Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (35 page)

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 skutatoi 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.

The roar of the crowd died with a chorus of gasps and pained yelps. Silence prevailed for a heartbeat. Then, in the midst of the long eastern terrace, one sweat-basted bookmaker turned from the disaster and drew his bulging eyes around the crowd, wagging one finger in the air.

‘Next race – wager just a single follis on the swift and nimble
Xerus
and his Phrygian chargers and I’ll give you twelve in return!’

As if the poor wretches writhing on the track were little more than an inconvenience, the spectators burst into an excited babble once more, clamouring around the bookmaker, waving fistfuls of coin in the air.

Psellos’ nose wrinkled as he looked down on the populace from the
kathisma
, shaded by a purple silk awning. The imperial box was perched high enough over the terracing to catch the southerly breeze and prevent their foul odour from offending him. Then his chest prickled in agitation at the figure shuffling and sighing in the emperor’s chair next to him.

John Doukas glowered at the gold and silver coins being passed around on the terrace below, scratching his dark beard in irritation. Then he took to shuffling and wriggling his shoulders despite the cushioned, silk-lined comfort of the chair.

‘It is money well spent,’ Psellos whispered in reassurance. ‘The people must remain our pawns.’

But John merely grumbled at this. ‘It is not the spending of my family’s money that concerns me. Paphlagonia will always produce rich and flavoursome wines and furnish us with riches. No, it is the continued occupation of the imperial throne that boils my blood.’ He twisted to look behind him, to the spiral stairway that led up here. Only the pair of numeroi that had escorted them here were present. ‘Yet all day I have been tormented with the possibility that my troubles could be over?’