Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (9 page)

The sultan’s words were like an echo of Apion’s thoughts. ‘Any moniker earned by the spilling of a man’s blood is a curse rather than a boon. Indeed, every time they chant
Haga
after a battle, I find myself awakening as if from some awful dream, surrounded by death. Yet I find myself drawn back to that numb netherworld, time and again.’ He lifted his war elephant out to counter the threat of the sultan’s vizier piece. ‘I detest my battle name,’ he leaned back in his chair with a dry, mirthless laugh, one finger absently tracing the white band of skin on his wrist, ‘yet when I think back to the days when I was known simply as Apion, I have no wish to return there.’

The sultan lifted his war elephant and sent it across almost to the edge of the board, lining up to strike Apion’s pawn line. ‘A riotous mixture of my ambitions and my uncle’s ambitions for me spawned the creature I have become. I have watched my family tear at each other, murdering and plotting against one another in their lust for power. Now I find myself as sultan, does that make me at once the best and the worst of them? Regardless, it is what I am. The boy Muhammud is gone, and my destiny is set in stone. There will be many more bloody battlefields.’ Alp Arslan looked into the crackling flames for a moment. Then he leaned forward, his expression earnest. ‘I have faced curs, cowards, mindless butchers and men who would slaughter their children for a purse of gold. But I have faced few like you,
Haga
; your tenacity is unparalleled. After twelve years, still you resist my armies
.
What happened to you to make you this way?’

Apion’s gaze drifted as the question hung in the air. Then he reached down to lift Mansur’s bloodied shatranj piece from his purse, his eyes examining its worn surface. Then he took up an empty cup, filled it with wine and took a deep gulp. A long silence passed, broken only by the spitting of the fire. Then he looked the sultan in the eye and, without thinking, he slipped into the Seljuk tongue; ‘Everyone I have ever loved has been slain.’ His words echoed around the map room as he lifted a pawn out to block the sultan’s chariot and present a lure to the nearby knight.

Alp Arslan’s eyes narrowed and he replied in his native tongue; ‘Then this is the source of your hatred of my people?’

Apion shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘Of those lost to me, there were my Byzantine birth parents, slain by Seljuk scimitars. Then there were my Seljuk guardians, butchered by Byzantine spathions. So, no, I do not hate your people, Sultan. I judge men on their merits and not their origins. Quite simply, I hate what this land has become.’

‘There will always be a borderland, Strategos,’ the sultan said as lifted his vizier forward. ‘Were people not suffering here, then they certainly would be, elsewhere.’

‘Perhaps. But now you have your answer. I can never relent until I am cut down, or until conflict is driven from this land.’

Alp Arslan supped his wine as if considering his next words carefully. ‘Your empire is putrefying at its heart. Your emperor is blinkered and your armies are in decay. Your empire fights the same battle as mine. But we fight the winning battle, Strategos. You will lose this struggle. You must know this.’

Apion felt the steel wrap around his heart once more. ‘I know little of assured futures, Sultan.’ He thought over the crone’s words.
I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The mighty Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud.
‘Indeed, I have been told that destiny is for the strongest to define.’

Alp Arslan held his gaze. A log snapped in the hearth. ‘Men fight on either side of this conflict, and that is all we are. Men. Beating hearts, red blood and sharpened steel. I ask you this as a man, and I will not repeat the offer.’ The sultan’s eyes sparkled. ‘You seek an end to the war, Strategos. Perhaps you could find a swifter end to it . . .
 
by my side.’

Apion’s breath stilled. He held the sultan’s gaze. He thought of the many
valourous
and the many more bloody deeds committed by those who fought under the imperial banner. The Seljuk armies had shown him a similar mix of virtue and vice in his time. It seemed that an age had passed before he replied. ‘There is more to it than that, Sultan. Some men are little more than blood, bone and blade. But others have something that sets them apart. A touch of charm in their blood, coursing through their hearts. A light that will never dim. I have little doubt that you are one such,’ he prodded a finger into the table top gently, ‘but there are a precious few more who fight for the empire’s cause. Now that all else has been taken from me, my purpose is to fight for those few. And if I die for them and the cause is lost, then I know at least I have stayed true to my heart.’

Alp Arslan smiled wearily at this, leaning back from Apion and then standing as the first rays of dawn spilled through the map room. ‘So be it,
Haga.
Tonight, no more blood will be spilled. Tomorrow, you, your men and the rest of your people are free to leave this city under amnesty. You will travel safely to your farms and barracks. My men and I will remain here until the next moon. Then we will return to Seljuk territory.’ Then his expression darkened. ‘But know this; the next time we meet, there will be no amnesty. The actions of Bey Afsin illustrate the will of my people.’ He clasped a hand over his heart. ‘The conquest of Byzantium is coming, and I will not relent.’

‘Likewise, you must know I will never yield.’ Apion tapped the shatranj board. ‘I hope that one day we will finish this game. But if not, then we will make our final moves on the battlefield.’

Alp Arslan nodded wistfully, then turned to leave.

Apion was alone. The fire crackled and spat as it died to nothing.

7.
Return to Chaldia

The journey home for the weary men of the Chaldian Thema was long and troublesome, and it had taken some months to finally set eyes on their homeland.

They had stalled at first on the banks of the River Halys. In the stifling summer heat, Apion found himself charged with the care of tens of thousands of displaced citizens and farmers. While Caesarea lay in Seljuk hands, there would be no return home for these people. Alp Arslan’s show of magnanimity had been shrewd, for allowing the populace safe passage from their homes had effectively tied up the remaining forces of the mustered themata in organising and policing the homeless rabble. Gaunt and filthy, they lived for weeks in makeshift tents and timber lean-tos under the welcome shade of the beech groves lining the banks of the Halys. It was fortunate that the river was abundant with fish and the surrounding lands rich with game. For without such bounty, thousands would have perished.

Still, the days were long and troublesome. Theft, rape and brawling were rife and the atmosphere suffocating. So, Apion took to waking each morning just before dawn, then setting out to run along the banks of the river, barefoot and dressed only in a light linen tunic. He found the chill air and the babble of the river cleansing to the mind, and he would only stop when the sun was fully past the eastern horizon. After stopping he would stretch his muscles and wash in the shallows. Then he would eat his usual breakfast of bread and honey, washing it down with river water. His mind fresh, he would then return to face the latest troubles of the refugees.

As the weeks passed, imperial trade cogs and the occasional galley docked by the camp and transported some of the refugees to the more westerly themata and gradually the camp shrank. By the ides of August, the camp held only a few thousand souls. It was then that Apion saw fit to delegate his command of the site to the newly appointed strategos of the Charsianon Thema – a young man who had previously been a tourmarches, one of the few who had survived the initial incursions of Bey Afsin.

After that, Apion and the men of Chaldia had set off on the journey home, crossing the Halys and then heading north-east. It was a steady and quiet march as they dotted between rivers and wells, eating from their rations and trapping game. Now, some six months after they had left their farms and towns, they were finally within sight of their homeland once more.

Apion squinted into the morning sun and eyed the plain ahead; russet and gold stretches of dust dappled with beech thickets and studded with shrubs. He could not help but focus on the crunch of boots and hooves on the dirt track behind him. Far fewer than there should have been. Of the twelve hundred Chaldians summoned to Charsianon by Doux Fulco, less than four hundred men would be returning home to Chaldia. Two households in every three would know only grief in the months ahead.

‘Many widows we make of waiting wives, with so little thought we squander men’s lives,’ a baritone voice spoke as if reading his thoughts.

Apion turned to Sha. The tourmarches had drawn level on his grey stallion.

‘It’s a saying from back home, in the sands of Mali. It is not just this land that suffers the pox of bloodshed. But I doubt that offers you any comfort?’

Apion looked off into the distance. ‘Not a crumb, Sha, not a crumb. That more young men of these lands will step up to take their fathers’ places is a joy for a strategos and a tragedy for those families he leaves behind.’ He twisted in his saddle once more. His gaze fell upon the short rider behind him.

Dederic the Norman rode in his mail hauberk. His skin was the colour of cooked salmon under the sun’s glare, and he looked almost as agitated as big Blastares. The Norman was one of the few of Fulco’s tagma who had stayed to defend the city when many others had fled. He had also been eager to accept Apion’s offer to enlist with the thema. Apion was equally eager for his acceptance, as only twenty seven of the precious kataphractoi had survived the Charsianon campaign, and Dederic and his knights would help to cover those losses.

Sha followed his strategos’ gaze. ‘He’s a good rider, sir. Some of his comrades are a touch feisty. But at least now they act under
your
command.’

Apion smiled dryly. ‘For a time, perhaps. But it will not be long before the emperor sees fit to appoint another puppet doux in
Fulco
’s place. Only then can he have a tentacle in every thema of his empire. Was such greed for power rife in your homeland too?’

‘In Mali?’ Sha mused, then shook his head. ‘When I was a boy, our king would be sure to ride to the borders of his realm at least once every season. To see what threats lay
outwith
and, more importantly, within. He rode without luxury and slept little, and some say he was permanently callused from the exercise. My people loved him for this.’ Sha looked to Apion and extended a finger. ‘Emperor Doukas would only have to ride out here once to see what lies in store for Byzantium should he continue his policy of neglect and greed.’ He wagged his finger. ‘Only once.’

Apion grinned wryly at this. ‘Perhaps the emperor feels it would be beneath him. After all, rumour has it he considers himself divine.’

Sha cocked an eyebrow. ‘Sir?’

Apion shrugged.
‘I heard it from the last mule-post from the west. It may be true or it may be hearsay. A few years ago, the Oghuz tribes raided in the west – nearly half a million of them spilled across the River Istros and into the empire.’ He frowned. ‘I do not know those lands, but I know what half a million armed men must look like. At one point they had Doukas and his retinue of just a few hundred riders trapped near the Haemus Mountains. He was a dead man, and the Oghuz are well-known for putting their enemies to miserable deaths – slicing off arms and legs then hanging the moaning torso from a tree for the wolves and bears to tear at. One night, while camped in some miserable hilltop bog in the middle of a rainstorm, Doukas did not pray to God, instead he cursed God for having put him in so miserable a predicament. Then he went on to curse the Oghuz who would surely put him to an excruciating end in the next few days. Then, almost overnight, as if his word had been deific, the Oghuz raiders were stricken by a terrible plague. They fell in their hundreds of thousands. Those who survived were leaderless and panicked. Many fled back to the wastelands across the Istros, but many more surrendered to Doukas. At once the raid was over and tens of thousands of these Oghuz pleaded to serve Doukas as mercenaries. An immense victory – won by his words alone, or so he believed.’

Sha held out his palms. ‘Perhaps that is why he chooses to neglect his borders and the themata armies so?’

Apion thought of Alp Arslan’s threat without airing it, ‘well he may well find that one day soon that those borders are pushed back until they encroach upon Constantinople’s walls. I fear that his words will offer little providence then. Hope is hard to conjure when such a prospect looms.’ He sighed and squinted into the sun. ‘What keeps you here, Sha, when the empire you serve shrivels in upon itself? Do you never pine for a return to Mali?’

‘Hope comes when we least expect it, sir. I remember that always, ever since I was a slave in the Seljuk heartlands. One day I hobbled back to the slave quarters, my back was more blood than flesh. I wept, knowing I could not sleep due to the pain. That night, I took a piece of root from under my pillow. I had been given it by an old slave months before as he lay dying. He said it would turn my blood to fire and I would suffer for only moments, and then I would be free.’ Sha’s eyes grew glassy and he paused for a moment. ‘I held the root in my hand for what seemed like an eternity, preparing to die. It was at the last moment that I realised that I had not heard the usual scuffle and chatter of the guards outside, nor the door to my filthy quarters being locked. When I opened the door and saw that the guards were indeed absent, I had my freedom.’ Sha frowned as he spoke. ‘On the cusp of death, hope presented itself.’

Sha sat up straight on his saddle, blinking the glassiness from his eyes and forcing a smile. ‘And as for returning to Mali?’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t think so – that king was an arsehole,’ he said and then roared with baritone laughter.

Apion chuckled too as Sha fell back to marshal the column.

They rode on across the plain and through the valleys. At dusk on the third day they reached the south banks of the River Lykos and made camp there, each
kontoubernion
of ten men setting to work on erecting their tent and lighting a campfire. The following morning the sun rose and grew fierce once more. The men of the thema were settled in the lacy shade offered by the beech trees, bantering as they waited on a passing vessel to transport them across the water. They kindled fires, boiled river water in their pots and then added balls of dried yoghurt, almonds and sesame oil, which blended with the water to form a thick and nutritious porridge. Their banter dropped to a lull as they filled their bellies with this, supplemented it with hard tack biscuit and smoked fish then washed it all down with well-watered wine.

To one side of the camp, Apion sat alone, his limbs still supple from his morning run and his hair still damp from bathing. He ate a meal of bread, cheese and dried berries, washing it down with cool river water. Then he settled down to cook a small pot of salep over his fire, the orchid root and cinnamon blending with the milk and releasing a delightfully sweet fragrance. The smell triggered many memories.

As did the sight a few hundred paces along the riverbank.

There, the charred foundations of a hut were embedded by the ruins of a simple ferry dock – little more than a few posts of timber driven into the silt of the shallows. On the opposite riverbank another post stood, with a frayed tether hanging from its tip where once a horn had hung. Once, years ago, the old ferryman Petzeas and his boys had run this crossing. In those days before Apion had enlisted with the thema, he had spent many hours chatting with the old goat as he crossed the river on his travels between the market towns dotted across the land. But then, five years ago, war had devoured the old man’s simple life. Apion had been too slow to meet the Seljuk incursion that ravaged these southern tracts of Chaldia. The ghazi
warbands
had razed, plundered and murdered everything in their path. Peaceable Seljuk settlers and Byzantine citizens alike were slaughtered like animals. Old Petzeas had been trampled to death and his home set to the torch. His sons, Isaac and Maro, had joined the thema ranks, embittered and thinking only of revenge. Apion had felt compelled to talk them out of this, but had found he could offer no rationale, no reasoning that would seem fair or fitting. He himself had joined the ranks intent on revenge, and knew that some fires in the soul could not be doused. So Isaac and Maro had fought like lions in Blastares’ tourma, only to be cut down in a Seljuk ambush in Southern Armenia. An entire family gone, consumed by the treacherous borderlands.

He was stirred from his thoughts as, at last, a small, well-weathered
pamphylos
drifted downriver. The bowl-shaped transport vessel had sun-bleached sails, desiccated timbers and an equally well-weathered crew. Sha hailed it, summoning its captain to the vessel side. The captain reluctantly agreed to ferry the men of the thema across to the north banks, forty men at a time. Apion waited until the end to cross, and his eyes rarely left the sad, blackened stumps of old Petzeas’ home.

They reformed on the opposite bank and then continued northwards. Apion sensed his men’s weariness and fell back to offer them words of encouragement, slipping from his saddle to lead his Thessalian on foot for a while. It was then that the Norman, Dederic dropped back also.

‘It’s not often you see a strategos or a doux deigning to forego the relative comfort of the saddle and tread the land,’ he said.

Apion shot a glare up at him and saw the little rider’s nervous grin fade. It was then he realised he was scowling. He sighed and chuckled. ‘At ease, Dederic. I sometimes forget that my troubles are etched on my face.’ Then he looked down at the dusty track. ‘And now that you mention it, by now my feet are probably just as callused as my arse.’ He slipped one foot into a stirrup and hauled himself up and into the saddle, relieved to hear Dederic laughing. He winced at the rawness of the little rider’s sunburnt skin once more and frowned. ‘So, tell me, where in the west do you hail from?’

‘Rouen,’ Dederic broke into a broad grin, his gaze growing distant, ‘a dear and green land. The soil is rich, the air is crisp in the winter and hot in the summer,’ his grin dropped for a moment, ‘but not this hot.’

Apion frowned. ‘Then what brings you east?’ Apion knew the usual motives of mercenaries were plunder, titles and lust for bloody adventure. But he could not pin one of these on Dederic with any certainty.

Dederic’s features darkened just a fraction. ‘I had little choice but to leave my home, Strategos. I came this way two years ago, and I can still taste the tears that stained my face on the day I left my family behind. We have a small landholding on the outskirts of Rouen. A patch of farmland by a fresh brook, ringed by oaks that look like they have grown there for a thousand years or more. It is where I grew up – where my father and his father lived out their lives in relative peace. I took on the working of that land to feed my wife, Emelin, my three girls and my boy. But had I remained there, they would have ended up in poverty, homeless and starving,’ he frowned, ‘or worse.’

Apion recognised the little Norman’s expression only too well.

‘My father died heavily indebted to the lord of the land – a fat and uncompromising whoreson who insisted we had inherited the debt. Then the harvests were scant for four years, and we could not hope to pay our dues let alone put gruel on the table for the children. I promised the fat lord the arrears we owed, if only he would wait on my return from these lands. So I set off in the service of a neighbouring lord, seeking out the coin that would spare my family a grim future.’