barbarians and a city full of fearful citizenry stood the local militia, now seemingly fully assembled, and they would match their enemy in strength. They were under the authority of Senuthius, who with his senatorial rank was deferred to and acted as the militia commander. Added to that, he could muster more fighting men than the imperial cohort.
Flavius imagined him to be salivating at the prospect of how many prisoners he could take to sell, for these raiders were likely to be the fittest of their race and he would have a good chance of mass captures. Present too was the Bishop of Dorostorum, his ecclesiastical banner, bearing a golden cross on a white background, raised high to inspire the faithful to deeds of valour that would elevate them in the eyes of God.
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 butworking 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:
Flavius imagined him to be salivating at the prospect of how many prisoners he could take to sell, for these raiders were likely to be the fittest of their race and he would have a good chance of mass captures. Present too was the Bishop of Dorostorum, his ecclesiastical banner, bearing a golden cross on a white background, raised high to inspire the faithful to deeds of valour that would elevate them in the eyes of God.
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 butworking 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:
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