‘So,’ Bracchus stooped, prodding the dagger away with a jab of the foot, ‘I have every reason to end your life. You have every reason to keep me healthy and in a fine mood. So you will become the dog that you are. You will follow my orders above anyone else’s. I see potential in you; you could be very useful . . . ’
Apion’s mind spun as he looked up into the tourmarches’ rapacious gaze. His lips moved but no words were forthcoming. The chance to end it all had evaporated like a mist.
Bracchus’ face remained unchanged. ‘When the strategos finally comes here, he will give the orders, but he knows his place with me as much as the next man. Let’s just say that I carry the weight of the imperial seal with me, and I have work for you, Seljuk lover, bloody work. So make no mistake, I am to be your master!’
Apion’s blood ran cold, but what choice was there? To retaliate would be a death sentence to those he loved. He pushed up to stand level with the man. There would be another time, and next time there would be no mistake. All the dark fury would be let on this murderous whoreson.
He nodded briskly. ‘You have spoken your piece. So let me return to my bunk.’
Bracchus’ grin turned up horribly to dominate his features, then he patted Apion’s cheek. ‘Good dog.’ Apion shivered at his touch.
Then the tourmarches turned to Vadim. ‘See the mutt has a good sleep, will you? He and his dekarchos have one hundred lashes to be ready for in the morning.’
Vadim grinned, and then slammed his ham of a fist into Apion’s nose.
A dull crack of breaking cartilage filled his head and then all was black.
***
‘Twenty-three!’ Vadim roared. The iron-tipped tendrils of the whip dug into Apion’s back again, gouging deep into his flesh before being wrenched out, pink strands of tissue flailing from their ends. Every strike brought a groan from the garrison, formed up and forced to watch the spectacle.
Apion stared straight ahead, through the iron barrack gates, through the town walls and through the mountains. A cold sweat bathed his skin and he saw the farm, he saw Mansur and Maria and knew what he had to do: he would have no choice but to be the lap dog that Bracchus was to make him, and this was just the start of it
‘Twenty-four!’
Bracchus walked around to stand between Apion and the gates, his eyes searing.
Apion closed his eyes and sought the images of the farm again. Perhaps he would lose consciousness, he hoped. Then he thought of poor Sha who was to be next up.
‘Twenty-five!’ Apion felt the blackness close in on him and his head drooped. Then a bucket of cold water crashed over him, jolting him back to the present.
‘Twenty-six!’
‘This is the fate of any who do not obey me entirely!’ Bracchus boomed to the garrison as Vadim pulled the whip back for the next strike. ‘Remember this and remember it well.’
‘Twenty-sev . . . ’
‘He is coming!’ An excited voice roared; a citizen stood, gripping the gate bars, eyes wide. ‘The strategos is coming, the thema is mustered!’
The garrison looked up in unison to see the thick dust cloud approaching from the west as the gate top buccina wailed out to herald the sighting of friendly forces.
Apion held his head up despite the thick nausea in his gut and the stinging agony of his back. Bracchus had not shifted his glare from him, the tourmarches was testing him. Apion kept his expression blank.
***
By afternoon, the hubbub surrounding the strategos’ arrival had settled down. Cydones had arrived with five hundred kataphractoi cavalry, over three thousand skutatoi infantry, nearly one thousand toxotai bowmen and two thousand light infantrymen – nearly every fighting man in Chaldia. The thema was mobilised for Tugrul’s invasion. As they erected a sea of pavilion tents, filling the pass outside Argyroupolis, the first thing the strategos had done was to demand an instant report on the recent events from Bracchus, and his eyes had narrowed at the talk of the raid on Bizye. So Apion and Sha had been called into the officers’ quarters to join Cydones, Ferro and Bracchus in discussing the matter. The strategos had not offered any greeting to Apion when he entered, instead simply offering a knowing nod. Then the group had got down to the discussion.
‘There was a scout rider patrol nearby. The town was saved.’ Bracchus said, his tone flat and his expression cold. ‘Does that bring to an end your questioning, Strategos?’
‘You’ll do well to respect your commanding officer,’ Ferro replied, leaning over the table.
‘Easy, Ferro,’ Cydones spoke evenly, then looked to Bracchus. ‘I am not looking for blame, Bracchus. We nearly lost an important hilltop site. It may not be key, but what concerns me is that had the garrison soldiers and the scout riders not been nearby, the raiders could have wiped the place from the mountain, then done the same to all the settlements dotted around Argyroupolis, snaring us here like rabbits and we wouldn’t have known until it was too late.’
Apion sat back from the table, touching a hand to his battered nose, still swollen with congealed blood from Vadim’s knockout punch. Without thinking, he leant back to rest his weight on the back of the seat, then winced as the raw flesh stung at the pressure. His back had been cleaned and bandaged by the medic, but the pain was still sharp and he needed rest. However, this meeting could not be refused.
Apion had heard the men of the garrison talk of how they had heard the faint pealing of the warning bell from Bizye, but the noise seemed to echo from every direction through the mountain pass and nobody knew for sure from which town the noise was coming. He envisioned the mountainous area around Argyroupolis and tried to graft a shatranj board on top of it. He couldn’t though; the mountains were a new dimension. He imagined the king trying to signal his cavalry, to tell them he was in danger and to come to his aid. Then it clicked.
‘We need beacons,’ he offered.
‘Soldier?’ Cydones cocked an eyebrow and turned to Apion.
Apion searched for the hubris he had felt during combat but could only feel the weighty positions of the men in the room push down on him. Then he noticed a keen glint in Cydones’ eye, and this spurred him on. ‘We need to be made aware of any attack on the outlying towns as early as possible . . . ’
Cydones nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘ . . . so we need beacons,’ his mind flashed back to the flaming torches the villagers had used to herd the pigs and he imagined a man stood at the lip of the mountain, just before the gates of Bizye, waving a larger torch. ‘We should build watchtowers on all the highest peaks near each settlement. Have a man tend to a pile of brushwood atop the tower, ready to set it alight should an enemy approach. Then we, here, will know of them as soon as the outlying villages do, and there will be no confusion over which village is in danger.’
‘A fine idea,’ Cydones nodded, then turned to Bracchus. ‘What do you think, Tourmarches, can this be implemented easily?’
Apion noticed that Bracchus’ expression was darkening, and cut in: ‘My tourmarches showed me the reasoning behind the idea earlier; he has had it in mind for some time.’
Cydones looked to Apion and then to Bracchus again, his eyes narrowed. ‘Well, Bracchus, you should have said. A wise idea is always best shared.’
Bracchus kept his tone even, darting a furtive glance at Apion. ‘Yes, fortunately the skutatos remembered.’
Cydones shook his head. ‘His days as a skutatos are over.’
Apion frowned. ‘Sir?’
‘From what I have heard of his endeavours yesterday, young Apion has proved that he needs more responsibility.’ Cydones spoke firmly to Bracchus, then turned to Apion. ‘What is it the men call you?’
Apion felt his face flush. ‘Haga, sir. It means . . . ’
‘Two-headed eagle, yes, I know,’ Cydones expression was firm, his gaze unwavering. ‘Apion, you are to lead a bandon. You are now a komes.’
Apion’s mind reeled with pride and terror at once as Cydones handed him the white sash that denote
d the rank. He glanced at Bracchus.
‘I will serve under the tourmarches with pride, sir,’ he stood to salute Cydones and then sharply to Bracchus as well.
Bracchus glared at him.
18. Lost
The wagon trundled along the highway, a handful of soldiers lining the benches either side of the open cart, most of them catching up on sleep or lost in their thoughts. At the rear, Apion dangled one leg from the back of the vehicle and his gaze hung on the eggshell-blue sky. The strategos had insisted that the garrison soldiers take a brief spell of leave before the campaign that was to come and the soldiers were elated at this. Apion, however, realised that Cydones was giving the men what could be a last chance to see their families.
He cupped his now healthier purse: four nomismata remaining from his pay as a skutatos, plus an advance of thirty nomismata for his new role. A komes! Yet instead of pride, he felt only a relentless and sharp anxiety needling at his stomach. Bracchus had been undermined by the strategos and Apion had feared the consequences. Only his open show of fealty to Bracchus had quelled the immediate rage in the tourmarches’ eyes. After Cydones retired to his quarters it was all Apion could do to convince Bracchus that he would be loyal despite his promotion; he had struggled to keep the food in his stomach and his scimitar in its sheath as he knelt before the man, insisting that he would obey the tourmarches without question. It was his reasoning that, as a komes, he could offer more to Bracchus than he ever could as simple skutatos of the ranks. Bracchus had grinned like a shark at this, imagining the possibilities. Apion had kept his own expression blank, seeing only Mansur and Maria in his mind, praying that he had done enough to keep them from the tourmarches’ thoughts.
The wagon jolted over a bump in the road, the lip of the cart grating against his lash wounds, healing, but still tender. He refused to wince at the pain, noting the frequent looks from the other soldiers. The garrison held him in high regard, still calling him that name, Haga, but he wondered how he would fare when he returned from leave to take up his duty as leader of a bandon of mainly newly mustered men. One thing he would not have to fear was lack of support from the five of his current kontoubernion. Sha had grinned knowingly when the news was broken. Then, when Apion got back to the barracks to pick up his belongings, Blastares, Nepos and old Procopius were waiting with equally broad smiles; the four had recommended him for promotion. A selfless gesture he would never forget from those four. He hoped that his insistence on having them in his bandon would go some way to showing his gratitude, and the first thing he had done was to have them all promoted to the rank of dekarchos, with Sha declared as the senior of the four. He had still to work out the detail but he knew each of their strengths and they would have important roles to play in the unit: Sha was the diplomat of the four; Nepos the thinker; Procopius the artilleryman and Blastares the infantry lion. He felt for a moment as if he was almost missing them, then shook his head with a chuckle, and took to looking over his new armour. To cap his new role he now had a fresh and polished iron klibanion to replace his stinking, torn and barely effective cotton vest, a crimson cloak, a helmet that actually fitted him with a well-oiled scale aventail and new, supple leather boots. Now some three hundred men would be his to lead, to lead and inspire. Not for the first time since his promotion, he gulped back the flurry of self-doubt that clawed at his chest.
The wagon juddered and shook his thoughts clear. He looked across the tapering mountains, the sun warming his skin. The flatlands around the Piksidis were coming into view again, bursts of greenery and shimmering farmland marking the height of summer. The uncertainty over Bracchus and the leading of a bandon would have to wait, because for the first time in a long time, Apion realised he was coming home. He inhaled the nutty scent of barley and let the chatter of cicadas dance on his ears. Then there was the tink-tinking of tools as a farmer and his workers set out posts for a fence. He heard laughter and saw them jibe and play-wrestle as they worked. One of them was dark-skinned and bearded – a Seljuk by the looks of it – the others clearly Byzantine. Something about the rare scene warmed his heart. It all felt so right.
When they reached the crossroads near the valley of Mansur’s farm, Apion hitched his satchel over one shoulder and leapt to the ground as the wagon slowed.
‘Be seeing you next week, sir?’ The driver grinned.
Apion frowned for a moment. Sir? Then he relaxed in realisation. How different was this to the irritable exchange with the driver who took him to the barracks over a year ago? Then he thought again, suddenly aware he was standing tall and balanced on his legs, both knotted with muscles; how different had he become? He fished out a pair of folles and tossed them to the driver with a grin. ‘Until then.’ He waved to the wagon and the garrison soldiers inside cheered him as the vehicle moved off.
He descended into the valley and crossed the stone bridge, removing his helmet and wiping the sweat from his brow, then roughly combing his sun-bleached beard with his fingers. The hills here seemed so much smaller after a year in the mountains. He wondered what else might have changed. Then, there it was: the farm. His heart tingled at the sight of the place, as run down as ever but beautiful in every other sense. The white-grey dots of the goats grew as he approached and their bleating sounded like a chorus of welcome. Smoke puffed from the chimney. Salep and stew? He wondered with a grin, his stomach gurgling.
Mansur was sitting in the doorway, lazily carving at a piece of wood with a dagger. Apion put his helmet on and adopted his best soldierly march. ‘Imperial soldier requesting billet!’ He chirped.
Mansur squinted up, half-blinded by the sun, then put his wood and dagger down and stood. His face was blank, then he nodded, removing his felt cap to wipe the sweat from his brow, examining the figure before him. ‘Apion,’ he said softly.
Apion took his helmet off, grinning.
‘You have been through a lot in the last year, I can see.’ Mansur eyed him with a tired smile. The old man was getting older. ‘I knew you could overcome the injury, Apion,’ he nodded to what used to be the withered leg, and then tapped a finger to his temple. ‘Remember what I said? The injury was up here more than it was down there.’
Apion nodded, pride swelling in his chest.
‘You’ve seen a few fists and swords, I can tell,’ his gaze danced over broken nose and the fine battle scars etched on his hands. Then his eyes fell on the stigma of the Haga and cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head to one side. ‘This is what they call you? Then you have earned a fine reputation!’
‘But the beard!’ Another voice trilled behind him from the shade of the doorway. A sweet voice, like honey to his ears. ‘Are you trying to look as ugly as possible?’
He opened his arms and beckoned her. Her mock scowl fell away and she ran into his arms and together they laughed, Mansur embracing the pair. Apion’s soul glowed. This was it. He was home.
***
After eating a Mansur-sized portion of stew and snatching conversation in between mouthfuls, he pushed his pay into Mansur’s hand and waved away the old man’s attempts to refuse it. After that, they played a game of shatranj that ended in stalemate. Then he felt a heavy tiredness settle upon him and retired to his old bed. He slept like a bear in hibernation for the rest of that day and only woke near noon the following day, feeling refreshed as never before. As he lay in the warm comfort of the bed, he prodded the bedding, only then realising the stark contrast between it and the musty and concrete-like bunks at the barracks. When the sleep had cleared from his mind, he stretched and slid from the bed, eyes hungrily taking in the sun-baked lands outside the shutters. He wanted to drink in the surroundings, have every part of it bottled in his mind to escape to when he was away again. Then he swatted the thought of the dwindling time he had here from his mind. Live for the day!
He sauntered out through the hearth-room, picking up a fig from the table and filling a cup with chilled water before walking out into the sun. Mansur was set to attack a pile of logs with his ax
e.
‘Allow me,’ Apion said, licking his fingers of fig juice. ‘It’d be a fine alternative to daily training.’
Mansur stepped back, then grinned. ‘Well, aye, if you insist.’
Apion swung the axe at the first chunk of wood while Mansur sat back to watch. The blade sunk about halfway in and he dug it back out using his foot for leverage.
‘So, life in the ranks; is it what you hoped it would be?’ The old man asked tentatively. ‘Did you find what you sought?’
‘That has not yet come about,’ Apion said, flicking a glance up to Mansur. The old man nodded. Apion felt a surge of guilt: his quest to exact revenge on Bracchus had cast a dark cloud over his relationship with the old man and his daughter for so long now. He would tell Mansur everything, he affirmed, tomorrow, first thing, before Maria had risen. Apion turned back to the logs, his mind suddenly chattering with the bitter dilemma. He tried to clear his mind but could see only images of all the blood he had let in the last year. His next axe swing clove the chunk of wood in a single strike, the blade embedding in the chopping stand, quivering. Apion stared through the axe, sweat dripping across his eyes.
Strategos: Born in the Borderlands Page 28
