They drove on all night, covering about fifteen miles and taking turns at leading Juba by the bridle. When the horse had got accustomed to pulling the cart, Aurelius sat on the driver’s bench and guided Juba with the reins and his voice. To their left, the river’s surface was becoming increasingly white and compact, until it was a uniform sheet of ice from one shore to the other. The cold chilled them to the bone and the fog had frozen overnight, cloaking the shrubs and canes, the grass and bushes with lacy hoar frost. The sky was veiled by high, thin clouds which sometimes let through a little of the sun’s first light as a wide white halo just above the horizon.
Not one of them was tranquil. The covered cart hid them well enough from sight, but it was slow and vulnerable, and the most difficult moment was yet to come: crossing the river. Their relief at the visibility brought by the morning light was short-lived; they soon realized that the brightness given off equally by the sky, the snow and the ice made outlines indistinct and blurred volume, flooding the entire landscape in its milky glow. People and animals were the only things to stand out, making their own presence even more conspicuous. In fact, passers-by were few and far between: peasants with pack animals loaded with branches and wood for burning, or some solitary wayfarer, mostly beggars covered with rags. The cock’s cry rose to announce the new day for the farms scattered throughout the countryside. Every so often they would hear the whining of a dog, transformed into a mournful lament in the immensity of that empty, cold space.
They went on for another couple of miles and then stopped at a point where the river was narrow and the bank was low to the bed, providing easy access. They decided that two of them would go on foot to test the solidity of the ice, tied together with a rope so that if one sank into the water, the other could pull him to safety. Batiatus volunteered to accompany Aurelius; his strength and size would guarantee a secure anchor. Under the worried gaze of the others, they advanced over the icy crust, tapping the surface with the tip of a javelin in order to gauge the thickness of the ice from the sound. They grew smaller and smaller to their companions’ eyes as they rapidly neared the middle of the river. That was the critical point, the place where the ice had solidified last, and Aurelius decided to test it with his sword. Manoeuvring it with both hands, he twisted it forcefully into the ice, scattering crystal bright splinters. He succeeding in nudging it one foot down, before his last blow landed the tip in the water beneath.
‘One foot!’ he shouted to Batiatus.
‘Is that enough?’ the other shot back.
‘It has to be. We can’t stay here any longer; it’s too great a risk. We’ve already been noticed, look!’ He pointed at a couple of bystanders along the shore who had stopped to observe the strange operation, then turned back to confer with the others and the crossing began, one after another, at a few steps’ distance.
‘Hurry!’ urged Ambrosinus. ‘We’re too visible. Whoever’s heard of us will recognize us.’
*
The boatman, who had hoped to be sailing south by that time, was unhappily in a completely different situation. Unloading the salt had required much longer than he’d expected, because sitting in the damp for so long had clotted the crystals into huge lumps. He hadn’t finished when Wulfila’s men burst on to the wharf on horseback and began to inspect all the boats still at anchor. It hadn’t taken them very long to identify the one with the load of rock-salt, even though very little remained on the deck, and they rushed on board with their swords drawn.
‘Stop! Who are you?’ shouted the boatman. ‘You have no right to storm on to my boat like that!’
Wulfila himself appeared and ordered his warriors to shut the man up and take him below deck.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who we are!’ he started. ‘It was just ten days ago, and I’m sure you’re not a man to forget a face, are you?’ he demanded, twisting his deformed features into a grimace. ‘We’re following a deserter wanted for murder who jumped aboard your boat on his horse. He had a boy with him, didn’t he?’
The boatman felt faint: he couldn’t deny any of those allegations. ‘His friends had been waiting for him,’ he stammered. ‘They’d already paid their passage and I had no complaint with them. I couldn’t have known . . .’
‘Shut up! Those men are wanted for crimes of blood that they committed in the territory of the empire. They kidnapped that boy and we must free him and return him to his parents. Understand?’
The boatman had the momentary sensation that scarface was telling the truth: hadn’t the boy tried to run away last night, and hadn’t they chased after him like mad? Then he remembered the continuous gestures of affection that all his travel companions had showered on the boy, and how affectionate he had been with them as well. He bit his tongue, and said: ‘How am I supposed to know the life and hard times of everyone who gets on my boat? I don’t care, as long as they pay; they don’t bother me, and I don’t bother them, and that’s what happened. Now I have to get home, so if you don’t mind . . .’
‘You’ll go when I say so,’ roared Wulfila, slapping him with the back of his hand, ‘and now you’ll tell me where they went, if you don’t want me to make you sorry you were ever born!’
Terrified and smarting, the boatman tried to convince his persecutor that he knew nothing, but he was certainly not ready to face any kind of torture. He tried to hold out through the kicks and punches, gritting his teeth when they twisted his arm behind his back so hard he thought they would break it and stifling his cries even as the blood poured from his split lip and crushed nose, but when he saw Wulfila pull out his dagger he gave up all at once, overwhelmed by panic. He gasped: ‘They left last night, on a cart, headed north . . .’
Wulfila tumbled him on to the floor with a last kick and sheathed his dagger. ‘Pray to your God that we find them, otherwise I’ll come back and I’ll burn you alive inside this boat of yours.’
He left two of his men to keep an eye on the sorry wretch, then went down to the wharf and mounted his horse. He galloped off northwards, followed by his men.
‘Look, traces of a cart and a horse,’ noticed one of his warriors as soon as they had left the city. ‘We’ll be able to tell straight away if it’s them.’ He dropped to the ground and examined Juba’s tracks in the snow, recognizing them immediately. He turned to his leader with a satisfied sneer: ‘It is them! That pig was telling the truth.’
‘Finally!’ exclaimed Wulfila. He drew his sword and raised it high. It glittered in his fist, amidst the cheers of his men. He spurred on his horse and set off at a gallop down the snow-covered road.
*
Meanwhile Aurelius, after having helped all the others cross to the opposite side, had gone back for Juba and the cart. He led the horse by his bridle, advancing on foot in front of him. He kept up a continuous patter to soothe and reassure him about the strange, new experience, the passage across a glassy surface that didn’t give way under the pressure of his hooves. ‘Slow now, attaboy, Juba. Slowly . . . see? Nothing’s wrong. We just want to reach Romulus, he’s waiting for us. See him down there? He’s waving at us.’
They had nearly reached the middle of the river and Aurelius was worried about Juba’s considerable size and the weight of the cart, which rested entirely on the narrow iron bands encircling the wheel rims. He strained his ears to pick up the slightest sound, dreading that crack that would swallow him and his horse up into the icy water, a death that struck terror and panic into his heart. Every now and then he would turn towards the others, and he could feel the tension that gripped them as they waited for him to cross.
‘Now! Come on, now!’ shouted Batiatus all at once. ‘You’re past the thinnest part: get moving!’
Aurelius accelerated his pace immediately, but he couldn’t understand why his friends’ shouts seemed to be increasingly excited and urgent. A blood-chilling thought crossed his mind, and he looked back to find, at less than a mile’s distance, a pack of horsemen galloping along the river’s bank. Wulfila! Agai
n! How was it possible? How could those beasts emerge again and again out of nowhere like spirits from hell? He ran across to the opposite shore, practically dragging the horse behind him, and drew his sword, ready for the death match.
His companions were lined up as well, weapons in hand, ready to cover Romulus’ flight.
‘Aurelius!’ shouted Vatrenus. ‘Untie the horse from the cart and escape with the boy! We’ll resist here as long as we can. Go, go now while you still can. Get the devil out of here!’
But Romulus was clutching the spokes of one of the cart’s wheels, shouting: ‘No! I won’t go! I won’t go without the rest of you! I don’t want to run any more!’
‘Grab him and get going! Now!’ Vatrenus continued to shout, cursing all the gods and demons he knew. The enemy horsemen had reached the other side, directly opposite them, and were galloping on to the ice. Wulfila tried to hold them back, sensing the danger, but the heat of the chase and their desire to put an end to this unnerving hunt had unleashed their charge across the frozen surface of the river.
Demetrius excitedly turned to the others: ‘Look! They’re advancing all at once, the ice will never hold! We still have a chance, if we get out of here immediately. Come on boys, on the cart!’ He hadn’t finished speaking when a crack snaked open under the steeds’ hooves, widening as the second wave of horsemen hammered down hard. Water surged over the breaking ice, sending some of them into ruinous falls while others slipped and slid. A huge floe sank beneath the surface as Wulfila ordered: ‘Stop! Turn back! The ice won’t hold! Get back!’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ shouted Aurelius at the sight. ‘We can make it!’ They all scrambled into the cart, Ambrosinus lashed Juba’s back with the reins and off they went at full speed.
Their relief was short-lived: Wulfila managed to regroup and have his men cross a little further upstream, one at a time. They once again took up the chase, rapidly gaining on the overloaded cart. Aurelius handed out the men’s javelins while Livia nocked an arrow into her bow, taking aim, but as the warriors came within range, they slowed down and then abruptly stopped.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Vatrenus.
‘I have no idea,’ replied Aurelius, feeling that the cart’s speed was diminishing as well, ‘but don’t slow down, don’t stop!’
‘What’s happened is that we’re saved!’ yelled Ambrosinus. ‘Look!’
A group of armed men on horseback appeared before them, backed by a large infantry unit, emerging out of the fog. They were advancing at a march, spread out over a wide front, with their weapons in hand. Wulfila, dumbstruck, called his men to a halt and stopped at a respectful distance.
The infantry stopped as well. Their armour and their banners left no doubt: they were Roman soldiers!
An officer came forward. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, ‘and who are those men following you?’
‘May God bless you!’ exclaimed Ambrosinus. ‘We owe you our lives!’
Aurelius stiffened into a military salute. ‘Aurelianus Ambrosius Ventidius,’ he said. ‘First cohort, Nova Invicta Legion.’
‘Rufius Aelius Vatrenus, Nova Invicta Legion,’ his comrade echoed.
‘Cornelius Batiatus . . .’ began the gigantic Ethiopian.
‘Legion?’ repeated the officer, shocked. ‘There have been no legions for half a century. Where do you come from, soldier?’
‘You can believe him, commander,’ said Demetrius, ‘and if you have a bowl of hot soup and a glass of wine for us, we have some fine stories to tell!’
‘All right,’ replied the officer. ‘Follow me.’
They advanced for about a mile, circling a hill, until they found themselves in front of a fieldcamp which looked as if it could accommodate at least a thousand men. The commander had them leave the cart and brought them to his quarters, where his attendants hastened to unfasten his sword belt and to take his helmet and place it on a field stool. An orderly served them the same rations he was distributing to the troops and they all began to eat. Romulus, who was finally recovering from his fear and the numbing cold, would have liked to wolf down the food joyously, but he dutifully imitated his tutor, who was sipping the soup in small spoonfuls and sitting with his back perfectly straight.
‘A well-assorted bunch, I’d say,’ began the officer. ‘Three legionaries, if I’m to believe your words, a philosopher, to judge from his beard, a pair of deserters, if my eyes do not betray me, a lady with a bearing too haughty and legs too slender to be a bedtime companion, and a young man without even the shadow of whiskers beneath his nose, but with enough presumption to be a personage out of the ancient Republic. Not to mention that nasty swarm of cut-throats you had at your heels. What am I to make of you?’
Ambrosinus had already predicted those questions and was ready with an answer. ‘You have an acute sense of observation, commander. I realize that the condition we find ourselves in may engender suspicion, but we have nothing to hide and will gladly explain everything. This boy has been the victim of terrible persecution. He is the scion of a very noble family, and the arrogance of a barbarian at the service of the Imperial Army has deprived him of his rightful inheritance. Not content with having stripped this child of all his belongings, he has attempted in every way possible to kill the poor lad, so that he may never claim his birthright. He has had us pursued by a group of fierce hired assassins who today would have succeeded in their vile intent had it not been for you.
‘This girl is the boy’s older sister. She has grown up like a virago, emulating Camilla and Pentesilea, and can fight with a bow and a javelin with incredible mastery. She has been the foremost defender of her unlucky brother. As for myself, I am the boy’s tutor, and with some money that I had hidden away, I recruited these valiant warriors, who have survived the destruction of their division at the hands of other barbarians, and thus we have united our destinies.
‘Beholding your army decked in their splendid armour, seeing the Roman banners fluttering in the wind and hearing the Latin language sound on your lips have all been, for us, the greatest consolation. We are profoundly grateful to you for having rescued us.’
Everyone fell silent, stunned by such a display of polished eloquence, but the commander was a tough veteran and he was not overly impressed. He answered: ‘My name is Sergius Volusianus, comes regis et magister militum. We were sent on a mission of war in support of our allies in central Gaul and we are returning to Parisii where I am to report to our leader, Siagrius, King of the Romans. I will include you in my report, as well as the circumstances involved in our meeting. You will not for any reason stray from our division from this moment forwards. This is for your own safety: the territory we will be crossing is extremely dangerous and subject to sudden incursions by the Franks. You will be treated as Romans. Please allow me to take my leave of you now; our departure is imminent.’ He tossed down a cup of wine, reclaimed his sword and helmet and left, followed by his attendants and his field adjutant.
‘What do you think?’ asked Ambrosinus.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Aurelius. ‘I can’t say he seemed entirely convinced by that story you told.’
‘Well, it’s nearly the truth.’
‘The problems lies in that “nearly”. Let’s hope all goes well. In any case, our situation is now greatly improved, and we can consider ourselves safe for the time being. The commander is certainly an excellent soldier and most probably a man of his word.’
‘What about Wulfila?’ asked Orosius. ‘Do you think he’ll give up? There’s no way he can get at us now: we’re protected by a numerous division in full battle gear, and he’s the one who’d better look out for himself on this side of the Rhine.’
‘Don’t be fooled,’ answered Aurelius. ‘He can get help from the Franks. We’ve seen just how determined he is; he’s forced us to flee to the very ends of the earth! Anyone else in his place would have given up long ago, but not him: each time he shows up again, he seems fiercer and more aggressive, like a demon out of hell �
�� and he has the sword of Caesar in his hands.’
‘Sometimes I think he really is a demon,’ said Orosius, the expression in his eyes more eloquent than his words.
‘Aurelius is the one who slashed his face; he can tell you Wulfila’s made out of flesh and blood,’ shot back Demetrius, ‘but I still can’t explain this implacable, relentless hate. He’s gone beyond every imaginable limit.’
‘I can explain it,’ mused Ambrosinus. ‘Aurelius has disfigured him; he’s made him unrecognizable compared with his former self. In this state, he can never hope to enter the warriors’ paradise, and that’s absolutely intolerable for someone like him. Wulfila comes from a tribe of eastern Goths who profess a fanatical faith in military valour and in the destiny that awaits combatants in the next world. To redeem himself, he must inflict on you what you have inflicted on him, Aurelius. He has to cut your face to the bone, and then he must offer a libation to the god of war inside your skull, whittled into a cup. We won’t be free of him until the day he’s dead.’
‘Can’t say I envy you that fate,’ commented Vatrenus, but Aurelius seemed to have taken Ambrosinus’s words very seriously. ‘Then it’s me he wants. Why did you wait so long to tell me that?’
‘Because you would have done something foolish, like challenge him to a duel.’
‘That may be a solution,’ replied Aurelius.
‘It most certainly would not. With that sword in his hands, you wouldn’t have a chance. He wants Romulus as well, there’s no doubt about that, otherwise he wouldn’t have shown up at the mansio in Fanum. All we can do, Aurelius, is stay together. It’s the only way we can survive. Keep one thing in mind, above all: Romulus must reach Britannia, at any cost. There everything we’ve fought for will come to pass and we will no longer need to fear anything. No more fear, can you understand that?’
The Last Legion Page 34