Jack Ludlow: Vengeance

For the youngster the problem was obvious: between him and his family, for all three of his brothers were with his father, stood not only the forces of Senuthius but also the raiding barbarians, now no longer burning homesteads and stealing what they could but working out, he surmised, a way to extricate themselves from what had become a trap.

‘I could ride round them, Ohannes.’

‘Take too long,’ came the gruff response.

‘Only if I had to abide by your pace.’

That got a Scythian glare, for in getting this far Ohannes had enjoyed little comfort. Nor was he unaware of what the youngster was implying, that he could ride much faster on his own and perhaps be able to join his sire before battle was commenced.

‘And who’s to say those swine from over the river will let you pass?’

‘They have more to concern them than one lone rider.’

‘One lone rider who happens to be the son of the imperial commander.’

‘That they do not know.’

‘How can you be sure, young sir? There’s bound to be Sklaveni hotheads in that lot. It may be that you will be recognised even with your swollen snout. Even if they are Huns to a man, you’re well mounted and wearing the clothing and armour of a Roman, so they will seek to kill you anyway.’

Ohannes then proved that although he had been a mere footslogger, he could still see plainly what was what. ‘And if you’re recognised by the Sklaveni they will use you to bargain. A good way to get by your papa, don’t you think, and back to their boats, offering your head for their freedom.’

‘They won’t capture me, Ohannes,’ Flavius responded with a false laugh.

‘They’re not going to get the chance, for I will be forced to stand in your way.’

Whatever good humour or kindly feeling Flavius had towards this old man disappeared quickly, to be replaced by a growl made more telling by the state of the boy’s pubescent throat.

‘You do not have the right.’

The spear came up slowly until it was couched on his shoulder and ready to throw. ‘It is a right I will take, as well as what comes of it.’

‘You would harm me?’

Ohannes actually grinned, or was it a grimace? ‘No need, young sir, but this spear will do for your horse and even you are not mad enough to seek to join your father on foot.’

The pair stared at each other, Flavius seeking and failing to impose his silent will on the older man, whose lined and weather-beaten face had settled into a bland and calm look that was somehow more telling than belligerence. The spear was still held in the cup of Ohannes’s hand and Flavius knew he could use it, just as he knew there was no need for his horse to be killed; a wound to its breast would suffice. The stand-off was broken by the sound of blowing horns from the riverside, a sign that Flavius’s father was about to advance.

‘Too late now,’ Ohannes said, lowering the spear.

‘My father will hear of this,’ Flavius snapped.

For all the force with which that was delivered, in his heart he knew he would say nothing. Angry as he was there were two reasons not to, the first being it was unbecoming for a Roman to go telling tales, but it was the other truth that was more unsettling: the fact that Ohannes was more likely to be praised in the Belisarius villa for his restraint of a headstrong youth than chastised. In an endeavor to regain his lost dignity, Flavius made a very obvious attempt to concentrate on what was unfolding below.

On a wooded plain, broken by a maze of small plots of farmland interspersed with hedgerows and woodland, it was far from easy to see every part of what was happening, but there was no doubt the imperial cohort was pushing forward; the urgent blowing of horns Flavius took to be a signal for the forces of the local landowners to likewise advance so as to squeeze their enemies between the two. Soon came the sound of distant battle, of screeching men and the occasional clash of metal on metal loud enough to carry in the clear early summer air.

‘They’re not moving,’ Flavius exclaimed, pointing to the static banners of local limitanei , by far the more numerous of the two Roman forces. ‘Why are they not moving?’

Ohannes did not reply; there was nothing he could say. Both he and his young charge, from such an elevated position, could see as plain as day the way the battle was unfolding. The raiders needed to get back to their boats and cast them off so they would live to fight another day, therefore they had to attack the imperial troops standing in their way, men who could hold them at bay so the local militia could come up on their rear and destroy them. But if they did not engage …

‘They must advance,’ Flavius cried, when the inactivity continued, spurring his mount and heading off the crest of the hill.

Wild thoughts filled his mind as he hunched over the withers, having no need to urge on his stallion, rarely using the reins and giving the animal very much its head, trusting it to look out for them both. There was no time to worry about obstacles, be they holes in the ground, ploughed loam or rush fences, as well as hedges enclosing the fields of wheat, which the steed, in combination with a rider who knew how to let him leap, cleared with ease.

He was soon within the rear ranks of the militiamen, some of whom were required to move aside sharply to avoid being mown down. As he made for the banner of the bishop, under which stood both Blastos and Senuthius, his ears were assailed by many an angry curse.

The way he brought his mount to a halt, the manner in which he kept his seat as it reared up, hooves flying, would have excited admiration in an arena. All it produced in the most prominent citizens of this part of the province, the men gathered round that banner, was the kind of alarm that made them scatter too, their ears filled with a rasping demand as to why they were not advancing.

Unlike his shocked companions Senuthius had not moved, his corpulent frame, encased in expensive armour over garments of silk, remaining stock-still as he looked with disdain at the youngest of the Belisarius clan. He only deigned to respond as the boy made a repeated shout that the men he led should advance immediately, the reply, delivered to the very obvious sounds of battle in the fields to the fore, rendered odd by the nature of his voice, high-pitched and utterly unsuited to his imposing physical appearance or his rank.

‘Am I to be commanded by a child?’

‘You must support my father.’

‘I must do that which I think wise,’ Senuthius replied, as the men who had scattered for fear of Flavius’s hooves reconvened to gather around him and glare.

‘He cannot fight the barbarians without support. You will not be able to see from here but they are Huns and too numerous for my father to contain alone.’

‘Huns!’ was an alarmed cry that issued from several throats, though it had less effect on Senuthius, who replied with what was almost a scoff in the piping voice. ‘Then it is a pity the emperor does not see fit to provide us with more men.’

‘But-’

That changed the tone; Senuthius snapped at him. ‘If they are indeed Huns then I and my fellow landowners will advance when we consider it prudent, for there will be no recompense from Constantinople if we lay down our lives for a few peasants of little worth.’

It had taken Ohannes a great deal longer to get to the same point, but it was just as well he arrived. Flavius had drawn his sword and was loudly threatening Senuthius with the removal of his head if he did not go forward with his men. Some of his retainers moved to protect their master, just as the mare Ohannes was riding waddled in between the boy and those who might harm him.

The youngster had no eyes for them or the threat they represented; he was glaring at Senuthius and beside him again the bishop, who was as ever eying the youngster, flowering yellowing bruises and distended nose notwithstanding, as if he were a tasty meal waiting to be consumed, his lips wet from the salivating.