Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart

24. As You Sow

A chill winter wind swept around Trebizond’s market square and searched under Apion’s crimson cloak and thick woollen tunic. His wounds were bandaged and healing well, and the pain had dulled. He weighed the purse in his palm. It had been stripped from the body of Zenobius. The gold coins clunked together, lifeless and cold.

‘Sir, I must leave before sunset,’ the rider said nervously.

Apion looked up. The scrawny lad was mounted and the mules of the fast post were burdened with two wagon-loads of papers and small parcels. Two impatient kursores flanked him, wearing thick woollen cloaks and felt caps and holding spears, their muscular mounts snorting and their breath clouding in the winter dusk.

‘Aye, the empire never sleeps,’ he said with a wry grin, tossing the purse into the lad’s hand.

The rider looked at the purse. ‘Where is this to be taken?’

Apion’s thoughts drifted back to those first days when Dederic had ridden with him. The Norman had won his trust swiftly, proving himself a good-hearted soul. Yet he had blackened his blood by taking Psellos’ gold. Then the Norman had shone once more, at the last, giving his life by way of atonement. So was Dederic a good man poisoned by evil, or an evil man struggling to be good? Darkness or light?

‘To be a man is to be both,’ he muttered absently, a thousand dark memories flashing through his mind, ‘and the struggle is endless.’

‘Sir,’ the rider frowned, ‘the purse?’

Apion looked up, his thoughts falling away. ‘The purse is to go west. Far to the west. Outside the city of Rouen in Normandy, there is a smallholding by a clear brook, ringed by gnarled and aged oaks. A widow by the name of Emelin lives there with her children. See to it that this reaches her uncorrupted.’

The lad nodded earnestly. ‘Yes, Strategos. On my life I will see that it reaches this place.’

Apion stood back from the rider’s path and the mule train clopped into motion, rumbling to the southern city gate.

He watched the train leave and head to the west. From the barrack compound nearby — glowing orange in firelight — he could hear Blastares and Procopius recounting some ribald tale with their comrades. Every passage was punctuated with a roar of wine-fuelled laughter from those they entertained.

Then a biting wind howled over the chatter, and Apion realised the last of the market-goers had retreated indoors to their warm homes. He was utterly alone in the deserted streets of the city and now the sky was near-black. The stars over the eastern horizon sparkled brightest. So much lay out there. The sultan’s vast armies. The empire’s hopes of salvation. But what else?

He reached into his purse and stroked at the dark lock of hair as he gazed eastwards.

Can it be true?

***

Taylan finished the last of his meal of flatbread and cheese, then rose from the table. He pulled on a woollen cloak and opened the door to the bitter, clear night that cloaked the streets of Damascus. A chill draught filled the hearth room of the small house and caused the dying fire to gutter.

‘Come straight back as soon as you have the firewood, you hear?’ Maria called after him. The streets of this vast city were foreign to her and she knew Taylan was but a spark away from trouble. Indeed, he had been foul-mooded since the refugees had arrived here.

‘Aye, Mother,’ Taylan called back.

The door swung shut and at once the room was still and quiet apart from the crackling of the embers in the hearth. Maria washed down her meal with a mouthful of warm salep, before lifting the two plates from the tiled table. Then her smile faded as it fell upon the third plate — clean and unused.

She traced a finger along its edge, her thoughts flitting with images of Hierapolis, of Nasir’s insistence that he should stay. Indeed, he had tricked young Taylan into leaving the city, swearing that he would be following them shortly.

She took the plates to the water barrel, humming a tune from her childhood in an attempt to stave off the unwelcome thoughts. Then she heard footsteps approaching the door. She twisted around, smiling, expecting Taylan to enter. But the footsteps died right outside but the door did not open. Then knuckles rapped on the timbers.

She frowned, then moved to the door, drying her hands on her robe. Something caused her blood to ice as she reached for the handle and opened it. Outside stood a grim-faced and weary akhi. One of Nasir’s men. The man’s eyes told her everything before he uttered a word.

She felt little other than numbness in her heart.

‘I bring dire news,’ he started. ‘Bey Nasir finally confronted the Haga.’ She heard nothing else, seeing only his lips repeating something, his brow wrinkling in concern. He reached out a hand to her, but she stared through him.

Then she realised he had gone. The man had placed one of Nasir’s cloaks, neatly folded, into her arms.

She felt no sadness in her heart, only a raking guilt at its absence.

Suddenly, the room grew warmer, and the dying fire rose into full flame once more.

‘Grief can take many forms, Maria,’ a croaky voice said behind her.

She spun to the corner of the room. In the shadows, a withered crone sat in the wooden chair there. It was the old lady who had nursed her back from near-death, all those years ago after the murder of her father. The crone’s milky-white eyes sparkled in the firelight and she wore a benevolent half-smile. Maria’s heart warmed at her presence.

‘Most grieve for dead loved ones, and that grief comes in floods, thick and fast. But some must watch as those they love die inside, and that grief is long and wearing. You have grieved long enough, Maria.’

The crone leaned forward and reached out to place a hand on her shoulder. Maria felt the weight lift from her heart at this. The crone’s sightless gaze searched hers, and then she felt something being summoned from the recesses of her mind. A rich and treasured memory. For a moment she was there — on the hillside by Father’s farm. The nutty scent of barley hung in the air, cicadas chattered incessantly and oxen lowed in the fields. She heard chattering voices behind her and spun round. Young Nasir was there, climbing up the hill towards her. His cinnamon skin was unblemished with the scars of war, his grey eyes bright and youthful, his charcoal locks swept back into a pony tail and he toyed with a stalk of wheat as if it was his only care in the world. Beside him was another; a smiling, amber-haired boy, resting his weight on a crutch, emerald eyes sparkling as he climbed. Apion!

The image faded. The tears had fallen, staining Maria’s cheeks.

‘I loved both of them once.’

‘They both loved you, Maria. Nasir may have neglected to show you just how much he cared for you, but believe me, he did. As for Apion. . he carries your memory in his heart to this day. And it is Apion you love still, is it not?’

Maria’s gaze fell to the floor at this.

‘Do not trouble yourself with guilt, Maria.’

‘I promised Nasir I would never so much as speak of him.’ She looked up, her eyes glassy. ‘Apion has lived out all these years believing me to be dead, and that it was his doing. I tried to get word to him, but Nasir begged me not to. I granted him this.’

‘A sad day. For that was the start of the long, slow death of Nasir’s soul,’ the crone concluded. ‘But do not loathe your husband for his choices. He made them only to protect you.’

Maria looked to the crackling flames in the hearth. ‘Perhaps those choices were for the best, for I hear that Apion’s life has mirrored Nasir’s.’ She shook her head, a tear dancing down her cheek. ‘Why are men drawn to bloodshed so?’

The crone’s face fell. ‘Just as the sun marches west every day, it is man’s very nature to seek out war.’

Maria’s heart grew heavy at this. ‘Then Taylan will doubtless follow in his father’s path,’ she said, her gaze falling to the floor as she thought of her son.

At that moment, the door opened behind her and the winter chill swept around the room once more. The fire died to a dull glow and the room darkened.

‘Who are you talking to, Mother?’ Taylan’s voice broke the silence.

Maria twisted to his silhouetted figure, then back to the chair in the corner. The crone was gone and in her place was a dancing shadow. In the howling gust outside, the faint screeching of a lone eagle sounded. ‘Nobody, I. . ’

‘Father’s cloak!’ Taylan cut her off, dropping the firewood he carried. For an instant, his face lifted as he searched the room and the bedroom doorways for sight of Nasir. ‘The Byzantines were repelled? The city stands?’ Then his face fell, mouth agape, eyes wide as he saw his mother’s expression. ‘No. . ’

Maria shot to standing and embraced her boy. As Taylan sobbed on her shoulder, he shuddered with grief. In between sobs, she heard muffled growling. ‘The Byzantines will pay for this. I will slay his killer, Mother. I swear it to you. I swear it to Allah!’

At this, her heart froze. The truth that she and Nasir had withheld from the boy could remain tacit no longer. The truth that had riven their marriage from the start and sent Nasir spiralling into bitterness.

‘Taylan, there is something you must know,’ she started.

He pulled back from her, his face contorted in grief and confusion.

As she sought out the words, she searched over his features. His charcoal dark hair, his fine, fawn skin.

His sparkling emerald eyes.

***

I stretch my wings and the zephyrs lift me high above the frozen Anatolian plateau. I look down upon the white-capped mountains like a god. But if any man could take my place they would understand the bitter truth of my existence. Yet I must go to where I am drawn, and on this dark and chill night, I am drawn west, to a place I loathe, for it is infested with the darkest of hearts.

I swoop across a frost-coated forest and then the heavens open, unleashing a driving snow-storm across my path, as if willing me to turn back. But I cannot. I battle through the whiteness until I come to the narrow strait that takes me from Anatolia to Europa. Greeting me on the far shore are the tall and broad walls of the place they call God’s city. Here, I must seek out one man and find out what lies within his soul. .

***

A blizzard howled around the Boukoleon Palace. On one balcony looking out over the sea walls, Psellos stood with John Doukas.

‘It cannot be!’ John spat over the howling wind, thumping a balled fist onto the edge of the balcony, sending settled snow toppling down into the gardens.

Psellos remained silent, gazing stonily through the storm. Just for a moment, the blizzard slowed to change direction, revealing the sea walls. The torches there pierced the night, illuminating patches of the choppy grey surface of the Bosphorus.

‘Our assassins failed? Despite months of planning — he lives?’ John raked his fingers through his hair.

Psellos’ nose wrinkled at John’s panic. The man was just like every other Doukid puppet he had operated in the last twelve years; a blunt and witless character that would do well to stay on his good side. After all, the portatioi act on my word alone. But he swallowed his annoyance and replied calmly; ‘Unfortunately, yes. Romanus will return to Constantinople in the next few weeks, and he will herald the re-taking of Hierapolis.’

‘He will be the people’s new hero,’ John laughed mirthlessly.

‘All we need is another chance — and there will be plenty,’ Psellos offered. He clasped a hand to John’s shoulder. ‘The people will love him for now, but he cannot live off of this victory for long. When winter lifts from the land, he will have to campaign once more. Every stride he takes will be watched by one of our own. Watching, waiting. . ’ he clenched his other fist as if throttling an imaginary foe.

John Doukas’ scowl faded at this, and then his face bent into a determined grimace. ‘Aye,’ he nodded, ‘and the sooner his blood is spilled, the sooner the throne will belong to its rightful owners once more. . ’

Psellos smiled, satisfied that he had his puppet under control once more.

‘We will speak again tomorrow,’ John nodded, then turned and strode from the balcony and back into the palace.

Psellos allowed himself a moment of reflection. So many wretches had died — and died horribly — on this initiative, yet he had not even a bruise on his skin nor a dent on his grip on power to complain about. God’s city, where the emperor reigns as God’s chosen one, he thought with a sense of satisfaction. ‘Then he who chooses the emperor must be. . ’ he started, grinning like a shark.

‘. . a dark soul indeed,’ a voice spoke, inches from his ear.

Psellos stumbled back, startled. Where John had stood moments ago, a cloaked and hooded figure loomed. The storm picked up with a ferocious howl. He panicked, backing up against the balcony edge. An assassin? No, this figure was knotted and withered. The numeros spearman posted on the adjacent balcony looked out to the Bosphorus, seemingly oblivious to the presence of the stranger. His lungs filled to call the spearman, yet his tongue was tied and his voice was but a whisper.

‘Yes, you have something to say?’ the figure asked.

Psellos clutched at his throat. ‘Don’t kill me,’ he hissed.

‘I may or I may not.’ The figure laughed gently and reached up with knotted, aged hands to lower the hood. The puckered, sightless features of a silver-haired hag stared through him. The gale dropped at that moment, the snow falling silently around them. ‘It depends on your answers to my questions.’

Psellos looked around. ‘Then ask me,’ he said in a hoarse whisper.

‘You have grand plans, visions of greatness.’

‘Don’t all men?’ Psellos shrugged, his face expressionless.

‘Your machinations have already brought about the deaths of many, many souls.’

Psellos’ gaze darted nervously across the crone’s face.

She continued; ‘And fate shows me what will come to pass if your scheming continues. On a battlefield far to the east, by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars, blood will be let like a tide,’ she extended a bony finger and pointed it at him, ‘and it will be your doing. Does this please you?’

‘My doing?’ Psellos squared his shoulders and tilted his pointed features haughtily at the crone. He was surprised to find that his voice had returned and thought of shouting to the nearby spearman. Then he touched his fingers to the hilt of the dagger tucked up his sleeve. ‘Bloodshed cannot always be avoided,’ he said, then wrapped his fingers around the dagger hilt, tensing his arm, ‘sometimes it simply begs to be spilled.’ He swung the blade out and round for the sightless crone’s throat. But her gnarled hand shot up to grapple his, shaking the blade from his grip. Then she clasped her other hand around his throat like a viper’s jaws and lifted him up and towards the edge of the balcony. He gasped and spat soundlessly, his legs kicking, his free hand thrashing.

The crone threw her head back, unleashing a shrill cackle into the night sky. ‘So you do not know the meaning of remorse. You are Fate’s pawn indeed!’ At that moment the storm picked up into a ferocious roar once more, hurling the stinging snow horizontally across the balcony, sweeping her hair back from her withered features. Her eyes bulged and her yellowed teeth were revealed in a baleful grin. ‘I have found out all I need to know about you, Psellos of Byzantium. And now. . ’ she started, edging him ever closer to the lip of the balcony.

Panic shook every part of Psellos’ being as he saw the three storey drop onto the flagstones below. For the first time in his life, he was utterly powerless. Then the storm quelled once more, and she set him down carefully. Psellos panted, cupping his throat, trembling in disbelief.

‘Now I will leave you with one musing; as you sow. . ’ she lifted one fingertip to his chest ‘. . you shall reap!’ She jabbed the fingertip into his breastbone as if thrusting a dagger. It burned like fire and he cried out once more, falling to the balcony floor.

As he threw up his hands to shield himself, cold hands pulled at his wrists and he struggled to beat them away, crying out for mercy.

‘Sir?’ a voice pierced the shrieking gale. ‘Sir!’

Trembling, Psellos blinked open his eyes. The numeros had him by the wrists and wore an anxious frown. The crone was gone.

‘What’s wrong?’ the spearman asked as the thick snow whipped around them.

Psellos scrambled up to standing. ‘Get your hands off me,’ he spat, pushing the soldier away. He staggered back towards the doorway, snatching glances up and around at the barbarous storm.

Over the howling, he could hear the faint shrieking of an eagle. As his panic subsided, he frowned, feeling a dull stinging on his chest where she had touched him. He pulled at his robe to see that there was nothing but a coin-sized, blood-red blemish on his breastbone. It itched, but that was all. His terror waned; if this was the worst the crone could do then he had little to fear of her.

His eyes darted across the storm as her words rang in his ears; On a battlefield far to the east, by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars, blood will be let like a tide. . and it will be your doing.

‘So be it,’ he said, a winter-cold grin spreading across his features.