Cydones sucked in a breath of summer air as the column moved at a canter from under the canopy of the Pontic Forest and out into the yawning green landscape of south-west Chaldia. The thema had almost been fully inventoried and placed on standby for mustering but it had been a tough task after five years of demobilisation. It had been planned as a six month task, but distracted at every turn by seemingly relentless bands of mysterious Seljuk irregulars who rode without a banner, Cydones and his retinue were nearly seven months behind schedule. All the while, the threat of Seljuk invasion was hanging over the people of the eastern themata like a dark cloud. The reports from the eastern border towns were coming in thick and fast; organised ghazi raids were ever more frequent and the garrison soldiers were stretched to breaking point.
Despite this, spirits had remained high amongst his three hundred kataphractoi as they toured the lands. They were growing stronger and more numerous every day, and they were soaring now with the promise of returning to Trebizond for a short spell before setting out to engage with Tugrul.
Cydones was about to order them into a trot when he heard the riders behind him chattering, talking of a tale of bravery that had spread around the thema. Something piqued his curiosity and he called the two riders forward and asked them to repeat the story, and they were only too happy to comply.
‘So this soldier, he and his men are trapped in a mountain pass by a whole Seljuk army, thousands of them. He swoops down from the mountainside, disguises himself as a Seljuk, goes to them and talks his way to their leader, then he pulls out a scimitar, kills a hundred of them before the rest turn and run. Put his life on the line and saved his men. The whole garrison over at Argyroupolis treat him like a hero!’
The second rider cut in quickly. ‘Aye, they say when he first hobbled into the barracks he was lame, like an old man, but now he walks tall and is built like an oak. He’s a demon with the sword, too – since that day when he talked the Seljuks down, he has fought off raiders like none other in the garrison.’
‘Now what is it they call him again,’ the first rider rubbed his jaw in thought and the second one scratched his head.
‘Interesting. I’m sure the stories have been embellished somewhat, but they need heroes out there,’ Cydones replied. ‘That town is no longer near the borderland. It is the border. When Tugrul comes west, we must be ready to intercept him, otherwise the men on the walls will be the first Byzantines to face them, and as things stand – hero or not – that town will fall.’ He thought of the dark presence of the tourmarches Bracchus who ran the town. He had been forced to promote the man, the order coming straight from the emperor. Sultan Tugrul would be but one of this hero’s worries, he mused wryly. ‘But we need more like him . . . what did you say his name was?’
‘The Haga!’ the rider yelped, clicking his fingers.
‘The Hittite legend?’ the other rider quizzed.
Cydones slowed his mount, a hint of a smile touching his lips. ‘Indeed, the ancient legend of the ferocious eagle with two heads.’
The column drew to a halt behind the strategos. Cydones studied the horizon; the scimitar, the limping Seljuk speaker, the two-headed eagle. One name echoed in his thoughts.
Apion.
He held up his hand and slowed the column. The riders would not be best pleased at the order he was about to give, but if there was as much riding on his next action as he thought, then he had no choice.
‘Trebizond must wait,’ he boomed. ‘We ride for Argyroupolis!’
***
Summer’s heat had conquered the land and he was bathed in sweat as he ran, but Apion refused to drop his pace. It was barely mid-morning and he had Argyroupolis in his sights, the papers already delivered to the imperial rider in record time. Indeed, he had reached the rendezvous point early enough to kindle a fire and toast some bread before the rider arrived, and he could only wonder at how much he might have broken his record by without the wait.
The sweat droplets gathered on his now thick amber beard and he felt his vision closing in; he reached into his satchel without breaking stride, lifting a betel leaf from the batch he had bought in the market from a coal-skinned Indian trader known to Sha. He slipped the leaf between his lips and chewed until the tangy juices came through. His mind seemed sharpened almost instantly and his stamina steadied a little and then lifted, just a fraction, but enough to keep him going. Kartal the Seljuk had been right about the leaf, it had been invaluable in keeping him going and in making the pain later more bearable. After six months of running every day, his withered leg had swollen with muscle, almost entirely swallowing the scar. Added to this, he found the urge to chew on the leaf come less often. Now in his twentieth year, he could stretch the limb fully to stand tall, at last without need of the brace. More, he could run like a leopard.
He was ready. Bracchus’ time was almost over.
As he came within view of the walls of Argyroupolis he slowed, looked up and grinned; the sun was not even close to its zenith. A record by some way; quite an achievement, he mused, feeling at the iron weights he had sewn into the hem of his tunic to accelerate his muscle development.
Then the wall guard saw him and broke into a babble of cheering. He heard their chants as he neared. Ha-ga! Ha-ga! Changed times, he mused with a grin. Then he looked to his forearm and the red-inked stigma of the mythical creature that the men had insisted on etching there just a few nights previous. He had agreed to this after drinking his first cup of ale in years. But later that night, through bleary eyes, he had examined the design in suspicion. It looked chillingly familiar, he had realised, thinking of that knotted arm reaching for the dark door, with the red emblem on the forearm and the white band of skin around the wrist.
He shook the thoughts from his head and called out to the wall guard. That day at the pass had been a pivotal moment in winning the hearts of the garrison, and on three occasions since he had clashed again with ghazi raiders. Each skirmish had been swift and brutal, with no prospect of diplomacy or retreat. He had fought only as he knew how to, and found himself being heralded as one of the finest swordfighters in the ranks. But what mattered most to him was the trust and respect he had gained from his kontoubernion. Procopius would always be a dry-witted whoreson, but the old soldier’s opinion of him had definitely mellowed. Even the bullish Blastares seemed to treat him more like an equal now. You saved us back at the pass so you’ll do for me, the oak-limbed giant had muttered grudgingly. He still trod carefully around the pair, eager not to push their firebrand and ale-fuelled dispositions too far. Sha and Nepos, on the contrary, were just that little bit more open-minded. They would tease him about his newfound reputation and they could take a joke in return. It was this spirit that made life bearable in the lead up to the moment he would face and strike down Bracchus.
That moment was tonight.
He stopped under the walls to stretch his calves and his quadriceps. He had it all planned: he had watched the tourmarches’ movements closely in the last year. Every night, Bracchus would make his way from the mess hall to the officers’ quarters escorted only by Vadim and for once without the brutes who trailed around with him at every other part of the day. So it was to be that the big Rus would have to die if Apion was to take his vengeance.
Until tonight, he needed to keep himself busy, to stop fear and doubt from needling into his thoughts. Today would be a fine distraction. The race had been dismissed as a farce at first; the powerhouse Blastares against the cripple Apion, but that had been back in the autumn, before Apion had grown into a broad and muscular young man. Now the odds had tumbled to even and the contest had been talked about all over the barracks as the date neared.
Apion glanced up to the west; the distant mountain peak and the village of Bizye. It was an hour’s march away from Argyroupolis. If he could win, it would destroy the power of the serrated scar forever and shatter the shackles of that dark night. The physical shackles, at least, he thought, his expression darkening.
***
The sun was beginning to drop after a hot midday and the air was dry. Sha, Nepos and Procopius stood by the wooden palisade gates of Bizye atop the mountain. The tiny settlement was one of the few patches of land that could support crop and grazing in the mountains surrounding Argyroupolis, and as such the families of over a quarter of the skeleton garrison of the town lived there. The settlement, a good hour’s march west of the town, was afforded only a wooden palisade wall, more to break the winds at that altitude than for defence and with Argyroupolis to the east plugging the main mountain pass the threat of attack was fairly light.
Around Sha and his men, at least a hundred villagers, some twenty off-duty skutatoi and a handful of toxotai gathered beside their families, their coins riding on the result of the race. Now all eyes were on the two dots down on the valley floor. Sha lifted a purple rag and waved it over his head three times. A babble of cheering and catcalls broke out from the cluster of soldiers.
The race was on.
***
Apion and Blastares squinted up at the mountaintop.
‘Right, I think he’s waving,’ Apion said. A grunt and a scattering of scree told him Blastares was already off and running. Apion set off behind the big man. There were several winding paths, man-made and natural, that would take him to the summit but each held their own dangers and detours. They came to the first fork in the path. He would go right, he affirmed, feeling his lungs begin to stretch. Right was a shorter but less stable route, with a narrow and crumbly path further up. Then Blastares cut right. Apion went left.
‘I’ll have an ale ready for you when you reach the top!’ Blastares roared, barely disguising his early fatigue. Then the big man disappeared round the side of the mountain.
Apion laughed and upped his pace, the air thinning as he ascended. Then the bleating of a mountain goat startled him and he jumped past the equally bemused animal. His muscles ached but not at all like they used to. He was nearly halfway up, he realised, glancing up at the mountaintop plateau. He noticed a plume of dust from the eastern edge of the mountain, further up than he was. Blastares was ahead! He felt the urge to reach for a betel leaf but then hesitated; this race had to be won without advantage. Then he noticed another plume, a little further down from him, again on the eastern edge. Odd, he thought, as the villagers only made the trip down to Argyroupolis once a day at dawn and then back up again in the evening, after they had traded their wares. Perhaps it was a goat herd moving his flock along. He shook the thought from his head and honed his mind, trying to garner the same focus that the betel leaves would give him. Running without their aid was another challenge he was determined to win. Only two more zig-zags and he was at the top, where all the paths converged to a single dirt track leading into the village.
He heard Procopius first, the old soldier uttering a guttural roar of joy. ‘Come on, Apion!’ he whooped. The old soldier had changed his bet on seeing Apion’s limbs swell and tone through the training regime.
The mountaintop rolled into view and the crowd pumped their fists and roared, braced, heads darting from one path to the next. Then Blastares appeared at the other edge, his face a shade of plum. The big soldier had less ground to cover but his legs were leaden. Apion sensed his reserves of energy would carry him home in first place. He half-heard a gasping insult from Blastares as he raced ahead, then sprinted for the spear planted in the ground – the finishing post – but then a pained yowl pierced the air just behind him. The faces of the gathered crowd dropped into winces. Apion slowed to look back over his shoulder. Blastares lay in a crumpled heap, grappling his ankle.
‘Come on, lad, get over the line! I’ve got a month’s pay on this one!’ one soldier bawled.
Apion was now still.
‘What you playin’ at?’ another one roared.
Apion jogged back and crouched by Blastares.
‘Get on with it, you nippy bugger!’ the big soldier growled at him, the veins in his forehead bulging like worms.
‘Nobody’s losing today,’ Apion wrapped an arm around Blastares’ shoulders and hoisted the big man’s weight.
‘Eh? No way, put me down, I’m no bloody crip . . . ’ his words tailed off. ‘Sorry.’
Together, they walked to the finishing post. Half the crowd looked relieved, the other half frustrated. ‘We’ll race again one day soon.’ Apion said to them. ‘I don’t want to win because the big man here took an injury.’ He saw they needed more than that. ‘Take your bets back. You’ll need them. We’ll double the stakes next time! Who’s up for it?’
Procopius shrugged and then pumped a fist in the air. ‘Right, I’m doing the book, who’s in?’ At once the crowd erupted into a babble, surrounding the old soldier, coins in hand.
Blastares’ resolve crumbled and he issued a hoarse cackle in between gasps for breath. ‘Next time, you don’t get half a year to prepare!’
‘Next time, you don’t get a head start!’ Apion grinned. The big man had the temper of a bear and the heart of a lion. Maybe not a tactician but a man he would always be heartened to have by his side in battle.
Sha and Nepos joined them as they made their way into the village, Procopius hurried after them, tipping his takings for the next race into his helmet, while the crowd of soldiers began to pick up their weapons, ready for the walk back to the barracks, and the villagers headed back to their homes, goats and laughing children trailing in their wake.
Nepos clasped a hand to his shoulder and gave him a firm nod. ‘You did it,’ he said with a grin. Apion gave the Slav a knowing look. Nepos was a thinker, shrewd and quick-witted, and had supported Apion since his first days in the garrison, the pair often playing shatranj in the evening.
Sha laughed like a drain. ‘I never thought it possible, Apion, now you are the strong one!’ Apion nodded his thanks. The African had also been there to guide Apion in his early days in the garrison and his shortcomings as a domineering officer were more than made up for by his knack for diplomacy and tact; he had seen the man diffuse many a potentially abrasive situation. Perhaps that was why he had initially been put in charge of Blastares, Apion mused.
Procopius slapped both Blastares and Apion on the back. The old soldier’s fleet-footed fighting days were probably in the past but the man was obsessed with siege equipment and artillery. Apion knew that a man doing a job he loved for free was worth ten men loathing a job they were paid for. He wondered why the old soldier hadn’t been put in charge of the ballista squads.
He beheld the four and wondered how he had ever found them so cold, so distant, like that first day in the barracks. He took his scimitar and satchel from Sha, then rummaged in the satchel to pull two skins clear. ‘Before we head back, let us rest for a while . . . with a drink.’
‘You brought wine?’ Blastares’ eyes grew wide.
‘I like this lad more every day,’ Procopius chuckled, ‘give me a swig!’ He reached out to grasp a skin but he froze, his eyes bulging.
‘Procopius?’ Sha’s brow wrinkled. Then the village bell pealed rapidly.
Apion spun around, following Procopius’ stare to the plateau edge – the second dust plume. A rumbling of hooves caused the plateau to quiver.
‘Get into the village!’ he roared, waving at the pack of off-duty skutatoi and toxotai who wandered lazily to the other descending path. They realised what was happening, but they were too late; a pack of some fifty ghazi riders burst onto the plateau and thundered straight for them. The Byzantine soldiers who had brought their weapons and armour had no time to lace up their klibania or padded vests, throwing them to one side, fumbling on their helmets and pulling bows, shields and swords to the ready with shaking hands. Then, with no officer in their number to organise them properly, they formed a poorly constructed line. Heavily outnumbered by cavalry, they stood little chance.
Apion glanced to the terrified villagers who stood by the gates, readying to slam them closed. ‘Keep the gates open!’ He jabbed an accusing finger at the man with his hands on the locking bar, who gulped and nodded hurriedly. Then he turned to the four; Sha was searching for the right words, the other three were itching to act.
‘At them, sir, we must! Or they’re all dead!’ Apion insisted. ‘They need a leader!’
Sha frowned and then shook his head. ‘We can’t beat fifty cavalry on open ground, Apion; we must get inside the village, the others will have to fight for themselves!’
‘Then what? Defend the place, just the five of us, against those same fifty?’
‘Either way, we’re done for,’ Sha’s eyes darted, panic setting in.
‘No, we make a fighting retreat into the town, save as many of those men as we can!’ Apion protested.
Sha looked up, face wrinkled in indecision.
‘Then we may have the number to hold out inside the town palisade,’ Apion gasped, his eyes on the closing gap between the ghazi riders and the Byzantine soldiers. The toxotai managed to loose a handful of arrows, but their haste meant only one found its target, taking a rider in the chest and punching him from his horse.
Then the ghazi detachment smashed into the trickle of Byzantine soldiers. ‘Come on!’ Blastares roared to Sha.
Apion grasped his arm and leant into the African’s ear. ‘Sir, make this your call, give the order. I will fight like a lion beside you, we all will.’
Sha’s eyes widened at the burning expression on Apion’s face. He nodded, then filled his lungs. ‘Forward!’ the African roared.
At once the five rushed into the skirmish, running for the flank of the riders. Apion felt fury wash through his veins as he ran, and the dark door was punched open by the scarred and knotted arm, its flames rushing out like a serpent’s tongue. He hefted his scimitar and leapt, swiping it past a Seljuk rider’s neck, taking arterial wall with it and soaking him and the soldiers nearby in a shower of blood. With that, Apion was pitched into the midst of the fray. He spun on one heel and then another, flashing the curved blade round and up to parry a spear jab and then stab home into a rider’s chest. With his legs now equal in strength, he was catlike in his movements. Another rider fell, cleaved from shoulder to heart, then another, belly sliced open, guts slapping onto the ground before the body. He heard a grunt and spun to right himself for a parry from the ghazi whose sword was arcing down on him. Their blades clashed and Apion shouldered into the man’s thigh then wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him from his horse. They fell in a tangle past other bloodied corpses and screaming wounded. Then Apion grappled the man by the throat, fumbled for his dagger and punched the blade into the ghazi’s abdomen. Yet the man fought on, pulling a small axe from his belt and swiping, despite the black blood pumping from his wound. Apion leapt back and finally the man’s eyes rolled in his head and he was still.
Turning, he saw that the ghazi charge had been absorbed; many riders had been pulled from their mounts. This battle was starting to look winnable, but then he saw another dust cloud coming uphill. Seljuk reinforcements; they had an instant to cheat death.
‘Pull back!’ he roared. ‘Get inside the gates!’
The Byzantines staggered back and the ghazis regrouped and remounted.
‘Move!’ Apion bellowed. Like a herd of wounded cattle, the Byzantines ran, hobbled and crawled for the sliver of a gap in the palisade gates, the ghazis racing after them.
Then the source of the second dust cloud was revealed as a party of some fifty Seljuk spearmen.
‘By God,’ Sha stammered as they tumbled inside the gate, pulling in the handful of stragglers who had survived the chase, ‘infantry, this far west? Tugrul must be nearby!’
‘We can worry about that tomorrow, should we see tomorrow, yes?’ Apion bawled over the thunder of hooves. With the shoulders of all those who had made it inside, the gate was slammed shut and the locking bar was clunked into place. Apion took stock of their number: there was Sha, Nepos, Blastares and Procopius, plus eight skutatoi and three toxotai. He glanced over the rudimentary gatehouse, his eyes hung for an instant on its flat roof and he yelled at the archers. ‘Toxotai, get up onto that roof!’ Then he stopped one of them. ‘You, go up there,’ he jabbed a finger at a thatch roof on the opposite side of the gate.
‘Apion?’ Sha looked desperate, glancing from Apion to Blastares, who was already barking orders to the skutatoi, ushering them into a line.
‘They’re only staying outside of the gate for so long. If we’re to make any kind of stand then you need crossfire to cover our flanks.’ As he spoke, the whole palisade shuddered as the Seljuk infantry crashed against it, pushing at its fragile frame. Then ropes were lassoed around the carved points of the palisade gates. The ropes tightened and the gates groaned, bending outwards.
‘But we’re hugely outnumbered,’ Sha countered, ‘surely we need every man we have to face them if, when they break through?’
Nepos cut in. ‘Apion’s right, sir. All sixteen of us versus that lot outside in a straight pitched fight – we’re dead any which way you choose to cut it.’
Apion waited until Sha gave him the nod, then he grasped Procopius’ shoulder. ‘Procopius, we don’t have artillery, but is there anything we could use to slow them when they break through?’
The Seljuk war cry was now dreadfully close, iron hacking into timber like a premonition of what was to come. Then a spear punched through the barrier. Then another and another.
‘Eh? Well a ballista would be lovely but,’ he shrugged his shoulders.
‘There must be something,’ Apion glanced around the village for inspiration, but only terrified villagers, pigs, bales of hay and mud presented themselves.
‘Hold on,’ Procopius purred, ‘We can’t fire bolts at them but if they’re so desperate to get in here then they can kindly run onto our spears.’ He dug his heel into the mud and then pushed the butt of his spear in until it stuck, the broad blade pointing accusingly at the now collapsing gate. He looked to Apion. Apion nodded feverishly and Procopius turned to the rest. ‘Right, lads, get your spears in the dirt, just like this.’ Then the old soldier turned back to Apion. ‘Now, those hay bales could also be our friend . . . if we had some pitch and some rope.’
‘You sort it out, Procopius – you’re the expert in this kind of thing!’ Apion clasped a hand on Procopius’ shoulder.
Then he turned back to Sha. ‘This spear wall will buy us precious time,’ he yelled over the din of the Seljuk roars, ‘pin them down, might even thin them a little but we need to scatter them or we’re done for.’ A pig squealed as a Seljuk forced his bow through a hole in the collapsing gate and let an arrow loose that skimmed the beast’s back. Apion’s eyes narrowed: the squeal conjured up the image of that day at Cheriana, when the pigs ran loose, terrifying the wagon horses.
‘That’s it! The pigs!’ Apion cried. A pair of villagers struggled to hold their pen gate in place such was the terror of the animals, running, leaping over one another. ‘Release them from the pen when I say, then drive them to the gate,’ he roared at them and the villagers nodded, faces white with terror. ‘You do understand? They must run for the gate.’ With that, Apion turned and added himself to the line of skutatoi. Then, with a crash, the gate was ripped down by the lassos and some eighty Seljuks, riders and spearmen poured through the narrow opening. They flooded towards the spears, hacking at them, expecting to be able to brush a path between them, but they remained stuck fast in the mud. A cry of panic rose up from the Seljuks to the front as they realised, just too late, what was happening. The ghazi riders to the back pushed on, forcing their own men, screaming, onto the broad blades. Bones popped, blood bursting down the shafts and the screaming was swiftly ended.
‘They’re pinned, fire at will,’ Apion roared, but the toxotai on the gatehouse roof and the opposite thatched roof were already loosing shaft after shaft into the crush. At the same time, the thin line of skutatoi stabbed through the spear wall, felling the Seljuks who were compressed against the blades.
In the moment when the Seljuks lost momentum, Procopius batted a hand against the shoulder of another skutatos and the pair broke off to lift a hay bale with a length of rope wrapped under it. The hay bale was dripping with pitch, as Procopius had ordered, and when one of the villagers touched his torch to it, the bale ignited. With a grunt, the pair heaved the flaming mass over the spear wall and into the Seljuk crush. The bale disintegrated on contact, showering burning pitch over the Seljuk warriors. Men screamed, pulling back from the fray, skin bubbling. But as quickly as the bale had been ignited, the flames died and the Seljuks rallied.
Then a spear snapped and a handful of Seljuk infantry tumbled through the gap. The next spear began to bend and the Seljuk cavalry were pushing through as well. Apion’s eyes narrowed and he roared to the two villagers by the pig pen. ‘Let them out!’
The two stepped away from the pen gate and at once the pigs burst free, some thirty animals, racing as a pack, snorting, squealing, trotters sliding over one another.
‘The gate!’ Apion roared. ‘Herd them to the gate!’
The villagers had already taken care of it, a woman and a small girl brought crackling torches to them. The two men then each took to jostling a side of the herd, thrashing a torch at any animal that tried to make a break and head back towards the centre of the village. The animals’ terror seemed to swell at this and they raced, splitting through the skutatoi, through the spear wall and in between the legs of the Seljuk horses. The mounts whinnied, rose on their hind legs, bucked and leapt at this and the riders were hurled from their saddles, falling on their heads, snapping bones or being pierced on the spear wall.
The skutatoi roared at this, then pushed to close the gap on the sprawling mass of Seljuks. As Apion joined the swell, he could see the ghazi commander beat his sword into his shield, crying out to his riders as the pigs fled off across the plateau. The Seljuks were wavering, their number halved, but their leader was rallying them. Apion was overcome by a now familiar certainty: he had to live through this while Bracchus still walked the earth. He hoisted himself onto a riderless ghazi stallion, then heeled the beast to turn. He held out his scimitar and galloped for the ghazi commander. A guttural roar burst from his lungs and he saw everything ahead with a tinge of crimson, the dark door open, flames licking out. He mustered all his strength as he swiped his sword down onto the commander’s shield. For a moment, their eyes locked, wide, whites bulging. It was him, Bey Soundaq, from the pass.
Soundaq butted his shield out. Apion pulled back and then swiped with his blade, shattering the man’s shield, then again, and this time his and Soundaq’s scimitars clashed with a rasp of iron. He drove the man back from the gates with each hack. He barely noticed the rumble of hooves as the other ghazis fled, leaving only Soundaq. With another strike, the Seljuk’s scimitar snapped and he backed up, hands aloft as Apion’s blade hovered at his throat.
‘Gut ‘im,’ one toxotes called. Apion blinked, looking round at the blood-spattered remnant of the Byzantines. All eyes were upon him. His heart warmed to see Sha, Nepos, Blastares and Procopius standing. Then he heard the familiar wail of the buccina from below the edge of the mountaintop plateau, the reason for the sudden Seljuk retreat.
‘Riders, ours! Not a moment too soon!’ one of the skutatoi yelled.
He turned to Soundaq. ‘If your men had not fled just now, I would already have this blade in your throat. Yet the last time we met, you said you had seen enough blood?’
‘That was then. Since that day I returned to my village, on the edge of the Colonea Thema. I found my village in ruin, burned by Byzantine torches, my family slain.’
Apion felt the fury inside him temper.
‘So you’ve got your victory, Byzantine,’ Soundaq grimaced, ‘now end it with my blood.’ He tilted his neck to the point of the blade.
Apion lowered his sword. ‘Ride,’ he pointed to the opposite mountain path where the rest of the Seljuk party had fled, ‘and ride fast.’
Soundaq’s eyes widened a little; he nodded and made to ride off, but turned back. ‘I say again what I said to you that day: Byzantium’s time is over.’ With that, he heeled his mount and galloped off.
Apion spun round at the sound of a stretching bowstring, his eyes falling on an opportunistic toxotes. ‘Loose that arrow and you’ll be sorry!’ The toxotes glared at him momentarily, hesitating, then dropped his gaze to the ground and relaxed his bow.
Nepos wandered over, tucking his sword away. ‘A fine act, Apion. He was the ghazi from the pass, no?’
Apion looked down at the Slav and relaxed the tense scowl on his face. ‘He was dead. I was ready to tear his heart from his chest until I realised it was him.’
Nepos frowned, then took a deep breath. ‘It’s over, Apion.’
Yet Apion knew it was only the beginning, and he shivered at what the coming war might summon from within him. He made to touch the prayer rope, seeking calm, then frowned again at the etching of the Haga on his skin. Did God truly hold sway over the fates of men or was it a much darker force? Then the words of the old lady from the river echoed in his mind.
You may not see it now, but you will choose a path. A path that leads to conflict and pain. Much pain.
***
The commotion was widespread as they marched back into Argyroupolis. Townsfolk wore panicked expressions and clamoured around the barracks. They had all heard the bell peal from the mountaintop village and knew exactly what it meant. When Apion and the beleaguered column had staggered through the gates, bloodied, weary and depleted, murmurs of concern grew into a panicked babble.
‘We’ve got worse to come,’ Sha spoke in a hushed voice as they entered the barracks, the iron gates clanging shut behind them.
Apion looked up; Bracchus stood in the centre of the courtyard, flanked by Vadim and his cluster of towering bodyguards. The rest of the garrison were formed up into a depleted bandon, holding their fluttering crimson Chi-Rho banner in silence. They looked tense.
‘They’re readying for an attack on the town?’ Apion assumed.
‘I don’t think so,’ Sha growled. ‘Look!’
Apion followed the African’s gaze; a circle had been demarcated in the dust in the centre of the muster yard. Bracchus’ glare turned on Apion.
‘A death bout? Now? Is the man insane?’ Blastares growled, pushing forward.
‘Blastares, no!’ Sha pushed a hand over the big man’s chest to halt him. ‘Challenging him results in only one thing. Remember what happened to Basil?’
‘I remember,’ Procopius cut in, ‘but who is it this time?’ The old soldier bundled forward, peering across the ranks.
Apion felt an odd chill: usually two men would be stood by the edge of the circle at this point, ready to fight. This time there was nobody, just two piles containing a helmet, sword and a shield each.
‘Dekarchos, report!’ Vadim barked.
Sha stopped before the big Rus and the tourmarches. He fired that distant but intense stare off over Bracchus’ shoulder. ‘Ghazi riders, sir, they made an attempt to take Bizye. Not just raiding either, sir, they had a division of spearmen with them too.’
Bracchus’ expression was both gleeful and enraged at once, a manic grin under his blade of a nose, lips twitching in unrest. ‘Raiders. Dealt with now?’
‘Yes, sir, but . . . ’
‘As I would expect.’ Bracchus flexed his fingers inside the studded gloves and punched one fist into his palm. ‘What I would not expect,’ he boomed, all those formed up behind him silent, ‘is for my garrison, my garrison, to be roaming the mountains, engaged in idle gambling? Neglect of your duty while the enemy hovers nearby . . . it does not sound good at all, does it?’ He dragged a finger across the line of battered and bruised survivors of the skirmish.
‘We were off-duty, sir. No rules were broken.’
‘Oh, I’ll be the judge of that,’ Bracchus hissed. ‘You are my subjects, you are my army!’
Apion tasted fury on his lips. His fists balled and he realised he was shaking.
‘Easy, lad,’ Nepos whispered. ‘He’s looking for an excuse.’
‘So let’s gamble on the outcome of the next contest . . .’
Procopius’ eyes bulged in realisation, ‘Oh, shit!’
‘. . . where the neglectful dekarchos will show his skill with the sword against another.’ Bracchus dragged his glare across the party, then lifted a finger and stabbed it at Apion. ‘Come forth.’
‘Never,’ Blastares grappled for his sword.
Apion clasped a hand over the hilt before he could draw it from its sheath. ‘No, Blastares.’ With that, he stepped forward, drew his scimitar and staked it in the circle, then stooped at one of the piles of armour to hoist the kite shield and place the helmet on. Sha followed suit, then turned to him, spathion in hand. Apion saw a mix of fear and resignation in the African’s eyes. He nodded to him, holding his gaze. ‘Don’t hold back, sir,’ he said, sincerely.
Bracchus, grinning, waved the gathered garrison around the circle. When formed, he raised a hand and then dropped it. ‘To the death!’
The pair sidestepped around the circle in a silence only broken by the scuffing of their feet in the dust. Apion felt nauseous at the reality of this and tried to see Mansur before him, imagining this as a friendly duel. His mind steadied, he tried to measure his next move: to fight Sha or to lunge for the tourmarches. Every time he circled past Bracchus, he noticed the veins in his jugular, so close.
Vadim and Bracchus’ men began to grumble and heckle at their hesitancy. ‘Perhaps one of my men will be less coy about ending one of your lives?’ Bracchus mused. One of the giant bodyguards stepped forward, drawing his spathion, the rest forming a wall around Bracchus.
The chance was gone and Apion knew straight away that the big guard would be ruthless. He had only one choice. He read Sha’s next footstep and lunged, bringing his sword smashing down on the dekarchos’ skutum. Sha roared and pushed back with the boss of his shield, then smashed his sword down at Apion, who dodged just beyond the blade. A pained frustration was etched across Sha’s face, enraged and apologetic all at once. At the edge of the circle, Blastares, Procopius and Nepos winced as they looked on. Apion saw the three of them eyeing Bracchus’ bodyguards. He parried a blow from Sha then spun to shake his head briskly at them.
Apion pushed forward again, shield on shield with Sha. Then the pair swung their swords at each other’s flanks, then both leapt back with a roar. Apion’s tunic was split over his ribs and the underlying wound gushed red. Sha’s garment had lost a handful of armoured plates from the back, the skin underneath pumping blood.
‘At last, some action!’ Bracchus roared. ‘This, men, is what I want from all of you. Undying commitment and devotion to your tourmarches.’
Face etched with desperation, Sha rushed for him again, and Apion had but an instant to react; if he had still been wearing his brace he would have been dead already. He swiped his shield up and threw himself to his right at the same time, leaving one leg trailing. The shield caught Sha’s sword and dulled the African’s blow, the dekarchos then tripped over Apion’s leg, thudding to the dust.
In a flash, Apion was up and had his scimitar at Sha’s throat. The African gulped, eyes wide in realisation, then dropped his weapon.
‘Unexpected,’ Bracchus spoke in a curious tone.
‘Finish him!’ the guards jeered.
The rest of the garrison stood still and silent. Apion looked up to them, catching the eyes of each one on the front row. ‘This man fought like a lion today, saved the lives of hundreds in Bizye, some maybe even your kin?’
‘My mother lives in the village,’ one soldier said, bunching his way forward.
‘So you want me to push my sword through this man’s throat?’ Apion asked.
‘Of course not,’ the soldier replied.
‘So the cripple boy has become a man?’ Bracchus spat. ‘The boy who carries a Seljuk sword. Lives with a Seljuk family.’ Some in the crowd broke into a murmur at this. ‘That’s right, the Haga speaks the Seljuk tongue because he is one, in all but blood.’
‘My actions have spoken for me, sir, every time I have donned the armour and arms of the thema.’ Apion turned to Bracchus, sheathing his sword. ‘If any man thinks less of me for such a trivial aside as living with a peaceful Seljuk family then let them come forward and face me,’ his eyes narrowed on Bracchus, ‘then you will have your measure of blood; but I will not kill Dekarchos Sha.’
Bracchus’ eyes grew cold and he clicked his fingers. ‘Vadim. Finish them. Finish them both!’
But before Vadim could step forward, the clatter of hundreds of swords being grappled and partially drawn filled the air. The garrison moved forward, flanking Apion as he helped Sha to his feet. Vadim hesitated and then looked to Bracchus.
At that moment, Apion saw a glimmer of fear in the tourmarches’ eyes. It lasted for just an instant, then it transformed into something darker than he had ever seen, even within himself. If Bracchus was to die here at the hands of many, then the entire garrison would be to blame. And he knew all too well the punishment the Agentes could inflict on those who crossed or harmed one of their own. No, Bracchus would die as planned tonight, on the end of his dagger alone.
He held his hands up to the men of the garrison and then turned to Bracchus again. ‘The tourmarches is our senior officer. We must respect his word.’ Apion kept his expression firm despite the scowls from some of the men at this. ‘What happened here was an unfortunate misunderstanding.’ He cocked an eyebrow to Bracchus. At last the blackness in the man’s eyes faded and he nodded.
‘As you say, soldier. Men, at ease. This is an issue for myself, the dekarchos and this soldier to deal with.’
The garrison remained braced until Apion turned to them, nodding. With a muted sigh, all half-drawn swords were replaced. He clasped an arm to Sha’s shoulder and then looked to Bracchus. ‘We will accept the harshest punishment associated with our crime of what? Disorder while off-duty?’
‘Oh yes, you will,’ Bracchus seethed.
Apion offered him a humble nod, as the rasping voice echoed in his mind.
You will take no more lives. And tonight, you whoreson, I will drink your blood.
***
The summer night was balmy and the cricket song was as loud indoors as well as out. From a few bunks away, Procopius groaned some sleepy nonsense-talk about the war against the sheep. Apion shook his head clear of the distraction. His muscles ached from the skirmish and then the aborted death bout during the day, but his mind and his heart were alert and honed on one thing.
He heard the muttering of the change of guard. It was time.
He untied the prayer rope and mouthed an oath and then an apology to his parents. For tonight he was to become a cold-blooded murderer. He lifted his dagger, tucked it inside his belt and crept from the sleeping quarters to lurk in the shadow of the main doorway.
Outside was dark apart from the torch ablaze on the watchtower by the gate. An ordinary evening, like any other. Only tonight, when Bracchus made his way to the officers’ quarters with Vadim, both would have their throats opened. He felt shame as he realised he was grinning at the prospect, welcoming the image of the dark door, flexing his own fingers as he saw the knotted arm reach out for it.
He watched the guards on the tower until they turned to look out over the fortified town. Then he scuttled across the muster yard to crouch in the shadows of the hay bales by the stables, back pressed against the wall of the storeroom adjoining to the officers’ quarters. When Bracchus walked past, he would spring. All this time, all that pain, all the angst, it would be let tonight like a poisonous cyst. He peered around the corner. Still nothing. He frowned, scanning the muster yard. There were no other guards in the compound. Something didn’t feel right.
Suddenly, an arm wrapped around his throat and a sharp point pressed into his neck.
‘So the hero tries to flee the barracks under cover of night?’
His vision cleared to reveal Bracchus, stood before him. Vadim held him from behind, grunting in amusement, a ham-like hand clutching at Apion’s throat, the other hand holding a dagger, the tip resting on his jugular.
‘Well, not in my realm, you Seljuk loving whoreson; here you pay for your crimes and you pay heavily.’ His words grew into a snarl as he gripped Apion’s hair and wrenched his head back. ‘You tried to humiliate me on my own territory. Shrewd and bold, I’ll give you that. But, as countless souls would tell you if their throats had not been ripped out, I do not hesitate to stamp out those who displease me. That is not good news for you.’ Bracchus nodded and Vadim wrapped his arm around Apion’s chin.
Staring at the star-studded night sky, Apion knew it was too late to shout, too late to plead. The knife blade pressed deeper into his jugular and he winced at the hot blood that escaped and trickled down his neck.
‘That’s not all; I’ve got two reasons to cut your throat, end your pitiful life,’ Bracchus’ words stung in Apion’s ear. ‘A business friend of mine, a very profitable business friend, old Kyros – used to make me a fortune taking money from the fools riding the highways near Trebizond – went missing some years ago. My men used to collect a cut of his takings every winter, then one time he didn’t show. I sent word round to look out for him, and then I heard he and his mob had been found, slain in the grass by the Piksidis. When I heard this I was distraught; I’d have to do without the old bastard’s money. I put a price on the head of those responsible, but nobody had seen a thing. Last they’d heard he had set out to shake the coins from some fool.’ Bracchus’ glare sharpened. ‘Now, years later, when it is all forgotten, I get word that a farmer has been telling of what he saw that day. Two young boys, one a cripple and the other a Seljuk, fleeing from the valley just before Kyros and his band were found.’
Apion’s thoughts swirled, then he hardened his expression. ‘I set out to buy information from him, the man tried to kill me. He got what he deserved for that.’
‘In turn, I could easily end your life in return for the lost revenue from Kyros.’ Bracchus nodded to Vadim, who pushed the knife blade in further, stinging Apion’s flesh.
Apion fixed a glare on the tourmarches. How many had been slaughtered and buried by him and his network, all with the emperor’s blessing? If he was to be the next victim, then he had failed. Rage boiled in his veins.
His muscles contorted and he thrashed backwards, kicking up from the ground. A dull crunch reverberated through the back of his skull and Vadim released his grip with a moan, staggering back. The big Rus clutched at the squashed mass of his nose, cupping the blood that gushed from his nostrils and the fine line where the cartilage had snapped. Then he slumped to his knees.
Apion’s heart hammered as he stood locked in a glare with Bracchus. Both of them darted glances to the dagger, discarded in the dust. Apion heard a rasping voice scream inside him. Take it. He spotted the glint in Bracchus’ eye and dropped to one knee, snatching the blade, just as Bracchus made to do likewise.
Turning the blade over in his hand, a gleeful lust raced through Apion. This was the moment. The tourmarches would be found tomorrow, throat cut back to his spine, eyes gouged from his face. Apion shivered with desire for blood.
‘Think very carefully about what you do next,’ Bracchus spat, eyes trained on the glinting tip of the dagger. ‘A soldier breaking night curfew? What was he doing? What happened when his superior officers questioned him? He attacked them, tried to kill them?’ Then the tourmarches’ face curled into a grin under his razor of a nose. ‘You’re already covered in evidence, boy.’
Apion touched a hand to his scalp, warm and wet with Vadim’s blood.
‘You’ll die a disgrace, your Seljuk loving head on a spike, no doubt . . . ’ Bracchus said.
‘You don’t even know why I’m out here tonight, do you?’ Apion hissed. He heard his next words in his mind before he spoke them. Let me tell you of my murdered parents, while I watch your lifeblood spill at my feet.
But Bracchus cut in before he could say it. ‘ . . . and I can assure you that they will die for this.’
Apion’s frown fell, the mist in his thoughts parted. ‘What did you say?’
‘Your dirty Seljuk farmer and his whore of a daughter.’ Bracchus pushed up against the blade, the point resting by his heart. Apion’s mind raged with the fires from behind the dark door and his fingers curled tight around the blade’s handle. Vengeance was within a dagger’s length. ‘Spill a drop of my blood and they will die on my order, an order that is already with my men across the thema.’
Apion flinched as Vadim also stood tall again, wiping his ruined nose with the back of a shovel-like hand, drawing his spathion.
‘You heard him,’ Vadim growled, ‘drop the blade or your family will be a pile of blood and bone . . . after we’ve all had a shot of the girl, of course.’
A thousand voices screamed inside Apion’s mind. His chest heaved, spit jumped from his gritted teeth and his muscles seemed to be harder than iron, the blood raging through them.
‘My colleagues in and around Trebizond, they know who you are now, and I have an understanding with them,’ Bracchus said. ‘All they are waiting on is for my word. I just wanted us to have this little discussion before deciding whether to give that word or not. So if you somehow use that toothpick to kill both of us,’ Vadim grumbled in laughter at this, ‘then your family will be food for the vultures within a handful of days.’
‘You whoreson!’ Apion spat.
‘Well, my reputation rides on these qualities.’
Bracchus was back in his element and Apion fell to his knees, the dagger sliding from his wrist. Mansur, Maria, what had he brought upon them? Like a pestilence, these murderous dogs had followed him from the corpses of Mother and Father to his new family. No, you have followed them, the rasping voice countered.
‘So,’ Bracchus stooped, prodding the dagger away with a jab of the foot, ‘I have every reason to end your life. You have every reason to keep me healthy and in a fine mood. So you will become the dog that you are. You will follow my orders above anyone else’s. I see potential in you; you could be very useful . . . ’
Apion’s mind spun as he looked up into the tourmarches’ rapacious gaze. His lips moved but no words were forthcoming. The chance to end it all had evaporated like a mist.
Bracchus’ face remained unchanged. ‘When the strategos finally comes here, he will give the orders, but he knows his place with me as much as the next man. Let’s just say that I carry the weight of the imperial seal with me, and I have work for you, Seljuk lover, bloody work. So make no mistake, I am to be your master!’
Apion’s blood ran cold, but what choice was there? To retaliate would be a death sentence to those he loved. He pushed up to stand level with the man. There would be another time, and next time there would be no mistake. All the dark fury would be let on this murderous whoreson.
He nodded briskly. ‘You have spoken your piece. So let me return to my bunk.’
Bracchus’ grin turned up horribly to dominate his features, then he patted Apion’s cheek. ‘Good dog.’ Apion shivered at his touch.
Then the tourmarches turned to Vadim. ‘See the mutt has a good sleep, will you? He and his dekarchos have one hundred lashes to be ready for in the morning.’
Vadim grinned, and then slammed his ham of a fist into Apion’s nose.
A dull crack of breaking cartilage filled his head and then all was black.
***
‘Twenty-three!’ Vadim roared. The iron-tipped tendrils of the whip dug into Apion’s back again, gouging deep into his flesh before being wrenched out, pink strands of tissue flailing from their ends. Every strike brought a groan from the garrison, formed up and forced to watch the spectacle.
Apion stared straight ahead, through the iron barrack gates, through the town walls and through the mountains. A cold sweat bathed his skin and he saw the farm, he saw Mansur and Maria and knew what he had to do: he would have no choice but to be the lap dog that Bracchus was to make him. And this was just the start of it
‘Twenty-four!’
Bracchus walked around to stand between Apion and the gates, his eyes searing.
Apion closed his eyes and sought the images of the farm again. Perhaps he would lose consciousness, he hoped. Then he thought of poor Sha who was to be next up.
‘Twenty-five!’ Apion felt the blackness close in on him and his head drooped. Then a bucket of cold water crashed over him, jolting him back to the present.
‘Twenty-six!’
‘This is the fate of any man who does not obey me entirely!’ Bracchus boomed to the garrison as Vadim pulled the whip back for the next strike. ‘Remember this and remember it well.’
‘Twenty-sev . . . ’
‘He is coming!’ an excited voice roared; a citizen stood, gripping the gate bars, eyes wide. ‘The strategos is coming, the thema is mustered!’
The garrison looked up in unison to see the thick dust cloud approaching from the west as the gate top buccina wailed out to herald the sighting of friendly forces.
Apion held his head up despite the thick nausea in his gut and the stinging agony of his back. Bracchus had not shifted his glare from him, the tourmarches was testing him. Apion kept his expression blank.
***
By afternoon, the hubbub surrounding the strategos’ arrival had settled down. Cydones had arrived with five hundred kataphractoi cavalry, over three thousand skutatoi infantry, nearly one thousand toxotai bowmen and two thousand light infantrymen – nearly every fighting man in Chaldia. The thema was mobilised for Tugrul’s invasion, the soldiers swarming around the sea of pavilion tents that filled the pass outside Argyroupolis. The first thing the strategos had done was to demand an instant report on the recent events from Bracchus, and his eyes had narrowed at the talk of the raid on Bizye. So Apion and Sha had been called into the officers’ quarters to join Cydones, Ferro and Bracchus in discussing the matter. The strategos had not offered any greeting to Apion when he entered, instead simply offering a knowing nod. Then the group had got down to the discussion.
‘There was a scout rider patrol nearby. The town was saved.’ Bracchus said, his tone flat and his expression cold. ‘Does that bring to an end your questioning, Strategos?’
‘You’ll do well to respect your commanding officer,’ Ferro replied, leaning over the table.
‘Easy, Ferro,’ Cydones spoke evenly, then looked to Bracchus. ‘I am not looking to apportion blame, Bracchus. We nearly lost an important hilltop site. It may not be key, but what concerns me is that had the garrison soldiers and the scout riders not been nearby, the raiders could have wiped the place from the mountain. Then they would have done the same to all the settlements dotted around Argyroupolis, snaring us here like rabbits and we wouldn’t have known until it was too late.’
Apion sat back from the table, touching a hand to his battered nose, still swollen with congealed blood from Vadim’s knockout punch. Without thinking, he leant back to rest his weight on the back of the seat, then winced as the raw flesh stung at the pressure. His back had been cleaned and bandaged by the medic, but the pain was still sharp and he needed rest. However, this meeting could not be refused.
Apion had heard the men of the garrison talk of how they had heard the faint pealing of the warning bell from Bizye. But they complained that the noise seemed to echo from every direction through the mountain pass and nobody knew for sure from which town the noise was coming. He envisioned the mountainous area around Argyroupolis and tried to graft a shatranj board on top of it. He couldn’t though; the mountains were a new dimension. He imagined the king trying to signal his cavalry, to tell them he was in danger and to come to his aid. Then it clicked.
‘We need beacons,’ he offered.
‘Soldier?’ Cydones cocked an eyebrow and turned to Apion.
Apion searched for the hubris he had felt during combat but could only feel the weighty positions of the men in the room push down on him. Then he noticed a keen glint in Cydones’ eye, and this spurred him on. ‘We need to be made aware of any attack on the outlying towns as early as possible . . . ’
Cydones nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘ . . . so we need beacons,’ his mind flashed back to the flaming torches the villagers had used to herd the pigs. He imagined a man stood at the lip of the mountain, just before the gates of Bizye, waving a larger torch. ‘We should build watchtowers on all the highest peaks near each settlement. Have a man tend to a pile of brushwood atop the tower, ready to set it alight should an enemy approach. Then we, here, will know of them as soon as the outlying villages do, and there will be no confusion over which village is in danger.’
‘A fine idea,’ Cydones nodded, then turned to Bracchus. ‘What do you think, Tourmarches, can this be implemented easily?’
Apion noticed that Bracchus’ expression was darkening, and cut in: ‘My tourmarches showed me the reasoning behind the idea earlier; he has had it in mind for some time.’
Cydones looked to Apion and then to Bracchus again, his eyes narrowed. ‘Well, Bracchus, you should have said. A wise idea is always best shared.’
Bracchus kept his tone even, darting a furtive glance at Apion. ‘Yes, fortunately the skutatos remembered.’
Cydones shook his head. ‘His days as a skutatos are over.’
Apion frowned. ‘Sir?’
‘From what I have heard of his endeavours yesterday, young Apion has proved that he needs more responsibility.’ Cydones spoke firmly to Bracchus, then turned to Apion. ‘What is it the men call you?’
Apion felt his face flush. ‘Haga, sir. It means . . . ’
‘Two-headed eagle, yes, I know,’ Cydones’ expression was firm, his gaze unwavering. ‘Apion, you are to lead a bandon. You are now a komes.’
Apion’s mind reeled with pride and terror at once as Cydones handed him the white sash that denoted the rank. He glanced at Bracchus.
‘I will serve under the tourmarches with pride, sir,’ he stood to salute Cydones and then sharply to Bracchus as well.
Bracchus glared at him.