Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

by Gordon Doherty

  He had managed to break into a run after five days of walking the messenger sortie at a quick march. On the first day he had tried it, it was not fast at first, barely more than a jog, every landing on his weak leg bringing a yelp from his lungs. But to his delight, his body numbed after a few hundred strides, despite the blood thudding through his head in protest. It felt like the injury was gone from his body and his stride grew longer, his lungs heaving, a sweat bursting from his brow. The ground underneath him even seemed to level out, his limp ineffective. He had woken the next day with calloused and bleeding feet and his scar wept and stung with a pain he had never known before. Yet that second day, he did it all again.

  Each day he pushed himself just that bit more. The pain later on was doubled and his feet were calloused and raw because of that little extra effort but he continued and now, on the fifth day of running, he sought out that pain. He welcomed the agony, seeing it as the death throes of the feebleness that had shackled him in life until now.

  The floor of the mountain pass closed up before him into a series of jagged limestone steps like a winding staircase. With a roar, he lunged onto the first, then up onto the second, then the third. Then he stopped counting until he reached the peak, where he hurtled along the ridge of a small mountain and heard only the wind whistle past his ears, barely noticing the angry grey clouds gathering above.

  Along with the numbness in his limbs, he felt a great wash of cool clarity in his mind. All the musty, lingering self-doubt, anger and frustration seemed to be washed away with it, leaving only a shimmering goal in his mind’s eye. I will run, I will prove myself, he swore, I will make Mother and Father proud, I will take vengeance in their name, his heart hammered and tears stained his cheeks, feeling a surge of fresh energy at this point before he descended back into the next mountain pass.

  The scree slope forced him to slow to almost walking and he felt his mind cloud over again. The pain would come racing back if he slowed down too much. He tried to keep his eye on his footing, when the piercing scream of an eagle startled him. He shot a glance up, seeing only the bulging clouds, then felt his foot lodge in the rubble and at once he was tumbling. The scree slid under him and he grasped out for purchase, rolling out of control. Finally, he stopped, dust catching in his throat, palms cut and stinging. Prone, he looked back up the slope. Something was wrong. Something quivered in the dust where he had fallen. An arrow shaft.

  Fear shook him and cramp gripped his muscles almost immediately. He pressed flat down and scrutinised the mountainside on either side of him. Nothing. Then he heard a whinnying, racked with pain. He leapt to his haunches and drew his dagger, wincing as the scar seared violently, the numbness deserting him. The whinnying sounded again. It was coming from the shallow dip in the track to his left.

  Limping over the scree, he gingerly peered into the dip, when a blurred figure uttered a roar and then a flash of iron sent him sprawling backwards. He scrambled to his feet, dagger extended, expecting the figure to come rushing from the dip and at him. Instead, a pained scream rang out, followed by a whimpering.

  He stalked forward again, braced this time, ready to come down on top of the figure, but he dropped his stance when he saw a mare, eyes rolling in terror, on its side, its two front legs snapped, shards of bone stabbing out from under the flesh. Pinned under the horse was a dark-skinned and moustachioed rider, his eyes cobalt blue but bloodshot, his hands trembling, clutching a short stabbing sword. A discarded bow lay a few paces from the man.

  ‘You fired on me?’

  ‘Stay back, Byzantine, don’t come any closer. You’ll regret it!’ He growled, his breath coming in short gasps as the mare’s weight pressed upon his chest.

  Apion slipped into the Seljuk tongue with ease. ‘Why would I? You’ve fired your last arrow,’ he panted, nodding to the empty quiver on the ground, ‘and you missed.’

  ‘You speak Seljuk?’ The man seemed perplexed, eyeing Apion’s military tunic. ‘Yet you are surely an imperial soldier?’

  Apion blinked the sweat from his eyes and tried his best to disguise the rafts of stabbing pain that seemed to be marching over his body. ‘Well most of us struggle to speak one language, I’ll give you that . . . ’

  The Seljuk cut him short. ‘My unit will be back this way anytime. You’re a dead man if you try anything.’

  Apion knelt on his good knee to relieve his pain. He had not eaten his ration as he normally would have by this time in the morning and his body seemed to shake with weakness. He took a look at the mare – a middling pony – and the man’s garb. He had a bow and arrow and a simple sword, he was unarmoured. A scout, surely. A lone scout.

  ‘Well I’ll take my chances. Now look, your mount has had it, but I can get you out from under her. We’ll go our separate ways after that?’ As he finished speaking he felt a lightness in his head swell into a distinct haziness.

  ‘You’ll save me?’ The Seljuk seemed puzzled.

  Apion thought of Nasir, the times the boy had saved him. He nodded with a half-smile at the memory, only partially aware of the black spots closing in around his vision. A sudden thirst overcame him.

  ‘Well I can only trust in you, but you don’t look like you’re capable of lifting a drink, Byzantine, never mind shifting a horse.’ The man’s brow furrowed, eyes fixed on Apion.

  Apion patted his shoulder for his satchel, looking for his water skin, but as he did so, nausea swept across his flesh and through his stomach, then a black wave closed over him.

  ***

  He blinked. The world was on its side. His body still ached but his nausea was subsiding, his mind sharper. Then a dark-skinned hand thrust the lip of a water skin to his mouth. He scrambled up to sitting. The Seljuk recoiled, still pinned under his mare; he had stretched just enough to reach Apion.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Apion noticed that his neck and chest were soaked.

  ‘Making you well,’ the Seljuk replied.

  ‘Why?’ Apion checked for his dagger; it was still there.

  ‘So you can save me? You feel stronger now, yes?’

  Apion could not deny the tingling sense of focus that seemed to be pushing away the sickness that had engulfed him just a moment ago.

  He took more of the water, then pushed himself to standing and gulped down a few cool breaths. Then he worked his way round to the other side of the mare, avoiding her flailing and mangled limbs. He saw a piece of rope hanging from the saddle and snatched it clear, then hurled it over the mare’s body. As he did so, the first dark splodges of rain began to mark the ground around them.

  ‘Pass it through to me,’ he gestured to the Seljuk.

  The man winced and moaned as he batted the end of the rope under his mare’s body as she flailed. Apion grabbed the end and made a loop. Then he braced his bad leg against a boulder. ‘Ready yourself.’ The Seljuk nodded. Apion heaved. The mare’s whinnying was tortuous and he felt pity stab at his heart as he dragged her front half towards him. The strain was agonising for Apion, and the beast barely moved under his pull, but was agitated enough to kick out with her back legs, and this was enough to push her whole body off of the Seljuk.

  ‘I’m whole!’ The Seljuk yelped.

  Apion dropped the rope, panting as the man stood gingerly, stiff at first, then stretching tall. Then he dropped to his knees, facing south-east to spread out his arms before him, head bowed, in prayer, oblivious of the now battering rain.

  Then the man stood, his face solemn, and walked towards Apion, drawing his sword up above his head. Apion braced in shock, then the sword came down and plunged through the mare’s chest, bursting her heart. In an instant, she was lifeless.

  Apion felt relief for the poor beast.

  ‘A good companion, she was.’ The Seljuk’s eyes were misty as he smoothed her mane. Then he looked up to Apion, holding up his hemp sack. ‘My name is Kartal. I have food.’ He blinked the rainwater from his eyes and nodded to a small cave nearby. ‘Before we go our ways, will you shelter and
eat with me?’

  ***

  Apion had added his bread and dried fruit to Kartal’s rations of plump olives, dates and cheese. Despite that odd burst of energy Apion had felt, his stomach roared for attention. They watched the rain’s fury without speaking as they gorged on the food and then drunk their skins dry. Bellies full, he snatched glances at the Seljuk. The man was probably a good ten years older than he, and seemed far more comfortable with the silence. He picked up a shard of rock; it seemed to shimmer like the cave itself.

  ‘Silver,’ Kartal said, ‘a rich seam as well.’

  Apion turned the rock in his hand. He knew there were some mines down nearer the town, having passed their entrances, but up here was relatively untouched. He wondered at the possibilities.

  ‘Iron too,’ Kartal added, ‘another reason for the Sultan to fix his gaze on this rugged land.’

  Apion put the rock in his satchel and looked up at Kartal. The Seljuk was eyeing him.

  ‘You could have killed me, taken my things.’ Kartal spoke softly.

  ‘Then your scouting party would have come back and killed me for it,’ Apion grinned.

  ‘There is nobody else here, as you well know,’ Kartal smiled back. ‘I am a lone scout rider and no more. I am still struggling to believe I have been saved by my enemy.’

  Apion smiled and shook his head, tugging on his amber locks. ‘I may be a Byzantine-Rus halfbreed, as far from Seljuk blood as you can imagine, but I’ve got, shall we say, a chequered past. My family, they are Seljuk. I have no vendetta against the Seljuk people.’

  Kartal shook his head and sighed. ‘Then you have not been in this conflict long enough.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Apion frowned.

  ‘My mother was half-Greek,’ Kartal grinned, pointing to his striking blue eyes, ‘my eyes tell her story! When she married my father, she let her customs and culture sift into the past, embracing the Seljuk way of life. But she taught me much of the western peoples,’ he paused, then continued to speak in Greek, ‘their tongue, their past, their flaws and their wonders. I once thought I loved all peoples equally. Then, eight years ago, I joined the Falcon’s ranks. I have seen much since then that makes me doubt everything I once believed in. Sometimes I forget why I joined.’ Kartal eyed him. ‘And you, with your background, why did you bring yourself under the imperial banner?’

  He thought of Father lying on the floor, protecting Mother’s corpse while the Seljuk raiders hacked at him like butchers, the veiled Bracchus watching it all. His mood blackened and the dark door cast its shadow on his thoughts. ‘It’s a calling,’ he replied, ‘I don’t know where it’ll take me yet.’

  ‘Does any man know where he is headed?’ Kartal chuckled and looked up into the sky. ‘It seems when we are lost we inevitably end up in conflict.’

  ‘What does your god say about it?’ Apion asked tentatively.

  ‘Remember, he is your god as well. I love him and devote myself to him. He tells us to love and respect one another and I search for this in God when I pray. He tells us to fight also; I’m not so sure I want to hear this from him.’

  Apion eyed his prayer rope. ‘I pray to God, but I cannot help but question him too. I may be new to the war between our peoples, but many dreadful things have happened in my short lifetime.’

  Kartal nodded respectfully. ‘I understand. Every man has his own journey, his own take on faith.’

  They talked of their lives away from the military until, eventually, the din of the rain quietened, easing to a light shower. He thought of his duties; the imperial rider would be approaching the waystation soon. The pair stood and went outside.

  ‘I fear I have a long trek to get back to my camp,’ Kartal looked wearily over his shoulder to the pass heading east and then down at his bare feet. ‘Still, some of this will keep me strong,’ he lifted a verdant and almond-shaped leaf from the chest pocket of his robe, popped it in his mouth and began to chew. ‘You seemed to like it too?’

  ‘You put some in the water?’ Apion clicked, scrutinising the leaf. ‘It seemed to give me focus when I had none. What is it?’

  ‘Betel, it strengthens the spirit and focuses the mind, but only temporarily. Take a leaf and flake it in water or place it under your tongue and let the juices soak out slowly or chew when you need a boost. As I say, it only works for a short while but it will help you,’ he gestured to Apion’s withered leg, ‘when your body weakens. Also it will soothe your joints so you won’t feel like you’ve been trampled by a pony in the morning!’ Kartal lifted a stack of five leaves from his pocket and offered them to him.

  Apion took the betel leaves, placed them in his satchel and then held out his hand. ‘We part as friends, Kartal.’

  ‘We do,’ Kartal grinned. ‘I hope – and I mean this as a friend – that we never meet again. For the battlefield is calling my people and yours. War is long overdue, like a thunderstorm.’

  Apion nodded solemnly. The two continued about their journeys.

  16. The Haga

  Keep your head down!’ Sha spat at him.

  Apion was flat already; face pressed into the hot, dust-coated rocky outcrop, jutting from the sheer mountainside, the summer sun cooking the five where they lay in hiding like nesting vultures in this narrow pass. The air was treacherously still and he could hear the Seljuk hooves echo through the rocky pass below, the rocks under him vibrating from the movement.

  ‘At least forty of them, Dekarchos!’ Blastares whispered from above. Apion twisted his neck around to see the flushed features of the big man jutting out from the overhanging outcrop. He flicked his head towards Procopius. ‘Me and the old bastard could take out ten with our bows, maybe more?’

  ‘Then what – we become target practice for them? No, we keep our heads down!’ Sha hissed, his voice almost crackling into an audible level.

  The dekarchos’ face was drawn and his eyes bloodshot. He had sensed the recent raids were building into something more. Yesterday afternoon, not long after they had slaked their thirst by a mountain stream, they noticed a dust cloud behind the mountain ridge to the west, cutting off their patrol route back to Argyroupolis. All hopes of it being a caravan or travellers were dashed with the glint of iron. Raiders this far into the borderlands were always there for one reason only: to wreak havoc, to slaughter patrols, to disrupt the empire’s borders and weaken Byzantine hearts. But these riders were different, they carried with them maps and he had seen them survey the landscape keenly. Sha was right, these were no mere raiders, they were on reconnaissance. A prelude to invasion if ever there was one.

  For a full day the five had skirted around the raider party, keeping out of sight, hoping to stay with the party until another Byzantine patrol was nearby. Though after a further morning, their ration packs were empty like their stomachs. They had to break off unseen and return to base. Just when it looked as if they might be able to do that, by inching up onto the walls of this pass to let the Seljuk party ride through the floor of the pass, they had watched in dismay as the riders cantered into the pass and stopped to make camp by the stream that snaked along the ground.

  One of the Seljuk riders dismounted, pulling a loaf of bread from his saddlebag and tearing at it with his teeth. Apion hadn’t eaten since dawn yesterday. His belly turned over with a hollow groan. He clasped a hand to his side and winced as Sha shot him a foul glare.

  Apion pulled a betel leaf from his pocket and placed it under his tongue, perhaps it would help him focus through the distraction of hunger. He watched the Seljuks: a few started pulling at dried roots and brush for a fire – no doubt to cook up some salep. These men were ghazi riders, light cavalry; their strength was in their speed, perfect for hit-and-run tactics, to leave a bloody trail in their wake and sap morale from their enemy without ever engaging in pitched combat. In saying that they were probably as well armoured and armed than any of the five skutatoi: each of the riders wore a padded quilt vest, a fine composite bow and quiver slung over their backs along with
a short lance. Scimitars and lassos hung from their belts, and some also had a hand axe or a war hammer hanging there too. Finally, a glint of iron dagger hilt peeked from the lips of their leather boots. These men were certainly not poorly equipped skirmishers.

  Then something caught Apion’s eye: it was the Seljuk commander, bearded with sun-darkened cheeks, wearing only a felt vest over leggings and boots, his hair knotted to the back under a felt cap. Unlike his men, he seemed distracted, wary. He crouched by the water, dipping his hands in. He splashed the liquid over his face and then seemed to stare at the reflection on the surface. Then at once he shot up, eyes scouring the lip of the pass. Apion ducked just before the commander’s eyes ran past the position of the hidden five.