relief. Flavius leant his back against the wall of the building and dropped his head,suddenly overcome with a feeling of weariness. If a sense of terror and excitement had animated him it was ebbing fast, to be replaced with creeping despair.
‘We must be here when that commission arrives, Ohannes.’
Since that got a grunt, it was not possible to know if he agreed or thought him mad. Nor was there time to ask; as soon as a large cloud began to obscure the moon they had to move, using the rapidly fading silver lining to guide them before it disappeared completely, plunging the whole area into Stygian darkness.
What aided them was knowledge; this was home to both and Flavius, especially, knew it like the back of his hand. The faintest outline of a tree branch or the smell of a pungent plant was enough to tell him exactly where he was. That got them to the outer wall and a gnarled and ancient olive tree, a spot where the youngster knew they could climb, just as he knew that one outer bough went towards that enclosing wall, albeit the limb had been cut and sealed within so as to avoid an easy point of entry for intruders.
With a field of wheat on the other side, Flavius cast his spear and shield over the wall then donned his helmet, finally setting his canvas bag on his back where it would not interfere with his efforts to climb. Even with a less than fully useful arm, those ancient and twisted branches gave him enough purchase to haul himself up; the problem of Ohannes’s painful and inflexible knees posed more of a difficulty, which meant the youngster was required to lodge himself for support, then with one hand help the old man up from one crooked resting place to another.
The next predicament, once they had reached the height they needed, pressured Flavius; to crawl along that truncated bough one-handed was to risk falling off so, with a quick prayer and awelcome sliver of cloud-edge light, he stood up, balanced himself, then skipped along the branch to straddle the outer villa wall.
That flash of moonlight had aided him but it had also allowed one of the bishop’s servants to see his silhouette, judging by the shout of alarm that came from the main part of the house. Ohannes, not trusting to his balance, was inching his way along that same length of wood by bestriding it, pushing with his hands, in one of which he had his spear, able to move only a couple of inches at a time, cursing as he did so the limbs that would not behave as he wished they should and once did.
‘Hurry, Ohannes,’ Flavius called, as more shouting came from the villa itself.
‘As if I ain’t doing the best I can!’
The light of half a dozen torches appeared, Flavius quick to calculate the distance between them and the house, set against how much time they had. Though Ohannes was looking away from those waving lights he could tell by the accompanying noise that they had a difficulty.
‘Get going, Flavius,’ Ohannes called, ‘I will seek to hold them at bay.’
‘Never. Pass me that spear.’
Ohannes held it out at full arm’s length as Flavius raised himself up to stand on the wall, grabbing the shaft to turn and raise it for throwing. There was no precise aim, just as a target a clutch of torches, getting closer and closer, into the middle of which he cast it with all the force he could muster, less than full he being so precariously balanced. It was sufficient; a high-pitched scream rent the night air but more telling was the way those flaring centres of light stopped, wavered and then retreated with haste. Only one torchwas left where that spear had made contact and it was on the ground.
‘If I have not killed someone, Ohannes,’ he hissed, as he helped the old man make the gap between bough and wall, ‘I have wounded them badly.’
‘Care not for him, care for us, for those fellows who have run away are set to fetch help. So let us get down from here and away.’
C HAPTER E IGHT
T he wheat, if not yet ready to
‘We must be here when that commission arrives, Ohannes.’
Since that got a grunt, it was not possible to know if he agreed or thought him mad. Nor was there time to ask; as soon as a large cloud began to obscure the moon they had to move, using the rapidly fading silver lining to guide them before it disappeared completely, plunging the whole area into Stygian darkness.
What aided them was knowledge; this was home to both and Flavius, especially, knew it like the back of his hand. The faintest outline of a tree branch or the smell of a pungent plant was enough to tell him exactly where he was. That got them to the outer wall and a gnarled and ancient olive tree, a spot where the youngster knew they could climb, just as he knew that one outer bough went towards that enclosing wall, albeit the limb had been cut and sealed within so as to avoid an easy point of entry for intruders.
With a field of wheat on the other side, Flavius cast his spear and shield over the wall then donned his helmet, finally setting his canvas bag on his back where it would not interfere with his efforts to climb. Even with a less than fully useful arm, those ancient and twisted branches gave him enough purchase to haul himself up; the problem of Ohannes’s painful and inflexible knees posed more of a difficulty, which meant the youngster was required to lodge himself for support, then with one hand help the old man up from one crooked resting place to another.
The next predicament, once they had reached the height they needed, pressured Flavius; to crawl along that truncated bough one-handed was to risk falling off so, with a quick prayer and awelcome sliver of cloud-edge light, he stood up, balanced himself, then skipped along the branch to straddle the outer villa wall.
That flash of moonlight had aided him but it had also allowed one of the bishop’s servants to see his silhouette, judging by the shout of alarm that came from the main part of the house. Ohannes, not trusting to his balance, was inching his way along that same length of wood by bestriding it, pushing with his hands, in one of which he had his spear, able to move only a couple of inches at a time, cursing as he did so the limbs that would not behave as he wished they should and once did.
‘Hurry, Ohannes,’ Flavius called, as more shouting came from the villa itself.
‘As if I ain’t doing the best I can!’
The light of half a dozen torches appeared, Flavius quick to calculate the distance between them and the house, set against how much time they had. Though Ohannes was looking away from those waving lights he could tell by the accompanying noise that they had a difficulty.
‘Get going, Flavius,’ Ohannes called, ‘I will seek to hold them at bay.’
‘Never. Pass me that spear.’
Ohannes held it out at full arm’s length as Flavius raised himself up to stand on the wall, grabbing the shaft to turn and raise it for throwing. There was no precise aim, just as a target a clutch of torches, getting closer and closer, into the middle of which he cast it with all the force he could muster, less than full he being so precariously balanced. It was sufficient; a high-pitched scream rent the night air but more telling was the way those flaring centres of light stopped, wavered and then retreated with haste. Only one torchwas left where that spear had made contact and it was on the ground.
‘If I have not killed someone, Ohannes,’ he hissed, as he helped the old man make the gap between bough and wall, ‘I have wounded them badly.’
‘Care not for him, care for us, for those fellows who have run away are set to fetch help. So let us get down from here and away.’
C HAPTER E IGHT
T he wheat, if not yet ready to
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