Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘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 alread
y 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?’