Gordon Doherty - Strategos - Born in the Borderlands

All the turmoil at the heart of empire meant that the border themata were left to fend for themselves, Cydones himself juggling the scant funds raised from the lands of Chaldia to mount an increasingly threadbare defence against the ever more frequent Seljuk incursions.

You’re getting too old for this , a voice whispered in his mind. At forty-six years old he couldn’t disagree; the crudely bandaged thigh wound snarled rhythmically, every bone was racked with pain and his muscles seared even now, a half-day after the battle. Despite the fire, heaped high with kindling and brush, he felt the night chill more than ever. He had passed out shortly after the victory cry but fortunately Ferro had been on hand to grasp an arm and disguise the fall. The men had gathered the bodies of their comrades in an exhausted silence and then dug grave after grave. Cydones had narrated the Christian rites as his men buried each body.

‘Eat up, sir, there’s plenty spare,’ Ferro spoke hoarsely as he sidled over, easing his athletic frame down onto the earth to rest his back on a rock, pushing fingers through his dark curls. He threw a chunk of salt beef to his commander.

Cydones examined the stringy strip of meat with disdain. Some wretched animal had died to provide this, but rations were plentiful only because so many men had died in this defensive sortie, men who would not be returning to their farmlands or their wives, mothers and children. ‘Aye,’ he smoothed his beard, ‘I’ve never felt so hungry and yet not, Ferro.’ He handed the beef back; a week with no meat or wine was his usual act of penance after so bloody an encounter.

Ferro nodded gently, gazing around the camp fires dotting the plateau, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. ‘I’m dog tired, sir, but I’d prise out my own teeth to see the sunrise right now and to be headed for safe ground. Training and gathering supplies for the warehouse would be a pleasant task, for once.’

Cydones grinned wryly. Ferro was his touchstone to reality. If the tourmarches was feeling the grind of being on a sortie then they truly were in a bad way. Ferro relished every chance to muster and set out with his infantry, temporarily freeing himself from the mire of tourma district administration that came with the role. He and the other tourmarchai were vital in allowing Cydones to run the Chaldian Thema as a whole. His mind chattered with the legal and taxation wranglings he had left neglected back in Trebizond and worse, the tense diplomatic meetings with the neighbouring themata. Not quite the ideals he had once strived for, he mused, touching the dull bronze Chi-Rho on his neckchain.

His mind wandered back, as it often did after battle, to the lady of the forest all those years ago. Sometimes he felt sure the whole episode was just a dream, yet a twinge in his heart would see the words repeated over and again in his head. Be true to yourself, he wondered how closely he had followed that mantra. How many mass graves of Seljuk warriors could he really absolve himself of in the name of defending the rotting hulk of the empire? Killing one thousand to save one hundred. Worse were the times when those graves contained fellow Byzantines; the ever more frequent and bloody in-fighting between rival themata was especially repugnant to his ideals yet he had still obeyed orders. He dipped his head to rid himself of the bitter imagery. Then the lady’s other words trickled into his thoughts; find the Haga . Now that was still a mystery to him. A riddle as murky as life itself and one he reckoned he might never solve before the reaper came for him.

Age had come on fast in the last few years for the strategos. Cydones looked over to his tourmarches and wondered if Ferro would be the man to replace him and take on the burden of guilt when he retired gracefully. Or when I end up gurgling on the end of a Seljuk scimitar! He chuckled to himself.

‘Sir?’ Ferro cocked an eyebrow, mumbling through a piece of salt beef.

‘Just letting my mind wander,’ he stretched his arms, fatigue enshrouding him. ‘Tell me, Ferro; how many of our lads do you think are officer material?’

‘Them?’ He jabbed a finger over his shoulder, sweeping across the tattered men behind. ‘What rank? Dekarchos ? Komes?’

Cydones frowned. ‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s a ten or a full bandon, Ferro. Just look at them,’ he lifted a hand to the group of three gangly soldiers who huddled around the fire.

‘They’re not the bulkiest of lads, true, and maybe a bit too young to be officers?’

‘None of that really matters, Ferro. What I see when I look at them is fear. They are scared. They need men to lead them, Ferro. Good men.’

Ferro coughed. ‘Well, sir, I think I’m a bloody good fit to that description. Give me a spathion and a good stallion, any number of men behind me. They’ll follow me, I tell you.’

Cydones’ shoulders jostled as a gravelly laugh tumbled from his chest. ‘I know you would, only too well.’ He rubbed the angry scar under his beard. If it wasn’t for Ferro’s counterattack all those years ago in the eastern desert, the Seljuk horde would have slaughtered Cydones and every single one of his men. The tourmarches had spurred his five hundred riders into such frenzy that they had charged nearly four times that number of Seljuk ghulam and spearmen, shattering their ranks like glass.

‘It’s the fact that you’re a dying breed that worries me, Ferro. You’re never going to be beaten, even on the day when somebody does manage to get a sword under your ribs, but the rest of the men in the ranks these days. . well, you can see it in their eyes, they don’t believe in what they‘re fighting for anymore.’

‘For God?’

‘We all have our ideals,’ Cydones’ brow creased, ‘and I would never question the faith of any of them.’

‘Then for the Empire?’

‘Exactly,’ Cydones nodded. ‘The men need to feel like the empire is theirs to fight for, but it is not. The themata were founded on the principles of the old Roman levies; soldier farmers willing to fight and to die to protect their lands. Then our emperor decrees this exemption tax and he has hamstrung his borders with it. I know many men who would have made great soldiers but have taken that option, handing over a few coins to tend their lands and grow fat at home. It is a foolhardy and short-sighted mindset that will lead to not only poverty but destruction and the end of our empire.’

Ferro nodded. ‘And out here in the borderlands we will always go unheard.’

‘Until it is too late,’ Cydones said. ‘One day our riders will be too few to stave off the Seljuk incursions, there are less than five hundred of us in all Chaldia. A Seljuk invasion is only a matter of time, Ferro. When that day comes, the infantry of the themata will be mustered; they are a far cry from their ancestors, the sons of the legions. Perhaps the emperor will be there to see their impoverished state? I fear that when the sun sets on that day Byzantium will be no more.’

‘I wish there was an answer to it, sir.’

‘There is, Ferro,’ Cydones leaned forward, ‘a brave and loyal soldier will stay brave and loyal if he is led by a competent and fair officer, while those with fear in their hearts will be lost to us. But if a leader is tenacious, tactically shrewd and willing to fight on the front line. . then the brave and loyal will fight with all their hearts and the fearful will start to forget their fears. That, Ferro, is the key. Good men.’

His words were cut off with a plunk as Ferro pulled the cork from his skin of wine and took a swig, then offered it over the fire. ‘Good men!’

Cydones’ face wrinkled into a grin as he took the skin and swigged. The sour wash cleared his head of thought momentarily but then his own words echoed inside him.