Free Strategos: Island in the Storm by Gordon Doherty Page A

the others of the hills have suffered as the great empires of east and west have clashed on these lands. Your home has been used as a buffer, your strong young men have been treated like dogs of war, led away to die for some foreign king.’
    Vardan laughed heartily now. ‘You are doing a fine job in making my decision an easy one!’
    Apion leaned forward, holding Vardan’s gaze. He reached down to lift up the hemp sack of coins by his feet. ‘I was sent to tempt you with this,’ he dropped the sack on the table with a thick clunk , ‘but I know already you care little for coins. I can see you are a prince who cares for his people. My empire’s history is stained in places. But for the first time in so long, Byzantium has at its head a man who seeks to end the strife on these mountains, on the plains of Cilicia, in the valleys of Chaldia . . . in all of the blood-weary borderlands. He strives to seal the borders and end the relentless struggle. Bring your men to fight with us, Noble Prince. Let us drive off these warring Seljuks.’
    Vardan said nothing, his face expressionless. He looked in Apion’s eyes for some time, then turned to gaze into the fire. The only noise in the hall was the spitting and crackling fire.
    As Apion waited on the prince’s decision, he noticed something in the corner of the room; the slave girl preparing the herbal brew had a way about her, the swaying hips, the dark hair and dusky skin. For an instant, he could not help but see her as Maria. When she saw Apion watching her, she started, then smiled sweetly, before turning her back on him, finishing the brew-making process before coming over to place the cups down. He noticed now that she looked nothing like Maria and his eye snagged on the bruises around the girl’s wrist where hook-nose had grabbed her. She flashed him a swift and nervous smile then scuttled off into the shadows.
    ‘Drink,’ Vardan said, pushing one cup towards Apion. ‘It clears the head.’
    When the prince lifted the cup to his lips, Apion lifted his own. At that moment, he saw the slave girl looking on from the shadows, her face wrinkled with anxiety. His gaze swung to the table where she had been preparing the brew. There lay a small vial, cracked open, its contents gone. Without hesitation, he swung out a hand, grasping the prince’s wrist. ‘Stop.’
    ‘What is this?’ the prince jerked his arm free, brew spilling from his cup and splattering to the floor. At once, the old black mongrel that had been sleeping by the fire woke and hobbled over to lap at the spilled brew.
    ‘Your aide, the bald one who did not take to me. He means to usurp you.’
    ‘What? Hurik is my cousin, one of my most able generals.’
    Apion held his gaze. ‘And one of your most ambitious, it would seem. For he has had your brew poisoned?’
    Vardan looked at his cup and back to Apion, then roared with laughter. ‘You are mistaken, Byzantine. Hurik is a surly man, but he would not dare to-’ the prince fell silent as the mongrel’s whimpering filled the hall. Apion and he looked on as the dog retched, foam bubbling from its mouth. The creature’s torment lasted only a few moments before it fell on its side, convulsing, then fell still. The noise of the crackling fire filled the hall once more.
    The prince stared at his dead pet, his eyes reddening. After a lengthy silence, he spoke at last; ‘You will have your infantry, Haga. And Hurik will watch them march from this town. He will have a fine view, what with his head on a tall spike above the walls.’

4. The Cilician Gates
     
    A pleasant autumn morning bathed the Cilician plain. In the north, the Byzantine cavalry stood in a crescent, facing south, waiting, watching. Somewhere beyond the hazy southern horizon, the Seljuk horde roamed.
    On the right wing of this crescent, Apion stood by his Thessalian in just his helm, tunic, cloak and boots – his klibanion and greaves stowed away on one of the touldon supply wagons.