Gordon Doherty - Strategos - Born in the Borderlands

‘Your father was one of them?’ Her face puckered a little, then she shook her head. ‘We see armies set off through this valley all the time. They head east to war with. . our people.’

Apion felt a flare of anger in his chest. ‘And your people come here to spill blood too!’ He barked, the dark door flitting across his thoughts. Then he gawped at Maria, who stood and shuffled back from him, face paling in fear. ‘I’m sorry,’ he stood to reach out to her but his scarred leg flared with a fiery pain. He fell to the ground, clutching at his thigh. She dropped to kneel by him, hands hovering to help.

‘Leave me, there’s nothing that can be done for it,’ he panted. The pain subsided and he looked up into her eyes. ‘Look, I’m really sorry for what I said.’

She offered a hand and helped him to his feet. ‘It doesn’t matter. They can fight all they like. We’re all just people in the end.’

He offered her a smile. ‘Can we walk a little? I find walking helps a bit.’

‘Okay, the goats will be fine on their own for a while.’

They headed down into the neighbouring valley, away from Mansur’s farm. She took his arm so he only needed the crutch for the trickier parts of the descent. His gaze was lost in the ground in front of him as they walked and they didn’t speak but it was an unexpectedly comfortable silence. He found himself gazing into the horizon as they reached the valley floor and walked through the tall grass. Then he heard a crunch.

‘Mmm. . best nectarines in Anatolia.’ Maria grinned, mouth half full, juice dripping down her chin, the orange flesh of a fruit glistening in her hand and an overhanging branch quivering.

Apion blinked, realising they had wandered to the edge of an orchard. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he marvelled at the vibrant red-orange fruit dotting the trees. Then he noticed the fence posts encircling the orchard, tucking around the tree trunks. He leaned on his crutch and scratched his head. ‘Isn’t that someone else’s fruit?’

‘Kind of. . ’ Maria mumbled, licking her fingers.

‘Isn’t that stealing?’

‘Doesn’t matter, it’s old Kutalmish’s farm, he’s rich and old now; he won’t miss a few nectarines.’ She pointed to the edge of a well-kept farmhouse peeking out from behind the orchard. It was everything Mansur’s was not; neatly tiled roof, freshly white-daubed walls and well-tended gardens. On the porch, a white-haired old man lay snoring in a hammock while Maria munched on his fruit. When she took another bite, Apion noticed that a blob of the fruit had stuck to the end of her nose, then realised that for the first time in so long he was grinning.

Maria frowned. ‘What?’

Apion felt the laughter bubble up through his chest and couldn’t stop it; it felt good, like honey in his throat. But Maria was furious; he reached up to touch her arm and reassure her, when a snapping of bracken from inside the orchard caught their attention.

‘Who goes there?’ A gruff voice rent the air.

Maria grabbed his arm and hauled him away from the opening, pulling him down behind a red rock. His scar protested at this sudden movement, white-hot pain rushed through him and he gulped back a roar. Then Maria added to his misery by digging her elbow into his gut and then wrapping a dirty-nailed hand over his mouth, a faint smell of sweat emanating from her robe.

‘Shut up if you don’t want a scimitar wound to go with that,’ she hissed. ‘That was Kutalmish’s oldest son, Giyath. I don’t think he seen us but he’s always keen to fight, he’s twice the size of me and you put together. . and he’s armed.’

Apion stilled as he saw the fear in Maria’s eyes. From the other side of the rock, crunching footsteps marched towards them and then stopped dead. Then the rasp of a scimitar blade being ripped from its scabbard sent a fiery dread crawling over his skin. His eyes bulged and his scar burned at the sound of the weapon that had created it. The terror of that night, that dark night, raced back to him.

‘I said who goes there?’ The gruff voice grunted. ‘You’re trespassing, so whoever you are, you’ll not be walking out of here! It’d better not be you playing games again, little brother?’

Apion edged his head to one side: stood only paces away was a stocky and swarthy young man, shaven headed, stubble-chinned with a broad and flat-boned face, wearing a grey tunic and clenching a scimitar as he examined the hillside for movement.

‘Whoever it is, show yourself! My blade is dirty and I’m keen to wash it in your blood!’

Apion turned to Maria; she hurled a jagged lump of rubble that flew from her hand and bounced from another chunky boulder around twenty paces away. Giyath’s eyes locked onto the disturbance. Then, with a growl, he thundered towards it, his gait clumsy but determined.

‘Come on!’ Maria hissed and yanked Apion by the wrist.

At once they were hobbling up and around the orchard fence, out of Giyath’s line of sight. Then Maria wrenched him towards Kutalmish’s farmhouse. His body roared, his crutch meeting the ground only on every second stride, his vision spotting over and his scarred limb searing as though it was being sawn off. They stumbled past the snoring Kutalmish and into a field of tall barley, still dewy and mercifully cool on his searing scar. They were moving only at a fast walk but his body was spent and then, through dimming vision, he realised they were climbing the hill to the valley top and the goat herd once more. He reached out blindly, mouthing silently, knees shaking, when at last she stopped. He crumpled to the ground, panting.

Maria crouched beside him. ‘We’re safe now. I’m sorry, Apion. It’s just that Giyath is. . well father says he was a nice boy until. . ’ her words trailed off. ‘Anyway, he is now a moody and violent man.’ Then she looked riddled with guilt as she eyed his trembling leg, biting her bottom lip.

Apion sought strength enough to push himself to his feet. ‘It’s okay, I’ll be fine.’ He stopped as he saw her eyes bulge, looking over his shoulder.

‘Apion!’ She screamed.

When he turned to see what was behind him, a cold hard shock to his cheekbone sent sparks of brilliant light through his eyeballs and bloody phlegm shooting from his nose and mouth. His world rolled in front of his eyes and he groaned, realising he was prone again.

A shadowy figure loomed over him. ‘Raiders of Seljuk blood I can take but a Byzantine?’ The figure boomed.

Apion shuffled back on the palms of his hands. Vision blurred, he could make out cinnamon skin and a flat-boned face. If it was Giyath then he was surely in big trouble. His eyes focused instead on a pony-tailed boy: younger than Giyath, perhaps his own age, nostrils flaring, eyebrows dipped in the centre like an angry bull. He looked like Giyath but without the broadness or the stubble, his gangly shoulders scaffolding a red, long-sleeved tunic.

‘You think you can take from my father? I think you’re a fool.’ The boy stalked forward and shook his fist, the knuckles bloodied.

‘I. . ’ Apion stammered as the boy stalked forward, fists clenched.

‘Nasir! No!’ Maria screamed.

The boy wheeled around. ‘And you, you call yourself a Seljuk? You could have your pick from the orchard, Maria, if only you’d not associate with his type!’

With that, the boy Nasir spun around again and thrust his foot into Apion’s stomach. Bile leapt from Apion’s mouth and he curled into a ball, croaking for the breath that had been kicked from his lungs. His eyes seemed to pop from their sockets as he retched, his world on its side. Nasir stomped over to Maria, remonstrating with her and Apion saw only the whites of Maria’s bulging eyes.

‘Nasir, you idiot, you’re acting like your ape of a brother!’ She shoved him in the chest.