Nasir’s face paled and his eyes darted around the ground in puzzlement. Then he looked up to glare at Apion. ‘Then you must break the hold he has on you, you must remove the threat.’
‘Sir, we must be going,’ the wagon driver yelled through the downpour.
‘Bracchus is a shrewd operator but I will do everything in my power to do that. You know I will. I promise you, they will not be harmed.’
He held Nasir’s gaze as he walked backwards and hoisted himself onto the wagon.
Nasir remained, wide-eyed, fixed on Apion who stared back likewise as the wagon trundled off to the east.
19. The Assassin
The first day back at Argyroupolis saw the summer heat return with a vengeance, the ranks of the mustered thema seeking respite from the baking sun inside the sea of pavilion tents. Meanwhile, inside the town barrack compound, a newly-formed bandon readied to stand before its komes and the strategos for the first time.
Apion stood in the centre of the muster yard, boiling inside his plumed helmet, cloak, klibanion, tunic, leggings and boots, tongue welded to the roof of his mouth as his bandon formed up in front of him. Flanking him was a buccinator bearing his bronze horn, a drummer and a standard-bearer. Behind him stood Cydones, Ferro, Bracchus and Vadim. This was his first address to his men and he had been dreading it all morning.
The first file lined up, shields freshly painted with the Chi-Rho and a crimson backdrop. At this point he felt okay, but then the next file lined up, then the next and the next, his heart clenching at every one. In all his men numbered just over two hundred with the last six files depleted of their full complement. The majority of these men had been mustered from their farms by the strategos over the last year and each bandon was carefully seeded with members of the garrison, tasked with disseminating drill, tactics and procedure.
Finally, his unit was fully formed, front ranks glistening in the scarce klibania and helmets, the rest in felt caps and padded vests and jackets. He resolved to address the poverty of equipment – so stark in comparison to the well-equipped Seljuks he had encountered – when the time was right.
To a man they stood before him in silence, eyes forward as protocol demanded, but he caught many of them snatching glances at him and the white sash around his torso. While the garrison soldiers loved him, the newly mustered men would surely have their doubts, waiting on the words of this young lad promoted from the ranks, eager to dismiss him or keen to see his words stutter and fail. Sha had warned him about that. He cupped his hand firmly round his helmet, resting his other hand on his sword hilt. His words seemed to be stuck somewhere deep down and the silence crept on his skin. Then he ran his eyes over the front rank of dekarchoi from left to right; Sha, Nepos, Blastares and Procopius stood front-centre, newly promoted and bristling with pride. They wore their best soldierly expressions but their eyes were on him. Then Sha gave him a disguised nod of encouragement. The four were with him.
At that moment he knew the bandon would follow him.
He called to the skutatos holding the bandon standard and took hold of it. The wooden staff bearing the Christian Chi-Rho emblem on crimson cloth had three coloured tails: crimson for the thema, gold for the tourma and crimson again for the bandon. His bandon. He hoisted the standard into the air and glanced up, seeing the shimmering sunlight dance through the frayed edges of the prayer rope on his wrist and illuminate the stigma of the Haga on his forearm. He filled his lungs.
‘Nobiscum Deus!’
The men of the bandon were silent only long enough to suck breath into their lungs, then they barked back with gusto.
‘Nobiscum Deus!’
***
The first address over, the bandon broke up, heading back to the sleeping quarters to polish and hone their armour and weapons. Apion kept his stance true and proud as he marched back into the bunk area. As a minor officer, he would still live with the rest of the men and he was glad of that.
‘You held yourself well out there, sir.’ A voice spoke as he stepped into the shade indoors.
Apion turned to Sha, still not used to the African referring to him as an officer. He glanced around: only Procopius and Nepos were nearby. He let his lungs empty and his shoulders sag a little but he resisted the urge to show too much complacency. ‘Aye. It was good to see you in those lines though.’ At this, Nepos gave a wry hint of a smirk and Procopius issued a baritone chuckle.
‘It’s hotter than the bloody sun out there!’ Blastares croaked as he sauntered into the bunk room, his scowl shimmering with sweat. He lifted an arm to sniff his armpit and then winced, choking at his own stench. ‘Cotton tunics, that’s the way ahead!’
‘If we had them in the storeroom then you’d all have one by now,’ Apion nodded, ‘but the last supply train was all essentials: grain for the rations and ore for the smiths.’
‘Yes, war dictates,’ Nepos added.
‘Whatever. I just pity the poor bugger who has to march behind me,’ Blastares chuckled, uncorking his water skin and sucking thirstily on the contents. Then he stopped, belched and grinned wryly at Apion. ‘Oh yes, . . . sir,’ Blastares was still getting used to Apion’s new rank, ‘I’ve got bad news; that whoreson wants a word with you.’
Apion followed Blastares’ nod outside; Bracchus stood with Vadim in the centre of the muster yard, deep in conversation.
‘Something about going out with a detachment from the bandon. Today, unfortunately.’
Apion nodded in silence.
‘He’s got it in for you, sir,’ Procopius said. ‘Be on your guard.’
Apion looked to his trusted four. They had surely noticed the artificial obedience he had shown Bracchus. They knew something was wrong. But this was his battle and his alone.
‘Then I have my first sortie,’ he flicked his eyebrows up, trying to sound casual as he made for the doorway.
The cicadas trilled like an unseen army as he emerged again into the white heat of the afternoon, his skin stinging at the dryness of the air. As he approached, Bracchus looked up, breaking off his words with Vadim. The man’s features sharpened under the shade of his helmet. He saw Vadim off with a hand on the shoulder and then beckoned Apion with a grin.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ Apion stopped a few paces from the tourmarches and adopted the over-the-shoulder stare into the distance that Sha had taught him. It avoided confrontation, apparently.
‘You’re going on scout patrol today, komes, with a detachment from your new charges.’
Apion remained firm and focused on a two-storey tenement at the other side of the town but a blur in his peripheral vision marked the gathering of sixteen men. He nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I await my briefing, sir.’
Bracchus’ grin widened. ‘Good, I see our understanding is mutual. I command, you obey.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Apion barked.
Then Bracchus leant in. ‘You have your first job to do for me. There is a young lad you will be marching alongside, by the name of Sidonius. You see him, the shaven-headed one? Seems his father would rather not pay his debts. Shame he doesn’t realise his boy has been posted to my tourma.’
Apion broke his stare and shot a glance at Bracchus, then around at the forming men. Mostly veterans, going by their scars and otherwise lined faces. Then there was the odd one out: slight, shaven-headed and sporting a set of caterpillar-like eyebrows. Sidonius was busying himself tying on his padded corselet, trying to keep up with his colleagues. The lad looked nervous. Apion felt a horrible apprehension that those nerves were all too appropriate.
‘You go out from the town today as a sixteen. You return as a fifteen.’
Apion’s blood chilled. Never, a voice rasped in his mind. What kind of nightmare was this?
‘Don’t engage your mind.’ Bracchus’ words were icy. ‘That will only lead to one thing. All it needs is my word. Just one word and they’re dead.’
Apion’s mind swam. His stomach heaved and every muscle wanted to engage: to prise Bracchus’ chest open w
ith his dagger and rip out his heart; to scream warning to Sidonius; to shout and shout until Cydones, Ferro, Sha, Nepos, Blastares and Procopius came running with their swords; to roar so loud that Nasir would hear him and come too, so loud that Mansur and Maria would hear and run for safety. He turned back to Bracchus and not a sound escaped his lips as he held the tourmarches’ glare. He swallowed the sickness inside. He thought of Mansur and Maria.
‘Yes, sir.’
***
‘Keep pace; focus on your breathing, not the heat!’ He roared, his words echoing through the mountain pass. He remembered the early days of his running routine and sympathised with his men; they would be feeling the burning in their muscles, the fire in their lungs, the afternoon heat like shackles, but he could not show anything but steely resolve to them. The veterans behind him were good soldiers it seemed, silent and steady, yet to fall out of line even once. Then, at the rear there was Sidonius. The soldier was red in the face, panting and spitting phlegm every hundred paces or so.
‘Keep it up at the back!’ He growled. The men seemed to respond to gruff and booming tones more readily.
They continued at the unrelenting pace until the sun was starting to drop from its zenith and the path came out of the eastern side of the mountain and into a wide, dusty plain. He saw the sizeable palm thicket, the usual stopping point for patrols to the east, the babbling of the spring in its shade audible over the panting men. Apion raised a hand and croaked: ‘fall out to slake your thirst and fill your skins.’
They approached the palm thicket, shading a series of man-sized limestone boulders and the spring. The soldiers dropped their ration packs with a groan, some too tired even to drink from their skins, others kneeling to cup handful after handful of water. Apion strolled in behind them, welcoming the cool shade offered by the broad fronds. He ached to sit but his mind would not rest.
He eyed Sidonius. The refreshed skutatoi started to poke around in the thicket, bantering about the possibility of finding fruit, the young, red-faced soldier went off in his own direction, climbing over the first boulder then dropping down behind it into the thicket and out of sight. Apion’s heart ached, for the lad was as shy and ill-prepared for life in the thema as he had been just over a year ago. Yet only a short time remained before they were due back at Argyroupolis. There would be no other stop, no other opportunity. Opportunity? He almost retched at the word. He closed his eyes and searched for an answer. Mother and Father were not there in the darkness. Mansur was not here to offer his sound advice, nor was Cydones. Apion was alone. Do it for them, he reasoned, desperate to feel some sense of justification.
‘Fill your water skins and then we move out again,’ he barked to the men.
While the rest of the sixteen groaned, Apion’s face fell stern and he stalked over to climb the boulder heap. The current of the spring grew into a gurgling, then a gushing, as he dropped onto the bed of pebbles on the other side. Only a patchwork of sunlight made it through the canopy of leaves overhead and a musty tang of rotting vegetation entered his nostrils, an oddly welcome change from the arid air of the march. He saw the lad, crouching by the source of the spring, washing the dust from his face, but staring into the water, his eyes heavy and sad. Then Sidonius picked up a pebble and plunged it into the water, his face forming a scowl. Apion wondered if he could find some reason to believe there was sufficient badness in the lad to vindicate what he had to do next. His fingers trembled as he touched his sword hilt, his breath shallow.
‘Sir, you startled me!’ Sidonius leapt to standing, eyes wide but with a grin stretching across his face.
Apion stopped, only paces from the lad. He noticed Sidonius’ eyes fall on his hand, fingers resting on the scimitar hilt. Shame crept over his skin.
‘God walks with us, eh, sir?’ Sidonius pointed to the prayer rope on Apion’s wrist, then lifted the length of rope he wore around his own neck clear of his clothing. ‘I have prayed that war will not come, as I fear for my family if it does.’
Apion’s heart slowed, his head cleared. There would be another way. There had to be. Surely he could get back to the barracks and engage Cydones immediately, explain everything. But almost immediately, doubts muddied his chain of thought; the Agentes are answerable only to the emperor; by the time you have spoken to Cydones, Bracchus will know you have failed and the order will be given. He shook his head clear of the squabbling and fixed his eyes on Sidonius.
‘War is here, soldier. Praying will not change it. You are here now and you can fight to protect your family. But you need to build some muscle though; believe me, I know.’ He rummaged in his ration pack, but there were no betel leaves in there and there hadn’t been for some weeks now. Instead, he pulled out his last almond, oil and honey cake, breaking it in two and offering one part to Sidonius. ‘Are you hungry? This will keep your energy up, and it tends to stave off thirst too.’
‘Aye, my stomach is bottomless it seems.’ He nodded to the crumbs scattered atop his own pack by the spring. ‘We could stop for the rest of the day and I don’t think I’d be able to take in enough water or food.’
‘Ha - maybe you could hide in here! There’s enough fruit and water for a man to live on?’ He joked, and then wondered at the possibility. You go out from the town today as a sixteen. You return as a fifteen.
Sidonius did not reply, his face riddled with guilt.
‘You didn’t come in here to eat, did you? You came to slip away.’
The lad’s shoulders slumped and he held out his hands. ‘I’m not cut out for army life.’
‘When you’ve signed up, you have no option.’ Apion kept his face stern.
‘I’ve tried, but I feel like a child amongst all these veterans. My father is a rich farmer in Trebizond, but I am not cut out for that life. So I came here to prove I was more than a rich man’s son, but I don’t fit in here either.’
‘I see,’ Apion sighed. ‘Then you’ve answered the question already. Run for home and you will not find happiness. Stay here and at least you can protect your family by protecting the borders. Neither option is pleasant, but the latter is the correct one.’
Sidonius’ head dropped and he kicked out at a pebble. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry, sir, for being weak, I mean. I am sorry I spoke of this. I will not show such weakness again.’ He stepped forward to pick up his pack and leave the spring.
Apion stepped forward and grabbed his wrist. ‘Sidonius, wait. There’s something you need to be aware of. When we get back to the barracks. You are in danger.’
Sidonius’ eyes widened and then he tried to laugh it off but stopped as Apion’s expression remained firm under his jutting brow. Then panic set on the lad’s face. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m in as much danger as you. It’s the tourmarches.’
‘Officer Bracchus?’
‘You have not been here for a week yet, Sidonius, but you have probably heard the rumours already; he has no honour and his heart is black.’ His expression intensified and his grip on Sidonius shoulder grew vice-like until the lad’s face wrinkled in fear. Then a thud shook the pair, followed by a gurgling. Sidonius’ eyes grew wide and a hot crimson spray jetted from his mouth and nostrils, covering Apion’s face. Apion stepped back, mind spinning. Had the fire behind the dark door made him do it without realising? He leapt back and touched a hand to his sword hilt and dagger – both were still sheathed, but doubt laced his veins as he noticed his sword arm: knotted, scarred, sun burnished and adorned with the red stigma of the Haga.
Then his eyes locked on the arrow quivering in the lad’s neck, arterial spray fountaining from the wound. Sidonius grasped at the arrow shaft, mouthing silent cries for help, before slumping to his knees, his eyes distant. By the time the lad’s body crumpled onto the pebbles, Apion was crouched and scanning the undergrowth, a rhiptarion held horizontally, eyes narrowed. Then he saw a figure in the foliage: a Seljuk archer, fumbling for another shaft, darting glances at his weapon and then up at Apion. The
Seljuk raised his bow just as Apion launched his throwing spear. With a thwack of cracking ribs and a shower of blood, the Seljuk was thrown back into the foliage. Apion dropped shield and spear and leapt into the green, whipping his dagger from his belt to land on the man, who was already shivering in his death throes, pink foam bubbling from the javelin wound, the cotton vest the man wore useless from a strike at such close range. Apion held his dagger to the Seljuk’s throat but the light in the man’s eyes was already dimming. Then a cry rent the air.
‘Allahu Akbar!’
Then the same cry rang out in a hundred foreign tones all around the thicket, followed by a chorus of swords rasping from their scabbards. The ground rumbled and Apion’s eyes narrowed on the foliage all around him, his skin anticipating the first lick of a sword blade or arrowhead. Then it happened. A scimitar split the air above his forehead and he ducked just as a Seljuk swordsman chopped the weapon down into the bark of a palm. Apion then leapt up to crunch an uppercut into the man’s jaw, sending teeth spraying across the spring. The Seljuk pulled his scimitar free of the bark and jabbed at Apion, who leapt back just too late, but his klibanion saved him, the blade chinking from one of the iron plates. Apion grasped for his own scimitar, then pulled his hand back from the hilt with a roar as the Seljuk’s blade tore across his knuckles. The Seljuk came again and again, ripping the blade past Apion, scoring the flesh on his forearms as each strike came closer. At either side, more and more Seljuk fighters poured into the thicket, ignoring the duelling pair and heading for the other fourteen skutatoi. Between parrying blows he shot glances around for his shield. Then he stepped on a wet pebble, his boot slid out from under him and he was prone, and a Seljuk warrior leapt for him. Apion swiped his scimitar round with a guttural roar, drowning out the snapping of sinew and bone as the Seljuk’s leg was sheared in that one blow. The Seljuk fell, screaming until Apion silenced him with a strike through the heart.
Strategos: Born in the Borderlands Page 30