by Derek Birks
Amongst his exhausted and hungry followers, Ambrosius felt the growing resentment as keen as a knife’s edge, but he had no answer except to push the weary column on even harder. Further along the shore of the lake, he knew there were forested slopes which might offer more game. After another, especially cold, October day, when they camped in the trees above the lake, the mood around the campfires was murderous. Making his customary rounds, Ambrosius found that few had a good word to offer and several even turned their backs upon him. But most just built up their fires as high as they could and took refuge under their skins and blankets.
Around his own campfire, it was a different matter, for these were his elite bucellarii. Aside from the Frank, Varta, and Marcellus, who were close and constant advisers, all the others lived only for the struggle. Thus, however hard their journey was, such men, having followed him to almost certain death countless times, would remain steadfast. Riding hard on starvation rations before fighting a bloody encounter came as easily to most of them as breathing and shitting. Yet, even for such men, there would be a limit and, this evening, though they made no complaint, he sensed something there, unspoken - a reserve, hovering beneath their nightly banter.
“Centum Prata was a shithole,” observed Varta, glancing across at him.
Ambrosius frowned back. Varta had been with him from the start of it all - recruited by Aetius to fight the Huns in Gallia. Though he loved Ambrosius like a brother, Varta could always be relied upon for a regular dose of misery. His skill with a spatha was only surpassed by the depth of his pessimism.
“Everywhere’s a shithole now,” declared Germanus, the Burgundian, whose gloom often exceeded even Varta’s. If Germanus had ever laughed, Ambrosius reckoned he must have missed the moment.
“Give me some good news, Onno,” he said, with what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
“You give me some, Dux,” replied Aurelius Marianus Onnophris – universally called Onno - “and I’ll be sure to pass it on to Germanus...”
The Egyptian’s glum response was out of character for a man who only ever sought solutions to problems. When even Onno was depressed, thought Ambrosius, then morale must be very low indeed.
“Perhaps we’ll have to get used to this,” said Ambrosius, “If a thriving place like Centum Prata is on its knees, what has become of other places?”
“Most likely torn apart, like this place!” snorted Marcellus.
“Aye, that’s about the word for it. Torn apart… so, Onno, there is no good news. This place used to get fat from the merchants who travelled the road to Gallia, trading the fruits of nearby Raetia. But then Raetia was a fertile land - rich with grain and vines - now, it’s damned near barren… so no-one’s getting fat off it! There’s nothing here for us; all we can do is push on through as fast as we can.”
“That’ll go down well,” murmured Marcellus.
It was only when he smiled across at Marcellus that Ambrosius noticed for the first time that Inga was not with him. His smile must have quickly become a scowl.
“Dux?” said Marcellus.
“Where’s Inga?” he asked.
“She’s around; she was here… not long ago, fussing over the empty bowls,” said Marcellus. “I think she must have taken them to the lake to wash.”
“You think?”
“I’m fairly certain,” replied Marcellus.
“On her own?”
“Well, I suppose… unless Canis, or Uldar, went with her.”
But Ambrosius could see that his servant, Canis, and the young Hun, Uldar were on the far side of the fire. “How long ago?” he asked.
“Not long, Dux,” said Marcellus. “But no-one would dare touch her.”
“No-one among us, Marco,” said Dux, “but there are others in these parts – and we’ve seen their handiwork already...”
“I’m sure there’s no need to worry...”
“Did I say I was worried?” growled Dux.
“I’ll go and look for her then, shall I?” asked Marcellus, for once letting his exasperation with Ambrosius show.
“Let’s not heap any more attention on the foolish bitch!” snapped Ambrosius.
As usual, whenever he spoke about Inga, the words spilled out more roughly than he intended, so, to escape the startled looks of his comrades, he stood up and abandoned the flickering circle of light to go and look for her.
Damn the girl! Why had she gone to the lake alone when any of his sworn men would have gone with her? At first they had been dismissive of her – to them, she was just another in the long line of the Dux’s freed whores. But, on the journey through the harsh mountain passes, her tenacious spirit and sheer hard work had won their respect. So much so, that now these hardened veterans doted upon the girl. Even he had to admit that she had more than pulled her weight, especially in helping Calens treat the sick and injured – of which there had been more than enough in the mountains. Gaining acceptance within the bucellarii was not easy, but he had to concede, Inga had managed it.
With a soft tread he walked down the slope through the trees where they had made their camp for the night. Marcellus had advised clearing a broad swathe of trees around the camp, but for one night, Ambrosius reckoned that if they simply built up their fires and showed their strength, it would suffice. The strip of forest would also provide some welcome protection from the cold winds. In any case, he reckoned that it would be a very reckless group of bandits who would take on a hundred or so heavily-armed Roman soldiers.
Close by, dead leaves crunched under a booted foot and he stood still. More footfalls sounded, no more than a few yards away, heading up towards the campfires. He turned his head, hoping to catch sight of Inga, but what he saw was several columns of men, moving in single file. He froze, knowing he had not yet been seen; then, slowly, he reached for the hilt of his spatha; but of course his sword and belt were still lying by the camp fire. With a silent curse, he eased out his knife.
Peering through the trees, he studied the shadowy figures as they passed and, to his astonishment, saw that they were Romans. Like his own men, they were well-harnessed – yet, he could not imagine how a detachment of the army could still be stationed in such a remote area – unless they were fellow renegades, or even deserters? The other possibility, of course was that they had been sent after him by Petronius Maximus, but it was scarcely credible that Maximus would pursue him this far.
There could be no doubt, though, what these men intended. While Ambrosius had detected their approach by chance down on the forested slope, those sleeping around the campfires would have heard nothing. No cries of warning from his sentries meant that they had been taken down first – so these men were well-organised.
Knowing he could delay no longer, he eased back behind one of the broader trunks and bellowed aloud: “To arms! To arms; defend the camp! To arms!”
At that moment, every attacker’s eye would seek him out but only for that instant. After that, they must attack the camp or lose all advantage of surprise. When, as expected, they ignored him and began to hurry forward up the slope, he started to creep around to their rear, readying himself to strike. With his gaze fixed firmly upon the last man, he did not see Inga, crouched down beside the track. When he stumbled over her, she yelped with pain and the pair rolled in a tangle into the undergrowth.
“Be still!” he told her, but still she cried out, so he clamped his hand over her mouth.
For a moment she struggled against him, still quivering in his grasp.
“It’s me!” he told her, removing his hand.
Though she ceased struggling, she wept nonetheless. “I know it’s you!” she hissed at him, “but your blade’s cut me!”
“By Christ! Where?” he said, releasing his hold upon her.
“Right leg, high up! You careless shit!”
“How bad?”
“I’m wet with blood!” she cried.
But he heard only the angry shouts of his men, as they fought to repulse the sudden, night
assault.
“I have to get back to the camp!” he told her. “Stay here and press hard on the wound until I get back.”
“You’re leaving me?” Her voice betrayed her terror.
“I will come back!” he assured her.
With a shake of her head, she groaned: “Go on then, you cold bastard…leave me out here…”
Though he hated leaving her, bleeding, he could see no other choice – a commander had no choice, or so he told himself, as he left her and raced back up the slope.
Charging into the camp, he saw that the attackers were even more numerous than he had feared; they must have come from all sides, silently cutting down every sentry in their path. But, however many they were, they would find his bucellarii the most severe of tests. Though they were primarily horsemen, his sworn men were proficient killers in any situation. When he arrived, he found them fighting in pairs, back to back - each pair beside another so that there were always four men supporting each other. He had not the slightest doubt that the bucellarii would repulse the attack on their part of the camp but, of his other recruits, he was less certain. Despite the training he had instigated, many of the men with him had never been front-line soldiers. Already cold, hungry and low on confidence, they were now forced to defend themselves at night, against an unknown enemy in a bleak forest – and it was not yet even the depths of winter.
“Uldar!” he shouted, pointing back down the slope. “Inga’s hurt – near the lake. Onno, go with him!”
The youth, his bow in hand, scrambled off into the forest followed closely by the Egyptian, while Ambrosius turned his attention to the mêlée before him. Only when he came face to face with one of the attackers, did he remember that he still carried no spatha. Without breaking stride, he deflected a sword thrust with his knife blade and seized the opponent’s sword arm at the wrist. Avoiding a swinging shield, he cracked his boot down on his opponent’s knee. Wrestling the spatha from his grasp, he slashed it down the man’s back before turning to plunge it under the arm of another adversary. But there, his newly acquired sword became firmly lodged.
Fuming, he kicked the dying man aside and snatched up a fallen shield. Careless of his own safety, he swung it hard at any of the intruders who came within his reach. Smashing the boss into one opponent, he stabbed him in the groin and sought out another victim. With a wild and reckless rage that he had rarely known before, he dispensed ugly death until he could find no more enemies to kill. Flinging aside the shield, he stood unmoving, as he tried to make sense of the fire-lit scene.
Varta and his best fighting men, having repulsed the initial charge, were already on the counter attack, battering the enemy back into the trees. Elsewhere too, the clamour of fighting was beginning to subside as some order was gradually restored to the camp.
“Varta!” he roared, “Find me one of them out there - a live one!”
The burly Frank set off at once, and at the same moment, Uldar returned, with Onno carrying Inga.
“She alright?” asked Dux.
“No!” snapped Uldar, “she’s not! She’s near dead!”
Struggling to recall any previous occasion when the young Hun had even raised his voice to him – let alone in anger, Dux let it pass.
“Calens!” he ordered, “see to Inga!”
“You left her out there to die!” cried Uldar, as Onno kicked aside a corpse to lay the girl down by the fire.
“I had to get back here!” shouted Ambrosius, irritated that he was obliged to defend his actions - and to a mere boy?
Onno looked none too pleased either. “She deserved better, Dux,” he said gruffly.
“I think I’ve stopped the bleeding!” cried the Greek. “But... just look at her – look how pale she is!”
Ambrosius winced to look at her, for even in the flickering light, he could see she had the pallor of death upon her.
“Well, is she going to live or not?” he demanded.
“Just leave me to work on her, Dux!” Calens retort was curt. By God, even his servants were chastising him! They should have been thanking him that any of them were still alive!
“Haven’t you got someone else to kill?” raged Uldar.
“Aye, you, boy, if you answer me thus again!” grumbled Ambrosius.
But he took the Greek’s advice and hurried off to assess the damage inflicted by the attack. What did the youth expect him to do? Defending the camp was more important than the life of any one individual; he would expect no more consideration himself. Every soldier understood that – and, though Uldar was young, he should have learned that too by now. But then, of course, whatever Inga might be, she was not a soldier.
Joined by Marcellus, Ambrosius passed through the camp and what he saw filled him with despair. There were more casualties than he had hoped for, despite his warning shout, some had been slaughtered before they could even reach for their weapons – and a host of others were left with hideous wounds.
“Too many, Marco,” he lamented. “Far too many…”
As he went round, he did his best to help bind up wounds and restore shattered morale, but he could see defeat in their eyes – and often, accusing glances, as he moved among them.
How had he ever imagined that he could lead these men safely to Gallia? When so many had followed him to Leucerae, simple pride had puffed him up. He was Dux – the unvanquished - a man fêted by other men. What did he care about the emperor, or Rome? Both were finished; but what he hadn’t understood then was that he too was finished.
“I’ve been playing at this, Marco,” he murmured. “Over these past years, all I’ve become is a butcher of men. That's what I'm good at: killing them, not leading them.”
Marcellus, usually so sanguine, made no reply but trailed dutifully behind him as he made his way back to their campfire.
Inga was lying swaddled in furs close to the heat – a good sign he hoped.
Uldar looked up at his arrival, still none too pleased by the look on his face.
“She’s not dead then?” asked Dux, resting a hand on Calens’ shoulder.
“She should be, Dux,” replied Calens, “losing that much blood… she still might pass in the night.”
“Well,” said Dux, sitting down beside him, “it’s as well that there’s not much night left then, isn’t it? I thank you for your skills, my friend, but I fear you are much needed elsewhere. Uldar, go and help him.”
Uldar gave him a nervous nod which, before the Hun set off across the camp, was acknowledged by Ambrosius – the mark of a truce between them.
Soon after, Varta returned, bloodied, but alone. “Couldn’t take one alive, Dux,” he said, “but have you seen their shields?”
He tossed the shield he was carrying onto the ground by the fire. Ambrosius nodded, for the coloured design of red and green was clear for all to see. They all knew the markings well enough.
“Scutarii Prima,” murmured Marcellus.
No more words were necessary because now they knew: among their assailants, some at least had been despatched by Valentinian III – or by Petronius Maximus in his name. After they had sent half a dozen of their best men to kill him, Ambrosius had hoped there would be no further pursuit, but the shield told a different story for it belonged to one of the detachments Puglio had brought to Verona.
As a tribune of the Schola Scutariorum Prima, Puglio could only have been despatched by the emperor – or someone acting in his name. But why, wondered Ambrosius, would Heraclius, or Petronius, bother to pursue him any further than the mountains? What did they have to fear from him? He had renounced Rome forever, but then perhaps they did not believe that. God knew, the empire’s history was littered with emperors who initially declared no interest in the office! Perhaps they were just taking no chances with him.
If Maximus and Heraclius had their own ambitions then the weak emperor would not last very long. Of the two, Maximus would surely triumph and perhaps, if Maximus thought Ambrosius might seek revenge for the death of Aetius, then
he might well try to ensure that he never had the opportunity.
“I also found a few of these on the dead,” said Varta, passing his leader a handful of bright gold solidi. “It seems someone is very eager to see us dead.”
Examining one of the coins closely, Ambrosius murmured: “Fresh from the mint at Ravenna. Any sign of Puglio?”
Varta gave a dismissive shake of the head.
“Did we break them, do you think?” asked Ambrosius.
“I doubt it, Dux. I’d say the losses were about even; so, they could be back…”
Eventually the camp subsided into an uneasy peace, but no-one slept - least of all Ambrosius, who had a decision to make. His entire strategy had been found wanting because the whole point of taking the difficult, northerly route over the mountains from Italia was to discourage pursuit and keep out of trouble. Well, on that score, he had failed spectacularly. Though they had resisted the assault, he knew it would not be the last for, if the imperial guard had followed him this far, they were not going to give up so easily now.
Over the coming days, his column would be even more vulnerable than before. Not only had his effective fighting numbers had been reduced by about a third but now, encumbered by their wounded they would not be able to outrun the mounted scutarii. Indeed the following morning they were obliged to return to Centum Prata to acquire two more wagons. After that, pausing only long enough to bury their dead in the cold ground beside the lake, they continued along the road west.
Though Ambrosius would have preferred to turn and face Puglio’s scutarii in open battle to put an end to the pursuit once and for all, he would be gambling all their lives on the fall of the dice. Perhaps his opponent, Puglio, had reached the same conclusion, for he seemed content merely to shadow them for mile upon mile. But Ambrosius knew that he could not leave it thus – he could not leave their fate in Puglio’s hands.