Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

7. Wolf River

The tail end of summer had baked Chaldia’s terracotta landscape and the midday cicada song filled the air. On the dirt road heading south-west to the neighbouring thema of Colonea, Mansur and Apion sat at the front of the wagon as it rumbled along on well-worn axles. The wagon cabin was packed with barley, cheeses and wool; a decent day of bartering at the market town of Cheriana would see them come home with a supply of oil, tools and a purse of coins — enough to keep the farm in working order for another few weeks.

Apion scoured the landscape for every detail; Mansur had promised him he would see a bit more of the empire on this trip, and he was eager to take it all in. When they travelled the high roads, he would look across the snow-capped mountains, the yawning plains and the clouds of tiny white specks that were goat herds, but most of all he would examine the valleys below, envisioning the land like a giant chequered board, plotting his strategy for the next shatranj game: the stretches of tall grass were the pawns, the olive groves the cavalry and the rockfall the war elephants. The games against Mansur were still very one-sided, but Apion had learned something from each defeat when Mansur had explained his mistakes.

His belly rumbled and he touched a hand to his satchel, feeling the eggs and honey Maria had packed for the pair of them. Guilt touched him at the thought of her being on her own. Mansur had assured him though that Giyath and Nasir would take turns at checking on the farm. Apion wondered about Nasir; perhaps the boy had a decent heart under all that bluster. He wondered if they would ever be on agreeable terms. Then he shook his head with a wry grin.

He mused over this as the road dipped to round the base of a small cliff-face, then noticed a faded carving in the rock. As the wagon rolled round the cliff, his skin tingled as the carving came into view: a two-headed eagle, eyes on each head dipped in anger, wings spread wide and with rapier-like talons. He uttered a gasp; it was a giant rendition of the etching on the boulder cairn by the farm.

‘Ah, the Haga!’ Mansur chirped, noticing Apion’s amazement. ‘I felt the same the first time I saw it.’

‘What is it?’ Apion asked, head twisting round to watch as it rolled out of view behind them.

‘Long ago, before Byzantium, this land belonged to the empire of the Hittites. They had their own gods and legends. The Haga was one of them; a ferocious, two-headed eagle that would swoop down from the cliffs and mountains and could kill a bull in each claw.’

‘These people, they are gone, long gone,’ Apion said, ‘yet their legends remain, etched into the landscape?’

Mansur nodded. ‘The emblem adorns many a cliff face and mountainside across this land. Whatever else they believed in, the Hittites certainly reckoned with the power of the Haga.’

Apion tried to imagine such a beast come to life from the rock. He shivered at the thought. The ferocity in those eyes. .

As the afternoon wore on, they came to a region of rolling hillocks. Then he saw something up ahead: atop a baked red hill, the stone edifice of a fort stood proud, seemingly baked into the earth as if it had been there for all time. His father had been stationed at such a fort for a whole year. Apion remembered playing by the hearth, building wooden blocks into an enclosure and then lining up carved soldiers, pretending he was one of them, protecting the walls. Then he realised the walls of this fort were unmanned. He looked to the wide gate but could see only the blue of the sky through it. Then they rounded the hill a little further to see the crumbled ruin that was the other side of the fort. Unmanned, meaning this vast tract of imperial land was left undefended.

‘The man in the purple seems to think that the east needs no funding for such garrisons,’ Mansur said as if reading his thoughts. ‘Perhaps if he lived here and experienced the uncertainty it creates, he might think otherwise.’

Apion nodded, eyes hanging on the stark image of the skeletal fort. ‘Is it the same in Seljuk lands?’

Mansur shook his head. ‘No. My people ride the wave of expansion. Riches are abundant and the lands are well policed. Such prosperity is like a drug, and I fear it is often confused with glory.’

Apion thought over the old man’s words as they rode on, the breeze dancing through his amber locks as he tried to imagine what the land must have been like in more prosperous times of the past.

They rode on for some time, then Mansur whipped the horses into a heady pace as they passed through forest. Apion noticed the old man’s eyes were narrowed and scouring the undergrowth in suspicion, but he could not see why. It was a pleasant setting; leafy shade, brooks and squat waterfalls snaking through the undergrowth. The whole setting made him feel cooler and more relaxed. Then he remembered he had finished his water some way back.

‘Can we stop so I can fill my skin?’ He looked up at Mansur; the old man was still examining the road and the treeline. Apion wondered if he had gone unheard. He pulled on Mansur’s sleeve, pointing to the stream coming up on their left. ‘Can we sto. . ’

‘No!’ Mansur barked.

Apion pulled back.

‘No,’ Mansur repeated, this time in a calmer voice, looking at Apion, his face firm but his eyes friendly. ‘When we get to the river we can slake our thirst.’

Apion nodded. ‘Very well. What if I need to empty my bladder?’

Mansur’s vexation washed away in a tense chuckle. ‘Then you do it from the side of the wagon. I hope you have good balance and good aim!’

Apion’s shoulders slumped as he thought out the logistics of balancing on his crutch. Soon they rode clear of the trees and Mansur seemed to relax after that as the countryside opened up again.

A long and gentle downhill slope led to a smaller patch of beech forest, behind which the land gave way to accommodate a mighty river, its shimmering waters flowing calmly west. The sheer girth of the river made the Piksidis seem like a stream in comparison. ‘What do they call this water?’

‘When its current is gentle, the Lykos; when it grows turbulent, the Wolf River. Many men have lost their lives trying to cross this river. That’s why we come to this particular crossing point.’

‘Is there a bridge?’ Apion frowned, scanning the waters for sight of such a structure.

‘No, but there is a fine ferryman,’ Mansur grinned, ‘a dizzy old goat by the name of Petzeas.’

The rush of the rapids drowned out the cicada song as they approached and sure enough, they reached a rudimentary ferry dock. The wagon slowed to a halt by a post with a horn tied to it.

Forgetting his thirst, Apion placed his crutch on the ground and slid down from the drivers’ berth, biting back the spasm of pain that shot through his scar, while Mansur groaned and shifted his bulky frame to standing, then dropped down from the wagon and hobbled over to the post, lifted the horn, filled his lungs and blew. The wail of the horn echoed across the land. Mansur’s gaze then fell on the small wooden hut on the other side of the river. All was still for a moment and then the tiny shape of the elderly ferryman emerged from the cabin and waved, quickly flanked by his two sons.

‘Well, you’ve got ample time to slake your thirst now, lad,’ Mansur mused, waving back as Petzeas set about rigging up his vessel. They settled in the shade by the wagon and shared a meal of boiled eggs, followed by bread and honey, washed down with freshly drawn water.

‘I’m sorry I was terse with you on the forested road. It’s a notorious stretch,’ Mansur spoke, wiping his hands on his robe,

Apion raised an eyebrow. ‘Brigands?’

‘Aye,’ he snorted, ‘bane of any empire.’

Apion thought back to the journey from Trebizond. ‘What makes a brigand? Bracchus and Vadim, they robbed you did they not, on that day you bought me? Then they come to your home and rob you again, threatening your family. . and they are soldiers?’

‘You saw the pitiful state of the forts on the way here, lad. The highways are long and empty these days. The few men assigned to protect the travellers are easily turned by the thought of taking an extra income. It’s the nature of soldiers to misbehave when they are not engaged on the front line, especially when their wages don’t show up on time.’

‘But those two, they seem to have some personal vendetta against you?’

Mansur looked to Apion, but before he could reply, a snapping of branches caught their attention.

‘Shhtand back!’ A voice called.

Apion twisted round to see the figure of a skutatos stumble from the beech thicket, clumsily pulling up his woollen leggings and fumbling his padded cotton vest back over his waist. The man’s dark eyes were at odds and his stride was erratic. He was probably in his early twenties, tall, of medium build, with rounded features and chestnut locks tumbling from his felt cap. Apion felt the urge to laugh at the comic appearance of the soldier, then his face dropped as the man pulled his spathion from his scabbard and brought the point to hover near Mansur’s chest.

‘Get away from the boy, you. . you dirty Seljuk!’ The man’s breath reeked of wine.

Mansur stood, not letting his eyes leave the man. ‘Waiting for the ferry?’ He asked in his usual gravel but affable tone, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to the very slowly approaching Petzeas.

The man’s face tightened into an exaggerated frown and he swayed like a sapling in a stiff breeze. ‘A Seljuk talking G. . Greek?’ The man erupted in laughter, looking to Apion as if to share his joke. Apion baulked at the man’s drunken manner; a memory of Father came back to him: in that last year when his wages could not keep the farm in operation and the lands had run dry of crops, he would turn to drinking soured wine unwatered until he became a different person, joyous for a brief spell and then surly, hot tempered and rash.

‘I’ve always used the mother tongue of this land since I came here,’ Mansur replied. ‘I’ve been tilling the lands of the empire for many a year now.’

‘Really? Well you look a lot like the Seljuk whoreson riders who wiped out my bandon two days ago. Nearly two hundred infantry, good men, gone! Skin that colour, moustache as well. The buggers ambushed us then slit the throats of the wounded.’ The soldier tightened his grip on his sword, his teeth gritted, saliva bubbling through them.

‘Ghazi riders, this far west?’ Mansur shook his head. The Seljuk light cavalry hunted in packs, swift and designed to harass, but they rarely penetrated past the area around the Piksidis. ‘I’m truly sorry it came to bloodshed, soldier. Let’s have no more of that today, eh?’

‘If you were one of them. . ’ the soldier snarled.

Mansur shrugged and gestured to his bulging waistline. ‘Me, a rider? Is there a horse in all the Byzantine or Seljuk Empires that could take my weight?’

A scowl hovered on the drunken soldier’s face, then his expression wavered and melted and finally he laughed despite himself.

Mansur smiled. ‘You’re heading back to your barracks, one of the forts across the Lykos, right?’

‘Might be. Might be waiting on the rest of my lads to catch up first.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Mansur shook his head with a friendly smile. ‘Your boots are dried out, ragged and caked in dust; you’ve been walking for some time. Your water skin is empty; with no colleagues to borrow some from you turned to your wine ration unwatered. Now why don’t you come across the river with us? I’ll take you in the wagon as far as your fort; you can sleep off the effects of the wine and be fresh to face your commanding officer.’

Apion felt a tense moment pass, the soldier eyeing Mansur as he swayed. Mansur’s words were full of reason, but the wine had boiled the soldier’s brains. He patted a hand to his own full water skin and then stepped forward, holding it out to the soldier.

‘Here, have some of my water,’ he said.

The soldier shot a glare down to Apion, saw the prayer rope and then lowered his sword point into the dust to rest his weight on it, rubbing at his eyes. ‘Aye. . aye, fair enough. I’ll go across the water with you.’

Petzeas’ story of his eldest son’s first attempts to harvest the honey from his hives was entertaining in its delivery if a little stale by the third time of its telling, but Apion enjoyed the ferry crossing regardless. He munched on the bread loaf Petzeas had on board for his passengers to enjoy, watching the waters of the Lykos shimmering all around them while the ferryman operated the tiller and his sons, Isaac and Maro, rowed on either side of the ferry. The flat-bottomed vessel held the wagon, wheels fixed with wooden blocks, the horses, with sacks over their heads to keep them calm, and the six passengers and crew with ample room to spare. A squat timber ridge around the sides added stability to the craft and prevented items rolling off.

The soldier, whose mood had lightened, slurred an introduction as Tarsites, then happily accepted a chunk of bread from Apion. Then, after roaring at Petzeas’ first rendition of the hive story, Tarsites toppled into a dead man’s sleep, his snoring almost drowning out the rush of the rapids. After that, the ferryman’s tone had grown bitter as he told of the brigands who had been operating in the forest but had recently turned to flexing their muscle near the riverbank.

‘Damned parasites! That’s what they are, wriggling like maggots on the body of their own empire! I tell you, if I was twenty years younger and I still had my skutatoi armour. . ’

‘Maybe you should leave that to your boys, Petzeas?’ Mansur mused while the two sons carried on rowing regardless. ‘They are of age to serve in the thema within the next few years, are they not?’

‘They are. I worry for them as they are of the age where young men die on the sword easily. Yet I worry that if they stay here the parasites will see them as some kind of threat.’

‘Whatever happens, you should feel safe here. You’re providing a service to the empire, so,’ he glanced over to the slumbering form of Tarsites and cocked an eyebrow, ‘the empire should protect you.’

Petzeas issued a deep throaty sigh. ‘Aye but we both know what direction this empire is heading in. Like an ancient candle guttering its last.’

His tone sent a shiver over Apion’s skin.

They docked on the opposite bank and Petzeas waived payment, insisting that Mansur could settle with him on the return journey. With that, they set off again, down the track that clung to the southern banks of the Lykos. Some distance later, Apion wondered at Mansur’s ease in what was effectively a foreign land. He lived as a citizen of Byzantium, had friends in this empire of his one-time enemies, spoke fluent Greek — more fluent than some of the natives, he mused, eyeing Tarsites, who now sat wedged between Mansur and he, twitching and grunting happily in some inebriate fantasy dream. Indeed, if Mansur had not been able to speak Greek to the man, blood would surely have been spilled.

Later that day, they dropped Tarsites by the roadside. The man was weary but an altogether more pleasant character without wine in his blood.

‘I can only apologise for my behaviour. . before.’ He patted his wineskin and raised his eyebrows. ‘I normally don’t touch the stuff; I just carry it so I can use it for barter.’ He turned to Mansur. ‘How can I repay you, farmer?’ He rummaged in the purse hanging from his belt.

Mansur raised a hand in refusal. ‘Those roads are part of your empire. They need to be policed. If you could lobby your commander on that front, it’d be appreciated. It’d see old Petzeas and I at ease.’

The soldier cast them a weary but genuine grin in return. ‘Couldn’t agree more, I’ll see what I can do.’ With that, he set off to his hilltop fort, one of the few with iron speartips and Byzantine crimson Chi-Rho banners adorning the battlements.

‘Don’t you fear they might take you up on that suggestion?’ Apion asked as they set off again. ‘The last thing we need is another Bracchus and Vadim.’

‘As I said, that is the nature of a soldier far from the front line, and better a corrupt Byzantine than a cutthroat brigand.’

They rode on until the sun turned a tired orange, dipping below the horizon. It was a clear and fine night when they pulled over at a small brook running by the roadside and into the river, leaving Cheriana within an easy ride in the morning. They set up a fire by the wagon as the land dimmed and the navy blue of the twilight sky yawned over them, sparkling with stars. Apion’s energy levels were low after such a long day and the gathering of the kindling was enough to make him think of sleep. But first, Mansur insisted, they would eat and then sleep better on a full belly. So they prepared a meal of cheese on toasted bread, followed by figs with honey for dipping.

Apion sipped his skin of stream water, watching Mansur in the firelight as the old man examined the stars to the east, his eyes distant. ‘Why did you come to live in Byzantine lands?’

Mansur blinked, hesitated, then gave a wry chuckle. ‘For a fresh start, lad. At least that was the plan.’

Apion thought of all Maria had told him of the attack on Mansur and Kutalmish’s caravan. A fresh start ended in the most harrowing manner. He hoped one day the old man would want to talk about it with him. ‘I think you were incredibly brave to come here. Every time you face a man like Bracchus, or Tarsites — before we calmed him — do you not crave to be where you are not a stranger in a foreign land?’

‘To feel like a stranger in a foreign land, a man must first have a place he can call home, in order to miss it.’

‘You don’t miss the east?’

‘In ways, yes, perhaps I miss the east as it was when I was a boy, but not the east as it is now. I became tired of the constant warfare and bloodshed.’ His eyes hung on the fire. ‘The Seljuk people have become something alien to me; in many ways they are as belligerent and power-hungry as the Byzantines whose land they crave. No offence intended,’ he winked.

Apion smiled. ‘What was it like when you were a boy?’

‘We were a simple people. Born on the steppe, living our lives on horseback, hunting in the tall grass of the infinite plains, riding in the surf of the Aral Sea. Simple pleasures still held for us then: returning to the yurts of the tribe at night with the spoils of the hunt. I remember that vividly; in the saddle with my father, the women and younger children rushing to greet us, their faces bright with joy at our return.’

‘Why did it all change?’

‘Even then it was changing, lad. The tribes were living in the old way but they were being united, for the first time, to act as one people, one military.’

‘By Tugrul?’ Apion leaned in over the fire. The name of the Seljuk Sultan had been spat like a poisoned grape by the drunks at the inn where he served as a slave, but behind their merry hubris, fear had laced their words. Tugrul, the Falcon, the warlord who had harnessed ancient Persia and all the peripheral kingdoms, was coming to topple Byzantium.

Mansur shook his head. ‘No, it was Tugrul’s father and the elders of the tribes who started the push for unity. Tugrul was a boy, just a little older than me, at this time. He has grown to lead them now on their incessant hunt for glory.’

‘Did you ever fight under Tugrul’s banner?’

Mansur looked off to the east again instead of returning Apion’s engrossed stare. ‘I was a Seljuk boy who grew up with a mantra to seek glory in the name of Allah. I served my time in the ranks while Tugrul rose to power. I saw what it did to him; he became a great and lethal leader, but a bitter and troubled man. I could feel the same thing happening to me. Coming west was my attempt to leave all that behind.’

Apion nodded and wondered at the corpulent old man sat across from him now, anything but soldierly. ‘You did a fine job of talking Tarsites round. I was terrified that he was going to strike you. We had no weapons to attack him with.’

‘Even if we did, Apion, Tarsites was not looking for blood; he was looking for help. A desperate soldier on the road, on his own without food or water. I could see the good-hearted and articulate man inside the drunk that swayed before us. The answer does not always lie with the sword and today was a prime example of that.’

Apion nodded, then eyed his scarred leg. Perhaps if he ever found himself confronted by a trouble-minded Seljuk, diplomacy could be his only real option. ‘You said you would teach me, Mansur?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Mansur cocked an eyebrow wearily.

‘Then teach me to speak the Seljuk tongue,’ Apion asked.

Mansur grinned at this, then pulled his cap over his eyes, lay back and sighed. ‘Tomorrow, lad. We’ll start tomorrow.’

Apion rolled over onto his side. He untied and kissed the prayer rope and mouthed the Prayer of the Heart, searching for an image of Mother and Father.

After a long day of trading and a welcome night’s sleep at the inn, they were ready to leave Cheriana. The wagon was so full that the wheels groaned as they turned around in the market square under the shadow of the town church’s red-tiled dome.

‘She’s good to go!’ Mansur nodded, watching as Apion drove the horses forward just a little. Then he pulled himself onto the drivers berth with a groan.

Apion lightly whipped the horses and the wagon moved off. The townsfolk meandered casually, only steps away from the wagon. Then, with a chorus of squealing, two pigs scuttled loose from their owner and barged across the road. Apion’s heart leapt as both wagon horses tensed and then reared up, whinnying in terror.

‘Whoa!’ Mansur grabbed the reins from him. ‘Easy there!’ He cried and then reached forward to pat each of their flanks. ‘One of the reasons we don’t have pigs on the farm, the horses are terrified of them — terrified!’ He looked to Apion. ‘Almost comical when you think about it, eh?’

They set off again and the wagon settled into a rhythm and he took one last look around the town as they left. The place was walled with a rudimentary wooden palisade, the original stone walls of the town having fallen into terminal disrepair. The place was about a quarter the size of Trebizond, he reckoned. Apart from the wide main thoroughfare from the entrance gate to the market square, the dusty streets were narrow and the buildings closely packed, none more than two storeys high and most looking very makeshift in their construction. The people were a mixed bag: mainly Byzantines but also tall Slavs, charcoal-skinned Africans and pale westerners punctuating the crowd. All these cultures seemed to blend into the market environment as one people, but Apion had noticed a distinctly frosty attitude towards Mansur as he had bartered. Mansur always spoke to the traders in a warm but assertive tone, much as he had done with Tarsites, and the underlying hostility of the traders never surfaced because of this. He grinned, reciting the words of a simple greeting in Seljuk that Mansur had taught him that morning as they rode into town. Then a voice barked in front of them.

‘Halt!’

Apion yanked on the reins, startled. Two skutatoi stood either side of the gate, their spears raised, faces twisted.

‘Your business?’ The first sneered.

Apion looked to Mansur, eyes wide. On entering the town it had been just after dawn and the night guards were weary. Now they were clearly spoiling for trouble.

Mansur replied to the guards. ‘Trade; tools and oil,’ he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to the wagon cabin.

The guard scrutinised him. ‘Your kind ain’t welcome here, you’ve been told before. Now go.’

Face straight, Mansur nodded to Apion to whip the horses onwards.

As they rode clear of the town, the throngs of traders on foot and on horseback thinned, but Apion was still troubled by the confrontation with the guards. ‘Don’t they realise you are a citizen? Farming, paying taxes to the Empire?’ He asked Mansur.

‘If they sat down and thought about it they might realise that, lad. But no, they see a Seljuk and they hate me.’

It was nearing the end of the day when they reached Petzeas’ ferry crossing again. Mansur reckoned they could get across and bite another few miles from their journey home before it would become too dark. Apion had agreed, despite his rumbling gut demanding that they stop to camp and eat sooner.

‘Ah, Petzeas is ready!’ Mansur pointed to the figure of the old man, sat on a bench by his docked ferry.

Apion’s heart lifted at the prospect of the old man’s banter and the possibility that he would have some bread on board again. As they approached, Petzeas looked up to them but instead of rising from his seat and hailing them warmly, the old man remained seated, his face drawn and his eyes weary.

‘What’s wrong, ferryman, you’re almost acting your age?’ Mansur chirped.

Petzeas cracked a smile but seemed to be wearing it like a mask.

‘All is well?’ Mansur asked, this time with concern.

Petzeas nodded with a long sigh. ‘My youngest, Isaac. . he is unwell with a fever. It will probably pass but. . ’

Mansur glanced to the timber hut. ‘We have honey if he is weak?’

Petzeas shook his head quickly. ‘He cannot hold anything down, time and rest should bring him round.’

Apion noticed the ferryman’s unease and fleeting eye contact. Something felt wrong. ‘Is there nothing we can do for him? Perhaps even just a visit might lift his spirits,’ he asked, shuffling his withered leg and crutch towards the wagon edge.

‘No.’ Petzeas seemed ruffled. ‘I fear it is contagious and it is a wonder I myself haven’t been stricken yet. Perhaps he will be well. . the next time you come by this way.’ The ferryman glanced across the water briefly as he said this.

‘Very well. Our thoughts are with you,’ Mansur spoke gently.

Apion noticed Petzeas held a necklace bearing a Chi-Rho in his palm. He held up his wrist with the prayer rope. ‘May God bless him with good health soon,’ he offered solemnly. Petzeas looked up only for the briefest of moments to acknowledge the sentiment and Apion saw something raw in his eyes. Defeat.

Then the ferryman stood. ‘Come now, draw up your wagon to the pier and I will summon Maro. I will need one of you to operate Isaac’s oar.’ He hesitated, muttering to himself, eyeing Apion’s scarred leg. ‘Mansur, if you will?’ He asked and then turned away to go in to his hut.

Apion let the burning sensation of shame and inadequacy pass; the old ferryman had enough on his mind and meant no offence. Something was most definitely wrong here. He drove the horses forward onto the pier then slid down off the wagon using his crutch, biting back the searing pain that shot through his body, then hobbled to walk alongside Mansur. He looked up to voice his concern but Mansur spoke first.

‘I saw it too,’ Mansur’s eyes were scanning the surroundings of the hut and then the opposite riverbank. He wore a sharp expression like a preying cat. ‘Do not press the ferryman on it. I will have my back to the far bank as I sit at the oar so you must keep your eyes on the treeline as the ferry comes to dock. I will keep watch on this side as I row.’

Apion’s blood ran cold. Suddenly, he felt like a lost cub in the wilderness as the sky dulled and the rapids of the Wolf River seemed to roar.

Before long the ferry had set off across the river, Maro and Mansur striking up a rhythm fairly quickly. Petzeas’ eldest son seemed naturally shy and of few words so it was difficult to tell today whether he shared his father’s unease. Apion sat near the leading edge of the ferry and pulled at a piece of bread, looking up to the approaching riverbank as frequently and as casually as he could manage. He saw the beech thicket where they had eaten two days previous, empty, as was the rest of the riverbank.

They docked on the muddy bank. Silently, Petzeas hobbled from the tiller to step onto the ground and began tying the vessel to the post with the horn attached. The ferryman looked anywhere but at his two passengers. Apion looked to Mansur, giving a faint shake of the head. Mansur whispered to him as he passed. ‘Climb into the cabin, lad, make room for yourself in there and shut the door.’

Apion gulped. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Just do as I say, please.’ Then Mansur turned to Petzeas. ‘See you soon, ferryman.’

Apion’s dread grew as Petzeas croaked a farewell and then turned back to his ferry, head bowed. He climbed into the wagon cabin and clipped the door shut from inside and then Mansur whipped the horses into a canter for the beech forest. His eyes jumped to every fluttering leaf, every branch that shuddered as crows left their nests, but all was as normal. Apion frowned, looking through the slats, back to the shrinking figures of Petzeas and Maro.

Then a roar pierced the air.

Footsteps thundered across the ground and more gruff shouting broke out. Apion pressed his eyes to the slats then leapt back at the sight of the hooded man dressed in filthy rags who raced for the flank of the wagon. The figure held a dagger in his hand, and sprung like a cat to clamber onto the wagon roof.

Three more men rushed for the wagon, each bearing longswords and running straight for Mansur on the drivers’ berth. The horses reared in panic and the reins tangled. The wagon crunched round against a thick oak trunk and Apion was hurled forward, an amphora shattering against his shoulder and throwing him head over heels. It was all he could do to stifle a scream. Then all was still as he glanced up, dazed, the sound of iron on iron filling the air. Through the slats he saw flitting glances of the brigands stabbing and hacking at something. Then one of the brigands issued a gurgling cry, blood spraying from his mouth, hands clutching at a curved blade that had pierced his belly and burst through his back. The curved blade was ripped back. Apion scrambled forward, pressing against the slats to see it all.

Mansur stood holding a bloodied scimitar; the dirty cloth that had concealed it behind the drivers’ berth lay on the ground. He was hacking at the next man’s sword thrusts, cutting the blade around to his sides whenever the dagger-wielding thug tried to attack his back. With a roar, the dagger man rushed him. Mansur stepped back half a pace and brought his sword hilt crunching into the man’s jaw, then scythed the blade around to cut through another swordsman’s throat. The swordsman’s face wrinkled and he touched a hand to his neck in the instant before dark blood jetted from the wound, pulling the colour from his skin and weakening his legs until he toppled, dead.

Mansur turned to the last swordsman, his brow knitted, eyes burning. The swordsman lurched forward and Mansur parried. This thug was slighter than the first but more skilled with the weapon and the pair circled each other, clashing again and again. Mansur’s chest began to heave as he tired. Then Apion noticed shapes emerge from the trees behind Mansur. More brigands.

Five of them, screaming, three bearing swords, the fourth and biggest one flat-faced and hefting an axe and the last of them approaching on a fawn stallion, wearing a cloak, mail vest and veil. Mansur glanced back at them, and then shoulder charged the swordsman onto the ground, whacking the flat of his scimitar to the man’s temple to knock him out before turning to face the five.

As the five surrounded Mansur, the felled dagger-man struggled to his feet, eyes locked on Mansur’s unprotected back, blade in hand. Frozen in a mix of fear and anger, Apion’s thoughts flitted with the image of the dark door. Then he saw something else: a blurred image of a hand, reaching forward for the door. He blinked and realised he had pushed forward to punch the wagon door open. His eyes seared under a frown, and he hefted an amphora in his arms and dropped out onto the ground and hobbled forward. Without his crutch, the pain was untold. Then, with a cry, he hurled the amphora at the back of the swordsman’s head, the vessel exploding on contact and the swordsman dropping like a sack of rocks, blood trickling from his nose.

‘Apion, stay back!’ Mansur gasped through shortening breaths, trying to shield him from the approaching five.

Then a desperate cry rent the air from behind them. Apion spun round: Maro stood, a snapped oar held in his arms like a club, Petzeas beside him bearing the other, lighter half of the oar. ‘We have your flanks, Mansur,’ Old Petzeas cried, the ferryman and his son hurrying forward to stand alongside Mansur and Apion, then he roared at the approaching brigands. ‘Come on then, you dogs!’

‘Petzeas?’ Mansur uttered.

‘Forgive me, friend,’ Petzeas apologised, breathless. ‘They have taken Isaac hostage. I prayed you would not come back today. . ’

Mansur nodded. ‘Save your apologies, just stay close to me!’

Then the brigands rushed in, swords raised while the veiled horseman followed behind them, eyeing the skirmish. The ferryman and his son were able only to parry the sword cuts of the brigands and Apion watched, helpless, as the relentless axe blows of the big brigand sent Mansur staggering backwards and then down onto his knees, chest heaving, face bathed in sweat. Then the big brigand’s leg stamped into the ground before him and Apion pushed with all his strength to jar his shoulder against the man’s calf. The brigand buckled and fell, the axe blow aimed for Mansur’s head falling wide, but in an instant he was up again, enraged, spinning to face Apion, axe lifted, ready to strike. Apion fell back, awaiting a death blow, but the big brigand’s roar was cut short when an arrow thudded into his eye. He was still like a statue for a moment, a grotesque wash of eye-matter and blood coating his face. Then he toppled, dead. Another brigand was felled, back peppered with arrows. The mounted brigand, who had stood back until now, shot looks into the trees, eyes wide with panic as a thudding of hooves grew louder from the thicket. He barked a gruff order to the remaining two thugs. Then the foliage parted and a horseman wearing a leather klibanion burst into view; two toxotai, distinctive by their bows and felt caps, flanked him on foot.

‘Tarsites!’ Apion roared, seeing the rounded features of the skutatos, ducked in his saddle, spathion held out to one side. At this, the two brigands on foot broke off and ran for the trees. The mounted brigand then wheeled to take flight as well. Tarsites rounded on one runner and stabbed him through the chest when he tried to fight back. The other stopped running and dropped his sword, realising the two toxotai had their bows trained on him. The mounted brigand raced for Tarsites and drew a spathion, hefting it round to sweep it down at the skutatos. Tarsites only just brought his own blade round in time to parry and instinctively, as the brigand galloped past to break for the forest, Tarsites brought his sword up and round, the blade scything through the veiled rider’s arm with a sharp snap of bone, lopping the limb clean off. The rider screamed, then toppled from his mount, body crunching as he landed on his head without the arm to break his fall. He lay still and silent. The fight was over.

Panting, Apion stood. With Petzeas’ help they lifted the shaking Mansur to his feet.

‘Why didn’t you tell us, Petzeas?’ Mansur panted. ‘We would have helped you!’

‘I am so sorry, Mansur. I was blinded by fear for Isaac.’

‘Your boy is safe,’ Tarsites said, riding up to the group as the toxotai bound the surviving brigand. ‘We found him gagged and bound in the brigand camp about two hundred feet into the trees. Though I’ve got a terrible feeling they were not brigands. . ’

Petzeas looked at Tarsites, open-mouthed for a moment and then took the skutatos’ hand and began to weep. ‘You saved my son. God bless you, soldier. God bless you!’

Apion looked up to the horseman. ‘Tarsites, you did what Mansur asked, didn’t you? You asked for these roads to be policed?’

Tarsites grinned. ‘You showed me kindness, and I don’t forget things like that easily. I’ve been assigned to a new bandon and when I raised the suggestion to my new komes, he was all for it, especially as I was volunteering to scout these roads personally. I don’t think I ingratiated myself with the rest of the lads,’ he shrugged, ‘then again, I didn’t bargain on getting a scout horse out of it, but there you go.’

‘You’re a good man, Tarsites,’ Mansur spoke, his breath returning.

‘As are you, farmer,’ Tarsites replied, clasping his leather-gloved hand to Mansur’s outstretched palm. ‘Again I can only apologise for my drunken behaviour the day before last.’

Mansur nodded, then looked around to each of them; battered, shaken but alive.

Then a rasping voice startled them all.

‘Do you realise what a black mistake you have made?’

Their eyes fell to the felled rider, still veiled, only his bloodshot eyes visible. He hissed as his lungs filled with blood. They moved to stand around him.

‘Cleared the roads of your likes,’ one of the toxotai spat, but Tarsites raised a hand to hush the bowman.

‘You’re as good as dead, rider,’ the man gurgled, ‘when they find out what you’ve done. I’m untouchable.’ With that the rider convulsed and was still at last, eyes staring.

‘Is he delirious?’ Apion asked, flicking glances to Mansur and Tarsites; both men looked troubled.

‘If only that were so. No, he makes a very real threat.’ Tarsites spoke through narrowed lips, eyes falling on the rider’s severed arm, and then he pointed at the hand. ‘He is no brigand. The emperor is his only master. Look, he is an Agente; a dark soul indeed, given licence to disrupt to his liking and exact whatever pain he so chooses.’

Apion looked to the index finger of the hand on the severed limb. Something inside him refused to accept what he saw: a tarnished ring, a snake winding around the band, just like the lead raider on that awful night. ‘No, it can’t be. . ’ Apion rocked where he stood.

How could the ring be the symbol of some shadowy group of imperial agents? The men from that night were Seljuk, he was sure. The one he had struck down certainly was, so surely the rest were too? They were dressed as Seljuks, a dark voice rasped in his mind, but they were masked. He shook where he stood. Did the man who had slaughtered his parents, shattered his life, lie before him? Had justice been served?

His heart slowed and dizziness washed through his mind. Then he found the answer. There was no missing finger. This could not be the man.

Yet the ring held the truth. One of these agentes led the raiders on that night and ordered the death of his parents. A Byzantine. To find the man with the ring and the missing finger meant justice, no, revenge, would be his to take.

His heart beat faster and faster as the rage welled up inside him. At this something sparked in his soul. That murky image of the dark door floated into his thoughts. The arm outstretched for the door was less blurred now; it was knotted, scarred and sun-darkened, with a band of whiter skin around the wrist, and some dark-red emblem on the forearm. Then something behind the door ignited, the crackling of fire sounded from behind its timbers, orange light flitting around the edges.

Tarsites and the two toxotai had helped mend the wagon, and then they had readied the ferry to cross the river with Petzeas and his sons. At that point Mansur and Apion had said their farewells and set off for home. As they rode Apion noticed Mansur yawning more frequently, his eyes red and weary, so he offered to take the reins and the old man was only too happy to accept. As Mansur slept, snoring violently, Apion tried to empty his mind by focusing on the road, but his eyes were drawn to the scimitar, now wrapped in the cloth again, but a sliver of the blade poked from the end. It sent shivers of awe and disgust through him at once. It was a scimitar that had been used by raiders on the awful night to strike down his parents and to score his body indelibly. Yet those raiders were seemingly led by a Byzantine. An agente. Added to this, it was a scimitar that had been borne by a Seljuk today to save him. To save him from the dark rider, another agente. His mind continued to chatter in turmoil at this cruel riddle.

The shadowy image of the dark door continued to surface and he wanted to stop the wagon, to take the scimitar and to hack and hack at the bark of a tree until he could feel anger no longer. He thumbed the knots on his prayer rope and then looked back at the blade. God would not be pleased with his thoughts, but his soul was restless. He gritted his teeth and focused on the road ahead.

The following day, as they were nearing the valley, Mansur awoke in the late afternoon. ‘I feel as if I’ve slept for a thousand years,’ he groaned, and then winced, rubbing his shoulder, ‘and I feel as if I’ve lived for a thousand more.’

‘I could have helped you, you know,’ Apion offered, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, ‘when you told me to hide in the back of the wagon. I might be lame but I could have helped.’

‘You did,’ Mansur replied in an even tone.

‘But I could have fought alongside you from the start. Just because I am not mobile doesn’t mean I can’t lift a sword. I have lifted a sword before and used it, just as I told you, remember?’ The memory of the dead Seljuk raider, face melting in the fire, on the floor of his parents’ farmhouse came flooding back and he shivered.

‘I have not forgotten,’ Mansur replied, stonily.

‘You were like a master with the sword yesterday, and you are a fine teacher of many things. So will you teach me to use the sword?’

Mansur sighed. ‘For what reason? This thing, the Agentes. I trust you will not dwell on it? That is a dark road to go down, lad.’

‘Fine, then teach me so I can defend myself at least. We’ve been play-fighting with wooden poles for long enough now. Look what happened today — I could have been far more useful if I had a sword in my hand. Surely you can’t deny that?’ Apion insisted.

Mansur sighed wearily. ‘So be it. Next time we fight, we fight with the scimitar. Though I pray that you never have call to use it.’

Apion waved a hand over his scarred leg. ‘It is for the best. Am I not at disadvantage enough?’

Mansur sighed and shook his head. ‘Your leg, the scar, it is a serious wound. Although it hurts badly, the skin is pink now. Remember how it was raw and bloody when you first came home with me?’

Apion was chastised by Mansur’s even tone. The scar had indeed sealed somewhat. ‘What of it?’

‘Something of unspeakable agony, something seemingly lost has become. . better, it has grown stronger.’

‘Marginally. I am still weaker than a lamb, Mansur. I’ll never be strong, never.’

‘That’s all up here lad,’ he tapped a finger to his temple. ‘With your mind focused, you could overcome your ailment.’

Apion chuckled dryly. ‘I wish that were true, Mansur. However, if you were in this body you would understand the frailty I feel. You said you felt two thousand years old? Well I feel ten thousand years old when I try to walk on this thing!’

Mansur laughed. ‘Perhaps in the years to come you may see things differently, lad. I truly hope you do.’

Apion looked to the old man. ‘I would welcome it, Mansur.’

‘Then that is the first step,’ Mansur grinned. ‘Now, let’s try speaking the Seljuk tongue, you can surprise Maria when we get in!’

Apion nodded. The thought of seeing her made him feel warm inside, momentarily silencing the dark chatter in his mind. Then the light caught the scimitar blade again and he remembered the agente ring. The need for vengeance.

His future was simple: with Mansur’s help, he would learn the basics of the sword, and then he would seek out the ring-bearer with the missing finger.

The truth would out, he vowed to himself.