Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (38 page)

Ignoring the giant’s roars of derision, Apion turned to the emir. The kataphractoi had driven the rear-facing akhi back like an axe hewing into soft timber, and now the emir was alone. Apion stalked towards the man. But his tunic and legs were now soaked in his own blood and his stride was sluggish. His vision blurred as he approached the emir. He shook his head, but it did not help.

The emir backed away from Apion, his face twisted into a bitter scowl. The jewels studding the rim of his ornate helmet sparkled, illuminating the hatred in his eyes as he looked down from his black mare.

‘Byzantine dog!’ he roared, levelling his scimitar.

The words sounded distant and echoing to Apion. Then, seemingly lightning-fast, the emir swept the blade down as if to split his skull. Apion was slow to react, his limbs heavy. He only just held up the flat of his blade, two-handed, to parry the strike. Sparks showered as the blades collided.

The emir strained and grunted, pushing down with an unexpected strength. Apion felt his own strength sapping quickly, his limbs growing numb and cold. Then, behind him, he heard an animal grunting. He twisted to see the giant bodyguard whose hamstring he had torn, propped on a spear shaft, hobbling towards his back. The giant held a scimitar in his other hand, and a foul grin stretched across his face as he lifted the blade and readied to swipe it at Apion’s neck. Apion shot glances to the giant and to the emir. All the other riders were locked in battle with the akhi. He was alone and his vision was spotting over. He could slay either one of these men, but only one. And then he would die on the blade of the other.

The emir leaned closer, sensing Apion’s weakness. ‘Your head will be rotting on a spike by dusk,’ he spat. ‘My sultan will dine in the shade as he watches the vultures feast on your cold, staring eyes.’

For Apion, the decision was made. ‘Your sultan is my enemy, but at least he carries honour in his heart.’ With that, he dropped back from the emir’s blade, twisted round and rammed the tip of his scimitar up, under the emir’s armour and deep into his chest. The emir’s eyes widened in shock, and black blood poured from his lips in gouts.

As the light left the emir’s eyes and the corpse toppled, Apion heard the whoosh of iron swiping round for his neck. He turned to see the giant’s blade sweeping round to behead him. He locked his gaze upon his killer and waited upon the death blow.

I will march on in your nightmares, whoreson!

Then a whinnying split the din of battle, and he saw the faint outline of a white stallion behind his killer, bursting from the nearby melee. Something glowed on the rider’s breast. Something golden.

A crunch of iron chopping through flesh and bone ended it. Hot blood washed down Apion’s body. But there was no pain. Blinking, he looked at the headless body of the giant. Blood pumped from the raw stump of a neck, the arm was still outstretched, quivering, holding the scimitar only inches from Apion’s jugular.

Then the corpse toppled away. Romanus stood behind it, his face twisted in a grimace, his chest heaving, his bejewelled spathion dripping with blood.

As news of the emir’s slaying spread, many akhi broke from the battle. Spears were thrown to the ground and they spilled past the kataphractoi like a flooding river, fleeing to the west. The Byzantine square broke apart like an exploding mirror, striking out to hasten their flight. Joyous and hoarse victory cries rang out as the tide turned.

Apion frowned as he looked around him, swaying on his feet, the last of the akhi barging past him in their hundreds. The dark door slammed shut and tendrils of smoke spiralled from the edges. He saw only the carpet of corpses all around. He glanced down to see the blood washing freely from under his klibanion. He felt cold, so cold.

Then he saw something else. A Byzantine spearman, on horseback, galloping through the fleeing akhi. It was Zenobius the albino from the Thrakesion ranks.

Apion frowned. Those of the ranks who gave chase to their enemy wore twisted scowls and pained, tear-streaked grimaces. But this rider wore an empty look on his face. Empty and cold. And he was riding against the tide. Something chilled Apion to his heart at that moment. Then he saw the albino lift a bow from his back and load the wooden channel fixed to it with a solenarion bolt. At that moment he realised where the rider was headed.

‘
Basileus!
’ he cried weakly.

But it was too late, Zenobius loosed the bolt at Romanus’ back. The emperor spun, eyes widening. The varangoi cried out, pitching forward. But none were fast enough.

Except one small rider in a mail hauberk.

Dederic’s mount flashed in front of the emperor at the last, and the bolt took the Norman high in the chest. His lifeblood burst over Romanus. Then he slid from the saddle and into the gore.

Zenobius’ expressionless face cracked into a sneer of confusion and disgust. He had time to snatch up his spathion before a pair of varangoi axes swung down upon him, one cutting his chest open, the other slicing his sword arm off. Then Apion’s scimitar spun through the air and swiped his head from his shoulders.

The varangoi and the men of the ranks cried out in confusion, swarming past Apion to surround the emperor. Apion felt his thoughts merge with blackness as he staggered to where Dederic lay.

The Norman clutched at the solenarion shaft, sputtering blood from his lips, his eyes searching the sky above.

Apion dropped to his knees, panting weakly. ‘How did you know?’ he croaked. ‘Even the varangoi were caught unawares.’ His vision was slipping away, and all he could see now were the Norman’s eyes, fixed on him.

‘Whatever it takes . . . ’ Dederic whispered. ‘They promised me gold, Apion – enough to free my family. I betrayed our every move.’

Apion shook his head. ‘No!’ he whispered.

‘I made my choice.’ He clasped Apion’s forearm, his eyes bulging as another mouthful of blood burst from his lips. ‘But I pray that my choice at the last will define me. I pray that God will not let my family suffer.’

With that, Dederic of Rouen shuddered in a death rattle and he was still.

Apion’s heart turned as cold as the rest of his body. He gazed at Dederic’s dead eyes.

All around him, the skutatoi chanted for the emperor. ‘
Ba-
si
-le-us! Ba-
si
-le-us!
’ and this chant became intermingled with that from the tattered remains of the Chaldian Thema; ‘
Ha-ga! Ha-ga! Ha-ga!
’

At this, Apion’s head lolled round weakly and he glanced to the setting sun in confusion. Dusk was coming on faster than normal, he thought as his vision dimmed.

‘Strategos!’ he heard Romanus cry as if from a distant place. He felt hands grapple at him, men calling out in alarm. He heard the voices of Sha, Blastares and Procopius, pushing to the fore. But they were slipping away. And he was falling.

As Apion toppled into the gore beside Dederic, the distant chanting changed to a solemn tone as the priests heralded the victory and bemoaned the lost, accompanied by a chorus of screeching carrion birds.

***

Alp Arslan halted his retinue of seventy ghulam with a raised hand. Not a man spoke.

Upon their approach, he had watched in disbelief as the small pockets of Byzantine cavalry had carved the emir’s army apart. Now his gaze hung upon the sight before him. Thousands of the emir’s men washing past, leaderless,
weaponless
, their eyes wide. The fleet of trebuchets, towers and catapults had been abandoned in the middle of the plain, their crews having fled. ‘Fleeing what?’ he said, eyeing the bloodied rabble that stood outside the western walls of Hierapolis. ‘I see only a tattered band of men.’

‘Including the two that matter,’ Nizam whispered, by his side.

Despite the distance, Alp Arslan recognised the white and crimson form in the Byzantine heart as that of Romanus. Beside the emperor knelt a bloodied rider with a black eagle plumage, shoulders draped in a crimson cloak. It was the one who had slain the emir.

‘The
Haga
has shown honour today. He slew the emir, knowing it would end the battle swiftly,’ Nizam mused.

‘Honour or the ruthless nous of a man soaked in battle-blood?’ the sultan countered.

‘It matters little,’ Kilic cut in, grinning. The big bodyguard pointed to the crimson-cloaked form. ‘Look, he has fought his last.’

Alp Arslan squinted, seeing the
Haga
collapse to the ground.

He found no joy in the sight.

‘What now, Sultan?’ Kilic asked.

Alp Arslan’s eyes never left the
Haga’s
body as he heeled his mount round to the south. ‘We are beaten today and so we return to our homes.’ His eyes glazed just a little as he added. ‘Tomorrow, and every day after, we will pursue victory. Fate is with us. Byzantium must fall.’

22.
The Grey Land

The cawing of the birds faded and was replaced with the skirl of an angry wind. It roared and roared until he could bear it no more, and so he opened his eyes. At once, the roaring wind stopped and there was utter silence.

He was in no pain. All around was a grey and lifeless world. Mountains tapered up to jagged peaks that pierced a curious sky. It was as dim as twilight, but the sun was present, yet shrouded by a dark veil that seemed to withhold its brilliance. And it was cold. So very cold.

He looked down to see that his faded red tunic seemed to be draining of colour, turning as grey as the dust. At the same time, he felt his thoughts fall away like dead leaves from a bloom in the first frost of autumn.

‘I feared I would meet you here, Apion,’ a distant voice spoke.

He turned to see the crone. She shuffled across the still land towards him with the aid of a cane, her off-white robes betraying bony knees as she moved. Behind her and stretching off as far as he could see was her trail of footprints in the grey dust, as if she had journeyed far to be here. Her puckered features were etched with sadness. Then, as she came closer, she lifted the cane and held it out to him.

Apion eyed the walking aid. At once, his heart seemed to spark with fondness as he recognised old Cydones’ palm prints, worn into the top. For a moment, the fading memories and greying of his thoughts slowed.

‘Where am I?’ he asked.

‘A place that every man visits eventually. A place that I have long grown weary of,’ the crone replied, looking up to the veiled sun, her sightless eyes
slitted
as if she could see and the sun was blinding.

‘I cannot remember how I came to be here. All I feel is a terrible pang in my heart – as painful as any wound I have suffered. Is it . . . betrayal?’

The crone avoided his question. ‘This place soothes a man’s soul and takes away many things . . . including some things best forgotten.’

Apion’s eyes darted as fleeting images of the battle pierced the numbness. ‘Am I dead? I must be, for the battle is over and I find myself on this lifeless plain.’ He thought of the frantic last moments of the fray, Romanus’ sword swinging alongside his own, seizing victory from the flames. Then the crone’s words danced across his thoughts.

At dusk you will stand with him in the final battle . . .

‘ . . . like an island in the storm,’ he finished. Then he looked up at her. ‘This last part of your vision has come to pass?’

She shook her head. ‘Today was but a grim portent. The final battle and the island in the storm have still to come.’

‘But I surely will not be there to stand by his side?’ Apion said, looking to the skin on his forearms – the white band where the prayer rope had once been tied was gone. Then the
Haga
stigma started to fade until it too was gone. Now the network of scarring on the skin was disappearing before his eyes, leaving grey, smooth flesh in its place. ‘This place seems eager to draw the life from me, to drain me of those things that make me what I am.’

She reached forward, clutching at his wrist with her talon-like fingers. ‘Then fight it, before it gnaws into your heart – the one place that truly defines you.’ She raised a bony finger and pointed to the pair of grey, fang-like mountains, dappled with shadows. ‘Look, what do you see?’

‘I see a wasteland. What of it?’ he said, then turned his gaze once more upon his disappearing scars.

She stared at him, her eyes weary. Then she reached over, placing Mansur’s bloodied shatranj piece in his left palm, and Cydones’ cane in the other, before closing his greying fingers over these two items. She placed a hand on his breastbone and pointed to the jagged mountains again. ‘Let the iron melt from your heart, Apion, then look again.’

Apion frowned, shaking his head. ‘Then I must be dead inside and out, for I see only . . . ’ he started. But he felt the hand holding the cane growing warmer. The draining of his thoughts slowed and then stopped. He thought of Cydones and the many days he had spent with his mentor,
supping
wine, playing shatranj, and with both men recalling the happy times in their lives. Like Apion, Cydones would speak little of the many years that spliced these precious and happy times. The old man had no family, and his life was entwined with the war. In Cydones, Apion had found a reflection of himself. These memories were rich and vivid. Their colour did not fade.

Before him, the shadows seemed to fade from the grey mountains and they turned a warm russet-gold. Then the veil fell from the sun, bathing the land in warmth and light. When he frowned at this, the crone pressed his fingers over the shatranj piece in his other palm.

At once, his thoughts were filled with old Mansur’s laughter. Memories of the years they had spent together danced in his mind’s eye. Orphaned, Apion had found a Seljuk father in the old man. Then his lips grew taut as he remembered the bitter truth that had followed. But the anger faded as a tear danced across his cheeks. Without Mansur’s mistakes, would the old man have grown to become the fatherly figure he was in his
latter
years? Without Mansur, would he ever have had those precious few years with Maria?

As his thoughts swirled, the mountains before him altered likewise. The jagged peaks relaxed into the rounded, gentle sloping hills of a valley. Beeches grew from seedling to sapling to verdant thickets in heartbeats. Then a babbling of running water filled the air and a gentle river spilled through the valley, in between the two hills. The ground below him rose up, lifting him to the top of another modest hill. Cicadas sang, goats bleated and the heat was like elixir on his skin.

‘I know this place,’ Apion spoke as he twisted to look around him.

‘And you must never forget it,’ the crone spoke.

Then he heard the lowing of oxen in the distance behind him. He spun round and looked down into the valley, and the sight wrenched at his heart. The weary farmhouse with the bowed roof. The goats. The ageing grey mare tucked into a patch of shade, munching on hay. Then, in the heart of the valley, a short stroll from the farmhouse, he saw a portly figure driving a pair of oxen along a square of flat ground, ploughing the soil.
Mansur?
His heart hammered under his ribs. Then it seemed to stop dead. Beside the farmer, a young woman stood in a frayed, red robe. Her hair was dark and sleek. ‘Maria?’

He glanced to the crone. ‘What is this?’

‘From darkness, you can find strength,’ she replied. ‘Many mourn what they have lost. The strongest use it to drive them onwards. That is what makes you what you are, Apion. That is why I came here. You
must
not give up.’

‘But this is not real.’

‘No, most of the things you see here live on only within your heart.’ The crone stared at him, then reached out to offer him something else. A lock of sleek, dark hair, bound together by a fine golden thread. ‘But not all.’

He took it, then lifted it to his nose and inhaled Maria’s sweet scent. He looked up to the crone, his eyes widening.

A smile had spread across the crone’s face. ‘Your old friend, Nasir, left it with me when he passed through here only a short while ago. At the last, he wanted you to know the truth.’

Apion gawped at the lock of hair and then at the figure down in the valley. ‘She is . . . no, I saw her blood. She was . . . ’ he looked back to the crone. She was gone. In her place a swirl of grey dust rose and then dissipated.

He set off at a sprint downhill as an eagle screeched out above him. The wind rushed past his ears and he slid down the scree at the foot of the valley, tumbling over, kicking up dust as he scrambled towards them. Maria turned to him. She was frowning. She looked older than he remembered. He held out a hand to her, stretching his fingers out as he ran to her. But then she started to slip away. He tried to cry out to her but found his voice was simply not there.

Then all around him the verdant valley crumbled like a fading dream.

Blackness overcame him.