Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

21. The Journey Home

The army had reached the crossroads after three days’ march to the west. Here, the bulk of the thema made their own way back to their farmsteads, while three banda were sent to garrison Argyroupolis and further divisions were sent to bolster the other forts, towns and cities of the thema against any sudden Seljuk counterattack. After this, Apion and Blastares had ridden together on their new mounts for a further four days. The big soldier had asked for and been granted leave to sort out some issue with the plot of farmland he had leased, but had left untended since he had joined the permanent garrison of Argyroupolis. So they were to ride together, through the mountain pass and into the farmlands of the thema, as far as the crossroads for Trebizond, and Apion was grateful for the big man’s company.

With the spectre of war temporarily removed, the air had a freshness and lightness, like the land drying after a storm. They had dressed in comfortable linen tunics and felt caps for the first few days — just enough to keep them cool and shade them from the blistering sun — but today, Apion was in his full military garb: tunic, iron klibanion and crimson woollen cloak, boots and leggings, helmet with a scale aventail and a black eagle-feather plume for his return to the farm. He thought back to his recent chat with Cydones over what made a fine soldier: give a man armour and fine weapons and he will be braver and more loyal for it. He wondered at the often rag-tag garb of the banda ranks, far removed from the elite kataphractoi, and he thought back to the damp and mouldy cotton vest and boots Vadim had shoved in his arms on first joining the thema. Then he thought of the shimmering rock he had found up in the mountain cave when sheltering with Kartal the Seljuk. Armour and weapons required funding. Generating funds required initiative. His eyes narrowed. As soon as he returned to the army he would discuss with Cydones the commissioning of new silver and iron mines high up in the mountains, untapped of their riches. Yes, every man in his ranks would march with a fine klibanion, helmet, spathion, good boots and a freshly painted shield.

He sat high and straight in his saddle, remembering father riding home from campaign like this. Then he shuffled in discomfort as the sweat trickled down his back and the klibanion bit into his neck.

Blastares eyed Apion and chuckled. ‘Whoever she is, I hope she’s worth it?’

Apion cocked an eyebrow, thinking of Maria. She was worth it. If only she was not to marry his best friend, he mused wryly, then he saw Blastares’ wicked grin. ‘And I suppose you won’t be using your new kit to impress the ladies?’

Blastares shrugged. ‘Fair point. As soon as I sort out the patch of dust they gave me instead of a proper farm, and the arsehole kataphractos who leased it to me and now thinks he’s my master, then I’ll be heading into the city — the wage of a droungarios weighs heavy on the purse!’

Apion grinned. Despite the gruffness of the big soldier and his initial doubt at Apion’s worthiness, they were like brothers now. Blastares had masked his joy at being promoted to a droungarios, commander of two of Apion’s twelve banda, behind a flurry of increasingly sordid insults. But it was the glint in Blastares’ eye that told him all he needed to know: he could entrust the big man with his life, just as he could with Sha and Procopius, also newly promoted to the same rank. Then he thought of Nepos, the man who should have shared in the glory with them. Blastares had not brought up the topic of the missing Slav, and Apion guessed this was because the gruff soldier was missing the ‘pointy-faced bastard’ but did not know how to properly express the sentiment.

His musings were interrupted when Blastares lifted a leg and let rip with a forced release of foul gas. ‘I’m not eating hard tack bread again for at least a month. . ’

Apion cocked an eyebrow, eyeing the empty wine sack jiggling below Blastares’ saddle; the bread was doubtless only part responsible for his flatulence.

‘. . no, I’ll be spending my days eating pheasant, then my evenings drinking good wine. . and the rest,’ he winked, flashing a stumpy-toothed grin and motioning with his hands as if testing two pieces of fruit for ripeness. ‘So what’s your plans for this spell of leave?’

Apion wished more than anything that the week ahead was for nothing other than spending time with Mansur and Maria. ‘Many neglected duties, Blastares, but I’ll just be happy to get back to the farm. It’s been a while since I rode regularly and my arse is yet to become re-calloused from the saddle!’

‘Aye,’ Blastares snorted, shuffling in his saddle, ‘who’d have thought it, eh? Riding like emperors on horses and it feels like you’re getting buggered by an elephant. Give me a march any day.’

‘Well you’re going to have to get used to it, Blastares, we all are. There’s going to be a long spell of campaigning when we return at the start of the new moon.’

‘Tchoh! Bloody spoil it before it’s even started why don’t you?’ Blastares moaned and then pulled the last of his wineskins from his pack. ‘Right, I’m starting early.’ With that, he pulled the cork from the skin with a plunk and proceeded to gulp at the contents.

The day grew hotter and the dust lined their throats until, at last, they reached a crossroads and a desiccated timber signpost with etchings on each of its pointers. Blastares ambled towards the road for Trebizond, then he stopped and turned in his saddle. He cleared his throat and then issued a brisk salute. ‘Until the new moon, sir!’

Apion nodded sternly then broke into a grin. He reached out a hand. Blastares looked puzzled at first, then he broke out into a matching grin. The big soldier extended a ham-like hand and clasped Apion’s forearm. ‘Until the new moon, Blastares. I look forward to serving with you again.’

‘I might have sobered up by then.’ With that and a throaty cackle, Blastares heeled his mount into a trot onto the highway, then he spurred the beast into a gallop and was soon no more than a dust trail.

Apion watched him go. At last he could think freely without the responsibility of the other men. He heard the faint babble of the Piksidis and a warmth spread in his chest, he sucked in a breath and looked west.

The farm was a short ride away.

But first, he had to seek out Nepos.

The ghazi rider slid from his mount and knelt in the centre of the courtyard in front of Muhammud and his broad-shouldered bodyguard, Kilic.

‘Speak.’ Muhammud said. He kept his voice stern and peered down his nose at the rider, just as his uncle had always taught him. But under his cool facade, his heart thundered; something was very wrong.

The rider craned his neck up. His eye was misted and still seeping from a small cut, his clothes were filthy and his skin caked in dirt and his mount trembled from exhaustion. ‘Mighty Alp Arslan, I bring news of Great Sultan Tugrul. The Byzantines were strong, too strong. Our mighty leader has been defeated,’ the rider panted.

Muhammad’s eyes bulged. Tugrul, the man who had taught him the very essence of honour, had been defeated? Then his blood chilled; had the Falcon fallen? No, it is too soon, his mind screamed. At the same time, the possibilities raced through his thoughts. You are their leader, now is your time, Mountain Lion.

‘Does the Falcon live?’ Muhammud heard his own words, flat and hoarse.

‘He lives,’ the rider nodded fervently.

He felt a wave of relief, but then a burning shame crept over his skin as he realised he was also disappointed. ‘What of his armies now?’ He demanded. ‘They are regrouped, I presume, but where?’

The rider shook his head. ‘The armies were routed, only the Sultan and his retinue remain intact and they have taken refuge in eastern Armenia. The survivors from the ranks, they have scattered and will not be returning. The Sultan, he is. . ’ the rider glanced to Muhammud and then back to the ground, ‘. . he is broken. He spends his nights in silence, gazing to the west. The Byzantine strategos has another who fights by his side. The Haga, the ferocious two-headed eagle. The Sultan’s men say he fought like a djinn, bringing men with him like a wall of fire.’

‘Enough!’ Muhammud snapped, cutting the rider short and sweeping a platter of goblets and dishes from the table by his side to shatter on the courtyard.

Some twenty five thousand men had been whittled down to barely a thousand by the swords of an outlying army of this ancient empire of Byzantium, not even close to their emperor or the seat of power in Constantinople. So his uncle had got it wrong, assuming one army could break Byzantium. You should have taken me with you, Falcon.

He glanced up to see Nizam, who had paced silently out behind the rider. The vizier’s eyes were heavy and he gave the faintest shake of his head. Muhammud looked from the Vizier to the rider and assessed his next move. Word could not spread of the Sultan’s defeat. Muhammud sensed a shadow pass over his soul. He had to be a ruthless leader now, like his uncle.

‘You rode alone?’ He asked the rider, who nodded.

‘Take him back to the ranks. Have him bathed, clothed and fed,’ he sighed to Kilic. As the giant of a man moved to usher the rider to his feet, Muhammud gave him a firm and familiar nod, eyes cold as ice. Kilic nodded back.

Muhammud turned away and looked to the strategy map laid out on the ground before him. He gazed over the map, then closed his eyes at the gurgling protests of the rider as Kilic tore a blade across the man’s throat. When the rider fell silent, he opened his eyes again, looking over the fifty shatranj pieces currently set around the large red dot representing Isfahan. His eyes narrowed; did the Byzantines really believe they had broken the Seljuk spirit, routed the core of their armies? Fire raced through his veins as he thought of the emperor and his armies rejoicing at his uncle’s humiliation. But their joy would be short lived; Byzantium had seen but the tip of the blade that was to strike through its heart. He glanced up at the battlements of the city walls and could see the dust haze from the swell of activity outside. Then he barked at Nizam. ‘Come with me.’

Muhammud strode from the palace and across the square, ignoring the salutations and cries of praise from the crowds. Then he flitted up the steps to the battlements, Kilic and Nizam hurrying to keep pace with him. At last they stopped as Muhhamud rested his palms on the crenelated stonework. ‘Yes,’ he purred, his eyes sparkling as he drank in the scene before him.

The fertile plain was invisible under blanket of military: a sea of tents, warhorses, men in shimmering armour and an endless line of siege towers and stone-throwers. He had spent the last months whipping them into a frenzy, telling of the glory to be had in toppling the ancient empire of the west. As the weeks had rolled by and word had spread around the Seljuk lands, new divisions were formed to accommodate the influx of warriors who wanted to be part of this glory, to march with the Mountain Lion. He thought again of the strategy map: fifty pieces, each representing two thousand men and all of them hungry. Hungry to crush Byzantium.

‘Sultan Tugrul was to call on me when the time was right, to solidify his holdings in Byzantine lands,’ he spoke evenly to Nizam. ‘Well that call will not now come, but the fruit has never been riper. We will crush those who seek to unhinge our glorious destiny and the Falcon’s honour will be restored under my banner. Our siege engines will shatter the crumbling walls of Byzantium’s cities and their armies will die under the hail of our arrows. Should this army of Chaldia or any other, choose to meet me in the field. Well, then they will face the wrath of the Mountain Lion!’

He grappled the Seljuk banner from the nearest guard on the wall and hoisted it up over his head, the golden bow emblem fluttering in the gentle breeze. First the soldiers camped directly below the walls saw it and leapt to their feet, raised a chorus of cheers and rapped their scimitar hilts on their shields. Then, the cacophony rippled outwards across the plain like thunder.

Muhammud glared into the setting sun. This strategos of Chaldia would pay. And the Haga, this so-called invincible warrior? Muhammud vowed that he would seek him out and crush his army. Then take his head.

‘Glory awaits us in the west!’ He cried out to the horde.

The horde cried out until the city walls shook.

Muhammud drank in the scene, eyes wide. Then Kilic leaned in towards him.

‘Another rider has come in, master, a straggler from the armies of the Falcon.’ The bodyguard nodded to the bearded rider who climbed the last of the steps onto the battlements. ‘He is alone. Just give the word,’ the bodyguard showed Muhammud the dagger tucked into his wristband.

Muhammud nodded to Kilic then frowned, eyeing the rider. He did not seem to be nervous.

The rider knelt on one knee. ‘Alp Arslan, I trust you already know of the. . situation. . in the west?’

Muhammud’s eyes narrowed at this. He looked to Kilic, hesitated, then almost imperceptibly shook his head. Kilic’s shoulder slumped and the bodyguard moved away. ‘I do. So, why do you come before me?’ He motioned with his hands for the rider to stand.

The rider stood. ‘I am Bey Soundaq, and I have fought in the west for many years now. I come before you to tell you of the man who you must destroy if our glory is to be realised.’

‘One man?’

‘One man, Alp Arslan. I have spoken with him, he is no ordinary soul; he is one man who fights and leads an army like no other I have seen.’

Muhammud’s eyes narrowed.

‘The Haga stands between us and glory.’

Peleus lifted his skin and poured another handful of the brackish water over his face but the desert air dried him like crackling in seconds.

‘Bloody murder, this,’ Stypiotes croaked, slumping back onto the sand. ‘Did I cark it in the battle and get fired down to hell? That’s what it bloody feels like. If the strategos reckons this is such a good idea then he should have stayed out here to build the bleedin’ towers himself?’

‘Well, the strategos likes the new beacon system around the town and this is just an extension to it. Apparently the idea came from Apion,’ Peleus said.

‘Aye, the Haga. Well he’s certainly got something about him, I’ll give him that. Remember the hobblin’ runt that turned up at the town gates last spring? Now he’s a tourmarches? That takes some doin’. They’re even sayin’ he’ll be the next strategos. Still though, he could have hauled his arse out here and helped.’

Peleus nodded, eyeing the wooden stumps marking out the four corners of this tower, rope joining them to form a square. He saw the point in the initiative of building the chain of desert watchtowers, but Stypiotes would take none too kindly to being lectured at the moment, he figured.

A bandon of infantry, four master carpenters, two blacksmiths, an architect and an engineer were accompanied by a detachment of fifty kataphractoi and some thirty Armenian camel scout riders. Numbering nearly four hundred, this group had been sent out east by Cydones while the rest of the thema returned to Chaldia. Everyone was less than delighted but the strategos had won over the majority with a promise of triple pay for a month. The idea was to stamp home the advantage gained during the usual lull after such a decisive victory. So while the Seljuks licked their wounds, Byzantium would stake its borders physically with these wooden watchtowers, the lantern chain would act as an early warning system against the next attack, whenever it came. After a few days marching they had now delineated the first leg of the chain, coming in from the borders of Armenia and out into the sands and hills of the eastern reaches of Anatolia.

With a grimace, Stypiotes scratched roughly at his crotch. ‘There’s no bloody point in wearin’ this armour. It makes my arse really itchy in this heat. We could walk about with targets on our backs; there’s nobody around for miles. The Seljuks are broken, for now.’

Peleus chuckled and pulled the parcel of smoked fish and dried fruit from his ration pack. Cydones had been keen to give the detachment privileges and these prime rations were one such measure. ‘Take a seat, Stypiotes, you’re making me nervous pacing around like that and you’ll only make yourself hotter.’

‘Cah!’ The big soldier grunted, flopping down onto the sand next to Peleus, ‘Here, let’s have some of that.’ He pulled a strip of smoked fish for himself. ‘I tell you, when you’ve been dreaming of sitting in the inn at Argyroupolis, sinking ale after ale then picking your woman, then you get this,’ he widened his arms to the endless dunes that rolled out ahead and shook his head.

Peleus wondered just what orders Cydones would relay next. If these watchtowers were to be of any use, someone would have to man them permanently. He felt a moan coming on.

‘Peleus, Stypiotes!’ A voice called. It was young Atticus the skutatos, on the back of a camel ridden by a swarthy Armenian. ‘We’re setting up camp at the next watchtower site. The komes wants you to gather your tools and fall in to help prepare the camp.’

‘Grand! More graft!’ Stypiotes grumbled.

‘Come on,’ Peleus nudged him with a grin, rolling up his ration pack and standing up to offer a hand to his friend, ‘they might have stashed a secret barrel of ale on the mule train?’

Stypiotes clasped his forearm and hoisted himself to standing. ‘Aye, one barrel would do me but what about y. . ’ the big soldier’s words trailed off as he squinted into the coming dusk.

‘Stypiotes?’ Peleus frowned, and then spun round.

The dark-blue horizon of the coming twilight seemed to writhe. Peleus’ skin rippled. ‘Get down!’ He hissed, pushing Stypiotes and himself to the sand.

The zip of an arrow ended with a thud and then a gurgling. Young Atticus clutched at his throat and the dark-red froth that bubbled from the shaft. Another arrow hammered into the chest of the Armenian rider and with that, the camel took flight, the two bodies sloping from its back and onto the sand.

‘Ghazis!’ Stypiotes gasped, clutching at his sword hilt.

‘A raider party?’ Peleus replied, then poked his head just over the lip of the dune. His brow furrowed at the dusk-masked plume of a marching column, far to the east. ‘No, a vanguard!’ He and Stypiotes’ stayed locked in a wide-eyed stare.

‘They wouldn’t come west again so soon?’ Stypiotes started.

Peleus’s eyes grew wide in terror. ‘We’ve got to get word back to the strategos!’

Apion fixed his eyes on the horizon, willing the valley to roll into view, but resisted heeling his mount, weary as the gelding already was. He wondered how Nepos had fared since fleeing the camp. His instructions had been garbled and panicked at best, though that was understandable given the life or death cusp they had both stood on at the time.

Stay true to the valleys until you reach the source of the Piksidis. Be wary, for Bracchus has men everywhere and they are cold killers. Believe me, I’ve faced them. You will come to a small farm just off the highway to Trebizond, you’ll recognise it as the only one for miles that looks like it’s about to cave in on itself. The valleyside behind this farm rises to a modest peak a quarter of a mile to the north. Climb this peak. Up there, there is a beech thicket. Push through the thicket and you will come to a small clearing. You will come to a cairn with an ancient emblem of the Haga on it. Pull the rocks from the base. You will see what looks like a rabbit warren, but loosen the earth around it. There is a cave where you can shelter. .

It was now well into the afternoon and a heat haze rippled the land in front of him. The hill and the cluster of beech trees shimmered up ahead. Every ounce of his will was pulling him just south, the farm just obscured by the rise of the valley.

‘Only a little longer,’ he whispered, inhaling the familiar summer scents of the place. He slid from his mount and rubbed a hand along the gelding’s nose. ‘Easy, boy. You’ll be fed and watered soon, and then you can meet with my old mare. Then you can rest or run for the next few days.’ With that, he stalked up the hillside, armour chinking.

The air was still and his breath quickened as he walked, blinking sweat from his eyes, removing his plumed helmet and untying his pleated hair. Nepos would be too smart to come running out, he was sure. The man was a shrewd creature; thanks to God he was good-hearted. Between them they could surely plan a way to rid themselves of Bracchus. One thought had nagged him the whole way home: perhaps he should have been candid with the strategos about Bracchus when he had the chance; surely there was a way that the man could be outed as the poisonous cyst he was, despite his imperial connections? Then Bracchus’ fate could be decided by others, perhaps? He shook his head clear of the rabble of thoughts. That was all to come.

The hilltop came into view and he pushed through the beech grove. With a grin, he considered calling for his friend or sneaking up on him. He pushed into the clearing then stopped, blinking.

A still, shadowy and inhuman form filled the space in front of the cairn, and the carving of the Haga was spattered with crimson. His heartbeat died to nothing, the blood thudding in his ears changed to a piercing ringing.

Apion stared.

Nepos’ lifeless body hung limp, impaled upon a kontarion dug into the earth. The Slav’s eyes stared hopelessly skywards.

Apion retched, unable to tear his gaze from the horror.

Then a weak bleating rang out. Apion looked up. A lone goat, barely more than a kid, stumbled along the hillside. On its fleece it bore Mansur’s woad marking. That and a foreign, crimson streak.

The sweat on his skin felt like ice-water as he turned to the dip in the valley. Then he sprung into a sprint. He leapt up and onto the Thessallian’s saddle and heeled it into a gallop, guttural roars accompanying every kick. Their speed sent a howling wind past his ears as he ducked low in the saddle, his hair and the crimson cloak whipping behind him. The valley opened out in front of them. Then the bowed roof of the farm appeared. Terror grappled his heart.

Please do not let it be true.

A ringing in his ears grew into a shrill whistle as he saw it all: the ground outside the door was a carpet of crimson. The goat herd was scattered, many lying motionless or thrashing in their death throes. The grey mare lay still, a broken spear shaft embedded in her guts, entrails spread across the ground where she lay. Apion felt his chest bellow and then sting and he heard his own roar, distant and other-worldly. The front door was ajar, hanging on one hinge. He slid from his mount and stumbled inside, seeing his scimitar held out before him, his arms numb, the world around him shaking, buzzing.

Inside, the darkness blinded him, but he clawed forward, feeling for first the old oak table and then the hearth. Panting, he glanced around at the dimness that was slowly sharpening before him. Then he saw it.

Proud Mansur lay sprawled across the hearth, an awful wound in his belly gaped from where the dagger had gone in to where it rested now, just below his throat. His face bulged; swollen and discoloured in a frenzy of cuts and his eyes had been gouged from their sockets. Four bodies of irregularly armoured men lay around him, torn with scimitar wounds. So the old man had fought one last time. Then he saw the tiny wooden shatranj piece clutched in the old man’s palm; the war chariot given to Nepos. Apion trembled where he stood. Fear was no part of it.

Then he saw the dark red robe. Maria’s robe. It lay, discarded, torn and soiled with gore. Beside it a tuft of her dark hair lay in a pool of blood. Before he could piece together what would have happened to her, his mind washed clear of thought, his vision narrowed. He felt the thud of his knees hit the flagstones, the sting of his hands slapping over his eyes, the stabbing pain of the flesh in his throat tearing from his own screaming.

As the afternoon dimmed towards dusk, Apion remained on the floor. His chest heaved and his heart emptied what was left in it. After that, he remained there still, gazing up at the old oak table, his mind replaying the times long past when they had sat together. He saw Mansur and Maria, smiling, laughing. Beside them he saw Mother and Father. Father held Mother’s hand as they all ate together.

When Apion reached out a shaking hand at the image, it all disappeared, leaving only empty twilight.

The air changed as night descended on the valley and a warm drizzle broke the drought at last. A hooded figure on horseback trotted down the hill behind the farm. Then the figure dismounted and entered the farmhouse.

Inside, Apion heard the scraping of a footstep on the flagstones, then sensed a shadow stand over him. He did not realise that the figure was really there until it spoke.

‘I come here to honour their bodies,’ the voice seemed to be shaking, enraged, ‘but you. . you have the nerve to come back here now?’ The figure lowered the hood to reveal Nasir’s contorted features, shaded in the half light. He held blankets, brushes and a spade.

‘Nasir?’ Apion stammered, pushing himself up to stand. Then a rasp of iron sent sparks across the gloom. Nasir held his scimitar out, pointed at Apion’s throat.

‘Another step and I’ll tear your throat out. By Allah, I should have slain you where you lay.’

Apion stepped back, shaking his head. ‘Nasir, I came home to this, I. . ’

‘You did not do this, but you brought this upon them!’ Nasir roared.

‘Never! They were everything to me!’ But even as he spoke, Apion felt the truth of Nasir’s words burn on his neck. He retched, then doubled over to spew out the trickle of bile left in his belly.

Nasir arced his scimitar round and down onto the oak table, the blade embedding in the wood and the frame cracking. ‘You should have been here to protect them.’

The words cut like a blunt dagger through Apion’s soul. He had failed Mansur and Maria just as he had failed Mother and Father. The Haga they called him, the ferocious two-headed eagle, the demon swordfighter, the leader of men. All names unbefitting of a man who could not protect those he loved most.

He stood tall under Nasir’s gaze and cleared his throat. ‘You are right. I should have been here. You know how much they meant to me, Nasir. You more than anyone else.’

Nasir’s shook his head. ‘No. There can be no excuses for what has happened here.’ He wrenched his sword clear of the table and sheathed it. ‘We may once have been as close as blood kin. I remember our oath.’

‘. . until we’re both dust. . ’ Apion mouthed.

‘I said I remember!’ Nasir roared. ‘But this changes things, it changes everything. Nothing will be the same anymore.’

What’s left? A hoarse voice whispered inside Apion’s head.

‘Your presence offends their memory,’ Nasir spat.

There is something left, isn’t there? The voice sounded rapacious.

‘Leave this place. Leave and never come back,’ Nasir’s shoulders broadened and he took a step forward. ‘Because I’m making a new oath, this time to myself. If our paths cross again after tonight,’ his brow wrinkled, ‘I will kill you.’

Apion heard his old friend’s words and deep down inside, a distant voice cried out, pleaded for Nasir to reconsider, but in his head the rasping voice was in full flow. Yes, there is something. . something sweet, something long, long overdue. . revenge! Nothing stands in your way now. His eyes were fixed on a distant point, far beyond the shattered table. ‘Those responsible for this will die, Nasir. What happened to Mansur will happen to them. I swear it. This is my oath.’

Nasir sneered at this.

‘Everyone who played a part will be cold and still, by my sword. The man who orchestrated this, all of this, he is a walking shade.’

‘You talk of death as if you were the reaper?’ Nasir spat, his eyes narrowing.

Apion felt a coldness wash through his veins and he looked his old friend in the eye. ‘Everything you have lost, I have lost also, Nasir: Mansur, like a father to me, and Mar. . ’ Apion moved forward, Nasir shook his head.

‘Don’t you dare say her name!’

‘Maria. Maria was my closest companion as a child. She was my lover, the woman I dreamt of every night I was away. Her face, her scent, they soothed my mind.’

‘She was to be my wife!’ Nasir roared, then lurched at him, one fist crashing into Apion’s nose.

A metallic wash coated his throat as he stumbled back against the hearth. ‘I won’t strike you back, Nasir. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve got every right to hate me,’ he said as Nasir towered over him, chest heaving, fists balled, ‘but I warn you, stand back and let me leave.’

Nasir tilted his head back, grimacing. ‘So you ride out of the valley, leaving destruction in your wake.’

Apion stopped as he passed Nasir. ‘My words won’t help today, but I want you to know and remember that I am sorry, so, so sorry.’

‘Until we meet again, Apion,’ Nasir’s face was stony. ‘If it is on the battlefield then that would be apt.’

Apion nodded, pulled his crimson cloak around his body, then stepped out of the farm and into the warm drizzle. He stopped to glance back at the shattered door, for an instant his mind cruelly played back the memory of little Maria, her fawn hand pulling the door open on that first day.

Then the memory was washed away with the image of the dark door. This time it did not rush towards him. No, this time he beckoned it forward. He reached out for it, his scarred and knotted arm with the Haga emblem fitting perfectly over the arm in the image. Apart from one thing.

He drew his hand closer, he saw the prayer rope flicker to the white band of skin in the image. That God could let this happen all over again sickened him to his soul.

Something inside him snapped.

In silence, he pulled the prayer rope until it ripped free of his wrist, then threw it to the ground.

With that, he leapt on his Thessallian and heeled the gelding into a fierce gallop. He would not rest until he had hunted them down.

All of them.

‘He was my good friend. Let me help dig,’ Kutalmish pleaded.

Nasir’s palms were blistered and his eyes stung with sweat but he waved his father away without reply and continued scooping earth from the spot where old Mansur was to be buried.

‘You are a strong-headed boy, Nasir; you are turning out like your brother was before he died. Why did you react to young Apion as though he was the perpetrator of this vile act?’

Nasir stopped digging and turned to his father, bathed in the pale orange of the coming dawn. ‘How can you defend him? Bracchus and his men came here to collect a debt of blood from him. He knew they would come here and he had a choice to stop this.’

‘Everything is black and white with you, isn’t it?’

‘I know that I am honouring Mansur by forever ridding this valley of Apion.’

‘What does she think of this?’

Nasir bristled; Maria lay in his bed, being nursed back from near-death by the old woman with the milky eyes and healing hands. ‘Maria should not be concerned with him anymore.’

‘So you did not tell him she lives? You let him ride off with a weight of guilt he does not deserve?’

‘It’s a blessing that I didn’t cut his throat from ear to ear.’

‘My, Giyath shines through in you, indeed, son.’

Nasir glared at his father, the old man looking frailer than ever, eyes red from weeping. ‘He’ll use his rage, he’ll thunder off and find the bastards who carried out this act and slaughtered his parents, I’ve gifted him that rage.’

Kutalmish frowned then whispered. ‘Forcing a man to face Bracchus is no gift.’

Nasir scowled and made to reply, then stopped as he noticed his father close his eyes and shake his head. ‘Father?’

‘A dark truth has been hidden, son.’

Nasir climbed from the grave. ‘Speak!’ He barked.

Kutalmish looked to the shrouded form of Mansur’s body. ‘Forgive me, old friend,’ he whispered, ‘but our oath was until death.’

‘Father, what do you know?’ Nasir realised he had his father by the scruff of his robe.

‘Apion will destroy Bracchus, son. Bracchus is a vile and dark creature who has brought misery upon our lives. Yet Apion will hate Mansur even more than Bracchus if he finds out the truth. A truth he was never meant to discover.’

‘How could he hate Mansur, how could he hate him as much as Bracchus? Bracchus killed his parents!’

Kutalmish’s features fell stony. ‘Bracchus was not alone that night.’

Nasir stood back, wide-eyed, then he frowned, glancing to the form of Mansur’s body. ‘Mansur? Never!’

Kutalmish closed his eyes, tears escaping and dancing down his lined cheeks. ‘He was a troubled man for a long time, Nasir.’

‘How could he be involved in killing Apion’s family? Bracchus is a black-hearted dog. Mansur was anything but!’

‘And maybe one day, long past, Bracchus was also a good-hearted soul. Just as, that one night, Mansur was as black-hearted as Bracchus. Life changes people, Nasir, brutally.’

‘What happened?’ Nasir demanded.

Kutalmish mouthed a prayer and then looked his son in the eye. ‘Apion’s father was the cavalry commander that led the charge on our caravan, Nasir. He was responsible for the death of Mansur’s wife and your mother too,’ his words trailed off with a sob.

Nasir’s mind raced. His hatred of Apion swirled with this revelation.

‘His father made a mistake, a big one. He saw Mansur and I, riding armed, took our caravan for a Seljuk supply train. . and attacked. He realised his mistake and tried to call off his men, but by then it was too late. Since that day blackness welled in Mansur’s heart, it was all I could do to quell it in mine.’

‘I cannot imagine Mansur as a murderer,’ Nasir shook his head, then looked up to his father. ‘Apion told me of that night. He spoke of one masked figure that stood back from the slaughter of his parents. Could that have been Mansur?’

‘Mansur came to me that night, his mind in pieces. He never spoke of his part in the events of the night. Yet, when he fell into a troubled, exhausted sleep, I lifted his scimitar from its sheath. .’

Nasir’s eyes widened.

‘. . the blade was clean, Nasir.’

‘Then he took no part?’

‘He was there, Nasir. Whether or not he took part in the butchering of Apion’s family is secondary.’

‘But Mansur tried to do the right thing, to make amends — that’s why he brought Apion back to the farm, isn’t it? Yet it all came back on the old man like a blade,’ Nasir snarled, ‘the Byzantine people are poison!’

‘Nasir, it was not the Byzantines who started this. It is simply the way of man. Just as the healer lady said when she brought Maria to us. Man will destroy man.’

‘No, our people are different.’

Kutalmish’s head fell to his chest. ‘That is what Mansur said, all those years ago, on the night he lost his wife.’

Nasir’s eyes burned. ‘The difference is that I will not yield! I will fight these people until their empire is no more!’