had clashed in battle, over twelve years ago. He had led his men in a ferocious counter-charge that had broken Tugrul’s great horde and shattered the Falcon’s reputation terminally. Alp Arslan knew all of this and knew it well. Indeed, it had been the driving force for his subsequent battering of the Byzantine borderlands in the first few years afterwards. Back then, rumour had been rife that Alp Arslan lived only to crush the Byzantine armies and to see Apion’s head on a spike. Mercy had seldom marched with the Mountain Lion. He eyed the sultan’s blade, resting by the hearth, and wondered what had changed in the intervening years; he tore a piece of bread, dipped it in the honey and then chewed. Instantly it invigorated him and soothed his knotted stomach. He reached over to move one of his own pawns forward, opening a path to develop his war elephant. ‘I remember the Falcon . At least, I knew of the warrior whose hordes I faced in battle, but I did not know the man behind the armour.’
The sultan’s stony gaze faltered a little, growing distant. ‘They were one and the same, Strategos. Some men can never truly shed their armour. I realised this when I was very young. I used to be known as Muhammud back then,’ he said. ‘I was a happy boy. Yet I always longed to emulate the Falcon’s greatness. I coveted a battle name as if it would make me a man.’ The sultan mused over his next move, then plucked a knight and moved it ahead of the pawn line. ‘Tugrul once told me that many years ago, when my people dwelt upon the open steppe, they would go to the foot of Mount Otuken. The drums would rumble like thunder and the tribesmen would watch on as the khagan approached, adorned with yak tails and bright pennants and his skin laced with paint. Then he would bestow the er ati upon the bravest of warriors. That was how Tugrul gained his battle name. That was how the Falcon first spread his wings. From the moment Tugrul told me this, he put an elusive goal before me. For I could never earn my battle name in such a fashion. Our people left the steppe long ago and now Mount Otuken lies windswept and deserted, its glory reserved for the ghosts of the past alone.’ The sultan’s lips tightened. ‘He knew the fire this would stoke within me.’
Apion eyed the sultan. He had dealt with many Seljuk emirs and beys in his time. Some wise, some haughty, some devious, some blunt. This man, the sultan who ruled above them all, was not what he had expected. ‘In these last years, your reputation has far outshone the Falcon’s ,’ he said tersely, moving another pawn out to limit the knight’s movement, ‘and the name Alp Arslan is known across my empire and yours.’
The sultan nodded, moving a pawn forward to bring his vizier into play. ‘I first heard that name when I was saddled on my mount, soaked with blood. We had just subdued the last of the rebel Daylamid spearmen, high in the rugged mountains of Persia. A thousand men around me lauded the slaughter I had led, a thousand more lifeless faces gazed up at me from the blood-sodden earth. Alp Arslan! they chanted all around me. As a boy, I had expected to feel pride at that moment, but when it came, I felt only emptiness.’ The fire dimmed a little more as the sultan swirled his wine cup, his hawk-like eyes peering into the past. ‘The glory of Mount Otuken will forever evade me, but the cursed fire Tugrul stoked within me will never die. Sometimes I find myself pining for those days when I used to be known simply as Muhammud.’
The sultan’s words were like an echo of Apion’s thoughts. ‘Any moniker earned by the spilling of a man’s blood is a curse rather than a boon. Indeed, every time they chant Haga after a battle, I find myself awakening as if from some awful dream, surrounded by death. Yet I find myself drawn back to that numb netherworld, time and again.’ He lifted his war elephant out to counter the threat of the sultan’s vizier piece. ‘I
The sultan’s stony gaze faltered a little, growing distant. ‘They were one and the same, Strategos. Some men can never truly shed their armour. I realised this when I was very young. I used to be known as Muhammud back then,’ he said. ‘I was a happy boy. Yet I always longed to emulate the Falcon’s greatness. I coveted a battle name as if it would make me a man.’ The sultan mused over his next move, then plucked a knight and moved it ahead of the pawn line. ‘Tugrul once told me that many years ago, when my people dwelt upon the open steppe, they would go to the foot of Mount Otuken. The drums would rumble like thunder and the tribesmen would watch on as the khagan approached, adorned with yak tails and bright pennants and his skin laced with paint. Then he would bestow the er ati upon the bravest of warriors. That was how Tugrul gained his battle name. That was how the Falcon first spread his wings. From the moment Tugrul told me this, he put an elusive goal before me. For I could never earn my battle name in such a fashion. Our people left the steppe long ago and now Mount Otuken lies windswept and deserted, its glory reserved for the ghosts of the past alone.’ The sultan’s lips tightened. ‘He knew the fire this would stoke within me.’
Apion eyed the sultan. He had dealt with many Seljuk emirs and beys in his time. Some wise, some haughty, some devious, some blunt. This man, the sultan who ruled above them all, was not what he had expected. ‘In these last years, your reputation has far outshone the Falcon’s ,’ he said tersely, moving another pawn out to limit the knight’s movement, ‘and the name Alp Arslan is known across my empire and yours.’
The sultan nodded, moving a pawn forward to bring his vizier into play. ‘I first heard that name when I was saddled on my mount, soaked with blood. We had just subdued the last of the rebel Daylamid spearmen, high in the rugged mountains of Persia. A thousand men around me lauded the slaughter I had led, a thousand more lifeless faces gazed up at me from the blood-sodden earth. Alp Arslan! they chanted all around me. As a boy, I had expected to feel pride at that moment, but when it came, I felt only emptiness.’ The fire dimmed a little more as the sultan swirled his wine cup, his hawk-like eyes peering into the past. ‘The glory of Mount Otuken will forever evade me, but the cursed fire Tugrul stoked within me will never die. Sometimes I find myself pining for those days when I used to be known simply as Muhammud.’
The sultan’s words were like an echo of Apion’s thoughts. ‘Any moniker earned by the spilling of a man’s blood is a curse rather than a boon. Indeed, every time they chant Haga after a battle, I find myself awakening as if from some awful dream, surrounded by death. Yet I find myself drawn back to that numb netherworld, time and again.’ He lifted his war elephant out to counter the threat of the sultan’s vizier piece. ‘I
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