Not that Flavius saw much more than movement in the corner of his eye; the axe that had threatened the Scythian was now about to be employed on him and all the youngster could do was thrust up his own arm to try and ward it off. He soon found out that while he was able to impede the speed of the blow, an adult had the kind of strength he could not match. His head was down and he was sure he was going to die when the sword swished past his crown with such energy that he felt the wind of it on his flesh; he also heard the arm bone break.
‘Your sword,’ Ohannes yelled. ‘Get the damn sword and finish him off.’
That command had to be executed by a very rapid scrabbling on hands and knees. Once the hilt was in his hand Flavius made to stand up, only to find he lacked the time to do so. Added to that he was, once more, fighting one to one, Ohannes being involved in a to-and-fro wrestling match with his wounded opponent. The axeman might be twice injured, but he was still able to threaten Flavius, having transferred the axe to his good hand. The inability of his adversary to swing with real potency saved his young victim, the arc of the left arm being wide enough to avoid by Flavius throwing his body sideways.
From that moment instinct driven by terror took over. Those same pupils with whom he studied in the classroom, the sons of his father’s officers and senior rankers, as well as the offspring of some of the moneyed citizenry of the city, all undertook military training, albeit with wooden swords and blunted spears. For all the lack of threat in the weapons used, the intent by their instructors was that they would be taught as if they were real, so each one carried a leather crop that was used to painfully chastise any youngster who made a false move or employed their arms so badly as to leave themselves uncovered.
Now on his knees Flavius realised that to seek to rise would be to leave himself utterly exposed: time would not permit it so, gaining as much balance as a split second permitted, he thrust out hard, sending the point of his sword right into the gonads of his attacker, propelling with all his might to seek to get to the stomach. The scream that his assault produced was horrible but that had to be ignored; he was required to use his other hand, fully extended, to catch hold of the arm holding the axe, this while he sought to withdraw his weapon from what was bone-free flesh.
The knee that took him in the face might have been the act of a desperate man but it was effective; Flavius recoiled, immediately aware of the taste of blood in his mouth. Thrown onto his back he might have died at the hands of a fellow who was himself fatally wounded had he not kicked out frantically to put him off balance. One hurriedly placed boot caught the man below the knee and checked him, and this gave the youngster the time he needed to swing his sword low and hard at a bare ankle. He did so with such force that the blade went right through the back to the bone.
One leg gone and already off balance his assailant collapsed, which allowed Flavius to spring up from his static position and deliver the killer blow insisted upon by those who had trained him, albeit he had never employed it for reaclass="underline" a cut to the soft join of the head and neck, a swipe that produced a fount of misty blood as his sword edge severed the main artery. Ohannes, up against a much younger man, had survived because of the first wound he had inflicted, which had sapped the strength of the fellow he was fighting, but he must have had to go at it hard to still be engaged.
That contest ceased when his adversary finally lost the grip on his spear, leaving it in the hand of a fellow who knew how to use it. Ohannes spun it round so the point was aimed at the man’s face, to then draw it back and plunge it into the exposed gorge below a head thrown back as the victim sought to avoid what was coming. The gurgling that followed from both ruptured throats was the only sound that could now be heard: no words came from either Flavius or Ohannes, both sucking in much-needed air.
After a lengthy pause, in which silence took over, Ohannes kicked at the now comatose bodies to ensure they were dead. That established, the two unlikely victors looked at each other with wonder for several seconds before the old man grinned and spoke, his breath heavy and panting.
‘God in heaven, I had forgotten the joy of a damn good fight.’
‘It would be better to thank God for the good fortune we have just enjoyed. We were lucky!’
Flavius croaked that response as he wiped the blood from under what was an obviously broken nose, aware that he was shaking badly in reaction to what he knew now to be a fear suppressed by the need to act. Then he sunk to his knees and his shoulders began to heave as he felt tears well up in his eyes while at the same time he wondered why his mouth was entirely devoid of saliva. There was soon a hand on his back, patting as softly as the spoken words.
‘Wait till your papa hears of this, eh? He will not be minded to leave you behind from his battles in future, I’ll wager. Now come, it is time to wash that blood from your face and those tears from your eyes.’ The tone was firmer, intended to lift his spirits as Ohannes added, ‘You are, Flavius Belisarius, no pretend soldier now.’
It was common knowledge that Flavius was stubborn; it was the way of late children to be so for he was overindulged. With three sons already, the youngest five years his senior, the oldest seven, his parents had seen him as a gift from heaven, a late indicator of their continued regard for each other, and when conceived, a genuine surprise. He had come into the world from the loins of a man well past his prime and through the womb of a matron held to be too old to survive such a conception. If the arrival had been noisy from both mother and child, it had been achieved with surprising ease.
Named after an old companion of his father, he seemed to combine within himself all the best traits of both sides of his family: bonny as an infant and attractive as a growing boy, scamp enough to get into all the usual scrapes but with the charm to avoid too serious chastisement for his frequent transgressions.
Flavius was good at his schoolwork, which he took from his mother, and showed natural grace as he grew both in physique and his combative manner, traits shared by his brothers and inherited from their soldier father. Only recently had puberty begun to put some of his features out of balance, giving him a head a mite too big for his body as well as a small eruption of spots that went with the passage to full maturity.
He was, quite simply, the apple of his parents’ eye and it was not just his father and mother who were given to indulgence; two of his brothers, Cassius and Ennius, the eldest and nearest in age, were equally ready to forgive an increasing precocity. This manifested itself in a ready tongue that was, at times, too clever by half, overly sharp and critical for his years.
Flavius made no secret of the fact that he was the clever one in the family and that severely irritated Atticus, the middle of the senior trio. Being much slower of wit than his siblings, he lacked the patience of his close brothers: he would fetch Flavius a quick clip for being cheeky when he was sure no one was looking.
When small, this had ended in tears that inevitably saw Atticus punished. That had long since ceased and in an odd way it was Atticus that set the example, for he took his chastisements without complaint and with utter indifference to any pain inflicted; the youngster had learnt like him not to cry, steeled himself to avoid any sound if he and his brother came to what were blows or a wrestling match between a pair totally unmatched in size and weight, contests in which Flavius was a constant loser even when he got close to his elder’s height.
In part his silence was for the sake of his pride, the reluctance to admit being bested. Yet added to that was the influence of one of the emperors of Rome he truly admired, a fighter as well as a philosopher, held in high regard by his father, a paragon he had studied assiduously both within the schoolroom and without, the stoic Marcus Aurelius. That was not the only reading in which he indulged; anything regarding Rome or Ancient Greece he studied with a passion, for instance Diodorus Siculus, who had written of the campaigns of Alexander.