Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

13. Argyroupolis

The wagon had found every pothole in the road that wound through the mountain pass and a dust storm had blown all day, puffing the contents of the land through the slatted wagon cabin with gusto. Apion’s plan of sleeping through the journey to Argyroupolis after his wretched night’s rest had been blown away with the storm. He groaned, wiping his eyes as if he could clear the fug from his mind, then peeked from the slats of the cabin: the sky was now showing patches of blue as the wind seemed to ebb at last. Then he caught the familiar scent of market: salted and fresh meats, cooking stews and roasting vegetables, all mixed in with the less savoury cocktail of dung and sweat. Then the squabble of the traders, the tinkling of goat bells and the gentle chords of a well-tuned lyre.

This was Argyroupolis. The gateway to the northern coastline and one of the key fortified settlements on Byzantium’s eastern flank. He surveyed the town: about a third the size of Trebizond and ringed by a squat limestone wall. Its position, snug in the mountain pass leading to the northern coast and western themata, meant it was always going to be a critical stronghold, the slopes towering above the walls like flanking titans, defying those who tried to enter the imperial heartlands beyond. Outside the town there was a run-down archery range and a series of dilapidated timber huts, but the town was very much the oasis of life in this mountain wilderness.

‘Alright, lad, get your kit together,’ the hoarse driver called from the front. ‘You’ll be handing over another two folles, by the way,’ he stopped to hack up another lump of phlegm. ‘My horses are knackered. I’d never have driven them through that normally!’

‘Okay,’ Apion croaked, realising his own throat was coated with the dust. The storm had sprung up in the morning as he left Mansur’s and the wagon driver had rolled his eyes and tried all he could to dissuade Apion from hitching a ride. You’d have to be a bloody maniac to travel in this weather! But Apion had made his down-payment for the journey the previous week and a further clutch of six folles had swayed the man pretty quickly. All the while, Mansur and Maria had stood by the farm doorway, watching him in silence. Mansur couldn’t understand his mood that morning. Maria, however, could. She had almost winced when she set eyes on his torn expression and then had avoided his glare after that. He loathed himself for it but he still wanted to hold her, to smell the scent on the nape of her neck.

Then the wagon driver barked to pull him back to the present. ‘Move it! I’ve got to be in and out of here and back in Trebizond by tomorrow or I’ll get my balls cut off!’

Apion slung his satchel over his shoulder and braced himself. He winced into the brightness, then slid gingerly out of the wagon.

He was stood under the shadow of the main gateway, the iron-studded timber gates lying pushed back and held by a dune of dust. The wind still had a bite to it, lifting dust that stung the flesh. He pulled on his cloak, aware of the glare of the two skutatoi stood at either side of the entrance and another two stationed above them on the crenelated gate towers, three times the height of a man. They looked as tired as he felt, dust lining their tunics and packing the cracks in their leather klibania.

‘Here,’ he tossed the coins to the driver, then his shoulders slunk as he realised he only had one more folles left.

‘Hmm,’ the driver weighed the coins in his hand and eyed him furtively, a sour whiff of wine on his breath. ‘I might need another two. That back wheel took a pounding on some of them roads, and the horses need fodder and a good watering.’

Apion frowned. ‘Well sorry about that, next time I’ll fill in the potholes before we set off!’ He tucked his purse into his belt in refusal. ‘Make sure it’s the horses that get a drink and not you.’

‘Cheeky runt!’ The driver snarled, and then whipped his horses on into the town.

‘Quite right, lad. He’d rob his grandmother blind, that whoreson,’ one skutatos offered with a snort of derision. ‘You’re here to sign your life away, eh?’ He added, eyeing the sword belt.

Apion winced and tried to straighten up, hoping to disguise his lop-sided stance. ‘I am. The strategos, he is here?’

‘The strategos? He is with the protomandator, chief of heralds, mustering the thema. He will be gone for some time. At least until next spring. Until then. . ’ the skutatos rolled his eyes and shot a glance at his colleague. ‘. . well let’s just say that since that new tourmarches took charge here,’ he shook his head and sucked air through his teeth, ‘things have been harsh. Damned harsh, eh, Peleus?’

‘Aye,’ the other skutatos added wryly, casting an eye into the town. ‘Stypiotes is right. Cydones used to run this town, and if you thought he was a hard bastard. . ’

Apion nodded. ‘But until the thema is mustered there must be a place for new recruits to the permanent garrison?’ He waited until both the soldiers shrugged. ‘Then I’ll take my chances.’

‘The new tourmarches has made this place his kingdom. He won’t give you any chances,’ the guard called Stypiotes shook his head with wide eyes.

‘Thanks for the warning.’ He gave the pair an uncertain nod and passed in under the shade of the walls. Mercifully, the tiresome gale outside dropped away once inside. The interior of the city fell somewhere between the might and grandeur of Trebizond and the ramshackle chaos of Cheriana: in the centre of the town, a granary and a red-domed church bookended a row of three-storey tenements and a line of workhouses, smiths and inns completed the border of the market square. The market square itself was a tight squeeze with colour and noise crammed in to make best use of the limited space of the flat between the mountains; traders, shoppers, animals, slaves, spices, textiles, exotic fruits, farming tools and crop stores all mixed in a swirl of commerce. A pair of chickens scuttled around his feet, their owner cursing in Armenian as he chased them, stooping to catch them only for each one to flutter clear of his grasp.

Apion hopped clear of them, his shoulder barging into something.

‘Watch it!’ A burly, red-faced man snarled, grappling the wicker basket of vegetables he carried.

‘Sorry, I. . ’ Apion started.

‘Oi!’ A saucer-eyed woman screeched as he stumbled back onto her bare toes.

‘Sorry!’ he yelped as she hissed and hared past him.

‘Get out of the way, bloody idiot!’

Suddenly the market town seemed to be writhing around him as traders poured to and from the bottleneck leading to the main gate. The place was alive with purpose and it was as if he was the only soul who had no business being there. Every face was creased with importance and every body moved in haste, while he bounced between them, clutching his satchel, his heart pounding at every bump or curse. His braced knee trembled from weakness already and he felt cold inside and out. This isn’t home, he almost retched. Then a thundering of hooves rumbled through the dusty ground and a whinny pierced the air together with the familiar cursing of the wagon driver. He spun just as the crowd parted.

‘Whoa!’ the wagon driver howled, his face stretched in alarm as he reined his horses back but it was too late, Apion could only shudder at the two mounts’ bulging and bloodshot eyes as he crumpled under their flailing hooves, throwing an arm across his face. Then he felt the shuddering blow of a pair of hands hammering onto his side, knocking the wind from his lungs, throwing him from the horses’ path.

Prone in the dust, Apion winced, clasping a hand to the grating agony that rose through his scar. He sat up: the street was cloaked in a cloud of dust and a general rabble of excitement filled the air as the crowd slowed momentarily, no doubt eager to witness some mangled body under the hooves. Instead, they groaned as they laid eyes on Apion.

‘Pah! Not even any blood,’ one well-wisher commented. With that, the crowd began to melt into a stream of people in a hurry once more.

‘Fool!’ The wagon driver spat, then peered down at him. ‘. . It’s you! Would’ve served you bloody well right to get trampled.’

‘On your way, traveller!’ A baritone voice bawled across the sea of heads from the other side of the street. The wagon driver’s head snapped round to glare at the source but then his face fell and he grumbled, nodded and then urged his horses on.

Apion stood, teeth gritted at the fiery pain running the length of his scar. He peered across the crowded street to see who had spoken. There, on the opposite side stood a man with a typical Byzantine felt cap, but under the cap were broad, charcoal-dark features, eyes fixed on him, white as snow with piercing silver irises. From the distant lands of Africa, Apion guessed, he had seen men with the same skin in Trebizond, selling exotic creatures from their homeland to the rich of Byzantium. He had the fresh features of a man in his early twenties and wore a rough off-white and sleeveless tunic with a red sash around his torso and he rested his athletic frame on a spear. The crowd thinned a little and Apion hobbled across to the man.

‘You saved me?’

The African nodded, then pointed to Apion’s sword belt. ‘Conscript?’

Apion’s skin prickled. Was it that obvious? Then the man’s expression creased in dismay as it fell on his quivering leg. His leggings may well have disguised the scar and the brace but his weakness was not so easy to hide. Apion pulled his cloak over his legs. Maybe this was all a mistake. A distant part of him longed to say no to the African, longed to chase after the wretched wagon driver and beg to be taken back home to the farm. Mansur would welcome him back, surely. Then he screwed his eyes shut tight until he saw the image of the dark door, of Bracchus. He tensed and fixed his eyes on the man. ‘Yes, I’m here to join the thema.’

‘Sha, dekarchos, leader of ten,’ he pulled at the red sash. ‘Or I would be if we had a full complement. I’m part of the permanent garrison here,’ the African offered his hand.

Physically, he could see why this man was a leader: young, with broad shoulders and a torso that was honed and lean. Apion gripped him by the forearm. ‘I’m Apion.’

‘Well, we need every man we can get, but. . ’ the African’s voice trailed off, his eyes falling again on Apion’s withered leg. He shook his head and looked Apion in the eye. ‘There are barely four hundred in the garrison, covering the whole of the east of Chaldia.’

Barely four hundred? Apion wondered at this and the size of the thema border, stretching for miles north and south.

‘Second thoughts?’ Sha’s eyes narrowed. ‘We need men, but we have no time for passengers.’

Apion shook his head. ‘I’m ready.’

‘Come with me, I’ll get you signed up.’ Sha smiled but his tone was one of resignation rather than enthusiasm. Then he pointed to the scimitar. ‘That’s a fine sword going by the hilt. A conscript bringing in equipment is always welcome.’

Perhaps now was not the best time to mention that it was a Seljuk weapon in the sheath, Apion mused. He looked for a change of tack. ‘You are from Africa, are you not? Egypt?’

‘Close. Mali, in the heart of the sands.’ He patted a hand to his chest. ‘Been a long time since I was there though. I was taken into slavery as a boy and served many a Persian master. Then one day I was bought by a Seljuk master who thought I was a broken soul. So he neglected to guard the gates of the slave quarters one evening — so I took my freedom. The only way I could run was west and so here I am. What about you, you’re from the north or the west?’ Sha nodded, eyeing Apion’s pleated amber locks.

Apion wondered at this. His heart lay with Mother and Father, yet with Mansur and Maria at the same time. ‘Let’s just say my roots are here,’ he pointed to the ground.

Sha smiled at this. Then they stopped by the barrack compound and the man’s smile faded.

The compound was small, squat and unremarkable, tucked into the corner of the town. A smaller northern and western wall met with the sturdy town walls, segregating from the throng an area maybe ninety feet on long and wide. The inner walls were thin and had no walkway, only a timber tower by the left of the wide iron spiked gates provided an elevation overlooking the city. Through the spikes, Apion saw shapes flitting across the muster yard in the centre, skin and shining metal, orchestrated by the barking of an officer, yelps of pain and then the smash of iron upon iron. A single skutatos stood atop the timber tower, leaning on the edge of the inward facing lip, eyeing the goings-on below with a troubled look.

‘Attention!’ Sha called up to the skutatos on the tower. The soldier jolted upright, spun and grabbed his spear, then, upon seeing Sha, he relaxed.

‘Dekarchos coming through,’ he bawled down to the gates. Two more skutatoi eventually shuffled over to unbolt the iron gates and wrench them open.

The inside of the place was as run down and uninspiring as outside: a single storey brick building ran the length of the eastern side of the enclosure resting against the town wall, probably the sleeping quarters and mess hall judging by the size and rudimentary architecture. It had a tiled roof that looked to be teetering on the brink of collapse, the brickwork was crumbling and bleached by the sun, and flaking, cracked shutters hung limp from hinges. By the south-western corner near the gate was a ramshackle lean-to of timber that looked — and smelt — like the latrines. Lining the northern wall was a large and sturdy box building, uncomplicated but for the crenelated roof space, probably the officers’ quarters going by the small stable resting against it. The northern wall of the barracks was in fact the side of another building, a hulking brick structure with its entrance next to the officers’ quarters. A wagon was parked by its doorway, clothing and shields being ferried inside — no doubt this was an imperial warehouse, where the soldiers would receive their clothing, armour and arms.

But it was the centre of the compound that grabbed his attention: roughly three hundred men — almost the entire garrison going by what Sha had said — stood in a closed circle in only their tunics and boots. In their midst were two soldiers unarmoured apart from helmets, each clutching a well-polished spathion. They alternated between circling each other and lunging against each other in a flurry of sword blows. All this was happening under the keen eye of a barking officer who held a pole and wore a double-headed axe on his belt.

‘Are they training?’ Apion asked as they walked past the circle.

Sha kept his gaze straight ahead and spoke in a hushed tone. ‘They are being punished. The kampidoktores will see to that. His role as drill-master barely covers the brutality he exacts.’

Apion frowned at this, and then stopped in his tracks as the officer barking at the fighting men removed his helmet and wiped a rag over his sweating ginger stubble. Vadim! At that moment, one of the fighting men stumbled and fell to the dust. His opponent lanced his sword down then stopped, the point hovering at the fallen man’s neck. Apion stopped and stared.

The man with his sword ready for the kill looked up to Vadim. ‘I can’t, sir’ he croaked, ‘he is my friend.’

Vadim sighed and shook his head. ‘You are both dead. You just need to accept that. Now finish him!’

Apion shivered, noticing the dark and damp crimson patches in the dust all around the pair. The man relaxed his sword-grip and stood back, chin out in defiance. Vadim took his sword from him, hefted it over, eyeing the blade with narrowed eyes, and then in one stroke he punched the spathion through the reticent man’s chest, letting him gurgle and then slide free of the blade, crumpling to the dust like a sack of rubble. As an afterthought Vadim stabbed the sword underhand through the other man’s throat, cutting his pleas for mercy short and pinning him to the ground. The watching crowd were silent, simply dropping their heads in dismay. Then, at Vadim’s command, they dispersed, brushing past Apion and Sha. Apion hobbled forward to the scene of the two dead men, being solemnly lifted by a team of spectators.

‘Do not draw attention to yourself, Sha hissed, pulling him back.

‘Death bouts?’ Apion hissed, shaking free of his grip. ‘This is allowed?’

‘They were caught sleeping on watch.’ Sha said. ‘Punishable by death.’

‘But that was no punishment; that was vile, animal entertainment.’

Sha gripped him by the arm, the African’s face creased in concern. ‘It is what you will have to live with if you want to serve in the garrison. The tourmarches decrees the punishment for breaches of discipline.’

Then another voice pierced the air. ‘Bringing runts in at this time, Dekarchos?’

Apion turned to face the approaching figure. Something shivered deep within him. This officer wore no sash but instead a plume, a golden plume, an iron klibanion and leather gloves with iron studs on the knuckles. Two giant soldiers flanked him. Apion’s heart hammered.

‘Muster and recruitment will happen on my word. My word!’ Bracchus growled.

‘Leave this to me. . ’ Sha whispered to Apion.

‘I gave an order. When I give an order you obey it as though it had been issued by the strategos himself.’

‘Tourmarches!’ Sha turned to salute, stamping one foot into the dust at the same time, his eyes shot for the horizon and remained fixed there. ‘He brings his own weapons. Given the low numbers of the garrison, sir, I. . ’

‘You did as you pleased? Yes?’ Bracchus cut him off.

Apion felt that terrible chill creep across his skin as Bracchus leaned forward, the sun falling on his face, the piercing blue eyes and razor nose fixed on Sha. Then he turned to Apion.

‘Well,’ he purred, ‘I thought I recognised that lame gait.’

Apion’s skin shrivelled. His hand tensed, fingers itching to rip his scimitar free and plunge it into the cretin’s throat, right here, right now. Then he glanced at Bracchus’ guards, the bloodied sand and then Sha; he relaxed his hand. Then Bracchus’ lips wrinkled and Apion realised what was coming next. Go on; destroy me in front of them all. Shout to them and show them my withered leg. Then tell them all how I live with the enemy. Call me it again: a Seljuk loving whoreson!

Bracchus’ eyes seemed to drill into Apion’s thoughts, his grin widening until suddenly, he stood tall and nodded. ‘Well, perhaps we make an exception for this one.’

Apion’s eyes darted around the enclosure: most were the swarthy and dark haired so-called natives of the empire. Dotted amongst them there were a few northerners and westerners, distinctive like him by their red or pure blonde locks. Then there were a peppering of Africans, Syrians and even a yellow-skinned man with almond eyes. The people and soldiers of the empire were tolerant and open to other cultures. All except the Seljuks. Now all Bracchus had to do was announce that Apion came from a Seljuk household and he would be hated by a lethal majority of the garrison. What was the tourmarches up to?

Bracchus fixed him with an ice-cold glare. ‘Vadim, provide our new garrison soldier with armour and weapons.’ He turned to the big Rus and nodded. Vadim beckoned Apion and marched for the officers’ quarters.

Apion hesitated and shot a glance back to Sha. The African shook his head briskly. Apion felt an awful dread grip his stomach as he followed Vadim into the dim quarters. Inside, a candle flickered, illuminating the crumbling brick interior and a large square table covered in a mess of paper. A bald and corpulent man was buried behind the pile of documents, trying to copy information from the papers into a tattered leather-bound book and at the same time shield a block of six coin towers from the mess. He would then turn to count coins into purses and then stamp the papers with a lead seal. Apion guessed this was the protocancellarius, the man Father had spoken of as being responsible for carving up the soldiers’ pay. On the wall opposite the doorway, a set of map scrolls hung unfurled, outlining the border themata, the forts, towns and cities represented by solid dots, a red line scored across the disbanded Armenian themata. Vadim flitted through the pile of documents on the table, oblivious of the fat man’s scowl.

‘When you sign this form,’ Vadim muttered, still stooped, ‘you are owned by the tourmarches. You obey him without question.’

Apion nodded silently. Only until I cut out his heart, the rasping voice replied inside his head.

Vadim stopped and looked up. ‘You affirm every word from a superior’s mouth with a yes, sir! The tourmarches is not to be questioned.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Apion barked, sincere and aping Sha’s fixed gaze from moments ago.

Vadim glared at Apion blankly for a moment, arms folded. Then his jutting brow and ginger-stubbled scalp wrinkled. He touched a hand to the scar running over his left eye and a dreadful grin crept over his features. ‘Your friend, the Seljuk with sling; I have yet to spill his blood. Remind him of this when next you meet. Now come with me and we will sort out your kit.’ He ducked under a low doorway into the adjoining warehouse.

Apion followed him in. The warehouse was musty and dim, lit only by a pair of open shutters, its walls clad in shelving. Vadim dug around near a pile of klibania, and then turned back to him with a garment. Apion braced for the weight of the garment to pull on him. This would be the sleeveless lamellar vest of rectangular leather or iron plates strung together to form a tough armour. Instead, he grasped the bundle with ease as Vadim dropped it — a padded cotton vest.

‘I’m here to serve in the infantry as a skutatos, what’s this? This is an archer’s vest, is it not?’

‘Expecting scale or lamellar? Well you have to earn it in this shithole. Only the front ranks get good armour, and believe me, they need it!’ He held up one of the klibania, pointing to a spear-tip sized hole in the chest, surrounded by an encrusted dark-brown substance. Then Vadim rustled around on a shelf and turned to hand him a rusted conical helmet with a frayed and cracked leather aventail. ‘Think yourself lucky you’re getting that. The last unfortunate bugger to own it was knifed last week in a fight over a woman. Most of the runts get a felt hat at most, but this is much less comfortable, chews into the scalp,’ he grinned.

Apion tried the helmet on. It rested like a cauldron on his head and only sat on his crown momentarily before sliding down over his eyes. When he pulled it up, Vadim stood before him with a pair of square-toed boots, sodden and mouldy. They were split above the knee at the sides so they could be folded down to the shin when marching and folded up to the thigh in battle. Then came the skutum, the teardrop shaped shield; battered and faintly etched with the Christian Chi-Rho on a faded crimson backdrop. He glanced to his prayer rope — his business here was anything but Godly.

‘What else is standard?’ Vadim scratched his scalp. ‘Ah, yes. You’re going to need a kontarion,’ Vadim lifted a broad-bladed spear, nearly twice Apion’s height, from the rack, ‘you really are.’ The giant may as well have issued him with a written threat. ‘You do not need a sword,’ Vadim glared at Apion’s sheath, ‘but you can have an axe and you can have a pair of rhiptariai too.’ Vadim gave him a small hand axe, which he clipped to his sword belt, and two shorter, lighter spears, for hurling at an advancing enemy.

‘All for the bargain price of half your first year’s pay!’ Vadim grinned. ‘Now, outside, the tourmarches will be ready for you.’

Apion turned to leave and he could feel Vadim’s breath burn on his neck as he moved back through to the room with the desk. There stood Bracchus, flanked by his giants, stood over a leaf of paper.

‘Make your mark here,’ Bracchus jabbed a finger into the fresh document by the table.

Apion picked up the quill and dunked it in the pot of ink. He could not write as such and could only faintly recall mother teaching him to print his name. As the quill scratched on the paper, he wondered at the significance. A contract for revenge. Then a stench of garlic hit him as Bracchus hissed over his shoulder.

‘In any fort or barracks in the empire the soldier usually signs his name, serves his time,’ the tourmarches’ nose and cool glare hovered just in Apion’s peripheral vision, ‘but it will be very different for you. Here I am king and the garrison are obedient to my rule and you will be especially so. You were fortunate my promotion took me from your filthy Seljuk master’s path, but now your luck is out, cripple. Now I own you. You obey my every word or you bleed your last into the dust,’ he jabbed a finger at the grey body of one of the dead combatants being carried past the door outside, ‘. . you Seljuk loving whoreson!’

The gloomy bunk area was functional at best and the other three of Sha’s depleted kontoubernion sat around on their bunks wearing expressions that matched the odour of the place, examining Apion as he stood in their midst.

The garrison at Argyroupolis comprised of a single bandon, the primary infantry unit, numbering nearly three hundred men when fully populated, plus a smattering of archers. Apion would be sharing a bunk block, rations, reward and punishment primarily with Sha and these three.

‘You’ve got to be kidding?’ The biggest of them scoffed, glancing from Apion to Sha. Blastares was built and scarred like an oak and seemed to have the mood of a bear. He sported a broken nose that shuddered from between close-set eyes and his features were baked into a scowl. He shook his head and went back to sharpening his sword on a whetstone.

‘He’s lame, he can’t even stand straight. What’s the point of bringing in a cripple?’ Procopius, a prune-faced older legionary with a grey-flecked, cropped hair, added with a shrug of his narrow shoulders, jabbing a finger at the trembling limb. ‘He’ll slow us down, get us killed. We were better off as a four.’ With that, he went back to polishing what looked like an artillery torsion spring.

Apion felt his skin burn and he longed to be out of their gaze.

‘Do you want to take it up with the tourmarches?’ Sha shot back.

‘I think I’d rather shit a mace,’ Procopius chuckled under his breath.

Blastares also turned to Sha. ‘I’ve told you before, drop the officer babble. Being in charge of a kontoubernion means nothing; until you’re leading a bandon you’re just a grunt, like us. In any case, we’re all grunts to Bracchus.’ Then he cast a derisive glance back at Apion. ‘But he’s a cripple. No use to us.’

The third man leaned forward from the shadow of his bunk. Nepos was a slender, blue-eyed and angle-faced Slav and his expression was cold. He didn’t look at Apion as he spoke, instead continuing to carve splinters from a lump of wood. ‘You two just don’t see past the obvious. You’d try to make stew by forcing a live cow into boiling water.’

‘What’re you on about, you pointy-faced bugger?’ Blastares growled.

Nepos pulled a mocking, tight-lipped smile, then continued: ‘Well I wouldn’t complain if we had Achilles as the vanguard and Heracles watching our backs, but let’s face it; the army is patchwork, cobbled together from what is available. We’re lucky the Pecheneg Turks offer to serve alongside us, so we take what we can get and make the best of it. What I’m trying to say is that sometimes you’ve got to look past people’s limitations and seek out their strengths.’

Blank looks ensued from Blastares and Procopius. Nepos seemed to suppress a sigh and then continued. ‘Well look at him; he’s got a sword. I can tell from the shape of the sheath that it’s not a spathion, so he brought it in with him. His arms are muscular but lean — swordfighters arms. He’s got skill with the blade.’

Apion shuffled in embarrassment at the scrutiny.

‘Pah! No use if your enemy is more agile than you, can flit around you, stick his sword in your back.’ Blastares scratched at his crotch and cackled.

‘He’s got a sharp mind too,’ Nepos added quickly, his eyes hovering on the wooden shatranj box poking from Apion’s satchel.

‘Leave it out,’ Procopius snorted, ‘he’s lame! That’s the be-all and end-all!’

Sha stepped forward and ushered Apion to the spare bunk. ‘Well he’s in our unit. We live or die as a unit, remember?’

‘Aye, well he can watch your back,’ Blastares said to Sha, then flicked a thumb over his shoulder to Procopius as the pair stood to leave, ‘I’d rather have this old bastard watching mine, even if he’s daydreaming about catapults or whatever it is he spends half his life talking about.’

‘Watch it!’ Procopius shoved him in the side and the pair left, muttering.

Sha cut a frustrated figure, sighing, then turned to Apion ‘Welcome to the thema!’ He said, sardonically, then walked out as well.

Apion turned to Nepos. The Slav eyed him stonily, still carving the piece of wood that was slowly taking shape as a shatranj pawn piece. ‘You play?’ Apion tapped his satchel.

Nepos’ nodded. ‘I need the distraction, I came to this place to get away from a troubled home life, yet I found that I carried all those troubles here with me in my mind.’

Apion frowned. ‘So you didn’t come here because you wanted to?’

‘Few do, lad. It’s a long story, and maybe someday I will tell you of it. But right now you only need to know one thing: you’ve walked into a hornets’ nest here. War is coming this way and soon. You’re going to have to prove yourself. You know that, right?’ With that, the Slav slunk back into the shadow of his bunk.

All around them, the barracks seemed to shake with the thunderous banter of the other soldiers. Apion rubbed the knots on his prayer rope. He had never felt so lost.