Strategos: Island in the Storm by Gordon Doherty

troubles.
    ‘You should do what you must, sir. The thema will be in good hands over the winter.’ Then Sha had clasped a hand to his shoulder and insisted; ‘Go, find her.’
    And so he had parted from his Chaldians, their farewell chant of Ha-ga! ringing in his ears as he set off southeast, through the Antitaurus Mountain passes, alone. He had only been riding southeast for a few hours when the clopping of hooves alerted him to a follower. Kaspax had ranged alongside him, offering a stiff salute. ‘Tourmarches Sha decided you should have a squire. I volunteered.’ Apion smiled at the memory. For all his self-doubt and awkwardness, Kaspax was a good rider, a fine swordsman and a valiant soul.
    Their journey had been arduous at first. The heights of the Antitaurus Mountains were unforgiving in November and early December. They wore furs and sheltered in caves from the winter blizzards that besieged those lofty peaks, eating hard-tack biscuit and strips of salted mutton as they tried to stave off the cold. After a few weeks, they had descended onto the Syrian plain and turned east, into the Seljuk dominion and on into this ancient land. Both men were now saddle-sore and weary.
    The bats flitted overhead again, stirring Apion from the memories. Kaspax sat down across from him then, his hair wet and swept back, having washed in the rock pool. He shivered and pulled up close to the fire, and Apion noticed his lips move; I’ll be back to protect you. Until then, let God stay by your side.
    The same words he had noticed the lad mouth every night of their journey. Apion felt a question burn on his lips. A question he had stifled so far, for Kaspax seemed uncomfortable with familiar conversation. Indeed, much of their chat on the journey so far had been focused on matters of the thema, the logistics of their trek and the plans for their return route. Even in the lonely mountain caves. ‘Who do you yearn to return to lad? I thought you were without family?’
    ‘I was just praying, sir.’ Kaspax said, shrugging, shaking his head then gazing off into the night.
    ‘Come, lad. I can be your Strategos again in the morning, but for the sake of keeping us both sane, speak to me as a friend for now.’ Apion said, throwing a wineskin across the fire.
    Kaspax caught it, licked his lips, then melted into a grin before taking a long pull on it. He let out a contented sigh and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed the skin back to Apion. ‘I have no family. I was speaking to Vilyam.’
    Apion cocked an eyebrow.
    ‘My cat,’ Kaspax grinned. ‘That’s my life. My horse, my armour, my home within the walls of Trebizond . . . and a well-fed ginger tom.’ He gazed into the flames. ‘The strange thing is that I pray for him every night, yet he barely needs my help – he gets fatter when I’m away. Those who live nearby say he is a menace, raiding their stores and stealing from the market. But when I’m there and I keep him indoors they complain the mice and rats are running rampant and I have to let him out again. I think his system is a fine one,’ he said with a chuckle and a fond look into the darkness.
    Apion grinned at this, thinking of the affection he had once had for the old grey mare on Mansur’s farm, and now, for his Thessalian. ‘Animals often make the truest companions.’ Then he cocked his head to one side. ‘But Vilyam is a Slavic name, is it not? Did he come from a northern trader?’
    ‘No,’ Kaspax replied with a blank look.
    Apion frowned. ‘Then why the Slavic name?’
    Kaspax shook his head and held up his sword hand – laced with old claw marks. ‘Because he’s a vicious bastard,’ he shrugged, deadpan.
    Apion said nothing for a heartbeat, then roared with laughter, steadying himself at last to take another swig from the wineskin; ‘Then we’ll have to see you back to Chaldia safely, else Vilyam will be running the backstreets of Trebizond.’
    Kaspax grinned, taking the skin for