Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

6. Into the Lion’s Den

Apion led the remainder of his thema through a sun-bleached plain studded with green shrubs. The crunch of boots and the incessant cicada song had grown entrancing. This and the late May afternoon sun had a way of lulling men into a relaxed state.

Some men, Apion thought, looking to Blastares who rode alongside him.

The big tourmarches’ scarred face was twisted in a sweat-bathed scowl. He suppressed a sigh as he crammed the last of his ration — a chunk of cheese wrapped in charred flatbread — into his mouth and chewed vigorously before washing it down with a swig of watered wine. Then he shuffled in his saddle and scratched roughly at his crotch.

Apion sensed the question coming before it was asked.

‘Remind me exactly why, sir, we are trailing across the dust, throwing ourselves at the back of a massive Seljuk army, just to save that arsehole, Fulco? The men long to return to Chaldia.’

Apion did well to stifle a chuckle at Blastares’ obvious agitation. But the big tourmarches’ question was fair.

‘What good can we do?’ Blastares continued, twisting in his saddle, scanning the depleted banda and riders behind them. ‘We have just one hundred and forty six men left. The scouts insist that Afsin has some seven thousand warriors in his army, and Bey Nasir and those that we scattered will surely have retreated to swell his ranks as well.’

‘We won’t be fighting when we get there, Blastares,’ Apion replied calmly. ‘We’ll be looking to save as many of those trapped inside the city as possible.’

‘Including Doux Fulco?’ Blastares cocked an eyebrow with a hint of mischief.

Apion thought of the recalcitrant Doux. Fulco’s brazen and blood-stirring rhetoric on the muster yard was matched only by his vagary for self-preservation on the battlefield.

‘I don’t value Doux Fulco’s life any more highly than I do those of the smiths, tanners, beggars and whores within those walls,’ Apion replied.

At this, Blastares relented. ‘Aye, well we agree on that.’

They rode on in silence until they came to a rise in the plain where a stream cut across the land. A baked-red ridge lay ahead. Apion raised a hand and the column slowed to a halt. ‘Rest your legs and slake your thirst, men,’ he said. Then he slid from his mount and beckoned his trusted three with him. Sha, Procopius and Blastares followed him on foot as he stalked up to the rocky ridge.

They crouched as they reached the lip, and were silent for some time as they took in the sight before them. Below them, the land opened out in a vast, shallow bowl, baked terracotta and gold, shimmering in the heat haze, framed to the south by the magnificent Mount Argaeus, its tip teasingly capped with cool, crisp snow. In the centre of the bowl lay Caesarea. The city walls were, tall, solid and broad, constructed of huge blocks of dark, sombre stone. The battlements were speckled with the glinting iron helmets and speartips of Fulco’s garrison and the vibrant fabrics of the Virgin Mary and the saints were erected above the towers. The domes, columns and aqueduct within the city seemed to huddle together behind those walls. For outside the walls, a horde of Seljuks lay wrapped around the city. It was like a grotesque magnification of the scene around Kryapege only weeks ago.

There was an almost permanent dust cloud above the Seljuk lines that enshrouded the city as ghazi riders galloped to and fro, relaying commands to each of the large tents pitched at regular intervals around the blockade. Some of them cursed at the inhabitants as they rode, others loosed arrows upon the walls like a cat toying with its catch. Then a faint breeze brought with it shouting and the clashing of iron upon iron as the Seljuk infantry were drilled by their commanders. All the while the tap-tapping of hammers rang out from the Seljuk siege works as trebuchets, catapults and great towers were constructed.

‘So the reports were wrong,’ Blastares gawped, breaking the silence at last, ‘seven thousand strong they said — but there are nearly nine thousand, I’d say.’

Apion scoured the siege lines. ‘nine thousand or one hundred thousand — it doesn’t matter; we’re not taking them on, Blastares. We just need to find a way in.’

Sha whistled as he looked along the unbroken siege line. ‘We’ll need stealth or deception.’

Apion cut into an apple with his dagger, lifting a slice and chewing on it. ‘Both,’ he said.

Procopius nodded. ‘Aye, but we need to plan this carefully. This won’t be like sliding into a whore’s bed.’

Apion was momentarily thrown by the turn of phrase. Then his gaze snagged on the wagons that rumbled into the bowl-shaped landscape. There was a thin train of them, skirting round the base of Mount Argaeus and then along the track towards the siege lines. He watched the nearest one; it seemed destined for a compound that formed part of the siege line. The enclosure was basic, presenting palisade stakes to the city and a strapped timber gate to the south, and it was manned by only a handful of akhi. The wagon entered the compound via the timber gate. Inside, forage, game, fodder and barrels of water were unloaded before the driver whipped his horses and set off to the south once more. Interestingly, this wagon and the others approaching had no armed escort.

He looked to see that his trusted three were shrewdly watching the wagons too. Then they looked to one another, their eyes sparkling.

‘We wait until dark then we make our move,’ he said calmly.

***

Apion shivered and pulled his woollen cloak a little tighter as he crouched in the undergrowth, his face and hair blackened with soot and earth. The waning moon betrayed little of the track that lay a few metres before them. This kept the narrow rut they had dug in the path obscured. This was a blessing, the bitter night chill and agonising wait were not.

‘Come on, come on,’ Sha whispered in the darkness beside him. The Malian was rubbing his calves to prevent his muscles from seizing up. Like the rest of them, the tourmarches wore only a tunic, cloak and swordbelt.

Then, at last, a crunching of wheels on scree betrayed an approaching vehicle and snapped Apion from his thoughts. All of them fell silent and utterly still. He gestured to them to remain that way and peered into the blackness. A single wagon. This was perfect — they would spring from the brush and the driver would surely spur his mounts on, taking a wheel over the rut at speed, stalling the vehicle for a few precious moments. ‘On my command,’ Apion hissed, raising one finger as the wagon neared.

But then the clopping of more hooves halted him just as the words tumbled towards his lips.

Ghazis.

The two riders trotted along behind the flanks of the wagon, arrows nocked to their bows, eyes keen and alert. A night escort. So Bey Afsin was shrewder than he had anticipated.

His mind spun. Should they withdraw and come back with more men the following night? By then it could be too late — Caesarea might have fallen. His eyes darted this way and that, until the groan of a straining cartwheel rang out. A front wheel of the vehicle had sunk into the rut and the driver called out in alarm. The two ghazis instantly pulled back, ignoring the driver’s protests, first scouring the tracksides for bandits. Then the gaze of one of them pinned Apion where he crouched. The whites of the man’s eyes bulged. His bow loosed and Apion froze. The arrow smacked into the dirt, an inch from his boot.

As the rider fumbled to nock another bow, Apion realised the decision was made. He leapt up, drew his scimitar and roared his men forward.

***

Mezut rested his elbows on the edge of the squat timber watchtower at the southern edge of the supply enclosure. From his vantage point he could smell the cooking meat and baked bread waft in from all around the yurts and fires forming the blockade. Yet he was stuck here with sack upon sack of grain, raw, bloodied animal corpses and cursed horse fodder. It summarised his feelings about this whole endeavour.

Bey Afsin had promised much to him and the many men he had led away from the east against Alp Arslan’s wishes. They had ridden from the Seljuk lands, hearts full of hubris and in awe of Afsin’s dream to finally conquer Byzantium. Allah seemed to be truly with them at first. But after many months far from home, the men had become disillusioned with their leader, who now seemed to be hungrier for the spoils of victory than the glory of conquest. Indeed, rumours had spread that his tent was piled high with gold and silver stripped from the Byzantine settlements they had raided so far. Worse, whispers were spreading that Alp Arslan had broken from his Fatimid campaign, assembled a vast army and now marched this way, intent on crushing his renegade Bey.

Mezut shook his head at this. ‘Afsin is a fool,’ he realised with a weary heart, ‘and I am a fool also for following him.’ He sighed, then stood a little straighter. Soon, his shift would be over. It would not do to be anything other than diligent whilst looking after the stores. Afsin was notorious for his brutality. Indiscipline amongst his ranks in these last months had been swiftly and ruthlessly ended at the end of a blade or a barbed whip.

At that moment, the crunching of cartwheels on scree and the clopping of hooves rang out. Mezut lifted a torch and peered into the darkness to see the next supply wagon approach with the two night escort riders.

The wagon driver wore a blue felt cap and a woollen robe and was hunched over his reins, no doubt tired of his work. ‘Open the gates,’ the driver called again in an odd Seljuk twang.

He called to the two akhi down below. The pair hauled the palisade gate open, the strapped timber groaning. Mezut descended the ladder as the wagon rolled in and wheeled round to a halt, then the riders followed it. Mezut stepped from the compound and gazed south.

‘There are no more?’ He asked, scanning the darkness outside. Two thuds sounded behind him and a cold wave of fear washed across his heart. He turned just in time to see the driver lurching for him. He saw the dirt-streaked face and the piercing, emerald eyes. Then, with a flash of iron, the flat of a scimitar blade smacked against his temple.

Bright lights filled Mezut’s vision and he toppled to the ground. He watched, helpless, as a group of five figures, blackened and crouched, stole over the southern palisade then flitted across to the walls of Caesarea.

***

Inside the map room atop the thick-walled citadel at the heart of Caesarea, Doux Fulco felt the wine swash in his belly and knew the precious moments of gladness were over. He rubbed his pale, polished bald pate as a dry throbbing began in the centre of his head. This was accompanied by a dull, bloating nausea in his gut. He pulled his chair closer to the cracked oak table, rested his weight on his elbows and sighed, gazing across the plethora of maps and city plans that were spread before him. The diagrams and texts were but a blur now. He lifted the wine jug and, when only the last few droplets trickled into his mouth, he snarled and hurled the terracotta piece to the hearth.

The jug shattered across the dying fire and the crash echoed through the chamber. He looked up to his mercenary captains, his pointed features and stark black brow wrinkling as he eyed them. Only the fire crackling in the hearth broke the silence and a cloying scent of woodsmoke crept from the dying flames.

‘There’s definitely no word of a relief column?’ Fulco rasped.

The biggest of them, a Rus warrior, looked on with a blank expression. ‘We were the relief column,’ he replied in a jagged accent.

‘Watch your tongue, Rus!’ Fulco growled, then dropped his head into his hands once more. Fifteen hundred men made up his tagma. Barely enough to man the southern and eastern walls, where the Seljuk blockade was thickest. There were the nine hundred he had commandeered from the Chaldian ranks — yet all he heard from them was mutterings of discontent at being separated from their strategos. Fulco’s top lip curled at this. Apart from that, the garrison in the city was paltry; three hundred skutatoi and fifty toxotai. At the outset of the siege and despite the truth of his Rus captain’s words, he had sent riders to the north, calling for a relief force from the Colonea Thema. The following dawn, the riders’ heads had thudded onto the flagstoned streets, fired from Seljuk trebuchets. Since the blockade had been put in place, there was little hope of getting word out. They were alone against Afsin’s horde.

He stood up from the table and strode to the open shutters, hands behind his back as he looked across the night skyline, illuminated by torchlight. The broad and sturdy imperial mint towered high, rivalled only by the stilts of the aqueduct and the Monastery of St Basil. Mighty Caesarea, the jewel at the heart of Byzantine Anatolia, would fall. That was almost a certainty. His brief had been to defend the city and prevent its fall, thus he would be seen as a failure. But the cold terror at the prospect of a violent death troubled him far more than the fate of this place or his reputation. His top lip curled as he scanned the ant-like populace scurrying to and fro in the streets below. When it comes to it, the dogs that dwell here can keep the Seljuk blades busy whilst I escape.

Then one figure stepped forward, clearing his throat. ‘If I may interject, sir?’

Fulco’s neck snapped round to glare at the figure. It was Dederic the Norman rider, distinguished from the Rus and his own comrades by his diminutive stature — only shoulder-high to the rest. He was younger than most of them too — only in his twenty-third year. His head was shaved to the scalp at the back and sides with a dark mop of hair on top. As if to compensate for his size, his jaw was broad as was his nose, and his eyes were a piercing gold. Like the rest of the Normans, he wore a mail hauberk, the hood lowered and gathered around his shoulders. ‘Speak,’ Fulco grunted.

‘There is still time to call upon the Strategos of Chaldia, sir. Under cover of night, we at least have a chance of getting a rider or even a runner through the blockade.’

Fulco’s blood heated at the mention of the man. Despite his imperially bestowed authority over the north-eastern themata, the men of the local militias there still spoke only of one name. The Haga. He shook his head, his teeth gritting.

‘There is a weak spot to the north of the city,’ Dederic continued. ‘If the strategos attacked from his side and we sally at the same point, then perhaps we could break through there — at least see the citizens clear of the walls and into the northern hills? The banks of the Halys are thick with fishing vessels that could transport. . ’

‘Enough!’ Fulco bawled. Put my life at risk to save these wretches? He wracked his mind for stirring words to mask his true motive. ‘Not a soul will leave this city. This is a city of God, and God’s people will not flee like rats under the Seljuk glare. Honour is at stake, soldier. Honour!’ Fulco lifted the purse from his belt and shook it. ‘A concept you may not be familiar with. For you are here only to accrue gold, are you not?’

Dederic’s nose wrinkled at this. Fulco willed him to speak, his fingers curling into a fist inside his iron-plated glove.

But it was another voice that spoke.

‘If we stay here then we will die. There is no honour in dying needlessly, though I doubt that is your true motive in any case.’

Fulco spun on the spot, to the arched doorway. A silhouetted figure strode into the room. His blood iced. He clapped his hands together and two Rus leapt forward, pulling their axes from their belts.

But, in a flash of iron, another figure leapt through the doorway and ripped a spathion from his belt, countering the Rus. A flicker of firelight betrayed this second stranger’s coal-dark skin.

‘At ease,’ the first figure spoke, gently pushing the axes and blades down and walking into the light. His battered features and amber hair were soot and earth-blackened. But the murmur of recognition rang around the room instantly.

‘Haga!’

Fulco frowned. ‘Strategos? The blockade is breached?’ A flutter of blessed relief touched his heart — was his life to be spared?

‘No,’ Apion spoke in a stolid tone. Then he strode forward and rested his palms on the table to cast his gaze across the litter of papers. ‘Sha,’ he beckoned his companion, ‘what do you make of the city plan? Are the streets broad enough for a clean evacuation?’

The brief notion of reprieve snatched away, Fulco’s blood bubbled with fury at the man’s ease — flicking through the maps as if his superior was not present. ‘Then you will give me a full report, Strategos. How did you enter the city and what forces do you bring?’

Apion turned to him with a slight frown at the interruption. ‘There are five of us. Your guards opened the gate hatch to let us in.’

Fulco slammed a fist on the table. ‘And the blockade?’

‘It is as tight as ever, Doux, we were lucky to slip through.’ Apion offered him a weary look. ‘It will not be broken by force.’

Fulco rubbed at his temples, wishing he had resisted that last jug of wine whilst eyeing the next. ‘Then what do you bring to us — five extra men to defend the walls?’

‘No, I bring a slim chance for some of the people of this city to slip through the blockade and escape the fate that awaits them.’

Fulco knew he could not air his thoughts on their deserved fate. Instead he decided to call the Haga’s bluff. ‘The Seljuk blockade — the same blockade that cannot be broken?’

‘I said it could not be broken by force, but it can be broken.’ Apion stood back from the table and turned to Dederic. The little Norman straightened up under the Haga’s gaze. ‘And if it is to break, then your captain has already identified the area to the north of the blockade as the most suitable point for the citizens to flee.’

At this, Dederic offered a faint nod of gratitude.

This riled Fulco even more. ‘Your riddles will save nobody, Strategos,’ he scoffed, ‘we need clear plans.’

Apion addressed Fulco and the rest of the room. ‘Think about it, we cannot fight our way through Afsin’s lines, but what if his men are compelled to abandon those lines, albeit temporarily?’ The watching mercenary captains frowned at this.

‘What would bring them to this action?’ Dederic asked.

Apion tapped a finger to his temple. ‘The thing that Afsin and his ranks out there fear more than anything else.’

The Norman’s gaze fell to the flagstoned floor and darted this way and that. ‘Alp Arslan. . ’

Apion nodded. ‘It has been rumoured since this invasion began that the sultan would come to tame his renegade bey. Afsin’s ranks quake at the very thought of the Mountain Lion’s wrath.’

Fulco’s eyes widened as a babble of murmuring broke out among the captains. His chest tightened as he felt his authority diminish like the dying fire in the hearth.

Apion addressed the captains. ‘Afsin will pay dearly for acting against the sultan’s orders, and his men already look over their shoulders in fear.’ Then he turned to Fulco. ‘So if we play on that fear, then maybe, just maybe, the chance to escape this walled grave will present itself.’

The image of the city as a tomb chilled Fulco to his core. He held the strategos’ gaze with a firm and cold glare. ‘Your plan will see the ranks to safety also?’ he asked meekly, gulping, his eyes darting to those watching.

Apion’s face remained stony. ‘Every soldier will have a role to play in seeing the citizens to safety. But I will not lie to you — your blades will taste blood tonight and many of you will not see tomorrow.’

Fulco felt his gut curdle at this. Suddenly the strategos’ plan seemed significantly less agreeable. ‘Bey Afsin will surely not fall for any such ruse,’ he said, trying to disguise the tremor in his voice.

Apion nodded at this. ‘But if we do not try, then every one of us will die.’

‘Aye,’ Fulco’s face streamed with a cold sweat, his gaze growing distant.

‘Give the word, sir,’ Apion said. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper; ‘Seize this chance and you might live to fight another day.’

Fulco looked into his eyes in silence, then nodded faintly.

The tourmarches, Sha, saw this and left the room, his footsteps pattering up to the roof of the citadel.

‘Where do we start?’ Fulco asked.

Apion pointed through the shutters.

Fulco turned to see a single, fiery arrow arc into the sky from the citadel rooftop and then drop silently. His skin crawled. To the south, far beyond the Seljuk blockade, the lower slopes of Mount Argaeus gradually illuminated with the glow of first a handful, then hundreds of torches.

He spun back to Apion, sensing control spiralling from his grasp. ‘What have you done?’

***

Blastares dropped his torch as the flame died then stood back, panting. The lower slopes of the great mountain were speckled with some five hundred resin-soaked stakes, his men scurrying to light the remaining few. ‘That’s it,’ he barked, ‘get ‘em all ablaze!’

Then Procopius hobbled past, marshalling his men likewise, his craggy features black with soot. ‘Watch you don’t set yourself alight, you old bastard!’ he cackled.

For once, Procopius didn’t have time for a riposte.

‘It’s working — look!’ the sharp-featured Komes Peleus cried out.

Blastares spun to peer at the band of orange torchlight wrapped around the city, then saw that it was peeling away like a layer of skin. The faint moan of Seljuk war horns carried on the night breeze as Afsin’s men hurried to form a line, facing south.

‘Ha! Let’s hear it for Blastares’ army!’ he barked, patting one stake as if in congratulation. Then he nodded to the lip of the vast bowl that encircled Caesarea. ‘Now form up — we have a quick march ahead of us, to the north to help with the evacuation.’

The men scurried into formation. All but Komes Stypiotes, whose face had paled, his mouth agape, gazing south.

‘Komes?’ Blastares frowned, then turned away from the city to follow Stypiotes’ gaze. There, where there had previously been pure, unbroken darkness. Another orange glow emerged around the southern base of Mount Argaeus.

More torches. Hundreds of them, spilling into view. Then thousands, like some mocking reflection of the illusion they had set up right here. But these torches bobbed and flickered as they grew closer, and they came with the rumble of hooves and boots. Then a Seljuk war horn moaned.

Blastares’ skin prickled as he discerned the first of the banners in this approaching army. The golden bow emblem was unmistakable.

Alp Arslan had arrived to tame his bey.

***

Apion feared he had made a terrible mistake. He was hoarse from barking and marshalling the citizens towards the northern gate. Every time he looked down a street or alley there were more and more citizens pouring from the tenements, clutching their possessions, stumbling and falling before others. But they were not moving fast enough, many clustering around the skutatoi, begging for information, demanding to know why they had been flushed from their homes in the dead of night. Added to this, many of Fulco’s Norman riders were breaking from their positions to ride clear of the city with the citizens, then he saw some of the Rus axemen doing likewise, saving their own necks. One even swung his axe at a Chaldian skutatos who tried to stop him. Only a handful of Fulco’s riders remained where Apion had placed them — a group of thirty or so Norman riders led by Dederic, who had hopped from his saddle to help usher a family from the alleys and towards safety. By his reckoning they had a few short hours at best before Afsin would uncover the ruse, wrap his forces around the walls once more and surely ensnare and slay any Byzantines caught in the open ground.

‘Make haste — you will be safe to the north,’ he said as he helped one woman from her knees and bundled her towards the gate. Peering through the gateway, he was heartened to see the first streams of evacuees reaching the northern hills. From there it would be a short journey to the banks of the River Halys. If his riders had carried out their job, then the local fishing fleets and trade vessels would be clustered there.

But then panicked cries rang out from the south of the city.

‘The Seljuks have breached the walls!’

He looked down the broad street to see fighting on the southern battlements. Skutatoi were tumbling into the streets below, impaled on akhi spears and peppered with arrows. Surely Bey Afsin has not uncovered our ruse already? Then he heard a thunderous cry spill around the walls from outside the city;

Alp Ars-lan! Allahu Akbar!

No! He stumbled back, eyes wide, as ladders clattered into place all along the battlements. In every direction he looked akhi spilled onto the walls and then swamped and cut down the skutatoi there.

The Mountain Lion had come after all.

From the southern, eastern and western walls, the first parties of akhi descended the stairs then spilled into the streets, slicing through the terrified citizens in their path. Within moments, the granary and a sweeping row of tenements were ablaze and the streets sparkled with spilled blood. Panicked horses bolted from the nearby stables, adding to the chaos. Then he spun to the sound of crashing stone from the east of the city. A great cry rang out of the Monastery of St Basil, and akhi spilled from its doors, carrying shattered chunks of marble from the saint’s tomb like trophies. At the same time, the southern gates crashed open, shattered by an iron-tipped ram. A sea of ghazis spilled into the streets and headed straight for the citadel. The stronghold was barely manned and it fell in a heartbeat.

The walls were gone and Caesarea was on the brink.

Apion shepherded an elderly man carrying two babies to the north gate, denying the sense of futility in his heart. Then looked up to the north walls — the last high ground still in Byzantine hands. There he saw Doux Fulco, framed by the waning moon. He was fleeing from the advancing akhi, making his way towards the nearest stairs, barging the few hundred Chaldian skutatoi who still fought out of the way. Then the doux stumbled in his haste, pitching headlong from the battlements. His cry was as shrill as a vulture’s, and Apion saw the man’s eyes bulging, his arms flailing. Finally, the cry was cut short; his skull shattered against the flagstones, a soup of blood and grey matter bursting across the street, his body crumpling on top of it. At the last, it was Fulco’s craven nature and not a Seljuk blade that killed him.

But Apion spared only a heartbeat of thought for the man’s fate. For he realised he had sent the citizens out onto the open plain where thousands of Seljuk blades would now be converging on them. The mocking voice from behind the dark door rasped in a dry laughter as he looked to the open northern gate. Outside, the flood of women, elderly, children and babies screamed as, from either side, a horde of ghazi riders closed in on them, arrows nocked to bows. The cowering citizens halted their flight and the riders waited on the order to fire.

‘Sir!’ Sha emerged from the chaos and backed up to him, his eyes bulging. The pair lifted their blades and turned; every direction offered only blazing fires, pockets of bloodied and cowering citizens and retreating skutatoi. Closing in on them was a wall of Seljuk spearmen. They were spilling through the gates, filling the streets, swarming over the walls. ‘Is this the end?’ the Malian panted.

Apion could offer him no answer.

Then a Seljuk war horn sounded three times. Gradually, the war cries of the akhi tumbled into silence. They slowed their advance and then halted, forming a spearwall in an arc around the last clutches of Byzantine defenders before disarming them. The skutatoi atop the northern gatehouse finally laid down their weapons as they saw that defeat was inevitable. A line of Seljuk archers hurried to kick the discarded weapons away, before nocking arrows to their bows and herding the Byzantine soldiers from the walls.

Apion looked all around, seeing only bloodstained Seljuk warriors grimacing back at him. Then, three riders trotted in through the northern gate and the noise seemed to fall away.

A pair of ironclad ghulam riders carried banners bearing a golden bow emblem. They flanked the broad-shouldered central rider, saddled upon a sturdy dappled steppe pony. He wore a gilded conical helmet with an ornate nose-guard and an iron plated vest that hung to his knees. He carried a scimitar and a finely crafted composite bow. His skin was sallow, his expression stony and gaunt and his nose long and narrow. His dark brown eyes were sharp like a hawk’s. He sported a thick and long moustache, the ends looping round the back of his neck where they were tied together. A pair of akhi hurried to surround Apion and Sha, pushing spearpoints into the flesh of their necks as this rider approached to within a few feet.

Apion threw down his scimitar and Sha followed suit.

‘Have I finally captured the legend of the Byzantine borderlands?’ Alp Arslan spoke stonily. ‘I know it is you,’ the sultan eyed him, examining his blackened, unarmoured form then gazing into his eyes. ‘We have clashed many times, Haga. All I have seen of you behind the iron veil you wear on the battlefield is those eyes and. . ’ he dismounted and strode forward, lifting the sleeve of Apion’s woollen robe, revealing the red ink stigma. ‘Aye, Haga, it is you,’ he nodded.

Apion stared at the sultan, expressionless. ‘Do your bidding, spill our blood. But do not seek glory in the slaughter, for there is none to be found.’

‘Years ago, Haga, I longed to take your head,’ Alp Arslan raised a clenched fist, his eyes sparkling, ‘dreamt of a moment like this.’ He lowered his fist and shook his head. ‘But now that the moment is upon me, I feel no wish to spill Byzantine blood. It will happen — but not today. I have seen enough Fatimid blood in these last months to sicken myself of all things crimson.’ He nodded to the bloody soup staining the battlements and the bodies of slain citizens strewn through the streets. ‘But, fifteen thousand souls march with me. Food and fodder are paramount, and so your fine city had to be taken. You know as well as I that at times some bloodshed cannot be avoided. But it is over now.’ At this, he barked to the ghazis outside the gate. Mercifully, they lowered their bows. Gradually, and in disbelief at first, the cowering citizens there stood once more, then they wasted no time in fleeing northwards. The sultan then clapped his hands and issued orders to the swell of akhi, despatching them to the cisterns with orders to put out the flames that threatened to consume parts of the city.

He looked back to Apion. ‘I came here to settle a dispute.’ He clicked his fingers. A clutch of akhi led forward a bedraggled form who wore only a torn robe, his grey hair loose and matted in gore like his beard. Bey Afsin’s rebellion was over. Beside him was Nasir, shackled, one side of his face lined with the fresh and angry welt of melted flesh.

‘That it spilled into Byzantine lands was a regrettable occurrence,’ the sultan continued, snapping Apion’s gaze away from his old foe, ‘and one I could not allow to burgeon any further.’ He turned to Bey Afsin. ‘Why did you turn from me, my once most loyal Bey?’ Afsin could not meet the sultan’s gaze.

Then Alp Arslan turned to Nasir. Nasir looked his leader in the eye. ‘And you, noble Nasir. I fear you are an even greater loss to my ranks. My plan was to have you elevated to my side. At the helm of the finest riders of my army, controlling a ghulam wing. Yet you throw your loyalty behind Bey Afsin’s hot-headed scheme and charge to the west like a blinded bull?’ His eyes hung on the melted flesh dominating one side of Nasir’s face. ‘The scars you bear will surely serve to remind you of your folly. But for how long?’

At this, a pair of akhi stepped forward and drew their scimitars, resting the curved blades on Afsin and Nasir’s necks, looking to their sultan.

Apion and Nasir shared a lasting, stony gaze.

‘In my time I have had men put to excruciating torture,’ Alp Arslan continued, twisting to address the watching thousands. ‘There was one ambitious soul who thought the sultanate would be better steered by his hand and so he set his mind to plotting my assassination. He had plenty of time to rethink his ambitions when I had him staked onto the hot sand, his eyes dashed from his skull and ants set loose upon the bleeding sockets. It took him a day to die and by then, the ants had burrowed through and infested every space inside his head.’

At this, the hordes looking on cheered in bloodlust and anticipation. Afsin squirmed in the grip of the akhi. Nasir did not flinch.

Then Alp Arslan turned to the pair. ‘Your acts were criminal,’ he paused and all around murmured in expectation, ‘but they were not treasonous, and your motivation is noble. Patience is all that separates us,’ he looked to both of them in turn, then boomed so all could hear; ‘We all seek glory for Allah. We all seek the conquest of Byzantium and the peace that will come after that.’ The sultan lifted his arms up, palms outwards. ‘So let it be known here and now that you will not be put to torture or death. Instead you will be placed back in my ranks and given the opportunity to demonstrate your loyalty. For we are stronger together. That this mighty Byzantine city has capitulated is but a precursor of what could be. First, you will ride south with me and put an end to the ambitions of the proud, misguided Fatimids. Then, when the time is right, we will return to this land, and deliver glory to Allah together!’

The thick swathes of Alp Arslan’s horde packing the battlements and the city streets erupted in a colossal roar. Nasir did not blink as the blade was taken away from his neck. His gaze remained on Apion.

Then the sultan too looked to Apion. ‘Does this not serve to demonstrate the futility of Byzantium’s resistance? While your forces grow weaker every day, my armies simply grow.’

Apion stared back in silence.

‘In these past years I have heard much of the Haga’s wit — sharper even than his blade, apparently. Yet I find you reluctant to utter but a word?’

Apion seared a glare at Alp Arslan. ‘I find that conversation held at spearpoint tends to be rather one-sided.’

Alp Arslan frowned. Then the sultan threw his head back and let loose a lungful of laughter that rang into the night. With that, he raised a hand to the spearmen behind Apion, who lowered their weapons.

‘Come then, Haga. Let us talk as simple men. Weaponless and alone.’

***

Dawn was approaching and the newly kindled fire cast the map room in an orange glow. Apion gazed into the flames. He wore a fresh, soft woollen robe. He had washed the worst of the grime from his face and beard, and wore his damp hair knotted atop his head. It was as if the events of the evening had been some kind of nightmare.

But then he looked up; where Doux Fulco had been sitting only hours ago, Sultan Alp Arslan now sat, supping the remains of the jug of wine left behind by the previous incumbent. On the table between them, a chequered shatranj board had been set up. The pieces had not yet been moved.

The sultan had shed his armour and now wore only a yalma, a green silk close-fitting robe trimmed with gold embroidery. His dark locks hung down his back, and his flowing moustache was tied back there too. Apart from the finery of his garment, the sultan looked very much like the many Seljuk traders and farmers Apion had encountered in his time. He did not look particularly like Mansur, yet, looking at the sultan across the shatranj board, Apion could not help but think of his old guardian; the man whose sword he carried to this day; a man whose memory he loved and loathed.

The sultan was flanked by two standing figures. One was a towering rock of a man named Kilic, the sultan’s bodyguard. Kilic wore a permanent scowl on his flat-boned face, and was dressed only in a sleeveless linen tunic that displayed his bulging, scarred arms. The other was Nizam, a small, stout, grey-bearded vizier wearing a blue silk cap. He had seen this pair watching in the distance when his and Alp Arslan’s armies had clashed in the past, and Apion guessed that they were to the sultan what Sha, Blastares and Procopius were to him. Just then, a slave hurried in to place a platter of bread and a pot of honey upon the table along with a fresh jug of wine. At this, Alp Arslan nodded to the two behind him.

‘Leave us, please.’

Nizam bowed and Kilic grunted, his eyes never leaving Apion as they departed.

‘Eat and drink, Strategos. There is no victory, moral or otherwise, in starving yourself after a battle.’ The sultan went at the bread and honey before him like a man who had not seen food in days. Then he washed it down with a mouthful of wine before reaching out to tap the board. ‘When I was a boy, I used to play this game with my Uncle Tugrul. You remember the Falcon?’ he asked, pushing a central pawn forward, looking up with a stony gaze.

Apion let the question hang in the air. He had never spoken with the previous sultan, but they had clashed in battle, over twelve years ago. He had led his men in a ferocious counter-charge that had broken Tugrul’s great horde and shattered the Falcon’s reputation terminally. Alp Arslan knew all of this and knew it well. Indeed, it had been the driving force for his subsequent battering of the Byzantine borderlands in the first few years afterwards. Back then, rumour had been rife that Alp Arslan lived only to crush the Byzantine armies and to see Apion’s head on a spike. Mercy had seldom marched with the Mountain Lion. He eyed the sultan’s blade, resting by the hearth, and wondered what had changed in the intervening years; he tore a piece of bread, dipped it in the honey and then chewed. Instantly it invigorated him and soothed his knotted stomach. He reached over to move one of his own pawns forward, opening a path to develop his war elephant. ‘I remember the Falcon. At least, I knew of the warrior whose hordes I faced in battle, but I did not know the man behind the armour.’

The sultan’s stony gaze faltered a little, growing distant. ‘They were one and the same, Strategos. Some men can never truly shed their armour. I realised this when I was very young. I used to be known as Muhammud back then,’ he said. ‘I was a happy boy. Yet I always longed to emulate the Falcon’s greatness. I coveted a battle name as if it would make me a man.’ The sultan mused over his next move, then plucked a knight and moved it ahead of the pawn line. ‘Tugrul once told me that many years ago, when my people dwelt upon the open steppe, they would go to the foot of Mount Otuken. The drums would rumble like thunder and the tribesmen would watch on as the khagan approached, adorned with yak tails and bright pennants and his skin laced with paint. Then he would bestow the er ati upon the bravest of warriors. That was how Tugrul gained his battle name. That was how the Falcon first spread his wings. From the moment Tugrul told me this, he put an elusive goal before me. For I could never earn my battle name in such a fashion. Our people left the steppe long ago and now Mount Otuken lies windswept and deserted, its glory reserved for the ghosts of the past alone.’ The sultan’s lips tightened. ‘He knew the fire this would stoke within me.’

Apion eyed the sultan. He had dealt with many Seljuk emirs and beys in his time. Some wise, some haughty, some devious, some blunt. This man, the sultan who ruled above them all, was not what he had expected. ‘In these last years, your reputation has far outshone the Falcon’s,’ he said tersely, moving another pawn out to limit the knight’s movement, ‘and the name Alp Arslan is known across my empire and yours.’

The sultan nodded, moving a pawn forward to bring his vizier into play. ‘I first heard that name when I was saddled on my mount, soaked with blood. We had just subdued the last of the rebel Daylamid spearmen, high in the rugged mountains of Persia. A thousand men around me lauded the slaughter I had led, a thousand more lifeless faces gazed up at me from the blood-sodden earth. Alp Arslan! they chanted all around me. As a boy, I had expected to feel pride at that moment, but when it came, I felt only emptiness.’ The fire dimmed a little more as the sultan swirled his wine cup, his hawk-like eyes peering into the past. ‘The glory of Mount Otuken will forever evade me, but the cursed fire Tugrul stoked within me will never die. Sometimes I find myself pining for those days when I used to be known simply as Muhammud.’

The sultan’s words were like an echo of Apion’s thoughts. ‘Any moniker earned by the spilling of a man’s blood is a curse rather than a boon. Indeed, every time they chant Haga after a battle, I find myself awakening as if from some awful dream, surrounded by death. Yet I find myself drawn back to that numb netherworld, time and again.’ He lifted his war elephant out to counter the threat of the sultan’s vizier piece. ‘I detest my battle name,’ he leaned back in his chair with a dry, mirthless laugh, one finger absently tracing the white band of skin on his wrist, ‘yet when I think back to the days when I was known simply as Apion, I have no wish to return there.’

The sultan lifted his war elephant and sent it across almost to the edge of the board, lining up to strike Apion’s pawn line. ‘A riotous mixture of my ambitions and my uncle’s ambitions for me spawned the creature I have become. I have watched my family tear at each other, murdering and plotting against one another in their lust for power. Now I find myself as sultan, does that make me at once the best and the worst of them? Regardless, it is what I am. The boy Muhammud is gone, and my destiny is set in stone. There will be many more bloody battlefields.’ Alp Arslan looked into the crackling flames for a moment. Then he leaned forward, his expression earnest. ‘I have faced curs, cowards, mindless butchers and men who would slaughter their children for a purse of gold. But I have faced few like you, Haga; your tenacity is unparalleled. After twelve years, still you resist my armies. What happened to you to make you this way?’

Apion’s gaze drifted as the question hung in the air. Then he reached down to lift Mansur’s bloodied shatranj piece from his purse, his eyes examining its worn surface. Then he took up an empty cup, filled it with wine and took a deep gulp. A long silence passed, broken only by the spitting of the fire. Then he looked the sultan in the eye and, without thinking, he slipped into the Seljuk tongue; ‘Everyone I have ever loved has been slain.’ His words echoed around the map room as he lifted a pawn out to block the sultan’s chariot and present a lure to the nearby knight.

Alp Arslan’s eyes narrowed and he replied in his native tongue; ‘Then this is the source of your hatred of my people?’

Apion shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘Of those lost to me, there were my Byzantine birth parents, slain by Seljuk scimitars. Then there were my Seljuk guardians, butchered by Byzantine spathions. So, no, I do not hate your people, Sultan. I judge men on their merits and not their origins. Quite simply, I hate what this land has become.’

‘There will always be a borderland, Strategos,’ the sultan said as lifted his vizier forward. ‘Were people not suffering here, then they certainly would be, elsewhere.’

‘Perhaps. But now you have your answer. I can never relent until I am cut down, or until conflict is driven from this land.’

Alp Arslan supped his wine as if considering his next words carefully. ‘Your empire is putrefying at its heart. Your emperor is blinkered and your armies are in decay. Your empire fights the same battle as mine. But we fight the winning battle, Strategos. You will lose this struggle. You must know this.’

Apion felt the steel wrap around his heart once more. ‘I know little of assured futures, Sultan.’ He thought over the crone’s words. I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The mighty Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud. ‘Indeed, I have been told that destiny is for the strongest to define.’

Alp Arslan held his gaze. A log snapped in the hearth. ‘Men fight on either side of this conflict, and that is all we are. Men. Beating hearts, red blood and sharpened steel. I ask you this as a man, and I will not repeat the offer.’ The sultan’s eyes sparkled. ‘You seek an end to the war, Strategos. Perhaps you could find a swifter end to it. . by my side.’

Apion’s breath stilled. He held the sultan’s gaze. He thought of the many valourous and the many more bloody deeds committed by those who fought under the imperial banner. The Seljuk armies had shown him a similar mix of virtue and vice in his time. It seemed that an age had passed before he replied. ‘There is more to it than that, Sultan. Some men are little more than blood, bone and blade. But others have something that sets them apart. A touch of charm in their blood, coursing through their hearts. A light that will never dim. I have little doubt that you are one such,’ he prodded a finger into the table top gently, ‘but there are a precious few more who fight for the empire’s cause. Now that all else has been taken from me, my purpose is to fight for those few. And if I die for them and the cause is lost, then I know at least I have stayed true to my heart.’

Alp Arslan smiled wearily at this, leaning back from Apion and then standing as the first rays of dawn spilled through the map room. ‘So be it, Haga. Tonight, no more blood will be spilled. Tomorrow, you, your men and the rest of your people are free to leave this city under amnesty. You will travel safely to your farms and barracks. My men and I will remain here until the next moon. Then we will return to Seljuk territory.’ Then his expression darkened. ‘But know this; the next time we meet, there will be no amnesty. The actions of Bey Afsin illustrate the will of my people.’ He clasped a hand over his heart. ‘The conquest of Byzantium is coming, and I will not relent.’

‘Likewise, you must know I will never yield.’ Apion tapped the shatranj board. ‘I hope that one day we will finish this game. But if not, then we will make our final moves on the battlefield.’

Alp Arslan nodded wistfully, then turned to leave.

Apion was alone. The fire crackled and spat as it died to nothing.