Gordon Doherty - Strategos - Born in the Borderlands

The farm was a short ride away.

But first, he had to seek out Nepos.

The ghazi rider slid from his mount and knelt in the centre of the courtyard in front of Muhammud and his broad-shouldered bodyguard, Kilic.

‘Speak.’ Muhammud said. He kept his voice stern and peered down his nose at the rider, just as his uncle had always taught him. But under his cool facade, his heart thundered; something was very wrong.

The rider craned his neck up. His eye was misted and still seeping from a small cut, his clothes were filthy and his skin caked in dirt and his mount trembled from exhaustion. ‘Mighty Alp Arslan, I bring news of Great Sultan Tugrul. The Byzantines were strong, too strong. Our mighty leader has been defeated,’ the rider panted.

Muhammad’s eyes bulged. Tugrul, the man who had taught him the very essence of honour, had been defeated? Then his blood chilled; had the Falcon fallen? No, it is too soon , his mind screamed. At the same time, the possibilities raced through his thoughts. You are their leader, now is your time, Mountain Lion .

‘Does the Falcon live?’ Muhammud heard his own words, flat and hoarse.

‘He lives,’ the rider nodded fervently.

He felt a wave of relief, but then a burning shame crept over his skin as he realised he was also disappointed. ‘What of his armies now?’ He demanded. ‘They are regrouped, I presume, but where?’

The rider shook his head. ‘The armies were routed, only the Sultan and his retinue remain intact and they have taken refuge in eastern Armenia. The survivors from the ranks, they have scattered and will not be returning. The Sultan, he is. . ’ the rider glanced to Muhammud and then back to the ground, ‘. . he is broken. He spends his nights in silence, gazing to the west. The Byzantine strategos has another who fights by his side. The Haga , the ferocious two-headed eagle. The Sultan’s men say he fought like a djinn , bringing men with him like a wall of fire.’

‘Enough!’ Muhammud snapped, cutting the rider short and sweeping a platter of goblets and dishes from the table by his side to shatter on the courtyard.

Some twenty five thousand men had been whittled down to barely a thousand by the swords of an outlying army of this ancient empire of Byzantium, not even close to their emperor or the seat of power in Constantinople. So his uncle had got it wrong, assuming one army could break Byzantium. You should have taken me with you, Falcon.

He glanced up to see Nizam, who had paced silently out behind the rider. The vizier’s eyes were heavy and he gave the faintest shake of his head. Muhammud looked from the Vizier to the rider and assessed his next move. Word could not spread of the Sultan’s defeat. Muhammud sensed a shadow pass over his soul. He had to be a ruthless leader now, like his uncle.

‘You rode alone?’ He asked the rider, who nodded.

‘Take him back to the ranks. Have him bathed, clothed and fed,’ he sighed to Kilic. As the giant of a man moved to usher the rider to his feet, Muhammud gave him a firm and familiar nod, eyes cold as ice. Kilic nodded back.

Muhammud turned away and looked to the strategy map laid out on the ground before him. He gazed over the map, then closed his eyes at the gurgling protests of the rider as Kilic tore a blade across the man’s throat. When the rider fell silent, he opened his eyes again, looking over the fifty shatranj pieces currently set around the large red dot representing Isfahan. His eyes narrowed; did the Byzantines really believe they had broken the Seljuk spirit, routed the core of their armies? Fire raced through his veins as he thought of the emperor and his armies rejoicing at his uncle’s humiliation. But their joy would be short lived; Byzantium had seen but the tip of the blade that was to strike through its heart. He glanced up at the battlements of the city walls and could see the dust haze from the swell of activity outside. Then he barked at Nizam. ‘Come with me.’

Muhammud strode from the palace and across the square, ignoring the salutations and cries of praise from the crowds. Then he flitted up the steps to the battlements, Kilic and Nizam hurrying to keep pace with him. At last they stopped as Muhhamud rested his palms on the crenelated stonework. ‘Yes,’ he purred, his eyes sparkling as he drank in the scene before him.

The fertile plain was invisible under blanket of military: a sea of tents, warhorses, men in shimmering armour and an endless line of siege towers and stone-throwers. He had spent the last months whipping them into a frenzy, telling of the glory to be had in toppling the ancient empire of the west. As the weeks had rolled by and word had spread around the Seljuk lands, new divisions were formed to accommodate the influx of warriors who wanted to be part of this glory, to march with the Mountain Lion . He thought again of the strategy map: fifty pieces, each representing two thousand men and all of them hungry. Hungry to crush Byzantium.

‘Sultan Tugrul was to call on me when the time was right, to solidify his holdings in Byzantine lands,’ he spoke evenly to Nizam. ‘Well that call will not now come, but the fruit has never been riper. We will crush those who seek to unhinge our glorious destiny and the Falcon’s honour will be restored under my banner. Our siege engines will shatter the crumbling walls of Byzantium’s cities and their armies will die under the hail of our arrows. Should this army of Chaldia or any other, choose to meet me in the field. Well, then they will face the wrath of the Mountain Lion! ’

He grappled the Seljuk banner from the nearest guard on the wall and hoisted it up over his head, the golden bow emblem fluttering in the gentle breeze. First the soldiers camped directly below the walls saw it and leapt to their feet, raised a chorus of cheers and rapped their scimitar hilts on their shields. Then, the cacophony rippled outwards across the plain like thunder.

Muhammud glared into the setting sun. This strategos of Chaldia would pay. And the Haga , this so-called invincible warrior? Muhammud vowed that he would seek him out and crush his army. Then take his head.

‘Glory awaits us in the west!’ He cried out to the horde.

The horde cried out until the city walls shook.

Muhammud drank in the scene, eyes wide. Then Kilic leaned in towards him.

‘Another rider has come in, master, a straggler from the armies of the Falcon .’ The bodyguard nodded to the bearded rider who climbed the last of the steps onto the battlements. ‘He is alone. Just give the word,’ the bodyguard showed Muhammud the dagger tucked into his wristband.

Muhammud nodded to Kilic then frowned, eyeing the rider. He did not seem to be nervous.

The rider knelt on one knee. ‘Alp Arslan, I trust you already know of the. . situation. . in the west?’

Muhammud’s eyes narrowed at this. He looked to Kilic, hesitated, then almost imperceptibly shook his head. Kilic’s shoulder slumped and the bodyguard moved away. ‘I do. So, why do you come before me?’ He motioned with his hands for the rider to stand.

The rider stood. ‘I am Bey Soundaq, and I have fought in the west for many years now. I come before you to tell you of the man who you must destroy if our glory is to be realised.’

‘One man?’

‘One man, Alp Arslan. I have spoken with him, he is no ordinary soul; he is one man who fights and leads an army like no other I have seen.’

Muhammud’s eyes narrowed.

‘The Haga stands between us and glory.’

Peleus lifted his skin and poured another handful of the brackish water over his face but the desert air dried him like crackling in seconds.

‘Bloody murder, this,’ Stypiotes croaked, slumping back onto the sand. ‘Did I cark it in the battle and get fired down to hell? That’s what it bloody feels like. If the strategos reckons this is such a good idea then he should have stayed out here to build the bleedin’ towers himself?’