He shouted out, with all the strength he had left, he shouted in horror, in hate, in desperation. Then he heard again the voice that had guided him through that hell and he found himself lying on that great circular stone, dripping with sweat, his head about to explode. Ambrosinus stood before him and urged him on: ‘Continue . . . continue, before the opening to your past closes up again. Remember, Aurelianus Ambrosius Ventidius, remember!’
*
Aurelius drew a long breath and sat up, bringing his hands to his hammering temples. Each word cost him immense effort: ‘I don’t know how long it took me to come to. They must have given me up for dead . . .’
Aurelius’s breathing had become calmer now. He brought his hand to the scar he had on his chest. ‘The blade that was meant to slit my carotid just cut through my skin beneath the collar bone, but the pain in my head was sheer agony . . . I couldn’t remember anything. I wandered aimlessly until I saw a column of refugees seeking escape on the boats in the lagoon. Instinctively I went to help. People were rushing in from every direction, besieging and even capsizing the boats. I did what I could: there were old people, women, children, sinking into the mud in a chaos of weeping and shouting, all crying out for those they had lost . . .
‘Not yet satiated by the destruction of Aquileia, the barbarians were pouring out of the gates, waving lit torches and galloping wildly towards the beach, to massacre the last survivors. The last of those boats, incredibly crowded, was leaving the shore, and the boatman was holding the last place for me. He reached out his hand and yelled: ‘Hurry! Get in!’ But just then we heard a woman’s voice: ‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘Wait for the love of God!’ She was running towards us in water nearly up to her waist, dragging along a little girl who was weeping in terror. I helped them to get on, taking the child into my arms so the woman could grasp the boatman’s hand. As soon as she had found a place, I reached out with the little girl. She was terrified by all that dark water, and she held out one hand to her mother, but the other wouldn’t let go of my neck. She . . . she tore off the medal I was wearing . . . the medal with the eagle . . . the symbol of my division and of my city, all lost. That little girl was Livia!’
Ambrosinus helped him to his feet and sustained his first steps as if he were an invalid. The two men walked slowly back to camp.
‘I was captured,’ continued Aurelius, ‘and sold as a slave, until one day I was liberated during an attack of the Nova Invicta Legion. From that day forward, the legion became my home, my family, my life.’
Ambrosinus clasped Aurelius’s shoulder with emotion. ‘You opened the gate only because you wanted to save your parents from a horrendous death,’ he said. ‘You are none other than the hero of Aquileia, he who defended the city for so many months. Wulfila was the executioner of your city and your parents.’
‘He’ll pay,’ swore Aurelius. ‘To the last drop of blood.’
They had reached the gate to the camp and Ambrosinus knocked with his staff. Livia threw it open; Romulus was with her, having stayed by her side all night.
‘Did you find what you were seeking?’ the girl asked Aurelius.
‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘You told me the truth.’
‘Love never lies. Didn’t you know?’ She embraced him and kissed his mouth, his forehead, his eyes still full of the horror they had seen.
Ambrosinus turned to Romulus. ‘Come, my boy,’ he said. ‘Come now, try to get some rest.’
The camp was immersed in silence. Each of them was on his own, wide awake on that tranquil springtime night, waiting for the sun to reveal their new destiny. Or their last.
‘Don’t leave me alone, tonight,’ said Livia. ‘I beg of you.’
Aurelius held her close, then led her by the hand into his quarters.
Now they stood alone, as the moon beams pierced the broken-down roof, illuminating Livia’s lovely face, caressing her with their pale light, diffusing a magical aura around her head, a flowing splendour of silver. Aurelius untied the fastenings of her clothes and contemplated her there, nude before him, ecstatically caressing – with his eyes and then his hands – her majestic beauty. She undressed him, slowly, with the devotion and the trembling expectation of a bride. She brushed her fingers lightly over his body of bronze, just barely skimming the hills and valleys of his torment, his flesh furrowed by so many scars, his muscles tensed by endless bloody ordeals. Then she lay back on that poor straw pallet, on that rough soldier’s blanket, and took him into her, arching her back like an untamed filly, digging her nails into his shoulders, seeking out his mouth. They loved each other hard and long, trembling with inexhaustible desire, mixing the burning flow of their breath, the torrid intimacy of their flesh. Then they fell back, and Aurelius lay close to her, wrapped in the perfume of her hair.
‘I fell in love with you that night,’ murmured Livia. ‘When I saw you, alone and unarmed on the bank of the lagoon, awaiting your destiny. I was only nine years old . . .’
37
AURELIUS AWOKE WHEN IT was still dark. He dressed and walked out into the vast deserted courtyard. His companions emerged from the darkness, one at a time, and drew close, awaiting the final word from him. Ambrosinus came out as well. None of them had slept.
Aurelius was the first to speak. ‘I’m staying,’ he said.
‘What?’ objected Vatrenus. ‘Have you lost your mind, man?’
‘If he’s staying, so am I,’ said Batiatus hanging his sword and double-edged axe from his belt.
‘I understand,’ approved Demetrius. ‘We’re staying behind to cover Romulus’s and Ambrosinus’s escape. It’s only right.’
‘It is right,’ repeated Orosius. ‘So Livia can be saved as well.’
Livia walked out in her Amazon garb, her bow hanging over her shoulder and her quiver in hand. ‘Aurelius is the man I love. I shall live with him if God so wills it, but I could not survive without him. This is my last word.’
Romulus moved into the centre of the circle of his companions. ‘Don’t think that I’m going to run, if the rest of you stay,’ he said. His firm, decided voice even seemed deeper, like a man’s. ‘We’ve got through all kinds of trouble together, and at this point my life wouldn’t mean anything apart from you. You’re the only ones I have left in the world, my beloved friends. I will not separate from you for any reason, and if you force me to leave I’ll come back. They’ll have to tie me up, or I’ll jump off the boat and swim back to shore, I’ll . . .’
Ambrosinus raised his hand to ask for attention. ‘I love this boy like a son, more than a son, and I would give my blood for him at any moment, but he’s a man now. Pain, fear, suffering and hardship have tempered him. He deserves the privilege of making his own decisions and we have to respect them – myself, first of all. Our destiny is about to come to a head in one way or another, very soon, and I want to share it with you. What has kept us together – what has prevented us from splitting up at the first signs of a threat – is so strong that it is stronger than the fear of death. It will keep us together until the end. I can’t tell you how I feel, hearing these words from all of you. I have nothing to offer you but my deepest affection and the counsel that almighty God inspires in me. I’m sorry for my friend Kustennin, who will be waiting in vain at the old wharf, but there are calls that you must heed, like this one.’
Silence fell, a silence dense with emotion. A deep serenity invaded each one of them, the calm of someone prepared to face the ultimate sacrifice for love, for friendship, for faith, for devotion.
Vatrenus was the first to react with his brusque manner: ‘Let’s get going then, shall we?’ he said. ‘There’s no way I’m going to let them slaughter me like a sheep. I’m going to take a few of those bastards down to hell with me.’
‘You said it!’ exclaimed Batiatus. ‘I’ve always detested those freckled freaks.’
Ambrosinus could not hide his smile. ‘I’ve heard you say that before, Batiatus,’ he said. ‘Maybe I have something for you, then, something I fou
nd last night when I couldn’t fall asleep. Come with me.’ He walked towards the praetorium. The others followed as well, and entered into the old commander’s quarters. His table and field stool were still there, along with several parchment scrolls with company documents. The faded portrait of a beautiful woman was painted on a panel hung on the wall. Ambrosinus went straight to a spot in the floor and lifted a mat of woven straw. There was a trap door beneath. He raised the lid, gesturing for the others to go down.
Aurelius went first, and he could not believe his eyes: the Legion’s armoury! Arranged in perfect order were at least twenty full suits of armour still shiny with grease, fashioned in the ancient manner with segmented cuirasses, helmets and shields, with bundles of triangular-tipped javelins, the kind used by Trajan and Hadrian in their heyday. There were ballistae and catapults with massive iron bolts, disassembled but in perfect working order, plus a great number of what the soldiers called lilies: deadly three-pronged devices that, buried in the ground, formed a barricade against the enemy infantry and cavalry.
‘With all due respect for your philosophical propositions, I’d say this is the best contribution you’ve ever made to our cause,’ exclaimed Vatrenus, slapping Ambrosinus on the back. ‘Step up, boys, and get busy. Demetrius, you’ll help me mount the catapults and ballistae.’
‘Position most of them facing east,’ ordered Aurelius. ‘It’s our most vulnerable side, and where they’ll probably choose to attack.’
‘Orosius and Batiatus,’ continued Vatrenus, ‘the two of you take your shovels and pickaxes and lay out the lilies where Aurelius tells you to: he’s the strategist here. Livia, you take the artillery bolts up to the battlements, along with some arrows and javelins . . . and stones, all the stones you can find. Each of us will take a complete suit of armour: helmets, breastplates, everything, just take whatever fits. Except for Batiatus, obviously; there’s nothing in his size!’
Batiatus looked around, perplexed. ‘No, hold on, what about this horse’s breastplate? A few hammer blows and it will fit just fine.’
They all broke out in laughter as they watched the giant lift up the heavy battle horse’s cuirass and run up the stairs to get started.
‘What about me?’ asked Romulus. ‘What must I do?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Vatrenus. ‘You’re the emperor.’
‘I’ll help Livia, then,’ he decided and he began piling up javelins, as his friend was doing.
Aurelius came up last and started shuffling through the dust-covered scrolls still on the table. One in particular attracted his attention, with its beautiful, precise calligraphy. There were lines of verse: ‘Exaudi me regina mundi, inter sidereos Roma recepta polos . . .’ ‘Heed my words, Queen of the world, Rome, you who have been welcomed among the constellations of the firmament’. It was the start of Rutilius Namatianus’s De reditu suo, the last heartfelt hymn to the greatness of Rome written seventy years earlier at the eve of the sacking of Alaric. He sighed and slipped the little parchment under his corselet, over his heart, like a talisman.
Ambrosinus was just coming up from the underground chamber and Aurelius approached him. ‘When you see that everything is lost, take the boy down there and wait until it’s all over. When it’s dark, find Kustennin and accept whatever help he can give you. You’ll manage to convince Romulus, and perhaps you’ll find a place, in Ireland maybe, where you can start a new life.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ replied Ambrosinus calmly. Aurelius shook his head and went out into the courtyard to help the others.
They worked briskly all day, with incredible enthusiasm, as if an intolerable weight had been lifted from their hearts. At sunset, completely done in, sweaty and covered with dirt and dust, Aurelius and his men contemplated their achievements: the catapults and ballistae lined up on the bastions, piles of bolts and javelins ready and waiting next to the machines, reinforcements at the parapets, a great number of bows and arrows close at hand, right near the loopholes. Their shiny suits of armour leaned against the palisade. Batiatus’s was there as well, burnished and bright, adjusted using a mallet on the anvil. Built to cover the chest of a horse, it would now protect the torso of the black Hercules in battle.
They ate together, sitting around the fire, and then prepared for the night.
‘You must all get your sleep, because tomorrow you must be ready for the fight,’ said Ambrosinus. ‘I’ll stay awake. My eyesight’s still good, and my hearing’s even better.’
*
They all slept: Batiatus with his head pillowed on his armour, by the still warm forge; Livia in Aurelius’ arms, in the barracks; Demetrius and Orosius in the stables, near the horses; Romulus, wrapped up in his travelling blanket, under the penthouse; Vatrenus on the bastions, inside the guard tower.
Ambrosinus was awake by the gate, deep in thought. Gently, he pushed the gate open and walked out to the great circular stone. Here he began to pile up a quantity of the wood, branches and dry bark, that lay at the feet of the century-old oaks. He approached a colossal oak and entered through a split in its trunk, extracting a wooden mallet and a large round object: a drum. He hung it from a branch and delivered a huge blow with the mallet, producing a hollow rumble that bounced off the mountains like the voice of a tempest. He then dealt another blow and then a third, and then yet another.
Aurelius, back at the camp, rose from his cot. ‘What was that?’ he asked. Livia took his hand and pulled him back down. ‘It’s just thunder, go back to sleep.’
But the sound was becoming louder, deeper and incessant, multiplied by the echo that resounded off the sides of the hills, off the cliffs and through the pastures. Aurelius strained to hear. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not thunder, it sounds like an alarm signal . . . but for whom?’
Vatrenus’s voice rang out from the tower. ‘Come and see, quickly!’ They all grabbed their weapons and rushed to the bastions. In the distance, the megalithic circle seemed ablaze. An enormous bonfire burned within the great stone pillars, shooting whirling sparks into the night sky. They could make out a shadow moving like a ghost against the glare of the flames.
‘It’s Ambrosinus doing his witchcraft,’ observed Aurelius, ‘and here we were thinking he was standing guard. I’m going back to sleep. Vatrenus, you stay out here until he comes back.’
In the houses scattered throughout the countryside, others saw that fire – shepherds and farmers, blacksmiths and craftsmen – and they lit fires of their own, under the astonished eyes of their wives and children, until the flames rose everywhere, on the mountains and on the hills, from the shores of the Ocean to the Great Wall.
The roar of the drum reached Kustennin’s ear as well. He leapt from his bed and took up his sword. From the window he could see the fires and he realized why no one had shown up at the port that morning. He looked at Egeria and Ygraine’s empty beds and thought of the boat that was sailing on tranquil waters by that time, towards a safe haven. He opened a chest and took out the dragon of silver and purple. He woke up one of his servants and ordered him to prepare his armour and his horse.
‘But where are you going, my lord, at this hour?’ he asked in surprise.
‘To visit some friends.’
‘Then why are you taking your sword?’
The wind carried with it the distant thunder of the drum. It was getting louder.
Kustennin sighed: ‘There are times,’ he said, ‘in which you need to choose between the sword and the plough.’ He hung his sword from his belt and went down the stairs towards the stables.
*
At dawn, Aurelius, Vatrenus and all the companions, armed to the teeth, were on the bastions and silently staring at the horizon. Romulus went from one to another with a pot of steaming soup. Aurelius was last.
‘How is it?’ he asked.
Aurelius tasted a spoonful. ‘Good. The best that’s ever been served in a military camp.’
Romulus smiled. ‘Maybe we’ve done all this for nothing. Maybe they won’t come.
’
‘Maybe . . .’
‘Do you know what I was thinking? This is a good place to found our little community. Maybe this camp could become a village one day, and I could even find a girl for myself. I met one down in the city, she has red hair, you know?’
Aurelius smiled. ‘I’m pleased – that you’re starting to think about girls, that is. It means that you’re growing up, but it also means that your wounds are healing. One day the memory of your parents will cease to pain you so much and will become a soothing thought of love that will keep you company your whole life.’
Romulus sighed. ‘Yes, maybe you’re right, but I’m not even fourteen. A boy my age needs a father.’ He poured himself a little soup and began to eat, trying to get his emotions in check. He glanced sideways at Aurelius now and then, to see if he was looking his way as well. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘this soup is pretty good. Livia made it.’
‘I thought so,’ replied Aurelius. ‘Tell me something. If your father were here, what would you ask him?’
‘Nothing special. I’d like to spend some time with him, like the two of us now, eating breakfast. Simple things, nothing much, just being together, knowing you’re not alone, you know?’
‘I do,’ answered Aurelius. ‘I miss my parents terribly as well, even though I’m a lot older than you.’
They stood for a while watching the horizon without saying a word. Aurelius broke the silence. ‘Know what? I’ve never had children and I don’t know that I ever will. What I mean is . . . we don’t know how this will turn out, and . . .’
The Last Legion Page 42