As his thoughts slipped away, he saw her again, and her name echoed in his dreams.
Maria.
***
Maria sat, cross-legged by the poolside in a pale-green linen robe. The coral-blue water was absolutely still, reflecting the vibrant tiles of the villa courtyard and the unblemished August sky that hung over Hierapolis. Honey-gold finches chirruped from their nest in the palm tree in the corner. Dragonflies hovered in the shade and around the verdant vines that scaled the walls. She closed her eyes and tried to let the serenity cleanse the fear from her heart.
Then the creaking of a thick wooden door shook her back to reality. Her chest tightened at once, her heartbeat galloping. She looked into the shaded hearth room to see the silhouetted figure entering the villa. A thousand doubts raced through her mind. She had been told what to expect; that her husband would return to her today after more than two summers since he had ridden west with his warband, and that he had been horribly disfigured.
When Nasir stepped out into the sunlight, she shuddered. Not at the sagging, blistered welt of skin and patchy hair that clung like a mask to one side of his face. But at the look in his eyes. He had found no vent for his anger in his latest foray.
She clapped her hands. The slave girl came running. ‘Bring bandages, balms and salves,’ she called out, sending her off back inside the villa.
‘It is too late to heal the wounds,’ Nasir spoke, his voice dry from the dust of the ride.
‘But you will still be weary and saddle sore from your ride, will you not?’ she approached him gingerly, extending her arms as if to embrace him. Deep in his grey eyes, she saw an echo of the young man she had once loved, before he had descended into bitterness. Then his gaze steeled and his nose wrinkled.
‘Is it too much even to embrace me?’ she spoke weakly.
Nasir shook his head, waving one hand at her as if swatting a fly away, then headed back inside the villa.
She stared at the spot where he had stood. Sometimes, when he was gone with his riders, she imagined that the iciness between them was just a trick of her memory. Yet when he returned, she always felt such a fool for deluding herself.
She entered the villa. It was cool and gloomy inside. Nasir sat on a wooden bench, unstrapping his scale vest, facing away from her.
‘How did it happen,’ she asked, ‘your wounds?’
He halted, trembling with rage.
At that moment she knew the answer. ‘Apion did this? I’m sorry, I . . . ’
‘You’re not sorry. You never were,’ he spat at the mention of the name. ‘Your father’s blood is on his hands. Don’t you remember what they did to him? All because that Byzantine whoreson was not there to protect him!’
Maria choked back a sob. It was this distorted truth that had convinced her to perpetuate Nasir’s cruel deception. To let Apion live all these years believing that she too had been slain with her father on that day.
‘Aye, he has burned the flesh from my face,’ Nasir snapped his head round at that moment, showing the ruined side of his face; gritted teeth, the melted folds of skin and one bulging eye. ‘But the pain of these wounds is nothing compared to knowing that . . . ’
‘Father!’ a voice called out. Footsteps pattered through the villa and then a broad and tall boy raced into the room like a blur, rushing straight for Nasir. He slid to his knees and threw his arms around Nasir, back turned to Maria. Nasir returned the embrace, kissing the top of the boy’s head and smoothing his charcoal locks. His voice had softened now, but he cast baleful looks up at Maria.
‘Aye, Taylan, I have returned, but not for long. The sultan has already tasked me with another mission.’
Taylan looked up, then recoiled in shock. ‘Your face,’ he said, lifting a fawn hand to Nasir’s wounds. ‘The Byzantines did this to you?’
‘It is but an old scar now. Many of them fell to my blade in penance.’
‘And many more must fall when you ride out again!’ Taylan growled, trying in vain to disguise his sobs.
Maria clasped her hands to her breast at this. This was the one thing she feared more than anything. That Taylan would inherit Nasir’s anger. He was only thirteen, but was already familiar with the scimitar, and Nasir had sent him to ride with the sultan and watch battles from afar.
‘Aye, many will fall, Taylan,’ he said, his chill glare never leaving Maria, ‘but there is one whose blood must be spilled above all others.’
Maria’s heart turned to ice.
Bey Nasir had been away on campaign for more than two summers, but the Nasir she had once loved had been absent far longer.
***
A baritone chanting rang out from the dusty, sun-baked streets of Ancyra as the bishop led the populace in morning prayer. The few skutatoi posted on the walls were the only ones to notice the tiny dust plume approaching from the south, winding through the russet and gold hills. One squinted at the banner that emerged from the plume, then looked to the other, frowning.
‘I drank a lot of wine last night, and I mean a lot. Unwatered too. Tell me my mind is still addled with merriness?’
‘Eh?’ the other skutatos frowned, then squinted at the banner himself. His jaw dropped. ‘Is that . . . ’
Neither noticed the cloaked and hooded figure watching from an adjacent rooftop. The figure saw the approaching horsemen. Then three rapid glints of reflected sunlight flashed from their midst. The figure noticed this then scurried back from the roof’s edge.
Leo the smith was a simple man, a man who could only enjoy reward after a hard day’s work. That was why the events of the last few months had been so confusing for him, he mused, weighing the full wineskin in his grasp. He wiped a rag over his wrinkled scalp and spat a gobbet of phlegm onto the streetside, then looked both ways before lifting the keys to the armamenta from his pocket.
‘What is there to be scared of?’ he chided himself as he unlocked the door. ‘They’re all in on it. Every whoreson in the city.’
The half-rotten timber door opened with a clunk and he stepped inside the cavernous red-brick workhouse. Where normally there would be a riot of hammers on iron, sawing, shouting and sweltering furnaces blazing, there was only stillness and silence. The furnaces lay black and cold, the lathes and anvils still and silent and the long workbenches were empty, all apart from one bearing a brass bell upon it. He stalked across the floor of the main workroom, the place echoing with his every footstep, then slumped down on the chair and lifted his feet onto the battered old table before him. He sighed and looked to the wineskin, made to pull the cork from its top, then hesitated as he felt a touch of guilt.
He looked around. Wool, flax, ore and timber were piled high but untouched and the furnaces, looms and lathes lay inactive. Likewise, Leo thought, the tannery at the edge of the city was empty and blessedly free of the noxious stench. This, despite the surplus of hides that lay untreated by its doorway.
Yes, it felt wrong. He lifted the wineskin to his lips and sucked upon it, the tart liquid washing into his gut and further lifting his mood. But it felt so, so good. Being paid twice his usual wage to do nothing? That was quite something. Besides, he thought, every other worker was taking the money without questioning their morals. Yes, he grew bored easily without daily labour. But then, he grinned, he could simply spend his wage on whores and drink to whittle away the time.
He shrugged wearily as he thought of his wife’s tears that morning. He had thought this relative wealth would have at least brought a smile to her face. Instead she seemed determined to focus on the scent of the whore he had spent the previous night with.
‘Cah!’ he swept a hand through the air as if batting his troubles away. ‘She’ll learn that it’s better this way.’ He tipped the skin up once more. Today, like the last few days when it had been his job simply to keep an eye on the building, he planned to get so drunk that he would sleep through his shift. Already he felt a fuzziness right behind his eyes. A smile crept across his face as he lifted the skin a t
hird time.
‘Be on your guard,’ an urgent voice filled the room.
Leo sat bolt upright. His heart thundered and he looked this way and that.
He felt fright drain from his body, convinced he had just fallen asleep for a moment. Then he saw a hooded figure stride towards him across the workroom.
He leapt up, yelping, spilling his winesack on the flagstones, backing up against the wall, his chair tumbling to its side.
The figure halted suddenly, only a pace from him.
Within the shade of the hood, Leo saw the ghostly pallor of the man and recognised him at once. It was Zenobius, the curious stranger who had ridden into the city some months ago. The albino had also been in the armamenta that day when the Strategos of Bucellarion had ordered the workers to stand down. Bizarrely, he seemed to be overseeing the strategos’ actions that day. He had the look of a soulless bird of prey that day and now he looked like a hungry one.
‘Gather the workers,’ Zenobius said, flatly.
‘What?’ Leo stammered.
Zenobius grappled his collar and hefted him from his feet and against the wall. The albino’s glare was empty. ‘This is all you were asked to do for your coin. Now do it, or I will cut you to pieces,’ he said, then pointed a finger at the brass bell on the workbench.
‘The workers, yes!’ Leo nodded hurriedly, rushing over to lift the bell. This was left in place to be rung whenever the works needed to be resumed. ‘But who is coming?’
Zenobius simply moved a hand to his belt, where the edge of a sickle blade glinted.
At this, panic washed through Leo’s veins and he stumbled through the double doors into the workyard up the timber stairs onto the roof, clanging the bell with all his strength.
***
Apion clutched at the handle of the armamenta door. It rattled but would not open. He looked to Dederic and shook his head, then he twisted round. Romanus and a party of forty varangoi in their pure-white armour were mounted in the middle of the street. Philaretos and Gregoras were mounted alongside them.
Romanus’ lips grew taut. Then he waved Igor and a clutch of the varangoi forward.
‘Stand back!’ Igor grunted.
Apion twisted just in time to see the scarred Rus begin his charge, head down, growling. He leapt back as Igor threw his sturdy frame at the door. With a sharp crack, the lock gave way and the door burst in, falling from its hinges in the process. Igor dusted his hands together then cricked his head towards either shoulder until a popping noise sounded from his collarbone. Then the party filed inside, halting on the main workroom floor as a pair of young men cut across their path carrying timber to the furnace.
Apion frowned as he swept his gaze around. The furnaces were lit, women were sitting at the looms and a small, bald smith seemed engrossed by a sheaf of paper with diagrams inked upon it. Through the double doors, in the yard, he saw two men buzzing around what looked like a fletcher’s workshop. Then he looked back to the smith – and caught the man’s furtive glance for a heartbeat before it was dropped back to the paper. Apion dipped his brow and strode over to the furnace area.
'You oversee this workhouse, smith?’
The man nodded, as if irritated by the interruption.
‘And how are the works going?’ Apion asked.
The smith took a moment to stroke his chin before looking up.
‘Slowly, we have had some difficulty with the materials. The ore has many impurities, and the wool is coarse and . . . ’
As the smith listed his complaints, Apion looked to the pile of ore in the adjacent storeroom. He noticed two things at that moment. The thick coating of dust upon the iron ore and the bead of sweat on the smith’s forehead, despite the relative cool of the workhouse.
‘ . . . we really are struggling to meet the emperor’s demands,’ the smith gestured to the furnaces, ‘but we’ve been working night and day to . . . ‘
Apion barged past the smith, then placed a hand against the furnace door, tentatively at first, then without fear. It was cold and only beginning to heat from the flames inside. He looked up at the others in the room. One of the lads carrying timber had a wet, red stain down the front of his linen tunic. Wine. The other lad’s clothes were pristine white, despite the soot around the works. Then he saw that another few faces had appeared in the yard outside. They looked anxious until the fletcher whispered to them and they hurriedly took up tools.
‘There have been no works here for some time,’ Apion stated.
‘I . . . how dare you suggest,’ the smith started, his eyes bulging. All around the workshop had slowed, eyes fixed on the scene.
‘You reek of wine!’ Apion spat back. ‘And your drudges have obviously come here in haste from the inn,’ he gestured to the lad with the stained tunic. Then he nodded to the white-robed lad, ‘or from prayer.’
‘This is an outrageous claim!’
Igor barged forward, lifting his axe from his back, hefting it up to strike at the man with the shaft. The smith staggered back and fell in anticipation of the blow, shielding himself with his arms.
Dederic stepped forward and caught Igor’s arm just in time. The gasps of the onlooking workers filled the cavernous workhouse.
Igor grunted and glared at Dederic, wide-eyed.
‘This is not how it is supposed to be,’ the Norman muttered, frowning.
‘Strategos?’ Igor bawled, looking to Apion.
Apion twisted round. ‘Dederic is right. If we knock this man unconscious, who will see our weapons forged?’
With a grunt, Igor stepped back.
Apion crouched by the smith and stared at him. ‘The emperor waits in the street outside,’ at this, the smith gawped to the shattered door and then to Apion, ‘and he is minded to execute those who have jeopardised his campaign.’
‘I . . . I . . . ’ the smith stammered.
‘You will not be hurt or punished, smith, unless you fail to do as I ask.’
The smith nodded hurriedly.
‘The emperor’s army is set to march into Seljuk lands to protect the empire, to protect you, to protect your family. Yet near half of them, over three thousand men, have only tunics and the grace of their god to protect them from Seljuk steel,’ he gripped the smith’s tunic, lifting him to his feet and pulling him close. ‘We need klibania, do you understand?’
The smith nodded hurriedly.
‘Iron is best but leather will do,’ Apion continued. ‘They need boots also – we have already visited the sot dozing at the tannery, so he knows his responsibilities. Helms, blades, spears and shields are in short supply also, as are arrows. You have a busy few weeks ahead of you, smith, but I’m sure your appetite for hard work has grown in the time you have taken coin to do nothing.’
The smith gulped, a steely resolve growing and replacing the terror in his eyes. ‘Aye, it has. Idleness has made me do some bad things.’
Apion pinned him with a gimlet stare and lowered his voice. ‘A man rarely finds opportunity to redeem himself for past evils. Seize your opportunity.’ At last. the man nodded vigorously and Apion released his grip on him. Then Apion strode back to the shattered door. Igor’s barked orders echoed around him as he left.
Outside, Romanus waited on horseback. The varangoi clustered around him. Philaretos and Gregoras looked on with narrowed eyes.
Apion squinted as he looked up to the emperor. ‘It is as we thought, Basileus. Some treachery has seen the armamenta lie idle for months. But it is rectified now. Igor is posting his men here to oversee that the works are completed with haste.’
‘Good,’ Romanus nodded, the tension easing from his expression just a fraction. ‘Now we must ride around the farmlands and muster what other men we can.’
***
Zenobius lay flat on his belly, inching forward until he could curl his fingers around the lip of the armamenta roof and peer down into the flagstoned street below. While he had taught himself to disguise his emotions, it meant they were all the fiercer in his hear
t. The signal from his man in the emperor’s retinue had been too late. Psellos would think him some kind of fool. Childhood memories swirled in his agitated mind. His mother’s promise of greatness seemed ever more distant and he heard the drunken jeers of Father and his cronies as they beat him. Father was right. I am a curse! At this, his expressionless face twitched and the beginnings of a frown wrinkled his brow. But he clenched his fists until his nails broke the skin and his palms bled. No, he insisted, his face settling once more, this is merely a setback.
He looked to the nearby stables where a dappled grey was loosely tethered. It was time to move on to the next step of the plan.
***
Apion walked with Romanus, Igor, Dederic and Philaretos in the watery morning sunshine by the banks of the Halys, north of the camp. It had been a hectic few weeks of kicking the armamenta into life and rounding up what few recruits they could find in the nearby farmlands, villages and towns.
Just outside the camp on a patch of flat ground clear of rhododendrons and rocks, the skutatoi of the Opsikon Thema were being put through their paces by their kampidoktores. The gruff man orchestrated the drill of running and leaping with a chorus of barks and a gleeful and sadistic grin. Adjacent to this, the thock-thock of arrows punching into wood rang out as the toxotai of the Bucellarion Thema fired into rings of tree trunk, each emptying one quiver before taking up another.
Then, further north, the imperial tagmata trained. One glance could distinguish these more ancient regiments from the mercenary rabbles on the borders led by the likes of Doux Fulco. The skutatoi of the Optimates Tagma – the only infantry unit that could present with every man armed and armoured – formed up in a silvery line, those with the longest spears to the fore, their green banners splicing the line at regular intervals of each bandon of three hundred men. One barking command saw their flanks fold swiftly to form a defensive square. Then, buccinators by the side of the river raised their horns to their lips. The wail of the instruments rang out and the earth shook; from the banks upriver, the kataphractoi of the Scholae Tagma mock-charged this square. They were a fine sight; fifteen hundred mounted men encased in iron, thundering forwards together in a thick wedge. At the last moment, they split into two and broke around the square. Then the men of the Optimates cheered as they fended off this ‘charge’.
Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart Page 21