Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

Part 2: 1053 AD
11. The Creaking of the Door

Six more winters passed over Anatolia, each one as bitter as the summers were unforgivingly hot. Five years ago, Tugrul had marched his hordes west and hammered against a staunch resistance from a combined force of the Scholae Tagma, Cydones’ Chaldian Thema and the Armenian themata, led by their loyal princes. Tugrul was stopped but certainly not defeated, yet a deal was struck to put in place a truce. All had been quiet for the next four years with fewer and fewer ghazi raids. Then rumours started of a rejuvenated Seljuk war machine. Far to the east, Tugrul had swamped the lands of old Persia, revitalising the ancient cities and studding the landscape with garrisoned forts. All the armies of the Abbasid Caliphate, once bitterly opposed to Sultan Tugrul’s expediency, were now under his control. The Falcon was now at the helm of an army more numerous than the world had seen in centuries, and people said that now he looked east to Byzantium and south to the Fatimid Caliphate of Egypt, weighing the ripeness of each like fruit.

Then, as the harsh winter set in again, official word spread across Byzantium like a blizzard: Emperor Constantine Monomachus had seen prudence in effectively disbanding the Armenian themata, the loyal buffer states that had patrolled the eastern lip of the Byzantine Empire throughout the truce. Fifty thousand loyal men at once became estranged to Byzantium. Tugrul’s decision was made for him: The Falcon was set to march on Byzantium and take his glory.

High up on the narrow cliff path, sat on the wagon, a winter wind whipped around Apion’s legs, even through the woollen leggings he had bought at market. He lifted the extra cloak and placed it around Maria’s shoulders.

‘I’m fine!’ she grumbled. The wagon horses spluttered in a supporting chorus of agitation.

He replaced the garment with a cocked eyebrow and then drew his own cloak tighter. Then he turned back to the problem: an obstinate rock filled the road, smugly insisting that they turn back. The earthquake had felt little more than a tremor a days’ ride downriver in Cheriana, but up here, he could see the countryside littered with new features: chasms, landslides and rockfall like this. Nevertheless, in Maria’s eyes their predicament was his fault for trying this new shortcut. He hopped down onto the road, wincing as the iron brace around his knee bit at his scar.

The crutch had been like a living limb to him for that first year at Mansur’s farm but as his body developed, growing muscular and lean from his riding and swordplay, his scarred leg remained withered and underdeveloped, as if trapped in time. Eventually, the crutch had become a burden and another solution was required. So, five years ago, Mansur had paid a blacksmith in Cheriana to smelt a mail vest and use it to mould a brace to the shape of Apion’s knee. The result had been revitalising. Although he was still stooped to one side, slow and easily tired, he could walk without the aid of the crutch and for that he was eternally grateful to the old man.

And much else had changed for Apion in those years since he had discarded the crutch. Now in his eighteenth year, he had grown broad in the jaw and shoulders, his pleated amber locks draped down his back and the wispy beginnings of a beard had sprouted on his chin. His brow had grown prominent like his father’s, casting his emerald eyes in a permanent shade and his aquiline nose was now even more battered and knotted from his adolescent misadventure. For all the physical changes in his life, Apion was grateful only for the peaceful years he had enjoyed: teasing Maria; indulging in horseplay with Nasir; pushing for that still-elusive shatranj victory over Mansur and relishing his trips around the thema market towns. For this simple and pleasant life he had thanked God every morning and night.

He hobbled over to the rock: the impact of the thing had created a hairline fracture in the surface of the road, marking out a crescent from the base of the rock to the cliff edge and bedding the monolith into the road surface ever so slightly. He sighed: he was an experienced hand at dealing with problems on the roads and working a deal at the markets; his Seljuk tongue was now fluent and if the trader was from the east then a few words of the native tongue usually clinched a healthy discount. But no amount of experience could have prepared him for the comedy of disasters this trip had been: a splintered wheel, a horse with rampant diarrhoea and then a thief in the market inn who stealthily relieved him of his purse while he played shatranj with the innkeeper. Now this; a rocky path with a towering cliff face on one side and a gut-churning plummet on the other. Both he and Maria’s hands were scraped and bruised at their attempts to move the monolith so far without success. The strength of another big lad was just what he needed right now. He thought of his good friend.

Where are you when I need you, Nasir?

It had been a long year since the boy with whom he had shared so many days of play and mischief had upped from Kutalmish’s farmhouse and rode east to enlist with the Seljuk riders. The boy had accepted Apion and shared his will to leave the dark past and the death of his mother behind, but his heart burned with a desire for a slice of the glory that the mighty Tugrul was taking in his relentless push westwards. Invasion was the word on everyone’s lips and the pull of war won, dragging Nasir into its midst.

‘Look, we should loop back and go the other route,’ Maria leant forward, hissing as if to disguise her words from the horses, startling Apion from his thoughts. ‘You’ve gotten nowhere so far,’ she jabbed a finger up at the early afternoon sun, ‘and I don’t fancy being stuck out here when it gets cold and dark.’

A tad melodramatic, Apion thought, gulping back the snarling response he wanted to give. He watched as she cooed soothingly into the horses’ ears, brushing her cheek against their faces. His frustration quelled.

He would never have recognised this girl seven years ago. She was still short, her eyes only level with his shoulders. However, her matted tufts of hair had blossomed into sleek charcoal locks, her chocolate eyes had stretched into a fine almond shape — probably helped by the kohl from market she had begun to line them with — and she now kept her eyebrows plucked to a fine arc. She was not what others might call beautiful but in another sense that he couldn’t quite grasp, she was just that in every way. Over the last few years he had begun to notice how her body moved as she walked, the generous curve of her hips rolling smoothly with each step. So smooth, so soft. An idea sparked in his mind.

‘The oil!’ He yelped.

Maria shot him a disparaging glance. ‘Eh?’

‘The oil will shift it!’ He hobbled around to the rear of the wagon, pulled the door and jabbed a finger at the neat row of amphorae containing freshly pressed olive oil.

‘Or the original route home?’ Maria added stoically, hands on hips.

‘It’d take us the rest of the day; this way will take us half that time.’ He grabbed an amphora and two stakes of wood.

‘Oh, going to do some cooking?’ Maria cooed as he hobbled over to the rock. ‘Why if I’d known I’d have brought a wineskin.’

‘Look, if this doesn’t work we go your way. It won’t take long. Here we go,’ Apion popped the cork and let the amphora tumble over behind the rock, the slick green-tinged liquid coating the ground instantly, breaking around the base of the obstacle. ‘Come on, give me a hand,’ Apion handed her one of the stakes. He wedged the first in under a tiny crevice near the base of the fallen rock. ‘Now you do the same,’ he pointed to a similar crevice a few hand widths along the base. He looked at her as she sighed, lifting the winch as though it was cursed, her nose wrinkling in distaste. Then the savoury tang of olive oil evaporating hit them both at that moment and a rumble pierced the air.

Maria’s face darkened in embarrassment and she clutched her belly. ‘Look, I’m hungry, and this is all your fault, so get on with it.’

Apion grinned. ‘Then let’s get this moved and we’ll be back home and eating in no time.’

She shrugged, muttering, then stabbed the winch into the rock.

‘On three: one, two. . three!’

With a grunt, they pressed down onto the winches to lift the rock by the tiniest distance and at once the oil flooded into the gap.

‘That’s it,’ Apion yelped with the last scraps of air in his lungs, ‘it’s moving!’

The rock reluctantly swivelled on the slick of oil, its weight no longer invincible. Apion ground the stake in and forward, driving at the mass and Maria followed suit. It gathered speed and slipped like soap, silently and without fuss, plummeting over the cliff edge. Apion panted, then stood tall and made to punch the air in victory.

Then, with an almighty crack, the earth shifted under him. He glanced down as the hairline fracture at the edge of the road disintegrated under his feet, rubble tumbling over the cliff edge, pulling him and Maria with it.

‘Apion!’ Maria screamed, flailing.

‘No!’ He lunged to grab her, his hand clasping hers just as her legs slipped from the edge. She shrieked, nails splitting the skin of his forearm. He fell to his knees, clawing at the disintegrating road, but each piece of rock he caught hold of came away in his hand. In desperation, he ripped his dagger free of its sheath and stabbed it into the edge of the track. Maria’s piercing scream abated. They were halted at last.

‘I’ve got you,’ he panted. ‘I’ve got you, now pull up, come on, pull up on my arm.’

Whimpering, Maria clambered up and over Apion, then he hoisted himself up and onto the solid, remaining section of the road.

They sat in silence for a few moments, gasping for air. Time skipped past as they avoided each other’s eyes, limbs throbbing, giddiness ruling their minds, until at last Apion stood up, sheathing his dagger. ‘We did it, we can go home now!’ He panted, grasping Maria’s hand to lift her.

As she rose, she slipped and he steadied her by cupping the small of her back. He felt her warmth, her softness against his chest.

Her face wrinkled. ‘You idiot!’ she spat, her fist crunching into his jaw. ‘You could have killed us both!’

Apion reeled back, metallic blood coating his tongue.

‘Next time, we do it my way.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he groaned. ‘I didn’t think it would. . ’

‘You didn’t think? Then we agree on something. Now let’s get the road cleared so we can get the wagon over this mess safely.’ She turned from him with a groan and strode over to the horses.

Apion held a hand to his stinging jaw and watched her hips sway.

The wagon rumbled into the yard at the front of the farmhouse and Apion’s heart warmed at the sight of the place, the excited clucking of chickens and bleating of goats growing into a crescendo as they slowed. A thick scent of root stew — Mansur’s speciality — curled from the kitchen. The old man had become quite the cook since Apion had taken over the majority of market trips. A bowl of this and a hunk of fresh bread would ease his aches and pains and maybe wash the guilt from his thoughts over the oil idea. He fired a quick sideways glance at Maria, who was still sat, arms folded, lips pursed and staring straight ahead, just as she had the whole way home from the cliff path. He opened his mouth to speak to her when a troubled whinny sounded from the stable.

Apion and Maria shared a confused glance; both of Mansur’s horses were with them, tethered to the wagon.

‘Visitors?’ Apion quizzed, his stomach tightening. He thought of Bracchus and his bull of a sidekick Vadim. Every visit of the pair had seen Mansur hand over a purse of coins. At first Apion had wished for the strategos, Cydones, to call and catch his men in the act. Then, as the extortion had continued unchecked, he felt a sense of shame at standing by as his family was mugged time after time, every exhausting trip to the market towns, every day working the fields counting for little after the vile kataphractos and his mutt had their way. Every area of every thema had just this problem, Mansur insisted, never losing his cool. The irony was that two years ago, the pair had suddenly stopped coming round, just when Apion felt his physique was such that he could stand up to the pair, despite his braced leg. Rumour had it that the two had been promoted to run some border outpost, something that smacked of bribery or some such underhand measure given their corrupt ways and blatant disrespect for the strategos. Whatever the reason, they were gone, or so he had thought.

Then something moved by his side. ‘Maria!’ he hissed, seeing her hop down from the wagon, ignoring him as he knew she would. Apion grimaced, lifting the cloth-wrapped scimitar from behind the bench and sliding down gently onto his brace to go after her.

Maria skipped from the wagon to glance round to the stables. She held up one finger.

One horse: that ruled out Bracchus, who would never turn up unaccompanied by his Rus partner. He inched forward and then stopped dead: the front door was ajar. He caught Maria’s eye and pushed a finger over pursed lips. Then he motioned for her to stay round to the side of the house. She hesitated, then her face tightened into a defiant sneer and she stepped primly back past the front door. Then something moved in the shadows inside, just behind the oblivious Maria. Apion’s flesh crawled.

A flash of iron blinded him as a towering, armoured figure bolted from the door, roaring like a lion to grasp her, lifting her from her feet. ‘Maria!’ Apion gasped, stumbling forward, clutching the scimitar.

A gaggle of laughter interrupted his run. The armoured figure grinned, spinning Maria in circles. She was laughing. Apion stopped in his tracks, realising he held his scimitar ready to strike in his trembling hand.

‘You idiot!’ Maria yelped, slapping at the armoured figure — Seljuk armour, Apion realised. Then Mansur strode to the doorway, grinning, watching the pair.

Apion frowned; someone had forgotten to share the joke with him. He moved forward, cocking his head to one side as he recognised the face inside the pointed Seljuk helmet. The dark skin, broad nose, ash-grey eyes and pony tail were unmistakable. His sword arm fell limp. ‘Nasir?’

Nasir spun to face Apion, flashing a full grin. ‘Apion!’

Before he could gasp or utter a mouthful of relieved abuse, Nasir had him in a bear grip, squeezing the air from his lungs. The scent of sweat, dust and oiled leather entered his nostrils.

Nasir jabbed a fist into Apion’s chest. ‘Well?’ Then he turned to Maria, cocking an eyebrow. ‘What a welcome, eh?’

Apion grinned but felt uneasy, noting how much his friend had bulked up. His shoulders, albeit draped in a mail hood, were broad and solid like oak branches and his chest seemed eager to burst from the scale vest hugging his upper torso. Even his face seemed so different, his jaw had broadened and his chin was shaded with stubble, Apion mused, subconsciously scruffing his fingers through his own sparse amber growth. ‘You’re a brave man for riding through from the east in your armour. If a Byzantine patrol had sighted you. . ’

‘I’d have outridden them!’ He beamed.

‘Sounds more like his brother Giyath than the boy who left us last winter, eh?’ Mansur chuckled as he strolled from the farm and sidled alongside them. ‘Well, any boy’s a fool to take to the sword but let’s be thankful that he’s back and in one piece. You should think yourselves lucky; he hasn’t been round to see his father yet, have you? Came to see us first!’

Nasir shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well this place was first on my way home. And don’t tell Father I said this but Maria is a far better cook than he. So what’s on the menu?’

Maria swiped a hand at him, a ferocious grin etched on her face. ‘Goat poo if you’re not careful!’

‘That’ll do me nicely. Life with the riders means eating what you can get and when you can get it, drinking anything that doesn’t make you gag and sleeping in some of the most. . interesting of places,’ he shot a wide eyed glance to Apion, cocking an eyebrow.

Apion half grinned in return as if all-knowing but really his chest felt itchy with envy at Nasir’s easy manner.

‘Come inside,’ Mansur beckoned, ‘I knew Maria’s goat poo pie wouldn’t go down too well so there’s a vat of root stew and an urn of salep waiting on us.’

Apion followed the three inside, feeling hidden behind Nasir’s broad frame. They settled at the table and Mansur began ladling his stew into bowls as Maria broke a freshly baked flatbread into quarters, curls of steam rising from its centre, while Nasir lifted off his mail hood and rested it on the chest by his side.

‘So you’re back for how long, until next moon?’ Mansur munched on his bread.

‘Just until the bey, our leader, comes for us again. The whole unit is on leave.’

Apion wondered what Cydones the strategos thought of the Seljuk army levying troops from within imperial borders, walking freely from the east to come off-duty on Byzantine land.

‘So with the riders, have you bloodied your sword yet?’

‘Apion!’ Maria mumbled in disapproval, through a torn piece of flatbread held in her lips. Mansur’s brow creased almost imperceptibly.

He shrugged, wide-eyed.

‘Come on,’ Nasir snorted, ‘you were all going to ask that one eventually.’ He glanced at Apion then dropped his eyes to his stew, stirring it with his wedge of bread. ‘We rode for three months around the east of Armenia. Building wells, protecting the villages from bandits. Good people, those Armenians. They still can’t believe the Byzantine Emperor has abandoned them.’ Nasir shook his head, taking a mouthful of stew. ‘So that part of army life was good. After that, we headed south for a few weeks. Then we moved east until the world dried up under us.’ Now his gaze fell back on his stew and his expression fell with it. ‘Out east it is a different world. Definitely not like here.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘With sand in every direction, burning your skin and blinding you, every man out there seems to distrust every other man.’ He stirred his food. ‘Byzantine and Seljuk patrols pass each other at times, under orders not to engage, what with the truce. Yet all it takes is one sly look from either side, one petty insult hurled over the shoulder. . ’ he moved to tap his sword hilt, ‘. . so, yes, I’ve bloodied my sword.’

Maria put a hand on Nasir’s arm, then looked up at Apion with a frown. Apion’s skin burned.

Mansur cleared his throat and cut in. ‘Well, you two boys have a lot of catching up to do, I imagine?’

Both looked up at Mansur, then at each other, finally sharing a smile.

‘So what better way to do that than with a trip to Trebizond? Late winter market starts tomorrow and is on all week. It’ll take you a day’s ride on the wagon to get there,’ Mansur munched. ‘Spend a day there and then head back — Kutalmish and I need some good iron tools to plough the frozen fields.’

Nasir nudged his elbow. ‘Apion?’

Apion grinned back at his friend. With Mansur and then on his own, he had travelled far and wide but not for six years had he been to the thema capital. The buried shadow of his old quest for revenge touched his thoughts momentarily, but he shook his mind clear of the image.

Then he glanced at Maria, still studying Nasir’s broad jaw. His chest itched.

He affixed Nasir with a sincere look. ‘Whenever you’re ready, I am.’

It was colder than Apion could ever remember and he and Nasir were perched on the drivers’ berth of the wagon, tucked into thick woollen leggings, leather boots, tunics and woollen cloaks. The incessant snowfall continued, adding to the thick blanket of white on the ground and ensuring their progress was slow, night already having descended upon them. Despite this, there wasn’t far to go and they had both agreed to carry on.

‘Is there no end to it?’ Nasir shivered as clusters of snow whipped across the wagon, carried by a deathly wind. He shot a furtive glance at Apion, before shuffling to pull his cloak tighter around him.

‘I’ve never seen weather like this,’ Apion shuddered, ‘Mansur says his father’s father used to tell stories of the steppe, where the snow lay higher than a man on horseback at times.’ He screwed up his eyes to peer at the ground ahead; the snow was still only knee deep, he guessed, but the camber of the road was lost in the snowfall and it was only the frozen waters of the Piksidis that had kept them on course in the whiteout. ‘I think we’re still on the road,’ he muttered, ‘but there might be an easier route.’

‘Another short cut?’

Apion wrinkled his brow and cast a disdainful glance at his co-driver.

Nasir was smirking. ‘She told me all about it, the fallen rock. She said you saved her life,’ he began with a keen tone.

‘Yes. Sharpness of thought, that’s what I used. That and a bit of muscle. . ’

Nasir cut him off, ‘. . saved her life after nearly killing her with some idiot plan involving lacing a mountain road with oil?’

Apion’s skin burned under the carapace of cold as Nasir roared with laughter before breaking down in a coughing fit, almost choking on an inhaled snowflake. Enjoying his friend’s discomfort, the glow on the horizon went almost unnoticed.

Then they both blinked at the sight, then turned to grin at one another.

‘Trebizond!’ Apion chattered.

They approached in silence, only the crunching of wheels in fresh snow could be heard. The crenelated city walls grew more massive as they neared and then Apion realised that what he thought were skutatoi lining them were in fact six spikes with a shapeless mass stuck on the end of each. The torchlight up above guttered and the features of the severed heads were momentarily apparent; empty, staring eyes, mouths agape, flesh grey, hair matted with blood and sinuous matter trailing from the neck. A distant memory of poor Tarsites touched his thoughts.

They passed inside the arch of the city’s main gate, Nasir staying quiet as agreed while Apion explained the purpose of their visit to the gate guards. Inside the city was muted, the raucous babble he remembered was but a distant echo from neighbouring streets, the weather seemingly having herded the populace indoors. He shivered and looked up to the skyline, the structures of the packed city outlined faintly by the torchlight from the streets. The great church still dominated the centre of the place as he remembered, the snow-covered Chi-Rho on its dome stark against the night sky. A city of god? He felt the urge to scoff at the idea, remembering his time in the cellar drinking hole.

They parked the wagon on the market square, across from a small inn that Mansur had recommended as being Seljuk-friendly. Nasir headed inside while Apion locked up the wagon and tethered the horses in the empty stable nearby. ‘Feed them well,’ he said, tossing two bronze folles to the shivering attendant. He stroked the grey mare’s nose and petted the other’s mane, eyeing the snow heaped on the market stalls. ‘You two huddle together; I’ll see you get plenty more fodder tomorrow morning.’ He turned to stride across the street for the inn when a clopping of hooves stopped him in his tracks.

‘Single file,’ a voice barked.

He twisted round: a column of kataphractoi bedecked with crimson Chi-Rho banners trotted across the market square. One rider trotted more slowly, falling back to the rear as the column passed Apion. The trailing rider wore a green cloak, green plumage on his helmet and shoulders and had a forked beard. Apion’s eyes widened as he recognised the garb — the strategos! He straightened up to disguise his lameness, taking the pain in his withered leg.

Cydones nodded, eyeing him. ‘Mansur’s farm boy, Apion, isn’t it?’

Apion nodded.

‘Well, you’ve come a long way since I last saw you. You were walking with a crutch, were you not? And the scimitar? That’s a fine and somewhat controversial weapon for a Byzantine boy to be carrying in the capital of the thema.’

‘It is Mansur’s weapon,’ Apion replied.

Cydones smiled. ‘I know it is, by God I would recognize that blade at a hundred miles. Has he been teaching you the art of swordfighting?’

‘He is a fine teacher,’ Apion nodded, wondering how Cydones knew the old man. ‘You must have fought against him, when he was in the Seljuk ranks?’

‘In the ranks, is that what he told you?’ Cydones chuckled.

‘He was,’ Apion was indignant.

Cydones lifted a hand. ‘Easy, lad. I know he was a fine warrior in the past, but he was more than a man of the ranks, he was an emir, a Seljuk strategos. Led Tugrul’s armies like a lion. Probably the finest tactical mind that has ever crossed the imperial borders. His ghulam wing shattered an entire tagma, left them ragged and bleeding with one feigned charge that disrupted their lines and then a real one that finished them.’

‘Mansur? A strategos?’ Apion’s mind reeled. Mansur the peaceful farmer, the waddling old man, the caring father. Then he remembered that day at the Lykos, the ambush, Mansur’s swordfighting was awesome, not like that of a common soldier of the ranks.

‘Yes, a leader of men, and a damned fine one too. With his right-hand man, Kutalmish, they were nigh invincible at times. He taught me a lot too, you know, had me in a few close scrapes!’

‘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. . find 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.’

But Apion’s eyes were fixed on Bracchus as he reached forward to grip the tradesman’s jaw. Then, from the side of the gathering, a big, shaven-headed man stepped forward, a citizen. He barged in and reached out to pull Bracchus’ hands from the tradesman. At once the giants surrounding Bracchus stood, hands on their sword hilts, teeth bared. The tradesman’s bodyguard, dwarfed by these men, stepped back. Bracchus pulled his arm back and then swept his knuckles across the tradesman’s face with a crack that was disguised by the babble of drunks.

The skutatos by Apion’s side continued. ‘He’s pulled whatever strings he needed to and is now a tourmarches. He runs the garrison and the town of Argyroupolis like a mini-kingdom, or so I’ve heard.’

Then, as the tradesman and his bodyguard beat a hasty retreat from the inn, Apion saw Bracchus wince, rub his knuckles, then pull off his glove to rub his hand. All the noise and activity of the inn fell away for Apion.

‘I said don’t look at him!’ The soldier hissed by his side.

‘Apion, what’s wrong?’ Nasir’s voice echoed nearby.

But Apion’s eyes were locked on only one thing.

Bracchus’ index finger was but a stump. On the stump was a tarnished silver ring with a snake winding around the band.

In his mind, the dark door roared, rushing towards him, the arm reaching out for it, muscles taut, seeking the inferno.