The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  “Well, how soon will we know?” she persisted.

  “When it’s too late to run,” he replied.

  Pausing only to glare at him, she turned to stalk across the yard.

  “Where are you going?” he called after her.

  “If it makes no difference, I might as well rest in your chamber to await my fate!”

  With a sigh, he touched his fingers to his torn ribs. The binding had slowed the bleeding, but he needed Calens – and needed him badly.

  Perhaps Inga had a point: if running would do no good then enjoying one’s last few moments of peace was probably the more sensible option. He stiffened as it dawned upon him that there were far more horsemen approaching than there were in his small band of bucellarii.

  “Oh, shit of a dog,” he breathed.

  He half-turned towards the caupona with her name upon his lips, but she had already made her choice. Of course it wasn’t fair on her – for she had fought well and deserved to live. Following her to the chamber, he drew out his spatha. He would make a stand beside her; however futile the gesture, he owed her that much at least.

  At his back, the thunder of hooves grew ever louder as he approached the room where the bodies of Anticus and the others still lay painting the floor with their blood.

  “Inga?” he called.

  She was lying on the bed, so he sat down beside her, though she would not look at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is my doing.”

  “Of course it’s your doing!” she replied, though there was little venom in her response. “You just thought one day that you’d poke your finger into my poor little life and make it better. Well, I suppose for a very, very short time there, you did...”

  “There are many more this time,” he said, “and they’ll not be gentle with you. If you wish it, I can end it quickly for you now.”

  “So now you want to kill me too?” she said.

  “Of course I don’t want to kill you!”

  “Then don’t…”

  “But-”

  “Am I free, or not?” she said.

  “Yes, of course, free…”

  “Then at least let me choose how I die, since it’s the last – and only - freedom I appear to have…”

  “You want to fight?”

  “I did before, didn’t I?”

  “But it’s different this time; this time, Inga, there really are too many…”

  “Then there’s nothing to fear, is there?” she said, jumping off the bed.

  Skidding on the slick of Cratus’ blood, she was only saved from falling by the swift hand of Ambrosius holding her fast. When he released his hold on her arm, she took a step closer.

  “Shall we meet them in the open,” she asked, “with the sun on our faces?”

  He handed her one of the discarded knives and she moved to the door.

  “Coming?” she said, stepping carefully over the bloody remains of Anticus. She mouthed something more but her words were all but drowned out by the raucous shouting of the horsemen pulling up outside in the courtyard.

  With a shake of the head, he gripped his spatha firmly in his right hand and followed her out.

  When they emerged, weapons at the ready, the throng of soldiers slowly fell silent and then a great roar of laughter rolled around the courtyard as Marcellus dismounted to greet his friend.

  “No!” cried Inga, punching Ambrosius hard in the stomach. “Why did you put me through all that?”

  That brought another crescendo of laughter.

  Ambrosius, bent double and clutching at his ribs where the blow had released a little more blood from his wound, grunted: “I didn’t know…”

  Inga sank down onto the cobbles, shaking uncontrollably.

  “You two alright?” asked Marcellus, with a grin.

  “No, Marco, we’re not!” replied Ambrosius. “When I heard so many coming, I assumed the worst. How have you raised more men so quickly?”

  Marcellus was no longer grinning. “A few of the local garrison joined us when news reached Verona that-”

  “-Aetius is dead?” said Ambrosius.

  “You know then…”

  “Anticus was kind enough to explain - before he… passed away…”

  “Anticus was here?”

  “And Cratus, and Lepidus… need I go on?”

  “How are you still alive, Dux?” cried Marcellus.

  “I… had some good fortune.” He glanced across at Inga, whose head wound was at last being tended to by his skilled Greek, Calens. “And a little help too.”

  “The girl fought with you?”

  “Inga. Her name’s Inga… not that it matters much. According to the recently deceased Anticus, more will be despatched.”

  “They have been and they’re already in Verona,” murmured Marcellus. “Tribune Puglio arrived, looking for you – for us.”

  Ambrosius raised an eyebrow. Flavius Corvinius Puglio was the strong right arm of Petronius Maximus who, as the long-time enemy of Aetius, had more to gain than anyone from the general’s murder.

  “And?” he prompted.

  “That’s where the local garrison chipped in. A bunch of them trapped Puglio and his men in the gatehouse.”

  “Why? Why did they do that? They must know that Puglio’s the trusted man of Maximus.”

  “Puglio told them a little too cheerfully that Aetius was dead – and our master is well remembered around these parts, Dux – as are you. No-one’s forgotten how we harried Attila to a standstill up here in these hills. That’s enough to make men choose the right path.”

  “Even so, you know Puglio. Once he gets out, he’ll show no mercy – and then he’ll follow.”

  Marcellus grinned. “He’ll need more men though – I fear some of those he brought with him protested a little too much.”

  “I can’t see much humour in any of this, Marco,” grumbled Ambrosius, still struggling to accept that the great survivor, Flavius Aetius, could actually be dead.

  “So, what are we going to do then?” asked his friend.

  “Get as far from Rome as possible!” said Ambrosius. “Corvinius Puglio is a tribune of the Schola Scutariorum Prima - by Christ, he has the whole imperial guard to call upon if he needs it!”

  “Where to though, Dux? The Emperor’s reach is very great...”

  “We’ll have to ride north into the mountains…”

  “And after that?” asked Marcellus.

  “After that, my friend, we contemplate life without Aetius…”

  News of the murder of Aetius, apparently by the hand of the emperor himself, would soon throw everyone into disarray. Though he shared the rage of those among the Verona garrison who had chosen to throw in their lot with him, he knew this was not the time to grieve for their dead general. As Aetius himself once told him, ‘only the living can fight back, Dux.’

  When Ambrosius finally allowed Calens to tend to his rib wound, he noticed that Inga stood alone in the yard. Surrounded now by noisy, cursing soldiers, and jostling horses, she stared around her, eyes dulled by despair. Once his wound was dressed, he went to join her.

  “Come,” he said, offering her a hand, which Inga ignored.

  “Canis!” he bellowed, scanning the yard for his other servant.

  The older man appeared, bent low under the burden of his master’s weapons and armour, and leading a great black horse.

  “We’ll need another horse,” he told him, indicating Inga.

  Viewing the girl with obvious disapproval, Canis conceded: “We’ve a few spares, I suppose.”

  “Find her one – a good and gentle one – or you’ll be giving her yours!” ordered Ambrosius.

  “I'm sure we can find more horses, Dux,” said a voice nearby.

  “Stavelus!” cried Ambrosius, with genuine pleasure, clapping his old comrade on the shoulder. “You commanded at Verona?”

  “I did.”

  “So I have you to thank for Puglio’s… inconvenience?”

 
“That,” said Stavelus, with a smile, “was a sheer delight, Dux. But where will you go now?”

  “Don’t know, my friend – no time to think it through yet,” he replied. “For now, we’ll head into the hills towards Bergomum and Lake Larius.

  With a glance at the sun, already past its zenith, he called the men to order. In the gateway of the crowded yard, he raised a hand in salute and waited for the soldiers to shuffle into silence.

  “Our magister militum is dead,” he announced, though they knew it already, “killed by the hand of a lesser man, perhaps even the emperor himself. I am resolved to serve such an emperor no longer. I make no secret of it: I am done with Rome. Aetius was Rome’s last hope and now the dogs of chaos are let loose, nothing can save Rome.”

  Cries of outrage arose at once around the packed yard, but he shouted them down.

  “I shall take the road north through the mountains!” he declared. “If any man wants to ride with me, he’ll be most welcome!”

  “Dux! Dux!” they yelled, clashing their spathas against their shields.

  Above their tumult, he roared: “Come on then!” and rode away along the south shore of the lake, heading west towards Bergomum. If Puglio dared to follow him, so be it; he would be ready.

  3

  Early October 454 in the evening, in the hills above Leucerae

  Ambrosius looked up as Marcellus sat down beside him.

  “How many today, Marco?” he asked, tossing several more branches onto the fire.

  “Only a score or so – thank God,” replied his comrade. “But that still makes more than two hundred, Dux – thanks to your generous invitation! We can’t even feed them all!”

  Ambrosius nodded. “I know. I didn’t expect word to travel so fast - nor so far…”

  “By now, Petronius Maximus will know exactly where you are - and how many you have with you! He’ll take that as insurrection and assume you mean to oust the emperor.”

  “But why would he think that?

  “Sometimes you’re just a fool, Dux,” said Marcellus with a shake of his head. “He’ll think it because you’ve just invited half the army to join you!”

  “Bah! I only spoke to a few men!”

  “Yes, but countless others have heard your words now – or a version of them! I don’t know what possessed you!” grumbled Marcellus. “We’ve always been a small, tight unit.”

  “I don’t know either,” lamented Ambrosius. “The words just came into my head. When Stavelus and the others detained the tribune, Puglio, in Verona, they crossed a line. I suppose I wanted to offer them a way out…”

  “A way out of what?”

  “I’m not even sure of that… I don’t know anymore – perhaps a way out of Rome?”

  “Hah! Rome will endure, as it always has,” his friend assured him.

  “Will it though, Marco? I don’t see how it can. Where are the men now to defend it? Petronius Maximus is not Aetius!”

  “Perhaps not, but with Attila gone, the Huns are less of a threat, so who is there to defend against?”

  Ambrosius smiled sadly. “Have the past few years putting out fires across the empire taught you nothing?” he asked. “We’ve been defending a graveyard, Marco, not an empire… not even a great city. In the east, Rome’s legacy might live on, but the west is finished. And now that Aetius is gone, the wolves will tear the flesh off Rome’s living corpse! Someone else will rule here soon enough.”

  “Yes, and Maximus fears it’ll be you!”

  “Well, it won’t be!”

  “I don’t know,” said Marcellus. “Perhaps after all, that’s what you should do – overthrow Emperor Valentinian, kill Maximus and take over. You could avenge Aetius and save Rome - you could do it, Dux. The army would support you!”

  “The thing is, Marco, I think I’m done with saving Rome,” said Ambrosius, clutching his friend’s arm. “I’m done with it. It’s finished…”

  “But we’re all still Romans, Dux…”

  “Are we though, Marco? You might call yourself Roman because you were born close to the city itself, but look around at our comrades. What are they? They come from Egypt, Thrace, Greece, North Africa, Gallia – even from far beyond the Rhine and Danube. They’ve fought for Aetius, but they have little in common with each other.”

  “But you, Dux, you’re Roman.”

  “Me? I’m just like the others, Marco: Roman, yet not Roman – in truth, I’m more of a Frank than a Roman. I grew up among them - lived among them for years! And what is a Roman anyway? A thin skin of Roman culture doesn’t change where you come from. My Gallic father counted himself as Roman - he ate the food and wore the clothes of a Roman. But my mother, she was not a daughter of Rome, she was a slave…”

  Regretting where he had allowed their conversation to stray, he got to his feet to put an abrupt end to their discourse.

  “Whatever you decide to do, Dux, we can’t stay here much longer,” advised Marcellus.

  “I know,” conceded Ambrosius.

  “And we can’t take all this lot with us,” Marcellus insisted.

  Waving aside his friend’s concern, Ambrosius said: “I’ll take a walk around the camp - take the measure of our new arrivals.”

  Stalking off into the shadows, he tried to banish the unwelcome reminder of his mother. She had a proud heritage, until her kin had sold her to the Romans as a slave. By chance, her beauty had attracted the attention of his father - at least for a while… Memories of her were few - far too few to share with anyone else – even Marcellus. Indeed, there was little he cared to remember from his bitter childhood at all, but those last words with his mother… they were carved into his soul.

  Making his way up the slope in the half-light, he gazed in despair at the numerous campfires which now illuminated patches of the hillside almost down to the shore of Lake Larius. Damn Marcellus, because, as usual, he was right. Though it was never his intention, Ambrosius had recruited an army. Now what was he going to do with it? For a time, as darkness gradually enveloped him, he remained brooding there alone, until a slight figure ghosted down to sit beside him.

  He greeted her with a long sigh.

  “I wondered where you were,” said Inga.

  “If I were you,” he said, “being the only girl in this camp full of soldiers, I wouldn’t go wandering about in the dark on your own.”

  “Well, I’m not on my own now, am I?”

  “Why did you come with me?” he asked.

  “You said I could – and where else would I go?”

  “Anywhere else...”

  “Anywhere usually means nowhere – and I was hardly going to be safe at that caupona, was I?”

  “No, but you could have stayed at any of the villages we’ve passed through – or at Bergomum.”

  “Perhaps I wanted to stay with you.”

  “But why?”

  She stared at him. “Well, at least I know you won’t harm me – that’s a start! And it’s giving me time to think…”

  “There’s no future for you with me.”

  “But… that night… at the brothel, you must have… wanted me then? Why else would you have paid a fortune to take me with you? So I just assumed…”

  “That I wanted my own personal whore?”

  “No, not that; more than a whore; I’ve seen it happen with other girls - it’s not uncommon for rich men to buy a whore… to marry.”

  “Marry? You think I want to marry you? When I told you, that first time, Inga, to leave, I really did mean it.”

  “Oh.”

  “I thought I was being very clear: I gave you a purse of gold coins and said you were free to go.”

  “Yes, but… a lot happened after that…”

  “Nothing good happened after that!” he grumbled.

  “Oh. I thought you at the end… that you wanted me to stay.”

  “Well, I didn’t!” His denial sounded harsh – harsher than he intended.

  “Oh.”

  “Stop sayi
ng ‘Oh’!” he said, glaring at her. What else was he to say? He just wanted her gone, but she met his uncompromising stare with one of her own.

  “When you didn’t touch me that first night,” she told him, “I feared the worst. But then, when you didn’t abuse me either, I thought it was must be out of respect – that you thought more of me… Why do you think I helped you, against that ogre? I thought perhaps we might…” Her voice faltered.

  “You should think a great deal less!” he said. “Because, there is no ‘we’.

  “Well, why buy me if you were just going to send me away?” she cried.

  “I just did; and I’m already sorry I did! God’s faith, girl, just accept it, as a gift!”

  “I’ll always have a scar on the back of my head because of you…”

  “Yes, a scar and a bag of gold – so not such a bad outcome. Now please, take your scar and your gold and leave me alone.”

  “I could work for you…”

  “You’re no longer a slave; I’ve freed you!”

  She put a hand upon his shoulder. “Then why do I feel like some babe abandoned on a barren mountain?”

  Her touch unnerved him and he stood up. “I’ll take you back to the camp; we’re leaving tomorrow, but you should stay here in Leucerae. It’s your last chance to stay behind before the mountains.”

  After he pulled her up, she released his hand but remained close, almost touching, though not quite.

  “But… if I am truly free,” she whispered to him, “then I can do as I please…”

  4

  Early October 454, Ambrosius’ Camp in the hills above Leucerae

  They did not leave the following day, because Ambrosius realised he must bring some sort of order to the chaotic jumble of men scattered in small bands across the hillsides above Leucerae. Used to managing a score of bucellarii at most, he was bewildered by the sheer numbers who had gathered to join him. Somehow he must reduce their number to a core of reliable men. During the day, he walked among them, appointing captains to represent all the different groups and then, when darkness fell again, he summoned those captains to his blazing camp fire.

  “Friends,” he began, “I am blessed to have such loyal comrades. That so many of you have come here has… humbled me. But it’s also made me think hard about what I should do next. Some may have come here thinking that I will seek revenge against the emperor for the death of our beloved Aetius, but I will not.”