Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

by Gordon Doherty

  Bracchus felt a surge of exhilaration; some agentes resented being led by any man other than the emperor, but this one was totally obedient. He fixed his gaze on the man’s eyes, shaded under his hood. ‘The strategos, Cydones, is mobile, mustering and taking stock of the thema,’ Bracchus paused, toying with the idea that he could just as easily order the strategos dead with his next sentence. Perhaps the time for such an order would come soon, he mused, but for now, all that mattered was that he and he alone would be left to rule Argyroupolis, free of meddling of so-called superiors. ‘He must be kept from Argyroupolis for some time, until next spring at least. Keep him busy; pay our Seljuk friends well to keep him from the town.’

  A wide grin spread across the agente’s features. ‘Consider it done, master.’

  13. Argyroupolis

  The wagon had found every pothole in the road that wound through the mountain pass and a dust storm had blown all day, puffing the contents of the land through the slatted wagon cabin with gusto. Apion’s plan of sleeping through the journey to Argyroupolis after his wretched night’s rest had been blown away with the storm. He groaned, wiping his eyes as if he could clear the fug from his mind, then peeked from the slats of the cabin: the sky was now showing patches of blue as the wind seemed to ebb at last. Then he caught the familiar scent of market: salted and fresh meats, cooking stews and roasting vegetables, all mixed in with the less savoury cocktail of dung and sweat. Then the squabble of the traders, the tinkling of goat bells and the gentle chords of a well-tuned lyre.

  This was Argyroupolis. The gateway to the northern coastline and one of the key fortified settlements on Byzantium’s eastern flank. He surveyed the town: about a third the size of Trebizond and ringed by a squat limestone wall. Its position, snug in the mountain pass leading to the northern coast and western themata, meant it was always going to be a critical stronghold, the slopes towering above the walls like flanking titans, defying those who tried to enter the imperial heartlands beyond. Outside the town there was a run-down archery range and a series of dilapidated timber huts, but the town was very much the oasis of life in this mountain wilderness.

  ‘Alright, lad, get your kit together,’ the hoarse driver called from the front. ‘You’ll be handing over another two folles, by the way,’ he stopped to hack up another lump of phlegm. ‘My horses are knackered. I’d never have driven them through that normally!’

  ‘Okay,’ Apion croaked, realising his own throat was coated with the dust. The storm had sprung up in the morning as he left Mansur’s and the wagon driver had rolled his eyes and tried all he could to dissuade Apion from hitching a ride. You’d have to be a bloody maniac to travel in this weather! But Apion had made his down-payment for the journey the previous week and a further clutch of six folles had swayed the man pretty quickly. All the while, Mansur and Maria had stood by the farm doorway, watching him in silence. Mansur couldn’t understand his mood that morning. Maria, however, could. She had almost winced when she set eyes on his torn expression and then had avoided his glare after that. He loathed himself for it but he still wanted to hold her, to smell the scent on the nape of her neck.

  Then the wagon driver barked to pull him back to the present. ‘Move it! I’ve got to be in and out of here and back in Trebizond by tomorrow or I’ll get my balls cut off!’

  Apion slung his satchel over his shoulder and braced himself. He winced into the brightness, then slid gingerly out of the wagon.

  He was stood under the shadow of the main gateway, the iron-studded timber gates lying pushed back and held by a dune of dust. The wind still had a bite to it, lifting dust that stung the flesh. He pulled on his cloak, aware of the glare of the two skutatoi stood at either side of the entrance and another two stationed above them on the crenelated gate towers, three times the height of a man. They looked as tired as he felt, dust lining their tunics and packing the cracks in their leather klibania.

  ‘Here,’ he tossed the coins to the driver, then his shoulders slunk as he realised he only had one more folles left.

  ‘Hmm,’ the driver weighed the coins in his hand and eyed him furtively, a sour whiff of wine on his breath. ‘I might need another two. That back wheel took a pounding on some of them roads, and the horses need fodder and a good watering.’

  Apion frowned. ‘Well sorry about that, next time I’ll fill in the potholes before we set off!’ He tucked his purse into his belt in refusal. ‘Make sure it’s the horses that get a drink and not you.’

  ‘Cheeky runt!’ The driver snarled, and then whipped his horses on into the town.

  ‘Quite right, lad. He’d rob his grandmother blind, that whoreson,’ one skutatos offered with a snort of derision. ‘You’re here to sign your life away, eh?’ He added, eyeing the sword belt.

  Apion winced and tried to straighten up, hoping to disguise his lop-sided stance. ‘I am. The strategos, he is here?’

  ‘The strategos? He is with the protomandator, chief of heralds, mustering the thema. He will be gone for some time. At least until next spring. Until then . . . ’ the skutatos rolled his eyes and shot a glance at his colleague. ‘ . . . well let’s just say that since that new tourmarches took charge here,’ he shook his head and sucked air through his teeth, ‘things have been harsh. Damned harsh, eh, Peleus?’

  ‘Aye,’ the other skutatos added wryly, casting an eye into the town. ‘Stypiotes is right. Cydones used to run this town, and if you thought he was a hard bastard . . . ’

  Apion nodded. ‘But until the thema is mustered there must be a place for new recruits to the permanent garrison?’ He waited until both the soldiers shrugged. ‘Then I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘The new tourmarches has made this place his kingdom. He won’t give you any chances,’ the guard called Stypiotes shook his head with wide eyes.

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’ He gave the pair an uncertain nod and passed in under the shade of the walls. Mercifully, the tiresome gale outside dropped away once inside. The interior of the city fell somewhere between the might and grandeur of Trebizond and the ramshackle chaos of Cheriana: in the centre of the town, a granary and a red-domed church bookended a row of three-storey tenements and a line of workhouses, smiths and inns completed the border of the market square. The market square itself was a tight squeeze with colour and noise crammed in to make best use of the limited space of the flat between the mountains; traders, shoppers, animals, slaves, spices, textiles, exotic fruits, farming tools and crop stores all mixed in a swirl of commerce. A pair of chickens scuttled around his feet, their owner cursing in Armenian as he chased them, stooping to catch them only for each one to flutter clear of his grasp.

  Apion hopped clear of them, his shoulder barging into something.

  ‘Watch it!’ A burly, red-faced man snarled, grappling the wicker basket of vegetables he carried.

  ‘Sorry, I . . . ’ Apion started.

  ‘Oi!’ A saucer-eyed woman screeched as he stumbled back onto her bare toes.

  ‘Sorry!’ he yelped as she hissed and hared past him.

  ‘Get out of the way, bloody idiot!’

  Suddenly the market town seemed to be writhing around him as traders poured to and from the bottleneck leading to the main gate. The place was alive with purpose and it was as if he was the only soul who had no business being there. Every face was creased with importance and every body moved in haste, while he bounced between them, clutching his satchel, his heart pounding at every bump or curse. His braced knee trembled from weakness already and he felt cold inside and out. This isn’t home, he almost retched. Then a thundering of hooves rumbled through the dusty ground and a whinny pierced the air together with the familiar cursing of the wagon driver. He spun just as the crowd parted.

  ‘Whoa!’ the wagon driver howled, his face stretched in alarm as he reined his horses back but it was too late, Apion could only shudder at the two mounts’ bulging and bloodshot eyes as he crumpled under their flailing hooves, throwing an arm across his face. Then he felt the shud
dering blow of a pair of hands hammering onto his side, knocking the wind from his lungs, throwing him from the horses’ path.

  Prone in the dust, Apion winced, clasping a hand to the grating agony that rose through his scar. He sat up: the street was cloaked in a cloud of dust and a general rabble of excitement filled the air as the crowd slowed momentarily, no doubt eager to witness some mangled body under the hooves. Instead, they groaned as they laid eyes on Apion.

  ‘Pah! Not even any blood,’ one well-wisher commented. With that, the crowd began to melt into a stream of people in a hurry once more.

  ‘Fool!’ The wagon driver spat, then peered down at him. ‘ . . . It’s you! Would’ve served you bloody well right to get trampled.’

  ‘On your way, traveller!’ A baritone voice bawled across the sea of heads from the other side of the street. The wagon driver’s head snapped round to glare at the source but then his face fell and he grumbled, nodded and then urged his horses on.

  Apion stood, teeth gritted at the fiery pain running the length of his scar. He peered across the crowded street to see who had spoken. There, on the opposite side stood a man with a typical Byzantine felt cap, but under the cap were broad, charcoal-dark features, eyes fixed on him, white as snow with piercing silver irises. From the distant lands of Africa, Apion guessed, he had seen men with the same skin in Trebizond, selling exotic creatures from their homeland to the rich of Byzantium. He had the fresh features of a man in his early twenties and wore a rough off-white and sleeveless tunic with a red sash around his torso and he rested his athletic frame on a spear. The crowd thinned a little and Apion hobbled across to the man.

  ‘You saved me?’

  The African nodded, then pointed to Apion’s sword belt. ‘Conscript?’

  Apion’s skin prickled. Was it that obvious? Then the man’s expression creased in dismay as it fell on his quivering leg. His leggings may well have disguised the scar and the brace but his weakness was not so easy to hide. Apion pulled his cloak over his legs. Maybe this was all a mistake. A distant part of him longed to say no to the African, longed to chase after the wretched wagon driver and beg to be taken back home to the farm. Mansur would welcome him back, surely. Then he screwed his eyes shut tight until he saw the image of the dark door, of Bracchus. He tensed and fixed his eyes on the man. ‘Yes, I’m here to join the thema.’

  ‘Sha, dekarchos, leader of ten,’ he pulled at the red sash. ‘Or I would be if we had a full complement. I’m part of the permanent garrison here,’ the African offered his hand.

  Physically, he could see why this man was a leader: young, with broad shoulders and a torso that was honed and lean. Apion gripped him by the forearm. ‘I’m Apion.’

  ‘Well, we need every man we can get, but . . . ’ the African’s voice trailed off, his eyes falling again on Apion’s withered leg. He shook his head and looked Apion in the eye. ‘There are barely four hundred in the garrison, covering the whole of the east of Chaldia.’

  Barely four hundred? Apion wondered at this and the size of the thema border, stretching for miles north and south.

  ‘Second thoughts?’ Sha’s eyes narrowed. ‘We need men, but we have no time for passengers.’

  Apion shook his head. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Come with me, I’ll get you signed up.’ Sha smiled but his tone was one of resignation rather than enthusiasm. Then he pointed to the scimitar. ‘That’s a fine sword going by the hilt. A conscript bringing in equipment is always welcome.’

  Perhaps now was not the best time to mention that it was a Seljuk weapon in the sheath, Apion mused. He looked for a change of tack. ‘You are from Africa, are you not? Egypt?’

  ‘Close. Mali, in the heart of the sands.’ He patted a hand to his chest. ‘Been a long time since I was there though. I was taken into slavery as a boy and served many a Persian master. Then one day I was bought by a Seljuk master who thought I was a broken soul. So he neglected to guard the gates of the slave quarters one evening – so I took my freedom. The only way I could run was west and so here I am. What about you, you’re from the north or the west?’ Sha nodded, eyeing Apion’s pleated amber locks.

  Apion wondered at this. His heart lay with Mother and Father, yet with Mansur and Maria at the same time. ‘Let’s just say my roots are here,’ he pointed to the ground.

  Sha smiled at this. Then they stopped by the barrack compound and the man’s smile faded.

  The compound was small, squat and unremarkable, tucked into the corner of the town. A smaller northern and western wall met with the sturdy town walls, segregating from the throng an area maybe ninety feet on long and wide. The inner walls were thin and had no walkway, only a timber tower by the left of the wide iron spiked gates provided an elevation overlooking the city. Through the spikes, Apion saw shapes flitting across the muster yard in the centre, skin and shining metal, orchestrated by the barking of an officer, yelps of pain and then the smash of iron upon iron. A single skutatos stood atop the timber tower, leaning on the edge of the inward facing lip, eyeing the goings-on below with a troubled look.

  ‘Attention!’ Sha called up to the skutatos on the tower. The soldier jolted upright, spun and grabbed his spear, then, upon seeing Sha, he relaxed.

  ‘Dekarchos coming through,’ he bawled down to the gates. Two more skutatoi eventually shuffled over to unbolt the iron gates and wrench them open.

  The inside of the place was as run down and uninspiring as outside: a single storey brick building ran the length of the eastern side of the enclosure resting against the town wall, probably the sleeping quarters and mess hall judging by the size and rudimentary architecture. It had a tiled roof that looked to be teetering on the brink of collapse, the brickwork was crumbling and bleached by the sun, and flaking, cracked shutters hung limp from hinges. By the south-western corner near the gate was a ramshackle lean-to of timber that looked – and smelt – like the latrines. Lining the northern wall was a large and sturdy box building, uncomplicated but for the crenelated roof space, probably the officers’ quarters going by the small stable resting against it. The northern wall of the barracks was in fact the side of another building, a hulking brick structure with its entrance next to the officers’ quarters. A wagon was parked by its doorway, clothing and shields being ferried inside – no doubt this was an imperial warehouse, where the soldiers would receive their clothing, armour and arms.

  But it was the centre of the compound that grabbed his attention: roughly three hundred men – almost the entire garrison going by what Sha had said – stood in a closed circle in only their tunics and boots. In their midst were two soldiers unarmoured apart from helmets, each clutching a well-polished spathion. They alternated between circling each other and lunging against each other in a flurry of sword blows. All this was happening under the keen eye of a barking officer who held a pole and wore a double-headed axe on his belt.

  ‘Are they training?’ Apion asked as they walked past the circle.

  Sha kept his gaze straight ahead and spoke in a hushed tone. ‘They are being punished. The kampidoktores will see to that. His role as drill-master barely covers the brutality he exacts.’

  Apion frowned at this, and then stopped in his tracks as the officer barking at the fighting men removed his helmet and wiped a rag over his sweating ginger stubble. Vadim! At that moment, one of the fighting men stumbled and fell to the dust. His opponent lanced his sword down then stopped, the point hovering at the fallen man’s neck. Apion stopped and stared.

  The man with his sword ready for the kill looked up to Vadim. ‘I can’t, sir’ he croaked, ‘he is my friend.’

  Vadim sighed and shook his head. ‘You are both dead. You just need to accept that. Now finish him!’

  Apion shivered, noticing the dark and damp crimson patches in the dust all around the pair. The man relaxed his sword-grip and stood back, chin out in defiance. Vadim took his sword from him, hefted it over, eyeing the blade with narrowed eyes, and then in one stroke he punched the spathion
through the reticent man’s chest, letting him gurgle and then slide free of the blade, crumpling to the dust like a sack of rubble. As an afterthought Vadim stabbed the sword underhand through the other man’s throat, cutting his pleas for mercy short and pinning him to the ground. The watching crowd were silent, simply dropping their heads in dismay. Then, at Vadim’s command, they dispersed, brushing past Apion and Sha. Apion hobbled forward to the scene of the two dead men, being solemnly lifted by a team of spectators.

  ‘Do not draw attention to yourself, Sha hissed, pulling him back.

  ‘Death bouts?’ Apion hissed, shaking free of his grip. ‘This is allowed?’

  ‘They were caught sleeping on watch.’ Sha said. ‘Punishable by death.’

  ‘But that was no punishment; that was vile, animal entertainment.’

  Sha gripped him by the arm, the African’s face creased in concern. ‘It is what you will have to live with if you want to serve in the garrison. The tourmarches decrees the punishment for breaches of discipline.’

  Then another voice pierced the air. ‘Bringing runts in at this time, Dekarchos?’