Strategos: Born in the Borderlands by Gordon Doherty Page A

yes?’
     
    Mansur looked up and nodded. ‘The meat of any army. The skutatoi infantry of the themata are the front line for the Byzantines, they take the brunt, they take the damage, unquestioning, unheard.’ He swept a finger to the white pieces on the opposite side of the board. ‘In the Seljuk ranks . . . exactly the same. The Seljuk akhi clash with the skutatoi of the empire, they can only rush headlong towards one another, like warring brothers to the last.’
     
    ‘Then their only purpose is to die, isn’t it?’ He shook his head at the thought.
     
    Mansur nodded stonily. ‘That is why this game is so vital. Better to take a pawn on the shatranj board than to spill a brave and noble man’s blood.’
     
    Apion looked up, nodding. The old man’s expression was deadly serious.
     
    The fire crackled in the background. Finally, Mansur tapped on the shatranj board; a weary grin worked its way across his lips. ‘Come on now, let’s get this game underway. We don’t want Maria in a rage come the morning, do we?’
     

     

7. Wolf River
     
    The tail end of summer had baked Chaldia’s terracotta landscape and the midday cicada song filled the air. On the dirt road heading south-west to the neighbouring thema of Colonea, Mansur and Apion sat at the front of the wagon as it rumbled along on well-worn axles. The wagon cabin was packed with barley, cheeses and wool; a decent day of bartering at the market town of Cheriana would see them come home with a supply of oil, tools and a purse of coins – enough to keep the farm in working order for another few weeks.
     
    Apion scoured the landscape for every detail; Mansur had promised him he would see a bit more of the empire on this trip, and he was eager to take it all in. When they travelled the high roads, he would look across the snow-capped mountains, the yawning plains and the clouds of tiny white specks that were goat herds, but most of all he would examine the valleys below, envisioning the land like a giant chequered board, plotting his strategy for the next shatranj game: the stretches of tall grass were the pawns, the olive groves the cavalry and the rockfall the war elephants. The games against Mansur were still very one-sided, but Apion had learned something from each defeat when Mansur had explained his mistakes.
     
    His belly rumbled and he touched a hand to his satchel, feeling the eggs and honey Maria had packed for the pair of them. Guilt touched him at the thought of her being on her own. Mansur had assured him though that Giyath and Nasir would take turns at checking on the farm. Apion wondered about Nasir; perhaps the boy had a decent heart under all that bluster. He wondered if they would ever be on agreeable terms. Then he shook his head with a wry grin.
     
    He mused over this as the road dipped to round the base of a small cliff-face, then noticed a faded carving in the rock. As the wagon rolled round the cliff, his skin tingled as the carving came into view: a two-headed eagle, eyes on each head dipped in anger, wings spread wide and with rapier-like talons. He uttered a gasp; it was a giant rendition of the etching on the boulder cairn by the farm.
     
    ‘Ah, the Haga! ’ Mansur chirped, noticing Apion’s amazement. ‘I felt the same the first time I saw it.’
     
    ‘What is it?’ Apion asked, head twisting round to watch as it rolled out of view behind them.
     
    ‘Long ago, before Byzantium, this land belonged to the empire of the Hittites. They had their own gods and legends. The Haga was one of them; a ferocious, two-headed eagle that would swoop down from the cliffs and mountains and could kill a bull in each claw.’
     
    ‘These people, they are gone, long gone,’ Apion said, ‘yet their legends remain, etched into the landscape?’
     
    Mansur nodded. ‘The emblem adorns many a cliff face and mountainside across this land. Whatever else they believed in, the Hittites certainly reckoned with the power of the Haga