Gordon Doherty - Strategos - Rise of the Golden Heart

Then the screeching of an eagle startled him. He looked up to see only an unbroken, azure sky and shook his head. He looked to the nearby chief engineer, who was barking his men into a rhythm as they hauled a trebuchet frame upright. He made to stride over to inspect the goings-on, when he noticed something from the corner of his eye.

A hobbling form walked towards him, cloaked and hooded in white.

He frowned at the painful gait of this figure. There were no elderly or crippled amongst his army, and the plain was deserted before and behind his siege line. Agitated at this distraction, he filled his lungs to bellow at the figure.

But the figure pre-empted this, and lifted a hand, extending a bony finger. ‘Save your breath, Bey Nasir,’ an old woman’s voice croaked from the hood, ‘for we have much to discuss.’

Nasir spluttered at the nerve of this crone. ‘You are no Seljuk. . and how do you know my name?’

She ignored the question and lifted the hood down, revealing puckered features framed by silver, web-like hair. Her eyes were milky-white and sightless; despite this, they seemed to scrape at his soul. At once, he recognised her. It was the hag who had come to him many years ago, when Maria slipped towards death. When the darkness had first gripped his soul.

‘You. . ’

‘Sit, sit!’ she said impatiently, waving him down.

Anger flared in Nasir’s chest and then, like the passing eye of a storm, it disappeared and was replaced with a warm sense of ease. Bemused, he found himself sitting. Now he had no inclination to yell for his guards, all of whom seemed oblivious to this intruder.

‘So, Nasir,’ she said, sitting across from him, resting her back against the kindling pile and pouring herself a cup of salep from the urn over the fire, ‘where do we start?’

‘Why are you here?’ he asked. It seemed like the correct question.

She smiled ruefully. ‘Ah, that is one answer I cannot offer you. Like you, I have been drawn here. But I have many questions for you.’

Nasir nodded. ‘Very well.’

She supped her salep and puckered her lips, then let out a contented sigh. ‘You are a brave warrior — that so many men follow you is testament to your greatness. But do you not fear your leader, the Mountain Lion?’

Nasir’s heart clenched at the mention of the name. Alp Arslan, the Mountain Lion, the Seljuk Sultan. The sole monarch of all Persia from the river Oxus to the Tigris. The sultan was engaged in war far to the south, and had demanded that the beys he left behind were to resist raiding Byzantium until he could return to join them. He looked to the crone, his lips taut. ‘I respect him, but I do not fear him,’ he lied.

‘Clearly,’ the crone chuckled, her eyes widening.

Nasir frowned and shuffled where he sat. ‘He is the finest of warriors, a master of the sword. . ’

The crone raised her eyebrows and cut him off. ‘That is the least of his talents. His mind is far sharper than any blade.’

‘Aye,’ Nasir conceded, ‘yet his strategy drives a wedge between him and his armies.’ He swept a hand around the Seljuk siege works. ‘These men are hungry to complete the conquest of Byzantium that was promised to them many years ago when his uncle Tugrul was sultan. That is why they are here. Because while Alp Arslan chooses to war with the Fatimids in the south this year, he denies the warriors he left behind the chance to seize that glory.’ He cast his gaze over his warband and thought of the other seven thousand who besieged the nearby city of Caesarea. ‘Bey Afsin and I have given them that chance once more.’

The crone nodded wistfully. ‘Yet when Tugrul led his armies here, he was beaten back. And Alp Arslan has led his vast armies here many times in retaliation for that defeat and been repelled every time. Many Byzantines have been slain, but still they resist. Now your sultan chooses to wait until he can focus his armies entirely on Byzantium before he strikes again. Do you not think this strategy is shrewd?’

Nasir looked away from her and to the walls of Kryapege.

‘Your silence speaks volumes, Nasir,’ the crone said, then stabbed a bony finger towards him. ‘You are not here for conquest; you do not share Bey Afsin’s impetuous motives or those of the men you will lead in this siege. You are here for Apion.’

Nasir felt the mention of the name like a blade to his heart. ‘What of it? I have lost much because of that whoreson.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Loss? I’m not sure that. . ’

‘Loss comes in many forms, old woman,’ Nasir snapped, cutting her off. He fixed his baleful gaze upon the walls as he thought of Maria.

‘Perhaps,’ the crone nodded in acquiescence. ‘But have you ever considered how much more you have lost in the pursuit of the man who was once your friend?’

With every breath, Nasir thought.

‘And what makes you think you can best him?’ The crone continued. ‘Despite years of trying, both you and Alp Arslan have been unable to defeat the Haga .’

Nasir feigned a scoff at this, his mind flitting back to the carving of the two-headed eagle on the valleyside. ‘The Haga? Do not try to dazzle me with myth, old woman. The Strategos of Chaldia is flesh and blood and nothing more. He rallies the few wretches that remain of the Byzantine border armies, yet he carries a curved Seljuk blade in his hand.’ His heartbeat quickened and his breath grew shorter. ‘He doesn’t even know who he is anymore, fighting for a cause he no longer believes in because he cannot remember how to live beyond the battlefield. He chases answers at the edge of a blade — answers he will never find,’ he said, unable to contain the wavering in his voice.

‘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.

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.