The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  Ambrosius raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

  “But what possessed Heraclius to attack us at all? The emperor’s eunuch knows very well how Aetius will react. I may command a few bucellarii, but I can’t believe I’m that much of a nuisance to the imperial chamberlain!”

  “Well, whatever his reasons, at least you’ve dealt with it now,” said Marcellus.

  With a bitter shake of the head, Ambrosius murmured: “No, Marco, I don’t think I have…”

  “You think more will come?”

  “Heraclius can’t be acting alone - he must have the support of the emperor for this – he simply must!”

  “But Aetius rules, Dux, not Valentinian III – everyone knows that…”

  “But, I wonder, Marco, does Aetius still rule?”

  Marcellus paled. “You don’t think…”

  Staring back at his friend, Ambrosius hardly dared contemplate the prospect. He sat down heavily on the bed, where the blood of one of the assassins had not yet congealed.

  “Who did we leave with Aetius?” he asked.

  “Boethius and Lippa.”

  “Then I suppose we must wait to see if they send word. You’d better go to Verona and gather the men.”

  “God’s breath! They’ll be scattered all over the damned town now,” grumbled Marcellus.

  “Then you’d best make haste, my friend!”

  “What about this girl?” asked Marcellus.

  “What about her? I’ve just freed her.”

  “By Christ! Not another one, Dux! Is she even still alive?”

  “Yes, I’m alive!” cried the girl, massaging her ankle as she got gingerly to her feet. “But no thanks to him!”

  “I thought it was every thanks to me!” said Ambrosius.

  “You can’t just abandon her here, Dux,” said Marcellus.

  “Just go,” Ambrosius told him, with a final clasp of his arm, “and leave her to me - and hurry back!”

  “I’ll be a few hours at least. What if others come – I mean if they come at you hard…”

  “I’ll just have to manage, Marco,” muttered Ambrosius. “Now, go and fetch the men - if you can find them all, let alone prise them from whatever shithole they’ve fallen into.”

  “I’ll see you by noon at the latest-”

  Ambrosius smiled. “-or in the afterlife...”

  It was what they always said on parting, but Ambrosius wondered if today, it might just come true.

  When his friend had gone, he turned back to the girl, who slapped him, hard across the face. Had he not caught her slim, but surprisingly strong arm, she would have struck him again.

  “Inga!” she spat the word at him.

  “What?” he said, aggrieved.

  “My name… is… Inga!”

  “Very well, Inga,” he growled at her, “but you might think whether a badly-bruised ankle is better than a badly-severed head! Now, if you’ve finished hitting me, you can be on your way!”

  “On my way… where?” she cried.

  “Back to Verona, for all I care!”

  “Ah yes, the town where I’m a whore!”

  “Well, go north then – there are settlements along the lake…”

  “What settlements? What do I know of them? Ever since I was brought to Verona, I’ve spent every hour in the town… in the brothel… on my back… pleasing men like you!”

  “Well, you can’t stay here…” said Ambrosius, unsettled by her vehement response.

  “You said I was free, so why can’t I stay here?”

  “Not a chance!” said Ambrosius. “We may need to ride hard for the mountains. I’ve freed you and given you some coin – enough to keep you off your back for a while… now, for your own sake, go!”

  For a moment he thought she might strike him again, but instead she favoured him with a look of undisguised contempt and snatched up her cloak and newly acquired pouch of coins.

  “Well, I may as well go back to being a whore,” she cried, “because I was good at that!”

  “Wait!”

  “What?” she snapped, with a scowl.

  “Be still!” His terse command stopped her.

  While she stewed in grudging silence, he stood by the door, listening, and almost at once his head sank forward in dismay. Briefly, he considered flight, but it was fifty yards or more to where the horses were stabled at the rear of the caupona. The new arrivals would be upon them before they could even cross the courtyard.

  “So, I’m going then!” said Inga, stalking towards the door.

  Reaching out, he caught her by the arm. “Too late, Inga...”

  “What?”

  “Pity you didn’t leave when you had the chance…” he said, pulling her away from the door.

  Heraclius was known for his thoroughness, so he would not rely upon just one group of killers: he would send men after them - men upon whom he could rely absolutely. They would most likely be men Ambrosius already knew - but how many would there be, he wondered? A loyal handful perhaps, at the core of the emperor’s personal bodyguard - but in his present circumstances, a handful of such men would be enough…

  “Hide yourself in the inner chamber,” he told Inga. “If they find you, tell them you don’t know me. Tell them you’re just a slave.”

  He didn’t tell her that it would make no difference, that they would butcher her anyway.

  At first, she seemed inclined to argue, until she heard the crunch of boots on stones. Even then, she just stood staring at him with those blue, bewildered eyes.

  Easing her aside, Ambrosius walked to the half-open door and peered out. Barely thirty yards away, crossing the courtyard, were half a dozen of the imperial guard. When they saw him on the threshold, they exchanged a grim smile and drew out their weapons. They looked sore and exhausted; they must have ridden their mounts to death to get to him so quickly. It was not much, but it might help him a little.

  Backing into the chamber, with spatha in his right hand and the knife once more in his left, Ambrosius was astonished to find that Inga had still not moved.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed at her “You must convince them that you’re not with me!”

  But on Inga’s face was a look of resignation and, reaching down to retrieve one of the assassin’s bloody knives, she said: “It won’t matter whether I stand or hide, will it?”

  “If you carry on standing there, that’s where you’ll die!” he told her.

  “Yes, but not as a slave,” she breathed, “and not as a whore... If I die, I’ll die a free woman, won’t I?”

  “You’ll still be dead!”

  “Who knows?” murmured Inga. “Perhaps I’ll visit you… in the afterlife…”

  “I doubt it,” he murmured. “Not where I’m going…”

  Before turning back to face the door, he surveyed the chamber as if it were a battlefield – which of course, any moment now, it would be. And there he was, wearing only a woollen tunic he had just pulled on - no mail shirt and no helmet. He felt like a tethered goat.

  2

  On the threshold, the snap of their boots faltered and died as they halted to contemplate the fallen bodies within.

  “Oh, gods!” muttered Inga, in sudden fright, throwing herself down behind the bed.

  Ignoring her, Ambrosius kept his eyes fixed upon the men at the door – men he knew very well indeed. Long jealous of his privileged position, they would be confident that together they were more than a match for Aetius’s lone hunting dog.

  “As you see, lads, I always have a warm welcome for visitors,” he remarked cheerfully. “But today, it seems I grow ever more popular.”

  “Dux,” acknowledged Ravidus, with a curt nod, managing to inject just enough disdain in his tone.

  Being the fastest of them, Ravidus was sure to come through the door first. Lepidus, who was by far the most powerful swordsman, would follow; Crevicus and Fistulus, competent enough soldiers, would go wherever Lepidus led. For Ambrosius, the simple fact was
that even he could not fight all four at once and survive; his oft-lauded speed and power would not be enough. Even if by some miracle of God, he overcame them all, then the massive Cratus would fall upon him, with the wily Anticus, lingering out of reach as he observed every flexed sinew and savoured every savage thrust.

  Further conjecture was abandoned the moment Ravidus darted forward. But, though fleet of foot, the man was slow of wit. With a subtle sway of his body, Ambrosius easily wrong-footed his assailant, swept aside the ranging sword arm and plunged his knife deep into an exposed armpit. Even as Ravidus was falling, Lepidus hacked at Ambrosius with his spatha. While he defended with his sword, Ambrosius sought an opportunity to use his knife.

  Lepidus would be gambling that his superior sword arm would overpower his opponent before Ambrosius could do any serious damage with the knife. When Crevicus joined the fight, with frequent short stabs at his torso, Ambrosius was obliged to employ his knife simply to fend off the attacks.

  Trying to keep Lepidus between him and Crevicus, Ambrosius concentrated for a time only on defence. If he was patient, his moment would come for, strong though Lepidus was, he was far from battle-hardened. Sure enough, as his opponent began to tire, Ambrosius was able to risk the occasional lunge at him. Then, judging the moment had come, Ambrosius went on the offensive, battering his spatha against Lepidus until he saw that he was weakening further. Only then did he strike, hard and fast with his knife, low into his adversary’s groin. With a grunt of pain, Lepidus jerked back a pace but, just as Ambrosius aimed to carve his sword across him, Crevicus darted forward and stabbed Ambrosius under the ribs. Cursing his sluggishness, Ambrosius knew that the wound, though not deep, would at the very least cause some loss of blood, which he could ill afford!

  In a blur of rage, he spun around and went for both men. Ramming his knife down twice in quick succession into Crevicus’ thigh, he then slashed his spatha down across Lepidus with every ounce of strength he could muster. The mighty Lepidus collapsed onto his knees, blood pouring from the savage wound. Crevicus cried out, clutching at his leg where blood was already pumping out between his fingers. Allowing him to slump forward against him, Ambrosius plunged his knife into Crevicus’ throat and left it there until he felt warm blood run down his wrist.

  Kicking the dying Lepidus aside, Ambrosius prepared to meet the fourth man, Fistulus. Knowing very well the effect it would have, he hurled the lifeless body of Crevicus at him. Distraught at the sight of his comrade and lover bleeding out onto the floor, Fistulus could only roar with anguish. Seizing his chance, Ambrosius carved his spatha down through shoulder and neck until it bit into the edge of the breastplate but, by then of course, Fistulus was already dying. Mortally wounded, he toppled over to fall upon his dead beloved.

  Above the last moans of the dying men at his feet, Ambrosius could hear Anticus urging Cratus forward. After a glance down at his bloodied torso, Ambrosius gave a groan for, with two more men still to face, the wound would surely hamper him. But there was no respite as the giant Cratus, encouraged by Anticus, lumbered forward. Though Ambrosius drove his spatha into the great man’s stomach, Cratus seemed oblivious to the sharp steel as he lifted his opponent clean off his feet.

  Tossed against a wall, Ambrosius had the spatha torn from his grasp. Even as he slammed into the plaster and slid to the floor, he was certain he had inflicted a severe wound. Yet Cratus still lived, still breathed and still moved; and, all the while, Anticus stood waiting, sword drawn, ready to deliver the fatal blow.

  Cratus, however, was far from finished and bending down, he seized Ambrosius’ head in one of his great hands. Thick fingers probed and pressed against Ambrosius’ scalp as Cratus hauled him up from the floor.

  He’s going to pull my head off, thought Ambrosius. The bastard’s just going to rip it clean off… But instead Cratus propped him against the wall and, for the first time, examined his own wound.

  What he saw clearly displeased him, for he growled: “I’m going to crush your skull, Dux.”

  Ambrosius nodded, for though he still gripped his bloodied knife in his left hand, he knew his resistance was almost at an end. Both men knew the gut wound would kill Cratus but, long before that happened, Ambrosius would have been smashed to a pulp.

  Anticus, as ever, exhorted his comrade to greater things. “Finish him, Cratus – finish him and the glory will be yours!”

  “You had me when I was on my arse, Cratus,” said Ambrosius, with a grim smile. “You should have pounded me to death then.”

  When Cratus, with a dismissive grunt, pressed both hands against Ambrosius’ head, he summoned up what little strength he still possessed and forced his knife blade through the giant’s side in the vain hope that the tip might just burrow through all the muscle to reach the man’s heart. But it did not, and worse still, he could not free the blade for a second strike.

  Cratus gave a rueful grimace of pain. “Good try, Dux,” he conceded.

  Wondering what it was going to feel like when his head exploded, Ambrosius shut his eyes, but a wild cascade of screams persuaded him to open them again. Clinging to Cratus’ back was Inga, her hands scrabbling at the giant’s face. At first Ambrosius thought she must be trying to claw out the man’s eyes, until he saw the shaft of an assassin’s blade protruding from Cratus’ left eye. When Ambrosius felt the pressure ease upon his beleaguered skull, he knew that, this time, the man mountain truly was dying.

  Next moment though, the sword hilt of Marcus Anticus cracked onto the back of Inga’s head. Crying out, she fell to the floor and lay still. But her brave attack had won Ambrosius a brief respite. Dropping his shoulder, he pushed aside the weight of Cratus and, rolling onto the floor, retrieved his spatha in time to meet Anticus’ first stroke at the crouch.

  This adversary was different from all the others - relying upon stealth, not strength. Moving his feet fast, Anticus tried to turn his opponent but, desperate to gain a little more breathing space, Ambrosius lashed out with his spatha, sweeping it across the shocked face of his opponent. And, for once that day, Ambrosius had a little luck. Blood spurting from his splintered nose, Anticus staggered backwards and reached out for the door frame to stop himself falling.

  “More will come, Dux…” he said, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

  “But why?” snarled Ambrosius. “Why?”

  “Because your man is dead, Dux; Aetius is dead - slain by the emperor’s own hand - and very soon, you will be too…”

  “No!” roared Ambrosius, striking with merciless fury and chopping first at Anticus’ outstretched arm, then shoulder and neck until the imperial officer fell across the threshold in a quivering, blood-soaked heap.

  Catching his breath, Ambrosius leant against the door frame.

  “Aetius… dead…” he groaned, with a shake of the head. “No… that can’t be! The death of Aetius would be… it would be… the end of Rome… the end of it all…”

  He glanced along the passage and into the yard, but both were empty. No raised voices, no rap of boots on stone. No-one else would trouble him – at least for now.

  He took several deep breaths causing more blood to seep from his wound.

  “Careless fool!” he berated himself, for it would need binding up before he rode anywhere.

  Stepping across the room he found Inga on her belly where she had fallen. Though there was a raw wound at the base of her skull, it would heal. When he touched her arm, she cried out, shrinking away from him.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  She lifted her head and looked up at him, eyes not truly focussed. “Are you still alive, or are we both… in the afterlife?”

  He gave a shrug, which also turned out to be quite painful. “I can only speak for me.”

  She grasped his outstretched arm, fingers slipping on the blood there, and winced as she stood up. “My head feels sore...”

  “It ought to feel sore,” he told her, “but you’ll live. You’re lucky! He could have sliced his sword right th
rough you…”

  When it came, her reply was bitter. “I’m just so lucky today, aren’t I?”

  “Luckier than anyone else in this charnel house…”

  Eyeing his still-bleeding wound, she muttered: “We should do something about that…”

  Though reluctant to concede that he could no longer stand, he sank down onto the bed with a great sigh.

  “Aetius… dead,” he murmured. How many times before had he expected to hear those words? But not now – not now, when the struggle was all but won!

  Tearing a strip of cloth from her linen shift, Inga bound it around the lower part of his chest, all the while avoiding his eyes.

  “You were brave,” he said, “and, I owe you a life. If you want me to, I’ll take you out of here with me, but it’s up to you where you go after that.”

  When she had dressed his wound, he did what he could for her scalp. “I have a man, a Greek called Calens – a man of salves and potions. When he returns from Verona, he’ll see to it better than I can. Stay here.”

  Leaving her in the chamber, he ventured out to fetch the horses. If he was wrong and more trouble arrived, he wanted a means of escape. He would not survive another such fight today. Crossing the yard, he entered the caupona where several bodies littered the floor. The owner and his family, who had shown him so much kindness, had found themselves in the wrong place. He stared down at the bloodied body of the youngest boy who had somehow armed himself with a small blade – to no avail, of course. He recalled the initial looks of apprehension when he and his comrades rode in that first, balmy evening. Perhaps that night the innkeeper had somehow foreseen his fate… and now they were all dead, simply because Ambrosius Aurelianus chanced to stay under their roof.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Several hours later, they waited in the yard, watching the dust cloud billowing up from the east.

  “Is it more of them?” asked Inga.

  “My eyes can’t see through dust any better than yours,” he said.

  “But it could be, couldn’t it?”

  “It could be…”

  “Should we run?”

  “Not if it’s my own men.” He was unused to such questions – his comrades knew better.