He looked to check that no one else could hear, then affixed Apion with his gaze. ‘I’ll tell you a story of love and loss. A story of a man who lost his wife to the war.’ His eyes grew weary and red-rimmed. ‘We met when we were children. We knew love for so many years.’ He stopped, placing a hand over his heart. ‘Love as I have never known since. My only wish then was that we could be granted the rest of our lives together.’

Apion felt the man’s words tease out long buried feelings of his own.

‘She bore me three fine boys, we shunned the wars that rolled back and forth across our lands.’ Danush stopped, looking up, tears building in his eyes. ‘Then she was taken by the Fatimid raiders. They swept across our farm, cut down my boys, took my wife as a prize. I was not there to save them. I thought I already knew grief, but at that moment, I truly experienced it. It was long and lasting.’ He shook his head. ‘It has never left me. Every day it feels as though my heart has grown whole again only to be torn open by the memories.’

‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ was all Apion could offer.

‘Ah, if only it ended there,’ the old man sighed. ‘It was years after they took her — years after I had given her up for dead — that I found out.’

‘Found out?’

Tears gathered in the old man’s eyes. ‘Those raiders had not killed her. She had lived on all those years, many miles away in Fatimid lands, as a slave. And she had died as such. Alone.’

Apion bowed his head and sighed.

‘Now do you understand?’ the old man asked. ‘I cannot right the wrong that was done to me. But when your messengers came from the west talking of a fellow seeking out the whereabouts of his lost woman, I had to act. I missed them, only hearing of their enquiries from others, after they had left. But I had to get word to you.’

Apion nodded, producing the letter from his purse. ‘And you did.’

Danush chuckled wearily. ‘So my days of waiting for you, drinking oily wine in this sty were worth it.’

Apion reached out and clasped the old man’s hands. ‘Thank you.’

Danush shrugged. ‘It is all I could do.’

Apion waited, senses honed on the man’s next words.

The Persian seemed set to tell all, then he sighed. ‘Now, let us order some food. Then I can tell you all I know about your woman.’

Apion frowned, glancing to the already empty plate before the man. ‘Very well, although I don’t have much of an appetite.’

‘Be patient,’ the old man smiled again, then leant forward, his eyes wide and earnest. ‘I know where she is.’

The words were like an elixir to Apion. He barely noticed the barmaid bringing them two plates each with bread, cheese and a blunt knife. He did not touch the fare, instead letting the old man eat in silence while he lost himself in a daze of hope. Suddenly, the foul air was sweet, the dry heat from the fire like a balm on his skin and the vinegar wine like honey. He could have laughed aloud, right there in the middle of the filthy, cut-throat Seljuk tavern, were it not for one odd thing that snapped him from his reverie.

Every time the old Persian carved a piece of cheese from the block on his plate, he would shoot a glance beyond Apion’s shoulder, towards the tavern entrance.

***

Kaspax tried to remind himself what inconspicuous meant as he found himself constantly getting in the way of traders and market-goers no matter where he stood. Finally — after he had stood on the toes of a woman and her bull shouldered husband shoved him out of the way with a mouthful of foreign curses that he was sure might make even Tourmarches Blastares blush — he slunk back into a niche between two stalls. ‘This’ll do,’ he muttered, then set about studying the throng. The two akhi spearmen still guarded the main street leading up into this bazaar, beside the log-wagon and squabbling men. Apart from that, there was little else to keep an eye on. Then he noticed the trader Apion had bought the scarf from was gone from his stall. He scrutinised the crowd again, and saw the trader once more. Talking with someone. A third akhi. Kaspax’s eyes narrowed. And when the trader pointed to the tavern, his blood turned to ice.

Kaspax watched as the akhi rushed off towards the heart of the city. His heart battered on his ribs and he felt fear’s talons grasp his shoulders.

***

Apion watched the old man finish off his meal. There it was again. A snatched glance to the entrance. He picked up his knife as if to eat his own meal, and furtively angled it so it caught the light. The reflection was dull, but showed enough of the entrance to assuage his fears. Nobody there bar some toothless drunk. Stow your doubts for once, man, he chided himself.

‘Shall we talk now?’ Apion said.

The old Persian nodded. ‘Yes, yes. Tell me, is it true what they say? You slew Lady Maria’s husband?’

‘He gave me no choice,’ Apion muttered, that moment atop the citadel of Hierapolis coming back to him like a black wind.

‘I hope Lady Maria understands that. I have always wondered what my wife might have said had I rescued her from slavery. Would she ever have forgiven me for letting our daughters die?’

Apion nodded and made to reply, but the breath caught in his lungs. ‘Daughters? A moment ago they were sons?’

The old man stopped chewing, his eyes widening. His lips twitched wordlessly, then his brow furrowed as he scowled at the tavern entrance.

‘Sir!’ Kaspax’s cry filled the filthy inn. ‘Run!’

Apion swung round to see the rider at the entrance. Before he could rise, Danush’s hands slapped down on his in an attempt to pin him where he sat. ‘It is too late,’ the old man snarled, his friendly demeanour vanishing like a thin mist, lips curling back to reveal his yellowed teeth. ‘It is time to pay for your sins!’

Apion snarled and threw Danush off, then kicked the table back, sending the old man, the cups and plates scattering back across the tavern floor.

Suddenly, as he made to leap from his chair and flee, the slumbering, snoring Seljuk at the next table shot up — not a trace of sleep in his eyes. He swiped an axe out from behind his back, swinging it towards Apion’s head. Apion bent back from the blow, then brought his forearm crashing into the man’s neck. The big man stumbled forward, stunned. Apion leapt upon him, pressing the giant’s head ear-down on the table then drawing and punching down with his lengthy dagger. With a spout of dark blood, the blade plunged into his temple and burst from the other one, pinning his skull to the table. The giant’s eyes rolled in his head and his body slackened.

Apion swung away from the scene and leapt over tables and chairs to get to the entrance before the stampede of confused and terrified clientele. Outside, Kaspax pushed the reins of the Thessalian into his hands and in an instant, the pair were mounted. ‘What’s happening?’

‘They’re coming!’ Kaspax bawled, looking over his shoulder. There, at the east end of the market, descending from the heart of the city, a pack of Seljuk riders were barging through the crowd. Apion’s gaze snared on the lead rider. The stud-rimmed helm and nose guard, the scale vest. It was the wraith-like rider, the one with Nasir’s armour from the Cilician Gates. No! he mouthed.

The rider roared his horsemen forward, and the crowd in the market square scattered, screaming. ‘This way, sir,’ Kaspax gasped, urging his mount towards the street leading downhill and off to the western gate. They barged through the throng but Apion saw that they would be caught in moments by their pursuers. As he urged his mount on out of the square, he glanced to the log-laden wagon at the near entrance and, without a second thought, drew his scimitar and swept it across the ropes holding the cargo in place. With a hollow thunder, the logs spilled across the entrance to the square, blocking the oncoming riders.

‘The gates are open,’ Kaspax panted, pointing through the hastily parting crowds.

‘Don’t talk, ride!’ Apion snarled. He snatched a glance over his shoulder to see the riders trying to clamber over the fallen logs. Two made it, another few fell, then the lead rider leapt over too.

They burst clear of the city’s western gates and out onto the vast Persian plain again. For just an instant, there was an illusion of safety, then he heard the rumble of the three riders still in pursuit. ‘Archers!’ the lead rider roared. A thrum of bows sounded from the gatehouse, then with a whoosh of arrows, a shower of missiles spattered around them. One scored Apion’s thigh. He stifled a cry and tried as best he could to lie flat on the saddle, pressing his mount’s flanks for every drop of haste.

Every time he glanced back, the city of Mosul was shrinking into the horizon, yet the three pursuing riders were there, just a few hundred paces behind, just out of range to use their bows. The chase continued like this for over an hour. Behind them, a pained whinny sounded as one Seljuk mare foundered, its leg snapping as it fell. But the remaining two did not relent. The rider with the stud-rimmed helm seemed the faster of the two, and took to loosing his arrows as they gained just a little ground. When they thundered down into a dusty hollow, Apion could feel his Thessalian’s heart pounding, and noticed its skin was lathered with sweat and foam was gathering at its mouth.

‘We have to stop,’ he cried over the rush of air to Kaspax. ‘Be ready to peel away. We will take on one man each.’

Kaspax nodded hurriedly.

‘And Kaspax — stow your fear. Ready. . now!’

Apion kicked his mount’s right flank, bringing the gelding arcing round to the left. Kaspax reflected this move, bringing his stallion swinging to the right. The two Seljuks slowed for a moment as they rode down into the wide hollow, seeing the two Byzantine riders coming round for them. Their confusion was fleeting, as they swiftly snatched up their bows and nocked them.

Apion locked eyes with the onrushing shadowy one, watching his draw. The rider loosed and Apion threw himself from the saddle and clear of the missile’s flight. He crashed to the dust, tumbling over and over then pushing himself to his feet. As the Seljuk drew again, only paces away, Apion saw it was his last arrow. He bounded over and leapt up to barge the rider from his mount, the arrow flying off into the brush. As the rider scrambled to his feet, Apion drew his scimitar and the Seljuk did likewise.

The pair circled one another. At this distance, Apion was in no doubt now; this figure wore the armour of Nasir. ‘Who are you,’ he panted, his scimitar extended.

‘I am everything you should fear,’ the rider said, his voice a growl. He could see only the dark skin and snarling lips of this one, the eyes shaded under the rim of the helm. ‘I live only to slay the Haga.’

Apion shook his head. ‘Why do you wear Bey Nasir’s garb?’

The rider laughed at this. A cold laugh. Slowly, he reached up to prize the helm away. The only noise was the nearby smash-smash of Kaspax and the other rider in combat. Apion gawped as the rider’s dark locks tumbled to his shoulders, framing the fawn-skinned face of a boy, barely fifteen. His square jaw was lined with the beginnings of a beard. But it was the boy’s eyes that pinned him. Sparkling emerald eyes, just like his own.

The boy’s face creased in anger. ‘I am what you created,’ he said as if spitting a lump of gristle. ‘I am of your seed.’

Apion shook his head, his mind refusing to believe what his heart was telling him.

‘But Bey Nasir was my true father. . until you struck him down,’ the boy continued.

Apion felt his legs grow numb, his head swam. ‘You are my. . son?’ he said, his voice hoarse and cracking. His mind spun, thinking of those few and precious days he had spent with Maria, many years ago.

‘Didn’t you hear me? I shun your blood, just as my mother shunned you. I am Taylan bin Nasir.’

Apion shook his head, realisation dawning. ‘Then Maria is alive?’

Taylan snarled at this. ‘Do not speak her name, you godless whoreson!’

‘But you must know of her whereabouts?’

‘I do, Haga, but you never will. She is far from here and she will always be far from you.’ The boy grinned a feral grin, his eyes uplit by the light reflected from his scimitar blade. ‘Now you will go to your godless realm, Haga, and you will tell all the djinns there that Taylan, son of Bey Nasir, sent you there.’

When Taylan lunged forward, Apion threw up his blade, parrying the strike. It was deft and strong. They exchanged blows and sparks showered between them as their scimitars sang. At last they parted, panting. ‘This is wrong, Taylan,’ Apion pleaded, the scene so reminiscent of his final contest with Nasir.

From nearby, a sharp cracking of bone rang out, accompanied by a visceral cry. The second Seljuk rider slumped, Kaspax’s sword embedded in his breast. Kaspax pulled his sword clear and staggered away, coming to aid Apion. Apion flicked up a finger to still him.

He turned back to Taylan. ‘You are outnumbered,’ he said flatly.

Taylan’s eyes blazed with indignation at this. With a roar, he surged forward. The boy’s blade flashed down for Apion’s shoulder, and Apion could only fall back from the strike, throwing his sword arm up for another parry. This time, the two blades met with a dull shearing noise, and the blade of Taylan’s sword spun clear of the hilt. The boy staggered back, glancing at his shattered weapon, then glowering at Apion.

‘You are outnumbered and you are disarmed,’ Apion insisted, then threw down his own scimitar tip-first so it quivered in the dust and held out his hands, palms open. ‘The fight is over. Now please, talk with me.’

Taylan shook his head, eyes burning. ‘Never,’ he hissed as he backed towards his mount. His gaze never left Apion as he swung up and onto the saddle. Then he pointed a finger at Apion as if it was a dagger.

‘In every dream, in every waking moment, with every step you take on the battlefield, you should beware. I will be coming for you, Haga. I will not stop until I have avenged my true father. And my mother’s whereabouts? Never!’ With that, he swung his mare round and galloped off, back to the east.

Apion slumped to his knees. No words, actions or emotions came to him. He could only stare numbly at Taylan’s fading dust plume.

A crash of iron beside him pulled him from his trance. He blinked, seeing Kaspax had fallen onto his back. The young rider’s face was pale, grey even. Blood spidered from his lips and it was only then that Apion saw the bone-deep thigh wound the other Seljuk had inflicted on him. He shuffled over to lift Kaspax’s head and shoulders.

‘Sir, I’ll need to be getting back home.’ The young rider’s words were badly slurred and his pupils were dilating. ‘Vilyam will be. . Vilyam will. . ’ Kaspax’s words trailed off with a sigh. At last, emotion came to Apion in a ruthless tide. He tried to stifle the tears as best he could. ‘Vilyam will be fine. And you’d better rest, for it will be a long journey,’ he said, sweeping his hand over the dead rider’s face to close his eyes.

He laid Kaspax down and turned to face the east once more. He had heard much talk of fate and destiny in his time. Much of it he had scoffed at. But at that moment, he knew he had to face Taylan again.

***

White silk veils billowed in the gentle breeze that trickled in through the tall, arched windows of the hospital on Mosul’s citadel hill. Maria closed her eyes and let the pleasant air bathe her, taking the fire from her skin and cooling her in her bed. This was as fine a pleasure as any she had experienced. Up here the air was fresh and — apart from some ruckus in the silk market this afternoon — the racket from the streets was barely discernable too. That was why the sultan’s vizier, Nizam, had chosen to build this grand hospital here. The wards were spacious and finely ornamented with marble floors, beautifully tiled walls and fine silks — more akin to a palace than a place where the sick were sent to convalesce. Her train of thought ended at this, and she touched a hand to her abdomen. The hard swelling in there seemed more tender today than it had a few months ago when she had been admitted to the hospital, and her skin seemed more tautly stretched across it. At least now she knew what her future held, she thought, remembering her discussion with the physician that morning.

Just then, that same physician shuffled in wearing a white cap and robes. An old man with a face wrinkled like the skin of a prune, his shoulders rounded and his expression serene. She had often wondered at the strength of those who lived only to care for others in this place. Day after day faced with mortality and locked away from the vibrancy of life elsewhere. The physician carried with him a steaming urn of broth. The elderly lady nearby barely had the strength to refuse the meal, but the man ignored her pleas, instead sitting on her bedside, speaking to her in gentle tones as he filled her bowl then lifted it to her lips. She drank, and as she did so, a tear snaked down her cheek. In all the months Maria had been in here, nobody had visited the lady. The old woman’s husband had died and left her a wealthy woman. Wealthy but alone. Now, in her final days, she found conversation only with Maria and a few other patients.

Maria had only one who came to visit her. Her son, Taylan. And every time he came to her he seemed ever more consumed by a burning hatred. That fire had been kindled over a year ago when her husband, Nasir, the man Taylan had long thought to be his father, had been slain. Slain by his true father. She had never regretted telling Taylan the truth about Apion, but she constantly feared what the boy might do with this knowledge. Without the bitter Nasir to scold him and put him down, Taylan had grown strong in this last year, in physical stature and in arrogance. His stock had risen swiftly in the military ranks too. She remembered that day he had come to her after his first battle. In his excitement, he had neglected to wash his fingernails, still clogged with dried blood. His eyes had shone like beacons as he had recounted to her his victory. How he had slain so many Byzantine spearmen that he had lost count. He had not understood why she wept at this. So now he told her little, and they largely sat in silence for the duration of his visits. But she still heard the tales of his exploits from passing orderlies and the occasional soldier sent into these wards. It seemed that Taylan was now leading riders into battle at barely fifteen years of age, and this had even brought him to the sultan’s attention. It seemed that Alp Arslan was to teach him the art of war.

What art is there in war? How many crimson scenes must a man paint to grow tired of battle? She scoffed, her lips curling and her nose wrinkling, thinking of all that was absent from her life. Those lost days when she and Father had lived a simple but happy life in the clement and pleasant valleys of Byzantine Chaldia. Neither Seljuk nor Byzantine, just a farming family. In those days, Apion and Nasir had lived almost as brothers, neither yet sullied by the conflict. But all had been swept up in the ensuing war, all now no more than dust. All except Apion, a legend known across the borderlands, or so she had heard. The Haga, one of the few whom the sultan’s armies feared. Some tales labelled him the bringer of death, the burner of souls; others spoke of him as a valiant soul, fighting on in hope of peace.

What have you become, dear Apion? She wondered, thinking of how war and hatred had twisted Nasir into a rancorous and lonely individual. And what is to become of our boy?

She sensed him coming at that moment, hearing the clatter of iron armour that rarely echoed in this sanctuary. He came to her, sat by her bedside as usual. The faint beginnings of a beard were now taking shape. His lips were fixed thin and straight. His eyes betrayed some fresh anger, gazing through her.

‘Son,’ she said, reaching out to touch his hand. This seemed to break the spell and he looked at her now as a son should. But only for a moment. Swiftly, his eyes filled with pity. Maria said nothing. She knew her hair greyed with every passing day, and her once rounded, healthy figure was wasting away. They had to talk today, she thought, placing a hand on the tender lump on her abdomen again. He had to know.

‘Come closer, son.’