Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘So, you are alone?’

  Apion spun up and round, wincing and righting himself on his crutch. It was old Kyros. The old man was just as he remembered: short and slight, wearing a felt cap and padded jacket that reached his shins. His face spoke of a hard life: a crooked nose and a heavily wrinkled, withered chin and teeth that were a motley collection of charred bumps peeking from his gums.

  ‘I am,’ Apion replied. ‘So, you have information for me about this man, the master agente?’

  Kyros smiled and nodded. ‘Yes of course, boy. If you have the nomismata, as discussed, we can talk . . . and I have much to tell you.’

  Apion instinctively moved his hand to pat his purse, hanging by his buttock, but stopped. Something wasn’t right; Kyros stood here in the valley with no horse or wagon nearby. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I got here,’ Kyros grinned, ‘and that is all that matters. Now, the money . . . ’

  Apion’s gut fluttered in unease at the glint in the little man’s eyes. ‘The money is nearby and you will have it when you tell me what you know.’

  At this Kyros erupted in laughter and then shouted towards the bridge. ‘Cockier than a veteran rider, this one, and he’s only a boy . . . a crippled boy!’ At this a whinny of horses and chorus of gruff laughter split the air. Three hulking men in grubby felt vests and woollen leggings moved from under the bridge to flank Kyros and encircle Apion, pinning him to the riverbank. They all bore longswords.

  ‘Ah, don’t mind my men, they travel with me always. Just in case things get a little rough.’

  Then, as suddenly as they had started laughing, all four fell silent and Kyros’ face fell stony. ‘You come into the city asking about the master agente. You are a fool, boy. Nobody knows his identity and only fools seek it. I simply pay my dues to him through his underlings and hope never to stray across his path. I could have raised word of your enquiry and believe me you would be cold and dead long before now if I had. However, I did not. I thought I could take care of this business myself,’ he pulled a dagger from his belt, ‘and take your purse into the bargain.’

  Apion’s skin crawled as the other three drew their swords, grinning.

  ‘Like slaughtering a lamb . . . ’ Kyros purred, then stepped forward and slashed his dagger at Apion’s face. The blade stung like fire, ripping across his cheek. ‘Now, hand over your purse, boy.’

  Shaking, Apion reached round to his belt. Then he hesitated, noticing the glint in Kyros’ eyes, realising that as soon as he handed the purse over, they were certain to kill him, throw his body in the river and carry on with their business. At that moment he felt like such a fool and it was all of his own doing. He had been safe at the farm, with the people who cared for him. Yet he had sought out this meeting, kicked the hornets’ nest. A path that leads to conflict and pain.

  ‘I understand,’ he whispered to himself. ‘But I do have a choice. If I survive this, I will seek another path.’

  ‘What’s that, boy? Come on, hand over your purse and we’ll give you a quick death, tear your throat out maybe.’

  Apion affixed the old man with a glare from under his furrowed brow. His top lip curled into a snarl and he clutched a hand to his belt, but not for his purse. Instead, he grappled the scimitar hilt and ripped it free of the scabbard with an iron rasp. The blade glinted in the sunlight and the four stood back in mock fright.

  ‘Well, now the odds have changed,’ Kyros cooed. ‘Now we have to kill not just a cripple, but a cripple with a sword!’

  The words did not register for Apion; instead he saw only the dark door, the fire behind it growing intense, orange tendrils licking under the timbers.

  Kyros nodded to one of his men. ‘Take that dirty Seljuk blade from him.’

  The big man walked forward and reached out for the scimitar. Apion swiped the blade up, scoring the man’s arm, causing him to fall back with a howl.

  ‘Bad idea, boy.’ Kyros clicked his fingers and the other two men came for him.

  The first of the men hacked down with a powerful blow and Apion could only pivot on his crutch to dodge the blade. Then the second man swiped his blade from the side and Apion ducked just under its arc. He shuffled back as the first man with the bleeding arm rushed in to join them. ‘He’s mine,’ the man spat, then rushed for Apion with a roar, sword arcing to strike. Then Apion saw the moment: the man’s arm was raised, armpit exposed. Crumpling to his knees, he punched the scimitar up with all the strength of his well-trained arms. There was a dull grumble of sinew, cartilage and bone being torn apart and blood showered over him, accompanied by the foul stench of innards. At that moment he saw only the dark door in his mind, smashed back on its hinges, a wall of hellfire on the other side, the knotted arm reaching out like talons into the flames. He heard screaming; only realising it was his own when his lungs were spent. A stunned croaking came from the man, weight resting on Apion’s sword. His scar flared in agony as he pulled the scimitar free and pushed back to standing.

  The other two men were frozen for just an instant and even Kyros’ expression had changed. Then the old man coiled into a crouch and stalked forward with his dagger raised to eye level. ‘So the cripple can use a sword? You will pay dearly for that, boy; it’ll cost me another two coins to hire another to replace him. A slow death waits for you now. I’ll put your eyes out first, then cut out your tongue.’

  At that the two men flanking Kyros lunged for Apion and Apion could only parry each blow, the tremendous power shuddering through his body. His scarred leg weakened with every strike and he was being pushed back, one foot in the shallows of the river. He glanced back and was ready to leap into the water, to let the current carry him away; the weakness of his scarred leg would surely see him drown but at least he would deny these cretins their kill. Then Kyros scuttled round to splash into the shallows. ‘No escape that way, boy. Your eyeballs will burst on the tip of my dagger.’

  Apion parried again but now his vision was spotting over, his strength sapped by his weak leg, and he could see Kyros readying to strike at his unprotected back.

  Then a whinny pierced the air.

  In the gaps between the two big men smashing at him, Apion saw a stallion racing for the melee, a veiled and capped rider flat in the saddle.

  ‘One of you, turn!’ Kyros rasped, eyes widening at the newcomer, but before either of the big men could spin around, the stallion wheeled past them, the rider swiping a sword across the back of one. The stricken man fell, screaming, a section of white bone and pink lung visible in his cleaved back; he shuddered, blood haemorrhaging from his nose and mouth and then he was still. At this the melee broke apart and Apion hobbled from the riverbank, gasping for breath, readying himself for the next attack, eyes darting from the last big man to Kyros.

  As the rider circled to come back, Apion could see the doubt ripple across Kyros’ face. ‘Now it is you who should pray for a quick death, old man.’

  Kyros set his face into a grimace again, then lunged forward. Apion readied his scimitar to parry once more but the old man slid onto one knee and stuck his other foot forward to kick into Apion’s crutch, the wood snapping instantly. Apion felt his own weight pull on him like an anvil and his scarred leg trembled and then buckled. Prone, he saw the big man and Kyros rush for him. He lashed out with his scimitar but the big man smashed his sword down, swatting the curved blade from Apion’s hand.

  ‘Gut him!’ Kyros snarled, darting a glance back to the approaching rider. ‘The horseman’s not going to save you this time, cripple!’

  The big man raised his sword over his head and roared as he hammered it down. Apion felt only sadness at that moment, wishing he could say goodbye to those he loved and had let down. He closed his eyes and heard the whirring of a sling, a thwack and then a gurgling and a thud of something large hitting the ground. He opened his eyes: the last of Kyros’ thugs lay shuddering in the grass, a rock embedded in his temple, grey matter and blood sputtering from the wound.

  Kyros f
roze momentarily, then turned and leapt on top of Apion, pushing the dagger down for his heart. The old man was more powerful than he looked, and all the strength in Apion’s arms was not enough to resist as the blade pierced his tunic and dug into his flesh. He roared as it ground against his ribcage, splintering the bone. He summoned his failing strength to smash his head forward, his jutting brow crashing into Kyros’ nose. With a crack of cartilage and a yowl, Kyros relaxed his grip on the dagger momentarily. Apion grappled for the blade and turned it on Kyros, pushing the old crook onto his back, but Kyros held the blade back, his slight frame belying his strength for what seemed like an eternity until, suddenly, there was a crunch of iron piercing bone and a warm wash engulfed Apion as the blade sunk into the little man’s chest.

  ‘You’ve just signed your own death warrant, boy,’ Kyros hissed, grinning maniacally, teeth flooding with blood. With that, the life left the man, his eyes growing distant as his body stilled. Apion scrambled back, panting, staring at the dagger, embedded up to the hilt in the old man’s chest.

  Apion checked himself. He was drenched in blood with cuts to his ribs, cheek and arms, but there were no mortal wounds. The rider slowed to a trot and stopped beside him. Apion, shivering, looked up as the rider dismounted. He recognised the stallion and the sling, then looked up to the veiled rider’s eyes

  ‘You saved me again, Nasir.’ Apion said.

  Nasir removed the veil from his face, his expression cold as usual. ‘Maria asked me to follow you. She knew you were up to something and was worried for you.’

  ‘Still, you risked your life for me.’

  Nasir’s face finally fell with a sigh of relief. ‘What were you doing, Apion? Chasing these Byzantine Agentes?’ He slid from his mount and crouched next to Apion and handed him a water skin. ‘Why do you pursue this? You said it to me yourself, you have a loving family. Do you know how hurt they would be if you were killed today? And do you know how much you have upset them with this insane quest?’

  Apion nodded, holding the boy’s gaze. ‘I thought I was only a step away from having vengeance for what happened to my parents, Nasir. You must understand how that would feel.’

  Nasir looked guarded momentarily.

  ‘Maria has told me, not in any detail, but I know you lost your mother to the sword.’

  Nasir nodded, glancing away as his eyes glassed over.

  ‘But then I met someone today. She talked to me about choosing a path.’

  Nasir frowned but nodded.

  ‘Now I realise that I will never find the truth I seek. There will be no happy resolution. So I have chosen my path.’ He glanced around the corpses that surrounded them. ‘I am leaving all this behind. My family is what matters.’

  Nasir smiled at him. It was the first time the boy had done so in all the time he had been at Mansur’s farm. ‘I never thought I would say this, Byzantine, but for once, we agree!’

  Apion smiled back then spat on his hand and held it out. ‘I owe you my life. Not just for today. I will be there for you when you need my help. That’s something my mother taught me and that’s the best way I can honour my parents.’

  ‘I’ll watch out for you too. Until we’re both dust?’ Nasir cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Until we’re both dust,’ Apion nodded.

  The pair clasped hands, grinning.

  ***

  A spark of hope touches my soul as I see the two boys, vowing to pursue a life of virtue, but that spark is quickly snuffed out as I see what is to come: Apion will learn to live in the coming years, but the dark future will find him, then fate will be served.

  Part 2: 1053 AD

  11. The Creaking of the Door

  Six more winters passed over Anatolia, each one as bitter as the summers were unforgivingly hot. Five years ago, Tugrul had marched his hordes west and hammered against a staunch resistance from a combined force of the Scholae Tagma, Cydones’ Chaldian Thema and the Armenian themata, led by their loyal princes. Tugrul was stopped but certainly not defeated, yet a deal was struck to put in place a truce. All had been quiet for the next four years with fewer and fewer ghazi raids. Then rumours started of a rejuvenated Seljuk war machine. Far to the east, Tugrul had swamped the lands of old Persia, revitalising the ancient cities and studding the landscape with garrisoned forts. All the armies of the Abbasid Caliphate, once bitterly opposed to Sultan Tugrul’s expediency, were now under his control. The Falcon was now at the helm of an army more numerous than the world had seen in centuries, and people said that now he looked east to Byzantium and south to the Fatimid Caliphate of Egypt, weighing the ripeness of each like fruit.

  Then, as the harsh winter set in again, official word spread across Byzantium like a blizzard: Emperor Constantine Monomachus had seen prudence in effectively disbanding the Armenian themata, the loyal buffer states that had patrolled the eastern lip of the Byzantine Empire throughout the truce. Fifty thousand loyal men at once became estranged to Byzantium. Tugrul’s decision was made for him: The Falcon was set to march on Byzantium and take his glory.

  ***

  High up on the narrow cliff path, sat on the wagon, a winter wind whipped around Apion’s legs, even through the woollen leggings he had bought at market. He lifted the extra cloak and placed it around Maria’s shoulders.

  ‘I’m fine!’ she grumbled. The wagon horses spluttered in a supporting chorus of agitation.

  He replaced the garment with a cocked eyebrow and then drew his own cloak tighter. Then he turned back to the problem: an obstinate rock filled the road, smugly insisting that they turn back. The earthquake had felt little more than a tremor a days’ ride downriver in Cheriana, but up here, he could see the countryside littered with new features: chasms, landslides and rockfall like this. Nevertheless, in Maria’s eyes their predicament was his fault for trying this new shortcut. He hopped down onto the road, wincing as the iron brace around his knee bit at his scar.

  The crutch had been like a living limb to him for that first year at Mansur’s farm but as his body developed, growing muscular and lean from his riding and swordplay, his scarred leg remained withered and underdeveloped, as if trapped in time. Eventually, the crutch had become a burden and another solution was required. So, five years ago, Mansur had paid a blacksmith in Cheriana to smelt a mail vest and use it to mould a brace to the shape of Apion’s knee. The result had been revitalising. Although he was still stooped to one side, slow and easily tired, he could walk without the aid of the crutch and for that he was eternally grateful to the old man.

  And much else had changed for Apion in those years since he had discarded the crutch. Now in his eighteenth year, he had grown broad in the jaw and shoulders, his pleated amber locks draped down his back and the wispy beginnings of a beard had sprouted on his chin. His brow had grown prominent like his father’s, casting his emerald eyes in a permanent shade and his aquiline nose was now even more battered and knotted from his adolescent misadventure. For all the physical changes in his life, Apion was grateful only for the peaceful years he had enjoyed: teasing Maria; indulging in horseplay with Nasir; pushing for that still-elusive shatranj victory over Mansur and relishing his trips around the thema market towns. For this simple and pleasant life he had thanked God every morning and night.

  He hobbled over to the rock: the impact of the thing had created a hairline fracture in the surface of the road, marking out a crescent from the base of the rock to the cliff edge and bedding the monolith into the road surface ever so slightly. He sighed: he was an experienced hand at dealing with problems on the roads and working a deal at the markets; his Seljuk tongue was now fluent and if the trader was from the east then a few words of the native tongue usually clinched a healthy discount. But no amount of experience could have prepared him for the comedy of disasters this trip had been: a splintered wheel, a horse with rampant diarrhoea and then a thief in the market inn who stealthily relieved him of his purse while he played shatranj with the innkeeper. Now this; a rocky path with a towering cl
iff face on one side and a gut-churning plummet on the other. Both he and Maria’s hands were scraped and bruised at their attempts to move the monolith so far without success. The strength of another big lad was just what he needed right now. He thought of his good friend.

  Where are you when I need you, Nasir?

  It had been a long year since the boy with whom he had shared so many days of play and mischief had upped from Kutalmish’s farmhouse and rode east to enlist with the Seljuk riders. The boy had accepted Apion and shared his will to leave the dark past and the death of his mother behind, but his heart burned with a desire for a slice of the glory that the mighty Tugrul was taking in his relentless push westwards. Invasion was the word on everyone’s lips and the pull of war won, dragging Nasir into its midst.