‘Sir,’ Kaspax nudged him, stirring him from his odd musing. He saw that the young rider was nodding ahead. ‘Is that it?’
Apion followed his gaze. On its gentle path up towards the citadel hill, the street widened into a market area, thick with islands of stalls shaded under bright canopies. The masses barged and babbled all around. Traders bawled, keen to bring the shoppers to barter for the imported silks and the fine cloth that was the speciality of this city. His mind trawled over the instructions in the letter – Go to the silk market, seek Danush.
‘Aye, it would seem so. You should hang back once we’re in there. Stay vigilant, but try not to draw attention to yourself.’
They dismounted to lead their horses past a pair of akhi standing guard where the street opened out into this thriving silk bazaar. Some commotion was going on around a hulking wagon laden with hewn trunks – two men were arguing about how to safely unload the cargo. Apion led his mount past them and round the thickest of the crowds, then saw one trader, bored and tired of shouting. He gave Kaspax a deft nod and the lad took the reins of his mount and peeled away.
Apion approached the bored trader’s stall, lifting and eyeing a silk scarf.
‘For your lady?’ the trader said, at once alert.
Apion half-smiled at this. ‘Maybe,’ he replied.
‘A dirham and it is yours,’ the trader said, a glint in his eye betraying his audacious overpricing.
Apion smiled fully now, pressing a silver coin into the man’s palm, but holding onto it. ‘Tell me where I can find Danush, and I’ll give you another.’
The trader frowned, lost.
Apion pushed a second and third coin into his palm.
Now the trader grinned. ‘You look thirsty. Maybe a drink in the tavern would be best for you?’
Apion flicked his gaze to the dusty alleyway sprouting off from the market square. ‘Perhaps.’
He approached the tavern alone. The entrance to the tavern was rudimentary at best – little more than a hole in the wall. While the Seljuk conquest had done much to beautify the ancient cities of old Persia, some alleys and corners had remained untouched for many centuries. Indeed, the wall nearby still showed traces of a long-ago bricked-up Sassanid Persian archway.
Inside, the place stank of stale sweat and urine. It was a tavern by function only, its appearance little changed from the trade stable it had clearly once been. A fire crackled in the hearth and the heat in the low-ceilinged space was unpleasant and the air foul. Brick columns divided the tavern-room up into small pockets, with a timber bar at the far end. Hay covered the packed-dirt floor, barely disguising the pools of vomit or lessening the stench. Buzzing clouds of flies seemed determined to draw attention to every such stain. It brought back stark and unwelcome memories of his time as a child slave. Traders and locals were dotted around, babbling in a low murmur, their eyes red with inebriation. A dark-skinned woman with an equally drained look walked from table to table, lifting empty cups and placing down new ones.
Apion frowned, scanning the sea of faces as discreetly as possible, then he stopped on one who held his gaze. A weary-faced old man. A native Persian, fifty years old or more, with lined, fawn skin. Bald, with wispy grey wings of hair above each ear.
‘Danush?’ he muttered under his breath as he approached.
‘I knew it was you,’ the Persian said, offering a welcoming smile. ‘Sit,’ he gestured to the chair by his side. Apion looked to the chair but – still wary of his surroundings – instead took the one opposite to sit facing the man, where he could keep an eye on him. A plate lay before the man, strewn with breadcrumbs of some recent meal. At the adjacent table, a drunken Seljuk lay slumped and snoring.
The barmaid placed down two cups of oily-looking wine. Apion sipped at it and wrinkled his nose – it was hot and vinegary. He affixed Danush the Persian with a solemn look. ‘Tell me what you know.’
‘What I know?’ The man’s smile faded. He looked to check that no one else could hear, then affixed Apion with his gaze. ‘I’ll tell you a story of love and loss. A story of a man who lost his wife to the war.’ His eyes grew weary and red-rimmed. ‘We met when we were children. We knew love for so many years.’ He stopped, placing a hand over his heart. ‘Love as I have never known since. My only wish then was that we could be granted the rest of our lives together.’
Apion felt the man’s words tease out long buried feelings of his own.
‘She bore me three fine boys, we shunned the wars that rolled back and forth across our lands.’ Danush stopped, looking up, tears building in his eyes. ‘Then she was taken by the Fatimid raiders. They swept across our farm, cut down my boys, took my wife as a prize. I was not there to save them. I thought I already knew grief, but at that moment, I truly experienced it. It was long and lasting.’ He shook his head. ‘It has never left me. Every day it feels as though my heart has grown whole again only to be torn open by the memories.’
‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ was all Apion could offer.
‘Ah, if only it ended there,’ the old man sighed. ‘It was years after they took her – years after I had given her up for dead – that I found out.’
‘Found out?’
Tears gathered in the old man’s eyes. ‘Those raiders had not killed her. She had lived on all those years, many miles away in Fatimid lands, as a slave. And she had died as such. Alone.’
Apion bowed his head and sighed.
‘Now do you understand?’ the old man asked. ‘I cannot right the wrong that was done to me. But when your messengers came from the west talking of a fellow seeking out the whereabouts of his lost woman, I had to act. I missed them, only hearing of their enquiries from others, after they had left. But I had to get word to you.’
Apion nodded, producing the letter from his purse. ‘And you did.’
Danush chuckled wearily. ‘So my days of waiting for you, drinking oily wine in this sty were worth it.’
Apion reached out and clasped the old man’s hands. ‘Thank you.’
Danush shrugged. ‘It is all I could do.’
Apion waited, senses honed on the man’s next words.
The Persian seemed set to tell all, then he sighed. ‘Now, let us order some food. Then I can tell you all I know about your woman.’
Apion frowned, glancing to the already empty plate before the man. ‘Very well, although I don’t have much of an appetite.’
‘Be patient,’ the old man smiled again, then leant forward, his eyes wide and earnest. ‘I know where she is.’
The words were like an elixir to Apion. He barely noticed the barmaid bringing them two plates each with bread, cheese and a blunt knife. He did not touch the fare, instead letting the old man eat in silence while he lost himself in a daze of hope. Suddenly, the foul air was sweet, the dry heat from the fire like a balm on his skin and the vinegar wine like honey. He could have laughed aloud, right there in the middle of the filthy, cut-throat Seljuk tavern, were it not for one odd thing that snapped him from his reverie.
Every time the old Persian carved a piece of cheese from the block on his plate, he would shoot a glance beyond Apion’s shoulder, towards the tavern entrance.
***
Kaspax tried to remind himself what inconspicuous meant as he found himself constantly getting in the way of traders and market-goers no matter where he stood. Finally – after he had stood on the toes of a woman and her bull shouldered husband shoved him out of the way with a mouthful of foreign curses that he was sure might make even Tourmarches Blastares blush – he slunk back into a niche between two stalls. ‘This’ll do,’ he muttered, then set about studying the throng. The two akhi spearmen still guarded the main street leading up into this bazaar, beside the log-wagon and squabbling men. Apart from that, there was little else to keep an eye on. Then he noticed the trader Apion had bought the scarf from was gone from his stall. He scrutinised the crowd again, and saw the trader once more. Talking with someone. A third akhi. Kaspax’s eyes narrow
ed. And when the trader pointed to the tavern, his blood turned to ice.
Kaspax watched as the akhi rushed off towards the heart of the city. His heart battered on his ribs and he felt fear’s talons grasp his shoulders.
***
Apion watched the old man finish off his meal. There it was again. A snatched glance to the entrance. He picked up his knife as if to eat his own meal, and furtively angled it so it caught the light. The reflection was dull, but showed enough of the entrance to assuage his fears. Nobody there bar some toothless drunk. Stow your doubts for once, man, he chided himself.
‘Shall we talk now?’ Apion said.
The old Persian nodded. ‘Yes, yes. Tell me, is it true what they say? You slew Lady Maria’s husband?’
‘He gave me no choice,’ Apion muttered, that moment atop the citadel of Hierapolis coming back to him like a black wind.
‘I hope Lady Maria understands that. I have always wondered what my wife might have said had I rescued her from slavery. Would she ever have forgiven me for letting our daughters die?’
Apion nodded and made to reply, but the breath caught in his lungs. ‘Daughters? A moment ago they were sons?’
The old man stopped chewing, his eyes widening. His lips twitched wordlessly, then his brow furrowed as he scowled at the tavern entrance.
‘Sir!’ Kaspax’s cry filled the filthy inn. ‘Run!’
Apion swung round to see the rider at the entrance. Before he could rise, Danush’s hands slapped down on his in an attempt to pin him where he sat. ‘It is too late,’ the old man snarled, his friendly demeanour vanishing like a thin mist, lips curling back to reveal his yellowed teeth. ‘It is time to pay for your sins!’
Apion snarled and threw Danush off, then kicked the table back, sending the old man, the cups and plates scattering back across the tavern floor.
Suddenly, as he made to leap from his chair and flee, the slumbering, snoring Seljuk at the next table shot up – not a trace of sleep in his eyes. He swiped an axe out from behind his back, swinging it towards Apion’s head. Apion bent back from the blow, then brought his forearm crashing into the man’s neck. The big man stumbled forward, stunned. Apion leapt upon him, pressing the giant’s head ear-down on the table then drawing and punching down with his lengthy dagger. With a spout of dark blood, the blade plunged into his temple and burst from the other one, pinning his skull to the table. The giant’s eyes rolled in his head and his body slackened.
Apion swung away from the scene and leapt over tables and chairs to get to the entrance before the stampede of confused and terrified clientele. Outside, Kaspax pushed the reins of the Thessalian into his hands and in an instant, the pair were mounted. ‘What’s happening?’
‘They’re coming!’ Kaspax bawled, looking over his shoulder. There, at the east end of the market, descending from the heart of the city, a pack of Seljuk riders were barging through the crowd. Apion’s gaze snared on the lead rider. The stud-rimmed helm and nose guard, the scale vest. It was the wraith-like rider, the one with Nasir’s armour from the Cilician Gates. No! he mouthed.
The rider roared his horsemen forward, and the crowd in the market square scattered, screaming. ‘This way, sir,’ Kaspax gasped, urging his mount towards the street leading downhill and off to the western gate. They barged through the throng but Apion saw that they would be caught in moments by their pursuers. As he urged his mount on out of the square, he glanced to the log-laden wagon at the near entrance and, without a second thought, drew his scimitar and swept it across the ropes holding the cargo in place. With a hollow thunder, the logs spilled across the entrance to the square, blocking the oncoming riders.
‘The gates are open,’ Kaspax panted, pointing through the hastily parting crowds.
‘Don’t talk, ride!’ Apion snarled. He snatched a glance over his shoulder to see the riders trying to clamber over the fallen logs. Two made it, another few fell, then the lead rider leapt over too.
They burst clear of the city’s western gates and out onto the vast Persian plain again. For just an instant, there was an illusion of safety, then he heard the rumble of the three riders still in pursuit. ‘Archers!’ the lead rider roared. A thrum of bows sounded from the gatehouse, then with a whoosh of arrows, a shower of missiles spattered around them. One scored Apion’s thigh. He stifled a cry and tried as best he could to lie flat on the saddle, pressing his mount’s flanks for every drop of haste.
Every time he glanced back, the city of Mosul was shrinking into the horizon, yet the three pursuing riders were there, just a few hundred paces behind, just out of range to use their bows. The chase continued like this for over an hour. Behind them, a pained whinny sounded as one Seljuk mare foundered, its leg snapping as it fell. But the remaining two did not relent. The rider with the stud-rimmed helm seemed the faster of the two, and took to loosing his arrows as they gained just a little ground. When they thundered down into a dusty hollow, Apion could feel his Thessalian’s heart pounding, and noticed its skin was lathered with sweat and foam was gathering at its mouth.
‘We have to stop,’ he cried over the rush of air to Kaspax. ‘Be ready to peel away. We will take on one man each.’
Kaspax nodded hurriedly.
‘And Kaspax – stow your fear. Ready . . . now!’
Apion kicked his mount’s right flank, bringing the gelding arcing round to the left. Kaspax reflected this move, bringing his stallion swinging to the right. The two Seljuks slowed for a moment as they rode down into the wide hollow, seeing the two Byzantine riders coming round for them. Their confusion was fleeting, as they swiftly snatched up their bows and nocked them.
Apion locked eyes with the onrushing shadowy one, watching his draw. The rider loosed and Apion threw himself from the saddle and clear of the missile’s flight. He crashed to the dust, tumbling over and over then pushing himself to his feet. As the Seljuk drew again, only paces away, Apion saw it was his last arrow. He bounded over and leapt up to barge the rider from his mount, the arrow flying off into the brush. As the rider scrambled to his feet, Apion drew his scimitar and the Seljuk did likewise.
The pair circled one another. At this distance, Apion was in no doubt now; this figure wore the armour of Nasir. ‘Who are you,’ he panted, his scimitar extended.
‘I am everything you should fear,’ the rider said, his voice a growl. He could see only the dark skin and snarling lips of this one, the eyes shaded under the rim of the helm. ‘I live only to slay the Haga.’
Apion shook his head. ‘Why do you wear Bey Nasir’s garb?’
The rider laughed at this. A cold laugh. Slowly, he reached up to prize the helm away. The only noise was the nearby smash-smash of Kaspax and the other rider in combat. Apion gawped as the rider’s dark locks tumbled to his shoulders, framing the fawn-skinned face of a boy, barely fifteen. His square jaw was lined with the beginnings of a beard. But it was the boy’s eyes that pinned him. Sparkling emerald eyes, just like his own.
The boy’s face creased in anger. ‘I am what you created,’ he said as if spitting a lump of gristle. ‘I am of your seed.’
Apion shook his head, his mind refusing to believe what his heart was telling him.
‘But Bey Nasir was my true father . . . until you struck him down,’ the boy continued.
Apion felt his legs grow numb, his head swam. ‘You are my . . . son?’ he said, his voice hoarse and cracking. His mind spun, thinking of those few and precious days he had spent with Maria, many years ago.
‘Didn’t you hear me? I shun your blood, just as my mother shunned you. I am Taylan bin Nasir.’
Apion shook his head, realisation dawning. ‘Then Maria is alive?’
Taylan snarled at this. ‘Do not speak her name, you godless whoreson!’
‘But you must know of her whereabouts?’
‘I do, Haga, but you never will. She is far from here and she will always be far from you.’ The boy grinned a feral grin, his eyes uplit by the light reflected from his scimitar blade. ‘N
ow you will go to your godless realm, Haga, and you will tell all the djinns there that Taylan, son of Bey Nasir, sent you there.’
When Taylan lunged forward, Apion threw up his blade, parrying the strike. It was deft and strong. They exchanged blows and sparks showered between them as their scimitars sang. At last they parted, panting. ‘This is wrong, Taylan,’ Apion pleaded, the scene so reminiscent of his final contest with Nasir.
From nearby, a sharp cracking of bone rang out, accompanied by a visceral cry. The second Seljuk rider slumped, Kaspax’s sword embedded in his breast. Kaspax pulled his sword clear and staggered away, coming to aid Apion. Apion flicked up a finger to still him.
He turned back to Taylan. ‘You are outnumbered,’ he said flatly.
Taylan’s eyes blazed with indignation at this. With a roar, he surged forward. The boy’s blade flashed down for Apion’s shoulder, and Apion could only fall back from the strike, throwing his sword arm up for another parry. This time, the two blades met with a dull shearing noise, and the blade of Taylan’s sword spun clear of the hilt. The boy staggered back, glancing at his shattered weapon, then glowering at Apion.
Strategos: Island in the Storm Page 9
