Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

6. The Horseman

Dawn had not yet broken and only the moonlight outlined the land. The fresh wind rushed over the pair riding on the grey mare.

‘Slow down!’ Maria cried out, grappling her hands together around Apion’s waist and hugging herself to his back.

‘Are you joking? This is like having wings! Anyway, we’re nearly finished.’

He leant forward on the saddle and focused on the dark-blue dappled eastern horizon, then heeled the beast’s flanks. ‘Ya!’ He bellowed. The mare accelerated before they hit the uphill slope to the tip of the valleyside separating the two farms, heading for the hilltop.

At first, the very act of staying on horseback had proved difficult for him, his scarred leg stinging as he clung to the beast, but the rush when he rode was unmatched and only a few weeks after Mansur had first shown him the basics of handling a horse, riding felt more natural to him than walking.

This morning he and Maria had raced at full pelt down the banks of the Piksidis, before turning in and up to the tip of the valleyside. Then they had sped down the opposite side, rounding Kutalmish’s farm, Apion shouting a pox on the boy Nasir — much to Maria’s chagrin — and then galloping back up the valleyside. Now they were coming to the hilltop just north of the farm. Apion had first discovered this hilltop on his first solo morning gallop; it was probably the highest point near Mansur’s farm, and afforded a fine vista of the breaking dawn.

As they reached the hilltop, they rounded the small beech thicket and then the mare slowed just by a terracotta boulder cairn. Apion’s eyes were drawn to the topmost boulder, sporting a faded etching of some creature with two heads, broad wings and rapier-like talons. The etching was very old by the look of it, but the fierceness in the creature’s eyes still made his spine tingle every morning when he saw it.

Then Maria cuffed his ear. ‘Have you lost your mind? I was terrified we were going to be thrown to the ground and dashed on the rocks!’

Apion laughed; this was the first time she had ridden with him. She had begged him to take her with him because Mansur — who had forbidden her from riding as she was too small — was away to market today. He turned to her, grinning, but his face fell as he noticed that she was shaking. He put a hand on her knee. ‘I’m sorry, Maria, I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that I’ve never felt more in control than when I’m riding.’ He patted the mare’s mane and the beast snorted in reply, breath clouding in the dawn air. ‘I’d never be able to make it up here on foot with my crutch.’

She glanced at his withered leg and he felt the usual shame. His leg had at least formed a pink welt of scar tissue since leaving the squalid conditions of the cellar inn, but this scarring held the limb bent at the knee, forcing him to walk in a lop-sided fashion. To stretch the scar and stand tall sent a furious agony through his body, so riding suited him perfectly.

‘It’s okay,’ she said softly, ‘I know you didn’t mean to upset me.’ She looked around, the wind dancing through her hair. All was still dark apart from the band of light blue to the east. ‘Anyway, why have we stopped here?’

‘You said you would watch the sun rise with me one morning, remember?’ He pointed to the glimmer of red on the eastern horizon. ‘Well, here we are.’

She rested her chin on his shoulder and they remained in silence as the glimmer swelled and spread, growing into orange until the light spilled through the valleys, illuminating the burnished terracotta hillsides, silhouetting the farms and mills that dotted the rich soil flatlands in between and igniting the Piksidis like a silver asp.

They watched until the sun was fully over the horizon, their breath slowing at the majestic transformation.

Maria sighed contentedly, finally breaking the spell. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I never tire of watching the land come to life. It washes away all the worry from my mind,’ Apion replied.

‘It’s a wonder you get any sleep at all — you’re up before the goats!’

Apion laughed. It had taken him a while to realise but life on the farm had kept him engaged at all times: riding, goat herding and farming absorbing his days and every night was ended with a welcome cup of creamy salep. Even the nightmares had begun to subside in the last few weeks, and the resulting rest had been most welcome. Every morning he had found himself refreshed and calm, rising before dawn to come up here, basking in the beauty of dawn.

His thoughts were interrupted as he noticed Maria shuffling in discomfort. ‘It is beautiful, but there will be many more mornings. . and I’m hungry. Are you not?’ She reasoned, jabbing a finger into his ribs and grinning.

‘Aye,’ he chuckled, ‘let’s go home.’

He heeled the mare to turn towards the farm and they set off at a canter. When they got back, they prepared a platter of goat’s cheese, bread, yoghurt and figs, and a now unmissable cup of sweet, creamy salep to wash it down. The goats had struck up a chorus of enraged bleating as they ate.

‘You’ll get your food once we’ve had ours!’ Apion chirped. Through the open door he could see two kids, born in the last month, jostling for position at the front of the pen, ears flopping over their faces, eyes wide in anticipation. ‘Anyway, I thought you were goats, not pigs?’ He chuckled.

‘You’re one to talk; you get through the cheese faster than I can prepare it!’

Apion spun round to see Maria stood, the hint of a smirk edging her lips. ‘Ah, it’s only because I graze them so well that the cheese is so tasty!’ He pulled a handful of blueberries from the branch in the middle of the table, popping one in his mouth, the tangy juice inside the fruit bursting across his tongue. The house was quiet and Mansur’s dark-blue felt cap was conspicuous by its absence from the peg by the door. It warmed him that the old man trusted him, a Byzantine boy, like a son. It warmed him more to reciprocate that trust. He looked to Maria, wolfing bread in a less than delicate manner, crumbs lining her lip. She was either black or white; she’d snarl at him in a temper then she’d grin at him and he felt good, like everything was okay.

‘You’ll come out with me again one morning?’ He munched on the last of the blueberries.

‘When I grow taller I’ll be riding the fawn mare. . on my own,’ she replied, looking past him austerely.

‘Then we can race!’ Apion grinned.

‘You’re becoming more like Nasir every day. Is that what happens to all boys as they grow up?’

Apion thought of the cinnamon-skinned boy and frowned. Nasir and he had clashed on a regular basis, usually on the valleyside when he was grazing the goats. The first time, Nasir came past and mocked him, saying that Apion was a cripple and not even worth fighting. Apion had stayed quiet, refusing to meet the boy’s glare and maintaining an air of disinterest. It was only after the boy left him alone that Apion let his fury boil over. Taking his crutch into his hand like a sword and smashing it time and again against a tree. The last time they had met, just last week, Nasir had introduced himself by means of bouncing a stone off the back of Apion’s head. His ears ringing, he could only lip-read the obscenities the boy hurled at him until his hearing recovered.

Nasir’s face had been a sneer and a grimace at once. Then his expression had dropped as Apion stood and hobbled over to him, eyes burning. Nasir was a good half-foot taller but at that moment he felt level. He had pushed the boy in the chest and saw Nasir’s fists ball as if to retaliate, but instead the boy had simply snorted and walked away. ‘I’ve already told you: I won’t fight a cripple,’ he had thrown over his shoulder derisively. That was when Apion had challenged him to a horse race along the banks of the Piksidis. ‘If you won’t fight me and you won’t race me then I begin to think you are afraid of me,’ Apion had growled, hubris coursing in his veins yet well aware that in any such race, Nasir would ride on his father’s stallion, a good hand higher than his own grey mare. Regardless of this, the race had been set up for the following week.

‘A pox on him!’ Apion waved a hand as if swatting an invisible fly.

‘Apion! He’s a nice boy. He just tries really hard to act like a fool.’

‘Like his brother?’

She nodded. ‘Exactly like his brother. Father says Giyath himself used to be a nice young man and it was only when his mother was. . ’ she looked away, eyes to the floor.

Apion frowned and sat forward. ‘Maria? What happened to their mother?’

‘She was killed. Father says I must not speak of it.’

‘Why?’ Apion said. ‘The truth could never be as terrible as what happened to my parents, Maria.’

She looked up to him, eyes glassy. How much of his past Mansur had told her he did not know.

‘Nasir and Giyath’s mother, Kutalmish’s wife, was killed,’ she said. ‘A Byzantine patrol fell upon the caravan as they came here from the east to settle.’

Apion pulled his chair around and put a hand to her shoulder, nodding.

‘They lashed out with their swords without question, assuming the caravan was some Seljuk military supply line. I was there, Apion. I can’t remember it as I was but a baby, as was Nasir. Before they realised we were civilian they had killed his mother and. . and. . ’

Realisation dawned on him ‘Your mother was there too, wasn’t she?’

Maria nodded.

Apion pulled his arm around her and let her sob gently into his shoulder. So Kutalmish and Mansur had been widowed on the night they had made the bold step to abandon soldiery and embrace a life of peaceful agriculture in the empire they had once fought. No wonder Giyath was an aggressive beast, and Nasir’s rage was understandable. He wondered if the dark door lived in the minds of them all. Did they seek retribution as he did? Did they see every Byzantine being as he saw the masked men from that night?

‘I didn’t even know her,’ Maria spoke softly, wiping her eyes, ‘it still hurts to think of her though. Father won’t talk to me about her. It’s as if I never had a mother.’

‘He hurts, deep inside. I know it,’ Apion rubbed her shoulder. ‘I think he finds it difficult to talk about his past.’ Apion realised the irony of the statement; it was Mansur’s patient ear that had listened to the tale of Apion’s dark past. ‘You can talk to me about her, any time you want to.’

‘I will.’ She offered a hint of a smile but her eyes remained sad. ‘But I know that you suffered a terrible loss, as cruel as ours. I want you to talk to me of your family as well.

Apion nodded, cupping Maria’s hand, searching her eyes for a glimmer of happiness.

Instead, Maria straightened in her chair, eyes growing wide, staring over his shoulder and through the doorway. Then she pushed back on her chair, shaking. ‘Maria?’ Apion’s blood iced. He twisted in his chair, following her stare to the vision trotting up the dirt path, rippling in the heat haze. Two horsemen approached, armed.

She stood, whispering, eyes searching the floor of the hearth room, fingers grappling at the hem of her dress.

‘Who is it?’ Apion pushed up from the table, head darting from Maria to the riders until the sunlight splashed from their conical iron helmets and he noticed one wore a golden plume. He recognised the garb: kataphractoi, defenders of the empire, just like father; so why did his gut ripple in unease?

‘Stay inside,’ she barked, stepping to the doorway, shifting her diminutive figure into the space and bristling, attempting to fill it out in vain. Apion felt only one need at that moment; to protect her.

He shuffled forward on his crutch, then barged past her, out of the doorway and into the growing heat of the morning. Then the gold-plumed soldier slipped down from his horse and strode forward, a smile etched under his blade of a nose that ill-fitted the malevolent grimace worn by his bull of a partner. At that moment Apion recognised him: Bracchus, the soldier who had mugged Mansur that day in the wagon and the big Rus who had accompanied him.

Bracchus sucked in a lungful of air and blew it out again with a groan. ‘Oh dear, Mansur really has run out of tricks this time, eh, Vadim?’ His voice boomed, belying his tall but lean frame. He turned to his partner, flicking his head towards Apion. ‘Seems to have fled the scene and left a boy to deal with his problems. A Byzantine boy living and working for a Seljuk. . what’s your story?’

‘What have you come here for?’ Apion said, noticing a glint of coinage from the packed hemp sacks hanging beside Vadim’s saddle.

‘Whatever I want, boy, whatever I want,’ Bracchus chuckled, then pulled off his helmet, the mail aventail rustling. He flexed his fingers, the iron studs on the knuckles of his leather gloves chinking, then ran his hands over his crop of fawn hair. ‘I would advise you to be agreeable to my demands.’

‘What is an imperial soldier doing on a Seljuk farmstead?’ Apion spoke evenly. ‘Mansur has paid his taxes well in advance. I ask you again: what do you want?’

Bracchus simply glared at him.

Then Vadim interjected in his jagged Rus accent. ‘Stubborn little shit, eh? Ah well, not to worry. Fancy goat for dinner?’ With that, he thumped down from his mount, and then strode over to the goat pen.

Apion balled his fists, but Bracchus stood steadily over him, eyes unblinking.

‘Aye, a fat old one for more meat or. . or what about the kids? Tender and tasty,’ Vadim continued.

‘No!’ Maria squealed, sprinting from the shade of the doorway, spreading her arms across the big soldier’s path. Vadim simply leaned over her and scooped a bleating kid out by the neck, its mother crying in panic. In a flash he tore a dagger from his belt and slid it across the animal’s throat. The kid kicked and spluttered as a wash of crimson covered its body and pooled on the ground below its dangling hooves. Within moments it hung limp, eyes staring. Maria leapt at the soldier with a sob but with a shovel of a hand, Vadim swept her back, sending her tumbling to the ground.

‘Maria!’ Apion yelped, lurching for her, but his leg jarred as he turned and he fell to the dust with a groan of agony.

Bracchus snorted in derision and then crouched so his eyes were level with the prone Apion. ‘Now you listen here, boy. Mansur knows full well that when I demand, he pays.’

‘He has already paid you more than once this year, yet still you won’t leave us alone,’ Maria seethed.

‘You forget your place in this land, Seljuk whore.’ Bracchus stalked over to her, grinning. Then he coolly scraped his spathion a few inches from his scabbard.

Apion’s skin writhed, that murky image of the dark doorway flitted across his thoughts. ‘You spill a drop of her blood and I’ll kill you!’ He screamed, forcing the words from his lips and heaving himself to standing, lumbering towards Bracchus. Then Vadim pulled his sword round to block Apion’s path, and he stopped just in time, the blade pricking his throat and a warm trickle of blood shooting down his neck and onto his tunic.

‘Brave move.’ Bracchus snorted. ‘Worth a shot but all it gets you is an open throat. Finish the little Seljuk-loving whoreson, Vadim, his corpse will be a fine statement of debt for Mansur.’

Apion saw the gleeful malice in Vadim’s eyes and knew it was the end for him. He closed his eyes and waited. Then a clang of stone on iron rang out beside them.

‘What the. . ’ Vadim staggered back, doubled over, hands clutching at his forehead. Then his helmet slipped from his red-stubbled head and landed in the dirt, a sharp dent in the brow glimmering in the sunshine. At the same time, a smooth pebble bounced away across the dirt path. Vadim’s left eye was swollen and purple and one nostril spouted blood. The big Rus roared, chest heaving, blade held out as he circled on the spot. ‘Mansur? Come face me! I will tear you apart like a goat!’

Bracchus scanned the surroundings like a cat, poised, spathion drawn and ready to strike.

Apion hobbled over to Maria, wrapping his arms around her. Together, the pair frowned in confusion: Bracchus stood crouched, darting those keen icy eyes around the farm, crouching in wait, but of what?

‘Whoever that was, they’ve made the biggest mistake of their life, and their last!’ Bracchus snarled, eyes tracing the path the stone had taken from Vadim’s helmet and then up, up to the red tiled roof of the farmhouse. There, almost imperceptibly, was a tiny blur of movement behind the apex of the roof. ‘Vadim, go around the other side of the house!’

The groaning Vadim hobbled round to the back of the farmhouse.

‘Is that you, Mansur? Well, you’ve done it this time. There’s no way out for you,’ Bracchus purred. ‘Two sharp swords are waiting for you down here. We might be kind and let you die on them, after you have watched your daughter die. Or you can be executed in the city for striking an imperial soldier; your filthy Seljuk head would decorate the city walls nicely.’

Then a whirring penetrated the thickness of the air. It grew and grew into a hum and then a buzz like an angry hornet swarm. Suddenly, a figure shot up to standing on the roof, his form blurred by the heat haze, one arm a smear of spinning colour — a loaded sling.

‘You think? I’d like to see what your swords can do from down there. This, on the other hand,’ the figure gestured to the sling, ‘will dash out your brains before you take even a single step.’

Apion’s eyes narrowed: the burnished skin, the pony tail. Nasir!

Bracchus pulled a shark-like grin, his eyes red with rage. ‘There are two of us though and by the time you loose a shot and load another, one of us will be upon you. So you will still die and I promise you, it will be slowly.’ Vadim remained poised, ready to strike. Bracchus’ eyes never left Nasir. Then the ground rumbled, the distant thrashing of hooves growing. Each of the group shot glances at the three horsemen who approached along the highway at a gallop. Then one of the approaching riders bellowed.

‘Soldiers!’

Apion eyed the man who had spoken: a mounted, green-cloaked soldier, wearing a klibanion, leggings, leather riding boots and thick, iron-plated gloves, plumed like Bracchus but with green feathers on his shoulders as well as his helmet. A narrow hooked nose curled out over a black forked beard flecked with grey, and his mouth was firm and straight. His eyes gave nothing away. Two soldiers flanked him, also on horseback, but the man in the centre seemed to dominate the trio.

‘Bracchus, what’s your business here?’ The man boomed.

Bracchus slotted his sword back into his scabbard. ‘Attacked by these locals here, sir; militant Seljuks. The situation is under control.’ His tone was lacking the urgency the question had demanded and instead inflected disdain for the mounted officer.

The mounted officer studied Bracchus, then eyed Maria and Apion. ‘Well they match you for numbers at least,’ he snorted.

‘But sir, on the roof,’ Vadim interrupted.

The roof was bare. The buzzing of the sling had stopped.

‘Needs a bit of repair, yes. What of it? Has there been some kind of misunderstanding?’

Bracchus barely suppressed a grimace. ‘There is no misunderstanding here, sir,’ he muttered.

‘Then be on your way. A patrol is a patrol; it means you’re expected to be on the move. Unless there is an incident, a real incident. . somewhere.’

‘Sir!’ Bracchus replied, without salute. Vadim pulled his dented helmet back over his swollen eye. The pair mounted their horses, Bracchus’ glare staying on the mounted officer. Then they heeled their mounts into a gallop.

The mounted officer watched their dust trail, shaking his head slowly, lips muttering silently.

‘Strategos!’ one of his guardsmen barked. ‘We must make haste to the rendezvous!’

Strategos. Apion’s ears pricked up at the word. He remembered Father telling him of the select few men who led the armies of Byzantium, the regional themata and the prestigious mobile armies of the central tagmata. Mounted and plumed, they were the thinkers of the army.

The officer turned to his guardsman, nodding. ‘Aye, haste as always, but these citizens deserve a moment of my time first.’ He turned to face Apion. ‘What is your name, lad?’

‘Apion.’

Cydones nodded. ‘And did you strike that big Rus?’

Apion eyed the officer in suspicion, his throat tightened and he made to point to the roof, then thought better of it. The tension of the encounter ebbed from his veins and his thoughts steadied. ‘I did not, though I wish I had.’

The strategos removed his plumed helmet and wiped his shining bald pate with a rag tucked into his collar. ‘No matter, Vadim’s a good fighter but one who cannot be trusted; he has it coming to him if he’s going to throw his weight around. But Bracchus? All I will say is be on your guard, lad. I won’t always be around to keep him in check.’ As his two guardsmen moved away at a canter, the officer rummaged in his purse and threw down a gold nomisma.

Apion stared at the thin gold coin that had wedged into the dust, stained with drying goat blood.

‘This is for your goat. I hope it covers you for the loss of milk and cheese.’ He looked at the lifeless corpse of the tiny animal. ‘And I’m sorry this happened.’ He held Apion’s gaze for a few moments, brow wrinkling.

Then he was off, accelerating to a canter and then a gallop, green cloak billowing. Apion watched his dust trail then turned to Maria.

‘Cydones,’ Maria whispered. ‘Leader of every fighting man in Chaldia.’

‘Yet he accepts such corruption?’ Apion spat.

‘Father says he is a good man, but only one man. He can only do so much.’

‘So providing a few honest men policing the roads is beyond him?’

‘Father says honest men are only a few coins away from dishonesty.’

‘You believe that?’

‘There are many who extort from the Seljuk farmers around here, Apion. Like father says: let them have their coins, so long as we are safe and well every night.’

He turned to her. A tear hung in her eye as she beheld the slaughtered kid and the tortured bleating of its sister and mother tore at his heart. Then a voice split the air.

‘You should have ridden off with him, Byzantine filth!’

Apion’s eyes shot up at the rooftop again. Nasir stood tall once more, his sling hung from his belt.

Apion searched for a reply, then words tumbled from his lips.

‘Why would I?’ He roared, stabbing a finger at the ground, realisation washing through him, laced with guilt. He saw Mother and Father’s faces in his mind, and prayed they would understand. ‘This is my home!’

Mansur steadied himself and then lunged forward, stabbing out. Apion leant back on his crutch and parried, the clack-clack of their wooden poles echoing out across the valley in the still summer air.

As he tired and his scar burned ever more furiously, Apion fuelled his efforts with that shadowy image of the dark door, until a guttural roar poured from his lungs as he lunged forward, putting all the strength of his shoulders into a strike.

Mansur parried then panted, resting on his pole for a moment, holding up one hand. ‘Easy, easy! This was supposed to be about learning self-defence, remember?’

Apion nodded sheepishly. Mansur had been reluctant in agreeing to this, but equally, the old man felt terrible guilt over having left Apion and Maria alone on that day of the visit of Bracchus and Vadim. Apion had sworn that he wanted only skills enough to be able to defend Maria and the animals at the farm, arguing that if Nasir had not been there that day, it could have been far worse than a slaughtered goat kid.

‘Anyway, I think that crutch gives you an unfair advantage over an old man,’ Mansur puffed, sweat glistening on his brow.

Apion allowed himself to relax, stabbing his pole into the ground for extra support as he caught his breath. At first the bouts had been short, with Apion flailing, ending up in the dust in seconds, Mansur calmly holding the wooden pole to his throat. But his good leg had grown gradually more taut and lean with every day of practice and riding and this allowed him to improve little by little. Firstly he learned how to parry. This gave him time to watch the old man’s movements and spot patterns. It had taken him weeks, but now whenever Mansur attacked he could react, ducking, dodging or executing a good, solid parry, sometimes with the pole and sometimes with the crutch itself, taking his weight briefly on the scarred leg.

He held the crutch up. ‘Maybe you need one of these for yourself?’

Mansur looked briefly outraged, then grinned wickedly. ‘There speaks a boy who is confident in himself.’

Then a whinnying pierced the air from the top of the valley.

‘Hiding?’ A voice called out.

Apion twisted to see Nasir, bathed in sunshine, mounted on his stallion. ‘Ah,’ he murmured to Mansur, ‘it is time for another challenge — the horse race!’

‘Boys: never happy when not locking horns!’ Mansur sighed. ‘Go easy on the old mare will you?’

‘Of course I will. She will be fed and watered well tonight.’ He hobbled over to the stable, remembering how Nasir had snorted in derision when Apion had tried to thank him for warding off Bracchus and Vadim. It was for Maria, not you, he had spat. This was the chance to shut the boy up once and for all.

He pushed up with his crutch, sliding his good leg onto the saddle and then slipping into place. He ran his fingers through the mare’s mane. ‘You and I will teach this arrogant whoreson a lesson today.’ Then he heeled her into a trot.

‘Ride well, but ride safely!’ Mansur called to him as he passed.

Apion turned to him and grinned mischievously. ‘Have you taught me any other way?’

The summer sun was at its zenith as the two boys sped on horseback along the lush green banks of the Piksidis.

The grey mare’s chest pumped frantically. ‘Keep it going, girl!’ Apion yelled, hair whipping back in the rush, throat dry from Nasir’s dust trail. The pony-tailed boy’s mount was growing steadily more distant up ahead and then, as had happened several times already, the boy slowed to stay in sighting distance of Apion and his mare, then hurled abuse and roared with laughter. They were only half a mile from the bridge, the finishing post, when Nasir sped away once more.

He had thought it through last night: in a flat out race Nasir’s stallion would romp to victory, but Nasir didn’t want to just win and win well, he wanted to win in a way that punctured Apion’s pride as much as possible. That, Apion decided, was the one weakness he could exploit.

With his constant dangling of victory before Apion then snatching it away again, Nasir was playing into his hands. Yet his own mount had given everything and had galloped faster than ever, but would she have the energy to execute his plan? The mare glistened with sweat and foam gathered at the corners of her mouth. He felt the beast’s exhaustion as though it was his own, his scarred leg burning from gripping the mare’s flank. He wondered if he should abandon his scheme; what did it matter if Nasir won, he thought? Perhaps the boy would leave him alone if he was allowed his victory. Then he saw Nasir whoop up ahead, punching the air. His brow dipped and he shook his head; no, victory today was a must.

He leaned flat on his saddle, legs cupping the mare’s flanks, arms around her neck, his chin resting on her mane. ‘This is it. Come on, girl!’ The difference was instantaneous. With Apion and his mount at full pelt and Nasir slowing in his certain victory, the gap closed to half in a few heartbeats. ‘Come on!’ he roared, heeling just another drop of power from the mare’s flanks. Nasir turned in his saddle as he slowed to a trot before the bridge, his face stretched into a wild grin that quickly soured as Apion bolted past him.

‘Hey! Ya!’ Nasir yelled, heeling his mount back out of its gentle trot.

Apion burst across the bridge and punched the air, the mare whinnying and rearing to add to the occasion. He panted, breathless from the agony in his leg, but he still managed to offer a smug grin to Nasir as the Seljuk boy trotted over beside him.

‘Byzantine dog! There’s no way you’re having that victory, I could have run that race twice over in the time it took you to gallop flat out in my dust trail!’

‘Yet I finished before you,’ Apion spoke evenly. ‘You held back your mount for your own reasons,’ he stroked the mare’s neck, ‘and so did I.’

‘You’d still never have beaten me if I hadn’t held back.’

‘That’s why you lost though. I stayed as close to you as I needed to. I could have pushed my mount on earlier and led for a short while, but then I would not have won.’

‘You did not win, you tricked me.’

‘Okay, you show me these rules that I’ve broken then.’

Nasir’s face curled into an angry scowl and with a roar he leapt from his saddle and punched into Apion’s midriff, butting the pair onto the grass.

Apion screamed as he thudded down on top of his scar, a blinding light filling his head.

‘Get up! Get up and let’s finish this!’

He heard Nasir’s words as though through a wall of water. Yet he forced himself to stand, pushing up with his hand in the absence of his crutch, head spinning. He saw Nasir’s face drop, ready to dismiss Apion as a cripple again. The fury of it all boiled inside his chest at this and he pushed forward from his good leg, shoulder crunching into Nasir’s stomach and throwing the pair to the ground.

They rolled over and over, fingers gouging, fists and legs flailing. Then they were still, with Nasir sitting on his chest, knees pinning his shoulders to the ground. The boy uttered a roar of pure rage then rained blows on Apion’s face. The dull thudding was quickly accompanied by a metallic wash of blood down Apion’s throat, and with only his good leg for leverage he could offer no defence.

He wriggled until one arm worked loose from under Nasir’s knee. Reaching out, Apion grasped around for something, anything. He ripped a fistful of some weed from the earth, ignoring the searing agony that engulfed his palm to whip the weed up and across Nasir’s face. A pained warbling sounded, as if some creature had been harpooned, and suddenly his chest was free of weight. He rolled around and propped himself up onto all fours. Nasir lay on the riverbank, cursing, one hand cupped over his eyes, the other splashing water on his face.

Apion looked to his hands and the clutch of nettles in his grasp, dropping them immediately. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise they were. . ’

‘A dirty, whoreson, Byzantine move all the way,’ Nasir spoke over him.

Apion noticed Nasir clutching at his belt and an empty dagger sheath. He stepped back in apprehension, then trod on something — the dagger, lying in the grass by his good leg. He picked it up, thoughts spinning out of control.

‘Think you’re brave enough to finish the job do you?’ Nasir growled as he stood, but his stance was uncertain, his eyes on the dagger.

Apion stared at the angry red puffs that were Nasir’s eyelids. Despite his own battered face and stinging hand, he felt no urge to attack the boy.

‘Have your dagger, you fool,’ Apion was startled by the assertiveness of his own words. ‘I’ve got no wish to hurt or. . kill you,’ he spat. ‘Don’t you think I’ve had enough blood in my life?’ The dark door flitted across his thoughts. He tossed the dagger to the ground by Nasir’s feet, then clutched at his prayer rope until the images abated.

‘You have the upper hand and you don’t use it. You’re a fool!’ Nasir spat back, his chest heaving as he regained his breath and snatched up the blade, tucking it into its sheath.

‘No, I’m no fool, I pick my battles carefully,’ Apion snarled. ‘You can hurt me as much as you need to if it will make you feel like the bigger man. I won’t stoop to that level though,’ he paused, realising he was shaking, partly from exhaustion, partly from rage. He jabbed a finger back upriver towards Mansur’s farm, ‘but I would kill you, in an instant, if you were to cause any harm to my family!’ His last word rang in the air and his mouth froze. Guilt snaked around his body and his lips stung. Mother, Father, what have I said?

Nasir blinked open his red-raw eyelids. He squinted at Apion. The tumult of the river was the only noise around; Nasir stood still for a moment and then mounted his stallion and stared upriver, frowning, eyes searching the horizon.

‘We are done for today,’ he spoke softly, and then heeled his mount into a gallop.

That evening, Apion’s body was aching and his nose was still stinging and swollen. Indeed, Maria had kindly told him that he looked like a monster when he staggered in after his race with Nasir. ‘Since when does a horse race involve fists?’ Mansur had sighed; Apion could tell the old man was disappointed in him. ‘Nasir brought the fighting to the race, not me!’ Apion had been indignant; how could Mansur scorn him when he had done nothing wrong?

Despite this, he dutifully helped the pair prepare and then devour a hearty meal of root stew, bread and cheese accompanied by a steaming cup of creamy salep. Then, bellies full, they sat around the fire in a tired silence. When the fire began to dim, Maria volunteered to fetch some kindling for the fire. Apion made to smile at her, to thank her for her cooking but, as so often was the case, she simply issued an exaggerated sigh and looked away from him. He was fond of her, whatever she thought of him. Then he noticed Mansur’s eyes were narrowed in mischief, the old man pulling over and unlocking the tarnished pine box that was always sat in the middle of the table.

‘Now, as you seem to be bent on filling your days with fighting, I’d like to introduce you to a more rewarding pastime. Have you played shatranj?’ He asked, unfolding the box lid to reveal a smooth polished surface of black and white squares that glimmered in the firelight.

Apion gazed over the collection of carved wooden pieces piled at the centre as Mansur laid them out carefully one by one. ‘What is it?’

‘A game,’ Mansur replied.

‘Games are for children,’ Apion shrugged.

Mansur shook his head slowly. ‘This is a game like no other; this is the game of the strategos.’

Apion’s ears perked up. He thought of Cydones. ‘The strategos can wipe the enemy army from the field, can’t he? He’s the man who can win the battle?’

Mansur nodded. ‘He can. He is also the man who can lose the battle and ensure his army is wiped from the field.’

Apion shrugged. ‘A good strategos would not lose to his enemy though.’

‘A good strategos would not engage with his enemy unless he was certain of a victory.’

Apion turned the words over as Mansur put in place formations of opposing black and white pieces, two rows of each on either end of the board. ‘If both sides have equal numbers, how can a strategos know if victory is certain or not?’

‘Good question!’ Mansur smiled. ‘The answer is simple: he must study his enemy, see the weaknesses that may not be immediately apparent. For those unfamiliar with shatranj, the instinctive urge is always to attack, attack, attack, race to victory by brute force. This game lets a budding strategos see, all too quickly, that such an approach often leads to a heavy and embarrassing defeat, and all without a drop of blood being spilled. . and that’s one of the reasons that this game came about, to tame the hot-headed and power-hungry young men who would otherwise take to the field raw and unprepared. To win at shatranj, you must learn to use your mind. The sword comes later.’

The door creaked open and Maria came in with an armful of kindling.

‘You’re not playing that game at this time, Father?’ Maria moaned, resting her free hand on her hip. ‘It’ll be light by the time you’re finished!’

Apion smiled at the familiar tone; so disapproving, so serious but so contrasting to that day, two months ago, when they had raided Kutalmish’s farm. Her poise and tone reminded Apion of Mother when she would chastise Father. He smiled and then blinked away the pain that came with the memory and the increasing guilt he felt as he realised that his thoughts of them were becoming less frequent. He supped at his salep, the sweet and creamy liquid rolling across his tongue like velvet and warming his heart, soothing his guilt. He had grown to cherish the times when the three of them were together like this, the fire crackling in the background.

‘It will be a short game tonight,’ Mansur turned to her with a grin.

‘Well if I have to wake you in the morning. . ’ she said, wagging a finger.

Mansur pulled Maria onto his lap and kissed her cheek. ‘Where would I be without you? You are certainly your mother’s daughter.’

The smile faded from Apion’s face. He saw that lost look touch Maria’s features again, just as it had when she had spoken to him of her mother.

‘Now rest your eyes and your head, dear,’ Mansur continued. ‘You’ve had a busy day.’

Apion watched Maria drop the kindling by the fire and then slink off into her bedroom, her shoulders rounded, hair tousled and her dress smudged with those ever present dirt and grass stains. He wondered quite how she managed to look so scruffy given that it was he who now tended the goats out in the countryside.

‘So the game,’ Mansur stated calmly, tapping the board, ‘is a means of warring without bloodshed. It is not a direct representation of a battlefield, but it allows honing of tactical thought.’ He placed a finger on the tall, central white piece on the back row nearest him. ‘Primarily we are concerned with the kings: they see far across the field, though do not move vast distances; instead, they relay these movements to their troops. Though, vitally, if they are captured then the game is lost.’

Apion sipped at his salep and admired the intricately carved crown adorning the two opposing king pieces placed on the board, watching as Mansur showed the king’s range of movement, one square in any direction.

‘His counsellor stands by his side, barely mobile like his king, he is there to advise and protect. Flanking them is the strength of the war elephants!’ Mansur’s voice inflected his love of the game as he placed the elephant pieces either side of the king and the vizier. ‘They shield their king and his vizier and can move to stave off attacks or charge the enemy with thunderous momentum, although with limited agility.’ Mansur proceeded to place two horse-headed pieces either side and two turreted pieces either side again. ‘The knights are the king’s finest cavalry, able to race in and flank opponents at speed, just like the kataphractoi of Byzantium and the Seljuk ghulam riders. Finally, we have the rooks; they hark back to a bygone age when bronzed chariots ruled the battlefield, able to race from end to end in a single manoeuvre!’

Apion Looked to the uniform pieces on the front row of each side. ‘The front line, they are the infantry, yes?’

Mansur looked up and nodded. ‘The meat of any army. The skutatoi infantry of the themata are the front line for the Byzantines, they take the brunt, they take the damage, unquestioning, unheard.’ He swept a finger to the white pieces on the opposite side of the board. ‘In the Seljuk ranks. . exactly the same. The Seljuk akhi clash with the skutatoi of the empire, they can only rush headlong towards one another, like warring brothers to the last.’

‘Then their only purpose is to die, isn’t it?’ He shook his head at the thought.

Mansur nodded stonily. ‘That is why this game is so vital. Better to take a pawn on the shatranj board than to spill a brave and noble man’s blood.’

Apion looked up, nodding. The old man’s expression was deadly serious.

The fire crackled in the background. Finally, Mansur tapped on the shatranj board; a weary grin worked its way across his lips. ‘Come on now, let’s get this game underway. We don’t want Maria in a rage come the morning, do we?’