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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 wasalmost 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