The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  In the next town, Vindonissa, they managed to purchase some desperately needed food and, soon after leaving, found better fortune in their hunting. For the first time in weeks, his men had full bellies and when they set off again, they did so with bright eyes and smiles upon their faces. The road to Vesontio followed a forested river valley but, whilst it was a relatively easy ride after the trials of the mountains, the valley narrowed in several places. With Puglio close behind them, there was always the risk that he might try to outflank them to set up an ambush. If he did so, there would be little warning and no hope of escape.

  Ambrosius resolved that somehow, before they reached the town of Vesontio, he must gain the upper hand. If he did not have the numbers to destroy the scutarii, he must harry and hurt them enough to discourage them from pursuing him any further. To do that, he would need to know a great deal more about his enemies and that called for the services of his Spaniard, Xallas – an excellent tracker and a man who knew how to keep himself well concealed.

  “Xallas,” he ordered, “drop back and keep an eye on our friends coming up behind us. I want to know all there is to know about them: numbers, weaponry and so on. Take Uldar with you, it’ll do him good - and his bow might come in handy if they see you.”

  Xallas raised an eyebrow, which was his understated way of pointing out to Ambrosius that his task would be easier without the youth.

  “He’s young,” conceded Ambrosius, “but he has to learn skills like yours – and he’s hunted since he was a boy.”

  “He still is a boy,” complained Xallas.

  7

  October 454, on the road to Vesontio

  For several hours Xallas waited with Uldar among the trees, until Puglio’s cavalry arrived and swept past them. Following them without being detected was not going to be easy for the scutarii were no fools and Puglio would have posted outriders to screen their flanks and rear. Unwilling to take any unnecessary risks before nightfall, Xallas ensured that the pair kept their distance, contenting themselves with noting merely the number and fitness of Puglio’s men.

  The gruff warrior from Baetica and the brash, seventeen-year-old Hun were not natural companions and the older man struggled to disguise his disdain for the young archer. For the most part they rode in silence until Xallas could no longer contain himself.

  “You should never question your leader,” he grumbled.

  “What?” said the youth, who intent on the scutarii ahead of them, was paying little attention to his comrade.

  “You should not have questioned Dux over Inga,” Xallas told him.

  “Oh, that,” groaned Uldar. “Well, he was wrong to leave Inga to die in the forest.”

  “No, he wasn’t,” replied Xallas. “He served the interests of all – not just one.”

  “But that one was just a girl…”

  “Yes, exactly that,” agreed Xallas. “The girl works hard enough, but she will always be a girl who is no warrior. She has chosen to live with soldiers but, if she rides with Dux, then it must be on his terms, not hers.”

  “I’m teaching her how to use my bow,” said Uldar, his youthful enthusiasm shining through.

  “Why?” scoffed Xallas. “You surely don’t imagine she could actually use it in battle?”

  “Well, I don’t know, it’s not so much weight to draw-”

  “You’re a fool, boy! She’s just a freed whore is all she is. I like her well enough, but she can never be one of us.”

  “She can fight – even Dux said that!” insisted the youth.

  “Scrap for her life, perhaps, but he didn’t mean really fight,” laughed Xallas. “She’s hardly bucellarii, is she?”

  “I think he-” Uldar stopped speaking when Xallas raised a silent arm in warning.

  “Shit! We’ve allowed ourselves to get too close!” hissed Xallas. “Women are always a distraction! Puglio’s column must have stopped for the night so, we must go softly now…”

  Darting into a stand of trees, they halted their mounts and waited - out of sight perhaps, but far from safe…

  Cursing his own inattention, Xallas knew that they had wandered far too close to the enemy column. He had allowed his disapproval of the young Hun to lure his mind from their task and, as a result, they now found themselves trapped near the scutarii camp. Since they could not get past it to re-join their comrades, they would have to withdraw a safe distance and prepare themselves for a cold night. Though Xallas did not doubt Uldar’s bravery, he was worried by the youth’s inexperience.

  “Do only what I do,” breathed Xallas. “We’ll walk our horses away from the scutarii… slowly; but keep a sharp watch; there may be one or two behind us.”

  Uldar, gripping his reins more tightly, gave Xallas a nervous nod which did little to reassure him. Picking his way with the utmost care, he tried to follow a course which would retrace their steps. A good strategy, he decided, unless of course, some wily scutarii had already picked up their tracks in the muddy ground. After some minutes of crossing and re-crossing the woodland trails, Xallas came to a halt, with sigh of resignation.

  “I fear they’re all around us, Uldar…”

  “So, what can we do?”

  “We must wait, but we can’t be taken, boy, you understand why?”

  “They’ll want to know where Dux is heading…”

  Perhaps the callow youth possessed a little sense after all, decided Xallas. Then another thought struck him. “At least we don’t know exactly where Dux is heading,” he said, “so at worst we can only tell Puglio he’s heading for Gallia – and that’s a big place!”

  After a slight hesitation, the youth nodded.

  “Shit!” said Xallas. “Do you know something more, boy?”

  Uldar said nothing for a moment and then confessed: “I overheard Dux telling Marco when we set out… he mentioned a town-”

  “Well, don’t tell me!” warned Xallas. “You should keep your ears closed, boy – as well as your mouth!”

  “I wasn’t trying to listen!” he protested.

  “And for the love of God, keep your voice down!” whispered Xallas. “Now, I think it’s best that we get you as far from here as possible listen. Do you think you can find your way back to Dux?”

  “Yes, but how, if they’re blocking our path?”

  “I’ll grab their attention for a while,” said Xallas, “and, when I do, you ride fast – you hear me?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “You mustn’t be taken alive, Uldar!” insisted Xallas. “I’ll draw them off and you ride as fast as your scrawny little Hun arse can take you! You understand?”

  Wild-eyed, Uldar appeared anything but confident and, just for an instant, Xallas considered killing the boy there and then. If he did so, there would be no risk to Dux and the others. But… the lad was so young and so full of life that even the veteran, Xallas, could not bring himself to do it. He had to give the youth a chance to get away.

  “As soon as you hear them after me,” he instructed his young companion, “you ride hard and you don’t look back!”

  Greeted by an unconvincing nod from Uldar, Xallas gave a shake of the head. Urging his mount forward, he began to weave a ragged path through the forest, hoping his movement would draw any nearby scutarii towards him. Though it worked exactly as he hoped, he decided to take no chances and began to fling abuse at his pursuers. Beyond that, he could only pray to the gods that the young Hun was already riding for his life back to Dux.

  Eventually, of course, they would close in upon him but, since Xallas had never liked the scutarii, he expected to take a great measure of satisfaction from killing as many of the jumped-up bastards as possible. First though, he must choose his spot. Wrenching at his rein, he wheeled his horse and bent down to snatch a throwing spear from the bundle tied to his mount, only to abandon the idea when he discovered that the nearest horseman was already too close.

  Ducking under a low branch, he glanced back at the chasing riders and reached the grim decision th
at his time with Dux had come to an end. Growling his favourite curse, his hand flicked to his belt and in one easy movement he took out a knife to hurl at his oncoming opponent. The blade flew true – well, true enough. Anywhere but the breastplate was his target, for anywhere but the breastplate usually drew blood. That evening was no exception and the wounded rider sheered away, but there were plenty more – and Xallas only had so many sharp objects to throw…

  A thought struck him: perhaps, he could do rather better… perhaps he could take out Puglio himself. With a squeeze of his legs, he urged his nimble horse forward again, heading deeper into the forest, with a spear now clutched in his right hand. Somewhere close by there would be a clearing where Puglio’s men would be throwing up a rampart for the night. Catching a glimpse of light through the ill-clothed trees, he followed the brightening glow to the camp. If he could get inside, he would no doubt find the tribune soon enough.

  Just before he reached it, a rider hurtled at him from his left flank and Xallas released the spear with practised ease. The sharp point tore through the man’s shoulder, twisting him off his mount with a cry of rage. God’s balls, thought Xallas, as he reached the makeshift camp; what a disgrace! Dux would have flayed his men if they produced such shoddy work. Two men stood either side of the open gateway but both fell swiftly – one to a spear thrust and the other to the last of the Baetican’s throwing knives. Once inside the camp, he darted his horse in and out of the pools of light, casting his remaining spears one after another until all were gone… but Puglio had not yet appeared.

  With a broad grin of anticipation, Xallas slid from his horse onto the leaf-carpeted ground, clutching his shield. Stirring up such a hornet’s nest, he had no doubts about the outcome. Hardly had he drawn out his spatha, but they came at him all at once, hacking with swords and stabbing with spears. Xallas was clever, strong and fast, but he was not Dux, or Varta; he would not keep such a swarm of enemies at bay for long.

  “Alive!” bellowed a voice. “I want him alive!”

  Puglio! But could he get to the tribune before the other scutarii cut him down. It never occurred to Xallas to surrender, for he could well imagine what Puglio would have in store for him. Then he heard a cry from the gateway and his head dropped to his chest in despair.

  “I’m coming, Xallas!” cried Uldar. “I’ll get you out of here!”

  8

  Ambrosius’ camp on the road to Vesontio

  It was well into the evening and his newly established camp had only just quietened down. This time his preparations were thorough for, after the debacle at Centum Prata, Ambrosius ensured that this time his camp was sturdily constructed and well-guarded. While most men were settling down to sleep, he gathered his closest comrades around him. Inga, who was still recovering from her leg wound, remained apart and, for a moment, he considered leaving her there. But then, remembering how she had befriended young Uldar, he relented and let her limp in to join his inner circle.

  “Xallas and Uldar aren’t back yet,” he told them, “and you know what that means.”

  “They’re dead, or taken,” observed Marcellus. “But neither of them knew where we’re going, Dux, did they?”

  “No, you were the only one I told,” confirmed Ambrosius.

  “Well…” murmured Inga.

  Ambrosius shot her a warning look, for he had not allowed her to be present to express any opinion, merely so that she understood what was happening.

  “You know different?” he enquired.

  Flinching in the face of his icy frown, she said nothing.

  “Speak up!” he said, with a sigh, “for I’ll get no peace till you say whatever’s gotten into that head of yours.”

  Still she hesitated, which convinced him that whatever she knew ought probably to be heard.

  “For God’s sake, Inga, tell us!” he ordered.

  Unused to addressing them all, her eyes wandered from one face to another until they returned to stare at Ambrosius. “I was with Uldar,” she said, “when you told Marco where you were going…”

  For a moment, no-one said a word, until Ambrosius got to his feet and headed for his tent. “Marco!” he called, “bring her with you!”

  Inside the privacy of the tent, he motioned crossly for Inga to sit – but only so that she could rest her injured leg.

  “Are you telling me that Uldar knows where we are going?” he asked.

  When she nodded, he felt the sinews tighten and knot across his belly.

  “So,” he said, “if he heard, then so did you. What was it I said to Marco?”

  “You said you were going into Gallia-”

  “Everyman knows that much!” he growled at her.

  “You said you were going to… Caracotinum...”

  “Gods! I should cut off your damned ears!” cried Ambrosius. “And how many others have the pair of you told?”

  “No-one, at least I haven’t - and he wouldn’t!” she protested. “Uldar’s loyal to you - he would die first!”

  He had no doubt now what had happened, or perhaps was still happening, to his missing comrades. Taking Inga by the shoulders, he put his face only inches away from hers.

  “Uldar,” he said, “may well die but, before he does, he’ll tell Puglio everything he knows while his body is slowly cut away, piece by tiny piece...”

  Grim-faced, he stared into her weeping eyes as his words struck home and reduced her to a sobbing, shivering shell.

  “Take her out of my sight, Marco!” he said.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  It was a risk, going after them; but even more of a risk, not to find out whether his pursuer knew his destination, or not. So, leaving the camp under the command of Marcellus, he rode out with only Varta, Germanus and Caralla with him. He hoped the four of them would be enough – three for stealth and then Caralla, because… well, because no-one else among his bucellarii could do what Aurelius Molinus Caralla could do.

  Some of the others probably wondered why he did not simply take them all and attack Puglio in force. Certainly, he was tempted but, given their bitter experience the last time they fought in the forest at night, he decided it was a risk he could not afford to take. Instead, he hoped that a few chosen men might sneak into the scutarii camp undetected and discover whether Uldar had revealed what he knew. On that score, Ambrosius had no illusions; Xallas was tough enough to hold out forever and did not in any case know where they were going, but the young Hun was a different matter altogether. Ambrosius feared that the young, untested Uldar would not last without revealing his secret.

  If they found their comrades still alive, they would try to get them out without alerting the camp. If something went wrong, then he would have to use Caralla... and it would not be pretty… Tethering their horses some distance from the scutarii camp, Ambrosius sent Varta and Germanus into the woodland shadows, where the light from the camp’s torches scarcely penetrated.

  “Find me a way in,” he ordered and then squatted beside a tree to wait alongside Caralla, who, he assumed, never even contemplated dismounting. His heavy cavalry horse stood motionless, only the occasional twitch of an ear betraying how alert the animal was.

  How many times had they done this over the years? One mission blurred into another now and only the climate provided a few clues: the baking heat of the Parthian frontier, or the biting cold of the forests north of the Rhine in winter. By Christ, there were so many places in the empire where he would never be welcome again!

  A bird call through the trees made Ambrosius smile, remembering how he and Varta had perfected those calls when they were stills youths in Gallia – boys desperate to become men…

  “You know what to do,” he told Caralla and, with only a curt nod, he moved off on foot towards the scutarii camp. Caralla would close in a little further and then wait, but Ambrosius offered up a silent prayer that they would not need him.

  Using hastily-felled trees the scutarii had marked out a rough camp, but Ambrosius saw that they had made a po
or job of it. Simply by prising apart a handful of logs, Varta and Germanus had easily gained entry to one of the camp’s darker corners. By the time Ambrosius slid in beside Varta, Germanus had already located the captives on the far side of the sprawling camp. The Burgundian led them to where they could see the two prisoners bound fast to stakes hammered into the ground.

  Though Xallas and Uldar were both still alive, neither looked in the best of health; but it was the young Hun who caught his leader’s attention. Slumped forward and only supported by the leather ties which bound him, the lad seemed almost devoid of life. Clearly he had borne the brunt of the torture – hardly surprising, for Puglio would have expected less resistance from the younger man.

  Examining the youth’s battered face, Ambrosius grimaced when he saw that one eye had been gouged out. Elsewhere on the bare torso there were further outrages: slices of skin removed here and there, a right arm that dangled, broken, and a hand missing two fingers – a hand, he knew, that would now be useless to the young archer. Hung around Uldar’s neck, as a final humiliation, was his finely crafted bow. With his body mutilated beyond forbearance, the lad had done all that Ambrosius could possibly have asked of him – and more. If, after such terrible torture, he had succumbed, it was no disgrace.

  With stern countenance, Ambrosius scanned the area around the captives. Three scutarii stood guard – suitably alert, but stationary so that to free the two men, they would have to silence all three guards at the same instant. To do so in the open, under the glare of torchlight – albeit faltering torchlight – would be difficult, perhaps impossible. If they had the slightest stroke of ill-fortune, the whole camp would be roused in moments.

  A sudden stirring drew Ambrosius’ eye: Xallas stretched his legs and strained at his bonds. Though he gave no indication that he was even aware of their presence, his abrupt movement could not have been an accident – or could it? Perhaps the fellow really was simply easing the stiffness in his joints.

  Sliding his knife from the sheath at his belt, Ambrosius gestured to his two comrades. Swift and silent, each crawled into position, ready to strike the moment their leader attacked. Ambrosius paused, taking in the usual sounds of a camp at night: the muttering of men who could not sleep and the occasional snort from a restless horse.