detest my battle name,’ he leaned back in his chair with a dry, mirthless laugh, one finger absently tracing the white band of skin on his wrist, ‘yet when I think back to the days when I was known simply as Apion, I have no wish to return there.’
The sultan lifted his war elephant and sent it across almost to the edge of the board, lining up to strike Apion’s pawn line. ‘A riotous mixture of my ambitions and my uncle’s ambitions for me spawned the creature I have become. I have watched my family tear at each other, murdering and plotting against one another in their lust for power. Now I find myself as sultan, does that make me at once the best and the worst of them? Regardless, it is what I am. The boy Muhammud is gone, and my destiny is set in stone. There will be many more bloody battlefields.’ Alp Arslan looked into the crackling flames for a moment. Then he leaned forward, his expression earnest. ‘I have faced curs, cowards, mindless butchers and men who would slaughter their children for a purse of gold. But I have faced few like you, Haga ; your tenacity is unparalleled. After twelve years, still you resist my armies . What happened to you to make you this way?’
Apion’s gaze drifted as the question hung in the air. Then he reached down to lift Mansur’s bloodied shatranj piece from his purse, his eyes examining its worn surface. Then he took up an empty cup, filled it with wine and took a deep gulp. A long silence passed, broken only by the spitting of the fire. Then he looked the sultan in the eye and, without thinking, he slipped into the Seljuk tongue; ‘Everyone I have ever loved has been slain.’ His words echoed around the map room as he lifted a pawn out to block the sultan’s chariot and present a lure to the nearby knight.
Alp Arslan’s eyes narrowed and he replied in his native tongue; ‘Then this is the source of your hatred of my people?’
Apion shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘Of those lost to me, there were my Byzantine birth parents, slain by Seljuk scimitars. Then there were my Seljuk guardians, butchered by Byzantine spathions. So, no, I do not hate your people, Sultan. I judge men on their merits and not their origins. Quite simply, I hate what this land has become.’
‘There will always be a borderland, Strategos,’ the sultan said as lifted his vizier forward. ‘Were people not suffering here, then they certainly would be, elsewhere.’
‘Perhaps. But now you have your answer. I can never relent until I am cut down, or until conflict is driven from this land.’
Alp Arslan supped his wine as if considering his next words carefully. ‘Your empire is putrefying at its heart. Your emperor is blinkered and your armies are in decay. Your empire fights the same battle as mine. But we fight the winning battle, Strategos. You will lose this struggle. You must know this.’
Apion felt the steel wrap around his heart once more. ‘I know little of assured futures, Sultan.’ He thought over the crone’s words. I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The mighty Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud. ‘Indeed, I have been told that destiny is for the strongest to define.’
Alp Arslan held his gaze. A log snapped in the hearth. ‘Men fight on either side of this conflict, and that is all we are. Men. Beating hearts, red blood and sharpened steel. I ask you this as a man, and I will not repeat the offer.’ The sultan’s eyes sparkled. ‘You seek an end to the war, Strategos. Perhaps you could find a swifter end to it . . . by my side.’
Apion’s breath stilled. He held the sultan’s gaze. He thought of the many valourous and the many more bloody deeds committed by those who fought under the imperial banner. The Seljuk armies had shown him a similar mix of virtue and vice in his time. It seemed that an age had passed before he replied. ‘There is more to it than that, Sultan. Some men
The sultan lifted his war elephant and sent it across almost to the edge of the board, lining up to strike Apion’s pawn line. ‘A riotous mixture of my ambitions and my uncle’s ambitions for me spawned the creature I have become. I have watched my family tear at each other, murdering and plotting against one another in their lust for power. Now I find myself as sultan, does that make me at once the best and the worst of them? Regardless, it is what I am. The boy Muhammud is gone, and my destiny is set in stone. There will be many more bloody battlefields.’ Alp Arslan looked into the crackling flames for a moment. Then he leaned forward, his expression earnest. ‘I have faced curs, cowards, mindless butchers and men who would slaughter their children for a purse of gold. But I have faced few like you, Haga ; your tenacity is unparalleled. After twelve years, still you resist my armies . What happened to you to make you this way?’
Apion’s gaze drifted as the question hung in the air. Then he reached down to lift Mansur’s bloodied shatranj piece from his purse, his eyes examining its worn surface. Then he took up an empty cup, filled it with wine and took a deep gulp. A long silence passed, broken only by the spitting of the fire. Then he looked the sultan in the eye and, without thinking, he slipped into the Seljuk tongue; ‘Everyone I have ever loved has been slain.’ His words echoed around the map room as he lifted a pawn out to block the sultan’s chariot and present a lure to the nearby knight.
Alp Arslan’s eyes narrowed and he replied in his native tongue; ‘Then this is the source of your hatred of my people?’
Apion shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘Of those lost to me, there were my Byzantine birth parents, slain by Seljuk scimitars. Then there were my Seljuk guardians, butchered by Byzantine spathions. So, no, I do not hate your people, Sultan. I judge men on their merits and not their origins. Quite simply, I hate what this land has become.’
‘There will always be a borderland, Strategos,’ the sultan said as lifted his vizier forward. ‘Were people not suffering here, then they certainly would be, elsewhere.’
‘Perhaps. But now you have your answer. I can never relent until I am cut down, or until conflict is driven from this land.’
Alp Arslan supped his wine as if considering his next words carefully. ‘Your empire is putrefying at its heart. Your emperor is blinkered and your armies are in decay. Your empire fights the same battle as mine. But we fight the winning battle, Strategos. You will lose this struggle. You must know this.’
Apion felt the steel wrap around his heart once more. ‘I know little of assured futures, Sultan.’ He thought over the crone’s words. I see a battlefield by an azure lake flanked by two mighty pillars. Walking that battlefield is Alp Arslan. The mighty Mountain Lion is dressed in a shroud. ‘Indeed, I have been told that destiny is for the strongest to define.’
Alp Arslan held his gaze. A log snapped in the hearth. ‘Men fight on either side of this conflict, and that is all we are. Men. Beating hearts, red blood and sharpened steel. I ask you this as a man, and I will not repeat the offer.’ The sultan’s eyes sparkled. ‘You seek an end to the war, Strategos. Perhaps you could find a swifter end to it . . . by my side.’
Apion’s breath stilled. He held the sultan’s gaze. He thought of the many valourous and the many more bloody deeds committed by those who fought under the imperial banner. The Seljuk armies had shown him a similar mix of virtue and vice in his time. It seemed that an age had passed before he replied. ‘There is more to it than that, Sultan. Some men
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