Jack Ludlow: Honour

Flavius swung round in order to engage, his newly drawn sword out and ready, and for the first time, as they closed, he could look into the face of his opponent, to see a pair of startlingly blue eyes set in pallid skin that indicated the fellow might be Circassian. This registered along with the realisation that his opponent would likely be a doughty fighter for he came of a race of grassland dwellers allied to Sassanid Persia, famed for their horsemanship as well as their fighting skills.

Time for further speculation disappeared as one sword blade clashed against another as the two horsemen hastily passed each other by. Flavius too was a highly proficient rider, just as well, for he had been afforded a scant interval to wheel again and face a renewed onslaught from an enemy who was able to spin his horse with greater speed.

To fight with swords on horseback imposes dangers that do not exist on foot; the mounts, regardless of what the man in control wishes, do not always obey in a way that provides safety. They are as affected by the excitement of battle as their riders and they see themselves in contest with one of their own, so they buck continuously and as their shoulders barge or hooves collide, or when they seek to land a bite, there is an inevitable reaction.

It was Flavius’s round shield that made the difference. Hooked over his saddle horn he managed to get it into play by hauling his mount away from the fight for a fleeting instant. This meant the next swing of his opponent’s weapon was deflected by the hard leather and the metal boss, the feel of the heavy blow jarring up his arm. Having cut into the surface of the shield it took effort for the blade to be freed and that gave Flavius a chance to come under the rim and jab at his enemy’s belly. That the point of his sword caused a wound he knew, but it was not deep enough to prove telling and again the action of the horses broke fighting contact.

Closing once more, Flavius concentrated on those blue eyes, they too fixed on his, for it was not bodily movements that a good fighter guards against but the flicker that alerts to a movement and its direction. All around men were acting likewise, with the clang of fighting blades echoing across the flatlands on which battle was taking place, with both Flavius and his opponent assailed by the ringing and screaming coming from other equally desperate contests taking place all around them.

Was it that which had caused his man to be distracted? Flavius was never to know, all he could say with certainty was that the Circassian let his attention become distracted for a moment. Brief as it was it proved enough to allow Flavius to strike, his sword swinging in a high arc that forced his opponent into a desperate act of defence that proved his undoing. With his blade stuck aloft he was too slow to get it down and stop the immediate thrust that followed, one that took him at the point of his neck, and because there was a swing to that too, had cut into his unprotected gullet with force enough to inflict a deep wound.

The Circassian’s free hand came off the reins by which he had exercised some control over his mount, to clutch at blood spilling through his fingers, leaving his horse free to pursue its own contest. It raised itself to kick out at Flavius’s mount, spinning slightly to get in a set of hooves. His already wounded opponent would have been skewered if the Roman’s horse had not reacted, but the way it shied took Flavius’s sword down on the enemy arm, into which it sliced deeply to render him defenceless.

The kill that followed was odd, for it seemed the fellow gave up and surrendered to a fate he knew was coming. His shoulders seemed to slump and if his lips moved it was not to cry for mercy but perhaps silently to pray. Even so his eyes never left sight of the blow that finished him, a flat slicing sword that swept in as wide an arc as Flavius could manage to practically remove the fellow’s head from his trunk.

His mount span away of its own accord to canter clear. Not that it retired far, only a few paces, as slowly, like his companion before him, the dead enemy slipped to the ground spouting blood from his severed neck. The man who had killed him did not wait to watch, he kicked his own horse into motion in order to close with the nearest continuing fight, able to come up behind an engaged enemy and cut him down with a blow that sliced open his kidneys, the shock allowing his original opponent to finish him off.

The rest of the fighting was over very soon, leaving an area littered with bodies seeping blood into the dry earth. One or two severely wounded horses were lying on the ground and kicking their legs in distress, while others without riders either stood with heads bowed or trotted in confused circles. Exhaustion hit Flavius and he was not alone; all of his still-mounted men were hunched over haunches and a look at the field of the fight showed that not all the bodies were those of their enemies, which made no difference to the orders he could only issue in a near breathless voice.

‘Every dead body to be laid over a saddle, every wounded mount to be finished off and their bodies roped so they may be dragged back to Roman territory.’

The looks he got from men as drained as he were full of disbelief. What was this young madman talking about? It took time to dawn on slower minds. Hardly yet a fully grown man in anything but his way of behaviour, the tyro who led them had the wit to save them from a folly and imperial retribution they were only now beginning to sense. Seeing his orders put into practice, Flavius cantered back to the ground just beyond the border pillars where an equally grim slaughter had taken place.

There, too, the earth was stained with blood, while the vultures were beginning to circle overhead awaiting the departure of humans so they could feed. There would be big cats as well as the carrion eaters sniffing the wind and sensing blood and Flavius had no desire that they should be denied their needs. His only concern was where they would gorge.

He would despatch a messenger to Narses to say that the pursuing cavalry had caught the raiding party within the confines of the empire, a lie and one the man selected to deliver it was obliged to rehearse with his commander several times before being sent on his way.

‘Narses is bound to ask, indeed he will scarce believe it to be true, so add that once he has freed himself from the need to assess the damage this raid has caused, I invite him to come and observe.’

‘And if he says he will do so, Your Honour?’

Flavius produced a weary grin and ran a hand though his black and sweat-matted hair. ‘Then you may see my head stuck on a pike above one of the great gates of Constantinople.’

There was no humour in the response, from a person who understood fully what was at stake. They had collectively broken an imperial edict and one that was no mystery to even the lowest ranker, so the chosen messenger knew he was equally at risk.

‘Might fall to us all as a fate.’

‘I will take any blame that comes from this and I have enough influence in the imperial palace to suspect it will be accepted as so. If it does not spare me I believe it will save you and the rest of the men.’

‘Might not believe another, Your Honour.’

‘Do you believe me?’

That got a shrug to an earnestly posed question. ‘You’re given to honesty, we all talk of it.’

‘I thank you for that.’

‘Let’s hope then, Your Honour, that I can lie as well as you can tell the truth.’

The task the fellow left behind was far from easy to fulfil, dead weights being a burden to tired men, but they toiled on till the sun was low so every cadaver, human and equine, ended up on the western side of those imperial markers, spread out to make it appear as though that was where they had died, the Romans being in receipt of a proper burial.