The Last Legion

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Ambrosinus would have liked to continue speaking with him, but the man could no longer go on, because a knot closed his throat. He gazed long and hard at the standard waving in the sun and then walked away in silence.

  Struck by those revelations, the old man returned to visit Kustennin several times, to try to win him over to his cause, but it was all in vain. To challenge Wortigern’s power under those conditions was equivalent to committing suicide. The semblance of freedom that his people still enjoyed must have seemed sufficient to him, compared with the enormous risks of a rebellion. The mere thought was so worrisome that Kustennin had never even gone to the old fortress to greet the rest of the new arrivals.

  Carvetia was the only city remaining under Wortigern’s dominion which still enjoyed a modicum of freedom, only because the tyrant needed the resources of their markets and ports on the Ocean. Some goods were still traded, and the news which arrived with the vessels from distant lands was no less indispensable for maintaining and extending his power than were the swords of his mercenaries.

  *

  Inside the fortress, in the meantime, the men had repaired the defences, rebuilt the turrets and the embattlements and embedded the rampart and the trench with pointed, flame-hardened stakes. Batiatus set the old forge to work again, and his hammer sounded incessantly on the anvil. Vatrenus, Demetrius and Orosius had restored the living quarters, the stables, the oven and the mill and Livia had delighted them all with freshly-baked loaves of fragrant bread and cups of steaming milk. Only Aurelius, despite his initial burst of enthusiasm, seemed to grow more sullen with each passing day. He spent long hours every night on the bastions, arms at the ready, scanning the darkness as if waiting for an enemy who never arrived – an enemy who none the less made him feel bewildered and powerless; a ghost, who resembled Aurelius himself: the ghost of a coward or worse, of a traitor. He was always up on the bastions readying his defences, preparing his strategy. When would the siege begin? When would the hordes on horseback appear at the horizon? When would the hour of truth strike out of that blue sky? Who would open the doors to the enemy this time? Who would let the wolf into the fold?

  Ambrosinus sensed Aurelius’s thoughts, felt a pain so intense that not even Livia’s love could assuage it. He realized that the time had come to confront events head on, to force the hand of a destiny which had mocked and escaped them – and just as he was reflecting on the best course of action, Kustennin appeared on his white stallion. He brought sad news: Wortigern had ordered the dissolution of the senate by the end of the month. The people would have to forego the ancient magistratures, and within the city walls would have to accept a garrison of fierce mercenaries from the continent.

  ‘Perhaps you were right, Myrdin,’ reflected Kustennin. ‘The only true liberty is what we win with our sweat and our blood, but now it’s too late.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ replied Ambrosinus, ‘and you’ll know why if you drop in on tomorrow’s session of the senate.’

  Kustennin shook his head as if he had never heard so much nonsense, then leapt into his saddle and rode off at a gallop through the deserted valley.

  *

  The next morning, when it was still dark, Ambrosinus took Romulus by the hand and they started off towards the city.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Aurelius.

  ‘To Carvetia,’ he replied. ‘To the senate, or to the market square where I’ll call the people to assembly, if necessary.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘No, your place is here, at the head of your men. Have faith,’ he said, and took his pilgrim’s staff, making his way with the boy along the path that meandered through the meadows, along the banks of the Virginis lake, leading to the city.

  Carvetia still seemed a Roman city: its walls of rectangular stone guarded by sentries, its streets and its buildings, the customs of its people and its language. Ambrosinus found himself in front of the senate, where the people’s representatives were entering for a council session. Other citizens entered as well, crowding into the atrium before the doors were closed.

  One of the orators stood to take the floor: an austere, striking figure wearing simple clothing and with a look of honesty. He must have enjoyed great respect and consideration, because a hush fell over the hall when he began to speak.

  ‘Senate and people of Carvetia!’ he commenced. ‘Our condition has become intolerable. The tyrant has hired new foreign mercenaries of unprecedented savagery, with the pretext of protecting the population of the cities still governed by autonomous institutions. He is about to dissolve the last symbol of the free assembly of citizens in Britannia: our senate!’ A buzz of consternation spread among the senate seats and the people thronging in the atrium.

  ‘What shall we do?’ continued the orator. ‘Bend our heads as we have done until now? Accept more bullying and more shame, allow them to trample our rights and our dignity, to profane our homes, to tear our own wives and daughters from our arms?’

  ‘Unhappily, we have no choice,’ spoke up one of the senators. ‘Resisting Wortigern would mean the death of us all.’

  ‘That’s true!’ another chimed in. ‘We can’t hope to face his ire. We’d be swept away. If we submit, we can at least try to preserve some of our advantages.’

  Ambrosinus strode forward then, holding Romulus by the hand. ‘I would like to ask for the floor, noble senators!’ he shouted.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the president. ‘Who are you to disturb our assembly?’

  Ambrosinus bared his head and advanced to the centre of the hall, keeping Romulus close, sensing the boy’s reluctance to show himself.

  ‘I am Myrdin Emreis,’ he began, ‘Druid of the sacred wood of Gleva and Roman citizen with the name of Meridius Ambrosinus, for as long as Roman law reigned over this land. Many years ago you sent me to Italy with the mission of imploring the emperor for help, and returning with an army that would re-establish order and prosperity to this suffering land, just as in the glorious time of Saint Germanus, the hero sent by Aetius, the last and most valiant of the soldiers of Rome.’

  Their stupor at his unexpected appearance had plunged the room into an oppressive silence and Ambrosinus continued: ‘I failed in this mission. I lost my companions during our journey as they fell to cold, to hunger, to disease and to attacks. It was a miracle that I survived. I sat for days and days, suppliant, in the court of the imperial palace of Ravenna. All in vain. I was never even admitted into the presence of the emperor, a spineless man totally under the power of his barbarian militias. Now I have returned. I’m late, this is true, but I’m not alone. My hands are not empty!

  ‘All of you, I believe, are familiar with the oracle that announces the coming of a young, pure-hearted man who will bring the sword of justice to this land and restore her lost liberty. I have brought you this young man, noble senators!’ he shouted out, and had the boy advance until he stood alone before them.

  ‘This is Romulus Augustus Caesar, the last emperor of the Romans!’

  His words met with a deep, astonished silence, then a confused murmur which grew to a widespread muttering. Some seemed awestruck by Ambrosinus’s claims, others began to laugh and to make fun of the unexpected orator.

  ‘Where is this miraculous sword?’ asked a senator, raising his voice over the fracas.

  ‘And where are the legions of the new Caesar?’ asked another. ‘Do you have any idea of how many warriors Wortigern has? Any idea at all?’

  Ambrosinus hesitated, wounded by their words. He began again: ‘The twelfth Draco legion is being reinstated. The emperor will be presented to the soldiers, who I’m sure will find the will and the strength to fight and to oppose this tyranny.’

  Thunderous laughter echoed through the hall, and a third senator took the floor to speak. ‘You’ve been gone a long time, Myrdin,’ he said, using his Celtic name. ‘That legion was dissolved long ago. No one would ever even dream of taking up arms again.’

  More laughter foll
owed and Romulus felt overwhelmed by that wave of derision and scorn flooding over him, but he stood his ground. He covered his face with his hands and stood immobile in the centre of the hall. The uproar died down at the sight of him, becoming a buzz of embarrassment and sudden shame. Ambrosinus laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and began to speak again, enflamed by his indignation. ‘Laugh, noble senators! Mock this poor boy. He has no way to defend himself nor to retort to your foolish insolence. He has seen his own parents cruelly butchered, he has been hunted relentlessly, like an animal, by all of the powers of this earth. Once accustomed to imperial pomp, he has had to deal with the harshest privation. He is a hero. He has concealed in his heart the pain, the desperation and the fear that are more than understandable in a boy his age, with the strength and the dignity of an ancient hero of the Republic.

  ‘Where is your pride, senators of Carvetia? Where is your dignity? You deserve the tyranny of Wortigern. You have got your just deserts, because you harbour the souls of servants! This boy has lost everything but his honour and his life. His is the suffering majesty of a true sovereign. I have brought him to you as the last seed of a dying tree, so as to bear forth a new world, but the ground I’ve found here is putrid and sterile. It is only right that you refuse him, because you do not deserve him. No! You deserve the scorn of any man of honour or faith!’

  Ambrosinus had finished his heartfelt speech to dead silence. A leaden weight lay upon that dismayed and confused assembly. Ambrosinus spat on the ground as a sign of his extreme disdain, then took Romulus by the arm and walked out scornfully, as a few faint voices tried to call him back. As soon as they had left, making their way through the crowd, the discussion started up again and soon rose to quite a pitch, but one of the senators hastened to a side door and slipped into a waiting carriage, ordering the driver to depart immediately. ‘To Castra Vetera,’ he said. ‘To Wortigern’s castle, hurry!’

  Ambrosinus, furious over the insult, had walked out into the square. He was trying all the same to encourage Romulus to hold fast against the insults of destiny, when suddenly he was taken by the arm.

  ‘Myrdin!’

  ‘Kustennin!’ exclaimed Ambrosinus. ‘My God, what shame! Did you see what happened? Were you in the senate?’

  The man lowered his head: ‘I was. Do you understand now why I said it was too late? Wortigern has corrupted most of the senators. He can easily dissolve the institution today without encountering any resistance.’

  Ambrosinus shook his head solemnly. ‘I must speak with you,’ he said. ‘I must speak with you at length, but I cannot remain here now. I have to take my boy home . . . Romulus, come on, let’s leave . . .’ He looked around, but Romulus was nowhere to be seen. ‘Oh God, where are you? Where is the boy?’ he exclaimed in anguish.

  Egeria had just arrived, and she approached him. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the woman with a smile. ‘There he is, down there on the beach. My daughter Ygraine is with him.’

  Ambrosinus breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Let them talk together for a little while. Young people need each other,’ added Egeria. ‘Tell me, is it true what I’ve just heard from the people leaving the senate? I couldn’t believe my ears. Where has common dignity gone? Or at least the decency to hide one’s cowardice?’

  Ambrosinus answered with a nod of his head, but his eyes never moved from the boy sitting down there at the edge of the sea.

  *

  Romulus watched silently as the waves washed over the pebbles on the shore and he could not control the sobs which racked his chest.

  ‘What’s your name? Why are you crying?’ asked the voice of a girl behind him. It was a pretty, carefree voice that irritated him, but then the touch of a hand on his cheek, as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, passed on a little soothing warmth.

  He replied without turning, because he didn’t want her face to be different from the one that he had suddenly imagined: ‘I’m crying because I’ve lost everything: my parents, my home, my land; because I may lose the last friends I have, and perhaps even my name and my freedom. I’m crying because there’s no peace for me anywhere on this earth.’

  Those words were much bigger than she was, and the girl wisely responded with silence, but her hand continued to caress Romulus’s hair and his cheek, until she understood that he had calmed. Then she said: ‘My name is Ygraine, and I’m twelve. May I stay here with you a bit?’

  Romulus nodded, drying his tears with the end of his sleeve, and she crouched down on the sand, sitting on her heels in front of him. He lifted his face to see if her face was as sweet as her voice and the touch of her fingers. He found two moist blue eyes and a face of delicate beauty, framed by a cascade of fiery-red hair that the sea breeze tousled, covering and baring her forehead and her splendid eyes. His heart skipped a beat, and a rush of heat rose from his chest. He’d never felt anything like it before. Her gaze held all the warmth and beauty and comfort that life might perhaps still have in store for him. He wanted to say something, to let his heart speak, but just then he heard Ambrosinus’s footsteps approaching, along with the others’.

  ‘Where will you sleep tonight?’ asked Kustennin.

  ‘At the fort,’ replied Ambrosinus.

  Kustennin seemed worried: ‘Take care Myrdin! Your words won’t have gone unnoticed.’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping,’ retorted Ambrosinus, but he’d understood the import of Kustennin’s words and felt afraid.

  ‘Come now, Ygraine,’ said Egeria. ‘We have many chores to finish before evening.’ The girl stood up unhappily and followed her mother, turning back to look at the young foreigner, so different from the other boys she knew. His face was so very pale, his features and his voice quite noble. The intensity of his words was reflected in the deep melancholy of his eyes. Kustennin took his leave as well and walked away with his family.

  Egeria let Ygraine skip off ahead and spoke to her husband: ‘They’re the ones who have raised the emblem of the dragon on the old fort, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Kustennin. ‘Absolute folly – and today Myrdin claimed that the legion has been reinstated whereas in truth there are only six or seven of them in all. What’s more, he has revealed the boy’s identity to the senators. Can you believe it?’

  ‘I can’t imagine what the reaction to such a revelation might be,’ responded Egeria, ‘but that standard flying up there has certainly created an uproar, roused expectations. They say that some have dug up the arms that have lain buried for years. Lots of young men, I’ve heard, want to join up with the foreigners. There have been rumours of strange lights flashing at night up on the bastions, sounds like thunder echoing in the mountains. I’m worried. I fear that this semblance of peace, this laboured survival of ours, will be shaken by new upheavals, turbulence, blood.’

  ‘They’re only a group of fugitives, Egeria, an old visionary dreamer and a boy,’ replied Kustennin. He took a last look at his friend who had reappeared as if by magic after all these years.

  The old man and the boy were on their feet, side by side. Without saying a word, they were watching the waves breaking against the cliff in a seething white foam.

  *

  The next day, towards evening, the senator’s carriage pulled up at the gates of Castra Vetera. He was allowed into Wortigern’s residence, but first had to pass muster with Wulfila, who enjoyed his lord’s complete trust. As they spoke, a satisfied sneer distorted the barbarian’s features.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘You must report directly to our sovereign. He will be most grateful.’ Then he accompanied him to the castle’s inner reaches, into Wortigern’s presence. The old man who received him sat sunken into his throne: his golden mask was the only note of light in that twilight atmosphere.

  ‘Speak,’ Wulfila ordered and the senator spoke.

  ‘Noble Wortigern,’ he said, ‘yesterday, at the senate of Carvetia, a man dared to speak out against you in public; he called you a tyrant and incited the people to rebel. H
e said that an old, long-dissolved legion is being reinstated, and he presented a boy, claiming that he was the emperor . . .’

  ‘It’s them,’ Wulfila interrupted him. ‘There can be no doubt. The old man raves about a prophecy that speaks of a young sovereign who will come from beyond the sea. He represents a true danger to you, believe me. He’s not as mad as he appears. On the contrary, he’s quite astute, and plays on the superstitions and the nostalgia of the old Roman-Celtic aristocracy. His goal is evident: he means to turn that little impostor into a symbol, and use him against you.’

  Wortigern raised his thin hand to dismiss his informer and the senator bent over in an endless bow until he reached the door, through which he made a hurried escape.

  ‘What do you suggest then?’ the tyrant asked Wulfila.

  ‘Give me free rein. Allow me to depart with my men, with the men I can count on. I know these bastards, trust me: I’ll find them and I’ll rout them out, wherever they’re hiding. I’ll bring you the old man’s skin to stuff and I’ll keep the boy’s head.’

  Wortigern tried to draw himself up. ‘It’s not the old man’s skin I’m interested in. We had a different deal.’

  Wulfila started. In that very moment, destiny was offering him a priceless opportunity: his entire plan was falling into place. He just had to provide the final touch, and a future of limitless power would open itself to him. He replied, trying to keep his excitement under control: ‘You’re right, Wortigern! In my enthusiasm for finally winding up this long hunt of mine, I had forgotten my promise for an instant. Our agreement! You let me keep the boy’s head and give me the chance to wipe out these murdering deserters who are protecting him, and I will repay you with the gift I promised.’

  ‘I see that you can always read my thoughts, Wulfila. So, have this gift that you’ve had me wait for so anxiously brought here. But first there’s one thing you must tell me.’

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘Among those men you want to wipe out, is there perchance the one who cut your face?’