Strategos: Rise of the Golden Heart (10 page)

Apion frowned, seeing that Dederic’s hands were typical of a
landworker
; the skin mottled with scars and his fingers were short and stumpy. ‘You worked the soil, yet you are a rider?’ he gestured to Dederic’s fine iron garb and well-kept fawn stallion, usually only owned by the rich lords and knights of the west – those who reigned over the serfs.

Dederic nodded, then shot a furtive glance behind. ‘All of my men and I were serfs before we came east, sir. We served as squires, pikemen and light infantry, the first to be thrown into the fray while the lancers waited for us to break the enemy or be broken before they would enter battle on their fine steeds.’

‘So how . . . ’ Apion begun.

‘Slain, sir. Every last one of them. The Seljuks surrounded them near Ikonium and butchered them. Cut off their heads before the city walls. Their riches did little to protect them at the last,’ Dederic laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. ‘The bitter irony is that while the Seljuks slaughtered the lancers, they ignored the fleeing serfs, seeing us as little threat. Later that night, we crept from our hiding places in the rocks, we reined in the panicked horses, we gathered the armour . . . we buried the corpses. Then we fought on in place of the dead lords.’ He stared straight ahead, his gaze flinty. ‘We fought on, because we had to.’ He patted his purse. ‘I need many more coins, but one day I will be able to return home. My family will be freed from the bonds of the fat lord.’

Apion felt a glow in his breast at the little rider’s conviction. ‘You fight for your family. I have heard only a few noble motives from the mercenaries that pour into our lands, Dederic. Today I have heard one more.’

Dederic nodded, his gaze sullen and his lips pursed.

There was much more Apion wanted to say to the little rider, but the steel around his heart would not allow him to do so. Perhaps there would come a day when he could share his past with this man. He offered an earnest nod, then rode ahead to the front of the column.

By late afternoon they entered the valleys of the River Piksidis and the foothills of the Parhar Mountains. Here the pale gold landscape gave way to a lighter terracotta earth, with thicker patches of green shrub that dotting the ground and the gentle hillsides. The cicada song echoed through these valleys and the heat was only just beginning to ease as the sun dropped to the western horizon.

Apion was all too aware of the babbling Piksidis, only a short ride away. Nestled on its banks was a place he had not visited for twelve years. The ruins of old Mansur’s farm. After witnessing the grim remains of Petzeas’ home, he knew he could not afford to set his eyes upon the place. He had tried to come here once before, alone, and found that he could not face it. Now, with his men in tow, he could not trust himself to retain his iron veneer. It was not far from here, and its presence pulled at his heart. They passed by the far side of the cluster of gentle hills that marked Apion’s old stamping ground, and he kept his head bowed as they did so. From the corner of his eye, he could not help but see the outline of the beech thicket atop one hill, and the rock in its midst. A reminiscence of his precious few moments alone with Maria up there danced through his mind. Her scent, her soft skin, her sweet voice.

‘Sir!’

Apion snapped from his thoughts and twisted in his saddle. Procopius sat bolt upright on his mount, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun, the other pointing to the north. Up ahead, a lone rider galloped towards them, a red dust plume billowing in his wake.

It was a
kursoris
, a thematic scout rider wearing an off-white linen tunic, riding boots and a dark-blue felt cap, armed only with a spathion and a bow. He was dipped in the saddle and his dappled grey rode at full gallop. At this haste, Apion’s heart steeled and his shoulders tensed.

The rider reined in his mount, paces from Apion.

‘Strategos!’ the man saluted.

Apion nodded. ‘Rider?’

The man pulled off his cap and mopped the sweat from his brow. ‘I thought we might never find you,’ he panted. ‘You must make haste, to Trebizond.’

‘The capital is in danger?’ At this, Sha, Blastares and Procopius gathered round, Dederic joining them with his clutch of Normans.

The rider shook his head. ‘No, Strategos. The capital is safe. But Cydones requests your presence with the utmost urgency.’

Apion’s gaze shot to the northern horizon, behind the rider. His eyes narrowed. Cydones, his old mentor in the ranks, would never create a commotion without good cause.

He raised a hand and circled it overhead. ‘Infantry, proceed to Trebizond at quick march.’ Then he pinned his gaze on two figures near the head of the first two banda of infantry. ‘Komes Stypiotes, Komes Peleus, you have the lead.’

‘Aye, sir!’ the pair saluted in reply.

Then Apion beckoned to the kataphractoi and the Norman knights.

‘Riders, with me – we leave for the capital at full gallop!’

***

They rode through the night. While the riders grew cold as the chill rushed over them, their mounts glistened with sweat, a lather of saliva gathering at their iron bits.

Then, as dawn broke, they neared the northern coastline of Chaldia. Overnight it seemed that the land had transformed around them. The arid rock and patchy shrubs were gone and in their place were verdant grasses and forests that hugged the cliffs and hillsides. Striped birds chirruped and squawked, flitting from tree to tree in celebration of their victory over the ubiquitous cicada song. The air had changed too, growing fresher and spiced with the tang of sea salt.

Then, when the sun had fully risen, the snaking track broadened, becoming a speckling of ancient flagstones and then a full stone road. Up ahead, the sun-bleached and well-walled city of Trebizond rose into view, capped by the citadel perched on the city’s acropolis and framed by the azure sky and the sparkling waters of the
Pontus Euxinus
.

The riders slowed as they entered the stream of trade wagons, camels, oxen and mules ambling to and from the city gates. At the rumble of hooves, some turned and moved aside, others seemed less than enamoured by the inconvenience. Until they heard the cry from Sha, who rode out ahead.

‘Move aside for the strategos!’

At this, all heads turned, then wagons and animals drew in to the roadside.

The skutatoi above the gatehouse cried out as they approached and the gates groaned open.

Inside, the broad main street stretched out before them. Islands of palms in the centre of the street hung motionless in the windless air, while a sea of citizens swarmed to and fro. It was market day, and the populace of the city was out in force, joined by the swathes of thematic farmers, here to trade their crops and wares and buy tools and fodder. This throng was hemmed on one side by the towering red-tiled dome of the Church of St Andreas and on the other by the tall-walled granary. Overlooking all of this from the far end of the street was the citadel, perched on the green hillside by the coast.

Apion slowed as he and his riders entered the bustle of bodies. The air was thick with the chatter of friends, the yelling of traders, the crying of babies and the cackling of drunks. The stench of horse dung was ripe, only combated by the succulent tang of sizzling goat meat, garlic and strong wine. They trotted into the heart of the city, past the market square and the gushing fountain at its centre, then peeled from the main street and rounded the squat stone walls of the city barracks at the foot of the citadel hill. Here, the streets were narrow, cool, shaded and blessedly quiet.

To the rear of the barracks was the imperial stable compound; a run of timber sheds with a small patch of enclosed, hay-strewn ground for the mounts to be exercised. Piles of fodder and a water trough lay at one end, where stablehands groomed the precious few spare mounts. The tink-tink of iron upon iron rang out from the larger shed at the end of the compound where the stable smith worked on new stirrups and snaffle bits for the beasts.

Apion slid from the saddle as they entered the stable area, his legs numb from the ride. He offered his reins to the nearest hand then removed his helmet, running his fingers through his sweat-matted locks. ‘Where is Cydones?’

The hand opened his mouth to speak and then stopped.

‘I know the
clop
-clop
of a Thessalian from a mile away!’ a voice croaked.

Apion spun to see old Cydones hobbling through the narrow arched entrance that led from the main barrack compound. He was dressed in a white woollen robe and sandals, resting his weight on a cane as he moved. The man who had been strategos of Chaldia before him was now in his sixty-seventh year. The onset of age had been swift since he had laid down his sword for the last time. He was now a frail and withered form, bald-headed, with snow-white hair around the back and sides and a rather unkempt white beard. This sparked a tinge of sadness in Apion’s heart. He remembered the tall and broad figure that had mentored him through his early years as an officer. Back then, Cydones sported a dark and pristinely forked beard, and would seldom be seen without his iron klibanion hugging his torso and his swordbelt strapped to his waist. Now, without family to care for him in his retirement, he resided here at the barracks, advising Apion and the men.

Cydones hobbled over to the dismounting riders. Then he reached out a knotted hand, grasping at Apion’s wrist.

‘I knew you’d be back soon,’ Cydones spoke warmly, his sightless eyes darting all around and his hand moving to touch Apion’s jaw. ‘I have momentous news for you, Ferro . . . sorry . . . Apion.’

Apion winced at the old man’s forgetfulness. Age had taken its toll on Cydones’ mind as much as it had on his body. Ferro had been Cydones’ chief tourmarches, but had died over ten years ago – impaled by a raiding ghazi warband before the walls of Argyroupolis.

‘We rushed back to see this old bastard?’ a foreign voice chuckled in a muted tone. ‘He doesn’t even know the strategos’ name!’

Apion spun to the voice. It was one of Dederic’s men. A tall and red-haired Norman rider with a bent nose. His smirk dropped immediately as Apion’s glare fell upon him. Then Apion strode forward, his face twisting into a grimace, his fingers curling into fists. Under Apion’s glare, the big Norman wilted, his gaze dropping to his boots.

‘Sir!’ Dederic cut in, moving to stand before the big Norman. ‘Let me discipline him, if you will allow it?’

Apion looked down to Dederic. His first urge was to shove the little rider out of the way and smash the teeth from the big man’s mouth. Then Cydones spoke in a mirthful tone;

‘Ah, but he is right, Apion. An old bastard I am,’ then he moved towards the big red-haired Norman, tapping his cane before him to find his way, ‘ . . . but a
wily
old bastard. So he’d better watch his tongue around me.’ With that, Cydones swished his cane up and whipped it down, striking the calves of the big Norman. The Norman howled and sunk to his knees.

At this, a chorus of laughter erupted from all watching on.

Apion looked on, eyebrows raised for a heartbeat. Then he looked back to Dederic and issued a sigh that morphed into a dry chuckle.

‘No need. I think he has learned his lesson.’

‘Sir!’ Dederic backed away, relief etched on his features.

Apion offered him a faint nod, then raised his voice to address his men. ‘Now, tend to your armour and weapons, then fall out. You will return to your farms soon, but first we have much work ahead of us to reform and replenish the ranks. Visit the taverns if you must, but be ready for morning muster.’

With a guttural cheering, the men dispersed, leaving Apion and Cydones alone. They walked together into the barracks and strolled around the near-deserted muster yard.

‘The workers have discovered a fresh seam in the silver mines,’ Cydones enthused, ‘so the next mustering should see the new men we gather clad in good fighting garb.’

Apion nodded. The silver caves had been mined for these last twelve years unbeknownst to the imperial tax collectors. Those seams had been the difference between the Chaldian army standing firm along the borders and falling out of existence like some neighbouring themata. This was indeed good news, but not momentous – surely not the reason he had been called back to Trebizond in a rush. ‘So tell me, sir, what trouble is brewing?’ he asked the old man.

Cydones snorted. ‘You insist on calling me sir, even years into your stewardship of this land. I remember when I was first promoted, I would never dream of calling the stubborn bastard I replaced sir. In fact I . . .’

‘Cydones?’ Apion cut in, barely masking his frustration.

‘Oh, right . . . I,’ Cydones started, then a frown wrinkled his brow as he searched through his thoughts. Then his face lit up in realisation and was momentarily free of wrinkles. ‘Ah, yes!’ he wagged his index finger in the air. ‘There is no trouble, Apion.’

Apion frowned.

‘No, instead there is news that may change the ills of these lands.’

‘Sir?’

Cydones’ face fell stony. ‘Emperor Doukas is dead, Apion.’

The breath stilled in Apion’s lungs. Many emperors had risen and fallen in his lifetime; some had abdicated, a lucky few had died a peaceful death, but many had been slain in their sleep and some even mutilated by the fervent masses of Constantinople. ‘How did it happen?’