by Derek Birks
“You have your knife?” he asked.
“I can’t fight a wolf, Dux,” she muttered.
“Turn around,” he growled at her. “Keep hold of my hand and take out your knife. Then, when you’ve done that, say a swift prayer to whatever god you believe in – and start walking!”
“I can’t!”
“Do it!” he ordered. “I didn’t free you just so that you could be torn apart by wolves!”
He felt the ferocity of her embrace ease a little until her right arm dropped away from his shoulder.
“Gently,” he said, as she began to turn. “Lead with your knife in your right hand and guide me with your left – and don’t look back unless I let go of your hand…”
So, they began to move, at first only by tiny steps, a few inches at a time, her hand held fast in his. A yard covered, two yards… and then five… But the wolves too were moving.
“Are they following?” she gasped.
“They’ll follow; we just need to keep them at bay till we get closer to the camp.”
But, wolves were clever and, after a dozen yards or so, they began to close in. Though he had managed to coax Inga much further than he expected, her hand was beginning to slip in his grasp as sweat formed a greasy barrier between them. However tightly he tried to hold her, the constant movement contrived to break their hands apart. With a cry of despair, Inga came to sudden stop.
Reaching for her hand, he heard the gasp of relief when he grasped it once more.
“Be calm,” he urged her. “You’re doing well, just keep going.”
“I can’t!” she cried.
“You can, Inga! You’ve been doing just fine.”
“No, I can’t… because there’s a wolf blocking the way!”
Risking a glance at the nearest trees, he told her: “Step two yards to your left – and stop by that oak.”
“But-”
“Just do it!”
To his astonishment, she did, but by the time they stopped under the oak, the wolves were neatly arrayed in a circle around them. A closer look at the oak told him that in the darkness he had made a fatal mistake: the lowest branches were not as low as he thought – and certainly not low enough. With a sigh, he knew they would find no escape at the oak tree; they would have to make their stand against it.
The wolves, now only a dozen yards away, were edging in for the kill. Well, he reflected, it was no shame to be killed by a hungry wolf.
“Keep your back against the tree,” he told her. “I’ll be in front of you.”
“It had to be wolves…” she murmured.
“Have courage and, when I fall, use your knife; by then, it might be enough.”
“It won’t,” she whispered, “and comrades shouldn’t lie to each other…”
“You’re more than a comrade to me …”
“Will they all come at us at once, do you think?” she asked, holding her blade out to protect his flank.
Eyes focussed on the closest, largest wolf, he replied: “I don’t know – biggest first, I’d have thought, but I’m not sure wolves have rules about it…”
The wolves began growling and snarling – not a good sign.
“Don’t let them rip out my heart, Dux,” pleaded Inga.
Ambrosius lifted her hand and kissed the back of it – even when there was no hope, he thought, a little reassurance couldn’t hurt.
“What was that for?” she breathed.
“I’m just… glad I’m with you…” he said.
“Well, you picked a great time to tell me that…”
Abruptly the growling stopped, and the largest grey wolf leapt at Ambrosius.
13
Early November 454 in the evening, at Dux’s camp near Caracotinum
Warming himself by the welcome fire, Marcellus looked around at the ring of familiar faces – an incomplete gathering of course, because Onno and Caralla were off purloining a ship! Dux was not there either, though at times like these he often preferred to spend some hours on his own. More surprising to Marcellus was that Inga was absent, for he had grown accustomed to her presence beside him in the evenings and he had to admit that he missed her.
“Where’s Inga?” he asked Calens, but the Greek offered only a shrug by way of answer.
“Do you think she’s alright?” he persisted, but even Calens, who was fond of the girl too, seemed to lack any interest in discussing her. The Greek had a certain look in his eyes which Marcellus knew all too well; for Calens, poorly equipped with the skills of war, always dreaded the night before some action. It had become his habit to fortify himself with one of the many powders he carried in his physician’s bag. Sometimes Marcellus wondered whether the habit was already an addiction – still, Calens was the only physician they had, so they could hardly take his powders away from him…
Since no-one else seemed interested in Inga’s absence, Marcellus decided to go for a stroll around the camp. She could, of course, be in her tent but a swift visit there confirmed that she was not, so he wandered around the camp, feeling bereft. Unable to hide his feelings for her, he knew that all his comrades must have noticed – even Dux. It was hard to be near her sometimes – yet even harder, as now, to be apart from her.
And all the while, she had eyes only for Dux, who being an indifferent bastard at the best of times, had probably not even noticed. But Marcellus had; he saw how she watched Ambrosius. The harder Dux pushed her away, the quicker she came back for more. Though Ambrosius was his friend and bitterness was not in Marcellus’ nature, he could not help but resent how things were. Could she be with Ambrosius now? He thought it unlikely.
As he walked the camp perimeter, nodding a greeting to some of the weary soldiers he had brought in earlier, he noticed that a few of the Franks too were sharing their campfires – mainly older men, no doubt relating tall stories of their many exploits. In the shadows, away from any of the fires, he noticed a figure standing alone and, just for a moment, Marcellus assumed it was Ambrosius – who frequently loitered close to the men to get a sense of their mood and morale. But as he walked closer, he saw by the fellow’s dress and hair that it was one of the Franks.
“Good evening, friend,” said Marcellus, thus requiring the watcher to step forward a little into the glow of fire light. “What brings you to our camp?”
The Frank smiled - the assured smile, Marcellus recognised, of a leader of men.
“I am Childeric, a prince among the Franks. I was just curious to meet a few more Romans.”
“And how do we Romans look to you?” laughed Marcellus.
Childeric smiled again. “You look too few…”
Marcellus noted that, though the smile remained, it carried no warmth. “Too few?” he said.
“You have no women in your camp – or boys either! What sort of Romans are you? Not much like others I’ve met.
Stung by the Frank’s rudeness, Marcellus retorted: “We have women in our camp!” But instantly he regretted taking up the challenge, for in truth, though there had been several whores during their long journey across Gallia, there was only one young woman in the camp.
“I don’t see any,” said Childeric.
“Well, our women are not a matter for you, in any case.”
“Are we not allies?” asked Childeric. “Do allies not share? I could trade you several of our girls for yours.”
“Our camp is not a slave market for whores!” chided Marcellus.
“You Romans are always the same: what’s ours becomes yours and what’s yours is still yours…”
“Time you went back to your women-rich camp, friend,” growled Marcellus.
“I did see a girl here, earlier,” murmured Childeric.
“Have you nothing better to do than spy upon our camp?” cried Marcellus.
“Couldn’t help noticing her, the way she moved, the swing of her hips-”
“That’s enough!” snapped Marcellus.
“Why, is she your woman?”
“No!�
��
“There was much fire in your denial, friend,” grinned Childeric, “but perhaps she is just the camp whore…”
“I said, you should leave,” said Marcellus.
“She must be very busy if she’s the only one…”
“She is not a whore!”
“Strange. She had the look of a whore to me,” replied Childeric, “and, believe me, I’m something of an expert when it comes to women. I know: perhaps she’s the personal whore of your Dux, Ambrosius Aurelianus! And you are his faithful dog… protecting his property…”
Before he knew it, Marcellus had taken a pace forward and reached for the hilt of his sword; but, just in time, he checked himself.
“Wouldn’t look good, would it?” said Childeric, “Frank and Roman allies scrapping with each other, the night before they go into battle together?”
Angrier with himself than Childeric, Marcellus forced a thin smile. “Yes, we both have a fort to storm tomorrow,” he conceded, “so let’s put off the fighting till then, shall we?”
“There’ll be more than enough fighting for you in that town, Roman,” warned Childeric, giving Marcellus a curt nod before stepping back into the trees.
How can such a villain be our ally, thought Marcellus? Not for the first time that evening, he began to doubt the path his commander was following.
14
7 th November 454 in the woods east of Caracotinum
When Inga’s terrified scream punctured the night, even the wolf seemed distracted. Nevertheless, it continued its lunge at Ambrosius, planting its forelegs onto his shoulders as its keen teeth reached for his throat. Wrestling with one hand under the animal’s slavering jaws, he plunged his long knife deep into its chest. But only when he felt the warmth of its savage heart blood pulsing over his hand, did he sense the wolf’s fury begin to abate. After a few more moments, Ambrosius was able to wrench the blade free, and let the heavy animal fall, stone dead at his feet.
Undaunted, the rest of the pack continued the attack, with two springing at him at once. Even as he impaled one in the throat, the other closed its jaws upon his arm until it felt the impact of Inga’s blade, yelped and leaped aside. But the respite was brief for, as he suspected, there were several more wolves and now they attacked as one. Cutting and slashing at them seemed to have little effect as the ravenous animals ignored their wounds.
A cry from Inga prompted him to thrust his knife across into the exposed flank of a wolf that was savaging her arm. With a howl of rage, the beast turned to meet his attack and he watched with pride as Inga plunged her knife into the wounded beast’s neck. Again and again she stabbed it, screaming at it in her own tongue, until the bloodied animal at last shied away, cowed, but still snarling at her.
A brief glance at Inga revealed that she had suffered some serious wounds to her arm and side. If they stayed where they were, the wolves had all night to wear them down. A bloody death for both of them would be inevitable.
“While they lick their wounds, we must move,” he told her.
“No,” she said, shivering and pressing back, wild-eyed, against the sturdy oak. She had done more than he imagined she could, but now, at last, shock was beginning to overwhelm her blind courage.
“Inga! Listen to me!” he urged. “Your scream was loud enough to wake the dead – someone will come looking – and the closer we can get to the camp, the more chance there is of them finding us!”
But she just clung to him while, a few yards away, the wolves began to howl again. Though they were cowering for the moment in the trees, they would not remain subdued for much longer.
“We won’t get another chance,” he said gently. “We’ve driven them off; if we leave now, they might give up. We’ve been damned lucky so far, but we have to move!”
She was weeping as she told him: “I can’t do it, Dux; I don’t trust my legs to hold me up, let alone run…”
With a sigh, he turned his back on the wolves and wrapped both arms around her, wincing as his savaged left forearm grazed the rough, oak bark. Hugging her to him, he whispered into her hair: “I won’t leave you and I won’t let them have you either… So, come with me…and, if you fall, I’ll carry you.”
Before she could succumb to paralysing fear once more, he pulled her away from the tree and hauled her in the general direction of their camp – though, in truth, any camp would do now: Frank or Roman. At first she could only stumble alongside him, grimly hanging on; but then she seemed to rally a little, as if finding some belief. Even when he dared to break into a run, her legs seemed strong enough to keep pace with him.
He was taking a terrible risk, for a single careless step would bring the pair of them down. Cold reason reminded him that the remaining wolves would still be desperate for a kill and their best chance of feeding that night was the two they were pursuing. But soon he could see the camp fires – scores of them - and hardly any distance away at all.
“Wolves! Wolves!” he cried out, hoping to alert the camp, and was at once rewarded by answering cries. Relief coursed through him as they ran and he squeezed her hand, feeling a fierce pride in this brave girl that he had pushed away for so long. The next moment, the wolves thundered into them, knocking them off their feet and wrenching Inga’s hand from his grasp. Breath knocked out of him, he rolled in the undergrowth but managed to recover in time to throw himself across Inga.
Lunging up with his knife, he stopped one animal, but three more came at them together. Teeth gripped his leg and he lashed out with his boot - pleased to hear a yelp, but by then his knife had been torn from his grasp. Another beast was tearing the clothing from his back as he fought to cover her body with his. She was screaming, but whether from pain, or dread of what was about to happen, he could not tell.
Though he had faced death many times, he had never done so in the arms of someone for whom he cared. He had sworn that he would not let the wolves rip out her heart so, if the beasts wanted her, they would have to tear him apart to get to her. When one of the animals finally managed to sink its teeth into the flesh of his side, he cried out in agony and Inga twisted around to look up at him.
“I’ll see you… in the afterlife,” she said, as he wrapped himself around her.
Then another wolf leapt onto his back and a wave of pain swept over him.
Part Three: Caracotinum
15
Early November 454 in the night, on the estuary of the River Seine
“We should have done this at first light,” grumbled Caralla. “I can’t see where I’m going! We could be trudging around in this evil-smelling shit all night!”
“Not if you carry on making all that noise!” hissed Onno. “Because the damned Franks will find us soon enough!”
“I’m more worried about sinking into this marsh, never to be found again – by anyone!” complained Caralla.
They were heading for the south gate of the town – or at least what had once been the south gate. According to Dux it had been walled up many years before – even before he left the town - because there were too few men to defend two gatehouses. After the expulsion of the Frank foederati, Onno reckoned they must have struggled to defend even one gate.
“Keep going,” he said, now up to his knees and struggling to lift his leg to take the next step through the mire. He had to admit – though he wouldn’t to Caralla – that it was damned hard going. All the same, by risking the marshes, they should escape the notice of the Franks – as long as Caralla could keep quiet, of course.
“Anyway, we haven’t seen any Franks yet,” moaned Caralla.
“That’s rather the idea, my friend.”
“Aren’t they all camped at the north gate?”
“Not according to Dux, no,” replied Onno, pausing to rest for a moment. “Apparently a few are watching the disused south gate in case some of the garrison sally out to outflank the Franks.”
“Can they sally out if it’s blocked up?”
“Who knows?”
Onno
could not imagine why the small garrison would want to sally out anywhere just at that moment, and he was more worried about attracting the unwelcome attention of any Franks who might be close by.
“It’s damned cold,” moaned Caralla.
“It must be warmer than Britannia though?”
“In the north perhaps,” agreed Caralla, “but I was always in the south...”
“I’ll make a note of that,” said Onno.
“Why?”
“You never know, I might end up there sometime…” said Onno vaguely.
“Not if you’ve got any damned sense!” said Caralla.
“What’s wrong with it then?” enquired Onno.
“Don’t get me started – and anyway, about that south gate. If it’s bricked up, how are we supposed to get in?”
“Dux told me how.”
“Oh good,” sighed the Briton, “that’ll be handy then, if we ever get out of this lot!”
According to Dux, the south gate had been very poorly bricked up and, years ago as a boy, he had found a way through it, enabling him to come and go freely from the walled town. What concerned Onno was whether the defenders had discovered Dux’s private entrance during the intervening years and repaired it. If they had, he and his unhappy comrade would be stranded outside the wall. And, if they were still there at first light, they might struggle to explain their presence to the besieging Franks.
Just as he was about to offer some encouragement to Caralla, there was a muted curse from in front of him.
“What is it?” he gasped.
But only a groan emanated from the darkness in front of him.
“Caralla?” he murmured.
Where they were, on the fringes of the estuary marshes, there was not a glimmer of light from the town to help them find their way. Onno could not even see Caralla – or for that matter anything else. Plunging a leg forward into the mud, to try to close up to his comrade, he was at once immersed up to his chest. Desperate not to cry out, he flailed his arms around aimlessly for a moment, until he managed to calm himself down.
“Don’t move so much,” advised Caralla, just ahead of him. His despairing tone suggested that he had done so and slid deeper into the marsh as a consequence.