Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

20. The Falcon’s Hordes

The war drums rumbled in the intense morning heat and Tugrul’s Seljuk horde shimmered like an ethereal mirage across the plain. By God let the heat be exaggerating their number, Apion thought as he studied their ranks. At least twenty five thousand, they didn’t just blanket the horizon, they seemed to be swallowing it, arcing around the land to cover three sides of the Byzantine square formation. The Seljuk flags with the golden bow emblem licked at the sky like an inferno.

‘We need more men,’ Blastares said in a low tone, swatting at the incessant cloud of black flies attacking his face.

It was what they were all thinking, Apion was sure. His bandon were placed at the south-eastern corner of the square, facing towards the right arm of the Seljuk arc. His trusted four stood alongside him at the head of their files, the other files making up the bandon on either side. Every man on the front rank had been afforded an iron klibanion to go with the red sash that marked them out as dekarchoi, those in the ranks behind having to make do with padded jackets or vests and the knowledge that they were marginally less likely to die than their officers. This and all the other banda of the thema formed the outer wall of the square. Inside the iron-human bulwark, the toxotai and light infantry waited, knowing they would have to slip outside the square to shower their missiles on the approaching enemy before slipping back inside when the two forces clashed. In the centre of the square, beside the cluster of medical tents, artillerymen and supply wagons, the kataphractoi and the mercenary Pecheneg horsemen waited patiently; they were to be the hammer that would sally forth from the formation and then strike the enemy upon the anvil of the infantry square.

Upon sighting Tugrul’s horde on the horizon, Cydones had not hesitated in making the call to fall into this classic defensive formation, but as expected, morale dipped at the order. Yet Apion could see straight away that the strategos had no choice due to weight of numbers; the army they now faced had only a week previously utterly destroyed the army of the Colonea Thema. They were Tugrul’s finest, not the light ghazi riders but the elite and shimmering ghulam, equal in every way to the kataphractoi with fine composite bows, scimitars and rapier-like spears and their number was far greater than the clutch of one thousand riders Cydones had at his disposal. Yet the meat of the Seljuk army was in the swell of iron scale-clad akhi infantry, thousands upon thousands of them, at least four men to every one of the thema skutatoi. The enemy ahead troubled Apion; perhaps no Byzantine soul on this plain would live beyond today; what troubled him more though, was the enemy behind. He had caught sight of the distinctive golden plumage of Bracchus only fleetingly since they had adopted this formation, floating somewhere by the back ranks of the bandon to the right of Apion’s. The tourmarches was responsible for the four banda on this side of the square. Close enough, Apion decided. But perhaps this was all meaningless thought, he mused, the massive Seljuk horde had the manpower to crush the Byzantine square swiftly if they were orchestrated in just the right way.

He wondered what the Falcon would be thinking right now as he eyed this Byzantine square from across the plain. His eyes narrowed, again considering the blurring of the Seljuk banners in the heat haze. An idea formed in his mind. They could not increase their number, but they could induce over-confidence from the Seljuks. He called to a scout rider and gave a message to be passed back to the strategos.

As the scout rider set off, Apion twisted round to see the mounted, green-cloaked and green-plumed Cydones, mail veil across his face, flicking his attention across his lines from every angle, as if searching for something he had lost. This was the strategos’ real-life shatranj board.

‘Kataphractoi,’ Cydones roared, waving a hand to the left wing of the formation. He made a pushing motion and the rider by his side waved his banner towards the southern and northern sides of the square that would effectively be the Byzantine flanks. Like iron-scaled creatures, each of the two cavalry wings moved out, away from the centre of the square, to position themselves by the gaps among the banda on those sides.

Apion wondered at the strategos’ plans. The key would be to lure the Seljuks into making the first move, to make them present a weak spot in what looked like a wall of iron. They would only do so if the Byzantines themselves offered a weakness. Shatranj indeed.

Then he noticed the scout rider talking to the strategos. Cydones seemed to consider the message for a moment, then nodded and raised his sword. ‘Banda!’ He roared. ‘Lower every second standard then close the gaps between.’ A buccina keened a series of notes to reinforce the order.

Apion bristled with pride. The strategos had taken his advice. In the heat haze the Seljuks would doubtless be struggling to ascertain the exact number of Byzantine banda they faced. Thus lowering every second standard meant the Seljuks would be likely to count only half the true number of that stood in opposition to them. It was a glimmer of hope. The lure was set.

‘Engineers, mark our range!’ The strategos yelled back over his shoulder. The ground shuddered and a cracking of stone and grinding of dust rang out. The banda on the front of the square parted and ten clusters of siege engineers strained behind their ballistae, small wooden wagons with yawning timber bows mounted horizontally across them.

‘Come within three stadia and you’ll get a bolt through your chest,’ Procopius nudged Apion with an elbow. ‘Finely constructed aren’t they? Could do with a couple of trebuchets too, even just to scare the shit out of them, eh?’

Apion nodded at the old soldier’s words; the giant stone throwers, the city takers as they were called, were capable of hurling man-sized rocks over eight hundred feet. Almost four times the height of a man and with a throwing arm the same height again, they could shatter men and walls alike, but they were rarely brought out for a field battle given their monstrous weight, questionable accuracy and lack of manoeuvrability, even when deconstructed.

Then the ballistae fired, bolts whistling through the air and troughing into the ground between the Byzantine front lines and the Seljuks, sending puffs of dust from the earth where they landed.

‘Let’s see how brave they are now, eh?’ Blastares said.

‘Aye but let’s hope first they don’t have any long-range devices of their own,’ Procopius countered.

‘I suppose,’ Blastares grudgingly backed down, fleetingly eyeing the skyline for any sign of approaching missiles.

Apion offered a sly grin at Procopius; not many could shut Blastares up with one line. Then he noticed a group of some fifteen unarmoured men shuffling forward, each stooped under the weight of the iron cylinders they carried, flexible piping coiling from the tip of the cylinders to a handle on the side, some kind of pump for whatever was inside. Apion assumed they were some kind of devices to aid the ballistae. When the men carrying them forked out to stand not on the front of the square with the artillery, but on the flanks, one just to the side of his own bandon, he cocked an eyebrow.

‘You’ve never seen the Greek fire before?’ Procopius asked. ‘Because when you have seen it, you’ll never forget.’

The old soldier’s words were drowned out by the gallop of the Byzantine scout riders, who hared out into no-man’s land, unarmoured, bearing only a clutch of spears with strips of purple cloth tied to their base. One by one, the test missiles were located and marked by a spear.

‘How much do you reckon he’s holding back?’ Procopius squinted over at the strategos.

‘Holding back?’ Apion asked.

Procopius smirked wryly. ‘I reckon there’s another hundred, hundred and fifty feet in those devices if we get the right tension.’

‘I pray you’re right,’ Sha muttered, his attention taken by the sudden rippling on the Seljuk horizon. ‘They’re coming!’

‘And we’re waiting,’ Apion spoke evenly. Then the Seljuk war horns moaned like an army of lost spirits. Apion’s skin rippled and the ground started to shake as if a thousand titans were coming for them. The ethereal blur on the horizon sharpened and the closer the mass came, the more ferocious it appeared. He glanced along his ranks: the skutatoi were braced, faces etched with doubt. A murmur of fear rippled through the air. This would be his first full-scale battle and as an officer too. Doubt surfaced in his mind and his tongue shrivelled in his mouth. At the same time he tried to resist squirming as his bladder seemed to have swollen suddenly, pressing, demanding to be relieved.

‘Ha, not so funny now, is it?’ Blastares whispered, leaning in to him. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. By the time you’ve got blades swinging in your face, it’ll be the least of your worries. Besides, one of their lot might be kind enough to open your bladder for you.’

He turned to Blastares and saw the grin of nervous excitement and determination on the big soldier’s face. Hearing words of encouragement being shouted by komes’ up and down the front line, he realised that the rest of his bandon needed to feel ready like Blastares. He turned to them and to a man, their eyes were fixed on him, expectant. He gulped back the terror that tried to catch his tongue, took a breath deep in his lungs and drew his eyes across their number, then bellowed. ‘Stay strong in your hearts, men. The Falcon of the proud Seljuks comes to show us his power, but we have our mighty strategos,’ he stabbed his scimitar towards Cydones, ‘the legend of Chaldia!’

Blastares gripped his shoulder and punched a fist into the air. ‘And we have the Haga! The ferocious two-headed eagle flies with us!’

Apion’s bandon erupted in a cheer, rousing and far louder than the surrounding units. Then the banda flanking his also erupted in a cheer. ‘Stra-te-gos, Stra-te-gos!’ Was mixed with chants of ‘Ha-ga!’

‘Just remember,’ Blastares added with a wink to Apion on one side and Sha on the other, ‘I’ve got your flanks covered. You cover mine, eh?’

Apion flashed a grin in return but the burly soldier’s words were drowned out by the Seljuk advance, as the war horns died the trilling battle cry of the Seljuk infantry filled in with an even greater noise. The Seljuks were still within a fair distance of the outer artillery range markers when another buccina wail came from Cydones’ cavalry wing. At once the artillery units buzzed around their devices and, like an angry snake, the line of ballistae recoiled across the square front. To a man, the Byzantine square held their breath. Then the Seljuk infantry centre was riven with a series of troughs, the dust thrown up tinged with crimson and the air filled with screaming.

‘And again!’ Procopius yelled, bashing his sword hilt on his shield. The rest of the ranks around them joined in the chorus of celebration. But when Apion glanced to Procopius, the old soldier’s face had returned to its usual puckered expression.

‘Procopius?’

The old soldier leaned into his ear. ‘We’ll take encouragement where we can get it, but Tugrul isn’t that stupid. They’re testing our true range at the expense of a few hundred cheap infantrymen.’

Apion squinted until he could see the battered Seljuk front ranks: barely armed men, similar to the Byzantine light infantry. Some clutched daggers, some were empty handed. Behind them, the glimmering ranks of iron-clad soldiers were untouched and safely out of range.

‘How can they fight for their leader when he treats them like that?’ Apion barked through the dust cloud that whipped back over the thema ranks.

‘They’ve got no choice. Beggars, brigands and the like,’ Sha said. ‘They run forward, they may live. They run back, they will die. Tugrul demands, they obey.’ Volley after volley of ballista bolts pummelled the wretches and the sun was dulled momentarily by the dust thrown up. The thick ranks of Seljuk light infantry were already in chaos. Those who chose to continue forward slowed as their fleeing colleagues hared past them in the opposite direction. At the same time, the Seljuk archers loosed volley after volley of arrows into the deserters. Chaos reigned.

‘Bastards!’ Blastares spat. ‘A few less mouths to feed, that’s all they were brought here for.’

Apion wondered at the men of the light infantry in the Byzantine ranks, currently tucked inside the skutatoi outer wall. On another day would they not have been committed to death in the same fashion? Mansur’s words echoed in his mind. These are the choices of the strategos.

There was then a lull until the dust cloud swept past them. The cream of the Seljuk ranks stood, still cupped in a crescent like a viper’s jaws around the rough crater of the longest lying ballista strikes. The Byzantine cheers fell flat and the plain was still and silent. Then, suddenly, the silence was shattered with the terrible wail of the war horns and raucous jeering of the Seljuk ranks. The Byzantine buccinators filled their lungs and blasted a howling response from their instruments. The Chi-Rho banner bearing the image of the Virgin Mary was hoisted high in the air and, to a man, the thema cried out in defiance.

‘Clever buggers,’ Procopius roared over the cacophony.

Apion assumed Procopius was talking of the Seljuk’s wise decision to keep their best men out of ballista range, but then he followed the old soldier’s gaze; his eyes were still narrowed on the artillery squads, who had remained at their machinery, knuckles white. Added to this, Cydones was poised, one hand gripping the reins of his mount, the other ready to be raised to give an order, eyes darting along the enemy lines as the Seljuk cavalry filed into a high flanking position, ready for the kill.

The Seljuk flags for the advance were being hoisted, war horns being brought to mouths.

Then the strategos’ cry rent the air. ‘Again! Loose!’

The air was filled with the coordinated twang and pained creaking of the ballistae as all of the devices shot their missiles, this time exploiting absolute maximum range and the extra fraction of tension that Cydones had secretly asked them to withhold in the last barrage. The effect was devastating. On the front foot, the Seljuk ranks were caught cold by the hail and despite their fine armour, the first ten ranks of densely packed heavy infantry were shattered like toys, men were sprayed into the air and officers skewered. There was no let-up; as the Seljuk infantry curled around to flee, they stumbled over the dead, fell to the dust and blocked those behind. Then the artillery barked once more and another wave of desolation ruptured the Seljuk lines.

‘Double bluff,’ Apion whispered as he eyed the strategos, sat motionless in the saddle, plume flitting in the breeze.

‘Led them right into it,’ Procopius was grinning like a shark.

To a man, the thema roared. ‘Stra-te-gos! Stra-te-gos! Stra-te-gos!’

Cydones wheeled round on his mount and pumped a fist in the air. The words tumbled from Apion’s chest too. ‘Stra-te-gos! Stra-te-gos!’

The ballistae hail slowed, leaving a carpet of gore across the plain. Apion wondered how many they had taken from the Seljuk number. At least a quarter of the infantry, he hoped. But the ballistae had fallen silent, and were now being rolled back inside the square.

At this, the shimmering band of Seljuks rippled, units reorganising and repositioning, no doubt lifting their dead back from their lines. Then they were still again, a dense wall. Many of their number had fallen but many more still stood. Too many.

‘This is it,’ Apion said.

‘By your side, sir!’ Sha replied, steadying himself, pressing his shoulder against Apion’s, just as they had practiced. Procopius and Blastares bunched up likewise and the whole bandon followed suit, as did the rest of the outer square.

Then the war horns cried again. The trilling Seljuk war cry filled the air again and at once, the akhi infantry poured towards the front of the square and the ghulam wings rushed for the flanks.

As the ground shook, Apion heard the strategos’ cry over the din of thundering hooves. ‘Kataphractoi, break!’ Cydones bellowed. The order was reaffirmed by a buccina blast and at once the two wings of cavalry burst from the flanks of the square, the Pechenegs following Ferro’s wing. They sped out beyond the pincers of the closing Seljuk arc.

‘Where d’they think they’re going?’ A soldier yelped from behind Apion.

The rest of skutatoi around Apion murmured in concern and this grew into a panicked squabble as the jaws of the Seljuk arc raced ever closer. He blocked out his own creeping doubt and pictured himself as an eagle soaring, seeing the field from high above. Clarity soothed his doubts. ‘They’re positioning to counter the Seljuk charge. It’s just as we’ve trained for since the mustering, but this is for real.’ He barked back to the dissenting voices. This seemed to ease their concern a little. ‘We pin the enemy on our spears, then the strategos and his riders will hit them in the flanks and from the rear, cut them to pieces!’ His tone sounded firm and assured, but inside he knew it was all too simple to speak of how things should work. Added to that, the bulk of the men who stood in the ranks had been farming in the five years since the last campaign and had only had a handful of sessions of training since being rounded up by Cydones. The men of the garrison — those in the front ranks — would be critical, he realised.

Perched at the corner of the square, Apion’s eyes were fixed on the riders thundering for them, but he was all too aware of the dark mass of infantry growing in his peripheral vision. The Falcon’s claws were closing around them. The banda at the front of the square opened to allow the light infantry to rush out, ready to meet the Seljuk infantry advance with their axes, slings, bows and javelins. Meanwhile, the toxotai spread themselves thinly around the inside of the square, giving scant but welcome archer cover to all sides. Apion then glanced to the closing gap at the pincers of the Seljuk arc, spotting Cydones’ standard shrinking as the cavalry wings burst clear of the noose just in time.

‘He’s drawing them out,’ Blastares growled. ‘Less for us to bloody our swords on!’

Apion craned to Blastares’ height to see. The back ranks of the Seljuk ghulam cavalry had indeed peeled off to meet the threat, but the dense front ranks of the riders were only a handful of paces away. Thousands of them, spears lowered, hurtling forward to smash the square. A sea of taut bows rippled up from the rear of the ghulam charge and then at once the twang of a thousand bows filled the air.

‘Shields!’ Apion cried, glancing up just in time to see the dark storm cloud of arrows that hurtled for them. He wrenched his shield up and three iron tips hammered into its surface an instant later. His heart thundered, hearing the choking cries of the stricken; if the ghulam wished they could wheel back and forth from the Byzantine square, firing upon the banda until their quivers were empty, thinning the skutatoi at their leisure. The hail slowed and he looked up, eyes widening at the snarling wall of riders, spears lowered for the charge. No, the ghulam were not for waiting, he realised with a swirl of terror and hubris, they were coming for the kill. The dark door rushed for him, the knotted arm punched forward to knock it from its hinges, the fire engulfed him.

‘Rhiptariai ready, loose! Front ranks, brace!’ He roared. The front two ranks rippled, kontarion spears jutting forward like a porcupine. At the same time, the ranks behind coiled and then hurled their throwing spears like a dark cloud and these were joined by the arrow hail from the toxotai.

The rhiptariai hammered home, punching Seljuk riders from their mounts, smashing through bone and sending jets of crimson into the air, stopping many a man and beast in their tracks, terrible whinnying and screaming ringing out. Then the hail slowed until it was only the thin spray of archer fire: the Seljuk riders were thinned, but only a little.

The ghulam wall hurtled forward and Apion grappled his kontarion and braced for the impact; a conical-helmed and scale-clad giant of a rider on a frothing stallion, demonic behind an iron-plate mask, hooves rapping like hammers on the earth, burst a few strides ahead of the charge and made to leap the spear wall and plunge into the bandon. With a roar, Apion and the men of the front line punched their spears forward. The impact was colossal, Apion felt his entire body jar and he was thrown back as the mount was punctured through the chest by the spear thrusts, some of the shafts snapping, and the rider was thrown into the bandon where he was butchered in an instant.

Apion staggered to his feet and his heart froze; the front line of the bandon was broken and the rest of the ghulam charge was only strides away. He lunged forward to rip an unbroken kontarion from the convulsing stallion, then pressed up against the next nearest skutatos, others bunching up on his other side.

‘Come on then, you whoresons!’ He roared with all the breath in his lungs.

With that, the Seljuk charge smashed home and the land turned red.

Byzantines disappeared under hooves, heads spun free of bodies, riders were thrown from their horses to skate across shields or to be catapulted into the Byzantine ranks.

The bandon could not hold its shape due to the weight of the charge and dissolved into a swirl of combat. Apion smelt the hot and sour breath of the Seljuk steed pressed against him. The skutatos engaged with the rider fought manfully, but was then struck with a death blow, cleaved from shoulder to stomach, sending gristle and gut slapping across Apion’s face. Apion pounced on the rider’s momentary distraction to smash his shield boss into the mount’s mouth, and then leapt to pull the rider from his horse. But the rider smashed his scimitar hilt into Apion’s temple, felling him to the dust. Blinded by the blow and seeing only the dark shape of the mount rounding on him, he jabbed out with his spear. Hooves smashed down by his head and he rolled clear, then a spear ripped down past his shield, through a plate in his klibanion and across his ribcage to crack into the ground. The blood soaked him and his own pained snarl barely registered in the cacophony all around him. Still grounded, he glanced around to find his lines; skutatoi boots stamped and skidded several paces away, then bodies fell in a mire of skin, white bone, grey matter and pink tissue as the Byzantine line compressed under the charge. The spear shot for him again and in a clatter of wood and iron, his shield shattered. When the spear came again, it was aimed right at his heart, the snarling features of the rider behind the thrust. This time he butted the shaft with his palms, diverting the thrust into the ground, and then he heaved on the shaft with all his weight to pull himself to standing, dragging the spear from the rider’s grasp. The rider fumbled for his sword but Apion leapt up, ripping his scimitar from its scabbard and plunging the blade into the rider’s chest. A blood cloud burst over the riders behind as the body slid and thudded into the carpet of gore, convulsing.

His limbs shaking, his mind roaring, Apion looked up for his next opponent. At that moment the furore of the battle fell away.

He saw Bracchus.

The tourmarches was barely ten paces away, panting, teeth bared, blood coating his face. Apion locked eyes with Bracchus. This was the moment he had prayed for. He stalked forward, gripping his scimitar so hard that his arm trembled. Then a blur of movement caught his eye: a wedge of ghulam galloped for Bracchus and Apion saw that the tourmarches was the one man plugging a gap between two banda. His mind raced. If the ghulam got inside the square, the battle was lost, every Byzantine was as good as dead. But revenge was right here for the taking. Kill him, the now familiar voice rasped in his head. He hefted his kontarion like a throwing spear, eyes still fixed on the master agente, then hoisted it forward with all his might.

Bracchus’ eyes bulged and his mouth opened to scream, when the spear travelled over his head and into the stomach of the lead rider of the ghulam wedge, who fell with a cry, pulling his mount’s reins with him, the beast tumbling with a pained whinny under the hooves of the mounts behind it. At once the wedge dissolved into a mass of felled riders and thrashing beasts. A group of skutatoi rushed forward to despatch them. The square was saved.

Bracchus was left standing, gawping at him, the blood of the felled ghulam dripping from his brow. Apion realised he had saved the tourmarches’ life. Then the rasping voice cried in his thoughts. And now it is time to take it!

Apion lurched forward, eyes fixed on the tourmarches. He realised that the Seljuk riders closing on either side of him, scimitars raised, would cut himself and Bracchus off from the square, and doubtless hack the pair to pieces, but Apion was sure he could strike the master agente down by his own hand first. If he was to die here too then so be it; as long none of Bracchus’ contacts knew of the true manner of the master agente’s death on the battlefield. Bracchus’ glare curled into a frown as Apion approached. He held his expression blank until he was within striking distance, then filled his lungs to scream. But at the moment he made to raise his sword, something barged him to one side.

Apion gasped, startled; one of the soldiers bearing the curious cylinders had shoulder-charged him from the sword-swipe of a ghulam, and now pushed up to be back-to back with him, lifting the nozzle, waving it at the circling riders, a lit torch in his other hand.

‘Stay with me, sir!’ The man cried.

Apion shot glances all around but in the blur of swirling cavalry, Bracchus had disappeared back into the square.

The cylinder-bearing soldier then pressed a lever attached to the nozzle. ‘Brace yourself, sir!’ What happened next matched the fury in Apion’s mind: like a demon serpent, an orange fury spewed from the device, engulfing more than ten ghulam riders, each one igniting like a torch. The air rippled in the intense heat as the riders’ screams piqued and then stopped suddenly, blackened bodies crunching onto the ground with a stench of burning flesh, horses fleeing, whinnying in terror, still ablaze.

The ghulam riders behind hesitated, then, like an ebb tide, the Seljuk horsemen wheeled to turn away, their leader crying out an order.

‘They’re retreating!’ One voice roared in hope.

But Apion heard and understood the ghulam cry. Their square is faltering. Reform and then crush them with another charge!

Looking to either side, Sha, Blastares and Procopius still stood, but he could see huge gaps where previously there had been a white-sashed komes at the head of each bandon, the officers of the other banda had fallen in heavy number with the charge and the ranks seemed to be hesitant as the riders withdrew. Now, Apion realised, Now is the crucial moment. To allow the cavalry to disengage and then charge once more to equally devastating effect would be the end, for certain.

‘Don’t let them pull back! Charge!’ He roared.

He was already running forward, breaking from the ranks, scimitar drawn, blood hammering in his ears. He leapt for the back of the nearest ghulam and wrapped an arm around the rider’s waist, pulling him to the dust and punching the scimitar into his throat. Like a wall of fury, the Byzantine line swept along behind him, leaping for the Seljuk riders before they could break away. Men screamed in bloodlust and battle horses whinnied in agony as iron upon iron rang out, sword on sword, spears breaking through bone. The Byzantine line bit hungrily and the Seljuk riders fell in their hundreds, hamstrung by the strike.

The fire raged in Apion’s veins and his limbs numbed, feeling only the dull judder of his scimitar as it struck through armour and flesh again and again, while the screaming of the Seljuks rang out unbroken. Then the earth rumbled once more. Apion’s blood ran cold and he looked up, then what he saw filled his heart with hope: barely a hundred feet away, Cydones led his kataphractoi from the tip of a wedge as they galloped at full pelt for the disarray of the Seljuk cavalry retreat. The strategos’ eyes were narrowed and he lay low in his saddle, spear dipped, cloak billowing in his wake. The riders to the rear of the wedge were upright, arrows nocked to bows and then loosed as one dark cloud. The chaos that was the Seljuk cavalry line worsened under the resultant hail, then they crumpled as Cydones’ wedge hammered into them, momentum overcoming numbers. Men flew from their horses, shields splintered; bodies of riders and horse alike were swept under the stampede of Byzantine hooves. Apion hacked and stabbed and the Seljuk ranks seemed to vanish before him. At last he pulled upon the reins of a Seljuk mount, hauled himself onto its back and heeled the beast into a charge for the last clutch of ghulam. One swiped for him and he parried, then ripped his blade across the rider’s throat, the blood spraying across his eyes. As the body toppled and the ghulam broke into a retreat, Apion raised his sword to strike his next opponent, but was faced with Cydones, braced and dripping in crimson like some gory reflection.

All around the battered Byzantine square, the Seljuk ranks broke into a panicked retreat, harried by Ferro’s riders and the Pechenegs. Cries of victory rang out all around Apion and the strategos. ‘Nobiscum Deus!’

Both men’s eyes stayed fixed on each other as they panted, teeth gritted.

After what seemed like an eternity, the cheering died and the army broke out in a hoarse and baritone chant of the ritual thanksgiving to God. The prayer made the land tremble and Apion shuddered as the dark door swung shut. He held up his sword hand, the muscles knotted with tension and laced with a myriad of new cuts, the blood mixing with the red ink of the Haga stigma.

Then his eyes dropped to the prayer rope; it seemed to be biting into his wrist. The stench of burning flesh was rife and all around, a carpet of dead eyes stared up at him.

The spacious pavilion tent provided cool respite from the afternoon sun. Apion swirled his cup, the wine was spicy. Even the few sips he had taken had him feeling giddy. He welcomed the intoxication, washing the bloody events of the day from his eyes and softening of the cries of the wounded around the camp.

‘A young lad might want to water his wine,’ Cydones said, tearing at a chunk of bread.

‘Don’t discourage him, sir,’ Ferro winked, tilting the wineskin into Apion’s cup once more.

‘I think I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to ale and wine, sir,’ he cocked an eyebrow, remembering the foul illness that seemed to cling to his whole body for a full day after the evening drinking in Trebizond.

‘You’ve learned many lessons, it seems.’

Apion studied his cup, still uncomfortable with praise.

‘The men are talking about you again. That call for the counter-charge was pivotal, Apion. Without it, we may not be sat here right now. It’s a special officer who can apply such thinking to his actions and inspire men to follow him. The Haga indeed!’ Cydones chuckled and swigged at his wine.

Apion remembered the battle like a vicious nightmare. For all the blood that was spilled, Bracchus still lived. The glory was meaningless. ‘Anyone could have made that call, sir.’

Cydones smirked. ‘They could have but they didn’t. You did. That was an impressive act of courage and I admire you for it, I really do. You could have died on the end of a hundred Seljuk lances for that moment of inspiration, and most often those overcome by bloodlust do tend to find the blood they seek — their own!’

Ferro chuckled and crunched into a fresh loaf of bread. ‘Aye, but what a swordsman. . from what I’ve heard anyway.’

Apion knew from his aching limbs that he had fought well. He made to sit a little taller but winced as the movement caused his bandaged ribs to rub together. His old, serrated scar would have many cousins now.

‘I saw it, Ferro. The lad was like a demon in the ranks! But as I say, that’s not the reason Apion is here. We’ve got plenty of good fighters,’ the strategos leaned forward, ‘it’s good men and good thinkers that we need. That charge, it wasn’t just bravado, was it?’

Apion looked up; the strategos’ eyes sparkled. He thought of the shatranj board. ‘It was a simple decision really, if they had come again, our square would have collapsed.’

‘It is simple,’ Cydones nodded, ‘if you can see the field in your mind. Impossible if you cannot. You would not have been able to orchestrate a rabble of bloodied and emotional men if you shared their state of mind. That is what makes you special, Apion. And the call to drop every second bandon? I salute you for that.’

‘Aye, you’ll be in for a long game tonight, sir.’ Ferro nodded to the wooden shatranj box on the table beside Cydones. ‘I’ve heard he has quite a talent for it.’

‘No surprise,’ Cydones nodded sternly. ‘He had a fine teacher.’

As the strategos opened the box to reveal a polished marble chequered surface, he started to place beautifully carved marble pieces on opposing sides of the board. ‘Tugrul is formidable, a shrewd man with a long trail of victories behind him, but today he was a fool. He let his guard down and assumed he would win an easy victory because of his numerical superiority. One slip, after years of seeming invincibility. That’s all it takes to turn a legend into a fool. He may have survived the battle going by the scout reports, but his reputation died today.’

‘Then he will be wounded, sir. A wounded enemy is to be feared. The need for vengeance is like a disease.’

Cydones nodded, face falling stony. ‘I fear as you do that we have only injured the Falcon. Yet the thema cannot remain fully mobilised, the lands need to be tended to keep the populace fed. So the ranks are to return to their lands, but on high alert. Garrisons will be tripled and the forts will be rebuilt and manned where the budget will allow it. We will be ready for the next wave of invasion. Today was but the first wind of the storm.’

‘Many died today, sir,’ Apion had washed in a stream but could still smell the metallic stench of the day’s gore. ‘I slew more than I could count, but I can still see each of their faces.’

‘I have the faces of thousands in my head, Apion,’ Cydones nodded solemnly, ‘they talk with me in my sleep. I can offer them no answers.’ The strategos placed each of the pawns in place carefully, then looked up. ‘That’s something you can change, Apion. One man can save thousands of lives.’

‘Or end them,’ Apion added abruptly, remembering Mansur’s words.

Cydones nodded. He held the cavalry shatranj piece before placing it down. ‘To do the former, you need the right tools.’ He placed the cavalry piece on the board. ‘You are to be a rider, Apion.’

Ferro clapped a hand on his shoulder and left the tent with a chuckle. Apion’s skin tingled.

‘I have a fine chestnut Thessallian gelding, ideal for your new role.’

Apion searched the strategos’ eyes.

‘You led men well today. A bandon followed you, yes, but those around your bandon followed you also.’ He leaned forward. ‘They fought for you, Apion. A man who can lead many banda makes a fine tourmarches. Like Ferro, you will lead an army for me as part of the thema. You will report to me, directly.’

Apion’s body was numbing with the wine but his mind reeled. Then he thought of the reality of it.

‘But I have been a komes for such a short time, sir. The men, they respect me and I know they will follow me, but would this not stretch their loyalty too far?’

‘Your words echo my doubts, Apion, when I was promoted from a skutatos to a strategos in the space of a few years. But you can lead them. You know this, you have already said it: you command respect,’ Cydones’ face fell firm, ‘and you have the mind to lead them wisely. And one day you will lead the thema, Apion, you will be a strategos. I know this now.’

Apion nodded, Cydones belief in him was like a tonic. He wondered how the strategos could be so sure.

‘So you accept the role, soldier?’ Cydones said.

Apion’s first thoughts were of the men who had supported him. Good men. ‘If I am to be a tourmarches then I want my men with me,’ he spoke firmly. ‘They’ve got something, each and every one of them. I want them alongside me.’

Cydones held out his hands. ‘Ferro has been my right-hand man since I was in the ranks, Apion. I understand completely.’

‘Then I gladly accept the role, sir,’ He leaned forward, then thought of the missing man of his trusted four. Had Nepos made it to the farm safely? Then he looked up at the strategos; was this the juncture to speak candidly with Cydones about Bracchus? He opened his mouth to speak, leaning forward, when a pair of bloodied and bandaged tourmarchai strode into the tent, jabbering and hauling documents and bags of coins. He shook his head, now was not the time. But seeking out Nepos could not wait. ‘But I must ask for one more thing: will you grant me a leave of absence, before I take up my new position, a week at most. There is something I must tend to, back home.’

‘Granted,’ Cydones nodded, ‘and be sure to come back focused and ready for the struggle that lies ahead.’

Apion sucked in a deep breath. ‘I will, sir.’

Apion left the tent and headed for the latrines, walking through the sea of bandaged and bloody men being attended to by the medics.

‘God bless you, sir,’ one man held out his hand. ‘You saved us!’

Apion clasped the man’s hand, his brow furrowed at the praise after such bloody work. As he walked on more and more men called out to him, then a chant started. ‘Ha-ga! Ha-ga!’

He was glad to be clear of the men as he reached the latrines, then a familiar voice barked at him.

‘Congratulations on your promotion. . sir.’

Apion turned to face Bracchus. His eyes searched the tourmarches’ face, but for once, his nemesis’ expression was blank, the inky pools of his eyes empty. The he saw it, something buried deep inside, just the merest glint of some long-buried sadness.

Apion swallowed his hatred for an instant. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And you saved my life as well. I should thank you for that.’

Apion wondered at how to reply to this. ‘I am a soldier, I carried out my duty. Now, I have been granted leave,’ Apion said, his chest tightening as he saw Bracchus’ features harden back to that familiar, icy expression. ‘I imagine we will speak again when I return?’

Bracchus fixed his eyes on Apion. ‘Perhaps. . ’

Apion frowned as the tourmarches walked away.