Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

by Gordon Doherty

  Stypiotes clasped his forearm and hoisted himself to standing. ‘Aye, one barrel would do me but what about y . . . ’ the big soldier’s words trailed off as he squinted into the coming dusk.

  ‘Stypiotes?’ Peleus frowned, and then spun round.

  The dark-blue horizon of the coming twilight seemed to writhe. Peleus’ skin rippled. ‘Get down!’ He hissed, pushing Stypiotes and himself to the sand.

  The zip of an arrow ended with a thud and then a gurgling. Young Atticus clutched at his throat and the dark-red froth that bubbled from the shaft. Another arrow hammered into the chest of the Armenian rider and with that, the camel took flight, the two bodies sloping from its back and onto the sand.

  ‘Ghazis!’ Stypiotes gasped, clutching at his sword hilt.

  ‘A raider party?’ Peleus replied, then poked his head just over the lip of the dune. His brow furrowed at the dusk-masked plume of a marching column, far to the east. ‘No, a vanguard!’ He and Stypiotes’ stayed locked in a wide-eyed stare.

  ‘They wouldn’t come west again so soon?’ Stypiotes started.

  Peleus’s eyes grew wide in terror. ‘We’ve got to get word back to the strategos!’

  ***

  Apion fixed his eyes on the horizon, willing the valley to roll into view, but resisted heeling his mount, weary as the gelding already was. He wondered how Nepos had fared since fleeing the camp. His instructions had been garbled and panicked at best, though that was understandable given the life or death cusp they had both stood on at the time.

  Stay true to the valleys until you reach the source of the Piksidis. Be wary, for Bracchus has men everywhere and they are cold killers. Believe me, I’ve faced them. You will come to a small farm just off the highway to Trebizond, you’ll recognise it as the only one for miles that looks like it’s about to cave in on itself. The valleyside behind this farm rises to a modest peak a quarter of a mile to the north. Climb this peak. Up there, there is a beech thicket. Push through the thicket and you will come to a small clearing. You will come to a cairn with an ancient emblem of the Haga on it. Pull the rocks from the base. You will see what looks like a rabbit warren, but loosen the earth around it. There is a cave where you can shelter . . .

  It was now well into the afternoon and a heat haze rippled the land in front of him. The hill and the cluster of beech trees shimmered up ahead. Every ounce of his will was pulling him just south, the farm just obscured by the rise of the valley.

  ‘Only a little longer,’ he whispered, inhaling the familiar summer scents of the place. He slid from his mount and rubbed a hand along the gelding’s nose. ‘Easy, boy. You’ll be fed and watered soon, and then you can meet with my old mare. Then you can rest or run for the next few days.’ With that, he stalked up the hillside, armour chinking.

  The air was still and his breath quickened as he walked, blinking sweat from his eyes, removing his plumed helmet and untying his pleated hair. Nepos would be too smart to come running out, he was sure. The man was a shrewd creature; thanks to God he was good-hearted. Between them they could surely plan a way to rid themselves of Bracchus. One thought had nagged him the whole way home: perhaps he should have been candid with the strategos about Bracchus when he had the chance; surely there was a way that the man could be outed as the poisonous cyst he was, despite his imperial connections? Then Bracchus’ fate could be decided by others, perhaps? He shook his head clear of the rabble of thoughts. That was all to come.

  The hilltop came into view and he pushed through the beech grove. With a grin, he considered calling for his friend or sneaking up on him. He pushed into the clearing then stopped, blinking.

  A still, shadowy and inhuman form filled the space in front of the cairn, and the carving of the Haga was spattered with crimson. His heartbeat died to nothing, the blood thudding in his ears changed to a piercing ringing.

  Apion stared.

  Nepos’ lifeless body hung limp, impaled upon a kontarion dug into the earth. The Slav’s eyes stared hopelessly skywards.

  Apion retched, unable to tear his gaze from the horror.

  Then a weak bleating rang out. Apion looked up. A lone goat, barely more than a kid, stumbled along the hillside. On its fleece it bore Mansur’s woad marking. That and a foreign, crimson streak.

  The sweat on his skin felt like ice-water as he turned to the dip in the valley. Then he sprung into a sprint. He leapt up and onto the Thessallian’s saddle and heeled it into a gallop, guttural roars accompanying every kick. Their speed sent a howling wind past his ears as he ducked low in the saddle, his hair and the crimson cloak whipping behind him. The valley opened out in front of them. Then the bowed roof of the farm appeared. Terror grappled his heart.

  Please do not let it be true.

  A ringing in his ears grew into a shrill whistle as he saw it all: the ground outside the door was a carpet of crimson. The goat herd was scattered, many lying motionless or thrashing in their death throes. The grey mare lay still, a broken spear shaft embedded in her guts, entrails spread across the ground where she lay. Apion felt his chest bellow and then sting and he heard his own roar, distant and other-worldly. The front door was ajar, hanging on one hinge. He slid from his mount and stumbled inside, seeing his scimitar held out before him, his arms numb, the world around him shaking, buzzing.

  Inside, the darkness blinded him, but he clawed forward, feeling for first the old oak table and then the hearth. Panting, he glanced around at the dimness that was slowly sharpening before him. Then he saw it.

  Proud Mansur lay sprawled across the hearth, an awful wound in his belly gaped from where the dagger had gone in to where it rested now, just below his throat. His face bulged; swollen and discoloured in a frenzy of cuts and his eyes had been gouged from their sockets. Four bodies of irregularly armoured men lay around him, torn with scimitar wounds. So the old man had fought one last time. Then he saw the tiny wooden shatranj piece clutched in the old man’s palm; the war chariot given to Nepos. Apion trembled where he stood. Fear was no part of it.

  Then he saw the dark red robe. Maria’s robe. It lay, discarded, torn and soiled with gore. Beside it a tuft of her dark hair lay in a pool of blood. Before he could piece together what would have happened to her, his mind washed clear of thought, his vision narrowed. He felt the thud of his knees hit the flagstones, the sting of his hands slapping over his eyes, the stabbing pain of the flesh in his throat tearing from his own screaming.

  As the afternoon dimmed towards dusk, Apion remained on the floor. His chest heaved and his heart emptied what was left in it. After that, he remained there still, gazing up at the old oak table, his mind replaying the times long past when they had sat together. He saw Mansur and Maria, smiling, laughing. Beside them he saw Mother and Father. Father held Mother’s hand as they all ate together.

  When Apion reached out a shaking hand at the image, it all disappeared, leaving only empty twilight.

  ***

  The air changed as night descended on the valley and a warm drizzle broke the drought at last. A hooded figure on horseback trotted down the hill behind the farm. Then the figure dismounted and entered the farmhouse.

  Inside, Apion heard the scraping of a footstep on the flagstones, then sensed a shadow stand over him. He did not realise that the figure was really there until it spoke.

  ‘I come here to honour their bodies,’ the voice seemed to be shaking, enraged, ‘but you . . . you have the nerve to come back here now?’ The figure lowered the hood to reveal Nasir’s contorted features, shaded in the half light. He held blankets, brushes and a spade.

  ‘Nasir?’ Apion stammered, pushing himself up to stand. Then a rasp of iron sent sparks across the gloom. Nasir held his scimitar out, pointed at Apion’s throat.

  ‘Another step and I’ll tear your throat out. By Allah, I should have slain you where you lay.’

  Apion stepped back, shaking his head. ‘Nasir, I came home to this, I . . . ’

  ‘You did not do this, but you brought this upon them!�
�� Nasir roared.

  ‘Never! They were everything to me!’ But even as he spoke, Apion felt the truth of Nasir’s words burn on his neck. He retched, then doubled over to spew out the trickle of bile left in his belly.

  Nasir arced his scimitar round and down onto the oak table, the blade embedding in the wood and the frame cracking. ‘You should have been here to protect them.’

  The words cut like a blunt dagger through Apion’s soul. He had failed Mansur and Maria just as he had failed Mother and Father. The Haga they called him, the ferocious two-headed eagle, the demon swordfighter, the leader of men. All names unbefitting of a man who could not protect those he loved most.

  He stood tall under Nasir’s gaze and cleared his throat. ‘You are right. I should have been here. You know how much they meant to me, Nasir. You more than anyone else.’

  Nasir’s shook his head. ‘No. There can be no excuses for what has happened here.’ He wrenched his sword clear of the table and sheathed it. ‘We may once have been as close as blood kin. I remember our oath.’

  ‘ . . . until we’re both dust . . . ’ Apion mouthed.

  ‘I said I remember!’ Nasir roared. ‘But this changes things, it changes everything. Nothing will be the same anymore.’

  What’s left? A hoarse voice whispered inside Apion’s head.

  ‘Your presence offends their memory,’ Nasir spat.

  There is something left, isn’t there? The voice sounded rapacious.

  ‘Leave this place. Leave and never come back,’ Nasir’s shoulders broadened and he took a step forward. ‘Because I’m making a new oath, this time to myself. If our paths cross again after tonight,’ his brow wrinkled, ‘I will kill you.’

  Apion heard his old friend’s words and deep down inside, a distant voice cried out, pleaded for Nasir to reconsider, but in his head the rasping voice was in full flow. Yes, there is something . . . something sweet, something long, long overdue . . . revenge! Nothing stands in your way now. His eyes were fixed on a distant point, far beyond the shattered table. ‘Those responsible for this will die, Nasir. What happened to Mansur will happen to them. I swear it. This is my oath.’

  Nasir sneered at this.

  ‘Everyone who played a part will be cold and still, by my sword. The man who orchestrated this, all of this, he is a walking shade.’

  ‘You talk of death as if you were the reaper?’ Nasir spat, his eyes narrowing.

  Apion felt a coldness wash through his veins and he looked his old friend in the eye. ‘Everything you have lost, I have lost also, Nasir: Mansur, like a father to me, and Mar . . . ’ Apion moved forward, Nasir shook his head.

  ‘Don’t you dare say her name!’

  ‘Maria. Maria was my closest companion as a child. She was my lover, the woman I dreamt of every night I was away. Her face, her scent, they soothed my mind.’

  ‘She was to be my wife!’ Nasir roared, then lurched at him, one fist crashing into Apion’s nose.

  A metallic wash coated his throat as he stumbled back against the hearth. ‘I won’t strike you back, Nasir. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve got every right to hate me,’ he said as Nasir towered over him, chest heaving, fists balled, ‘but I warn you, stand back and let me leave.’

  Nasir tilted his head back, grimacing. ‘So you ride out of the valley, leaving destruction in your wake.’

  Apion stopped as he passed Nasir. ‘My words won’t help today, but I want you to know and remember that I am sorry, so, so sorry.’

  ‘Until we meet again, Apion,’ Nasir’s face was stony. ‘If it is on the battlefield then that would be apt.’

  Apion nodded, pulled his crimson cloak around his body, then stepped out of the farm and into the warm drizzle. He stopped to glance back at the shattered door, for an instant his mind cruelly played back the memory of little Maria, her fawn hand pulling the door open on that first day.

  Then the memory was washed away with the image of the dark door. This time it did not rush towards him. No, this time he beckoned it forward. He reached out for it, his scarred and knotted arm with the Haga emblem fitting perfectly over the arm in the image. Apart from one thing.

  He drew his hand closer, he saw the prayer rope flicker to the white band of skin in the image. That God could let this happen all over again sickened him to his soul.

  Something inside him snapped.

  In silence, he pulled the prayer rope until it ripped free of his wrist, then threw it to the ground.

  With that, he leapt on his Thessallian and heeled the gelding into a fierce gallop. He would not rest until he had hunted them down.

  All of them.

  ***

  ‘He was my good friend. Let me help dig,’ Kutalmish pleaded.

  Nasir’s palms were blistered and his eyes stung with sweat but he waved his father away without reply and continued scooping earth from the spot where old Mansur was to be buried.

  ‘You are a strong-headed boy, Nasir; you are turning out like your brother was before he died. Why did you react to young Apion as though he was the perpetrator of this vile act?’

  Nasir stopped digging and turned to his father, bathed in the pale orange of the coming dawn. ‘How can you defend him? Bracchus and his men came here to collect a debt of blood from him. He knew they would come here and he had a choice to stop this.’

  ‘Everything is black and white with you, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know that I am honouring Mansur by forever ridding this valley of Apion.’

  ‘What does she think of this?’

  Nasir bristled; Maria lay in his bed, being nursed back from near-death by the old woman with the milky eyes and healing hands. ‘Maria should not be concerned with him anymore.’

  ‘So you did not tell him she lives? You let him ride off with a weight of guilt he does not deserve?’

  ‘It’s a blessing that I didn’t cut his throat from ear to ear.’

  ‘My, Giyath shines through in you, indeed, son.’

  Nasir glared at his father, the old man looking frailer than ever, eyes red from weeping. ‘He’ll use his rage, he’ll thunder off and find the bastards who carried out this act and slaughtered his parents, I’ve gifted him that rage.’

  Kutalmish frowned then whispered. ‘Forcing a man to face Bracchus is no gift.’

  Nasir scowled and made to reply, then stopped as he noticed his father close his eyes and shake his head. ‘Father?’

  ‘A dark truth has been hidden, son.’

  Nasir climbed from the grave. ‘Speak!’ He barked.

  Kutalmish looked to the shrouded form of Mansur’s body. ‘Forgive me, old friend,’ he whispered, ‘but our oath was until death.’

  ‘Father, what do you know?’ Nasir realised he had his father by the scruff of his robe.

  ‘Apion will destroy Bracchus, son. Bracchus is a vile and dark creature who has brought misery upon our lives. Yet Apion will hate Mansur even more than Bracchus if he finds out the truth. A truth he was never meant to discover.’

  ‘How could he hate Mansur, how could he hate him as much as Bracchus? Bracchus killed his parents!’

  Kutalmish’s features fell stony. ‘Bracchus was not alone that night.’

  Nasir stood back, wide-eyed, then he frowned, glancing to the form of Mansur’s body. ‘Mansur? Never!’

  Kutalmish closed his eyes, tears escaping and dancing down his lined cheeks. ‘He was a troubled man for a long time, Nasir.’

  ‘How could he be involved in killing Apion’s family? Bracchus is a black-hearted dog. Mansur was anything but!’

  ‘And maybe one day, long past, Bracchus was also a good-hearted soul. Just as, that one night, Mansur was as black-hearted as Bracchus. Life changes people, Nasir, brutally.’

  ‘What happened?’ Nasir demanded.

  Kutalmish mouthed a prayer and then looked his son in the eye. ‘Apion’s father was the cavalry commander that led the charge on our caravan, Nasir. He was responsible for the death of Mansur’s wife and your mother
too,’ his words trailed off with a sob.

  Nasir’s mind raced. His hatred of Apion swirled with this revelation.

  ‘His father made a mistake, a big one. He saw Mansur and I, riding armed, took our caravan for a Seljuk supply train . . . and attacked. He realised his mistake and tried to call off his men, but by then it was too late. Since that day blackness welled in Mansur’s heart, it was all I could do to quell it in mine.’

  ‘I cannot imagine Mansur as a murderer,’ Nasir shook his head, then looked up to his father. ‘Apion told me of that night. He spoke of one masked figure that stood back from the slaughter of his parents. Could that have been Mansur?’