The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  At once a chorus of objections and questions arose, of which the most common was: “Why, Dux? Why let the murderers of Aetius go free?”

  Feeling the raw power of their anger, he was tempted, there and then, to raise his sword and declare war upon Emperor Valentinian III. Even the prudent Marcellus seemed minded to encourage him on such a treasonous path when he declared: “The army of Rome is at your back, Dux!”

  “Perhaps it is Marco,” murmured Ambrosius, “but for how long? The army of Rome has ever been fickle – and I tell you plain: my heart is not in it.”

  When the protests of the men calmed a little, he addressed them once more.

  “I watched Magister Aetius wrestle, day after weary day, to calm and tame this monstrous carcass of an empire – and you all know how much blood I’ve spilled against Rome’s enemies in that cause. But, my friends, Rome is an unforgiving bitch of a mistress! She would tear the guts out of us all to preserve her rotten corpse for just one more day! And I tell you: I will have none of her! Not any more...”

  Great shouts of anger rose up again at his casual dismissal of Rome, followed by more questions and pleas. “What then, Dux?” cried some. “What will you do?”

  Thus, only moments into the meeting, a chaotic, rolling argument broke out around the fire. For a time he let them argue it out, resisting the temptation to intervene until he felt the vehemence of their debate was beginning to diminish. Only then did he stand up and speak.

  “Peace!” he ordered and an uneasy silence was slowly restored.

  “Hear what I have to offer,” he began. “After that, each man must decide for himself. I’ll talk freely, as comrades should: I’ve told you that I’m done with Rome, so I’m going home – and many of you may wish to do the same.”

  “Where’s home for you then, Dux?” asked Stavelus, who had brought more than a score of men with him from Verona.

  “Gallia,” replied Ambrosius. “Because that’s where I last saw my family - ten long years ago - and now I’d like to see them again. From here, I’ll head north across the mountains and then into Gallia – a few of my comrades will remember a similar journey we made along that road two years ago.”

  “I remember the icy, sodding passes!” said Marcellus, and there were grunts of agreement from two more of his closest comrades: Varta, the Frank, and Flavius Silvius Germanus, the Burgundian.

  “True enough,” grinned Ambrosius, “it was pig of a climb up there – but it was the cusp of winter; this time, we’ll be crossing a little earlier.”

  He waited for the low, doubtful murmur that greeted his announcement to die down once more.

  “You are not an army,” he told them, “and I am not going to rebel against the emperor. I seek to conquer no-one, but I will protect those who call me comrade. Some of you are free men, but others may, by now, already be branded as deserters. Perhaps some, like me, would prefer to go back to their own homelands; if so, then I wish you God speed and we will part as friends. But, let me be clear: if you ride with me, then you are my men. You follow my orders, my code and my ways... to the death. So, go now and tell your fellow soldiers what I’ve said. Those who decide to come with me will leave here in the morning at first light.”

  When the crowd had eventually dispersed, Ambrosius found Marcellus beside him.

  “Gallia, Dux?” he said. “Is that truly where you come from?”

  “It’s true I was born in Gallia,” said Ambrosius.

  “And your father is still there?” enquired Marcellus.

  “When I left, he commanded the garrison at the port of Caracotinum.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Marcellus.

  “I’m not surprised. Even ten years ago, it was shithole - half the town was more or less derelict.”

  “And so, of course, you want to go back there,” said Marcellus with a trace of a smile.

  “I have a few reasons…”

  “You once told me you parted with your father on the worst possible terms,” said Marcellus.

  “Did I? By Christ, I’d forgotten that.” It was not like him to reveal such truths. “I must have been very drunk to tell you that.”

  “You were,” Marcellus assured him. “So why go back then?”

  “Sister, mother, brothers - need I go on?”

  “It’s a very long time since you were there.”

  “Not long enough to forget them though,” murmured Ambrosius.

  “Will you make peace with your father then?”

  Ambrosius fixed his friend with an iron stare. “I’d sooner roast his balls in a brazier…”

  “Even after so long?”

  “I’ve not forgotten and he won’t have either... I tell you, Marco, if my father and I were put into the same room, only one of us would come out alive!”

  “It’s going to be a hell of a journey just to get there,” said Marcellus. “And most of the men don’t really know anything about you. All they know is your name – and your legend! Those of us, who’ve served with you, we know what to expect: we know how hard you'll drive us through those mountains – but they don’t...”

  “I know, Marco, but it’s their choice. If they don’t like it, then they can piss off back to Verona, can’t they? Probably better if they do.”

  “And face execution for desertion?” scoffed Marcellus. “I doubt many will see that as much of a choice, Dux. All I’m asking is that perhaps you take it a little easy with them to start with…”

  “No,” said Ambrosius, “better they know the pace I set, sooner rather than later. You know this sort of soldier, Marco. They’ve spent half their lives in garrison towns, gambling and fornicating; their discipline’s poor and they barely know how to fight. They’re not real soldiers at all…”Marcellus nodded. “Real or not, my friend, they have come here because of you…”

  With a sigh, Ambrosius said: “Well then, Marco, they will soon learn to know me better.”

  “And what about you, Dux?” asked Marcellus. “What will you learn? Because leading so many men… it’s not what you’re used to, is it.”

  Ambrosius made no reply, attempting to shrug off the question, but it remained with him. Marcellus made an astute point: there were no orders from Aetius to carry out now; it was all down to him. Making tactical decisions was what he had always excelled at; but deciding upon a whole, planned course of action? That was a different matter – and it was a test that he had never faced before.

  5

  October 454, on the road north from Leucerae

  When Ambrosius broke camp shortly after a bright dawn, Inga guessed that about two thirds of those who had made the journey to Leucerae decided to ride north with him. According to Marcellus, it amounted to roughly a hundred and thirty men. Despite Ambrosius’ warnings, Inga too decided to remain in the relative safety of the armed column.

  After the first few hours, as Ambrosius set a relentless pace, she was grateful for the luxury of a sturdy mount. Close comrades, like Marcellus, hardly seemed to notice, but some of the men soon began to drop back. While they followed the old road beside the long, finger of lake, the way was not yet too steep but even so, some trailed into the camp late in the evening and a few simply melted away never to be seen again.

  She thought Dux’s pace unnecessarily brutal and told him so. In response, he invited her to leave... once again. Though she heard similar complaints muttered amongst the men that evening, Dux chose to ignore them all. Yet, she had to concede that he had made them no promises and, as Marcellus pointedly reminded her, no-one was compelled to follow him – except of course the bucellarii, who were his sworn men.

  When, the next day, they left the lake behind them, their route began to climb more steeply as they followed the river up into the higher valleys as far as Clavenna. From there, the serious ascent began, through the mountain passes where sheer ravines made even the horses nervous, let alone some of the men. Two of the horses slid off an icy ledge to plummet to their deaths, taking their riders with them. Th
at night, Inga thought she would never rid herself of the sound of the animals’ terrified shrieks echoing along the ravine.

  Over the next six days, desertions also reduced their numbers, but Inga could see that those who remained looked fitter and leaner than when they set out. Even so, Dux did not let up until they rode beyond the pass of Cunus Aureus. It was early in the afternoon when he halted the column and the men eagerly dismounted, but their joy was short-lived, for Dux had only stopped early so that he could spend the remaining hours of daylight training the men. Despite his claims that this was not an army, it seemed to Inga that he was doing all he could to turn it into one.

  “Survival is about discipline,” Marcellus explained to her that evening. “Sooner or later, someone will attack us - either from fear, or because they want to plunder what little we have. Dux is just making sure that everyone knows what to expect and how to deal with it.”

  Still, Inga wasn’t so sure. “But what,” she asked, “if his harsh rule turns the men against him?”

  “It won’t,” said Marcellus.

  “Why not?”

  “Because… he is Dux…” said Marcellus simply. “You were there at the caupona; you saw what he can do.”

  “He fought well, but he was lucky!”

  Marcellus gave her a wry smile. “I suppose you need some luck to become a living legend in your twenties!”

  “But luck, Marco, always runs out,” she said.

  “I know,” acknowledged Marcellus, “but, more important, so does he…”

  Now that they were deep in the mountains, she was glad that Ambrosius had at last given up trying to persuade her to leave, though every day she asked herself why, by the eternal gods, she stayed. Though she tried to earn her place in their company by helping to prepare the campfire or by cooking, nothing she did earned her any plaudits from Dux. He expected all the men under his command to be more than proficient in such activities and besides, he had Canis and several other servants to carry out the most menial tasks. Canis and Calens, a man with many potions, had, she discovered, both been freed by Ambrosius the previous year, though they chose to remain in his service. She wondered why. However much she looked for admirable qualities in him, she saw little to justify the devotion he received. The man could fight, but so could thousands of others; everything about him was hard and relentless.

  The passage through the mountains was a far cry from the Veronese brothel where she had spent the past several months. She suspected that every mile took her closer to her homeland, yet somehow it seemed further away each day. At first several of the men had shown a keen interest in her - perhaps something in her manner told them where she had been employed. But Dux warned them off – perhaps with the best of intentions but with the inevitable consequence that they all assumed she was his whore. The irony was that the skills she had acquired in the brothel seemed of no interest at all to Ambrosius. For a time she wondered if he preferred the company of men; yet, on the few occasions when they were close, or touched, she sensed some reaction there… and it was certainly not revulsion.

  In an effort to understand the strange Roman better, she made it her business to get to know some of his comrades. One in particular, a young Hun named Uldar, was easy to befriend. As a relatively recent recruit to Dux’s bucellarii, he was, like Inga, still trying to earn the trust of the rest. Proud of his martial skills – as young men so often were – he took much pleasure in showing her how to use his bow. Though, from his flushed face and nervous touch when they stood close together, it occurred to her that archery might not be the chief reason for Uldar’s enthusiasm.

  However, the more familiar she became with those close to Ambrosius, the more distant and taciturn he seemed to be in her company. Most of the time her continued presence in the camp just seemed to irk him and she, in turn, grew tired of his cool demeanour and the unyielding regime of the camp.

  “You work the men too hard,” she observed one evening, as she handed him a bowl of thin stew.

  “It’s bad enough you’re still here,” he complained, “don’t start telling me how to manage my command, or I will personally throw you off a high ledge.”

  Her response to his grim reply was a bleak smile, briefly meeting his hooded, grey eyes with her own. Then, leaving him to eat alone, she went to sit on the opposite side of the fire, beside Marcellus.

  “I thought once that there must be more to him,” she grumbled, “but he’s just a brute - and a cold brute, too.”

  “Dux?” said Marcellus, glancing across at his friend. “I suppose he can sometimes seem cold...”

  “Is he always so… grim?” she asked. “Is this what it’s always like?”

  “What?” Marcellus, usually such a good listener, appeared not to have heard.

  “With him? Is it always like this with him, Marco?” she repeated.

  “Dux?”

  “Yes, Dux! Of course: Dux! Who do you think I’m talking about?”

  Marcellus, ever the diplomat, could be very irritating at times, she thought.

  “Ever since I’ve known him,” said Marcellus, “he’s always been… plain-spoken and direct – but that’s what we like about him. You know where you are with him.”

  “Well, I don’t!” muttered Inga. “I don’t know where I am with him at all!”

  “But that’s your own fault!” declared Marcellus. “He freed you, gave you money and told you to go - free as an eagle – and what did you do?”

  “Well, I stayed but-”

  “Exactly, you stayed!”

  “But he freed me, Marco,” she groaned. “He bought me and freed me! So why does he treat me like shit?”

  Marcellus frowned at her. “Did you think you were special?” he murmured.

  “Yes, so though he told me to go, I thought he must want me to stay. He’d paid good money for me! So I stayed, but then, by the time I saw how little he actually cared for me, it was too late. We were already in the mountains and there was nowhere else I could go. And now, I tell you: I think I was better off in the Veronese brothel…”

  Marcellus made no reply, but she could see that he had something he wanted to say.

  “Say it,” she hissed at him. “Go on, say it!”

  “It won’t please him to see us whispering with our heads together, like conspirators.”

  “What do I care what he thinks? Nothing I do pleases him anyway!”

  As she got up to leave, he took her hand. “Inga, none of the others ever stayed, so he just doesn’t know what to do with you.”

  Staring at him in the flickering light, Inga said: “What do you mean: ‘none of the others?’”

  “All I’ll say is that you are not the first girl he has bought and freed from a brothel…”

  “He’s done it before?”

  Marcellus nodded. “At least seven times, including you – to my certain knowledge. So, there you are thinking how special you must be to him, and I’m afraid the truth is: you’re not.”

  “But I don’t understand; why does he do it then?”

  “I don’t know,” said Marcellus, with a nervous laugh, “nor do I want to - and nor should you. It’s time you learned to simply accept him as he is – or leave.”

  Inga gave a slow shake of the head. “You’d think I’d be able to read men better than that, wouldn’t you?”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Ambrosius stared across at Inga through the fire. Why was she still here, he pondered? It was annoying. The previous whores had just given him their thanks and left - some more swiftly than others and a few wearing puzzled expressions, but at least they had all left! Inga, by contrast, remained with him – or at least, within reach of him. It had taken him by surprise and he knew it was only a matter of time before it caused trouble among the men. They all thought that she was his whore. How long would it be before they asked to rent her favours from him?

  Though he trusted Marcellus to watch over her, yet… that was another cause for concern. Day by day, he wat
ched his friend growing ever closer to the girl – not that it was his business, since she was free to choose her own companions. Yet, he couldn’t help feeling disturbed by their easy way with each other. There was an intimacy between them that he had never achieved with anyone – man or woman. If his early life had taught him any lessons at all, it was to trust no-one. As a soldier he trusted all his comrades – they would have his back in a fight; that much he knew. But beyond basic survival, that was when trust became complicated; because the moment you trusted someone with your thoughts and secrets, or with your troubles and cares, then you placed your soul in their hands. When someone knew you that well, it could only lead to trouble.

  Part Two: Friends and Enemie

  s

  6

  October 454, in the mountains on the road north

  With temperatures dropping by the day and any sort of forage in scarce supply, the journey through the remaining mountain passes grew ever more arduous. Though hunting parties went out daily, their meagre kills were too little to satisfy the hunger of so many. Nevertheless, Ambrosius drove them on, pinning all his hopes on finding food when they reached the foothills. Two years earlier, when he had passed through the town of Centum Prata, it had still been prosperous and, despite the lack of a Roman military presence, it was very much a hub for local trade.

  Each evening, they made their camp just a little lower, until eventually they entered a long valley which led them past several lakes and, for the first time, they found themselves in low-lying lands. Expecting their arrival in the richer lowlands to raise the spirits of his men, Ambrosius was stunned by what he saw when he led his company down onto the plain. The once-rich farmland which lay around the settlement of Centum Prata was now just a wasteland of unploughed fields, burnt out buildings and butchered livestock.

  The town itself, where Ambrosius still hoped to find provisions, had been so ravaged by raiders that it had nothing left to offer. He learned of warring bands who had struck fear into the townspeople, as they scoured the land for the same dwindling resources. As they rode through, the local folk, perhaps understandably, viewed them with a mixture of suspicion and trepidation. Worse still, their subsequent hunting expeditions in the surrounding plain yielded almost nothing.