They all looked at each other because in truth they didn’t understand, not yet, but they felt that somehow he was right, that the inspired light in his eye was true. Each and every time that he referred to their future destiny, so clear for him and so confused for the rest of them, he spoke like the man posted on a look-out tower at dawn who is the first to see the light of the rising sun.
31
SERGIUS VOLUSIANUS’S COLUMN set off later that day, heading northwest. They marched for six days, covering twenty miles a day, until they reached the kingdom of Siagrius. The rex Romanorum’s territory was marked off by a line of defence with a palisade and trench, overseen by guard towers spaced one every mile. The men at the garrison wore heavy coats of mail and conical iron helmets with cheek- and nose-pieces like those worn by the Franks, and they carried long double-edged swords.
They entered through a fortified gate, were welcomed by long trumpet blasts, and continued their march until they reached the first river port on the Seine. There, they took ship and descended the river towards the capital, the ancient colony of Lutetia Parisiorum which everyone had become accustomed to calling simply by the name of its inhabitants, Parisii. The long, substantially tranquil voyage gave everyone the sensation that the threat that had loomed over their heads for so long had vanished, or that it was so far away that it wasn’t worth their while to worry about it. Each day of their journey brought them closer to their destination, and Ambrosinus was affected by a strange excitement, which not even he could explain. Their only cause for apprehension was their lack of contact with commander Volusianus, who they saw very rarely and fleetingly. He usually remained in his quarters, at the stern, and when going about the ship he was always surrounded by his staff, so he was practically unapproachable. Only Aurelius, one evening, had the chance to speak with him. He noticed the commander standing at the bow, watching the sun go down over the plains, and approached him.
‘Hail, commander,’ he said.
‘Hail, soldier,’ replied Volusianus.
‘A quiet journey, this.’
‘So far.’
‘May I ask you a question?’
‘You may, but don’t be certain you’ll receive an answer.’
‘I fought for years at the orders of Manilius Claudianus and I commanded his personal guard. Does this mean anything to you? Does it perhaps make me worthy of your consideration?’
‘Claudianus was a great soldier and an upright man, a Roman the like of whom no longer exists. If he trusted you this means that you were worthy of his consideration.’
‘You met him, then.’
‘Personally, and it was a great honour. I earned the vallar crown that you see on my standard under his command and he himself awarded it to me at the walls of Augusta Raurica.’
‘Commander Claudianus is dead, betrayed and attacked by Odoacer’s troops. My comrades and I are among the only survivors of the massacre, not one of us by way of cowardice or desertion.’
Volusianus stared at him with his penetrating gaze. His grey eyes looked like a hawk’s and his face was creased by deep wrinkles. He wore his hair very short, and hadn’t shaved for several days. His fatigue was evident in all his features, as was his ability to size up men.
‘I believe you,’ he said after a few moments of silence. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘If we are under your protection or in your custody.’
‘Both.’
‘Why?’
‘News regarding important changes in the balance of power travel much more quickly than you can imagine.’
‘I realize that. I’m not surprised that your rex knows about Odoacer and the assassination of Flavius Orestes and that you have been informed as well. What else have you heard, if I may ask?’
‘That Odoacer is searching over land and sea for a thirteen-year-old boy defended by a handful of deserters and accompanied by other . . . picturesque individuals.’
Aurelius lowered his head.
‘No one in a governing position,’ continued Volusianus, ‘is unaware that that is the age of the last emperor of the West, Romulus Augustus, who many call Augustulus. You will admit that the coincidence is too singular to be ignored.’
‘Certainly,’ replied Aurelius.
‘Is it him?’
Aurelius hesitated, then nodded, and added, staring the commander straight in the eyes: ‘From one Roman soldier to another.’
Volusianus nodded solemnly.
‘We don’t want to interfere, or create problems for you,’ Aurelius went on with a distressed look. ‘We just want to find a distant land where this unfortunate lad can live in peace, sheltered from the persecution he’s suffered. He aspires to no power and claims no title for himself, no public position. He desires only oblivion and silence, to begin his life anew as a young boy just like any other – and we want to stay with him. We’ve given everything we have. We’ve shed blood and sweat for Rome, and risked our lives every time it was necessary, without a thought for ourselves. We’ve left only because we refused to obey the barbarians: this is dignity, not desertion. We are exhausted and disheartened. Let us go, general.’
Volusianus looked back out towards the horizon, at the long bloody strip that edged the desert of snow to the west. His words came out with difficulty, as if the wind that chilled his limbs had entered his heart: ‘I cannot,’ he answered. ‘The men that Siagrius has put at my side would like nothing better than to succeed me and replace me; he has done so deliberately to offset my ascendancy over the troops. He’ll have learned about your presence from them, and my silence would appear suspect and incomprehensible. It’s best that I inform him personally.’
‘What will become of us?’
Volusianus met his stare: ‘It won’t be me who reveals the boy’s identity. I don’t know whether the others have understood. At best, Siagrius won’t catch on himself, and won’t care what happens to you. He may order me to deal with the situation myself. In that case—’
‘But what if he realizes the truth?’
‘At that point, you’d do well to face up to reality. The boy is worth a lot, too much, both in terms of money and of political influence. Siagrius cannot ignore the fact that it’s Odoacer who’s in charge now in Italy; he is the true rex Romanorum. For the rest of you, it will be easier. I could have you sign on with our army: we need good soldiers, and we’re not overly particular.’
‘I understand,’ replied Aurelius with death in his heart, and he turned to go.
‘Soldier!’
Aurelius stopped.
‘Why do you care so much about that boy?’
‘Because I love him,’ he replied, ‘and because he’s our emperor.’
*
Aurelius did not have the heart to tell Ambrosinus about his conversation, nor Livia. He continued to hope that Romulus’s identity might remain a secret, trusting in Volusianus’s words. A man of honour. He kept his gnawing worries to himself, forcing himself to seem calm and even to joke with Romulus and his friends.
They reached the city on their fifth day of navigation, towards sunset, all lined up at the railing to admire the spectacle opening up before them. Parisii stood on an island in the middle of the Seine, surrounded by a fortification partly in opus cementicium walls and partly in wooden palisades. They could see the roofs of the tallest buildings inside, some covered with brick tiles in the Roman manner and others in wood and straw, like the old Celtic constructions.
Ambrosinus drew close to Romulus: ‘On the other side of the river, opposite the western shore of the island, is where Saint Germanus is buried. Many come to venerate his memory.’
‘Isn’t he the hero who led the Romans of Britannia against the northern barbarians? The one you talk about in your diary?’
‘Certainly. He had no army of his own, but he trained ours. He organized them in a military structure based on the ancient Roman legions, but he was mortally wounded in a battle, and died. As you know, I alone know his last words, his proph
ecy . . . As soon as we set ashore we’ll find his tomb so I can invoke his protection and his blessing for your future, Caesar.’
Meanwhile the sailors were calling out orders, preparing to dock. The river port of Parisii had been built at the time of the first Roman settlement after Caesar’s occupation, and had not changed much since then. The lead boat drew up alongside the first of the three mooring wharves, tossing a couple of lines from stern and stem, while the rowers pulled their oars into the ship, at an order from their helmsman. Volusianus disembarked with his attendants, and gave orders for the foreigners to follow him. The horses were being unloaded from the barge in the ship’s tow, including Juba, who kicked and bucked, refusing to follow the grooms. Ambrosinus, bewildered, tried to approach the commander. ‘General,’ he said, ‘we would like to thank you once again before taking our leave, and to ask you if we could reclaim our horse. We’ll have to depart first thing in the morning and—’
Volusianus turned: ‘You can’t leave. You’ll stay here for as long as necessary.’
‘General!’ pleaded Ambrosinus, but Volusianus had already turned his back and was heading towards the forum. A picket of numerous soldiers surrounded Ambrosinus and his companions and an officer ordered them to follow. Aurelius gestured to the others not to put up any resistance as Ambrosinus wrung his hands in despair. ‘What does this mean? Why are they detaining us? We haven’t done anything, we’re simple wayfarers who . . .’ He soon realized that no one was listening, and he dismally followed the others.
Romulus neared Aurelius: ‘Why are they doing this?’ he asked ‘Aren’t they Romans like us?’
‘Maybe they’ve mistaken us for someone else,’ Aurelius tried to reassure him. ‘It happens sometimes. We’ll clear everything up, you’ll see. Don’t worry.’
The soldiers stopped in front of a square stone building with a bleak appearance. The officer ordered the door opened and they were led into a large, bare room. Small iron doors lined the walls. A prison.
‘Your arms,’ enjoined the officer. A moment of fierce tension ensued; Aurelius considered the large number of soldiers surrounding them, evaluating all the possible consequences of any action he might take. He unsheathed his sword and handed it to one of the jailers. His companions, overwhelmed by this unexpected epilogue to their journey, resignedly did the same. The weapons were locked into an ironclad cabinet near the back wall. The officer exchanged a few whispered words with the jailer, then lined up his soldiers, weapons menacing the prisoners as they were closed up one by one. Romulus cast a despairing look at Aurelius, then followed Ambrosinus meekly into the cell assigned to them.
The sound of the heavy outside door clanging shut echoed loudly through the vast, empty atrium, and the measured step of the soldiers faded off down the road into the distance. Naught but silence remained.
*
Livia sat on her filthy cot. Incapable of sleep, she mused over all the recent happenings and, despite the anguish of their imprisonment, she thought that Aurelius had made a wise decision, avoiding a rash reaction with no hope of success. ‘As long as there’s a will . . .’ she told herself, but she was very worried for Romulus. She was struck by the expression in his eyes at the moment that they locked him up, and she realized that the boy was at the very end of his rope. The constant swing between hope and terror, illusion and despair, was destroying him. His reckless escape attempt at Argentoratum revealed just how shaken and confused he was, and this situation could only make things worse. Her sole consolation was that Ambrosinus was with him; he’d be able to soothe the boy’s ragged nerves and give him a little hope.
She was deep in thought when she heard a rattling noise at the door to her cell. She flattened herself against the wall, straining to hear and holding her breath. Her fighting instinct, keened by years of attacks, escapes and ambushes, was immediately reawakened. She steeled her body and her mind and was ready to spring.
She heard the bolt turn, the low muttering of voices and snickering laughter, and she understood immediately. Volusianus had promised that they’d be treated well, but the presence of a young, attractive girl was certainly not an everyday event in that stinking hole, and a couple of libations had been sufficient to tempt the guards into forgetting the punishment they were risking.
The door opened and two jailers appeared at the threshold, holding a lantern. ‘Where are you, turtle dove?’ called one. ‘Come out, don’t be afraid. We’re just looking for a little company.’
Livia pretended to be terrified, as she slipped her left hand along her leg until she reached her boot laces. She extracted a razor sharp stiletto, shaped like an awl with a rounded handle so she could grip it in her fist with only the point protruding between her index and middle fingers. ‘Please, don’t hurt me,’ she whimpered, knowing that her pleading could only further excite the two guards.
‘Calm down, darling, we won’t hurt you. We’ll be real nice, and later you can offer a libation to old Priapus himself, who gave us the nice big tools we use to make little whores like you happy.’ He started to undo his trousers while the other threatened her with a knife. Livia pretended to be even more frightened as she shrank back on the cot, her back to the wall.
‘Good girl,’ approved the first, turning to his cohort. ‘A little bit each. First me, then my friend. Then you’ll tell us who was better and who was bigger. Isn’t this fun?’
He had completely stripped off his trousers and his knees were against the edge of the cot. Livia readied the claw she held tight in her hand and as he leaned forward to grab her, she twisted sideways and sprang at the second man, sticking the blade deep into his breast bone, as the first tumbled forward on to the cot. She tossed the stiletto lightly from her left hand to her right and plunged it cleanly into his neck, fracturing his spinal cord. One fell on the bed, the other on the floor, without a moan and practically at the same time.
The die was cast: Livia took their keys and went to open the doors to her companions’ cells. She appeared suddenly, a vision of hope, smiling and calm: ‘Wake up boys. Time to get moving.’
‘How . . .’ Aurelius muttered in shock as she threw herself into his arms.
She pulled out the stiletto. ‘In calceo venenum!’ she laughed, modifying the old proverb. ‘They forgot to look in my shoes!’ Romulus ran towards her and clung to her neck, squeezing her so hard she thought she would suffocate. Livia found the key to the cabinet which contained their weapons and they all headed towards the exit, but just then they heard the sound of footsteps outside, and the bolt turned. Volusianus appeared at the open threshold, escorted by his fully-armed guard.
Livia exchanged looks with Aurelius. ‘They’re not taking me again,’ she said simply, and it was immediately clear that all the others felt the same by the way they had raised their arms.
Volusianus lifted his hand. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘Listen to me, there’s not much time. Odoacer’s barbarians have asked to be received by Siagrius and they surely plan to request that you be turned over to them. There’s no time to explain, you must hurry. Your horse is out here, along with some others. Take this road to the western gate, where there’s a bridge of boats in the river that connects the island to the mainland. The guards have my instructions to let you pass. Follow the river to the coast; there you’ll find a fishing village called Brixate. Ask for a man named Teutasius and tell him I sent you. He can ferry you to Frisia or Armorica, where no one should bother you. Whatever you do, avoid Britannia: the island is fraught with civil strife and warring tribes, and crawling with brigands and outlaws from north to south. I’ll soon have to sound the alarm, and I may have to send my own troops after you, if I’m ordered to do so. If they should overtake you, there will be nothing I can do. Go now, as fast as you can!’
Aurelius came close: ‘I knew you wouldn’t deliver us to the barbarians. Thank you, general, and may the gods protect you.’
‘May God protect you, soldier, and that boy of yours.’
Romulus approached him
as well, and with a tone of great dignity, said: ‘Thank you for all you’ve done for us: I won’t forget you.’
‘I did my duty . . . Caesar,’ replied Volusianus, stiffening into a military salute. He bowed his head respectfully and said: ‘Go, now, ride to safety.’
They mounted the horses and raced down the deserted city roads towards the gate, reaching the start of the bridge. The guards nodded their permission to proceed, and Aurelius led them to the opposite shore. Here they turned north, following the road that flanked the river. They spurred on their steeds and soon disappeared into the darkness.
*
Volusianus rode back to the winter quarters, not far from the river port, followed by half a dozen men from his personal guard and his field adjutant. One of the servants rushed over to take his horse’s reins, and another held a lantern to light their way. Volusianus turned to his adjutant. ‘Wait a little longer,’ he ordered, ‘and then run to the palace and give the alarm. Say that they fled after killing the guards, which is the pure truth. You will say, obviously, that you have no idea where they were headed.’
‘Obviously, general,’ replied his assistant.
*
‘If your generals hadn’t protected them,’ roared Wulfila, enraged, ‘we’d already have captured them and taken them away!’
Siagrius was seated on his throne, a chair that somewhat resembled the sella curulis of the ancient magistrates. Wrapped in a fox fur to stave off the biting cold, he was visibly irritated by being rudely awaked in the middle of the night by that unmannered savage with his scarred face.
‘My magister militum did what he had to do,’ he replied, vexed. ‘This is territory of the Romans and its jurisdiction is in my hands, along with my officers and magistrates, and no one else! Now that these men have stained themselves with a crime and have escaped from my prison, they have become fugitives, and it won’t be difficult to catch them. They know that if they remain within our confines, they won’t be able to elude us, and so they’ll surely try to flee by sea, from the nearest port. We’ll stop them there.’
The Last Legion Page 35