Apion nodded sheepishly. Mansur had been reluctant in agreeing to this, but equally, the old man felt terrible guilt over having left Apion and Maria alone on that day of the visit of Bracchus and Vadim. Apion had sworn that he wanted only skills enough to be able to defend Maria and the animals at the farm, arguing that if Nasir had not been there that day, it could have been far worse than a slaughtered goat kid.
‘Anyway, I think that crutch gives you an unfair advantage over an old man,’ Mansur puffed, sweat glistening on his brow.
Apion allowed himself to relax, stabbing his pole into the ground for extra support as he caught his breath. At first the bouts had been short, with Apion flailing, ending up in the dust in seconds, Mansur calmly holding the wooden pole to his throat. But his good leg had grown gradually more taut and lean with every day of practice and riding and this allowed him to improve little by little. Firstly he learned how to parry. This gave him time to watch the old man’s movements and spot patterns. It had taken him weeks, but now whenever Mansur attacked he could react, ducking, dodging or executing a good, solid parry, sometimes with the pole and sometimes with the crutch itself, taking his weight briefly on the scarred leg.
He held the crutch up. ‘Maybe you need one of these for yourself?’
Mansur looked briefly outraged, then grinned wickedly. ‘There speaks a boy who is confident in himself.’
Then a whinnying pierced the air from the top of the valley.
‘Hiding?’ A voice called out.
Apion twisted to see Nasir, bathed in sunshine, mounted on his stallion. ‘Ah,’ he murmured to Mansur, ‘it is time for another challenge – the horse race!’
‘Boys: never happy when not locking horns!’ Mansur sighed. ‘Go easy on the old mare will you?’
‘Of course I will. She will be fed and watered well tonight.’ He hobbled over to the stable, remembering how Nasir had snorted in derision when Apion had tried to thank him for warding off Bracchus and Vadim. It was for Maria, not you, he had spat. This was the chance to shut the boy up once and for all.
He pushed up with his crutch, sliding his good leg onto the saddle and then slipping into place. He ran his fingers through the mare’s mane. ‘You and I will teach this arrogant whoreson a lesson today.’ Then he heeled her into a trot.
‘Ride well, but ride safely!’ Mansur called to him as he passed.
Apion turned to him and grinned mischievously. ‘Have you taught me any other way?’
***
The summer sun was at its zenith as the two boys sped on horseback along the lush green banks of the Piksidis.
The grey mare’s chest pumped frantically. ‘Keep it going, girl!’ Apion yelled, hair whipping back in the rush, throat dry from Nasir’s dust trail. The pony-tailed boy’s mount was growing steadily more distant up ahead and then, as had happened several times already, the boy slowed to stay in sighting distance of Apion and his mare, then hurled abuse and roared with laughter. They were only half a mile from the bridge, the finishing post, when Nasir sped away once more.
He had thought it through last night: in a flat out race Nasir’s stallion would romp to victory, but Nasir didn’t want to just win and win well, he wanted to win in a way that punctured Apion’s pride as much as possible. That, Apion decided, was the one weakness he could exploit.
With his constant dangling of victory before Apion then snatching it away again, Nasir was playing into his hands. Yet his own mount had given everything and had galloped faster than ever, but would she have the energy to execute his plan? The mare glistened with sweat and foam gathered at the corners of her mouth. He felt the beast’s exhaustion as though it was his own, his scarred leg burning from gripping the mare’s flank. He wondered if he should abandon his scheme; what did it matter if Nasir won, he thought? Perhaps the boy would leave him alone if he was allowed his victory. Then he saw Nasir whoop up ahead, punching the air. His brow dipped and he shook his head; no, victory today was a must.
He leaned flat on his saddle, legs cupping the mare’s flanks, arms around her neck, his chin resting on her mane. ‘This is it. Come on, girl!’ The difference was instantaneous. With Apion and his mount at full pelt and Nasir slowing in his certain victory, the gap closed to half in a few heartbeats. ‘Come on!’ he roared, heeling just another drop of power from the mare’s flanks. Nasir turned in his saddle as he slowed to a trot before the bridge, his face stretched into a wild grin that quickly soured as Apion bolted past him.
‘Hey! Ya!’ Nasir yelled, heeling his mount back out of its gentle trot.
Apion burst across the bridge and punched the air, the mare whinnying and rearing to add to the occasion. He panted, breathless from the agony in his leg, but he still managed to offer a smug grin to Nasir as the Seljuk boy trotted over beside him.
‘Byzantine dog! There’s no way you’re having that victory, I could have run that race twice over in the time it took you to gallop flat out in my dust trail!’
‘Yet I finished before you,’ Apion spoke evenly. ‘You held back your mount for your own reasons,’ he stroked the mare’s neck, ‘and so did I.’
‘You’d still never have beaten me if I hadn’t held back.’
‘That’s why you lost though. I stayed as close to you as I needed to. I could have pushed my mount on earlier and led for a short while, but then I would not have won.’
‘You did not win, you tricked me.’
‘Okay, you show me these rules that I’ve broken then.’
Nasir’s face curled into an angry scowl and with a roar he leapt from his saddle and punched into Apion’s midriff, butting the pair onto the grass.
Apion screamed as he thudded down on top of his scar, a blinding light filling his head.
‘Get up! Get up and let’s finish this!’
He heard Nasir’s words as though through a wall of water. Yet he forced himself to stand, pushing up with his hand in the absence of his crutch, head spinning. He saw Nasir’s face drop, ready to dismiss Apion as a cripple again. The fury of it all boiled inside his chest at this and he pushed forward from his good leg, shoulder crunching into Nasir’s stomach and throwing the pair to the ground.
They rolled over and over, fingers gouging, fists and legs flailing. Then they were still, with Nasir sitting on his chest, knees pinning his shoulders to the ground. The boy uttered a roar of pure rage then rained blows on Apion’s face. The dull thudding was quickly accompanied by a metallic wash of blood down Apion’s throat, and with only his good leg for leverage he could offer no defence.
He wriggled until one arm worked loose from under Nasir’s knee. Reaching out, Apion grasped around for something, anything. He ripped a fistful of some weed from the earth, ignoring the searing agony that engulfed his palm to whip the weed up and across Nasir’s face. A pained warbling sounded, as if some creature had been harpooned, and suddenly his chest was free of weight. He rolled around and propped himself up onto all fours. Nasir lay on the riverbank, cursing, one hand cupped over his eyes, the other splashing water on his face.
Apion looked to his hands and the clutch of nettles in his grasp, dropping them immediately. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise they were . . . ’
‘A dirty, whoreson, Byzantine move all the way,’ Nasir spoke over him.
Apion noticed Nasir clutching at his belt and an empty dagger sheath. He stepped back in apprehension, then trod on something - the dagger, lying in the grass by his good leg. He picked it up, thoughts spinning out of control.
‘Think you’re brave enough to finish the job do you?’ Nasir growled as he stood, but his stance was uncertain, his eyes on the dagger.
Apion stared at the angry red puffs that were Nasir’s eyelids. Despite his own battered face and stinging hand, he felt no urge to attack the boy.
‘Have your dagger, you fool,’ Apion was startled by the assertiveness of his own words. ‘I’ve got no wish to hurt or . . . kill you,’ he spat. ‘Don’t you think I’ve had enough blood in my life?’ The da
rk door flitted across his thoughts. He tossed the dagger to the ground by Nasir’s feet, then clutched at his prayer rope until the images abated.
‘You have the upper hand and you don’t use it. You’re a fool!’ Nasir spat back, his chest heaving as he regained his breath and snatched up the blade, tucking it into its sheath.
‘No, I’m no fool, I pick my battles carefully,’ Apion snarled. ‘You can hurt me as much as you need to if it will make you feel like the bigger man. I won’t stoop to that level though,’ he paused, realising he was shaking, partly from exhaustion, partly from rage. He jabbed a finger back upriver towards Mansur’s farm, ‘but I would kill you, in an instant, if you were to cause any harm to my family!’ His last word rang in the air and his mouth froze. Guilt snaked around his body and his lips stung. Mother, Father, what have I said?
Nasir blinked open his red-raw eyelids. He squinted at Apion. The tumult of the river was the only noise around; Nasir stood still for a moment and then mounted his stallion and stared upriver, frowning, eyes searching the horizon.
‘We are done for today,’ he spoke softly, and then heeled his mount into a gallop.
***
That evening, Apion’s body was aching and his nose was still stinging and swollen. Indeed, Maria had kindly told him that he looked like a monster when he staggered in after his race with Nasir. ‘Since when does a horse race involve fists?’ Mansur had sighed; Apion could tell the old man was disappointed in him. ‘Nasir brought the fighting to the race, not me!’ Apion had been indignant; how could Mansur scorn him when he had done nothing wrong?
Despite this, he dutifully helped the pair prepare and then devour a hearty meal of root stew, bread and cheese accompanied by a steaming cup of creamy salep. Then, bellies full, they sat around the fire in a tired silence. When the fire began to dim, Maria volunteered to fetch some kindling for the fire. Apion made to smile at her, to thank her for her cooking but, as so often was the case, she simply issued an exaggerated sigh and looked away from him. He was fond of her, whatever she thought of him. Then he noticed Mansur’s eyes were narrowed in mischief, the old man pulling over and unlocking the tarnished pine box that was always sat in the middle of the table.
‘Now, as you seem to be bent on filling your days with fighting, I’d like to introduce you to a more rewarding pastime. Have you played shatranj?’ He asked, unfolding the box lid to reveal a smooth polished surface of black and white squares that glimmered in the firelight.
Apion gazed over the collection of carved wooden pieces piled at the centre as Mansur laid them out carefully one by one. ‘What is it?’
‘A game,’ Mansur replied.
‘Games are for children,’ Apion shrugged.
Mansur shook his head slowly. ‘This is a game like no other; this is the game of the strategos.’
Apion’s ears perked up. He thought of Cydones. ‘The strategos can wipe the enemy army from the field, can’t he? He’s the man who can win the battle?’
Mansur nodded. ‘He can. He is also the man who can lose the battle and ensure his army is wiped from the field.’
Apion shrugged. ‘A good strategos would not lose to his enemy though.’
‘A good strategos would not engage with his enemy unless he was certain of a victory.’
Apion turned the words over as Mansur put in place formations of opposing black and white pieces, two rows of each on either end of the board. ‘If both sides have equal numbers, how can a strategos know if victory is certain or not?’
‘Good question!’ Mansur smiled. ‘The answer is simple: he must study his enemy, see the weaknesses that may not be immediately apparent. For those unfamiliar with shatranj, the instinctive urge is always to attack, attack, attack, race to victory by brute force. This game lets a budding strategos see, all too quickly, that such an approach often leads to a heavy and embarrassing defeat, and all without a drop of blood being spilled . . . and that’s one of the reasons that this game came about, to tame the hot-headed and power-hungry young men who would otherwise take to the field raw and unprepared. To win at shatranj, you must learn to use your mind. The sword comes later.’
The door creaked open and Maria came in with an armful of kindling.
‘You’re not playing that game at this time, Father?’ Maria moaned, resting her free hand on her hip. ‘It’ll be light by the time you’re finished!’
Apion smiled at the familiar tone; so disapproving, so serious but so contrasting to that day, two months ago, when they had raided Kutalmish’s farm. Her poise and tone reminded Apion of Mother when she would chastise Father. He smiled and then blinked away the pain that came with the memory and the increasing guilt he felt as he realised that his thoughts of them were becoming less frequent. He supped at his salep, the sweet and creamy liquid rolling across his tongue like velvet and warming his heart, soothing his guilt. He had grown to cherish the times when the three of them were together like this, the fire crackling in the background.
‘It will be a short game tonight,’ Mansur turned to her with a grin.
‘Well if I have to wake you in the morning . . . ’ she said, wagging a finger.
Mansur pulled Maria onto his lap and kissed her cheek. ‘Where would I be without you? You are certainly your mother’s daughter.’
The smile faded from Apion’s face. He saw that lost look touch Maria’s features again, just as it had when she had spoken to him of her mother.
‘Now rest your eyes and your head, dear,’ Mansur continued. ‘You’ve had a busy day.’
Apion watched Maria drop the kindling by the fire and then slink off into her bedroom, her shoulders rounded, hair tousled and her dress smudged with those ever present dirt and grass stains. He wondered quite how she managed to look so scruffy given that it was he who now tended the goats out in the countryside.
‘So the game,’ Mansur stated calmly, tapping the board, ‘is a means of warring without bloodshed. It is not a direct representation of a battlefield, but it allows honing of tactical thought.’ He placed a finger on the tall, central white piece on the back row nearest him. ‘Primarily we are concerned with the kings: they see far across the field, though do not move vast distances; instead, they relay these movements to their troops. Though, vitally, if they are captured then the game is lost.’
Apion sipped at his salep and admired the intricately carved crown adorning the two opposing king pieces placed on the board, watching as Mansur showed the king’s range of movement, one square in any direction.
‘His counsellor stands by his side, barely mobile like his king, he is there to advise and protect. Flanking them is the strength of the war elephants!’ Mansur’s voice inflected his love of the game as he placed the elephant pieces either side of the king and the vizier. ‘They shield their king and his vizier and can move to stave off attacks or charge the enemy with thunderous momentum, although with limited agility.’ Mansur proceeded to place two horse-headed pieces either side and two turreted pieces either side again. ‘The knights are the king’s finest cavalry, able to race in and flank opponents at speed, just like the kataphractoi of Byzantium and the Seljuk ghulam riders. Finally, we have the rooks; they hark back to a bygone age when bronzed chariots ruled the battlefield, able to race from end to end in a single manoeuvre!’
Apion Looked to the uniform pieces on the front row of each side. ‘The front line, they are the infantry, yes?’
Mansur looked up and nodded. ‘The meat of any army. The skutatoi infantry of the themata are the front line for the Byzantines, they take the brunt, they take the damage, unquestioning, unheard.’ He swept a finger to the white pieces on the opposite side of the board. ‘In the Seljuk ranks . . . exactly the same. The Seljuk akhi clash with the skutatoi of the empire, they can only rush headlong towards one another, like warring brothers to the last.’
‘Then their only purpose is to die, isn’t it?’ He shook his head at the thought.
Mansur nodded stonily. ‘That is why this game is s
o vital. Better to take a pawn on the shatranj board than to spill a brave and noble man’s blood.’
Apion looked up, nodding. The old man’s expression was deadly serious.
The fire crackled in the background. Finally, Mansur tapped on the shatranj board; a weary grin worked its way across his lips. ‘Come on now, let’s get this game underway. We don’t want Maria in a rage come the morning, do we?’
7. Wolf River
The tail end of summer had baked Chaldia’s terracotta landscape and the midday cicada song filled the air. On the dirt road heading south-west to the neighbouring thema of Colonea, Mansur and Apion sat at the front of the wagon as it rumbled along on well-worn axles. The wagon cabin was packed with barley, cheeses and wool; a decent day of bartering at the market town of Cheriana would see them come home with a supply of oil, tools and a purse of coins – enough to keep the farm in working order for another few weeks.
Strategos: Born in the Borderlands Page 8
