Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (2 page)

‘Because those who could allay his torment withhold those answers,’ the crone cut in, wagging a finger at him in reproach.

Her gaze seemed to pierce into his heart, and he felt a welling of guilt there. At last, he dropped his gaze, swiping a hand through the air as if to break the crone’s glare. ‘I alone am not to blame for the
Haga’s
torment. There are many ghosts in his past, and they have all but destroyed him!’

‘The ghosts of his past have all but destroyed him . . . have they? Have they indeed?’ The crone stared at him. ‘When you next look upon a mirror, think upon those words, Nasir.’

Nasir looked up with a frown. But the crone was gone.

The kindling pile was charred to the core, with silvery wisps of smoke curling into the air. An eagle screeched once more, and Nasir shot his gaze skywards.

The sky was pure, unbroken blue.

2.
The Cold Spring

In a baking, whitewashed alley in the heart of Kryapege, a calico cat was perched by an open blue door. It peered into the cool shade inside, transfixed on the cumbersome, red-faced man cutting up a piece of carp. Then, the moment his back was turned, it pounced onto the table and snatched up a scrap of flesh in its fangs. The ruddy man’s ears perked up, then he spun round and roared at the creature. The cat scrabbled from the table and sped for the door, tripping and tumbling down the steps before tearing along the alleyway. The cat’s eyes darted all around as it looked for an escape route. Then it saw the figure of an amber-haired man in a light tunic sitting on a doorstep. The man was statue-still and staring into a dagger blade. The cat darted in to cower in his shadow.

Apion looked up as the ruddy fishmonger thundered past and on down the alleyway, threatening to do all manner of things to the cat, including removing its tail and inserting his boot in its back end. When the fishmonger was out of sight, he looked down and stroked the cat’s ears and the creature purred as it devoured its meal. Then he looked up to see a group of six more cats piling into the fishmonger’s doorway in his absence, each helping themselves to the rest of the carp. He welcomed the dry chuckle this sight conjured. For a moment, his thoughts were clear.

Then he returned his gaze to his dagger blade and his thoughts darkened once more. The scarred features staring back at him from its polished surface were wrinkled in a frown. His amber locks were grey-streaked at the temples, and hung tousled and matted with sweat. His beard was equally unkempt. His thick brow shaded deep-set emerald eyes, lined with age and weariness, their gaze fixed along the length of his battered nose.
What am I?
he asked himself bitterly.
A Byzantine boy brought up by a Seljuk guardian. A man who has slain like a demon. A strategos ill-suited to the empire of God.
He looked to the small, wooden war chariot carving in his other hand. The
shatranj
piece was well-worn and stained with the blood of Mansur, his old Seljuk mentor. Then he looked to the white band of skin around his wrist where he had once worn a Christian prayer rope, and then to his forearm and the red-ink
stigma
of the two headed eagle that had supplanted his faith.
What am I?
he asked again.

He looked to both ends of the snaking alleyway. At one end, the remains of the citadel stood – shards of brick jutting from a hillock, now only manned by the goats that grazed on the grass there. At the other end, the red-brick town wall could be seen. Beyond waited a powerful Seljuk warband. But it was not their number that vexed him, it was the man that led them. Nasir would never relent, and he knew this. He lifted the cup of brackish water by his side and sipped carefully, then closed his eyes as a name rang in his thoughts. A name that had fused their paths through life.

Maria.

Nasir had pursued him like a starved wolf since she had died. Perhaps today was the day one of them would find peace.

He sheathed his dagger and took a deep breath, looking to the walls again. There, he caught sight of one of his men up on the battlements. One of just three hundred men of the Chaldian
Thema
waiting for the Seljuk assault to begin. In response to the Seljuk invasion, Apion and his army had been summoned south to the lands of the Charsianon Thema by the obnoxious
Doux
Fulco – a man nominally in charge of the eastern border defences and even more of a mercenary than the rogues he hired using imperial coin. The headstrong doux had then carved up the Chaldian ranks, sending just this few hundred here to guard Kryapege while leading the other nine hundred plus his own rabble of two thousand mercenary Rus and Normans with him inside Caesarea’s tall and broad walls. According to reports, Fulco and his men now awaited a similar fate there, besieged by Bey Afsin and the rest of his vast horde. In every direction, the empire was being pressed out of existence.

Years ago, Apion had thought that the empire could resist the Seljuk pressure. The border armies were dogged in their defiance if nothing else. But it was the man at the heart of the empire who had spawned decay and undermined their efforts. Emperor Constantine Doukas was a blinkered and parsimonious ruler, championing a regressive tax system that punished all but the rich. His reign had seen forts fall into disrepair across the land. Equally, the thematic armies had fallen into grievous condition with scant number and little equipment, some even falling out of existence altogether. Now mercenary tagmata led by men like Doux Fulco held sway, caring more for their gold than for the people they were paid to defend. A gentle breeze danced along the alleyway and stirred him from his thoughts. He shook his head and sighed.

Then, as if to remind him of its presence, the calico cat licked at his arm. He looked down, and the cat fell onto its back and writhed in the sunshine, purring.

‘To have such carefree days would be a fine thing,’ he smiled and stroked its full belly. Then it took to playfully biting at his fingers and grappling with his forearm. ‘But I imagine your day will be truly spoiled if you don’t have a drink to wash down your meal?’

He reached out to pick up the cup of water by his other side.

But his hand froze and his eyes narrowed on the water’s surface.

***

Tourmarches
Sha ignored his burning thirst as he climbed the steps to the battlements of the east wall, his charcoal-dark skin glistening with sweat. It was a bitter irony that this arid, crumbling settlement was still known as ‘the cold spring’ given that the stubborn town well had run dry weeks ago. Even before that, the water it did yield was brackish and polluted. Indeed, there was precious little to say in praise of Kryapege other than its importance as a strategic choke point to the west of Caesarea and the Antitaurus Mountains.

Reaching the top of the eastern gatehouse, he straightened his conical helmet to offer some shade to his silver eyes. Then he rested his palms on the crenellations and ran his gaze along the line of the siege. Two thousand Seljuk warriors had this ruin of a town in their grasp. All along their ranks, fang-like speartips glinted, men grimaced in anticipation and horses and camels snorted in impatience.

Then he turned to look along the crumbling lower town walls. The single and depleted
bandon
of just over two hundred
skutatoi
stretched thinly along the battlements and the scattering of riders and archers inside the town were to face this storm alone.

His eyes fell on the nearest spearman. The man’s skin was slick with sweat and he wore only the lightest of tunics. His
spathion
was sheathed in his swordbelt and he gripped his
kontarion
spear firmly. But Sha eyed the soldier’s
klibanion
; the iron lamellar vest lay by the man’s feet. Beside it rested his
skutum
, the crimson, kite-shaped shield adorned with a gold Chi-Rho emblem. In contrast, Sha wore his armour vest, weapons and helmet and carried his shield at all times despite the heat and despite his fatigue. He looked back to the sentry; a single arrow, let alone a volley, from the Seljuk warband outside and this man would be dead. He considered for a moment whether to bark his disapproval, then he saw a similar sight all along the dilapidated battlements. Weary sentries, baking in the heat, few having eaten or drank in days. Even the
komes
, their superior officer with the knotted white sash around his torso, had set down his armour.

As a tourmarches, answering only to the strategos, it was Sha’s place to bark them into order. But in his time as an officer, he had learned that sometimes a deft touch was most effective. He bit back his censure and instead held out his water skin – containing barely a mouthful of liquid – to the man. The soldier looked nervously to his superior. ‘Take your ration, soldier. Slake your thirst,’ Sha encouraged him. Then he squinted into the sunlight and nodded to the dust-coated embroidery of the Virgin Mary that hung proudly from a timber frame atop the gatehouse. Another precious breeze wafted across the battlements at that moment, lifting the fabric. ‘God knows you’ve earned it.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ the soldier nodded, poking out his tongue to moisten his cracked lips before gulping hungrily at the skin as if the tepid water was an elixir. ‘Sir . . . the strategos . . . he hasn’t come to the walls for two days now. But he will come soon, won’t he?’ he nodded over the wall to the Seljuk lines. ‘For when they advance?’

Sha stared at the man then shifted his gaze to the network of alleys leading into the heart of the town. ‘He will come when he is ready,’ was all he could offer. ‘In the meantime, be sure to wear your armour,’ he nodded to the klibanion by the man’s feet, ‘I know how draining it is in this heat, but better to be hot than dead, eh?’

The man saluted and immediately lifted his klibanion vest and buckled it on. Sha nodded in satisfaction as he saw the other men nearby follow suit, then he turned to flit down the steps and into the town.

The fifty Chaldian
toxotai
were clustered together near the makeshift archery range beside the granary. These archers were not burdened with armour, wearing only linen tunics, dagger belts and wide-brimmed hats tilted at a jaunty angle to shade their eyes from the sun. They looked tense as they honed their marksmanship with their composite bows in near-silence. They were scared, Sha realised.

When he passed the stables, near the empty cistern, the fifty Chaldian
kataphractoi
were nervously brushing their mounts or polishing their armour. Even these heavy cavalrymen, precious and near invincible on the battlefield, were nervous.

Then he stalked up through the narrow streets of the lower town. The townsfolk and the rabble of farmers who had rushed inside the walls for protection darted across his path from door to door, panicked and cradling provisions. They needed a salve to ease the fear in their hearts. They needed the strategos to come forward and lead them.

Suddenly, a half-rotten door crashed open before him. Two men tumbled onto the street, brawling. A huge Greek with wild hair and sunken eyes and a shaven-headed man with a trident beard. They scuffled and traded blows, the Greek smashing the bearded man with a left hook and then the bearded man knocking teeth from the Greek’s mouth in reply.

‘Enough!’ Sha barked. But the two men barely offered him a glance as they broke apart and circled one another.

‘Those figs are to feed my family. Give them back to me!’ the bearded man roared, pointing at a small parcel the Greek had tucked under his belt.

‘Not a chance – I will not go another night with an empty belly,’ the Greek spat, blood washing from his bloodied lips. Then, taunting the trident-bearded man, he thrust a hand into the parcel and scooped out a handful of the shrivelled fruit before cramming it into his mouth.

The bearded man roared at this and then leapt forward, drawing a dagger.

Sha’s eyes locked onto the blade. Instinctively, he leapt forward to thrust his shield between the pair. But he fell square in the path of the big Greek’s left hook that was aimed at the bearded man.

Sha heard a crunch of bone and saw only blackness and a shower of white sparks as he staggered back and slumped against the wall. Dazed, he heard screaming women and the
swish-swish
of the dagger being swept at the big Greek, along with the bearded man’s angered grunts. Then footsteps approached. Heavy footsteps. Sha shook his head clear and blinked his eyes open.

‘I haven’t had a drop of ale or wine in
weeks!’
Tourmarches Blastares cooed, resting his oak-like limbs on his hips. The
giant sported a broken nose and a network of scars under his close-shaven scalp
. ‘And when I’m without a drink to warm my blood, I become bloody angry. It makes me want to fight. Then I wander along here and it s
eems that you whoresons are having all the fun! So, who wants a broken face first?’

Sha staggered to his feet as Blastares cracked his knuckles and eyed the pair – both of whom had suddenly lost their pluck. Then, behind Blastares, the prune-faced and white-haired Tourmarches Procopius arrived. He led a party of five skutatoi who fanned out in a line, spears levelled, faces twisted in snarls under their conical helmets.

‘Or you can call it a day, hand back what you’ve taken, and put your blades away,’ Procopius added.

The Greek seemed cowed and reached to lift the parcel from his belt. But, in a moment of very poor judgement, he opted to barge past Blastares in an attempt to escape with the fruit. As if swatting a gnat, the big tourmarches stopped him with a crunching jab. The crack of the Greek’s jaw breaking rang out as he crumpled to the ground, shuddering then snoring violently.

Procopius clicked his fingers and the five skutatoi lifted the Greek and dragged him into the shade. Then the aged tourmarches picked up the parcel and tossed it to the bearded man.

‘Anyone else?’ Blastares asked, eyeing the rest of the locals that had gathered to watch. To a man, they slunk away, heads bowed, refusing to meet Blastares’ glare.