Strategos: Born in the Borderlands (12 page)

‘Ah, Petzeas is ready!’ Mansur pointed to the figure of the old man, sat on a bench by his docked ferry.

Apion’s heart lifted at the prospect of the old man’s banter and the possibility that he would have some bread on board again. As they approached, Petzeas looked up to them but instead of rising from his seat and hailing them warmly, the old man remained seated, his face drawn and his eyes weary.

‘What’s wrong, ferryman, you’re almost acting your age?’ Mansur chirped.

Petzeas cracked a smile but seemed to be wearing it like a mask.

‘All is well?’ Mansur asked, this time with concern.

Petzeas nodded with a long sigh. ‘My youngest, Isaac . . . he is unwell with a fever. It will probably pass but . . . ’

Mansur glanced to the timber hut. ‘We have honey if he is weak?’

Petzeas shook his head quickly. ‘He cannot hold anything down, time and rest should bring him round.’

Apion noticed the ferryman’s unease and fleeting eye contact. Something felt wrong. ‘Is there nothing we can do for him? Perhaps even just a visit might lift his spirits,’ he asked, shuffling his withered leg and crutch towards the wagon edge.

‘No.’ Petzeas seemed ruffled. ‘I fear it is contagious and it is a wonder I myself haven’t been stricken yet. Perhaps he will be well . . . the next time you come by this way.’ The ferryman glanced across the water briefly as he said this.

‘Very well. Our thoughts are with you,’ Mansur spoke gently.

Apion noticed Petzeas held a necklace bearing a Chi-Rho in his palm. He held up his wrist with the prayer rope. ‘May God bless him with good health soon,’ he offered solemnly. Petzeas looked up only for the briefest of moments to acknowledge the sentiment and Apion saw something raw in his eyes. Defeat.

Then the ferryman stood. ‘Come now, draw up your wagon to the pier and I will summon Maro. I will need one of you to operate Isaac’s oar.’ He hesitated, muttering to himself, eyeing Apion’s scarred leg. ‘Mansur, if you will?’ He asked and then turned away to go in to his hut.

Apion let the burning sensation of shame and inadequacy pass; the old ferryman had enough on his mind and meant no offence. Something was most definitely wrong here. He drove the horses forward onto the pier then slid down off the wagon using his crutch, biting back the searing pain that shot through his body, then hobbled to walk alongside Mansur. He looked up to voice his concern but Mansur spoke first.

‘I saw it too,’ Mansur’s eyes were scanning the surroundings of the hut and then the opposite riverbank. He wore a sharp expression like a preying cat. ‘Do not press the ferryman on it. I will have my back to the far bank as I sit at the oar so you must keep your eyes on the treeline as the ferry comes to dock. I will keep watch on this side as I row.’

Apion’s blood ran cold. Suddenly, he felt like a lost cub in the wilderness as the sky dulled and the rapids of the Wolf River seemed to roar.

Before long the ferry had set off across the river, Maro and Mansur striking up a rhythm fairly quickly. Petzeas’ eldest son seemed naturally shy and of few words so it was difficult to tell today whether he shared his father’s unease. Apion sat near the leading edge of the ferry and pulled at a piece of bread, looking up to the approaching riverbank as frequently and as casually as he could manage. He saw the beech thicket where they had eaten two days previous, empty, as was the rest of the riverbank.

They docked on the muddy bank. Silently, Petzeas hobbled from the tiller to step onto the ground and began tying the vessel to the post with the horn attached. The ferryman looked anywhere but at his two passengers. Apion looked to Mansur, giving a faint shake of the head. Mansur whispered to him as he passed. ‘Climb into the cabin, lad, make room for yourself in there and shut the door.’

Apion gulped. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Just do as I say, please.’ Then Mansur turned to Petzeas. ‘See you soon, ferryman.’

Apion’s dread grew as Petzeas croaked a farewell and then turned back to his ferry, head bowed. He climbed into the wagon cabin and clipped the door shut from inside and then Mansur whipped the horses into a canter for the beech forest. His eyes jumped to every fluttering leaf, every branch that shuddered as crows left their nests, but all was as normal. Apion frowned, looking through the slats, back to the shrinking figures of Petzeas and Maro.

Then a roar pierced the air.

Footsteps thundered across the ground and more gruff shouting broke out. Apion pressed his eyes to the slats then leapt back at the sight of the hooded man dressed in filthy rags who raced for the flank of the wagon. The figure held a dagger in his hand, and sprung like a cat to clamber onto the wagon roof.

Three more men rushed for the wagon, each bearing longswords and running straight for Mansur on the drivers’ berth. The horses reared in panic and the reins tangled. The wagon crunched round against a thick oak trunk and Apion was hurled forward, an amphora shattering against his shoulder and throwing him head over heels. It was all he could do to stifle a scream. Then all was still as he glanced up, dazed, the sound of iron on iron filling the air. Through the slats he saw flitting glances of the brigands stabbing and hacking at something. Then one of the brigands issued a gurgling cry, blood spraying from his mouth, hands clutching at a curved blade that had pierced his belly and burst through his back. The curved blade was ripped back. Apion scrambled forward, pressing against the slats to see it all.

Mansur stood holding a bloodied scimitar; the dirty cloth that had concealed it behind the drivers’ berth lay on the ground. He was hacking at the next man’s sword thrusts, cutting the blade around to his sides whenever the dagger-wielding thug tried to attack his back. With a roar, the dagger man rushed him. Mansur stepped back half a pace and brought his sword hilt crunching into the man’s jaw, then scythed the blade around to cut through another swordsman’s throat. The swordsman’s face wrinkled and he touched a hand to his neck in the instant before dark blood jetted from the wound, pulling the colour from his skin and weakening his legs until he toppled, dead.

Mansur turned to the last swordsman, his brow knitted, eyes burning. The swordsman lurched forward and Mansur parried. This thug was slighter than the first but more skilled with the weapon and the pair circled each other, clashing again and again. Mansur’s chest began to heave as he tired. Then Apion noticed shapes emerge from the trees behind Mansur. More brigands.

Five of them, screaming, three bearing swords, the fourth and biggest one flat-faced and hefting an axe and the last of them approaching on a fawn stallion, wearing a cloak, mail vest and veil. Mansur glanced back at them, and then shoulder charged the swordsman onto the ground, whacking the flat of his scimitar to the man’s temple to knock him out before turning to face the five.

As the five surrounded Mansur, the felled dagger-man struggled to his feet, eyes locked on Mansur’s unprotected back, blade in hand. Frozen in a mix of fear and anger, Apion’s thoughts flitted with the image of the dark door. Then he saw something else: a blurred image of a hand, reaching forward for the door. He blinked and realised he had pushed forward to punch the wagon door open. His eyes seared under a frown, and he hefted an amphora in his arms and dropped out onto the ground and hobbled forward. Without his crutch, the pain was untold. Then, with a cry, he hurled the amphora at the back of the swordsman’s head, the vessel exploding on contact and the swordsman dropping like a sack of rocks, blood trickling from his nose.

‘Apion, stay back!’ Mansur gasped through shortening breaths, trying to shield him from the approaching five.

Then a desperate cry rent the air from behind them. Apion spun round: Maro stood, a snapped oar held in his arms like a club, Petzeas beside him bearing the other, lighter half of the oar. ‘We have your flanks, Mansur,’ Old Petzeas cried, the ferryman and his son hurrying forward to stand alongside Mansur and Apion, then he roared at the approaching brigands. ‘Come on then, you dogs!’

‘Petzeas?’ Mansur uttered.

‘Forgive me, friend,’ Petzeas apologised, breathless. ‘They have taken Isaac hostage. I prayed you would not come back today . . . ’

Mansur nodded. ‘Save your apologies, just stay close to me!’

Then the brigands rushed in, swords raised while the veiled horseman followed behind them, eyeing the skirmish. The ferryman and his son were able only to parry the sword cuts of the brigands and Apion watched, helpless, as the relentless axe blows of the big brigand sent Mansur staggering backwards and then down onto his knees, chest heaving, face bathed in sweat. Then the big brigand’s leg stamped into the ground before him and Apion pushed with all his strength to jar his shoulder against the man’s calf. The brigand buckled and fell, the axe blow aimed for Mansur’s head falling wide, but in an instant he was up again, enraged, spinning to face Apion, axe lifted, ready to strike. Apion fell back, awaiting a death blow, but the big brigand’s roar was cut short when an arrow thudded into his eye. He was still like a statue for a moment, a grotesque wash of eye-matter and blood coating his face. Then he toppled, dead. Another brigand was felled, back peppered with arrows. The mounted brigand, who had stood back until now, shot looks into the trees, eyes wide with panic as a thudding of hooves grew louder from the thicket. He barked a gruff order to the remaining two thugs. Then the foliage parted and a horseman wearing a leather klibanion burst into view; two toxotai
,
distinctive by their bows and felt caps, flanked him on foot.

‘Tarsites!’ Apion roared, seeing the rounded features of the skutatos, ducked in his saddle, spathion
held out to one side. At this, the two brigands on foot broke off and ran for the trees. The mounted brigand then wheeled to take flight as well.
Tarsites
rounded on one runner and stabbed him through the chest when he tried to fight back. The other stopped running and dropped his sword, realising the two toxotai had their bows trained on him. The mounted brigand raced for
Tarsites
and drew a spathion, hefting it round to sweep it down at the skutatos.
Tarsites
only just brought his own blade round in time to parry and instinctively, as the brigand galloped past to break for the forest,
Tarsites
brought his sword up and round, the blade scything through the veiled rider’s arm with a sharp snap of bone, lopping the limb clean off. The rider screamed, then toppled from his mount, body crunching as he landed on his head without the arm to break his fall. He lay still and silent. The fight was over.

Panting, Apion stood. With Petzeas’ help they lifted the shaking Mansur to his feet.

‘Why didn’t you tell us, Petzeas?’ Mansur panted. ‘We would have helped you!’

‘I am so sorry, Mansur. I was blinded by fear for Isaac.’

‘Your boy is safe,’
Tarsites
said, riding up to the group as the toxotai bound the surviving brigand. ‘We found him gagged and bound in the brigand camp about two hundred feet into the trees. Though I’ve got a terrible feeling they were not brigands . . . ’

Petzeas looked at
Tarsites
, open-mouthed for a moment and then took the skutatos’ hand and began to weep. ‘You saved my son. God bless you, soldier. God bless you!’

Apion looked up to the horseman. ‘
Tarsites
, you did what Mansur asked, didn’t you? You asked for these roads to be policed?’

Tarsites
grinned. ‘You showed me kindness, and I don’t forget things like that easily. I’ve been assigned to a new bandon and when I raised the suggestion to my new komes, he was all for it, especially as I was volunteering to scout these roads personally. I don’t think I ingratiated myself with the rest of the lads,’ he shrugged, ‘then again, I didn’t bargain on getting a scout horse out of it, but there you go.’

‘You’re a good man,
Tarsites
,’ Mansur spoke, his breath returning.

‘As are you, farmer,’
Tarsites
replied, clasping his leather-gloved hand to Mansur’s outstretched palm. ‘Again I can only apologise for my drunken behaviour the day before last.’

Mansur nodded, then looked around to each of them; battered, shaken but alive.

Then a rasping voice startled them all.

‘Do you realise what a black mistake you have made?’