Read Online Strategos: Born in the Borderlands by Gordon Doherty - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gordon Doherty
Tags: Historical fiction
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dressed and I was resting in a shaded dell, way up on the hills, miles from the farmhouse, a pleasant breeze cooling my skin. Everything was silent apart from a lone eagle calling somewhere high above. I did not feel the pain of my wound at first. My mind was blissfully free of the memories of what had just happened.’
Mansur frowned, confused. ‘The slave traders had found you and bandaged you?’
Apion shook his head, his face wrinkling. ‘If they had found me then, in the smoking ruins of my house, I would not be alive. No, only a woman was there; silver hair and eyes that were pure white – she must have been blind. She was old, older even than you,’ he paused a moment, checking to see if he had caused offence. Mansur issued a weary smile so he continued. ‘She dug at roots in the earth and hummed a tune to herself. Her voice was comforting to me in my state, something about it made me think of Mother. Then she came over and removed my dressing. I couldn’t look at the wound but she rubbed the root against my flesh and it took the pain away. I asked her who she was and she just laughed. Not at me, just a little laugh as if she had remembered a joke.’
Mansur was captivated. ‘Did she tell you how she had got you to this place?’
‘No, but she spoke to me while she reapplied my dressing. She said the burning timber that fell on me had saved my life, cauterising the flesh.’ He stopped and frowned. ‘She gave me my crutch and told me it was time for me to carry on with my life, but she had a single piece of advice for me.’
Mansur leant forward, nodding.
‘She said I would choose a path. A path that leads to conflict and pain. She told me to go anywhere I wanted. Anywhere except . . . home.’
‘Where she found you?’
Apion nodded.
‘Then you left the dell,’ Mansur rubbed his moustache, imagining the scene, ‘where did you go next?’
‘Well I found myself hobbling on my crutch a long way from those hills. The pain came back gradually as I made my way back.’
‘Back?’
‘I went home, Mansur, despite what she told me.’ A tear forked from his eye. ‘The place was a charred mound of rubble. I kept looking at it, trying to see it, as if the ruin was not real. I spent days there, just sitting, staring into the ash. When the slave wagon came by, I barely noticed them as they shackled me. They packed my wound with salt, knocked me unconscious and took me into the city. I woke in a cellar, insects running through my hair, rats biting at my flesh. I survived in that place for over a month until the trader took his slaves to market. That’s when I ended up in the inn; one stinking cellar for another. Every day for the best part of a year they would beat me, spit on me, yet all I could see was the blackness of the ash. All I could think of was righting the wrong.’
Mansur held his gaze, the old man’s eyes were red-rimmed. ‘It’s over now, Apion. You are here and you are safe under my roof. Perhaps the old woman who tended to you was right. As dreadful as what you have just told me is, perhaps you should try not dwell on what happened at your old home. I realise that what I am suggesting would be far from easy, but to let go of this could be to give yourself a chance to live a happy life? Ask yourself what your parents would have wanted of their son; a blackened individual, joyless and bitter, or the boy they knew, the boy they loved and who loved them back?’
Apion looked at him solemnly and shook his head. ‘You speak wise words, Mansur, but I can’t even remember who I used to be before that night.’ He had tried so hard to remember the past as it once was: Mother preparing a meal of stew and bread for Father’s return from campaign. When he arrived, dressed in a leather klibanion, iron helmet and boots, Apion saw him as a model kataphractos. Then the three of them would spend the time outside of campaigning season tilling
Mansur frowned, confused. ‘The slave traders had found you and bandaged you?’
Apion shook his head, his face wrinkling. ‘If they had found me then, in the smoking ruins of my house, I would not be alive. No, only a woman was there; silver hair and eyes that were pure white – she must have been blind. She was old, older even than you,’ he paused a moment, checking to see if he had caused offence. Mansur issued a weary smile so he continued. ‘She dug at roots in the earth and hummed a tune to herself. Her voice was comforting to me in my state, something about it made me think of Mother. Then she came over and removed my dressing. I couldn’t look at the wound but she rubbed the root against my flesh and it took the pain away. I asked her who she was and she just laughed. Not at me, just a little laugh as if she had remembered a joke.’
Mansur was captivated. ‘Did she tell you how she had got you to this place?’
‘No, but she spoke to me while she reapplied my dressing. She said the burning timber that fell on me had saved my life, cauterising the flesh.’ He stopped and frowned. ‘She gave me my crutch and told me it was time for me to carry on with my life, but she had a single piece of advice for me.’
Mansur leant forward, nodding.
‘She said I would choose a path. A path that leads to conflict and pain. She told me to go anywhere I wanted. Anywhere except . . . home.’
‘Where she found you?’
Apion nodded.
‘Then you left the dell,’ Mansur rubbed his moustache, imagining the scene, ‘where did you go next?’
‘Well I found myself hobbling on my crutch a long way from those hills. The pain came back gradually as I made my way back.’
‘Back?’
‘I went home, Mansur, despite what she told me.’ A tear forked from his eye. ‘The place was a charred mound of rubble. I kept looking at it, trying to see it, as if the ruin was not real. I spent days there, just sitting, staring into the ash. When the slave wagon came by, I barely noticed them as they shackled me. They packed my wound with salt, knocked me unconscious and took me into the city. I woke in a cellar, insects running through my hair, rats biting at my flesh. I survived in that place for over a month until the trader took his slaves to market. That’s when I ended up in the inn; one stinking cellar for another. Every day for the best part of a year they would beat me, spit on me, yet all I could see was the blackness of the ash. All I could think of was righting the wrong.’
Mansur held his gaze, the old man’s eyes were red-rimmed. ‘It’s over now, Apion. You are here and you are safe under my roof. Perhaps the old woman who tended to you was right. As dreadful as what you have just told me is, perhaps you should try not dwell on what happened at your old home. I realise that what I am suggesting would be far from easy, but to let go of this could be to give yourself a chance to live a happy life? Ask yourself what your parents would have wanted of their son; a blackened individual, joyless and bitter, or the boy they knew, the boy they loved and who loved them back?’
Apion looked at him solemnly and shook his head. ‘You speak wise words, Mansur, but I can’t even remember who I used to be before that night.’ He had tried so hard to remember the past as it once was: Mother preparing a meal of stew and bread for Father’s return from campaign. When he arrived, dressed in a leather klibanion, iron helmet and boots, Apion saw him as a model kataphractos. Then the three of them would spend the time outside of campaigning season tilling
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