Byzantines disappeared under hooves, heads spun free of bodies, riders were thrown from their horses to skate across shields or to be catapulted into the Byzantine ranks.
The bandon could not hold its shape due to the weight of the charge and dissolved into a swirl of combat. Apion smelt the hot and sour breath of the Seljuk steed pressed against him. The skutatos engaged with the rider fought manfully, but was then struck with a death blow, cleaved from shoulder to stomach, sending gristle and gut slapping across Apion’s face. Apion pounced on the rider’s momentary distraction to smash his shield boss into the mount’s mouth, and then leapt to pull the rider from his horse. But the rider smashed his scimitar hilt into Apion’s temple, felling him to the dust. Blinded by the blow and seeing only the dark shape of the mount rounding on him, he jabbed out with his spear. Hooves smashed down by his head and he rolled clear, then a spear ripped down past his shield, through a plate in his klibanion and across his ribcage to crack into the ground. The blood soaked him and his own pained snarl barely registered in the cacophony all around him. Still grounded, he glanced around to find his lines; skutatoi boots stamped and skidded several paces away, then bodies fell in a mire of skin, white bone, grey matter and pink tissue as the Byzantine line compressed under the charge. The spear shot for him again and in a clatter of wood and iron, his shield shattered. When the spear came again, it was aimed right at his heart, the snarling features of the rider behind the thrust. This time he butted the shaft with his palms, diverting the thrust into the ground, and then he heaved on the shaft with all his weight to pull himself to standing, dragging the spear from the rider’s grasp. The rider fumbled for his sword but Apion leapt up, ripping his scimitar from its scabbard and plunging the blade into the rider’s chest. A blood cloud burst over the riders behind as the body slid and thudded into the carpet of gore, convulsing.
His limbs shaking, his mind roaring, Apion looked up for his next opponent. At that moment the furore of the battle fell away.
He saw Bracchus.
The tourmarches was barely ten paces away, panting, teeth bared, blood coating his face. Apion locked eyes with Bracchus. This was the moment he had prayed for. He stalked forward, gripping his scimitar so hard that his arm trembled. Then a blur of movement caught his eye: a wedge of ghulam galloped for Bracchus and Apion saw that the tourmarches was the one man plugging a gap between two banda. His mind raced. If the ghulam got inside the square, the battle was lost, every Byzantine was as good as dead. But revenge was right here for the taking. Kill him, the now familiar voice rasped in his head. He hefted his kontarion like a throwing spear, eyes still fixed on the master agente, then hoisted it forward with all his might.
Bracchus’ eyes bulged and his mouth opened to scream, when the spear travelled over his head and into the stomach of the lead rider of the ghulam wedge, who fell with a cry, pulling his mount’s reins with him, the beast tumbling with a pained whinny under the hooves of the mounts behind it. At once the wedge dissolved into a mass of felled riders and thrashing beasts. A group of skutatoi rushed forward to despatch them. The square was saved.
Bracchus was left standing, gawping at him, the blood of the felled ghulam dripping from his brow. Apion realised he had saved the tourmarches’ life. Then the rasping voice cried in his thoughts. And now it is time to take it!
Apion lurched forward, eyes fixed on the tourmarches. He realised that the Seljuk riders closing on either side of him, scimitars raised, would cut himself and Bracchus off from the square, and doubtless hack the pair to pieces, but Apion was sure he could strike the master agente down by his own hand first. If he was to die here too then so be it; as long none of Bracchus’ contacts knew of the true manner of the master agente’s death on the battlefield. Bracchus’ glare curled into a frown as Apion approached. He held his expression blank until he was within striking distance, then filled his lungs to scream. But at the moment he made to raise his sword, something barged him to one side.
Apion gasped, startled; one of the soldiers bearing the curious cylinders had shoulder-charged him from the sword-swipe of a ghulam, and now pushed up to be back-to back with him, lifting the nozzle, waving it at the circling riders, a lit torch in his other hand.
‘Stay with me, sir!’ The man cried.
Apion shot glances all around but in the blur of swirling cavalry, Bracchus had disappeared back into the square.
The cylinder-bearing soldier then pressed a lever attached to the nozzle. ‘Brace yourself, sir!’ What happened next matched the fury in Apion’s mind: like a demon serpent, an orange fury spewed from the device, engulfing more than ten ghulam riders, each one igniting like a torch. The air rippled in the intense heat as the riders’ screams piqued and then stopped suddenly, blackened bodies crunching onto the ground with a stench of burning flesh, horses fleeing, whinnying in terror, still ablaze.
The ghulam riders behind hesitated, then, like an ebb tide, the Seljuk horsemen wheeled to turn away, their leader crying out an order.
‘They’re retreating!’ One voice roared in hope.
But Apion heard and understood the ghulam cry. Their square is faltering. Reform and then crush them with another charge!
Looking to either side, Sha, Blastares and Procopius still stood, but he could see huge gaps where previously there had been a white-sashed komes at the head of each bandon, the officers of the other banda had fallen in heavy number with the charge and the ranks seemed to be hesitant as the riders withdrew. Now, Apion realised, Now is the crucial moment. To allow the cavalry to disengage and then charge once more to equally devastating effect would be the end, for certain.
‘Don’t let them pull back! Charge!’ He roared.
He was already running forward, breaking from the ranks, scimitar drawn, blood hammering in his ears. He leapt for the back of the nearest ghulam and wrapped an arm around the rider’s waist, pulling him to the dust and punching the scimitar into his throat. Like a wall of fury, the Byzantine line swept along behind him, leaping for the Seljuk riders before they could break away. Men screamed in bloodlust and battle horses whinnied in agony as iron upon iron rang out, sword on sword, spears breaking through bone. The Byzantine line bit hungrily and the Seljuk riders fell in their hundreds, hamstrung by the strike.
The fire raged in Apion’s veins and his limbs numbed, feeling only the dull judder of his scimitar as it struck through armour and flesh again and again, while the screaming of the Seljuks rang out unbroken. Then the earth rumbled once more. Apion’s blood ran cold and he looked up, then what he saw filled his heart with hope: barely a hundred feet away, Cydones led his kataphractoi from the tip of a wedge as they galloped at full pelt for the disarray of the Seljuk cavalry retreat. The strategos’ eyes were narrowed and he lay low in his saddle, spear dipped, cloak billowing in his wake. The riders to the rear of the wedge were upright, arrows nocked to bows and then loosed as one dark cloud. The chaos that was the Seljuk cavalry line worsened under the resultant hail, then they crumpled as Cydones’ wedge hammered into them, momentum overcoming numbers. Men flew from their horses, shields splintered; bodies of riders and horse alike were swept under the stampede of Byzantine hooves. Apion hacked and stabbed and the Seljuk ranks seemed to vanish before him. At last he pulled upon the reins of a Seljuk mount, hauled himself onto its back and heeled the beast into a charge for the last clutch of ghulam. One swiped for him and he parried, then ripped his blade across the rider’s throat, the blood spraying across his eyes. As the body toppled and the ghulam broke into a retreat, Apion raised his sword to strike his next opponent, but was faced with Cydones, braced and dripping in crimson like some gory reflection.
All around the battered Byzantine square, the Seljuk ranks broke into a panicked retreat, harried by Ferro’s riders and the Pechenegs. Cries of victory rang out all around Apion and the strategos. ‘Nobiscum Deus!’
Both men’s eyes stayed fixed on each other as they panted, teeth gritted.
After what seemed like an ete
rnity, the cheering died and the army broke out in a hoarse and baritone chant of the ritual thanksgiving to God. The prayer made the land tremble and Apion shuddered as the dark door swung shut. He held up his sword hand, the muscles knotted with tension and laced with a myriad of new cuts, the blood mixing with the red ink of the Haga stigma.
Then his eyes dropped to the prayer rope; it seemed to be biting into his wrist. The stench of burning flesh was rife and all around, a carpet of dead eyes stared up at him.
***
The spacious pavilion tent provided cool respite from the afternoon sun. Apion swirled his cup, the wine was spicy. Even the few sips he had taken had him feeling giddy. He welcomed the intoxication, washing the bloody events of the day from his eyes and softening of the cries of the wounded around the camp.
‘A young lad might want to water his wine,’ Cydones said, tearing at a chunk of bread.
‘Don’t discourage him, sir,’ Ferro winked, tilting the wineskin into Apion’s cup once more.
‘I think I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to ale and wine, sir,’ he cocked an eyebrow, remembering the foul illness that seemed to cling to his whole body for a full day after the evening drinking in Trebizond.
‘You’ve learned many lessons, it seems.’
Apion studied his cup, still uncomfortable with praise.
‘The men are talking about you again. That call for the counter-charge was pivotal, Apion. Without it, we may not be sat here right now. It’s a special officer who can apply such thinking to his actions and inspire men to follow him. The Haga indeed!’ Cydones chuckled and swigged at his wine.
Apion remembered the battle like a vicious nightmare. For all the blood that was spilled, Bracchus still lived. The glory was meaningless. ‘Anyone could have made that call, sir.’
Cydones smirked. ‘They could have but they didn’t. You did. That was an impressive act of courage and I admire you for it, I really do. You could have died on the end of a hundred Seljuk lances for that moment of inspiration, and most often those overcome by bloodlust do tend to find the blood they seek – their own!’
Ferro chuckled and crunched into a fresh loaf of bread. ‘Aye, but what a swordsman . . . from what I’ve heard anyway.’
Apion knew from his aching limbs that he had fought well. He made to sit a little taller but winced as the movement caused his bandaged ribs to rub together. His old, serrated scar would have many cousins now.
‘I saw it, Ferro. The lad was like a demon in the ranks! But as I say, that’s not the reason Apion is here. We’ve got plenty of good fighters,’ the strategos leaned forward, ‘it’s good men and good thinkers that we need. That charge, it wasn’t just bravado, was it?’
Apion looked up; the strategos’ eyes sparkled. He thought of the shatranj board. ‘It was a simple decision really, if they had come again, our square would have collapsed.’
‘It is simple,’ Cydones nodded, ‘if you can see the field in your mind. Impossible if you cannot. You would not have been able to orchestrate a rabble of bloodied and emotional men if you shared their state of mind. That is what makes you special, Apion. And the call to drop every second bandon? I salute you for that.’
‘Aye, you’ll be in for a long game tonight, sir.’ Ferro nodded to the wooden shatranj box on the table beside Cydones. ‘I’ve heard he has quite a talent for it.’
‘No surprise,’ Cydones nodded sternly. ‘He had a fine teacher.’
As the strategos opened the box to reveal a polished marble chequered surface, he started to place beautifully carved marble pieces on opposing sides of the board. ‘Tugrul is formidable, a shrewd man with a long trail of victories behind him, but today he was a fool. He let his guard down and assumed he would win an easy victory because of his numerical superiority. One slip, after years of seeming invincibility. That’s all it takes to turn a legend into a fool. He may have survived the battle going by the scout reports, but his reputation died today.’
‘Then he will be wounded, sir. A wounded enemy is to be feared. The need for vengeance is like a disease.’
Cydones nodded, face falling stony. ‘I fear as you do that we have only injured the Falcon. Yet the thema cannot remain fully mobilised, the lands need to be tended to keep the populace fed. So the ranks are to return to their lands, but on high alert. Garrisons will be tripled and the forts will be rebuilt and manned where the budget will allow it. We will be ready for the next wave of invasion. Today was but the first wind of the storm.’
‘Many died today, sir,’ Apion had washed in a stream but could still smell the metallic stench of the day’s gore. ‘I slew more than I could count, but I can still see each of their faces.’
‘I have the faces of thousands in my head, Apion,’ Cydones nodded solemnly, ‘they talk with me in my sleep. I can offer them no answers.’ The strategos placed each of the pawns in place carefully, then looked up. ‘That’s something you can change, Apion. One man can save thousands of lives.’
‘Or end them,’ Apion added abruptly, remembering Mansur’s words.
Cydones nodded. He held the cavalry shatranj piece before placing it down. ‘To do the former, you need the right tools.’ He placed the cavalry piece on the board. ‘You are to be a rider, Apion.’
Ferro clapped a hand on his shoulder and left the tent with a chuckle. Apion’s skin tingled.
‘I have a fine chestnut Thessallian gelding, ideal for your new role.’
Apion searched the strategos’ eyes.
‘You led men well today. A bandon followed you, yes, but those around your bandon followed you also.’ He leaned forward. ‘They fought for you, Apion. A man who can lead many banda makes a fine tourmarches. Like Ferro, you will lead an army for me as part of the thema. You will report to me, directly.’
Apion’s body was numbing with the wine but his mind reeled. Then he thought of the reality of it.
‘But I have been a komes for such a short time, sir. The men, they respect me and I know they will follow me, but would this not stretch their loyalty too far?’
‘Your words echo my doubts, Apion, when I was promoted from a skutatos to a strategos in the space of a few years. But you can lead them. You know this, you have already said it: you command respect,’ Cydones’ face fell firm, ‘and you have the mind to lead them wisely. And one day you will lead the thema, Apion, you will be a strategos. I know this now.’
Apion nodded, Cydones belief in him was like a tonic. He wondered how the strategos could be so sure.
‘So you accept the role, soldier?’ Cydones said.
Apion’s first thoughts were of the men who had supported him. Good men. ‘If I am to be a tourmarches then I want my men with me,’ he spoke firmly. ‘They’ve got something, each and every one of them. I want them alongside me.’
Cydones held out his hands. ‘Ferro has been my right-hand man since I was in the ranks, Apion. I understand completely.’
‘Then I gladly accept the role, sir,’ He leaned forward, then thought of the missing man of his trusted four. Had Nepos made it to the farm safely? Then he looked up at the strategos; was this the juncture to speak candidly with Cydones about Bracchus? He opened his mouth to speak, leaning forward, when a pair of bloodied and bandaged tourmarchai strode into the tent, jabbering and hauling documents and bags of coins. He shook his head, now was not the time. But seeking out Nepos could not wait. ‘But I must ask for one more thing: will you grant me a leave of absence, before I take up my new position, a week at most. There is something I must tend to, back home.’
‘Granted,’ Cydones nodded, ‘and be sure to come back focused and ready for the struggle that lies ahead.’
Apion sucked in a deep breath. ‘I will, sir.’
***
Apion left the tent and headed for the latrines, walking through the sea of bandaged and bloody men being attended to by the medics.
‘God bless you, sir,’ one man held out his hand. ‘You saved us!’
Apion clasped the man’
s hand, his brow furrowed at the praise after such bloody work. As he walked on more and more men called out to him, then a chant started. ‘Ha-ga! Ha-ga!’
He was glad to be clear of the men as he reached the latrines, then a familiar voice barked at him.
‘Congratulations on your promotion . . . sir.’
Apion turned to face Bracchus. His eyes searched the tourmarches’ face, but for once, his nemesis’ expression was blank, the inky pools of his eyes empty. The he saw it, something buried deep inside, just the merest glint of some long-buried sadness.
Apion swallowed his hatred for an instant. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And you saved my life as well. I should thank you for that.’
Apion wondered at how to reply to this. ‘I am a soldier, I carried out my duty. Now, I have been granted leave,’ Apion said, his chest tightening as he saw Bracchus’ features harden back to that familiar, icy expression. ‘I imagine we will speak again when I return?’
Strategos: Born in the Borderlands Page 34