The Last Legion

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘I know,’ sighed Romulus.

  ‘I was wondering if . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Aurelius fingered his bronze ring with its monogram carved into a little cameo. ‘Now I know that this ring is truly mine. That it’s my family ring, and I was wondering . . . I was wondering if you’d accept it.’

  Romulus looked at him with bright eyes. ‘You mean you want . . .’

  ‘Yes. If you accept I would like to adopt you as my son.’

  ‘Here? Now?’

  ‘Hic et nunc,’ replied Aurelius. ‘If you accept.’

  Romulus threw his arms around his neck. ‘With my whole heart,’ he said. ‘Although . . . I don’t think I can manage to call you “father.” I’ve always called you Aurelius.’

  ‘That’s fine with me, of course.’

  Romulus held out his right hand. Aurelius slipped the ring off his third finger and placed it on the boy’s thumb, after discovering that all his other fingers were too slender. ‘Then I adopt you, as my son, Romulus Augustus Caesar Aurelianus Ambrosius Ventidius . . . Britannicus! And so be it as long as you shall live.’

  Romulus hugged him again. ‘Thank you! I shall honour you as you deserve to be honoured.’

  ‘But I’m warning you,’ shot back Aurelius. ‘Now you’ll have to follow my advice, not to say obey my orders . . .’

  Romulus was about to answer when Demetrius’s voice sounded from the tallest tower. ‘They’re coming!’

  Aurelius shouted: ‘Take your places, everyone! Romulus, you go with Ambrosinus, he already knows what must be done. Come on now, hurry!’

  The prolonged wail of horns sounded at that moment; the same sound they had heard at Dertona on the day of Mledo’s attack. A long row of armoured horsemen appeared on the line of hills to the east, advancing at a walk. The formation parted to reveal a gigantic warrior, his face covered with a golden mask and a shining sword in his grip.

  Aurelius gestured to Vatrenus and Demetrius, who manned the catapults and ballistae.

  ‘Look!’ shouted Demetrius. ‘Someone’s approaching.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a deal they want!’ said Vatrenus, leaning over the parapet.

  A man on horseback, flanked by two armoured warriors, advanced holding a white cloth draped over a horizontal rod: the truce sign. The three of them pulled up directly beneath the palisade.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Vatrenus.

  ‘My lord, Wortigern, offers to spare your lives if you hand over the young usurper who claims to call himself Romulus Augustus, and the deserter who protects him, known by the name of Aurelius.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ replied Vatrenus. ‘I must consult my companions.’ He drew close to Batiatus and whispered something to him.

  ‘Well?’ pressed the messenger. ‘What must I answer?’

  ‘That we accept!’ shouted Vatrenus.

  ‘Here’s the boy, first of all,’ yelled Batiatus. He leaned over the parapet, holding a bundle in his arms. Before the barbarian could realize what he was up to, he hurled it at him. It was a boulder wrapped in a blanket that hit its mark and crushed him to the ground. The other two spun their horses around and fled, as Batiatus was shouting: ‘Wait, I’ve got the other one for you!’

  ‘This will raise their hackles,’ said Aurelius.

  ‘Does it make any difference?’ observed Vatrenus.

  ‘Not at all. Be ready: they’re advancing.’

  The horns sounded again and the vast front of horsemen surged forwards. When they were a quarter of a mile from the camp, the line split again and a battering ram, pulled by eight men on horseback, was launched down the slope.

  ‘They think they’re back at Dertona!’ shouted Aurelius. ‘Ready with the catapults!’

  The enemy horsemen had accumulated considerable impetus when they reached the ground planted with the lilies. The two lead horses crashed to the ground, flinging their horsemen on to the prongs of iron hidden in the grass. The machine was thrown off balance and veered to the left, picking up speed. The wheels could no longer bear up under the weight and flew into pieces, and the ram toppled over and rolled down the hill, bouncing off the rocks until it plummeted into the lake.

  The catapults shot off and four more horsemen were hit as they tried to retreat. A roar of enthusiasm burst forth on the fort’s bastions, but then the horns echoed once again. The horsemen had stopped and were letting through a wave of light infantry.

  ‘Watch out!’ shouted Demetrius. ‘They have incendiary arrows!’

  ‘To the bows!’ ordered Aurelius. ‘Stop as many as you can!’

  The foot soldiers advanced at a run towards the camp. It soon became obvious that they were inadequately armed servants, sent forward to be massacred and to open the way for the heavy cavalry. Behind them, the barbarian warriors held their bows ready to transfix any of them who tried to run off. The foot soldiers became aware of the lilies as soon as they saw the first men fall, screaming in pain, their feet pierced through. They split into two groups, circling the mined area, and began to shoot off their incendiary arrows in a long arch. Some were struck by the arrows of Livia and the others and fell, but many others sought shelter behind rocks and trees and continued to send their bolts flying with unfailing aim. The wooden stakes of the palisade, old and dry as they were, took flame immediately. More foot soldiers rushed forward with ladders in hand, but they were nailed to the ground by the ballista fire and by volleys of arrows from the battlements.

  The horsemen, at this point, had resumed their deliberate advance. They were evidently waiting for the burning section of the palisade to crumble so they could launch their attack.

  Aurelius gathered his men. ‘We have neither the water nor the men to extinguish the flames, and Wulfila will soon loose his warriors through the breach. Vatrenus, you and Demetrius continue firing; down as many of them as you can with the artillery, but when they come in, we’ll have no choice but to move out ourselves. We’ve left a passage, free of lilies, down there by that little ash tree. Batiatus, you’ll be our battering ram. Break through at the centre, and we’ll be close behind. We’ll attract them on to more uneven ground, where they’ll be forced to split up and proceed on foot. We still have hope.’

  Part of the palisade came crashing down all at once in a flurry of smoke and sparks, and the enemy cavalry charged forward at a gallop towards the breach. The catapults and ballistae were rotated on their platforms and discharged a volley of bolts, bringing down half a dozen horsemen who pulled others down in their fall. A second volley raised havoc in the crowd, slaughtering many, then the bows let fly and, as the enemy got closer, the javelins, first the light, long-range weapons and then the heavier, short-range type. The ground was sown with corpses, but the enemy continued to advance, confident of dealing the decisive blow.

  ‘Out!’ shouted Aurelius then. ‘Out of the southern gate! We’ll outflank them. Ambrosine, take the boy to safety!’

  Batiatus had donned his cuirass, and the salleted helmet which covered his head and face, and was ready below, in the saddle of his gigantic Armorican stallion. The horse wore metallic plate armour as well, and his rider brandished the war axe. No mere horseman, Batiatus was a true war machine. The others were all soon behind him on their steeds, in a wedge formation. ‘Now!’ shouted Aurelius. ‘We’re out!’ and the gate sprang open as the first enemy horsemen were nearing the breach. Batiatus spurred his horse into a gallop over the open terrain, followed by his friends, aiming at the gap left free of the lilies.

  Romulus meanwhile had broken away from his tutor and had jumped into the saddle of his pony, waving a knife in place of a sword. He urged his pony towards his comrades, so he could do battle at their sides. Ambrosinus ran after him, yelling: ‘Stop! Come back!’ but he soon found himself stranded on open ground.

  Batiatus was charging the lines of enemy cavalry, knocking down everyone he found in his way. His companions followed, engaging the enemy in a furious brawl, wielding sword and shield against all th
ey met. Wulfila, who was still on the high part of the slope, spotted Aurelius and charged, sword drawn. Out of the corner of his eye, Vatrenus noticed Romulus who was racing forward to his right, and he yelled out: ‘To the hill, go Romulus, fast! Get away from here!’

  Ambrosinus was terrified, surrounded by horsemen riding at a full gallop in every direction. He dragged himself towards a rocky spike that emerged from the ground to his right, to see if he could spot the boy, and spot him he did, in the sway of his restive pony, racing towards the megalithic circle.

  Wulfila was nearly upon Aurelius and was screaming, enraged: ‘Fight, you coward! You won’t get away from me this time!’ He dealt the first, cleaving blow of his sword. Batiatus raised his shield, an enormous metallic disc, and saved Aurelius from the blade. The sword struck the shield with a terrible din, spraying off myriad sparks. Meanwhile the first wave of horsemen had penetrated the breach, flying through the flames and erupting into the camp. They unleashed their fury on everything they found, laying waste to the barracks and guard towers which were immediately set ablaze like giant torches.

  ‘There’s no one here!’ one of them shouted suddenly. ‘They’ve escaped. After them!’

  Ambrosinus had scrambled to the top of the rock and beheld Aurelius fighting with desperate valour against Wulfila. The Roman’s shield flew into pieces, his sword bent under the blows of his adversary’s invincible blade, but all at once, in that chaos of wild screaming, in that din of clashing arms, a piercing, acute note rose above all else. It was a trumpet, sounding the attack. At that very instant, on the highest rim of the eastern hills, the glittering head and purple tail of the dragon came into view. A compact line of warriors advanced behind, their spears held low, their shields forming a wall, launching the ancient battle cry of the Roman infantry with every step. The Legion of the Dragon had appeared out of nowhere, and was hurtling down the slope, led by Kustennin flanked by two arrays of horsemen.

  Wulfila had a moment’s hesitation and Batiatus charged him with all his bulk, throwing him off balance and pushing him sideways before he could deliver the mortal blow that would finish off Aurelius, totally unarmed now. Wulfila pitched to the ground, but as he was getting up, he caught a glimpse of Romulus falling off his horse and running towards the circle of stones to seek refuge. He bounded to his feet and set off after the boy but Vatrenus, who had guessed at his intentions, cut him off. Wulfila’s sword fell upon him with frightful power, slicing through his shield and cuirass. A stream of blood spurted from his chest as Wulfila broke away, shouting to his men ‘Cover me!’ Four of them lunged at Vatrenus, who continued to fight like a lion. Completely drenched in blood, he backed up to lean against a tree. They pierced him through once, twice, three times, nailing him to the trunk with their spears. Vatrenus had the strength to shout: ‘Go to hell, you bastards!’ before his head dropped, lifeless, to his chest.

  The rest of the barbarians squared off against the small group of combatants, who continued to strike with fierce energy. Aurelius took the sword of a warrior who had fallen and resumed the battle, trying to get through to where he had seen Wulfila running, towards the megalithic circle that Romulus had escaped to. Demetrius and Orosius flanked him but fell one after the other, overpowered. Batiatus finally broke through, but not in time to save them, and managed to force the enemy line so that Aurelius broke through too on to open ground, heading towards the circle of stones. Surrounded now on every side, the giant swirled his axe, chopping off heads and arms, crushing shields and cuirasses, flooding the ground with blood. A spear stuck in his shoulder and he was forced to back up against a rock. Like a bear besieged by a pack of dogs, Batiatus continued to swipe at them with frightful power, even though his blood was flowing copiously down his left side. Livia spotted him and started shooting off her arrows as she raced over on her horse, transfixing the enemies who had their backs towards her as they swarmed around the wounded giant.

  The fray continued ceaselessly, ferociously. The new combatants had reached the battle field, and advanced holding high the standard of the dragon. They drove back the enemy, who were completely taken aback by their sudden appearance, and forced them downhill.

  Ambrosinus, in the meantime, had seen Wulfila’s move and was racing breathlessly at the edge of the battle field, trying to reach the circle of stones and shouting: ‘Seek shelter, Romulus! Run! Hide!’

  Romulus had nearly reached the top of the hill and he turned around to seek out his friends in the midst of that bloody brawl.

  He found before him a huge warrior with long white hair, his face covered with a mask of gold. He was very close now, rank with blood and sweat and brandishing a sword red with slaughter. He suddenly ripped the mask off his face, revealing a distorted grimace: Wulfila! Romulus drew back, terrified, towards one of the great pillars, holding his knife out in a feeble attempt at defence. In the distance he could hear the distressed cries of his tutor and the confused din of the battle, but his gaze was magnetically attracted to the tip of the blade being raised to kill him. With a swipe of the sword, the boy’s knife flew to his enemy’s feet. Romulus continued to back away, until he knocked against the stone pillar. His long flight was over. Anguish, fear, hope: that blade would finish them all off, in a moment, and yet the frenzy of his escape and the panicked terror which had engulfed him at the sight of his implacable enemy had given way to a mysterious serenity, as he prepared to die like a true soldier. As the sword lunged forward to pierce his heart he heard Ambrosinus’s voice within him, very clearly. ‘Defend yourself !’ it commanded, and he dodged the blow, miraculously, with a sudden twist to the side. The sword plunged into a crack in the stone and stuck there. Without even turning, Romulus grabbed a handful of the burning embers from the great slab and flung them into the eyes of Wulfila, who backed away, howling in pain. Ambrosinus’s voice inside him, again calm and clear, said: ‘Take the sword.’

  Romulus obeyed. He grasped the magnificent golden hilt and pulled with tranquil strength. The blade meekly followed the young hand and when Wulfila opened his eyes he saw the boy pushing it two-handed towards his belly, his mouth wide in a cry more terrible than the roar of battle. In shock and amazement, he saw the blade penetrate his flesh and sink through his gurgling bowels. He felt it come out of his back, as sharp as the wild scream of that young boy.

  He fell on to his knees and Romulus planted himself squarely in front of him to contemplate his end, but Wulfila felt his hate feeding the life still within him, igniting an energy that still craved victory. He grabbed the handle of the sword and pulled it slowly out of the horrible wound, raising it with one hand as the other pressed at his belly. He lurched forward, staring at his victim to immobilize him with the terrifying force of his gaze, but as he was about to deal the blow, another blade pushed out of his chest, driven in from behind. Aurelius was at his back, so close he could whisper in his ear with a voice as harsh and cold as a death sentence.

  ‘This is for my father, Cornelius Aurelianus Ventidius, who you murdered at Aquileia.’

  A stream of blood leaked from his mouth but Wulfila was still on his feet, still trying to raise the sword which had become as heavy as lead. Aurelius’s blade transfixed him once again, from back to front, protruding from his sternum.

  ‘And this is for my mother, Caecilia Aurelia Silvia.’

  Wulfila collapsed to the ground with a last rattling gasp. Under Aurelius’s astonished eyes, Romulus bent over, wet his fingers in his enemy’s blood and drew a vermilion line across his forehead. Then he raised the sword to the sky, launching a cry of triumph that echoed, tense and sharp, acute as a war horn, over the field of blood that lay at his feet.

  The legion, victorious along the entire line, advanced in closed ranks towards the great circle of stones, following the glorious standard that had called them out of darkness and led them to victory. Kustennin grasped it in his hand, gleaming in the sun which had risen high in the sky. At the top of the hill, he dismounted and planted the standard into t
he ground near Romulus. He shouted: ‘Hail Caesar! Hail Son of the Dragon! Hail Pendragon!’

  He gestured for four warriors to approach. They crossed their four spears, placed a huge round shield on top, and hoisted Romulus so that he was standing on it. They raised him to their shoulders in the Celtic manner so all could behold him. Kustennin began to strike his sword against his shield and the whole legion with him: thousands of swords clanged against shields as thousands of voices rose even louder than the deafening clangour of the arms, infinitely repeating that shout: ‘Hail Caesar! Hail Pendragon!’

  Wulfila’s blood was on his forehead, the glittering sword was tight in his fist, and the victorious soldiers saw Romulus as a charmed being, as the young warrior of the prophecy. Their incessant shouting, fractured into a thousand echoes over the mountains, lit up his eyes with flaming passion, but, from on high, his gaze moved beyond the men to seek out his companions, and his triumph abruptly rang hollow. His frenzied euphoria gave way to choked emotion, as he jumped to the ground and made his way through the ranks of warriors who opened respectfully to allow his passage. Silence fell over the valley as he walked mute and dazed through the field strewn with cadavers. His eyes scanned the wounded and the dying, the frightful tangle of bodies still clutching each other in their death grip. He found Batiatus with a spear stuck in his shoulder, leaning against a rock, drenched in blood, in the middle of a heap of dead enemies. He saw his friends who had fallen in the unequal struggle: Vatrenus, nailed to a tree by three enemy spears, his eyes still open, still seeking an impossible dream; Demetrius and Orosius, inseparable in life, united in death, one alongside the other. Countless enemies, lying all around, had paid dearly for their deaths.

  And Livia. Alive, but with an arrow in her side, her face a mask of pain.

  Romulus burst out crying, hot tears that flooded his cheeks at the sight of his wounded companions and the friends that he would never see again. He walked on almost blindly, his sight dimmed by those harrowing visions, until he reached the shores of the lake. Small waves, just barely rippled by the wind, wet his sore feet and lapped at the tip of the sword still dripping blood. An infinite desire for peace washed over him, like a gentle springtime breeze. He cried out: ‘No more war! No more blood!’ and he washed his sword in the water until the blade shone like crystal. He stood up and began to swing it over his head, in a wider and wider circle, finally flinging it with all of his force into the lake. The blade flew through the air, dazzling bright against the sun, and plunged like a meteor into the heart of the moss-covered stone that rose at the centre of the lake.