Before night fell, Ambrosinus, holding Romulus by the hand, walked up to one of the houses and knocked on the door. It was isolated, bigger and clearly more prosperous than those they had seen until that moment. A large pen alongside held a flock of sheep with thick woolly coats, while another enclosed a small herd of horses. The robust man who opened the door wore a grey wool cloak and his face was framed by a black beard run through with silver threads.
‘We are wayfarers,’ said Ambrosinus. ‘Other companions of ours are down by the hedge. We have come from beyond the sea and must reach the lands of the north, which I left many years ago. My name is Myrdin Emreis.’
‘How many of you are there?’ asked the man.
‘Eight in all. We need horses, if you can sell them to us.’
‘My name’s Wilneyr,’ said the man, ‘and I have five sons, all strapping lads good at using their weapons. If you come in peace you’ll be welcomed as our guests. If your intentions are otherwise, be advised that we’ll shear you like sheep.’
‘We come in peace, my friend, in the name of God who will judge us one day. We carry arms of necessity, but we will leave our weapons outside the door if we enter under your roof.’
‘Come on then. If you want to spend the night, you can sleep in the stables.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Ambrosinus. ‘You won’t regret this.’ He sent Romulus to call the others.
When Batiatus appeared, the man widened his eyes in wonder and backed up as if taken by a sudden fright. His sons gathered round him.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Ambrosinus. ‘He’s only a black man. In his land, everyone is as black as he is, and if a white man goes that far, he arouses the same wonder and the same surprise that you are feeling now. He’s a good man, and quite peaceful, although he’s very strong. We’ll pay double for his dinner, because he eats enough for two.’
Wilneyr had them sit around the fire and gave them some bread with cheese and beer, which put them all in good spirits.
‘Who do you raise those horses for?’ asked Ambrosinus. ‘The ones I saw are war stallions.’
‘You’re right, and they’re always in great demand, because there’s no peace in this land, anywhere, as far as I’ve travelled, at least. That’s why there’s always bread on my table, and mutton and beer. You, who say you come in peace: why are you accompanied by armed men wanting to buy horses?’
‘My story is a long one, and quite sad, in truth,’ replied the old man. ‘The entire night would not suffice to tell it, but if you would like to listen, I’ll tell you all I can, because I have nothing to hide, except from the enemies who pursue us. As I’ve already told you, I’m not a foreigner. I come from this land originally, from the city of Carvetia, and I was raised by the wise men of the sacred wood of Gleva.’
‘I realized that when I saw what you wear at your neck,’ Wilneyr said, ‘and that’s why I let you in.’
‘I might have stolen it,’ observed Ambrosinus with a wry smile.
‘I don’t believe so. Your person, your words and your eyes tell me that you do not wear that symbol unworthily. Tell us your story, then, if you are not too tired. The night is long and we don’t often receive guests from so far away,’ he said, looking again at Batiatus with amazement: his pitch-dark eyes, his huge lips, his flat nose and bull’s neck, and the enormous hands he held folded between his powerful thighs.
So Ambrosinus told of how he had left his city and his wood so many years before to ask the emperor of the Romans for help, as he had been ordered by the heroic Germanus and by General Paullinus, the last defender of the Great Wall. He told of his wanderings and of his misadventures, of happy days and of long suffering. Wilneyr and his sons listened as if enchanted because that story was the best they’d ever heard; not even the bards who went from city to city, from house to house, to narrate the adventures of the heroes of Britannia, had such tales to tell.
However, Ambrosinus did not reveal the identity of Romulus, nor did he speak of the boy’s destiny, because the time had not yet come. When he finished it was the dead of night, and the flames in the hearth had begun to languish.
‘Now you tell me,’ asked Ambrosinus, ‘how is power divided on the island? Who among the lords of war is the strongest and most feared? What has happened in the cities that were still proud and flourishing when I left?’
‘Ours is an age of tyranny,’ answered Wilneyr gravely. ‘No one cares about the good of the people. The law of the strongest rules, and there is no mercy for those who fall, but certainly the most famous and most terrible of the tyrants is Wortigern. The cities once turned to him for protection against the attacks of the northern barbarians, but he, instead, subjugated them and imposed heavy tributes. Although the councils of the elders have survived in some of the cities, they no longer have any real power. The merchants who populated the cities were eager for peace, so they could prosper and grow rich through trade and barter. They ended up exchanging their freedom for the promise of security.
‘Wortigern himself gradually lost the vigour of his youth, and was no longer able to carry out the task for which he had been given such great powers, and so he decided to call upon the Saxon tribes who live on the continent, on the peninsula of Kymre, but the remedy proved to be worse than the disease. Instead of abating, oppression doubled. The Saxons were only concerned with accumulating wealth by robbing it from the citizens, and certainly not with stopping the raids of the Scots and the Picts from the north. Like dogs over a bone, these barbarians fought each other for the meagre spoils of that which was once a prosperous and lively country and which is now just a shadow of its prior self. We’ve escaped this fate only here in the countryside, as you can see, but perhaps even this won’t last long.’
Aurelius, dismayed, sought out Ambrosinus’s gaze: was this the land so long dreamed of ? In what way was it any better than the bloody chaos they’d just escaped from? The wise man’s mind was elsewhere, however, seeking distant images left behind when he had abandoned his country. He was readying himself to mend a tear in time, an open wound in the history of man and of his people.
They were accompanied by one of Wilneyr’s sons to the stable, where they stretched out exhausted on a bed of hay near the oxen who ruminated tranquilly. They abandoned themselves to sleep, guarded by the dogs that had been freed from their cages. They were huge mastiffs with iron spiked collars, used to fighting off wolves or even more fearful beasts.
They woke at dawn and drank the warm milk that Wilneyr’s wife poured from a bucket, then prepared for their journey. They bought a mule for Ambrosinus and seven horses, one much smaller than the others and one a great deal bigger: a massive stallion from Armorica, used to cover the Britannic mares. When Batiatus mounted on his back he looked like a bronze equestrian statue, one of those that had once adorned the forums and arches of the world’s capital.
Wilneyr counted up the money; Livia had given him everything she had left. Satisfied with doing such good business so early in the day, he rested against the threshold and watched them leave. They had taken up their arms, suspended their swords from their belts, and in the first light of the morning they looked like legendary warriors. Even the pale youth who rode in front on his pony seemed like their young leader, and the girl a woodland dryad. What exploits awaited such a tiny army? He didn’t even know their names, and yet it seemed that he had always known them. He raised his arm to bid them farewell and they did the same from the top of the hill as they wound their way at a steady pace, dark shapes against the pearly dawn.
*
This land, so fraught with danger, held no secrets from Ambrosinus, as though he had been gone for a couple of days instead of years and years. He knew the language, the countryside, the character of the inhabitants, he knew how to cross the forests without losing his way and without ending up in the dark corners where outlaws might lie in wait. He knew the depths of the rivers and the length of the days and the nights. From the colour of the sky he could tell if a st
orm was approaching, or if they could expect good weather. The voices of the birds were precise messages of alarm or peace for him, and even the knotty trunks of the trees spoke to him. They told him stories of long snowy winters or fertile springs, of incessant rains, of lightning bolts fallen from the sky.
Only once did they have to face a threat: they were ambushed one evening by a band of brigands, but the overwhelming impact of Batiatus on his Armorican stallion, the deadly force of Aurelius and Vatrenus, Livia’s arrows, Demetrius’s swift reactions and Orosius’s quiet power soon triumphed over their aggressors, who for years had fought only as marauders and no longer as soldiers.
So, in just over two weeks of journeying, the little caravan had crossed almost a third of the country, and were camped not far from a city called Caerleon.
‘What a strange name,’ said Romulus, considering the place from a distance, struck by the strange mix of imposing ancient architecture and wretched huts.
‘It’s just the local deformation of Castra Legionum,’ explained Ambrosinus. ‘The legions of the south once pitched their camps here, and that structure down there is what remains of the amphitheatre.’
Aurelius and the others observed the city as well, and it had a strange effect on them to see the vestiges of Rome, still so imposing and yet already in ruin, bound for complete dissolution.
They continued on for two more weeks, reaching the base of the high lands and the edge of the vast forests. One night, as they were sitting around their campfire, Aurelius thought that it was time to establish the ultimate purpose of their long march, the future that awaited them in that far-flung corner of the world.
‘Where are we going, magister?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Don’t you think the time has come to let us know?’
‘Yes, Aurelius, you’re right. We’re going to Carvetia, the city I left many years ago. I had promised then to return with an imperial army to liberate this land from the barbarians of the north and from Wortigern. He was an oppressive tyrant at that time, and remains one now, although as we have heard he’s become old and weak. Lust for power is the most potent medicine: it keeps even dying men alive.’
They all looked at each other, stunned.
‘You promised to return with an army and you’re bringing us?’ said Vatrenus, pointing at himself and his companions. ‘We’ll be greeted by hoots of laughter! I thought you’d be taking us to a tranquil place, where we would be able to live a normal existence, in peace. I’d say we deserve it.’
‘In all truth,’ spoke up Demetrius, ‘I expected much the same: somewhere far from the madness of the world, in the country, where we could raise families, and use our swords to cut cheese, or bread.’
‘I’d like somewhere like that myself,’ piped up Orosius. ‘We could set up a little village and get together every now and then to enjoy a meal and reminisce about the trials and tribulations we went through. Wouldn’t that be beautiful?’
Batiatus nodded in swift agreement. ‘No one around here has ever seen a black man, but I think they’d get accustomed to me soon enough. Maybe even I could find a girl who wouldn’t mind living with me, what do you think?’
Ambrosinus raised his arm to cut off their rambling. ‘In the north, there is still an armed legion that awaits its emperor. It is known as the Legion of the Dragon, because its emblem is a silver dragon with a purple tail that swells up and moves as if it were alive, when the wind blows.’
‘You’re mad,’ Aurelius broke in. ‘The only legion, the last legion, was ours, and as you know, we’re the last survivors.’
‘That’s not true!’ objected Ambrosinus. ‘This legion does exist, and it was Germanus himself who founded it. He made my people promise, on his dying day, that they would keep it armed, in defence of the liberty of the country, until I returned. They would never break a promise made to a hero and a saint! I know that my words seem like ravings, but have I ever led you astray, have I ever deluded you, in all this time we’ve been together?’
Vatrenus shook his head, increasingly perplexed. ‘Do you realize what you’re saying? Even if it were true, they’d all be old men now: they’ll have white beards, and have lost all their teeth!’
‘You say so?’ challenged Ambrosinus. ‘They’re as old as you are, Vatrenus, or you, Aurelius. The age of hardened, indomitable veterans. I understand that all this must seem absurd to you, but listen to me, for the love of God! You’ll have what you are longing for. You’ll be able to enjoy a peaceful existence in a place that I’ll show you: a fertile, secluded valley, a little paradise watered by a crystal-clear spring, a place where you can live by hunting or fishing, where you can find women for yourselves among the nomad tribes that pass though every year with their flocks. But first you must complete your task, as you’ve promised me, and as you’ve promised this boy. I won’t ask for anything else. Escort us as far as the fortified camp that is our final destination, and then decide what you must. I will do everything in my power to assist you.’
Aurelius turned to the others: ‘You’ve all heard Ambrosinus’s words: our task is to present the emperor to his legion, granting that it still exists, and then we will have fulfilled our pledge. We may continue to serve at his orders, or be discharged with honour.’
‘But what if there is no legion?’ asked Livia, who had been silent up to then. ‘What will we do? Abandon him to his destiny? Will we split apart, each going his own way, or will we live together in this beautiful place that Ambrosinus has described?’
‘If it no longer exists, you will be free to do as you wish. That holds for you as well, my son,’ said Ambrosinus, turning to Romulus. ‘You can live with them if they choose to remain, as I so ardently hope, and grow up in peace. You’ll become a man: a shepherd, perhaps, or a hunter, or a farmer, as you like. However, I am certain that God has set aside quite a different destiny for you, and that these men and this young woman will be the instruments of your destiny, as I have been. This long journey of ours has not been governed by chance, and it was not human valour alone that permitted us to win over so many seemingly impossible challenges. The hand of God, whatever God you believe in, has guided us and will continue to guide us, until we have carried out his will.’
Aurelius examined his companions’ faces, one by one. He gave Livia a deeply moving look, as if to communicate all the long-suffocated passion and fears that tormented him. From all he had the same silent response, unequivocal.
‘We will not abandon you,’ he said then. ‘Not before nor after this mad expedition. We will find a way to stay united. If it’s true that death has so often spared us, the day will surely come in which we can finally enjoy what remains of our lives, long or short as they may be.’ He rose to his feet and walked away, because he felt he could no longer control the tumultuous feelings that crowded his soul.
There was more to it than that. His nightmares had been coming back, the same that had tortured him all these years, and the stabbing pains in his head were getting worse, and more frequent, preventing him from expressing himself and showing his emotions, especially with Livia. He felt as though the circle of his life was drawing to a close. Something was waiting for him there, at the end of the world: a final settling of accounts, with himself and his destiny.
Ambrosinus waited until the fire had gone out and everyone was asleep before he approached him. ‘Don’t lose heart, I beg of you,’ he said. ‘Have faith, and remember that the greatest endeavours are managed by a handful of heroes.’
‘I’m no hero,’ Aurelius replied without even turning, ‘and you know that.’
*
It snowed, that night, and it was the last snowfall of the winter. From that day on, they rode forward in the sunshine, under a sky of clouds as fluffy white as the coats of the lambs who were venturing out for the first time with their flocks to pasture. Violets and daisies sprang up overnight on the meadows facing south. Finally, one day, Ambrosinus stopped at the foot of a hill and got off his mule. He took his pilgrim’s staff and wa
lked to the top, under everyone’s eyes. Then he turned around and shouted: ‘Come on now! What are you waiting for? Come on, hurry!’
Romulus was the first to catch up, sweaty and panting, followed by Livia and Aurelius and Vatrenus and the others. Just a few miles ahead of them lay the Great Wall, extending like a powerful stone belt from one side of the horizon to the other, studded with castles and towers. Beneath them to their right, not too far from where they stood, glittered the waters of a little lake, as clear and transparent as air. At its very centre was a green mossy crag. Far below, to the east, rose a mountain peak still capped with snow, and on its slopes, above a cliff, they could make out a fortified camp. Ambrosinus contemplated this superb spectacle enrapt: his gaze embraced the winding fortification that joined one sea to another, then rested on the lake, the mountain peak, the fortified camp, grey as the rock itself. He said: ‘We have arrived, my son, my friends. Our journey has come to an end. This is the Great Wall which crosses the entire country, and the mountain down there is Mons Badonicus. The lake at our feet is Lacus Virginis, which was said to be inhabited by a water nymph. And there, carved into the mountain itself, is the camp of the last legion of Britannia: the fort of the dragon!’
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THEY DESCENDED INTO THE completely deserted valley and advanced towards the fort, which now seemed more distant than it had from the top of the hill. They skirted the enchantingly beautiful lake, a small rocky basin surrounded by black, white and brown pebbles which glistened under the transparent water. They then started the ascent towards the low hill where the fort stood, resting on a rocky platform.
‘The interior part of the camp,’ explained Ambrosinus, ‘was excavated to create a flat surface on which the troops’ accommodations and the stables and sheds could be built. All around, a dry wall was raised for protection, topped by a palisade and guard towers.’
The Last Legion Page 37