Island in the Storm

21. Home

The midday sun blazed over the city of Mosul. Maria sat in the shade of a date palm by the water font in the walled courtyard of her modest villa, coaxing a sand martin down from the fronds overhead. The bird issued an endless chorus of plaintive song as it weighed up the offer, its tiny head cocking this way and that in judgement. She stood, gently humming the tune her father had once used to soothe her to sleep. The lilting tune harmonised with the bird’s. At this, the creature fell silent, then hopped onto her palm. She sprinkled a dash of sesame seeds on the heel of her hand and watched the bird feast happily. It was then that her gaze fell upon the font. She saw her reflection in the water’s surface and — not for the first time in these last months — wondered at the sight. The grey strands were all but gone. The weary lines around her eyes were absent. The gauntness that had come with the growth was but a memory, replaced by a chubby roundness of her cheeks, reminiscent of her lost youth. She moved her free hand down to her abdomen. The growth itself had shrunk to the size of a walnut.

‘You gave me a gift, old woman,’ she whispered into the ether. ‘A gift of life. Yet I must enjoy it alone?’ she said as the sand martin finished its feast and fluttered back up into the palm fronds. Nasir was but a memory. Taylan would not be returning home — she knew this now. This villa he provided for her was all she had when the physician had allowed her to leave the hospital. Empty, silent, still.

She thought again of her childhood, before war had riven her life and those of so many others. She thought of the young Byzantine boy her father had brought home to the farm, and the lazy days they had spent together in the sun-baked valleys by the River Piksidis. What became of those days, Apion? She mouthed.

Just then, the scraping of a boot sounded behind her. She turned, realising she was not alone. In the archway leading inside the villa, a tall figure stood. With the sun at his back, she could make out only his battered iron helm and the three eagle fathers jutting from the crown. His broad shoulders were draped in a crimson cloak. In the shade that was his face, she thought for just a moment that she caught sight of his eyes — like two glittering green gemstones. She swung away and grappled the edge of the font, her breath coming in short gasps.

He moved up behind her, placing the hand of a heavily bandaged arm on her shoulder. She looked down in the water’s surface to see her reflection and, by her shoulder, the features of another. Sun-burnished and scarred skin, a battered nose, an iron-grey beard. Age and war had ravaged him. But the boy from her youth shone through in those emerald eyes. At once she was overcome with fear that if she looked away or disturbed the water’s surface, the image might vanish. But a deep voice broke the spell;

‘Maria, I. . let me look in your eyes.’

She turned to him, slowly, then rested a hand on the chest of his battered klibanion and looked up at his troubled features. ‘You thought me dead for many years. For that I have felt shame, almost every day.’

‘It was surely for the best that I did not know you were alive. In the years we have been apart, I have not been the kind of man any woman would want to be around.’ His eyes reddened as he said this. ‘But I must first speak of another,’ he said, his shoulders sagging as he unstrapped a parcel of cloak and armour from his shoulder. ‘Taylan, he — ’

‘Taylan is dead,’ Maria finished for him flatly. I knew this the moment he rode from here to join the sultan’s army. I knew this despite word coming back that the Seljuk armies won a great victory. I knew this before his riders came to confirm it.

Apion sighed. ‘Know that at the last, he knew the answer did not lie in striking me down. It was the jealous eye and the honed blade of a rival bey that felled him in the end. I tried to save him. . I. . ’

A long silence passed. Maria and Apion gazed upon one another. Tears spilled down Maria’s cheeks first, and then, like rain touching a desert creek for the first time in years, Apion followed suit.

When they embraced, they lost themselves in a fit of sobbing, holding each other tight, sharing the pain of all that had gone before, since those long, lost days on the farm. They sunk to their knees by the font. The sobbing ebbed away and eventually ended. But there they remained, holding each other, at peace for those blessed few moments.

***

The last days of late summer drifted by, with Apion and Maria rarely leaving the villa. She tended to his wounded arm, seeing that the bone was not healing and so putting it in a fresh wooden splint. They spent almost every day of autumn in the courtyard, talking endlessly, bringing their shared days at Mansur’s farm back to life. At nights they simply lay together, Apion sheltering Maria, his good arm around her waist and his gaze marvelling at the nape of her neck. As the weeks went by, he found the feeling returning to his arm. Now he could clasp objects in his hand and hold them for a few moments before the muscles would spasm and he would drop them again. But at least it allowed him to hold Maria properly. It was a dreamlike existence and it was only when they entered the garden one morning to find a light frost on the tiles and stones that they realised it was winter. In this cold, Apion noticed how his old wounds and scars ached — something he had never noticed in his youth. On these winter nights, He and Maria huddled together by the hearth, logs spitting and crackling as they fought to fend off the fierce night chill. Some weeks later, Apion removed his arm splint. The bone was healed. He flexed and unflexed his fingers in delight, the spasm did not come. But still he frowned, seeing how withered the limb was.

‘I doubt I’ll be able to lift a fork with this, let alone a shield,’ he chuckled. He saw Maria’s face fall at the words. He looked over her shoulder and saw the neat pile where he had laid down his armour and helm upon arriving here. It had gathered a thick layer of dust. ‘But I have no wish to hold sword nor shield,’ he said, fixing her with an earnest gaze.

‘Then hold me, Apion,’ she whispered, drawing the chord of her robe and letting it fall to the ground. Her beauty was only magnified by the dancing firelight, accentuating every curve. He tore off his tunic and seized her, pressing his lips to hers, feeling her fire-warmed bare skin against his. That night, the fire had long dulled to ashes before they fell back from their lovemaking.

The seasons seemed to pass like days, and when they were awoken one morning by a dawn chorus, Apion realised spring was upon them already. He rose, taking care not to disturb Maria from her slumber. He threw on his tunic and took up a handful of blueberries from the table in the hearth room. The tart berries reinvigorated his senses and shook the sleep from his mind. He strolled out into the garden courtyard, scooped water from the font and slung it across his face and hair, knotting his locks back in a rough loop as he did so. He looked up and around the brightening sky and heard the first hustle and bustle of the streets outside, beyond the garden’s walls. Market day, he realised, hearing lowing oxen and the grinding of cart wheels on the street. The traders and citizens were already about their business after the winter lull. In these last months he had left the villa only to fetch food. That was all they needed. It had seemed that this life could last forever. Just then, a lilting song sailed through the air. The morning call to prayer. Apion enjoyed it for its melody — as he had done most days. He wondered at the strength of those who had managed to hold onto their faith throughout all that had happened. The Byzantines and the Seljuks. Two peoples, two faiths, one god. For so many years he had been unable to think of God with anything but spite. Today, he felt no urge to scowl or scorn. He looked up and scanned the sapphire sky above the minarets, lost in thought. ‘Your lessons are harsh indeed,’ he whispered, ‘but what can we ever become, lest we learn from them?’

It was then that he heard another noise from outside; the crunch-crunch of military boots and the rustle of iron vests. The noise was like a blotchy cloud passing over the morning sun. It brought back memories of his oath to Romanus. And what of Sha and my comrades? He frowned, realising he had already been away longer than anticipated.

‘You want to go back, don’t you?’ he heard her words from the doorway as if they were his own thoughts.

He did not turn to look at her, wishing he could spirit away the truth.

‘Do not be afraid to say it, Apion,’ she said, stepping out into the sunshine to rest a hand on his still-weak arm. ‘Indeed, in these last months with you, I have often thought that perhaps we should both return to where it all began — to my father’s farm?’

His ears pricked up at this. ‘You would come with me?’ he held her by the shoulders.

‘We have talked of the old place so much, Apion. It seems only proper that we should go there,’ she smiled.

Joy surged around his veins at the notion. To return to Chaldia, to the farm in the Piksidis valleys? There they could make a home, enjoy the peace that was to come from Romanus’ and Alp Arslan’s agreement. There they could honour the many lost and fallen by seeing out their years in tranquillity. A peaceable life in the borderlands, with Maria at his side. Are these not the two things I have dreamt of?

She returned his broad grin with one even more infectious. They embraced and he inhaled her scent — sweetness mixed with the warmth of sleep. Once again, her mere presence took away his aches and pains. He stroked her hair as they remained locked together. But he noticed that there was something different about her. Her dark, sleek locks had more grey hair than in previous weeks — far more.

He stood back, not too concerned about time’s efforts to annoy him. ‘Come then,’ he beckoned to the shade of the arched door leading into the villa, ‘let us go inside and see what we might need for such a journey.’ He led her by the hand, but a yelp halted him in his tracks and her hand fell away from his.

He swung round. Maria had fallen to one knee, a hand pressed to her belly and her face contorted in pain. ‘Maria?’ he gasped, crouching by her and cupping an arm round her shoulder.

The pain drained from her face and she waved him away. A look of realisation seemed to come over her then, followed by a sudden soberness. She stood tall once again, disguising another wince, before summoning her smile back. ‘Come on then, let us plan our journey home.’

***

On their last morning in Mosul, Apion ventured out into the city. He was gone for some time and when he returned, Maria seemed concerned.

‘I was worried something had happened,’ she said as the dying notes of the call to prayer floated across the city. ‘Where were you?’

‘Visiting someone I used to know,’ was all he said. He pulled her close and kissed her forehead, dispersing the frown. ‘Now let us go home.’

The journey was relaxed, their ponies travelling just ten or twelve miles per day at a gentle trot along the dusty tracks of Persia and then northern Syria. This gentle pace had been the plan at first, but then it had become a necessity when Maria’s stomach pains became ever more regular. Just over a week into their journey, the pains became so fierce that Maria was unable to sit upright in her saddle, and so they were forced to stay at an inn for three days.

‘Ride for Mosul,’ Apion instructed the skelf-like young Seljuk rider he had met at the inn, dropping three silver dirhams into his palm. ‘Find the physician at the city hospital. Tell him that Lady Maria needs the chalky mixture once more. Ride fast and I will pay you this much again on your return.’

The boy rider nodded and sped off to mount his pony then kick her into a gallop to the south. Apion watched the lad go, then turned back to the inn — a simple timber building, one amongst a small collection that had sprung up around this Seljuk waystation on the north road. He came back to the room inside where they were staying, and heard Maria’s whimpering. Why didn’t you tell me? he mouthed, closing his eyes and halting, trying to stave off the tears there before he rounded the doorway and came into sight. The growth in her belly had burgeoned in these last few days. From nothing, it seemed, it was now the size of an apple. He steadied himself and entered the room, sat by her side and helped her to drink chill water from a skin.

When the rider returned with the powder for making the healing paste, it seemed to swiftly rid her of her pains, but the growth did not subside. Still, she could ride again, and that was something. So they set off once more at an ever more gentle pace. Whenever Apion suggested stopping early, finding a place to stay so she could rest, Maria would dismiss the idea out of hand. ‘You fuss like an old hen, Apion. We set out to go home, so let us go home.’

It was late summer, nearly a year after the Battle of Manzikert, when Apion and Maria crossed into Byzantine territory. They had travelled across the Seljuk border regions, through the no-man’s land of blessedly shaded mountain passes, then on into the Byzantine Thema of Colonea. The burnt-gold hillsides of this region were devoid of thematic dwellers, it seemed, just the odd distant plume of some trade wagons breaking the hazy skyline, and the occasional deserted farmhouse. But no sign of strife, Apion realised. In his convalescence and this journey with Maria he had been utterly cut off from his military life and had no inkling of what had occurred in this last year. He flexed and unflexed his arm. The break had healed well and the muscle had returned. He had taken to lifting gradually larger burdens over and over at the end of his morning runs, and now the weaker arm was once more in balance with the other. Fit for holding and swinging a sword? he thought, looking to the parcel of his arms and armour — unworn for over a year — tied to the saddle of his pony. Then he glanced to Maria by his side. Her skin was slick with sweat and her hair seemed straw-like as well as grey. She was ill, regardless of the healing powers of the paste. And has she not seen enough of those she loves falling to the sword? But when he remembered his promise to Emperor Romanus again — I will be by your side as soon as my wounds are healed — he realised a choice lay before him. He could not merely return to the farm with Maria and be happy. For then he would be breaking his oath to the emperor. But by upholding this oath, he would be spiting Maria, throwing salt in all the lesions in her heart.

‘Ach,’ he muttered, swiping a hand through the air before him, ‘let the journey provide the answers!’

They travelled north and west just a few miles a day, allowing Maria plenty of time to eat the healing paste and to rest well. It was November when they finally crossed into Chaldia, and that month was drawing to a close when they reached its heartlands and arrived at the banks of the Piksidis. Just a few miles downriver lay Mansur’s farm and all the memories they both shared. The terracotta and gold shrub-speckled hillsides sparkled in the morning sunlight, dusted with a light frost. The waters of the river babbled like an old friend, welcoming them. He turned to Maria, unable to fend off the warm smile that their surroundings conjured.

‘By nightfall we will be there-’ he stopped, his face falling. Her eyes were nearly closed, her lips tinged with blue, her head lolling. ‘Maria!’ he cried, leaping from the saddle of his pony and scooping her from hers, then laying her down by the reeds at the river bank. He hurried to dig out the hemp sack of white powder. Then, with fumbling hands, he crouched in the shallows to fill his water skin before tipping a splash of it into an empty bowl and adding some of the powder. He stirred the mixture with a spoon, then cradled Maria’s head, resting it upon his legs and bringing the spoon to her lips.

‘If you love me,’ she croaked, summoning just a hint of mischief to her voice, ‘then you’ll throw that damned paste in the river.’

‘But Maria, you have to — ’

‘Just hold me, Apion,’ she sighed. Moments later, she was asleep. Apion threw a woollen blanket over her, then watched her chest rising and falling and sought out his next actions.

A rumble of approaching hooves stirred him from his worry. He looked up. A lone kursoris on a white gelding hared down the valley side and then came charging along the riverbank, towards him. The man was Chaldian, going by the crimson triangle of cloth he had tied to the end of his spear. Apion rested Maria’s head gently down on the grass and reeds, then stood. This was the first Byzantine soldier he had seen in well over a year. Instinct told him that the rider would recognise him and halt at once, but the young kursoris seemed set to knock him down and ride onwards.

‘Whoa!’ Apion yelled, waving his arms, at last pulling the rider from his trance. The lad was barely sixteen, Apion realised. He wore a conical helm with a brim to shade his eyes, and an ill-fitting leather klibanion vest. His eyes were wide with agitation.

‘Move aside, old man!’ the rider barked. ‘I have an urgent message to deliver!’

It hit Apion at that moment. His faded and frayed tunic, his grey locks and his haggard features. Thirty seven years’ worth of scars and bitterness. ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

The rider frowned, eyeing him. ‘No, and nor should I care. Now step aside.’

Apion lunged forward, grappling the reins from the boy’s hands and wrenching the gelding towards him. The boy’s hubris left him at once. ‘Know that I have lost more than most in the wars that have ravaged these lands — and then you will know enough of me. Now, you can go on your way soon. But first water your mount — it is close to exhaustion,’ he nodded to the froth gathering at the horse’s lips. ‘And while your gelding drinks, you can tell me — what is happening? Is there some trouble in the border themata?’

‘The border themata?’ the boy frowned, then a look of realisation overcame him. ‘You don’t know?’ he gawped, sliding from the saddle and leading his mount to the shallows before turning back to Apion. ‘The border themata fell some months ago. The empire is in flames! Malik Shah and his Seljuk hordes have poured into the heart of Anatolia. His words set fire to the hearts of his men, and were oft repeated as the Seljuk riders rode through our broken cities, chasing us into the hills; All of you be like lion cubs and eagle young, racing through the countryside day and night, slaying the Christians and not sparing any mercy on the Byzantine Nation. What men are left of our thematic armies fight on, but they are in disarray, pressed back to the coastal strongholds of Anatolia.’

Apion’s heart turned to ice. ‘Malik Shah leads this army of conquest?’ he repeated, thinking of Alp Arslan’s son. The previously solid promise of peace between Alp Arslan and Romanus seemed to evaporate in his hopes at that moment. ‘The sultan allowed this?’

The boy blinked, still struggling to comprehend. ‘Where have you been, old man? Malik Shah is the sultan.’

Apion frowned. ‘Then Alp Arslan — ’

‘Slain by a rival. Some traitor called Yusuf was to be shot through with arrows for his plotting against the old sultan. But somehow, the man smuggled a concealed dagger to his own execution and managed to leap up and tear out the Mountain Lion’s throat before he was cut down by the sultan’s bodyguard.’

The words rang in Apion’s head, refusing to settle. His thoughts turned to Constantinople, to the Golden Heart.

‘What of the emperor?’

The boy spat on the ground, his nose wrinkling. ‘The emperor brought all this upon us. Had he adhered to the concessions and the peace proposed by Alp Arslan, then none of this would have happened. Instead, he refused, sent Malik Shah foul letters, and then he cowered in terror when the son of the Mountain Lion roared in reply.’

Apion bristled at this. Romanus would never do such things. He was sure there was some mistake. Then he realised there was. A mistake on his part. ‘Romanus is no longer our emperor, is he?’

The boy’s look of disgust faded and he offered Apion an apologetic look, shaking his head. ‘Just weeks after the battle at Manzikert, the Doukids rose from exile and swooped upon Constantinople. They marched upon the Imperial Palace, arrested Lady Eudokia and seated Michael Doukas on the throne as their puppet emperor. They raised armies to intercept Romanus Diogenes in his attempts to return to and secure the capital. Twice they clashed and twice Diogenes’ forces were routed. Many Byzantines have died on the swords of their kinsmen in this last year. Our armies were in tatters and the Doukids took to inviting rogue Seljuk hordes to the battle, to side with them for gold and glory. Those same hordes now take our cities for themselves and side with Malik Shah once more.’

‘And Romanus Diogenes?’ Apion asked.

The boy shook his head. ‘I was there in his ranks at the last clash with the Doukids. He surrendered in order to see his men spared, and he himself was promised no harm would come to him. Yet his men were slaughtered as soon as he had given himself over — I was one of the few to escape. Then they treated him like a pauper, tying him to an ass and leading him back to the capital like that, pelting him with rotten vegetables. Finally, his eyes were put out with hot pins.’ The lad’s words faltered. ‘They say the infection that followed was vicious, his eye sockets festering. They say the dog, Psellos, sent him a letter congratulating him on the loss of his eyes. It was only merciful that the emperor succumbed to an infection in his eye-wounds within weeks.’

Apion heard the lad’s words as but an echo. The Golden Heart was gone and his fierce but noble adversary, the Mountain Lion, gone too. Two great leaders who had hoped to end the struggle. Hope was dead. ‘So Psellos and the Doukids. . have won?’ he stammered, imagining Psellos and John Doukas perched like vultures either side of Michael in the heart of the palace.

The rider sat straighter in his saddle at this. ‘Won? Never! Aye, Diogenes’ supporters are scattered, and many of his best generals are wanted men. Doux Philaretos holds out — he has control over the city of Melitene and has gathered a strong mercenary army to defend it in the hope that one day he might be able to overthrow the Doukids. And Bryennios now fights in the west, trying at once to regain Thracia for the empire and to remain vigilant to the Doukid assassins who are known to want his head. But while they live on, others were not so fortunate. Alyates of Cappadocia fought in one of the battles against the Doukid armies. He was hunted down on the battlefield and had his eyes gouged from his skull with rusty tent pegs,’ the lad said with a shiver. ‘And then there is the Haga. No one is sure what became of him. Some say he fell at Manzikert. Others are sure he will one day return from some exile. All pray that he does.’

Apion held the lad’s gaze. ‘And where are you headed now?’ he uttered numbly.

‘South, to rendezvous with an Armenian army raised by Doux Philaretos. With them we might be able to stave off the Seljuk advance on Trebizond,’ the boy said, remounting his gelding and kicking it round to face south.

‘Then ride on, lad. Ride fast.’

The rider moved off at a trot. ‘And you, old man, be wary — for Malik Shah’s war bands are circling in this part of Chaldia — they mean to add it to their rapidly growing conquests!’ he threw back over his shoulder as he kicked his steed into a gallop.

He watched the rider disappear in a dust plume, then turned back to Maria. His heart wept at the sight of her and the storm of thoughts raised by the boy-rider cleared. Her usually dusky skin had a blue-ish pall about it, her cheeks were gaunt and her breathing shallow. He scooped her up and hugged her close, longing for the coldness in her skin to be gone. He lifted her onto the saddle of his pony and climbed up there behind her, clasping his arms around her waist and holding her there. With that, he kicked his mount into a gentle walk for the valleys to the north.

‘We’re almost home,’ he whispered into the nape of her neck, his voice cracking.

***

It was late afternoon. Mansur’s farm was but a few valleys away. The pony swayed as he walked, his gaze fixed on the uneven scree of the riverside. He felt Maria’s every heartbeat on his back, heard her weakening breaths. He looked to Maria’s pony that he was leading along with them, then let go of its reins. It slowed and then fell back, grazing and drinking from the shallows. A moment later, he heard a familiar cry from high above. An eagle’s cry. He did not look up, knowing the sky would be empty.

‘It has been a cursed day,’ the crone said, coming into view in the corner of his eye. She walked alongside, where Maria’s pony had been. Her withered, knotted frame jostled as she stepped along on the scree. Her face was long, more drawn and aged than ever, and her wispy white locks seemed almost translucent.

‘Is this what I fought for?’ Apion replied numbly. ‘Peace in these lands and my love by my side was what I sought. One is lost and the other is. . ’ he clasped a hand to Maria’s waist more tightly.

The crone sighed. ‘What matters is that you did all you could to save these things that were dear to your heart. What matters is that you tried.’

‘She told me you came to her. You drove off her illness. Can you — ’

‘Her time was long ago, Apion. I used what strength I had left to interact with this world in order to give her long enough. To give you long enough. For you both to meet again.’

‘Then our year together was a gift from you?’ he frowned, tears stinging behind his eyes. ‘What kind of gift is it to give someone the chance to watch their loved one die?’

‘I understand your pain, Apion, believe me I do. If you had walked this world as long as I have, you too would lose count of those who slip away before your eyes. Love and loss are inseparable. One must learn to love while they can, and accept the loss that must come. I know you two have shared great love in this last year. Now must come the loss.’ She bowed her head as if expecting some pained retort.

But Apion reached out and clasped a hand to her shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

They walked on in silence and came to a familiar hill. Atop it was a beech thicket and a rocky cairn with an ancient Hittite etching of the Haga on it — the two-headed eagle emblem just as ancient as those days when Apion had first set eyes upon it. He clutched Maria’s hand again, remembering the first times they had sat up there together as children. And then in their adolescence, the first time they had made love. His mind flashed with many more long forgotten memories as they climbed the hill, knowing that just beyond the brow lay the valley and Mansur’s farm. A place he had not visited in seventeen summers. He wondered at that moment: for all that had happened in those years, what had he achieved?

Apion’s eyes darted. ‘What is to come next? What will become of the empire, of these lands?’

‘Ha!’ the crone uttered. ‘You should know well by now not to ask me such questions!’

‘Then tell me at least, that those who brought about so much strife and bloodshed will not go unpunished.’

Wordlessly, she reached up to touch his hand. His head swam and for a moment he felt warm all over, the aches and pains of the ride gone from his body. His vision swirled and he was spirited from the present. He saw before him the throne room in Constantinople. Young Michael Doukas was seated upon the gilded chair. Beside him, as he had feared, were two figures: Psellos and John Doukas. But there was a shadow behind them. Another figure. A eunuch dressed in white, his eyes sparkling with malice. Moments later, he saw John Doukas being dragged in chains, tossed into some dank and foul, lightless dungeon. The cur screamed and bellowed until the door to his cell was bolted shut. His screaming grew weak as his hair sprouted and whitened, his skin puckered and eventually, life deserted him. In the end, he was but a pile of dust and bones, long forgotten in that miserable underground cell. Then he saw another scene. This time it was Psellos, lying in a bed of silk sheets in some fine chamber. But the advisor was writhing in agony, his face white and his skin shrivelled like some over-ripe fruit. His screams were shrill and piercing, and only abated when the physicians came over to tend to him. They drew open his robes to reveal a black, rotting hole the size of a small shield, dominating his chest and belly. Each of the physicians stepped back, aghast and heedless of what to do. For it was as if a lion had gouged away Psellos’ flesh and cleaved out a great portion of his breast bone. Maggots squirmed in the rotting wound, with pink-red organs losing the battle against the putrefaction. At the centre of the wound was a weakly pulsing heart. . encrusted in dried matter and as black as night. A cluster of maggots writhed here, like a besieging army at a city’s walls, hungry to pierce the organ and feast upon it. The advisor’s eyes were aflame with terror.

‘The blackest of souls will reap the darkest of harvests,’ she said solemnly, her words cutting through the vision.

Then he saw the throne room again. Now there was just the white-robed eunuch standing by Michael’s side, more vulture-like even than Psellos and Doukas. Nikephoritzes, a sibilant voice hissed in his mind. The eunuch and Michael’s imperious look faded, however, when an angry babble echoed from outside their chambers along with the smash of iron, the crackling of flames and the bash of doors being barged down. Both men adopted looks of utter panic. The vision swiftly changed. Now it showed a black-robed Eudokia on a verdurous island in the Propontus, standing over two tombs — Romanus’ and that of their son, Nikephoros. She gazed beyond the tombs and across the placid turquoise waters to the distant walls of Constantinople. There, men cheered from the battlements as the Doukid banners were torn down. In their place, golden standards were raised. They bore an image he refused to believe. A double-headed eagle, talons-sharp, wings extended — identical to his stigma. A cry rang out from within the capital’s walls. Kom-ne-nos! Kom-ne-nos! Kom-ne-nos!

The crone lifted her hand from Apion’s, and at once he was drawn back to the present — the stillness of the Chaldian hilltop, the chattering cicadas and the crisp November air. His mind raced over myriad thoughts, then settled on one. The boy on the dead man’s horse. The lad from the mustering fields of Malagina. ‘Alexios? Alexios Komnenos will oust the Doukas family? Or is this another of Fate’s games?’

‘Fate is a powerful beast, but he cannot dim the light in a man’s heart,’ the crone smiled. ‘While good men stand firm and refuse to buckle under tyranny, corruption or lies. . there is always hope. Always.’ She smiled. ‘Your words, Apion. With those words you have sown a bright seed. Just as Mansur and Cydones guided you, Alexios now strives to achieve all you hold dear, to one day realise Romanus’ ambitions of ridding these lands of war. He talks of the legend of the Haga, the one who stood with the emperor at Manzikert to the last. . then vanished from history. You went to war, Apion, you faced your boy — when it would have been so easy to take another path. Your choices gave you those last moments with Taylan, this last year with Maria, and they have fired the heart of the boy, Alexios. Had you chosen differently, then none of this would have come to be.’

His mind danced over the fading flashes of the vision, then his breathing and heartbeat slowed again. ‘Then all that has gone before has not been in vain.’

‘No. It has been a savage road to walk, but it has been the right one,’ the crone said. ‘And now your journey is almost over.’

Apion eyed the approaching brow of the hill, then clasped Maria’s hand. It was colder than ever.

‘Now, I must leave you. I have a journey to make. Someone needs me to lead them. . through the grey land,’ the crone said, dropping back a little. Apion twisted in his saddle, offering her an earnest nod. ‘I have often talked of choices,’ she called after him. ‘Shortly, you will have another to make. Once again, the right choice might seem the hardest. I know you will choose well. Farewell, Apion.’

The lone eagle screeched, unseen, high above.

He rode on, clasping Maria’s waist tightly. He guided the pony over the brow of the hill, then on at a walk down the hillside, towards the tumbled ruin of Mansur’s farmhouse on the valley floor. The fields were overgrown and long untended, and the tracks were thick with weeds, but to Apion it was finer than any palace or villa he had set eyes upon before. He squeezed Maria’s hand, but she did not respond. He realised the faint whistle of her breathing had faded away, and the weak thud of her heartbeat had stopped too.

‘We’re home,’ he whispered.

The sun was halfway set when Apion put his spade to one side. He had buried Maria beside the old mound marked as Mansur’s grave. He sat before the graves, cross-legged, his pony nuzzling into his neck in search of attention — and fodder no doubt. He reached up absently to stroke its muzzle, the distraction welcome and helping to fend off the ferocious waves of sorrow that clawed at his chest. They came again and again, like a crashing tide. He glanced over to the ramshackle ruin of the farmhouse, and wondered what his next steps might be. It would take some months or years even to repair the place. He looked to the pile of his armour, crimson cloak, helm and Mansur’s old, ivory-hilted scimitar and reasoned that he might be able to sell the set for some coins to aid the restoration. In his mind’s eye he heard Mansur’s gravelly voice bark in protest, and this brought a pensive smile to his face.

It was then that he heard a snorting of distant mounts and a jabbering of voices. Seljuk voices. He looked up. There, on the hillside, three ghazi riders trotted down towards the farmstead.

‘Ride on,’ Apion muttered under his breath, ‘there is nothing for you here.’

But they came closer. The leader was mean-eyed with a cold grin. His two comrades looked over Apion and the ground nearby, clearly keen on any sort of plunder to be had.

‘Give me your armour, grey dog!’ the leader snapped in broken Greek, flicking a finger at the heap by Apion’s side.

‘Like me, my armour is old and in dire need of repair,’ he scoffed in reply using the Seljuk tongue.

The leader’s eyes narrowed at this. ‘Regardless,’ he replied in Seljuk now, ‘you will hand it over.’ Bows creaked as the two other riders sought to underline their leader’s threat, taking aim. ‘You have moments, dog. Make your choice!’

Apion looked up, seeing the greed in the lead rider’s eyes. He realised then it would be the easiest thing to let these curs slay him, to be free of his sorrow, to be unburdened at last of the struggles of this land. Perhaps somewhere beyond this life he might find Maria? But the crone’s words would not leave him be.

Once again, the right choice might seem the hardest.

At that moment, something else came to him. Something almost forgotten. A dark, arched doorway, hovering in the blackness of his mind’s eye. No flames, just darkness and utter silence. He looked to the hilt of the scimitar and the handle of his battered old shield, each just an arm’s length away. Then he beheld each of the archers, his emerald eyes shaded under his dipped brow. Finally, he flicked his gaze to the lead ghazi, and offered just a crooked, mirthless half-smile.