Gordon Doherty - Strategos - Rise of the Golden Heart

But the Seljuk numbers were telling, and they drove the skutatoi line back towards the breached walls. Meanwhile, the kataphractoi held back. Still and silent. Watching.

‘Crush them!’ Nasir cried over the din of battle, firing his steely glare across the fray at Apion and his waiting riders.

‘Steady!’ Apion growled to his clutch of ten as the skutatoi line backed towards them. Then he flicked a glance up to ensure the two groups of riders on the flanks were holding back likewise.

The skutatoi were being overwhelmed by the akhi. The centre was bending inwards like a bow. But, hubris coursing through their veins and in their haste for a decisive victory, the Seljuk spearmen did not notice the orderly manner of this bending.

But Apion saw the moment like a hammer hovering above an anvil. The akhi had lost their flat front. They were hungry for blood.

‘Break!’ he bellowed. The skutatoi line heard his command and broke back at the centre, like a pair of doors swinging open. The two halves rolled up like a coiling rope, forming two small, packed masses of speartips and snarling faces. The Seljuk lines spilled around these two pockets of resistance.

Nasir’s cries to them went unheard as he saw the snare.

‘Forward!’ Apion roared. In harmony, the three pockets of Byzantine kataphractoi charged into the fray. Each of the iron riders lay low in their saddles and extended their spears. Apion raced at the head of the central wedge. The blood thundered in his ears as his body juddered with each stride. Ahead he saw the frenzy of the warring infantry and the mass of disorganised akhi, backs turned.

The nearest akhi spun around. His blood-spattered face flashed with panic for a heartbeat, before he roared to his comrades. A cluster of them turned, instinctively swinging their spears down to meet the oncoming cavalry charge. But they were too late.

Apion’s shoulder shuddered as his spear burst through the neck of the nearest Seljuk spearman, almost tearing the man’s head off. Shaking his lance free of carrion, he carried on, bracing as he then plunged the spear into the chest of the next man. The shaft of the spear splintered as he tried to wrench it free, and he threw down the useless weapon. Another akhi leapt up and swiped a blade against his forearm, shattering the splinted greaves there and cleaving into his flesh. Apion stifled a roar of pain as blood washed from the wound, then kicked out at his attacker, leaving a nearby skutatos to despatch him.

He twisted in his saddle to see another kataphractos hacking through the melee, only for a scimitar blow to scythe through the rider’s already-torn armour, cleaving the man open from shoulder to lung. By his other side, a fellow rider from his ten was barging his way through the fray manfully, only for a Seljuk spear to burst through his chest from behind, sending him toppling from his mount, limbs flailing. His riders were taking heavy losses, but the skutatoi spears were holding good and the akhi were beginning to panic. Many hundreds had fallen and now some were backing away from the fray, their eyes darting to the east once more.

But this glimmer of hope was swept from his thoughts as a clutch of akhi rushed to surround him, swords and spears hefted to lacerate him, and the pocket of remaining ghazi riders had circled around to aid them. In one motion, he reached over his shoulder and lifted his spathion from his baldric, and with the other hand, he pulled the flanged mace from his belt.

The first spearman that leapt for him would have felt nothing. Apion’s blade passed through his neck without resistance, blood showering like rain, and the man was dead before his body hit the ground. The next akhi slid to his knees, aiming his sword-strike at the unarmoured legs of Apion’s mount. Apion saw this, flicked his sword up and caught it overhand, then threw it down like a spear, the blade punching into the man’s gut.

Barely able to snatch a breath, Apion spun just in time to see a ghazi rider swing down at him with a hand axe. He dipped to the left, the axe blow whooshing past his helmet. Then he grappled the rider’s shoulder and took purchase to swing his mace up and round with venom, bringing the blade-sharp flanges of the weighty iron head crashing into the ghazi’s helmet. The mace smashed through the iron helm as if it was made of parchment, and then shattered the rider’s skull like an eggshell. A spray of grey matter and black blood burst from the rider’s right eye socket, coating Apion’s veil and spilling inside the eyeholes. The familiar stench of death permeated his senses once more. He drew his scimitar and sought out his next opponent.

These were the fleeting moments when he did not hear the voices of the past. When he was beyond the dark door, consumed by its fire. When he could see only his next foe and hear only the shrill song of battle.

At last, he found himself surrounded only by comrades. Now the Seljuk infantry were breaking in droves, throwing down their spears and running to the east. His sword arm was numb and trembling. The dark door faded as his heartbeat slowed and he heard the rasping of his own breath.

Only a handful of ghazis remained. Nasir was in their midst, berating the deserters and cutting down those nearby. His face was twisted in fury. But, at last, he relented. ‘Withdraw!’ he cried, waving his riders back. As a group they turned and heeled their mounts into a gallop.

As one, the Byzantine ranks broke into a chorus of cheering; ‘Nobiscum Deus!’ they cried. Then the familiar, rhythmic chant rang out; ‘ Ha-ga! Ha-ga! Ha-ga! ’

The riders gathered around Apion and looked to him. ‘Sir? Give the order!’ Sha panted. The Malian was coated in gore, readied to kick his mount and give chase.

Apion looked around to see that nearly half his men had fallen and many were injured, yet those still standing seemed eager to give chase too. ‘No, it is over,’ he said as he watched the remnant of the Seljuk force flee towards the now fully risen sun.

Then, silhouetted in the distance, Nasir twisted in the saddle, hurling some defiant cry over his shoulder and lifting something from his back.

Apion only saw the arrow at the last. He slid to one side in his saddle, but not soon enough. The arrow smacked into the collar of his klibanion, gouging one of the iron plates from the leather binding and tearing the flesh on his shoulder. The blow sent him toppling from his mount and he thudded to the dust.

At this, the chanting fell into a shocked silence. Sha, Blastares and Procopius rushed to surround him, throwing their veiled helms to the ground and leaping from their mounts. Apion waved them away and pushed himself up to stand, grateful that his agony was concealed behind his veil.

‘The siege is over,’ he snarled, snapping the arrow and clutching at the wound, ‘get back inside the town.’

Apion sat alone on the crenellations of the east wall, wearing a faded grey tunic, leather riding boots and his crimson cloak. The late afternoon sun behind him was a gentle salve on his battered body, soothing the wounds under the bloodied bandages hugging his shoulder and forearm. He chewed on a chunk of smoked carp skewered on the end of his dagger. The tangy flesh flaked on his tongue and he savoured the momentary sensation of wellbeing. Once they had broken the siege, Sha had led some of the town garrison to a tributary river and they had returned with barrels of fresh water and this bountiful catch. He washed down each mouthful with a swig of well-watered soured wine — the tart liquid reinvigorating his taste buds.

His belly full for the first time since the siege began, he cleaned his hands on a rag and enjoyed the blanket of drowsiness that settled on his mind. Then the air was pierced by the first rumblings of a kettledrum and a few high-spirited voices. He looked down into the town; in the square near the gate, fires crackled to life and men, women, children and elderly spilled into the square. The drums grew louder and then flutes joined in as the people danced and sang, ruddy-cheeked and boisterous, satiated after many days of starvation and thirst. After the sombre burial procession east of the walls that had dominated the day, this was the outpouring of relief. A sense of calm touched Apion’s heart at the sight, so rare in the borderlands. Then he frowned, noticing a shape down one shadowy alleyway, writhing. Making out hairy, naked, gyrating buttocks, and the faint grunting of a rutting couple, he immediately realised that it was Blastares, indulging fully in the celebrations. A wry smile spread across his face; the usual post-battle penance and forgoing of wine and meat would come, but not today. He turned away to give his hulking tourmarches privacy, and looked along the battlements to the east gate.