‘Well get your fill because you’ll be on swill and rat meat with the thema!’ Giyath chuckled at his own joke, before breaking down in a coughing fit.
‘You think he’s joking?’ Nasir shot Apion a grin.
‘Enough that all three of you should do your duty with honour and, most importantly, return safely,’ Kutalmish cut in. ‘I trust my sons will do me proud and, Apion, I hope you will . . . ’ the old man frowned, lost for words momentarily as he glanced to Mansur, ‘ . . . find what you are looking for. War will be upon us soon enough, so let tonight be a night we can remember. All of us sat around the table as one big family. All of us,’ Kutalmish repeated, a warm smile growing across his features, directed at Apion.
Apion felt all eyes fall on him, a shyness crackled on his skin. He wondered what they all felt of the unspoken truth: that Kutalmish’s sons were to pursue the life of warfare that their father had shunned; that Mansur’s protégé was to walk from the valley with a thirst for revenge and blood. Then he glanced up at Maria; he and Mansur had resolved not to tell her of the matter of Bracchus. Her face was radiant, light of troubles. She winked at him. He smiled in return. Maria prodded her tongue out then grinned; a ridiculous, toothy grin and one that Apion found hugely infectious. He could not suppress a snigger.
‘Something funny, is there?’ Giyath grunted, his brow set like stone.
Maria widened her eyes in mock terror.
‘Of course not, I . . . ’ Apion started.
‘My father welcomes you as a member of our family and you laugh at him? You’ll do well to stay clear of the ghulam riders,’ Giyath’s tone was grating. The man angered easily and sought conflict and Apion had just handed him another point of contention on a plate.
‘Enough, Giyath,’ Kutalmish waved his hands over the table, ‘let us eat tonight in peace.’
‘Agreed.’ Mansur raised his cup. ‘Let us rise above all that is to come and remember what bonds us together. Strong bonds, stronger than blood.’
Apion felt a warmth cloak him and he too raised his cup. ‘And those bonds should never be broken,’ he said. Every face lit up, apart from the wrinkled frown of Giyath. Then, with a screeching of his stool on the flagstones, Giyath rose, tossing his knife down, then turned and stomped from the hearth room to go outside.
‘I’m sorry, was it what I said?’ Apion stammered.
‘No, Apion. Let him be controlled by his moods, the foolish boy,’ Kutalmish muttered, shook his head, then slowly began eating again.
The tense silence that ensued hung heavy in the air and Apion found it difficult to eat when every bite echoed through the hearth room. He wished he was back at the farm, alone. Or maybe with Maria in his arms? He suddenly realised that Mansur did not know of their encounter. Would he object? He glanced up at the old man, realising a gentle chatter had begun between him and Kutalmish. Mansur loved Maria but he loved Apion too. Perhaps it would be best to keep their relationship to himself for now, he mused. Yet he couldn’t shake the image from his mind: Maria, naked in his arms. He shot a wicked glance up at her. She winked, but not at him.
Apion followed her impish grin. On the other end, Nasir’s gaze was fixed on her, expressionless apart from his eyes, which sparkled with mischief. Apion’s skin burned and his chest clenched. What was she doing?
Mansur supped the last of his salep and chuckled. ‘Well, Kutalmish, I can only thank you for your hospitality again. The dates,’ He shook his head as he pulled his cloak on from the back of his chair, ‘my word, the soil in your orchard is blessed! Now we should be on our way, to let the boys sleep well before tomorrow.’
‘Pleasure to have you, Mansur. Pleasure to have all of you, but please, leave your robes. It’s cold and dark outside and very late. There are enough rooms for each of you to sleep here tonight.’
Mansur patted his stomach. ‘Aye but a walk would probably be best for me,’ he glanced out of the open shutter at the darkness and raised an eyebrow, ‘then again . . . ’
‘I’ll get the fresh bedding?’ Nasir pre-empted his father, barely disguising a sigh.
Kutalmish nodded.
***
The bed was soft and warm, but Apion found sleep hard to come by, his stomach gurgling over what little he had managed to eat, his mind turning over the flashpoints of the evening. He tried to relax, breathing deeply. Eventually, sleep teased his thoughts into a collage of memories and images. Then one forced its way to the front; the dark door rushed for him, the knotted arm swiping out to push it open. Revenge! The rasping voice in his head grew louder and louder, jolting him awake.
With a groan, he slid from the warm comfort of the sheets, the brace clicking into place under his weight as his soles rested on the cool flagstoned floor. He slipped on his tunic and hobbled out of the room: the floor of the farmhouse was a forest of shadows in the moonlight but his eyes locked onto the door of the room Maria was sleeping in, two along from his own. Every one of his steps seemed to land on a loose flagstone, causing a clunking and grating. Fortunately, Mansur’s snoring more than drowned it out as he crept past the old man’s door – he had some cheek to talk of her snoring! Then he stopped. Maria’s door was ajar. Was she expecting him?
His blood raced as he reached out to push the door, the smell of her hair, the touch of her skin dancing in his memory. Her room was dark but he could sense her, waiting under the blankets, as he patted them from the foot of the bed. Until he reached the pillow. The bed was empty.
Then a distant shriek from outside echoed through the house. It was faint but it jolted him all the same. The sliver of moon outside, the darkness, the screaming. A nauseous swell touched his guts as his mind was cast back to that awful night. He thought of waking Mansur, Kutalmish. No, that would take precious time and he would not stand back and do nothing this time. He made for the door and hobbled out into the night.
***
The shriek had come from the highest hilltop. Apion, breathless, struggled through the last of the scree and up onto the hilltop, his strength deserting him already: whoever had Maria had taken her away from the farmhouse and up to this spot – his spot – in the midst of the beech thicket. He crouched to rest by the first of the beech trunks that encircled the small clearing in the centre. Apart from the hum of crickets, all was silent. Then a groan echoed through the trees. Apion narrowed his eyes and stalked forward.
Then he heard her. She moaned rhythmically, but there was someone else, grunting in tandem. Realisation dawned before he saw them, but denial kept him stalking forward until he saw the two shapes, writhing.
Maria grasped Nasir’s back, her legs wrapped around his thighs, while his buttocks thrust forward again and again. Apion felt a cold sliver of pain in his heart.
He fell back onto the bracken.
‘What was that?’ Maria hissed, suddenly breaking from their embrace.
From the shadows, Apion’s eyes hung on hers. He longed for her and loathed her in one sorry pang of self-pity.
‘A fox, probably,’ Nasir grunted in annoyance, before nuzzling into her neck and pushing her down again.
Apion stumbled back from the thicket, his brace clanking.
‘No, I know that noise,’ he heard Maria say.
The stinging precursor to hot tears itched behind his nose. He hobbled down the hill, roaring out into the darkness.
His scar flared in a white-hot agony as he threw himself forward, exhaustion gripping his muscles and spots swimming in his vision, but he continued, stomping towards the banks of the Piksidis, begging for the wagon that was to take him east in the morning to be there, right now.
As he approached the riverbank the blood froze in his veins; someone was sitting there, upon a rock, silhouetted in the faint moonlight. Apion crouched, ready to turn and hobble away.
‘Relax,’ a gruff voice grunted. ‘We’re not enemies, yet.’
Giyath. Apion’s skin prickled.
‘I can never sleep the night before joining up either,’ he eyed Apion furt
ively, ‘and all that talk at the table, it boils my blood.’
Apion moved to sit beside Giyath. The man’s face was a crease of untended fury for an instant and then his head dropped. He ran thick fingers over his shorn scalp.
‘It’s all very well to talk as if we are of the same blood,’ he looked at Apion, his eyes glistening in the moonlight. His words were weighted but his face was solemn now, unthreatening.
Apion wondered how many times he had actually spoken with Giyath over the years. Him aside though, there was Maria and Mansur, Nasir and old Kutalmish. They were his blood in every sense other than the physical. He relaxed with a sigh. ‘We practically are.’
Giyath cut him off, ripping a dagger from his belt with a rasp of iron. ‘I respect you as Mansur’s boy, but you’ve got to understand, for your own sake, if we ever met in the field, then I wouldn’t blink before sliding this into your guts,’ he grabbed Apion by the collar, pulled him close so the pair were nose to nose and Giyath’s breath stung in his nostrils, ‘to split your veins, to tear your organs, spill your blood into the earth.’
Apion’s heart hammered and his eyes darted from Giyath’s dagger, pressed against his ribs, to his burning features. He saw the inky depth of sadness in there, if only for a flitting moment. Then Giyath roared in an impotent fury and shoved Apion back from the rock.
‘Well then I pray we never meet in the field,’ Apion spluttered, prone, touching a hand to the pool of red trickling from the narrow gash on his ribs. Then boldness laced his blood as he stood, ‘for your sake as much as mine.’ He jutted his chin out in defiance.
Giyath stabbed his dagger into the ground and laughed a hollow laugh. ‘It’s not about me being better or stronger than you, Apion. That’s not the issue here.’ He looked up, now his eyes were glassy. ‘It’s the cold, hard truth of the battlefield. You’re with the thema. So even if you were a brother,’ tears rolled around his anvil chin and dripped to the ground, ‘it would be just the same: your blood or mine.’ He wiped angrily at his tears and turned away. ‘Now leave me, I want to be alone!’
Apion felt cold at the thought of returning to Kutalmish’s farmhouse. In the oddest way, he felt his only bond with another was this wretched one he had with Giyath, right now. ‘Why don’t you leave, Giyath, leave the Seljuk ranks? Here in the borderlands you could be neutral. You could tend the farm instead, make Kutalmish proud. War is coming but you don’t have to be part of it. You could be neutral, just like your father, just like Mansur.’
Giyath looked up at him once more. This time though, his eyes were dry. ‘Leave the ranks?’ He whispered and then slowly shook his head, eyes fixed on Apion. ‘Oh, no. You can never leave. You ask my father or Mansur and they will tell you so.’ He turned back to the river. ‘Now leave me.’
As Apion walked away, Giyath’s words circled in his thoughts.
Then a lone eagle cried, piercing the still of the night. He felt a presence nearby, but the land was empty as he peered into the darkness. Then he heard it from all around him and inside him at once, a whisper.
You may not see it now, but you will choose a path. A path that leads to conflict and pain. Much pain.
***
A dust storm raged in the dark outside and buffeted the timbers of the imperial waystation, making the space inside feel almost welcoming. The cloaked and hooded Bracchus cupped his gloved fingers around his watered wine and studied the clientele: punch-drunk, hunched and haggard seemed to be the common theme. These hovels were supposed to be a sanctuary to weary travellers, a place where imperial scouts and messengers could exchange their mount for a fresh one after a restful night’s slumber. Why anyone would feel safe enough to blink let alone sleep in this place was beyond him, yet in the candlelight, three bodies lay slumped and snoring in the bunks to the rear, veiled from the bar area by only a filthy curtain. Here he was; the master agente, executor of the emperor’s bidding and now a tourmarches, one step away from a strategos. He stifled a snort at the absurdity of it: unlimited power was within his grasp yet he was sitting amongst filthy rogues. He twisted at the snake band ring through his glove and for a moment, he remembered the time before, when he had no power, when people could take from him what they wished. Some took things that could never be replaced.
He heard her voice. Don’t look, son, go with them, please, don’t look back.
But he had looked back. He could see that stinking alleyway in the backstreets of Trebizond; the three thugs had paid their bronze folles to have their way with Mother and Bracchus had left them to it, heavy-hearted as always. She had explained to him every day since he was old enough to understand that this was the difference between them living and dying of starvation, but still it felt to him as if she died a little every time she sold herself this way. He waited the usual short while it took and then made his way back round to the where he had left her. But when Bracchus turned in to the alleyway he froze to the spot: his mother stood naked and bleeding, one thug stood behind her, gripping her shoulders, the other hurled blows into her face, already swollen and discoloured. They laughed, laughed like they were playing a game. He made to sprint for her when a third thug hooked an arm around Bracchus’ neck and dragged him away. It was then she had pleaded with him. Don’t look back! But the gruff tones of the thug drowned her out. Forget about ‘er, boy, you’ve got a whole new life ahead of you. You’re goin’ to fetch a pretty sum at market, he slurred and then ripped from his neck the bronze Chi-Rho, Bracchus’ only possession of value and the one his mother insisted he could not sell for food. It was the last time he had ever contemplated God. Bracchus sunk his teeth into the man’s forearm until he tasted blood and heard the man roar. Then he wrenched free, twisting to go back for his mother, but froze as he saw the knife tear out her throat. Then the blood. Dark blood. The shrieking laughter. The finality of her body crumpling onto the scum of the alley floor.
A pang of sorrow stabbed his chest and then he thudded the table with a fist, clearing himself of sentiment. The drinkers nearest him in the waystation shot furtive glances his way, and then returned to their drinks. They were ignorant. Ignorant of the debt the empire owed him.
It was a debt that could never be settled; the urban guard were absent when they should have been there to protect his mother. The empire could at least be grateful for the fact that he had focused his initial vengeance on the vile underworld, like the racketeer under whose protection those three thugs had operated; safe until they had underestimated the filthy, homeless son of a prostitute.
He had found the thug who had tried to drag him away, talking of slavery; the fool was staggering down the very same alley, blind drunk, only two nights after the incident. Bracchus had knocked him from his feet with a wooden club, then hacked off the man’s arm, tore out his tongue and left him to bleed to death. The next thug, the one who had held Bracchus’ mother by the shoulders, was found nailed through the shoulders to the doorway of the racketeer’s headquarters, his rib cage ripped open, organs pulled free and left on the street for the rats to feast on. The last one, the thug who had slit his mother’s throat, disappeared one night, then his severed head was sent crashing through the window of the racketeer’s headquarters, empty eye sockets cauterised with a red-hot blade. The racketeer himself had paid his dues with interest; the rumour had spread that they found only his skin and a sea of blood on the floor of his office.
Bracchus felt the dagger clipped under his tunic onto his thigh. It had served him well over the years and his heart had blackened with its every use until now, when he knew only darkness. In that time he had channelled his spite, using shrewdness to rise into the emperor’s favour. Now he had license for his deeds, as black as he wished to make them. The Agentes were sent far and wide in the empire with licence to ignore the law, to spill blood, plot subterfuge and instigate unrest to suit the emperor’s whims, and the man in the purple now desired that the eastern borders stay volatile, limiting the power and reputations of the outlying strategoi. So it was a
dark role for the darkest of people. But did the empire know what a demon they had hired in him? Now he was in a prime position to become a strategos. With that role combined with his role as master agente of the east, who could curb his power? No, nobody would take from him ever again.
The slats lifted and a gust whipped around his ankles as the door opened. Another hooded, hemp-robed figure strode in, face in shadows. The figure cast a glance around the tables until his eyes fell on Bracchus. Bracchus supped his watered wine and nodded to the seat opposite.
Both of them sat, faces in shadows.
‘What do you wish of me, master?’ The agente hissed like a snake.
Strategos: Born in the Borderlands Page 18
