Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘A very red sunset.’ The dekarchos replied. ‘I see us sleeping tonight, waking tomorrow, filling our bellies, and then I sense bloodshed.’

  Apion’s skin crawled and he darted his gaze to the floor when Sha looked to him.

  ‘But with a pair of master tacticians like you two in our ranks,’ he grinned, nodding to the shatranj board, ‘the blood will surely be shed on our swords.’

  Nepos chuckled throatily, studying the shatranj board with a wrinkled brow. ‘Don’t listen to a word I say; this bugger is the cunning one. Like a fox, he is. Looks like this game will have to continue over into tomorrow night.’

  Apion felt unable to keep his composure. ‘Agreed. I say we get our heads down early, keep our minds sharp. Tonight might be the last opportunity for a good sleep for some time.’

  Blastares lent weight to the order, his head already lolling forward, a crust of bread hanging from his lips and a grating snore filling the gaps of silence in between Procopius’ chorus.

  Nepos yawned then tapped the board. ‘Wake that pair and we can all get back to our own tents. Tomorrow we will finish this once and for all, eh?’

  Apion nodded with a weak smile. ‘Until tomorrow.’

  ***

  The air was fresh under the clear sky and despite the waning moon, the myriad stars helped Apion pick his way through the shadows and web-like ropes between the tightly packed pavilion tents. He settled by the edge of one of the blocks and fixed his eyes on Nepos’ tent. Coughing and snoring came from the tent sentries and sleeping soldiers, and all around the palisades and temporary timber platforms serving as watchtowers, crackling fires outlined the double-strength camp perimeter sentries. There was no evidence that there would be a night attack, but nobody seemed to know where the Seljuk horde lay and anyone doing anything other than visiting the latrine would be challenged for being out of their tents.

  He waited for what seemed like an eternity, crouching, watching as man after man sauntered from their tents, bleary-eyed, across the wide crossroads that divided the camp, over to the latrine pits by the eastern side. But still Nepos’ tent remained closed, the nominated sentry for the kontoubernion was stood by the tent entrance, shivering, eyes fixed on his boots. Then the tent flap opened. Apion crouched into the shadows and clutched at the dagger handle in his boot for reassurance. The Slav emerged, pulling his locks back from his face, shivering, his breath clouding in the air as he grunted to the sentry. The Slav wore only a tunic as he shuffled for the latrines. Apion shut out his thoughts and scuttled after him.

  He moved quickly, closing in on Nepos across the wide walkway. He flicked a glance one way and then the other. The starlight seemed to shine on him accusingly, following his every step. The Slav wandered behind the mound of earth that had been piled conveniently to shield the latrine pits and Apion stopped for a moment by the last of the tents. He was by the middle of the camp’s western edge and the customary walkway dissecting the camp west to east lay between him and the latrines like a chasm. He glanced up the walkway to the centre, where the larger tents were pitched. The officers. The strategos. Bracchus.

  He hesitated for a moment. To go after Nepos, to make for Cydones and tell all or to drive his dagger into Bracchus’ black heart while he slept. The image of the last option lingered in his thoughts. But Bracchus’ men all across Chaldia would know of the order that hung like an axe over Mansur and Maria and would carry it out on hearing of his death. He had no choice. He had to go after Nepos. He would have to be stealthy, to sneak up on the Slav before he could make a noise. It would be easier that way. He pulled the dagger from his boot, stood up and stalked into the latrines. He summoned the image of the dark door.

  In the starlight, he could make out Nepos hiking his tunic back down. Only a few moments to spare. He blocked out the foul stench of the pits and rushed for his friend. Only at the last instant did the Slav turn, eyes bulging, hands clasping for his missing sword belt. Apion wrapped an arm around his throat, his own strength surprising him as Nepos struggled in vain.

  ‘Apion,’ he croaked, his tone hurt and desperate.

  ‘Shut up!’ Apion glanced all around. Good, they were enclosed within the earth ridge as he had hoped. ‘Someone could come at any moment. So shut up and listen, for your sake and mine. Do you understand?’

  Nepos slackened a little in his struggle and nodded briskly. Carefully, Apion let go. Nepos staggered back, his face white in panic at the sight of Apion’s dagger. ‘Apion?’

  Apion shook his head firmly, thumping a fist onto his heart, tucking the blade away. ‘Never, Nepos, my friend. I just had to make it look real. Here, have this.’ He pulled his satchel from his shoulder and lifted a package of salted meat, a portion of hard tack bread and a water skin from it.

  ‘Rations? What is this?’ Nepos shook his head.

  ‘You told me that first day I came to Argyroupolis that you had come here to get away from a situation at home. Well I know what happened; that man you beat, he was an agente!’

  Nepos’ eyes widened. ‘How do you know of my past? Only I knew that man was an agente!’

  Apion grabbed the Slav’s shoulder. ‘Because Bracchus is an agente, he is the master agente, he controls them all! He knows all about you. You’ve got to trust me. You need to get out of the camp. Tonight!’

  Nepos started. ‘Bracchus? All this time I have been living under the gaze of one of the men I have been running from?’ Then the Slav’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then what does he have on you, Apion? Ever since that day we defended Bizye, you have seemed cowed under his influence.’

  Apion gripped the Slav’s shoulders. ‘There is no time, Nepos. You have to trust me, and despite all of this I know you do.’ He held his gaze firmly on Nepos’ eyes.

  At last, Nepos’ gaze softened and his shoulders slumped. ‘You are correct.’ He touched a finger to his lips, his eyes darting in thought, then he nodded. ‘So I have to disappear tonight? Then it starts here. Only you leave this pit. The rest – slipping from the camp – I will make good.’

  ‘You will need my help in slipping out of the camp . . . ’

  ‘No, I can manage that, but there is one thing you can do,’ Nepos urged. ‘Go to Blastares’ tent, give him a nudge, press his bladder or tell him to go take a shit. Tell him it’s cold and to take an extra cloak – a dark one. Then return to your tent. I will do the rest.’

  Apion nodded. ‘I get it, but where do you hide until then?’

  ‘Well I’m not hiding in the pit, that’s for sure.’ Nepos rolled up his half-sleeves and rubbed his hands together, then nodded to the earth bank. ‘I tell you though, Blastares is going to get one hell of a fright when he does come by this way.’

  Apion looked to the loosely-piled earth; easily shifted by hand to allow the Slav to hide under a thin coating of the stuff until Blastares arrived. He turned back to Nepos. ‘When you escape, head back west and north, past Argyroupolis. Then stay true to the valleys until you reach the source of the Piksidis.’ Apion described the route back to Mansur’s valley, the hill with the beech thicket, the cairn marked with the Haga and the cave. He took the carved wooden chariot rider shatranj piece from his satchel and pressed it into Nepos’ palm. ‘Mansur will know you are genuine if you give him this. He will provide you with food and anything else you need, but you must be discreet, stay in the cave and visit Mansur only at night, for Bracchus has contacts everywhere. I will come for you when the army stands down, when Tugrul’s army is defeated,’ he grinned, then his words trailed off and shame overcame him at the troubled look in the Nepos’ eyes. ‘You, Sha, Blastares and Procopius trusted me, supported me, lifted me on your shoulders for me to become your komes. Then one of my first acts is to force you to desert, like a criminal or a coward – as far from the truth as possible – all because of that black-hearted whoreson.’

  Nepos gripped him by the wrist. ‘I trust you, lad, like a younger brother. Go and be safe in that knowledge.’ Nepos held out a hand.

  He clasped
his hand into Nepos’. ‘I will sort this out, Nepos, I promise you that.’

  ‘We will meet again, Apion.’ Nepos stepped back towards the earth rampart.

  With a last look, the pair parted and Apion hurried from the latrine and made straight for the tents.

  ***

  Stood by the marching camp’s western gate, Peleus felt his eyelids grow heavy and he pushed the tip of his dagger into his palm. At once he was awake again. He glanced across to Stypiotes by the opposite gatepost, whose eyes were red-rimmed with tiredness but at least he was awake. Peleus suppressed a chuckle; his friend had been in a foul mood ever since the two had been chosen to go on guard duty. God help any Seljuks who might attack this entrance to the camp, he mused.

  ‘Tomorrow night, Stypiotes, we eat then we sleep,’ he croaked, ‘deep, dark sleep!’

  Stypiotes scowled at him. ‘Stop talkin’ about it!’

  ‘But I need to do something; every time I stare out at the darkness I start to nod off,’ Peleus stopped, noticing Stypiotes’ eyes widening. ‘Stypiotes?’

  ‘Somethin’ moved, behind you!’

  Peleus spun on his heel, nothing was there, but a small, round pebble spun on the spot, slowing then stopping. Stypiotes stalked over to Peleus’ side of the gate and the pair braced, holding their spears out, eyes prying into the blackness.

  They did not notice the black-cloaked, and stealthy figure that climbed to perch on the edge of the gate. Nor did they hear the figure drop silently out of the camp and then sprint, bare-footed, into the night.

  ‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ Peleus said, pointing back into the camp, ‘look, it must have been one of the lads acting up.’

  Stypiotes screwed his eyes up to peer at the shadowy figure that stood just to the side of the central walkway. ‘Who’s that?’ He barked, unable to make out the features of the man.

  But the shadow melted into the darkness without reply.

  ***

  Night passed in a heartbeat and Apion did not sleep, instead lying, eyes wide open, bathed in a slick of sweat. Packs of wild dogs howled in the brush and every one struck panic into his heart. Then the buccina cry had split the air at the first orange of dawn, but instead of the usual morning roll-call, it was the emergency call for muster. At once the camp sprung to life in a rabble of shouting and clattering of iron.

  ‘To your feet!’ Apion shouted to the nine men of his kontoubernion.

  Footsteps, panting and a gruff horking up of phlegm sounded outside and then came a familiar voice. ‘Where’s the pointy-faced bastard?’ Procopius croaked, poking his head into the tent, wiping the sleep from his eyes. ‘He’s not in his tent. A bit keen to get promoted is he?’

  Apion pushed out from the tent, heart thumping. ‘What do you mean?’ He shot a furtive glance to each side of the camp. Good, he thought, no commotion and no sign of Bracchus.

  Sha was there, pulling on his klibanion, looking round, face wrinkling. ‘Nepos? No, I haven’t seen him either.’

  Blastares stumbled from his tent, frowning, lifting a finger to point at Apion.

  Panicked, Apion cut in. ‘Blastares?’

  ‘My head is pounding!’ The big man groaned, rubbing a hand over a purple lump on his temple. ‘If that’s not bad enough it looks like some bugger stole my cloak as well. Last thing I remember is staggering to the latrines. And before that I had this disturbing dream about you, pressing my bladder!’

  Apion disguised his relief.

  ‘Bloody ale!’ Blastares continued. ‘Though if I see some whoreson nicking around in my cloak I’ll fuc . . . ’

  A second buccina cry pierced the air, drowning out his words.

  ‘It’ll have to wait,’ Apion said. ‘Come on, something big is happening!’

  ***

  By the time dawn was fully upon them, the Chaldian Thema stood in formation, the only noises were of horses scuffing and snorting and the iron rattle of armour. The ranks were tense; nobody knew for sure why the emergency muster call had been used, but many craned their necks to scan the horizon outside the camp. Empty.

  Then Cydones and Ferro strode to the front of the army. ‘This morning, we seize our destiny!’ The strategos gave one of his customary pauses before continuing. ‘The dawn scouting party has returned. The Seljuk army has been located. Some eight miles to the south. We are in fine shape, men. Fine shape to seize victory. We march to victory, and God marches with us!’

  Apion’s eyes narrowed. The strategos’ rhetoric seemed to rouse the ranks, but he knew that if the numbers of the Seljuk horde were to be believed then the wives and mothers of Chaldia would lose a lot of husbands and sons today. The Colonea Thema numbered not much less than the army mustered here today, he shivered, remembering the swarm of carrion birds that had feasted on their corpses. Then something caught his eye. He glanced over the ranks. There, about twelve men to his left, stood Bracchus at the head of the tourma. The tourmarches stared dead ahead, face pointed and cold, no hint of emotion.

  He closed his eyes and prayed that Nepos was far to the west by now. He had his story ready: he had slit Nepos’ throat in the darkness and dropped his body into the latrine pits. Now he just had to avoid Bracchus until the latrine pits were filled in, so his story could not be refuted.

  Then realisation sparked in his mind; it could all end today – the clash with Tugrul’s hordes presented the opportunity he had been waiting for. He flexed his fingers on his scimitar hilt and prayed that the battle would see him and Bracchus in close proximity.

  20. The Falcon’s Hordes

  The war drums rumbled in the intense morning heat and Tugrul’s Seljuk horde shimmered like an ethereal mirage across the plain. By God let the heat be exaggerating their number, Apion thought as he studied their ranks. At least twenty five thousand, they didn’t just blanket the horizon, they seemed to be swallowing it, arcing around the land to cover three sides of the Byzantine square formation. The Seljuk flags with the golden bow emblem licked at the sky like an inferno.

  ‘We need more men,’ Blastares said in a low tone, swatting at the incessant cloud of black flies attacking his face.

  It was what they were all thinking, Apion was sure. His bandon were placed at the south-eastern corner of the square, facing towards the right arm of the Seljuk arc. His trusted four stood alongside him at the head of their files, the other files making up the bandon on either side. Every man on the front rank had been afforded an iron klibanion to go with the red sash that marked them out as dekarchoi, those in the ranks behind having to make do with padded jackets or vests and the knowledge that they were marginally less likely to die than their officers. This and all the other banda of the thema formed the outer wall of the square. Inside the iron-human bulwark, the toxotai and light infantry waited, knowing they would have to slip outside the square to shower their missiles on the approaching enemy before slipping back inside when the two forces clashed. In the centre of the square, beside the cluster of medical tents, artillerymen and supply wagons, the kataphractoi and the mercenary Pecheneg horsemen waited patiently; they were to be the hammer that would sally forth from the formation and then strike the enemy upon the anvil of the infantry square.

  Upon sighting Tugrul’s horde on the horizon, Cydones had not hesitated in making the call to fall into this classic defensive formation, but as expected, morale dipped at the order. Yet Apion could see straight away that the strategos had no choice due to weight of numbers; the army they now faced had only a week previously utterly destroyed the army of the Colonea Thema. They were Tugrul’s finest, not the light ghazi riders but the elite and shimmering ghulam, equal in every way to the kataphractoi with fine composite bows, scimitars and rapier-like spears and their number was far greater than the clutch of one thousand riders Cydones had at his disposal. Yet the meat of the Seljuk army was in the swell of iron scale-clad akhi infantry, thousands upon thousands of them, at least four men to every one of the thema skutatoi. The enemy ahead troubled Apion; perhaps no Byzantine soul on thi
s plain would live beyond today; what troubled him more though, was the enemy behind. He had caught sight of the distinctive golden plumage of Bracchus only fleetingly since they had adopted this formation, floating somewhere by the back ranks of the bandon to the right of Apion’s. The tourmarches was responsible for the four banda on this side of the square. Close enough, Apion decided. But perhaps this was all meaningless thought, he mused, the massive Seljuk horde had the manpower to crush the Byzantine square swiftly if they were orchestrated in just the right way.

  He wondered what the Falcon would be thinking right now as he eyed this Byzantine square from across the plain. His eyes narrowed, again considering the blurring of the Seljuk banners in the heat haze. An idea formed in his mind. They could not increase their number, but they could induce over-confidence from the Seljuks. He called to a scout rider and gave a message to be passed back to the strategos.