Strategos: Born in the Borderlands

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Your father is equally adept at consolidating,’ Nizam replied, ‘and I think he would be a fine ruler – in times of peace, perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Muhammud mused, ‘but peace is a long way off, Nizam. Times of peace must be won with years of war.’

  ‘I know better than to debate that with you, Muhammud,’ Nizam smiled. ‘So Byzantium is ripe for Tugrul’s sword?’

  ‘We move west after tomorrow, and we will be gone for some time,’ Muhammud nodded, ‘we will probe their borders and strike at the weakest point.’

  When they had arrived this morning, Muhammud had never seen an army like the one amassed on the plains outside the city. It took them near a half-morning to negotiate a path through the camps to reach the city gates. Hundreds of ghazi raiding parties had been sent off to the west to weaken and reconnoitre the borders of Anatolia before the invasion. Yet thousands of Seljuks already lived in the Anatolian farmland, and he wondered what their perception of the invasion might be.

  ‘They say that Byzantium holds the favour of the Christian God,’ he muttered, turning back to Nizam.

  Nizam cocked his head to one side as if to half-agree. ‘They do, but then that God is Allah, is he not?’

  Muhammud smiled. The vizier was a man of logic and he was playing with him. He nodded, his face falling stern.

  ‘Only time will tell.’

  ***

  ‘You will be weaker for it, Uncle,’ Muhammud grimaced at the irritation in his own tone but he could not preserve a veneer of cool over this humiliation.

  ‘No, we will be stronger,’ Tugrul fixed him with a tunnelling glare. His uncle was sixty two now, the locks of pure white hair hanging loose from his turban a testament to this, but age only served to etch his features with an even more pronounced scowl of determination and his posture was upright and broad, like a proud, young man. The Falcon was still strong. Perhaps not as agile as he once was, but still the first to plough into an enemy line, hacking and stabbing from his stallion.

  ‘I am like an extra limb for you in battle, you said that yourself!’

  ‘You are a fine leader of men, Muhammud, but do not become a blinkered one.’ Tugrul swept the jumble of shatranj pieces along the strategy map, their shadows long in the orange of the dipping sun on the veranda. ‘I alone must go west. My reputation, my pride was dented when the Byzantines contained the last advance. Allah challenges me to take the glory for him.’

  Muhammud glared at the map. Each of the twelve pieces represented two thousand men: ghulam heavy cavalry, ghazi light cavalry, camel archers and the masses of akhi spearmen and swordsmen. This was but a fraction of the number the Sultanate could muster, but Tugrul had insisted this force was perfectly sized and composed for the job of breaking Byzantium’s borders. All would be seeking the glory of Allah. All except Muhammud.

  Tugrul’s voice was laced with irritation now. ‘This is our heartland,’ he stabbed a finger into the table, ‘and it is yet young, formative. I will be gone for some time. I hope to return victorious but in that time I cannot risk losing what has been accomplished so far.’ His uncle paced to the edge of the colonnaded veranda. ‘Usurpers watch my every move, Muhammud, and I need my extra limb here, to crush them should they try to undermine my position.’

  ‘I am not my father! You will not keep me chained back here like a mule as you did with him! He and Nizam can maintain the state, I have told you that!’

  ‘Nizam is what he is but he is never a ruler, Muhammud . . . and you know the same is true of your father,’ Tugrul spat.

  Muhammud sought a change of tack. ‘You taught me to strive for honour and the glory of Allah, Uncle.’ He felt a stinging self-pity as he spoke the words. ‘How can I find that whilst sat here while my brothers spill their blood for the cause a thousand miles to the west?’

  ‘I taught you well, Muhammud.’ Tugrul said. ‘When Byzantium’s borders are shattered and we are established to the west, then I will call for you. The army you see outside these walls is but a fraction of what we can raise against our enemy. I will spearhead this invasion, but it is a massive vanguard, Muhammud. You will lead the main force when I have broken the borders. I have always seen greatness in you.’ He clutched his nephew’s wrist. ‘It must be you who leads the final conquest, for you are to be the successor to the Seljuk Empire, Muhammud.’

  Muhammud’s heart thundered with pride as his uncle embraced him. Over Tugrul’s shoulder he noticed the shatranj board; set up with the game they had been playing for some weeks now. His eyes honed onto the piece that was his uncle’s king; beside it sat his chariot and below was his war elephant, both seemingly blocked by Tugrul’s pawns. Then it flashed before his eyes: he could sacrifice a pawn, and then within three moves Tugrul’s king would be exposed and trapped. He saw victory. He pulled back from his uncle, knowing in his heart he was ready and all because of Tugrul’s tutelage. ‘Seek out that glory and honour, Uncle. Break the doubters to the west on your blade and shield boss and then call for me. My heart and my prayers travel with you.’

  ‘I will, my heir. When my armies are far from here and doubt strikes their hearts, your legend will inspire my men: Alp Arslan, the Mountain Lion is readying to come west and hammer home our advantage!’

  ‘For inspiration, they need only remember that they march with the Falcon, Uncle. Crush Byzantium, take your glory!’

  15. The Skutatos

  ‘Keep up, runt!’ Blastares roared over his shoulder, his breath clouding in the cool winter air.

  Apion nodded, breathless, eyes on his boots, treading the frost-speckled ground. Six months into army life and daily patrol was as gruelling for Apion as it had been on day one. Scouting the area around Argyroupolis was hectic. Since the disbanding of the Armenian themata, the stretch of land east of the mountains was highly volatile with the Seljuk armies moving in to fortify and garrison the previously Byzantine-occupied lands, pressing against Chaldia and Colonea to the south. Raiding parties had become more and more frequent, striking at least once every week; until last month, when everything went quiet. Sha seemed to have some distinct unease at the sudden lack of conflict, but they had stuck to their duty vigilantly: two hours were spent every afternoon marching on patrol around the mountain paths to the east, looking for any sign of Seljuk activity.

  Apion had not yet bloodied his sword in his time with the garrison, but he had watched grey bodies of unfortunate soldiers being brought back after their patrols had been caught out by a Seljuk raid, the Christian priest delivering their rites as they were taken to the burial ground outside the town. It was a grim reality, but one he would endure until he had worked the opportunity to sink his blade into Bracchus’ heart. Time had shown that the tourmarches was meticulous and would never walk without his grunts flanking him or following close enough to intercept any attacker. The man knew he had his enemies. Did he know how close they were?

  Yet every day that passed ended with a bitter nightmare. The dark door burning in his mind, Mother and Father’s faint voices calling to him while he could only cry out to them in apology for his inaction. Every morning, before the garrison would pray together at muster, he would pray alone, clutching his prayer rope. But God would soon see a different side to him; when the time was right, he would strike.

  Until that moment came, these afternoon patrols did little to bolster his confidence that he could get at Bracchus; they were more like a ritual humiliation, being forced to try to keep up with his unit as they quick-marched through treacherous terrain: every day that meant two hours of the lip of his boots and his brace biting into his welted flesh, his scar screaming for him to stop, the leather handles of his shield pulling at his arms and his lungs burning as he tried to keep up with the others. Every day he would be lagging behind after only a short while, sweat blinding him as he tried to train his sight on the rhythmic and perfectly balanced march of the four in front of him. This routine had gone on for the entire summer, all of autumn, and continued now, as winter appro
ached.

  Maybe the weather cooling had helped a bit, but he clung on to the belief that he was just a little less far behind each day. Yet at this rate he would be an old man before he could manage to keep up.

  ‘Onto the road!’ Sha barked, his voice unnaturally tight, in an attempt to out-shout Blastares. The five filed onto the dirt road that wound through the main mountain pass and led back up to the gates of Argyroupolis. Up ahead, the imperial grain supply caravan of wagons, mules and camels rumbled towards the city at their own pace, flanked by an escort of four cavalry archers.

  ‘Come on, lad,’ Blastares growled, ‘Don’t go showing us up again. Stay in line!’

  When Apion grimaced and stretched his bad leg as he would his good one, the pain was enormous, like a fire running from his neck to his toes, needling at his muscle and tearing at his tendons, flashes of white-hot agony bursting across his field of vision. He glared at Blastares.

  ‘That’s better. Now see if you can keep it up,’ he mocked.

  ‘I reckon he could show you up, Blastares,’ Nepos panted, dropping back a little.

  ‘I reckon someone’s filled your skin with wine,’ Blastares roared with laughter, and then broke down in a coughing fit.

  ‘Well you should never underestimate any opponent,’ the Slav countered.

  ‘I’ll stick money on the big man, fat bastard though he is,’ Procopius slapped a hand on Blastares’ shoulder.

  ‘Put a nomisma on Apion for me.’ Nepos looked straight ahead as he spoke.

  Apion shot a gawping look to Nepos. The man had usually shown good judgement. Until now.

  Nepos turned and winked at him. ‘A race up to the peak, to the gates of the mountaintop village of Bizye. Wait till the spring though, gives you both a chance to prepare and a chance to get a good book going on it; there’s a killing to be made here. In fact, make it two nomismata from me.’

  ‘You really are off your head,’ Procopius spluttered. ‘Two nomismata on the runt not even making it to the top of the mountain. I bet he falls into a creek or the like and breaks his neck.’

  ‘Listen,’ Sha cut in, ‘I’ll put my whole year’s pay on us being put to a death bout if we roll through the gates like this.’ He stabbed a finger up ahead to the bulk of the town. ‘Bracchus is looking for any excuse – particularly with the lad.’

  Apion’s stomach tightened at the truth of this: as brutal as patrol was, training was a whole lot worse. The training was supervised by Bracchus and drill-mastered by Vadim, and neither had shown anything but utter contempt for him, singling him out to make an example of him. Running was the staple exercise, then alternating running ten paces with leaping, to keep the joints supple. Apion could only hobble, having to have one foot on the ground at all times, so Vadim called him out to hobble and try to leap alone in front of the garrison, leaving him in a breathless heap, his scar split and bloodied, his withered limb trembling violently. Then he had taken to using Apion as the example of what happens when a soldier neglects his strength, making Apion stand to the front again, holding a pair of iron klibania at the tips of his outstretched arms while the sun seared at his skin. There had been sword fighting too. One on one. At this, Apion had accounted for himself well, wining more bouts than he lost. The lingering image of the death bout on that first day had made him hold back though in case he drew Bracchus’ attention to his skill with the scimitar.

  ‘Come on,’ Blastares repeated Sha’s order as his own, ‘let’s get in formation!’

  Sha glowered at the big soldier. Nepos shook his head and rolled his eyes.

  Apion struggled to stay with them, every bit of his body screaming in agony. He thought of Nepos’ stern advice from that first day.

  You’re going to have to prove yourself.

  He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood and hobbled on. Roughly half a mile more to cover, then he could peel off his boots, unclip the brace and let the air around his bloodied, withered leg, but his vision was closing in as it was. Can’t stop, he willed himself on, they’ll never trust me if I hold them up. He threw his head back to take in a gulp of air, hoping it would stave off the black spots bursting at the edge of his vision. Then he noticed something else, out there, coming from the narrow mountain pass off to one side. A forked dust trail, riders at the fore, at least thirty, shimmering with iron. He made out the pointed helmets, the scale armour. The breath froze in his lungs.

  ‘Seljuk riders!’ He bellowed.

  Sha spun, the others stumbling from their stride as the mini-column disintegrated.

  Then Procopius yelled, pointing to another ten haring from the opposite pass. ‘They’re coming on both sides!’

  They were converging on the trade caravan but a handful broke to snare the five skutatoi.

  ‘Catch up with the caravan; otherwise we’ll be cut to pieces!’ Sha bellowed. Four of the five broke into a sprint.

  Apion saw the four of them shrink and could only gasp in his ethereal haze, lifting one hand out to reach for them. Nepos looked to be turning back to help but Blastares pulled him back in the direction of the caravan and the four mounted the rear wagon and pulled their swords and spears out, poised, ready to fend off the attack. Then the wagon began to pick up speed, shrinking even faster.

  Apion stopped. He was utterly alone in the middle of the valley. He hefted a rhiptarion in his hand, trembling with fatigue, resting his weight on his good leg. He readied to face the riders; there were four of them, two on each side. One had broken ahead and hung low in his saddle, scimitar raised and ready to cut.

  ‘Allahu Akbar!’ The ghazi rider roared, face twisted in bloodlust.

  Apion gritted his teeth at this. You will not deny me vengeance, the rasping voice spoke in his mind. He saw the ghazi’s sneer of arrogant expectation and felt the dark door rush for him, its fires flaring inside and the knotted arm swiping forward to punch it open. Where his body faltered, his mind was fortified. He lifted the rhiptarion to his cheek, frowned along its shaft and hefted it back until he saw the veins in the first rider’s neck, then let loose. The spear punched into the rider’s jugular, sending his head whipping round to face backwards with a crack. The body went limp and slid from the mount.

  In an instant, the second rider was upon him. No time to hoist his next rhiptarion, he hefted his sword by the hilt, took aim and hurled it forward. The blade carried little momentum but the rider’s charge was furious and the blade met with his chest in a sickening crunch of bone, exploding through his ribs, sending organs and blood spraying over the grass and knocking the rider to the ground.

  Now swordless, Apion took up his kontarion and spun to the three who were almost upon him, jabbing the blade of the spear at each of them in turn. Then the first rider hacked the end of the spear off. Apion threw the shaft away and pulled his shield around to parry the subsequent sword strike, staggering back from the brute force of the blow.

  His shoulder jarred at the second strike and then a third hammered into his helmet, sending white light through his head. He crumpled to his knees. He looked up and saw a rider heel his mount around and stab forward with his scimitar. He closed his eyes and held his shield up, waiting on the impact.

  There was a crunching of bone and a gasp, then the thud of a body hitting the earth. Then a hand grappled Apion’s neck just as a smash of iron rang out beside him.

  ‘Come on, you bloody runt!’

  He blinked: the rider lay impaled on Blastares’ spear and the big skutatos had dragged Apion clear of the last rider’s scimitar strike just in time.

  Blastares dragged him back and discarded him like a used rag. He scrambled to try to stand but his weak leg buckled under him and he could only watch as the rider hammered blow after blow at Blastares, the big soldier tiring and roaring as the scimitar got in behind his shield to rip the flesh of his bicep.

  Apion fumbled with his dagger. He glanced down the road to the caravan to cry for help, but his heart stilled as he saw the wall of Seljuk ghazis thundering for
him. The caravan must already be destroyed, he realised.

  The riders seemed to bring the earth to life with their charge and Apion pushed up to stand against them, pulling his dagger from his belt. But the riders broke around him and Blastares like a river, haring through the main mountain pass, headed east. Apion looked to Blastares, equally stunned. Then the big soldier’s face cracked into an evil grin.