Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Reinforcements!’

  Apion turned to see the thick wall of some one hundred skutatoi who had raced from the town barracks, filling the width of the pass like a set of iron fangs. A handful of scout riders raced on the flanks. The caravan had been saved. They had been saved.

  Then he felt Blastares’ grip on his collar again. The big man’s face was purple, his features torn, body still shaking from the tension of the fight. ‘All we ask of you is to bloody well keep up with us! I don’t know what we’ve done wrong to get burdened with the likes of you, but you ever fall behind like that again and I’ll put a blade through you myself. Do you hear me? And what’s the idea of walking around with that bloody Seljuk sword,’ he prised Apion’s scimitar from the dead Seljuk’s chest, then stabbed it into the dust. ‘It’s not the weapon of the empire, and you’re never a soldier of the empire!’

  Apion’s head was already swimming and he could only nod as the blackness set in.

  He heard footsteps rumbling up to him. ‘Leave him,’ Sha shouted.

  ‘Come on, Blastares,’ Nepos added. ‘It’s over!’

  ‘I meant what I said. Okay, he can handle a sword, but he’s not fit to fight for the empire.’

  The words rang in Apion’s head as he passed out.

  ***

  Apion heard the crunch of boots on frosted ground outside; the first watch. The wail from the buccina would be next, then another day in the barracks would be upon him. Patrol was brutal, but training was even harsher, Vadim ever-keen to hurt and humiliate him before the garrison.

  Hearing the mutterings of the watch outside, he clutched his prayer rope and tried to spirit himself away. He drew on the warmth of the blankets and screwed his eyes shut tight and searched for a happy place. He saw farmland, lush green hillocks with golden crop squares and rich brown fallow fields. He tried hard to remember Mother’s scent, the sound of Father’s laughter but it was growing ever hazier through time. He could, however, see Mansur’s tired smile and hear Maria’s laughter echo in his thoughts. Sadness enveloped him that he had parted from them in such a foul-mood.

  Then the buccina wailed and he blinked his eyes open. The barrack block rustled very gradually into life with the usual chorus of gruff swearing. Apion heard Blastares shuffle from his bunk, break wind violently and then scratch himself. Apion steeled himself and swung his legs from his own bunk. Blastares had affixed him with a stony glare.

  ‘You’d better not let us down again. If you mess up, we all take the punishment.’

  He held the big man’s gaze. Every day since the ambush, Blastares had issued this warning. The patrols had been mercifully uneventful and Apion had managed to avoid further mishap. He had tried to offer his sincere apology and gratitude to Blastares for saving him from the caravan ambush, but the big man was simply unapproachable that day. Yet Blastares’ veneer of gruffness belied his underlying piety; after the narrow escape from the ambush, he had forgone ale, wine and meat the following day in penance for the lives he had taken in saving Apion. Apion decided to follow suit to show his gratitude and the big man had almost shot him a less than furious look when he saw this. But training and patrol meant that it was only a matter of time before his weakness would come to the fore and rile the big man again. ‘I can only promise you that I’ll try.’

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Blastares grunted and stood to get dressed.

  ‘Take heart; it’s formation work today,’ Nepos said quietly, ‘we’re readying for when the rest of the thema are mustered.’

  Apion nodded but couldn’t disguise a wrinkle of confusion on his brow as he slipped his padded vest then sat down to pull on his boots, gingerly sliding on the one that seemed to grate at his withered leg, folding the lip down to below his brace. ‘Formation work? Is that a good thing?’

  ‘Well, it means no running; it’s all about timing,’ a semi-grin touched one side of Nepos’ narrow lips.

  Apion nodded, realising how rarely he had seen the Slav smile. His sharp blue eyes always seemed alert and suspicious. Again, he wondered what the Slav’s story was; the man had run from his home thema to come out here, the dusty borderland. He had run from something, but what?

  ‘It’s still bloody torture, mind’ Procopius grunted, ‘especially when the kampidoktores wants it to be, and we haven’t done it since spring, so I expect he’s got a whole lot of pain in store for us.’

  ***

  A crisp day was upon them by the time the winter sun was fully up. The garrison of nearly four hundred, a bandon of infantry and a further clutch of some hundred toxotai archers, was mustered on the flatland of the mountain pass east of the city, near the dilapidated archery range. Apion joined in the chorus of the Morning Prayer, the mountain pass reverberating to the baritone chant. He noticed Bracchus did not participate, instead striding slowly in front of the garrison, eyeing each of them with a disconcerting keenness. Then when it stopped, he whispered something in Vadim’s ear, then retired to the shade, watching with his retinue of giant soldiers.

  Whatever the tourmarches had suggested, Vadim grinned with glee at the sentiment. ‘First, I will tire you out with formation marching: split up into kentarchia, then each hundred men at a time, round the square. Then the real work begins.’

  ‘That’s not so bad?’ Apion muttered, eyes darting around the four crimson-flagged posts dug into the ground marking out a square three hundred feet on each edge.

  Nepos shook his head. ‘It’s good practice. When you’re in a battle, the slightest gap can mean the whole unit can be ripped apart, especially by cavalry. When the thema is mustered we’ll be expected to pass this training on. But it’s not the exercise that worries me, it’s the punishment that bastard likes to give out for the slightest flaw – you know, you’ve bore the brunt of it all too often, and today I get the feeling it’s going to be worse than usual. Now stay tight to those around you and keep pace to the inch.’

  ‘We haven’t done this in a while, so fifty circuits today,’ Vadim roared. The garrison stifled a groan. The infantry bandon split into three groups of just fewer than one hundred men, each headed up by a kentarches.

  Apion watched as the first group marched. They bunched together in a square and the first rank, those wearing proper klibania lowered their spears to form a wall of spearpoints. Those in the second row did likewise while those behind held their spears vertical. At their komes’ order, they set off around the square, every step in perfect time, like a single organism. When they reached the corner of the square they held their shape perfectly, turning in formation without any gaps appearing.

  ‘One!’ Vadim roared as they completed the first circuit of the fifty.

  Apion steeled himself; it was his kentarchia’s turn next and already he could feel his withered leg tiring from standing.

  The unit was approaching the last corner on their fiftieth lap of the square when a collective gasp filled the air as one of the marching men fell from his place, having had his heel trodden on by the man behind.

  Vadim clapped his hands together. ‘Forty lashes for both men. Rations halved for the unit for the next week,’ he said as if discussing the weather. The rest of the marching unit began to look ragged at this but a quick, barked order from their kentarches saw them march on to complete their exercise.

  Then the kentarches leading Apion’s hundred cried as Vadim nodded them forward. ‘Ready, march!’

  Apion felt a welling terror that every step would see him stumble and every man around him would trip him or barge him to the ground. His chest tightened and his breath grew short at the proximity of his fellow soldiers. He bit on his lower lip to distract from the pain in his leg and focused on his step, drawing breath with each pace, exhaling steadily in between. They completed the first circuit and he knew his body would fail him, his leg trembling already. He caught sight of Vadim as they passed him and moved onto the fourth circuit; the big Rus’s eyes were on him like a predator.

  ‘Don’t think about the
fifty circuits,’ Nepos whispered as they came round again.

  ‘What?’ Apion blinked; terrified that he would lose his step.

  ‘Take each circuit in turn, one at a time. Trust me; it’s a mental victory if you can do that.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I’ll never make it.’

  ‘Five!’ Vadim roared out as they passed him again.

  Apion tried all he could to distract himself from the nausea that overcame him, but his vision began to darken at the edges and he saw the man in front’s shoulder blades grow closer and close as he stooped forward, then he felt Nepos and Sha grasp him by the arm either side, righting him just in time. He had been treating each circuit as the last, just as Nepos had advised, ignoring Vadim’s counting. But how much time had passed? He glanced to the sun, it hadn’t moved an inch.

  ‘Thirty eight!’ Vadim roared, a hint of frustration in his voice. At this he forced himself upright, shoulders back, fixing a steely expression on his face every time he passed Vadim.

  ‘That’s it, you show the bastard,’ Blastares grumbled from behind him. Apion felt an initial surge of confidence at the big man’s encouragement, ‘because if you don’t and we all suffer for it, you’ll have me to deal with.’

  ‘Forty nine!’ Vadim shuffled from one foot to the other.

  Apion felt the raw, open flesh of his knee rubbing at the lip of his boot. His skin was bathed in a cold sweat and he knew he had only the next few paces in him.

  ‘Fifty!’ Vadim spat the word. As soon as he had, Blastares bundled forward with a curse, the man behind him having stumbled into him. In an instant, the tight square that had been as one for the last fifty laps was a scrambling mess, men rolling in the dust.

  ‘Ah, we have another call for the lash!’ Vadim perked up instantly.

  The kentarches stood to attention first. ‘Sir, we were finished when we fell out of formation!’

  Vadim stepped forward to stand tall over the kentarches and lashed the pole he held across the man’s jaw. ‘You and your unit are a disgrace. If that happened on the battlefield, the whole army could disintegrate. You did complete the fifty circuits though, so perhaps the lash is not appropriate,’ Vadim scratched his chin and the kentarches looked momentarily optimistic, despite his bloodied lip. Then Vadim nodded with narrowed eyes. ‘No, instead of the lash, your lot will make a fine subject of foulkon practice.’

  The men around Apion broke into a worried rabble. Apion looked around: the other detachments from the bandon and the toxotai looked to their feet at this order. Practicing the ancient tortoise formation sounded reasonable, but then so had the marching practice. The kentarches nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, sir!’ He said to Vadim, then turned to his hundred to bark them into silence.

  The hundred formed into a square again in the middle of the muster yard.

  The kentarches took his place in the front rank. ‘Shields!’

  Apion followed suit as, with a ripple of wood, the men of the kentarchia pulled their shields overhead to form a tiled roof, those at the sides and front locking their shields like a wall.

  His arms were now trembling and the shield felt as heavy as an anvil. They waited under the canopy, sweating, panting despite the freshness of the winter air, while the other two kentarchia and the archers encircled them.

  ‘Just hold tight and don’t let go,’ Procopius hissed at him, eyes wide, ‘and don’t leave any gaps!’

  Apion frowned, then heard Vadim roar. ‘Loose!’

  Something heavy thudded on Apion’s shield and he staggered, his shield slipping from the roof. From the momentary gap he saw a hail of rocks hurtling towards them. Arms shuddering, he forced the shield back up just before the enclosed space inside the foulkon was filled by the crashing rain of stone rapping on their shields, splintering the wood. Then there was a scream where someone had left a gap at just the wrong moment. Then another. Apion screwed his eyes shut tight and grimaced until the hail slowed and then stopped.

  ‘Now perhaps next time you will march in good order?’ Vadim cooed. ‘Now rest and eat your rations. For this afternoon is going to be proper work!’

  Apion lowered his shield. The sun was nearly at its zenith and his whole body was racked with agony. All around him, his kentarchia looked pale and shaken and two men lay prone, moaning, one with a bleeding eye socket, the remains of his eye lying in the sand, and another clutching his shattered forearm. The garrison medic hurried over to the men, his shoulders hunched as if fearing reprimand from Vadim.

  ‘Come on,’ Nepos pushed Apion away, ‘you need to eat and rest.’

  Apion shrugged away from him. ‘I’m fine,’ he lied.

  He walked to the nearby cluster of rocks where the garrison sat to eat, ignoring the blinding pain of every step. He sat on the edge of a rock on his own and made to slide his boot off but stopped when he saw the crimson and glistening flesh around his knee. Then he heard booming laughter; he looked up to see Bracchus, in deep conversation with Vadim, two of his brutes flanking him, their eyes sharp and their fingers drumming on their sword pommels. He realised it at that moment: while he was shackled with this brace and the withered leg he would never be able to get at them.

  ***

  ‘So you know the brief?’ The new protomandator pulled his cloak tighter around him and cocked an eyebrow, breath clouding in the dawn winter air.

  ‘Through the mountains, to the waystation, then hand the papers over to the imperial messenger; same as it’s been for the last two weeks?’ Apion replied.

  ‘You’re okay with that?’ The protomandator’s eyes hung on Apion’s withered leg as if it was plague-ridden.

  ‘I’ll be fine, and so will the package.’ He swiped the hemp sack from the protomandator’s grasp, dropped it in his satchel and left the officers’ quarters. They didn’t care about the messenger who carried the lesser documents to the northern waystation. If they did, they would have afforded him a mount or a berth on a wagon to go round the mountains as they did with the imperial couriers. No, it was cheaper to send a man on foot. So here he was, on this crisp winter morning, dressed in a faded crimson military tunic, green woollen leggings, bare feet – despite the cold – and carrying only his dagger and his satchel.

  He did his best to walk tall as he crossed the muster yard, passing Bracchus and the garrison, formed up for roll call by the sleeping quarters. The tourmarches sneered the first time he saw Apion head out on foot: the last messenger had been killed by brigands as he ran through the mountain passes. But Apion planned on more than survival – he was focused on using these morning sorties to bring vengeance a little closer with every passing day; added to that, he had resolved to prove himself to his kontoubernion.

  The barrack gates groaned open and he felt a freedom as he walked through the empty streets to the town gates, no bustle and no attention on him as he limped. The guards on the battlements had grown bored with hurling abuse at him, cheering whenever he stumbled and whooping when he tripped; now they simply opened the gates for him without comment. Once outside he felt truly alone, feeling only the sun on his face, frost underfoot and a fresh morning breeze.

  He headed north, through the narrow mountain pass that snaked off from the main east-west pass. As usual, he held himself to hobbling until Argyroupolis slipped behind the mountainside. When this happened he stooped to unclip his brace, tucking the device into his satchel. Then he set off again, grimacing, making each stride a little longer than the last. The skin on his withered leg stretched as he forced himself to use the limb’s full length, issuing a fiery pain up his back, but he bit his lip and continued, the absence of the military boots a great relief. He entered the shade of a pass and remembered Blastares’ mocking and worse, the bitter reprimand after the ambush. His skin burned with humiliation, but the big soldier’s doubts over him only spurred him on so far. Then he imagined Bracchus and Vadim delighting in his pain and took an even bigger stride. Since he had enlisted in the garrison, Apion had witnessed the tourmarches send six
men to their ends in those awful death bouts, yet the rank and file of the garrison remained obedient and fearful. His skin stretched taut over his scar and he roared in agony, his cry filling the valley, sending a flock of doves scattering. He doubled over, tears stinging his cheeks. Then he heard Bracchus’ words. Seljuk loving whoreson! At this, his eyes burned like coals as he glared to the end of the valley, imagining the man without his bodyguards, armed but alone. Ready for the edge of Apion’s scimitar. With a roar, he strode forward again, forcing his weak leg to take his weight. His next stride sent a white-hot wave of pain through him; his next seemed to tear him from within. But on the next stride, both feet lifted from the ground. He was running.

  Each morning he had managed this sortie. Every time it had been agony, but each day a little less so and each day he had returned to the barracks just a little sooner. At first, the rider at the waystation had been worried by Apion’s lateness, then on seeing him, thought he had been ambushed such was the sight of his bleeding scar, swollen feet and pale, sweat-bathed features. Apion had refused the man’s offer of help, instead planting the package in the saddlebag, nodding and turning back to begin the return journey to Argyroupolis. On that first day he had barely managed to return to the town before afternoon patrol. Today he swore to himself he would make it to the waystation before the rider, and back to the barracks before midday.