Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

15. The Skutatos

‘Keep up, runt!’ Blastares roared over his shoulder, his breath clouding in the cool winter air.

Apion nodded, breathless, eyes on his boots, treading the frost-speckled ground. Six months into army life and daily patrol was as gruelling for Apion as it had been on day one. Scouting the area around Argyroupolis was hectic. Since the disbanding of the Armenian themata, the stretch of land east of the mountains was highly volatile with the Seljuk armies moving in to fortify and garrison the previously Byzantine-occupied lands, pressing against Chaldia and Colonea to the south. Raiding parties had become more and more frequent, striking at least once every week; until last month, when everything went quiet. Sha seemed to have some distinct unease at the sudden lack of conflict, but they had stuck to their duty vigilantly: two hours were spent every afternoon marching on patrol around the mountain paths to the east, looking for any sign of Seljuk activity.

Apion had not yet bloodied his sword in his time with the garrison, but he had watched grey bodies of unfortunate soldiers being brought back after their patrols had been caught out by a Seljuk raid, the Christian priest delivering their rites as they were taken to the burial ground outside the town. It was a grim reality, but one he would endure until he had worked the opportunity to sink his blade into Bracchus’ heart. Time had shown that the tourmarches was meticulous and would never walk without his grunts flanking him or following close enough to intercept any attacker. The man knew he had his enemies. Did he know how close they were?

Yet every day that passed ended with a bitter nightmare. The dark door burning in his mind, Mother and Father’s faint voices calling to him while he could only cry out to them in apology for his inaction. Every morning, before the garrison would pray together at muster, he would pray alone, clutching his prayer rope. But God would soon see a different side to him; when the time was right, he would strike.

Until that moment came, these afternoon patrols did little to bolster his confidence that he could get at Bracchus; they were more like a ritual humiliation, being forced to try to keep up with his unit as they quick-marched through treacherous terrain: every day that meant two hours of the lip of his boots and his brace biting into his welted flesh, his scar screaming for him to stop, the leather handles of his shield pulling at his arms and his lungs burning as he tried to keep up with the others. Every day he would be lagging behind after only a short while, sweat blinding him as he tried to train his sight on the rhythmic and perfectly balanced march of the four in front of him. This routine had gone on for the entire summer, all of autumn, and continued now, as winter approached.

Maybe the weather cooling had helped a bit, but he clung on to the belief that he was just a little less far behind each day. Yet at this rate he would be an old man before he could manage to keep up.

‘Onto the road!’ Sha barked, his voice unnaturally tight, in an attempt to out-shout Blastares. The five filed onto the dirt road that wound through the main mountain pass and led back up to the gates of Argyroupolis. Up ahead, the imperial grain supply caravan of wagons, mules and camels rumbled towards the city at their own pace, flanked by an escort of four cavalry archers.

‘Come on, lad,’ Blastares growled, ‘Don’t go showing us up again. Stay in line!’

When Apion grimaced and stretched his bad leg as he would his good one, the pain was enormous, like a fire running from his neck to his toes, needling at his muscle and tearing at his tendons, flashes of white-hot agony bursting across his field of vision. He glared at Blastares.

‘That’s better. Now see if you can keep it up,’ he mocked.

‘I reckon he could show you up, Blastares,’ Nepos panted, dropping back a little.

‘I reckon someone’s filled your skin with wine,’ Blastares roared with laughter, and then broke down in a coughing fit.

‘Well you should never underestimate any opponent,’ the Slav countered.

‘I’ll stick money on the big man, fat bastard though he is,’ Procopius slapped a hand on Blastares’ shoulder.

‘Put a nomisma on Apion for me.’ Nepos looked straight ahead as he spoke.

Apion shot a gawping look to Nepos. The man had usually shown good judgement. Until now.

Nepos turned and winked at him. ‘A race up to the peak, to the gates of the mountaintop village of Bizye. Wait till the spring though, gives you both a chance to prepare and a chance to get a good book going on it; there’s a killing to be made here. In fact, make it two nomismata from me.’

‘You really are off your head,’ Procopius spluttered. ‘Two nomismata on the runt not even making it to the top of the mountain. I bet he falls into a creek or the like and breaks his neck.’

‘Listen,’ Sha cut in, ‘I’ll put my whole year’s pay on us being put to a death bout if we roll through the gates like this.’ He stabbed a finger up ahead to the bulk of the town. ‘Bracchus is looking for any excuse — particularly with the lad.’

Apion’s stomach tightened at the truth of this: as brutal as patrol was, training was a whole lot worse. The training was supervised by Bracchus and drill-mastered by Vadim, and neither had shown anything but utter contempt for him, singling him out to make an example of him. Running was the staple exercise, then alternating running ten paces with leaping, to keep the joints supple. Apion could only hobble, having to have one foot on the ground at all times, so Vadim called him out to hobble and try to leap alone in front of the garrison, leaving him in a breathless heap, his scar split and bloodied, his withered limb trembling violently. Then he had taken to using Apion as the example of what happens when a soldier neglects his strength, making Apion stand to the front again, holding a pair of iron klibania at the tips of his outstretched arms while the sun seared at his skin. There had been sword fighting too. One on one. At this, Apion had accounted for himself well, wining more bouts than he lost. The lingering image of the death bout on that first day had made him hold back though in case he drew Bracchus’ attention to his skill with the scimitar.

‘Come on,’ Blastares repeated Sha’s order as his own, ‘let’s get in formation!’

Sha glowered at the big soldier. Nepos shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Apion struggled to stay with them, every bit of his body screaming in agony. He thought of Nepos’ stern advice from that first day.

You’re going to have to prove yourself.

He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood and hobbled on. Roughly half a mile more to cover, then he could peel off his boots, unclip the brace and let the air around his bloodied, withered leg, but his vision was closing in as it was. Can’t stop, he willed himself on, they’ll never trust me if I hold them up. He threw his head back to take in a gulp of air, hoping it would stave off the black spots bursting at the edge of his vision. Then he noticed something else, out there, coming from the narrow mountain pass off to one side. A forked dust trail, riders at the fore, at least thirty, shimmering with iron. He made out the pointed helmets, the scale armour. The breath froze in his lungs.

‘Seljuk riders!’ He bellowed.

Sha spun, the others stumbling from their stride as the mini-column disintegrated.

Then Procopius yelled, pointing to another ten haring from the opposite pass. ‘They’re coming on both sides!’

They were converging on the trade caravan but a handful broke to snare the five skutatoi.

‘Catch up with the caravan; otherwise we’ll be cut to pieces!’ Sha bellowed. Four of the five broke into a sprint.

Apion saw the four of them shrink and could only gasp in his ethereal haze, lifting one hand out to reach for them. Nepos looked to be turning back to help but Blastares pulled him back in the direction of the caravan and the four mounted the rear wagon and pulled their swords and spears out, poised, ready to fend off the attack. Then the wagon began to pick up speed, shrinking even faster.

Apion stopped. He was utterly alone in the middle of the valley. He hefted a rhiptarion in his hand, trembling with fatigue, resting his weight on his good leg. He readied to face the riders; there were four of them, two on each side. One had broken ahead and hung low in his saddle, scimitar raised and ready to cut.

‘Allahu Akbar!’ The ghazi rider roared, face twisted in bloodlust.

Apion gritted his teeth at this. You will not deny me vengeance, the rasping voice spoke in his mind. He saw the ghazi’s sneer of arrogant expectation and felt the dark door rush for him, its fires flaring inside and the knotted arm swiping forward to punch it open. Where his body faltered, his mind was fortified. He lifted the rhiptarion to his cheek, frowned along its shaft and hefted it back until he saw the veins in the first rider’s neck, then let loose. The spear punched into the rider’s jugular, sending his head whipping round to face backwards with a crack. The body went limp and slid from the mount.

In an instant, the second rider was upon him. No time to hoist his next rhiptarion, he hefted his sword by the hilt, took aim and hurled it forward. The blade carried little momentum but the rider’s charge was furious and the blade met with his chest in a sickening crunch of bone, exploding through his ribs, sending organs and blood spraying over the grass and knocking the rider to the ground.

Now swordless, Apion took up his kontarion and spun to the three who were almost upon him, jabbing the blade of the spear at each of them in turn. Then the first rider hacked the end of the spear off. Apion threw the shaft away and pulled his shield around to parry the subsequent sword strike, staggering back from the brute force of the blow.

His shoulder jarred at the second strike and then a third hammered into his helmet, sending white light through his head. He crumpled to his knees. He looked up and saw a rider heel his mount around and stab forward with his scimitar. He closed his eyes and held his shield up, waiting on the impact.

There was a crunching of bone and a gasp, then the thud of a body hitting the earth. Then a hand grappled Apion’s neck just as a smash of iron rang out beside him.

‘Come on, you bloody runt!’

He blinked: the rider lay impaled on Blastares’ spear and the big skutatos had dragged Apion clear of the last rider’s scimitar strike just in time.

Blastares dragged him back and discarded him like a used rag. He scrambled to try to stand but his weak leg buckled under him and he could only watch as the rider hammered blow after blow at Blastares, the big soldier tiring and roaring as the scimitar got in behind his shield to rip the flesh of his bicep.

Apion fumbled with his dagger. He glanced down the road to the caravan to cry for help, but his heart stilled as he saw the wall of Seljuk ghazis thundering for him. The caravan must already be destroyed, he realised.

The riders seemed to bring the earth to life with their charge and Apion pushed up to stand against them, pulling his dagger from his belt. But the riders broke around him and Blastares like a river, haring through the main mountain pass, headed east. Apion looked to Blastares, equally stunned. Then the big soldier’s face cracked into an evil grin.

‘Reinforcements!’

Apion turned to see the thick wall of some one hundred skutatoi who had raced from the town barracks, filling the width of the pass like a set of iron fangs. A handful of scout riders raced on the flanks. The caravan had been saved. They had been saved.

Then he felt Blastares’ grip on his collar again. The big man’s face was purple, his features torn, body still shaking from the tension of the fight. ‘All we ask of you is to bloody well keep up with us! I don’t know what we’ve done wrong to get burdened with the likes of you, but you ever fall behind like that again and I’ll put a blade through you myself. Do you hear me? And what’s the idea of walking around with that bloody Seljuk sword,’ he prised Apion’s scimitar from the dead Seljuk’s chest, then stabbed it into the dust. ‘It’s not the weapon of the empire, and you’re never a soldier of the empire!’

Apion’s head was already swimming and he could only nod as the blackness set in.

He heard footsteps rumbling up to him. ‘Leave him,’ Sha shouted.

‘Come on, Blastares,’ Nepos added. ‘It’s over!’

‘I meant what I said. Okay, he can handle a sword, but he’s not fit to fight for the empire.’

The words rang in Apion’s head as he passed out.

Apion heard the crunch of boots on frosted ground outside; the first watch. The wail from the buccina would be next, then another day in the barracks would be upon him. Patrol was brutal, but training was even harsher, Vadim ever-keen to hurt and humiliate him before the garrison.

Hearing the mutterings of the watch outside, he clutched his prayer rope and tried to spirit himself away. He drew on the warmth of the blankets and screwed his eyes shut tight and searched for a happy place. He saw farmland, lush green hillocks with golden crop squares and rich brown fallow fields. He tried hard to remember Mother’s scent, the sound of Father’s laughter but it was growing ever hazier through time. He could, however, see Mansur’s tired smile and hear Maria’s laughter echo in his thoughts. Sadness enveloped him that he had parted from them in such a foul-mood.

Then the buccina wailed and he blinked his eyes open. The barrack block rustled very gradually into life with the usual chorus of gruff swearing. Apion heard Blastares shuffle from his bunk, break wind violently and then scratch himself. Apion steeled himself and swung his legs from his own bunk. Blastares had affixed him with a stony glare.

‘You’d better not let us down again. If you mess up, we all take the punishment.’

He held the big man’s gaze. Every day since the ambush, Blastares had issued this warning. The patrols had been mercifully uneventful and Apion had managed to avoid further mishap. He had tried to offer his sincere apology and gratitude to Blastares for saving him from the caravan ambush, but the big man was simply unapproachable that day. Yet Blastares’ veneer of gruffness belied his underlying piety; after the narrow escape from the ambush, he had forgone ale, wine and meat the following day in penance for the lives he had taken in saving Apion. Apion decided to follow suit to show his gratitude and the big man had almost shot him a less than furious look when he saw this. But training and patrol meant that it was only a matter of time before his weakness would come to the fore and rile the big man again. ‘I can only promise you that I’ll try.’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Blastares grunted and stood to get dressed.

‘Take heart; it’s formation work today,’ Nepos said quietly, ‘we’re readying for when the rest of the thema are mustered.’

Apion nodded but couldn’t disguise a wrinkle of confusion on his brow as he slipped his padded vest then sat down to pull on his boots, gingerly sliding on the one that seemed to grate at his withered leg, folding the lip down to below his brace. ‘Formation work? Is that a good thing?’

‘Well, it means no running; it’s all about timing,’ a semi-grin touched one side of Nepos’ narrow lips.

Apion nodded, realising how rarely he had seen the Slav smile. His sharp blue eyes always seemed alert and suspicious. Again, he wondered what the Slav’s story was; the man had run from his home thema to come out here, the dusty borderland. He had run from something, but what?

‘It’s still bloody torture, mind’ Procopius grunted, ‘especially when the kampidoktores wants it to be, and we haven’t done it since spring, so I expect he’s got a whole lot of pain in store for us.’

A crisp day was upon them by the time the winter sun was fully up. The garrison of nearly four hundred, a bandon of infantry and a further clutch of some hundred toxotai archers, was mustered on the flatland of the mountain pass east of the city, near the dilapidated archery range. Apion joined in the chorus of the Morning Prayer, the mountain pass reverberating to the baritone chant. He noticed Bracchus did not participate, instead striding slowly in front of the garrison, eyeing each of them with a disconcerting keenness. Then when it stopped, he whispered something in Vadim’s ear, then retired to the shade, watching with his retinue of giant soldiers.

Whatever the tourmarches had suggested, Vadim grinned with glee at the sentiment. ‘First, I will tire you out with formation marching: split up into kentarchia, then each hundred men at a time, round the square. Then the real work begins.’

‘That’s not so bad?’ Apion muttered, eyes darting around the four crimson-flagged posts dug into the ground marking out a square three hundred feet on each edge.

Nepos shook his head. ‘It’s good practice. When you’re in a battle, the slightest gap can mean the whole unit can be ripped apart, especially by cavalry. When the thema is mustered we’ll be expected to pass this training on. But it’s not the exercise that worries me, it’s the punishment that bastard likes to give out for the slightest flaw — you know, you’ve bore the brunt of it all too often, and today I get the feeling it’s going to be worse than usual. Now stay tight to those around you and keep pace to the inch.’

‘We haven’t done this in a while, so fifty circuits today,’ Vadim roared. The garrison stifled a groan. The infantry bandon split into three groups of just fewer than one hundred men, each headed up by a kentarches.

Apion watched as the first group marched. They bunched together in a square and the first rank, those wearing proper klibania lowered their spears to form a wall of spearpoints. Those in the second row did likewise while those behind held their spears vertical. At their komes’ order, they set off around the square, every step in perfect time, like a single organism. When they reached the corner of the square they held their shape perfectly, turning in formation without any gaps appearing.

‘One!’ Vadim roared as they completed the first circuit of the fifty.

Apion steeled himself; it was his kentarchia’s turn next and already he could feel his withered leg tiring from standing.

The unit was approaching the last corner on their fiftieth lap of the square when a collective gasp filled the air as one of the marching men fell from his place, having had his heel trodden on by the man behind.

Vadim clapped his hands together. ‘Forty lashes for both men. Rations halved for the unit for the next week,’ he said as if discussing the weather. The rest of the marching unit began to look ragged at this but a quick, barked order from their kentarches saw them march on to complete their exercise.

Then the kentarches leading Apion’s hundred cried as Vadim nodded them forward. ‘Ready, march!’

Apion felt a welling terror that every step would see him stumble and every man around him would trip him or barge him to the ground. His chest tightened and his breath grew short at the proximity of his fellow soldiers. He bit on his lower lip to distract from the pain in his leg and focused on his step, drawing breath with each pace, exhaling steadily in between. They completed the first circuit and he knew his body would fail him, his leg trembling already. He caught sight of Vadim as they passed him and moved onto the fourth circuit; the big Rus’s eyes were on him like a predator.

‘Don’t think about the fifty circuits,’ Nepos whispered as they came round again.

‘What?’ Apion blinked; terrified that he would lose his step.

‘Take each circuit in turn, one at a time. Trust me; it’s a mental victory if you can do that.’

‘You don’t understand. I’ll never make it.’

‘Five!’ Vadim roared out as they passed him again.

Apion tried all he could to distract himself from the nausea that overcame him, but his vision began to darken at the edges and he saw the man in front’s shoulder blades grow closer and close as he stooped forward, then he felt Nepos and Sha grasp him by the arm either side, righting him just in time. He had been treating each circuit as the last, just as Nepos had advised, ignoring Vadim’s counting. But how much time had passed? He glanced to the sun, it hadn’t moved an inch.

‘Thirty eight!’ Vadim roared, a hint of frustration in his voice. At this he forced himself upright, shoulders back, fixing a steely expression on his face every time he passed Vadim.

‘That’s it, you show the bastard,’ Blastares grumbled from behind him. Apion felt an initial surge of confidence at the big man’s encouragement, ‘because if you don’t and we all suffer for it, you’ll have me to deal with.’

‘Forty nine!’ Vadim shuffled from one foot to the other.

Apion felt the raw, open flesh of his knee rubbing at the lip of his boot. His skin was bathed in a cold sweat and he knew he had only the next few paces in him.

‘Fifty!’ Vadim spat the word. As soon as he had, Blastares bundled forward with a curse, the man behind him having stumbled into him. In an instant, the tight square that had been as one for the last fifty laps was a scrambling mess, men rolling in the dust.

‘Ah, we have another call for the lash!’ Vadim perked up instantly.

The kentarches stood to attention first. ‘Sir, we were finished when we fell out of formation!’

Vadim stepped forward to stand tall over the kentarches and lashed the pole he held across the man’s jaw. ‘You and your unit are a disgrace. If that happened on the battlefield, the whole army could disintegrate. You did complete the fifty circuits though, so perhaps the lash is not appropriate,’ Vadim scratched his chin and the kentarches looked momentarily optimistic, despite his bloodied lip. Then Vadim nodded with narrowed eyes. ‘No, instead of the lash, your lot will make a fine subject of foulkon practice.’

The men around Apion broke into a worried rabble. Apion looked around: the other detachments from the bandon and the toxotai looked to their feet at this order. Practicing the ancient tortoise formation sounded reasonable, but then so had the marching practice. The kentarches nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, sir!’ He said to Vadim, then turned to his hundred to bark them into silence.

The hundred formed into a square again in the middle of the muster yard.

The kentarches took his place in the front rank. ‘Shields!’

Apion followed suit as, with a ripple of wood, the men of the kentarchia pulled their shields overhead to form a tiled roof, those at the sides and front locking their shields like a wall.

His arms were now trembling and the shield felt as heavy as an anvil. They waited under the canopy, sweating, panting despite the freshness of the winter air, while the other two kentarchia and the archers encircled them.

‘Just hold tight and don’t let go,’ Procopius hissed at him, eyes wide, ‘and don’t leave any gaps!’

Apion frowned, then heard Vadim roar. ‘Loose!’

Something heavy thudded on Apion’s shield and he staggered, his shield slipping from the roof. From the momentary gap he saw a hail of rocks hurtling towards them. Arms shuddering, he forced the shield back up just before the enclosed space inside the foulkon was filled by the crashing rain of stone rapping on their shields, splintering the wood. Then there was a scream where someone had left a gap at just the wrong moment. Then another. Apion screwed his eyes shut tight and grimaced until the hail slowed and then stopped.

‘Now perhaps next time you will march in good order?’ Vadim cooed. ‘Now rest and eat your rations. For this afternoon is going to be proper work!’

Apion lowered his shield. The sun was nearly at its zenith and his whole body was racked with agony. All around him, his kentarchia looked pale and shaken and two men lay prone, moaning, one with a bleeding eye socket, the remains of his eye lying in the sand, and another clutching his shattered forearm. The garrison medic hurried over to the men, his shoulders hunched as if fearing reprimand from Vadim.

‘Come on,’ Nepos pushed Apion away, ‘you need to eat and rest.’

Apion shrugged away from him. ‘I’m fine,’ he lied.

He walked to the nearby cluster of rocks where the garrison sat to eat, ignoring the blinding pain of every step. He sat on the edge of a rock on his own and made to slide his boot off but stopped when he saw the crimson and glistening flesh around his knee. Then he heard booming laughter; he looked up to see Bracchus, in deep conversation with Vadim, two of his brutes flanking him, their eyes sharp and their fingers drumming on their sword pommels. He realised it at that moment: while he was shackled with this brace and the withered leg he would never be able to get at them.

‘So you know the brief?’ The new protomandator pulled his cloak tighter around him and cocked an eyebrow, breath clouding in the dawn winter air.

‘Through the mountains, to the waystation, then hand the papers over to the imperial messenger; same as it’s been for the last two weeks?’ Apion replied.

‘You’re okay with that?’ The protomandator’s eyes hung on Apion’s withered leg as if it was plague-ridden.

‘I’ll be fine, and so will the package.’ He swiped the hemp sack from the protomandator’s grasp, dropped it in his satchel and left the officers’ quarters. They didn’t care about the messenger who carried the lesser documents to the northern waystation. If they did, they would have afforded him a mount or a berth on a wagon to go round the mountains as they did with the imperial couriers. No, it was cheaper to send a man on foot. So here he was, on this crisp winter morning, dressed in a faded crimson military tunic, green woollen leggings, bare feet — despite the cold — and carrying only his dagger and his satchel.

He did his best to walk tall as he crossed the muster yard, passing Bracchus and the garrison, formed up for roll call by the sleeping quarters. The tourmarches sneered the first time he saw Apion head out on foot: the last messenger had been killed by brigands as he ran through the mountain passes. But Apion planned on more than survival — he was focused on using these morning sorties to bring vengeance a little closer with every passing day; added to that, he had resolved to prove himself to his kontoubernion.

The barrack gates groaned open and he felt a freedom as he walked through the empty streets to the town gates, no bustle and no attention on him as he limped. The guards on the battlements had grown bored with hurling abuse at him, cheering whenever he stumbled and whooping when he tripped; now they simply opened the gates for him without comment. Once outside he felt truly alone, feeling only the sun on his face, frost underfoot and a fresh morning breeze.

He headed north, through the narrow mountain pass that snaked off from the main east-west pass. As usual, he held himself to hobbling until Argyroupolis slipped behind the mountainside. When this happened he stooped to unclip his brace, tucking the device into his satchel. Then he set off again, grimacing, making each stride a little longer than the last. The skin on his withered leg stretched as he forced himself to use the limb’s full length, issuing a fiery pain up his back, but he bit his lip and continued, the absence of the military boots a great relief. He entered the shade of a pass and remembered Blastares’ mocking and worse, the bitter reprimand after the ambush. His skin burned with humiliation, but the big soldier’s doubts over him only spurred him on so far. Then he imagined Bracchus and Vadim delighting in his pain and took an even bigger stride. Since he had enlisted in the garrison, Apion had witnessed the tourmarches send six men to their ends in those awful death bouts, yet the rank and file of the garrison remained obedient and fearful. His skin stretched taut over his scar and he roared in agony, his cry filling the valley, sending a flock of doves scattering. He doubled over, tears stinging his cheeks. Then he heard Bracchus’ words. Seljuk loving whoreson! At this, his eyes burned like coals as he glared to the end of the valley, imagining the man without his bodyguards, armed but alone. Ready for the edge of Apion’s scimitar. With a roar, he strode forward again, forcing his weak leg to take his weight. His next stride sent a white-hot wave of pain through him; his next seemed to tear him from within. But on the next stride, both feet lifted from the ground. He was running.

Each morning he had managed this sortie. Every time it had been agony, but each day a little less so and each day he had returned to the barracks just a little sooner. At first, the rider at the waystation had been worried by Apion’s lateness, then on seeing him, thought he had been ambushed such was the sight of his bleeding scar, swollen feet and pale, sweat-bathed features. Apion had refused the man’s offer of help, instead planting the package in the saddlebag, nodding and turning back to begin the return journey to Argyroupolis. On that first day he had barely managed to return to the town before afternoon patrol. Today he swore to himself he would make it to the waystation before the rider, and back to the barracks before midday.

He had managed to break into a run after five days of walking the messenger sortie at a quick march. On the first day he had tried it, it was not fast at first, barely more than a jog, every landing on his weak leg bringing a yelp from his lungs. But to his delight, his body numbed after a few hundred strides, despite the blood thudding through his head in protest. It felt like the injury was gone from his body and his stride grew longer, his lungs heaving, a sweat bursting from his brow. The ground underneath him even seemed to level out, his limp ineffective. He had woken the next day with calloused and bleeding feet and his scar wept and stung with a pain he had never known before. Yet that second day, he did it all again.

Each day he pushed himself just that bit more. The pain later on was doubled and his feet were calloused and raw because of that little extra effort but he continued and now, on the fifth day of running, he sought out that pain. He welcomed the agony, seeing it as the death throes of the feebleness that had shackled him in life until now.

The floor of the mountain pass closed up before him into a series of jagged limestone steps like a winding staircase. With a roar, he lunged onto the first, then up onto the second, then the third. Then he stopped counting until he reached the peak, where he hurtled along the ridge of a small mountain and heard only the wind whistle past his ears, barely noticing the angry grey clouds gathering above.

Along with the numbness in his limbs, he felt a great wash of cool clarity in his mind. All the musty, lingering self-doubt, anger and frustration seemed to be washed away with it, leaving only a shimmering goal in his mind’s eye. I will run, I will prove myself, he swore, I will make Mother and Father proud, I will take vengeance in their name, his heart hammered and tears stained his cheeks, feeling a surge of fresh energy at this point before he descended back into the next mountain pass.

The scree slope forced him to slow to almost walking and he felt his mind cloud over again. The pain would come racing back if he slowed down too much. He tried to keep his eye on his footing, when the piercing scream of an eagle startled him. He shot a glance up, seeing only the bulging clouds, then felt his foot lodge in the rubble and at once he was tumbling. The scree slid under him and he grasped out for purchase, rolling out of control. Finally, he stopped, dust catching in his throat, palms cut and stinging. Prone, he looked back up the slope. Something was wrong. Something quivered in the dust where he had fallen. An arrow shaft.

Fear shook him and cramp gripped his muscles almost immediately. He pressed flat down and scrutinised the mountainside on either side of him. Nothing. Then he heard a whinnying, racked with pain. He leapt to his haunches and drew his dagger, wincing as the scar seared violently, the numbness deserting him. The whinnying sounded again. It was coming from the shallow dip in the track to his left.

Limping over the scree, he gingerly peered into the dip, when a blurred figure uttered a roar and then a flash of iron sent him sprawling backwards. He scrambled to his feet, dagger extended, expecting the figure to come rushing from the dip and at him. Instead, a pained scream rang out, followed by a whimpering.

He stalked forward again, braced this time, ready to come down on top of the figure, but he dropped his stance when he saw a mare, eyes rolling in terror, on its side, its two front legs snapped, shards of bone stabbing out from under the flesh. Pinned under the horse was a dark-skinned and moustachioed rider, his eyes cobalt blue but bloodshot, his hands trembling, clutching a short stabbing sword. A discarded bow lay a few paces from the man.

‘You fired on me?’

‘Stay back, Byzantine, don’t come any closer. You’ll regret it!’ He growled, his breath coming in short gasps as the mare’s weight pressed upon his chest.

Apion slipped into the Seljuk tongue with ease. ‘Why would I? You’ve fired your last arrow,’ he panted, nodding to the empty quiver on the ground, ‘and you missed.’

‘You speak Seljuk?’ The man seemed perplexed, eyeing Apion’s military tunic. ‘Yet you are surely an imperial soldier?’

Apion blinked the sweat from his eyes and tried his best to disguise the rafts of stabbing pain that seemed to be marching over his body. ‘Well most of us struggle to speak one language, I’ll give you that. . ’

The Seljuk cut him short. ‘My unit will be back this way anytime. You’re a dead man if you try anything.’

Apion knelt on his good knee to relieve his pain. He had not eaten his ration as he normally would have by this time in the morning and his body seemed to shake with weakness. He took a look at the mare — a middling pony — and the man’s garb. He had a bow and arrow and a simple sword, he was unarmoured. A scout, surely. A lone scout.

‘Well I’ll take my chances. Now look, your mount has had it, but I can get you out from under her. We’ll go our separate ways after that?’ As he finished speaking he felt a lightness in his head swell into a distinct haziness.

‘You’ll save me?’ The Seljuk seemed puzzled.

Apion thought of Nasir, the times the boy had saved him. He nodded with a half-smile at the memory, only partially aware of the black spots closing in around his vision. A sudden thirst overcame him.

‘Well I can only trust in you, but you don’t look like you’re capable of lifting a drink, Byzantine, never mind shifting a horse.’ The man’s brow furrowed, eyes fixed on Apion.

Apion patted his shoulder for his satchel, looking for his water skin, but as he did so, nausea swept across his flesh and through his stomach, then a black wave closed over him.

He blinked. The world was on its side. His body still ached but his nausea was subsiding, his mind sharper. Then a dark-skinned hand thrust the lip of a water skin to his mouth. He scrambled up to sitting. The Seljuk recoiled, still pinned under his mare; he had stretched just enough to reach Apion.

‘What are you doing?’ Apion noticed that his neck and chest were soaked.

‘Making you well,’ the Seljuk replied.

‘Why?’ Apion checked for his dagger; it was still there.

‘So you can save me? You feel stronger now, yes?’

Apion could not deny the tingling sense of focus that seemed to be pushing away the sickness that had engulfed him just a moment ago.

He took more of the water, then pushed himself to standing and gulped down a few cool breaths. Then he worked his way round to the other side of the mare, avoiding her flailing and mangled limbs. He saw a piece of rope hanging from the saddle and snatched it clear, then hurled it over the mare’s body. As he did so, the first dark splodges of rain began to mark the ground around them.

‘Pass it through to me,’ he gestured to the Seljuk.

The man winced and moaned as he batted the end of the rope under his mare’s body as she flailed. Apion grabbed the end and made a loop. Then he braced his bad leg against a boulder. ‘Ready yourself.’ The Seljuk nodded. Apion heaved. The mare’s whinnying was tortuous and he felt pity stab at his heart as he dragged her front half towards him. The strain was agonising for Apion, and the beast barely moved under his pull, but was agitated enough to kick out with her back legs, and this was enough to push her whole body off of the Seljuk.

‘I’m whole!’ The Seljuk yelped.

Apion dropped the rope, panting as the man stood gingerly, stiff at first, then stretching tall. Then he dropped to his knees, facing south-east to spread out his arms before him, head bowed, in prayer, oblivious of the now battering rain.

Then the man stood, his face solemn, and walked towards Apion, drawing his sword up above his head. Apion braced in shock, then the sword came down and plunged through the mare’s chest, bursting her heart. In an instant, she was lifeless.

Apion felt relief for the poor beast.

‘A good companion, she was.’ The Seljuk’s eyes were misty as he smoothed her mane. Then he looked up to Apion, holding up his hemp sack. ‘My name is Kartal. I have food.’ He blinked the rainwater from his eyes and nodded to a small cave nearby. ‘Before we go our ways, will you shelter and eat with me?’

Apion had added his bread and dried fruit to Kartal’s rations of plump olives, dates and cheese. Despite that odd burst of energy Apion had felt, his stomach roared for attention. They watched the rain’s fury without speaking as they gorged on the food and then drunk their skins dry. Bellies full, he snatched glances at the Seljuk. The man was probably a good ten years older than he, and seemed far more comfortable with the silence. He picked up a shard of rock; it seemed to shimmer like the cave itself.

‘Silver,’ Kartal said, ‘a rich seam as well.’

Apion turned the rock in his hand. He knew there were some mines down nearer the town, having passed their entrances, but up here was relatively untouched. He wondered at the possibilities.

‘Iron too,’ Kartal added, ‘another reason for the Sultan to fix his gaze on this rugged land.’

Apion put the rock in his satchel and looked up at Kartal. The Seljuk was eyeing him.

‘You could have killed me, taken my things.’ Kartal spoke softly.

‘Then your scouting party would have come back and killed me for it,’ Apion grinned.

‘There is nobody else here, as you well know,’ Kartal smiled back. ‘I am a lone scout rider and no more. I am still struggling to believe I have been saved by my enemy.’

Apion smiled and shook his head, tugging on his amber locks. ‘I may be a Byzantine-Rus halfbreed, as far from Seljuk blood as you can imagine, but I’ve got, shall we say, a chequered past. My family, they are Seljuk. I have no vendetta against the Seljuk people.’

Kartal shook his head and sighed. ‘Then you have not been in this conflict long enough.’

‘What do you mean?’ Apion frowned.

‘My mother was half-Greek,’ Kartal grinned, pointing to his striking blue eyes, ‘my eyes tell her story! When she married my father, she let her customs and culture sift into the past, embracing the Seljuk way of life. But she taught me much of the western peoples,’ he paused, then continued to speak in Greek, ‘their tongue, their past, their flaws and their wonders. I once thought I loved all peoples equally. Then, eight years ago, I joined the Falcon’s ranks. I have seen much since then that makes me doubt everything I once believed in. Sometimes I forget why I joined.’ Kartal eyed him. ‘And you, with your background, why did you bring yourself under the imperial banner?’

He thought of Father lying on the floor, protecting Mother’s corpse while the Seljuk raiders hacked at him like butchers, the veiled Bracchus watching it all. His mood blackened and the dark door cast its shadow on his thoughts. ‘It’s a calling,’ he replied, ‘I don’t know where it’ll take me yet.’

‘Does any man know where he is headed?’ Kartal chuckled and looked up into the sky. ‘It seems when we are lost we inevitably end up in conflict.’

‘What does your god say about it?’ Apion asked tentatively.

‘Remember, he is your god as well. I love him and devote myself to him. He tells us to love and respect one another and I search for this in God when I pray. He tells us to fight also; I’m not so sure I want to hear this from him.’

Apion eyed his prayer rope. ‘I pray to God, but I cannot help but question him too. I may be new to the war between our peoples, but many dreadful things have happened in my short lifetime.’

Kartal nodded respectfully. ‘I understand. Every man has his own journey, his own take on faith.’

They talked of their lives away from the military until, eventually, the din of the rain quietened, easing to a light shower. He thought of his duties; the imperial rider would be approaching the waystation soon. The pair stood and went outside.

‘I fear I have a long trek to get back to my camp,’ Kartal looked wearily over his shoulder to the pass heading east and then down at his bare feet. ‘Still, some of this will keep me strong,’ he lifted a verdant and almond-shaped leaf from the chest pocket of his robe, popped it in his mouth and began to chew. ‘You seemed to like it too?’

‘You put some in the water?’ Apion clicked, scrutinising the leaf. ‘It seemed to give me focus when I had none. What is it?’

‘Betel, it strengthens the spirit and focuses the mind, but only temporarily. Take a leaf and flake it in water or place it under your tongue and let the juices soak out slowly or chew when you need a boost. As I say, it only works for a short while but it will help you,’ he gestured to Apion’s withered leg, ‘when your body weakens. Also it will soothe your joints so you won’t feel like you’ve been trampled by a pony in the morning!’ Kartal lifted a stack of five leaves from his pocket and offered them to him.

Apion took the betel leaves, placed them in his satchel and then held out his hand. ‘We part as friends, Kartal.’

‘We do,’ Kartal grinned. ‘I hope — and I mean this as a friend — that we never meet again. For the battlefield is calling my people and yours. War is long overdue, like a thunderstorm.’

Apion nodded solemnly. The two continued about their journeys.