‘Good hand and footholds, sir,’ Peleus confirmed. ‘Whereas these,’ he pressed his fingers into the shallowest of depressions where the limestone had been weather worn, ‘are enough to hold you to the wall, but do not use them to climb with.’ The seven skutatoi with them nodded. Their chests were rising and falling rapidly, some darting looks to the Seljuk archers – only a glance away from spotting them.
‘You will not be sighted if you stay close to the wall,’ Apion reassured them. ‘And if you stray from the wall then an arrow will be the least of your worries,’ he added with a half-grin. They laughed at this, some of the nerves dissipating as they did so. Then he fixed each of them with an earnest look. ‘I’ll be following Peleus’ every move, so you follow me. We will get to the top.’
‘Sir!’ they replied in unison.
All eyes fell on Peleus. The limber komes nodded and turned to the wall. He crouched to pat his hands in the dust, then clapped them together.
‘Good for grip,’ he nodded, motioning for the others to do the same.
Next, he slid one foot into the first gap and then stretched out an arm to reach the next one. He groaned then swung his leg up and kicked it into the next gap in the mortar. The little komes picked his way up the citadel wall like a spider. Apion memorised his every hold, then followed suit.
As he rose, the din of battle became distant. He heard only the thudding of his own heart and every scrape of his fingers and boots in the limestone. The sun seemed intent on blinding him. His spathion seemed to pull at his belt like an anvil, and the higher they climbed, the more precarious and tenuous each hand and foothold became. Worse, his arms took to trembling with fatigue. His legs were strong from running and his arms were lean and muscular from battle but this climb seemed to pull on tendons and muscles he had not used in years. His vision became hazy and his mouth dry. It was then that a breeze served to remind him of how high he was. He glanced down to see the other skutatoi below gawping up at him, their hair flapping in the breeze, their eyes wide. He realised he could not afford to show any sign of weakness or those below him would let fear creep back into their hearts.
He reached out for the next handhold and then hesitated – it was barely a dent in the wall. Did Peleus climb with this? He said we should avoid these but I am sure he used it. Then he realised he had lost track of the little komes’ path above him. No time to delay, he affirmed, then worked his fingers into the depression and hoisted himself up.
In that instant, his grip was gone. His body jolted in alarm as he dropped, his fingertips gouging at the surface. Fingernails were ripped clear as he fell and he braced himself for death. Then his body jolted as his scimitar guard wedged into one foothold below. All was still. He panted, staring at the ivory hilt. This was not the first time old Mansur’s sword had saved him. Don’t let it be the last, he mouthed, seeing the old man’s solemn features in his memories, you owe me that much. Then he glanced down to see the skutatoi below had halted in horror at his fall.
‘Bad handhold,’ he said flatly, before continuing on the climb as if nothing had happened.
When Apion neared the top of the wall, he found Peleus waiting, clinging like a limpet. The others soon joined them.
‘Take a few moments to breathe and reinvigorate your limbs,’ Apion whispered over the gentle breeze. Their chests rose and fell and they looked all around them. On the shimmering Syrian plain, outside the western wall, the riders of the Scholae Tagma had set up tents and laid down their armour and weapons. Packs of them were now setting out to locate fodder, forage and water as Romanus had ordered them too, for it had swiftly become apparent that the city had been stripped of all food and the cisterns had been drained too. The Antitaurus Mountains stood defiant in the north. The waters of the Euphrates sparkled in the east. Then his gaze snagged on something, far to the south. A train of wagons and a disorderly mob. The populace of Hierapolis, fleeing from their homes.
Guilt stabbed at his heart at this. Relief washed around his veins too – that they would not be slain. But there was something else. A shiver passed over his skin again; there was something about this city, something about those fleeing people. He frowned, unable to turn away from the sight.
***
Maria swept her robe over her mouth to block out the worst of the dust. Then she felt Taylan wrench clear of her grip, spinning round to look north once more.
‘I should be there, to fight them off, to save our city, to save our home!’ he spat, staring back at the besieged city. His fingers flexed on his spear, knuckles white. The fleeing families and wagons broke around him like a river around a rock. Women, children and elderly flinched at his snarling expression as they passed.
Maria placed a hand on his shoulder as she looked to Hierapolis with him. She knew what was to happen there today. She could not bring herself to tell Taylan. She pulled him round from the sight, grappling him by the shoulders. ‘Your duty is to see your people safely to Damascus.’
He dropped his gaze. ‘But I should be there, by his side . . . ’
Maria placed her forehead against his, cupping his face, silencing him. ‘Turn and walk with me, Taylan. I need you to be strong.’
At last he nodded, and they set off together once more.
Maria afforded one last look back at the city. Her gaze lingered on the top of the citadel. An odd chill passed over her skin.
***
‘Sir?’ Peleus hissed.
Apion snapped out of his thoughts, turning from the distant exodus.
He eyed each of his men. They all wore flinty looks. They were ready.
Then he sucked in a breath. ‘Now!’
They scrambled up and over the crenellations, thudding down onto the rooftop. There were twelve archers lining the northern edge of the roof, and then the ballistae were each manned by crews of three akhi.
One Seljuk archer spun to the noise and loosed an arrow instinctively. It took the skutatos nearest Apion square in the throat, and he toppled back over the wall.
Apion lurched for the archer, then swept his scimitar round, knocking the bow from the man’s grip before ramming the blade into his gut. He twisted to hammer his elbow into the face of the next nearest, then wrapped an arm around the man’s neck to use him as a shield against the arrows loosed by the man’s comrades. Then he pushed the man forward, bundling him and another from the roof. Peleus and two skutatoi had already cut down six of the others, while the other four Byzantines despatched those manning the ballistae, one of the skutatoi taking a fatal cut to his belly in the process. The remaining three Seljuk archers fled, descending into the citadel. Apion ran to the leftmost ballista, chopping down on its bow with his scimitar then kicking out to snap the device. ‘Peleus, shatter the other ballista,’ he yelled. ‘The rest of you, guard the staircase!’
As Peleus crippled the second ballista with a series of furious swipes of his spathion, Apion hastily pulled the rolled up crimson Chi-Rho cloth from his sword belt and stood tall, unfurling it and waving it overhead. The maze of alleyways below looked like a map from up here, and it was no wonder the Seljuks had been content to fall back to this citadel. He searched down the hill until he saw it; Procopius and his catapult crew driving forward, pushing the two catapults up the hill and into range with a guttural roar. The Seljuk archers on the rooftops of the granary and the baths realised what was happening, and took to firing upon this new threat. Crewmen toppled, peppered with shafts, and the catapult slowed. But then a cry burst from the alleys.
‘The ballistae have fallen . . . forward!’ Apion recognised the booming voice of the emperor.
At once, the men pinned back in the alleys burst forth, no longer fearful of the bolt throwers. Hundreds upon hundreds of them rushed to collect around the catapults, helping to push them ever closer, holding their shields over the heads of the crew.
Apion spun from the scene. ‘Our men are coming for the gates! Soon the citadel will be . . . ’ he halted at what he saw. Three of his five skutato
i staggered back from the top of the stairs, arrow shafts quivering in their unarmoured chests. The other two backed away, faces pale.
From the shadows of staircase, baleful grey eyes and a broad, glittering scale vest sparkled as a figure ascended the rooftop. Then the sun shed its light on the face, melted and ruined on one side, the dark hair scooped back in a ponytail. He wore a dark cloak on his shoulders and his expression was fixed in a scowl.
‘Nasir,’ Apion uttered.
‘Haga,’ Nasir replied, then snapped his fingers. Four akhi rose behind him, clad in the pure-white robes, horn armour and studded conical helmets of the sultan’s personal guard. Without hesitation, they punched their spears into the hearts of the last two skutatoi, then kicked the dying men clear of the spearpoints, sending them toppling from the roof.
Peleus rushed forward, spathion raised.
‘No!’ Apion pulled him back.
‘Save your breath, Haga. For he will die today, as will you.’
‘Then you had best be swift about it,’ Apion replied. ‘For in moments, the doors of this stronghold will be blown from their hinges in a blizzard of rocks and my men will flood this rooftop.’
As if old Procopius was joining the conversation, a whoosh sounded from the street below, followed by an almighty crash and a groaning of timber. The rooftop shook under them.
Nasir did not flinch. ‘That matters little,’ he said, his eyes pinning Apion. ‘My sultan asked for volunteers to come here. Men who wished to give their lives for the Seljuk cause. To snare the emperor and his armies.’
Apion frowned, noticing something over Nasir’s shoulder. To the west, something stained the horizon, a few miles distant. A dust storm?
But Nasir’s face had bent into a rapacious grin. ‘Now you see it, don’t you?’ he swept a hand to the west.
Apion’s vision sharpened like a blade. His heart iced over as he saw glinting iron amongst the dust clouds. This was no dust storm. Speartips, scimitars, iron masked mounts, spike-bossed shields. A Seljuk war machine. Only now, the unprepared riders of the Scholae Tagma outside the walls saw what was coming for them. Now, men ran between tents in a panic, unarmoured riders hared back from their foraging, cries erupted and horses bolted in fright.
‘The Emir of Aleppo commands a fine army. Some ten thousand fresh and well-equipped riders and infantry. This is why I allowed your forces to tire, dashing your heads against Hierapolis’ walls. You are snared within this broken city and now the emir will slay your forces to a man. Alp Arslan rides a short way behind with his retinue. The sultan looks forward to having your emperor bow before him.’ Then Nasir beckoned another akhi from the stairs. The man brought a hemp sack, stained brown at the bottom. ‘And know this,’ Nasir continued, opening the sack and tossing the grey, staring head of Laskaris across the rooftop towards him. ‘Every step of your journey here has been planned, planned so that you would arrive at this shabby end. Planned not by my sultan, not by me, but by your very own kin in the place you call God’s city. Those who oppose your new emperor sponsor his downfall.’
One name rang in Apion’s thoughts.
Psellos.
‘I have known this for some time,’ Apion growled. ‘Yet still the emperor and his armies stand. This emir will have a gruelling fight on his hands, and the dark heart in our ranks who brought this upon us has not won.’
Crash! Another catapult strike pummelled the citadel gate.
Nasir’s brow dipped like that of an angered bull. ‘Do not trouble yourself with the emir or the traitors festering in your ranks and at the heart of your empire. For soon you will lie rotting, your eyes staring at the sky, watching as the carrion birds swoop to feast upon them!’ he snarled, shrugging off his dark cloak, sliding his scimitar from its sheath. He raised the curved blade, levelling it at Apion, glaring along its length. ‘It is time to bury our oath, Haga!’
Crash! The stronghold shuddered violently.
Nasir stalked around behind him. Apion did not move.
‘Are you too timid to bring this to a finish? It would give me little satisfaction to strike you down so easily . . . ’
Apion heard the whoosh of honed iron coming for him. He spun round, lifting the flat of his blade to parry in one motion. Nasir’s blade smashed down upon it, sending a shower of sparks into the breeze.
Apion backed away and the pair circled. ‘All those years ago, you hated me at first, Nasir. But you learned to accept me. You knew happiness in that time, as did I.’
‘I knew happiness when she was mine. Maria was mine!’ he roared, thumping a fist against his chest. His eyes were shot red with blood. ‘Then you took her from me!’ He cried, lunging forward with a flurry of swipes.
His anger carried him forward with speed and strength, and Apion could only parry each of the blows.
Finally, Nasir fell back, panting.
‘I did not take her from you, Nasir,’ Apion gasped. ‘She was taken from us both by creatures who did not deserve to walk this earth.’
Crash! A splintering of timber rang out as the gates collapsed and Byzantine cheering filled the citadel from below. At this, three of the four well-armoured akhi left Nasir, rushing down the stairs to join the fray. Peleus took to circling with the last of them, the pair exchanging blows.
Nasir looked to the stairwell. Then his face fell and his eyes grew distant. ‘Then perhaps the truth will die today along with our oath.’
Apion frowned. ‘Truth? What truth?’
Nasir simply glared at him, lifting his blade once more.
‘Nasir, tell me!’ Apion cried. But Nasir rushed for him, a roar tumbling from his lungs.
Apion instinctively leapt to the defensive. He hefted his scimitar and rested his weight on his left foot. Then, just as Mansur had taught him all those years ago, he bent his right knee, just a fraction.
Nasir saw the bent knee and lunged to his left to dodge the blow and strike out at Apion’s right flank.
Apion pulled out of the feint, dipping to his left, sweeping his scimitar round, swiping the blade from Nasir’s hand. A popping of bone rang out as the blade spun into the air together with four fingertips. Nasir roared, dropping to his knees, clutching his hand, his ruined face contorted further.
‘It’s over,’ Apion stated stoically. From a few floors below, the clatter of swords rang out as the Byzantine forces swept up through the citadel.
Nasir looked up at him, his grey eyes fierce under his v-shaped brow, his shoulders heaving with each breath. ‘It is not over until one of us is dead.’ Then he tore a dagger from his belt and stood.
There was something in Nasir’s eyes. A finality. It reminded Apion of the lion’s gaze on the plains of Thracia.
‘Nasir,’ Apion panted. ‘Do you really think that the death of one of us will bring the victor peace?’
Nasir’s rage faded at this. He shook his head and a single tear quivered in the corner of one eye. ‘No. Peace will come only for the one who falls.’
Apion’s heart stilled and he searched his old friend’s eyes. Don’t do it.
But Nasir rushed for him again, emitting a booming roar, dagger held overhand, his chest completely exposed.
Apion glanced to either side. He was near the edge of the rooftop and had no space to dodge the blow. He closed his eyes and twisted, swiping his scimitar across Nasir’s path. The all-too familiar crackle of splitting flesh and bone rang out, and Apion felt blood shower him. He sunk to his knees with Nasir.
‘Haga . . . ’ Nasir rasped.
Only now Apion opened his eyes. Nasir’s gaze was distant, his pupils dilating, mouth agape, lips trembling as he tried to speak.
Apion placed his free hand on Nasir’s shoulder. ‘You have your peace now, old friend. Do not fight it.’ He thought of Nasir’s long dead father and brother. Perhaps Nasir’s faith would provide a final comfort to him. ‘Kutalmish and Giyath wait for you.’ Then he felt a stinging sorrow behind his eyes as he thought of the past. ‘But you must know this. Not a day
has passed since Maria died that I have not wished it was me. Were it not for me, then you and she may have lived these last years together in happiness, far from this war.’
Nasir’s eyes glinted at this and he stared at Apion. It was a stare that worked its way into his soul and witnessed some truth deep inside. At the last, Nasir clutched at Apion’s shoulder with his bloodied, fingerless hand. ‘Apion, she . . . ’
Apion stared through Nasir as the life left him with that breath. A breeze skirled around them like his last, unfinished words. He lowered the body to the ground, whispering a farewell, and then stood.
‘Sir?’ Peleus stepped forward tentatively, having sent the last akhi running for the stairs.
Below, the victory cries were only just turning into shouts of alarm as word of the emir’s approach reached them. Down by the western walls, the approaching tide of iron rushed for the unprepared riders of the Scholae Tagma. The Byzantine riders could only turn and flee. Then they, their mounts and their tents seemed to disappear under Seljuk hooves and boots. Ghulam riders cried out as they skewered the dismounted riders, set light to the banners and fodder and spared none in their path.
‘Steel yourself, Komes,’ Apion spoke flatly, staring at the tide of iron. ‘For the day is yet young.’
***
The charioteers arced around the southern bend of the Hippodrome track and the crowd on the eastern terrace rose as one, punching the air, waving and crying out in fervour. Then the lead charioteer saw the mounts of his nearest opponent slip onto the inside and pick up a good pace. He thrashed his sweating stallions with a whip and snarled, simultaneously pulling their reins to block off the overtaking manoeuvre. But then one overtaking mount foundered, stumbling under the wheels of the lead chariot. A sharp crack of timber rang out. In an instant, mounts, chariots and men were bundled together, tumbling over and over before spinning into the air and then smashing down again. When the dust cleared, the sandy track was strewn with splintered wood, bent bronze and mutilated flesh. The screams of the riders and whinnying of the horses rang out above the roar of the crowd. One rider lay, halved at the waist, clutching at his spilled bowels and gazing in disbelief at his legs, twitching only paces away.
Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart Page 31
