It had been over two years since the Battle of Manzikert, and by late August, Anatolia had suffered one of the bloodiest summers ever known. Civil war between the reigning Doukids and their opponents had torn the empire apart. Sultan Malik had capitalised on the chaos, his armies swooping in to seize almost all of the Anatolian heartland. And the sultan had rallied to his cause the many mercenary steppe riders employed by the warring Byzantine factions. Nearly every inland city and fort now bore a golden Seljuk banner. Only Doux Philaretos’ splinter empire in Melitene held out against the Seljuk tide, and only the fortified coastal cities remained in imperial hands – Tarsos, Sinope, Antioch . . . Trebizond.
On one blistering hot, late afternoon, the gates of Trebizond swung open to let a party of scout kursores race inside. Sha watched from the battlements as they dismounted at haste. The lead rider called up to him.
‘Sir, the sultan’s siege army is gone from our land. I am sure of it. We did not sight them anywhere along the route of our patrol,’ the rider yelled. Relief was etched in the man’s face and danced on his words.
‘Then we are likely to make it until winter without the threat of another siege,’ Sha replied. ‘Take your riders to the barracks. I have set out six skins of wine for you. You have earned them.’ The riders broke out in a cheer, drowning out their leader’s formal reply. In moments, they had dissolved into the barracks.
Sha turned back to look beyond the battlements and out over the green hills and cliffs of northern Chaldia, only now expelling a sigh of relief himself. He thought of the previous summer when a thick horde of Seljuk riders and siege engineers had camped outside Trebizond’s walls. Only a network of pottery-filled pits had put paid to the advance of the rams and siege towers and spared the city. He looked up to the skies and mouthed a silent thank you to the spirit of old Procopius who had taught him that ruse some years ago. He drew out his dagger and examined his reflection in it, seeing the many white hairs now dappling his stubbled scalp, and the thick scar welt that ran across the bridge of his broad nose. ‘Cah – as old as Procopius and as ugly as Blastares,’ he chuckled, his heart swelling at the thought of his lost brothers. He looked in over the city. There, under the shadow of the citadel hill, Tetradia and her children had lived through their grief. ‘I’ve looked after them well,’ Sha whispered, imagining big Blastares by his side. He made to walk along the battlements, but winced, his leg twisting awkwardly. The wound from the Battle of Manzikert had healed and allowed him to ride well, but had left him weak in his stride. He grappled the stick that he loathed and used it to support his weight as he walked. ‘Ha – and I have the limp of the Haga!’ he chuckled dryly, remembering those early days when Apion had first enlisted, hobbling with the aid of some iron brace on his knee. Suddenly, as if conjured by the mention of the name, a flash of ginger startled him as Vilyam leapt up onto the crenelated wall top, purring and butting his head against Sha as he walked with the Malian.
Sha stopped and stroked the corpulent cat’s ears, looking to the south and wondering what had become of his old friend, unseen and unheard of in those two years since the great battle. ‘Sometimes it is best to live in wonder,’ he mused, pushing away logic and reason. A gentle breeze bathed him then and rippled the petals of a poppy growing in a nook on the battlements. The sight conjured a forgotten memory. The Chaldians on the march. He, Apion, Procopius and Blastares at their head, resplendent and fearless. Blastares in a mischievous mood; Hold on. Are you calling me a bloody flower? The four of them erupting in belly-laughter. Sha could not fend off a smile as the memory faded.
Just then, a scuffling of boots stirred him. It was the lead kursoris rider. Sha shot him a confused frown. ‘The wine is no good?’
‘It is like nectar, sir. But there was something else I wanted to tell you. I didn’t want to shout aloud. When we were on patrol, far to the south near the old Chaldian borders, we did sight one small Seljuk warband – fifty or so ghazis. They were heading northeast, most probably to plunder the farmlands east of these walls.’
Sha’s shoulders tensed. For all Trebizond’s walls could hold out against the Seljuk armies, those vital farmlands were easy prey. Immediately, he began thinking over how to organise the few men at his disposal to cope with this incursion. But the kursoris continued before his thoughts could fully form.
‘We tracked them for hours, but we lost sight of them.’ The kursoris’ eyes narrowed and he shook his head. ‘But when we saw them again, they were in flight. Some bore arrows in their flesh. Each wore a look of terror.’
‘Fleeing? From whom?’ Sha asked. ‘Your riders were the only imperial soldiers outside this city’s walls.’
‘I don’t understand it either, sir. All I know is they were turned away by some foe before they made it to our farmlands.’ The rider shrugged. ‘Then, later in the day we came to a Seljuk village even further south – unwalled, without warriors. They were just farmers. They offered us salep and bread. We saw that they had acquired Norman war horses to plough their fields. When I asked where they got them, they said they had taken them from the Doukid Norman mercenaries who sought to sack their village last month.’ The kursoris shrugged. ‘How? I asked, seeing that they had only hoes and hunting bows by way of weapons. The village leader smiled when I said this, told me how a man had helped them, shown them how to defend themselves. He showed me caltrops and spike pits hidden in the ground around the village. Then he showed me how the farmers had been taught to stand in a spear wall, each of them bringing tall, sharp lances from their homes – weapons they had made under the direction of this man.’
‘One man?’ Sha asked.
The kursoris shrugged. ‘Just one man. A haggard sort with pale skin and the tongue of both a Greek and a Seljuk. It made me think of . . . ’ the rider’s words trailed off and he shook his head. ‘It just reminded me of the past.’
Sha’s breath halted in his lungs and he considered his next words carefully. ‘Do not trouble yourself with it. These lands are vast and full of surprises. Now go, return to your comrades and enjoy your wine.’
‘Thank you, Strategos,’ the rider beamed.
‘Don’t call me that,’ Sha said softly, shaking his head. ‘The themata have fallen and the age of the strategoi is over. They are all gone.’
‘Yes . . . sir. It’s just old habits, you know?’ the kursoris grinned, before turning away to hurry back down into the city and to his men. A ribald tune soon erupted from the barrack blocks.
Sha turned back to look out over the Chaldian landscape, tears gathering in his eyes, a broad grin lifting his face and a spark of hope swelling his heart.
‘All gone,’ he whispered into the ether. ‘All but one.’
THE END