The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  The smell of the food cast Ambrosius back to his youth and all he wanted at that moment was to leap from his mount and squat down at one of the fires to share bread and swap tales of youthful daring. But he was a callow youth no longer…

  Glancing to his right, he stared at the north gate of the town – the only real gate through the walls since the south gate had been walled up. The river here made a sharp turn to the west until it reached a confluence with another winding stream. Together the waterways would mingle under the old fortified bridge and feed into the harbour, which was out of sight behind the high walls. As a boy, he had been told that in bygone times, water from the river was diverted along the outside of the walls so that the whole town was secured by a water-filled ditch. But even when he was last there, the ditch was dry most of the year, except on the seaward side where the incoming tide sometimes fed into it.

  Studying the walls more closely, he noted that the stonework had been patched here and there. Caracotinum had certainly seen better days and it occurred to him that the small garrison would be hard-pressed to defend the whole length of the wall.

  Filling the narrow plain ahead of him was the centre of the Frank encampment. Varta gave an involuntary grin and Ambrosius knew why. Aside from the numerous additions to the camp, this part had changed very little since he and Varta had left.

  “Ah, shit and smoke,” announced Onno, sniffing the air, “the two vital odours of every army!”

  “There must be more than a hundred here,” murmured Varta, meeting the gaze of many who stared at them as they continued to pick a path between the camps. Some looked puzzled, others sullen but most were openly hostile. Finally, so many blocked their way that Ambrosius decided he would have to dismount to put folk more at ease.

  “They’re not keen on outsiders,” observed Varta.

  “Especially,” admitted Onno, “when some of us look like the poor sods inside the fort!”

  Bringing his horse to a halt, Ambrosius dismounted and walked the mount through the milling crowd. His belligerent stallion, however, did not tolerate crowds well and snorted impatiently, as if anticipating trouble, despite Ambrosius’ efforts to calm him. Yet despite his horse’s reluctance, he was committed now so he urged the truculent animal right into the throng so that they must part to allow man and beast through, or risk the stamp of a vexed hoof upon their feet.

  “I wish I knew what in God’s name we’re doing, Dux,” murmured Onno.

  “Varta and I are going to meet some old friends,” confided Ambrosius, pressing on.

  “At least, we hope they’re still friends!” said Varta. “Ten years is a damned long time, Dux. And, by God, I can’t say anyone looks very friendly.”

  Ambrosius had to agree: where, many years before, he had found succour, now he saw only a ring of flint-faced warriors barring his path. Greeting them in their own tongue gained him a small advantage as they struggled to work out who he was and what he could possibly want with a dead Roman slung over his saddle. While they hesitated, Ambrosius made for the largest tent, with his comrades following close behind. When some of those in their path recognised Varta, they froze – half in greeting; half in surprise.

  At the great tent, a tight knot of Franks waited. Arrayed in a half-circle several ranks deep, they already had their spathas drawn and there, Ambrosius came to a halt. When, a moment later, he took a pace towards the tent opening, the Franks shuffled closer, levelling the points of their spathas at his chest.

  Again, using the language he had learned as a youth, he addressed them in a friendly tone.

  “Who commands here?” he asked.

  “Who asks?” countered one of the Franks.

  Studying the man for a moment, Ambrosius replied, with a trace of a smile, “You already know that, Siric; but, if you’ve forgotten me, I certainly haven’t forgotten the boy who was always trailing around on my heels.”

  Though he hoped to gain their trust, his words seemed to cause only consternation and an argument broke out between several of the men who faced him.

  “Enough!” he said, still smiling. “I come as a friend; but tell me, Siric, does my Frankish father still hold sway amongst your people?”

  “He does!” called a gruff voice from within the tent. “Let the young bastard in, Siric; we’ll have no peace till you do!”

  The group blocking the entrance moved aside at once, though not all sheathed their weapons.

  Ambrosius turned to his comrades. “Stay here and keep your spathas in their scabbards,” he ordered. “Come on, Varta.”

  Inside he found the Frankish equivalent of luxury and, seated amid the furs and gold trappings and flanked by several other men, was Clodoris - the Frank he had called father in the years before he became a man.

  “Greetings, father,” he said, surprised at the sudden huskiness in his voice.

  Giving a rueful shake of the head, Clodoris said: “The first day I saw you, I knew you’d be trouble.”

  “I suppose I always was…” agreed Ambrosius.

  “You always were,” agreed Clodoris, but he stood up and embraced Ambrosius – a warm, if measured, embrace.

  Resuming his seat, Clodoris said: “You were a good son; you repaid my faith in you – until you buggered off and took my best young warrior with you.”

  Varta grinned and nodded to their host.

  “He pestered me to let him come,” protested Ambrosius.

  “Of course he did! He was a restless fool - like you! And I’ve heard that you’re in the service of Magister Aetius, no less? Yet, here you are, back in the humble place you once called home.”

  “I am pleased to see you in such rude health, father,” said Ambrosius. “And Merovel, is she…?”

  “Your adopted mother is well enough, though… I’ve not forgotten how hard she took your leaving… For her sake, I am glad you’ve returned – even if seeing her was not your purpose for coming…”

  In the long pause that followed both men struggled to find the words for the next, more difficult part of their conversation.

  After a glance at those beside him, Clodoris said: “You seem to have… stumbled upon your half-brother…”

  “I have,” said Ambrosius, a little relieved at the other man’s directness. He had forgotten how blunt Clodoris could be - a blunt man, yet also a good man… and a good father to him.

  “You should have left him there,” chided the Frank. “He was never much of a brother to you, was he?”

  Ambrosius gave a shrug, unwilling to discuss his family before several others he did not know.

  For a moment Clodoris hesitated too and Ambrosius did not miss his wary glance towards the fair-haired youth who sat beside him at his right hand. For one so young, it was a place of considerable honour.

  “You will know that it was a message,” continued Clodoris, “for your Roman father, from some of my more… spirited comrades.”

  Watching the Franks as Clodoris spoke, Ambrosius noted the glare directed at him by the young Frank.

  “I wasn’t even sure that Magnus was still alive,” replied Ambrosius.

  “Oh yes, he’s still alive,” Clodoris assured him, stern-faced, “and he’s still the same brutal bastard he was last time you saw him - only now he calls himself ‘Comes’ Honorius.”

  “Comes of what?” scoffed Ambrosius. “How can he be a Comes?”

  “Is that a son’s jealousy, I hear?” enquired Clodoris, with mischief in his eyes.

  “No! He might be a Dux perhaps, but a Comes… that would have to come from the emperor...”

  “And his power grows by the day,” said the Frank. “His power - and his wealth too, for most of the coloni in these parts must defer to him; they’re slaves in all but name!”

  “And what is your role now?” enquired Ambrosius. “Once you used to defend the port; now it seems you’re attacking it.”

  “Magnus has not required our service for the past three years,” said Clodoris. “He doesn’t want troublesome fo
ederati anymore.”

  “But you still live here…”

  “As you well know, we’ve lived here for generations!” replied Clodoris, his resentment all too plain.

  “But now there are more of you – far more.”

  “Magnus tried to drive us away by burning some of our dwellings – and those of our folk who farmed the land. We were heavily outnumbered, so he expected us to flee. But instead, we sent for help – and some other Franks, from the north, answered our call.”

  Ambrosius nodded, understanding that those who dwelt further north were, in any case, being driven out of the lands that bordered the Rhine and were moving ever southwards in search of fertile land.

  “But you’ll also see a few others in our ranks too – folk who have fallen foul of the Comes – one way or another… So,” concluded Clodoris, “now we have the numbers on our side.”

  “You plan to attack the fort?” asked Ambrosius.

  “It’s already cut off overland – the only way Magnus can get anything in or out is by sea.”

  “So, it’s Frank against Roman now?”

  “Not by our doing, Roman,” said the youth at Clodoris’ side. “But perhaps Rome’s time is over.”

  Clodoris laid a restraining hand upon the speaker’s arm. “You must excuse Childeric,” he said. “He’s a brash youth, who reminds me a lot of you at that age. But, he’s right and perhaps we Franks are beginning to speak with one voice at last.”

  “And that voice is saying what, exactly?” enquired Ambrosius.

  “Since your father expelled us from the town, he’s controlled it like a tyrant – taxes are crippling the merchants – and his rule is… severe. It’s military rule and any hint of opposition is crushed. The anger against your father does not just lie outside the walls.”

  “So, with your northern reinforcements, you intend to free the town from its Roman… tyrant?”

  “He is a tyrant, Ambrosius,” insisted Clodoris. “This is one of the few Gallic ports still trading freely; we Franks have defended it for generations – we should at least be able to use it.”

  “What about Gesoriacum?”

  “There’s too much trouble up there – as there is everywhere – besides, we’ve lived here for-”

  “Generations, I know… So, now you’ve laid siege to the port, what next?”

  “That’s still to be decided,” said Clodoris, “because yesterday, to our surprise, reinforcements arrived – well-armed men too. We’d heard that the Roman auxilia had pulled back to Rotomagus, so perhaps we let our guard down and now the fort is better defended than it was.”

  “You’ll never take it by storm,” said Ambrosius. “You don’t have enough men to squander at the foot of its walls.”

  “The walls are old and much in need of repair,” replied Clodoris. “And we are making ladders…”

  For a second time, the glowering youth beside Clodoris spoke out.

  “You come here – an agent of Rome – and you expect us to simply tell us what to do as if you still govern here. But you don’t, Roman, and very soon we’ll bring down your father’s cruel reign - by fire and sword!”

  Addressing Childeric, Ambrosius conceded: “I was an agent of Rome; that’s true enough, but now that Flavius Aetius is dead, I’m just another renegade…”

  Childeric nodded. “We’ve heard the rumours… so it’s true then: Aetius is really dead… Then the way is open to us...”

  It was already abundantly clear to Ambrosius that, though Clodoris might have some fond memories of him, there would be other tribal leaders here who did not know him at all. Clodoris was only the head man of one Frankish war band, and some of the younger men, like Childeric perhaps, had already glimpsed more of the fading empire than just Gallia. With the death of Aetius, their desire for change would be unleashed.

  “I can imagine what my Roman father has done,” said Ambrosius, “and he should pay for it.”

  “And, rest assured he will,” retorted Childeric, “when we raze his fort and slaughter all those within its walls – and the rest of Caracotinum too!”

  “Slaughter?” said Ambrosius, with a slow shake of the head. “So much for helping the oppressed locals!”

  “My young ally speaks in bold strokes,” said Clodoris. “If the local people are with us then, of course, there will be no slaughter.”

  “But you can’t take the port with the hundred or so men you have here. And… with winter closing in fast, Magnus knows that all he has to do is wait, with his full granaries, while this little army of yours dwindles by the day...”

  A sharp exchange of glances between the Franks told him that his assessment was all too accurate.

  “Unless, of course, I was to help you...” he said.

  “And why would you do that, Roman?” Childeric’s enquiry was sculpted from ice.

  “I could offer you a swift - and much less costly way – into the fort.”

  “How?” asked Clodoris.

  “By taking my brother’s body back to his father,” said Ambrosius.

  “Pah! How would that help?” scoffed Clodoris. “As I remember it, your Roman father despised you so much that he forced you out, which was how you found your way to me. Why would he want to see you now?”

  “He won’t.”

  Childeric stood up. “Then let’s not waste any more time talking about your family affairs!”

  “Magnus won’t listen to me,” repeated Ambrosius. “Indeed, he might just kill me on sight - but first, he’ll let me into that fort with his son’s body. And, if he lets me in, I can get you in too.”

  “Why would you do that, Roman?” snarled Childeric. “And how could we ever trust you?”

  The youth fell reluctantly silent when Clodoris raised a warning hand. “What would you want from us in return?” asked the Frank.

  “Safe passage on ships for all my men, my Roman family and any others in the fort who wish to leave in peace.”

  “How many men do you have?”

  “About forty.”

  “No!” snapped Childeric. “He’s Roman – let him in there with another forty fighting men and that garrison will be too strong for us!”

  “I’m the one taking all the risks,” declared Ambrosius, “and my men.”

  For the first time, Varta spoke. “I stand beside Dux on this.”

  Childeric laughed aloud at that. “Dux? You call him Dux?” he shouted. “How is this man not an agent of Rome when even Varta, the Frank, must call him Dux?”

  Ambrosius, noting the traces of doubt in Clodoris’ expression too, said nothing.

  “I don’t call him Dux because I must,” Varta spat the words at the youth, “or because he wills it! He wouldn’t care if I called him ‘shitcloth’ to his face - but my comrades would! Why, they would ask, do you not honour a man who’s saved your life so many times? So, to me - to all of us, he is Dux and whatever Dux promises, he will do.”

  “You can find a way to let us in?” asked Clodoris.

  “We can,” agreed Ambrosius. “And you will have control of the port for yourselves – with far less cost in blood.”

  Childeric and one of the others grumbled in protest, but Clodoris ignored them. “And what happens to your father?”

  “Well, that’ll be easy: either he’ll kill me, or I’ll kill him.”

  Ambrosius remembered Clodoris as a wise judge of men and their moods; now the Frank chieftain searched the faces of the men around him and even Ambrosius sensed their reservations.

  “My young friend, Childeric, has a point,” said Clodoris. “I can’t allow you to take all your Roman-trained soldiers into that fort. Whatever you say now, you might only be adding to those who would defend the fort against us.”

  “I never asked to take them all in,” replied Ambrosius. “Let me take a dozen or so of my most trusted comrades. The rest can remain here – as surety of my good faith.”

  “But yet,” said Clodoris, “I suspect that even twelve of your best men would
make it much more difficult for us to take that fort…”

  “If I take any fewer, then my task will be near impossible!”

  “It’s folly to trust him at all!” snarled Childeric.

  “A dozen – or nothing at all,” said Ambrosius. “Or… my forty men will have to fight their way through your army to get to the fort.”

  “Then you’ll all die!” cried Childeric.

  “Perhaps, but so would very many of your own! I’m offering you another way – an easier way - to get what you want: my father dead and the Romans out of Caracotinum.”

  “Go with your friend, Varta, and the rest of your comrades,” said Clodoris. “Take some refreshment, while we consider your proposal.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  “Whatever Clodoris decides,” murmured Varta, when they were outside the tent, “we’ll be betraying a Roman garrison. Some of our men won’t be happy about that – especially Marco.”

  Ambrosius sighed. “True, but then… when is Marco ever truly happy, eh? We’ll be giving the garrison a chance to escape - if we can find a few ships in that port. The only real obstacle is my father, for he won’t allow his men to surrender the town without a fight. If we work with Clodoris, we can help everyone out of this mess.”

  “You think we can rely on the Franks?” asked Varta.

  “I don’t think Clodoris would betray us, but others - youths, like Childeric – just might. Clodoris represents the past: foederati in service to Rome; Childeric gives them a glimpse of a different future, independent of Rome. If the Franks have to choose, I have a feeling they might choose Childeric…”

  “But he’s hardly a man yet!” said Varta.

  “We’ll see,” said Ambrosius. “It’s not so long ago that we were his age, is it? And do you remember how confident we were – how dismissive we were of other, older men…”

  When Varta made no reply, Ambrosius gave him a rueful smile, for it was clear that the Frank remembered those days all too well.

  12

  It was late in the day when Clodoris finally gave his decision to Ambrosius, confirming his initial doubts about how far Clodoris held sway over all the Franks. Though the Frank leader agreed to the proposal, he stipulated that Ambrosius must take an escort of no more than five other men. It was a blow, but, if he wanted to get into Caracotinum, he would have to agree to those terms. Any further argument might cause the Franks to withdraw their consent altogether.