The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  “I know, I know,” agreed Onno, “it only makes you sink deeper… I am an engineer, you know… Can you move to your right, closer to dry land?”

  “Already forgotten what dry land’s like,” groaned Caralla, but a few moments later he said: “It’s all right; I’m on firmer ground now. Give me your hand.”

  “Where in the name of God are you?” whispered Onno, peering into the utter blackness.

  It was a shock when a strong arm reached out and seized him by the shoulder – but also a blessed relief. Just then, despite the Briton’s never-ending complaints, Onno was very glad to have his powerfully-built comrade with him. Slowly they hauled each other out and squatted where they were for a time, recovering. Onno counted himself – among other things - a seasoned warrior, yet when he emerged from the cloying marsh, he found he was trembling all over.

  Once rested though, and with their confidence restored, the pair set off inland, with a stiff, cool breeze on their backs, which felt all the colder since they were both now covered with a thin layer of wet mud. Soon they stumbled upon – or, more accurately, fell into - the main channel from the estuary which carried ships into the harbour. Narrowed by the outgoing tide, it was also, fortunately, not very deep and, although they were further chilled by the experience, at least it washed off some of the stinking mud.

  Walking alongside the channel, they were encouraged to find that they could actually catch a glimpse of some of the town walls, for lanterns burned at the twin towers which marked the fortified harbour entrance. Following the channel towards the lights, they could soon make out the south wall of the port looming ahead, illuminated along its length by dull pools of light from torches on the rampart.

  Keeping to their right, they found they were crossing marshland again.

  “Make straight for the wall,” said Onno. “That, at least, must be built on a sound footing!”

  Thankful not to have disappeared into the marsh, they made careful progress towards the wall but, before it, lay a shallow ditch into which water steadily seeped from the marshes. The ditch, Onno had no doubt, had once been much deeper but it was still an awkward obstacle.

  “We’ll walk alongside it until we reach the old south gate,” said Onno.

  “If you say so,” agreed Caralla.

  The south gate was easy to find, even in the scant light provided from the rampart torches, because its two curved towers were still there, thrusting out at them. As expected, closer scrutiny revealed that, where there should have been a timber gate between the towers, there was now only more stonework.

  Glancing around the area, it did not take them long to pick out a small band of Franks who were some distance away, huddled around a blazing fire – a luxury for which Onno briefly considered it might be worth shedding some blood. But instead he turned his attention back to the stone wall in front of him.

  “Forget the Franks,” he told Caralla. “They’re far enough away not to trouble us - as long as we’re quiet.”

  Praying that the instructions Dux had given him would lead them straight to the hidden point of entry, he started to cross the ditch.

  “I’ve been in latrines that smelt better than this,” murmured Caralla, “and it’s very damp.”

  In some places, the ditch was firm, but in others a boot could sink in up to the knee, as Caralla demonstrated several times.

  “Don’t look too close at what you’re stepping in,” advised Onno, hearing the crunch of bone under his foot.

  “I can’t see anyway,” muttered Caralla. “Shit!”

  “That too…”

  After a few unpleasant minutes, they clambered to the base of the wall.

  “What are we looking for?” enquired Caralla. “If we could just see…”

  “We can feel our way,” said Onno. “Now, Dux said: go to the left hand side of the gate way and count up to the third course of stones. Two of the stones in the middle of the course can easily be prised loose. So, from the outside we should be able to push the pair of stones in and then once we’ve clambered inside, we can just put them back in place again.”

  “Sounds far too easy,” lamented Caralla, “and Dux is relying on a memory from a long time ago… Those stones could have been repaired any time!” Caralla’s gloom was almost tangible.

  Working his way around the curved stone face of the left tower, Onno ran his fingers over the stones of the blocked-up gateway, counting to work out the ones for which he was searching. It was always the same when a gateway was blocked up; everyone knew it was never as strong as a normal wall. Often the work was carried out in haste under threat of an attack – and frequently by those whose masonry skills were very limited. It was also invariably – as in this case – nowhere near as thick as the original wall.

  Though he quickly worked out which stones he wanted, no matter how much he heaved and strained, he could not shift either of them. After a while, his comrade applied his superior strength but also to no avail.

  “I think I got one to move a bit,” said Caralla, “but, I tell you, if those stones ever came out, they’re not shifting far now. They must have rebuilt this section...”

  For a while they simply squatted on their haunches, contemplating the blank wall while Onno considered whether he had counted wrong and traced the outline of each individual stone again, until he was satisfied there was no mistake. Then he tackled the stones again but to no avail. As Caralla said, if they had been loose once, they were no longer loose now.

  “God’s hands!” said Onno, staring at the unhelpful wall in disbelief. “We can’t get in here – but there’s no other damned way in…”

  “Yeh,” groaned the Briton. “Well, we’re truly buggered then, my friend, because we can’t stay here much longer! By Christ, the stench alone will kill us! But… you don’t suppose Dux has forgotten which stones it was, do you? I suppose we could work our way along a bit and feel for any other loose stones.”

  “It’s worth a try,” agreed Onno. “We’ve got nothing else to do!”

  They did not know how many hours remained until dawn when they would be immediately visible to both the besieged Romans and the besieging Franks. So, they had nothing to lose but, as they explored the base of the wall, water began to splash around their boots.

  “Shit!” muttered Onno.

  “But it was dry a moment ago!” declared Caralla.

  “The tide must be on its way in now. It’s an estuary; the tide comes in fast and feeds into the harbour channel,” explained Onno. “It must come some way along the ditch too, I suppose.”

  In no time it seemed, the water was lapping at the lower stones of the wall preventing any further attempt to find loose ones. The two men waded back across the ditch back to what passed for dry land and sat down.

  “What now then?” asked Caralla.

  “I don’t know; I truly don’t know,” replied Onno. “But Dux was quite clear: all depends on us getting hold of a ship or two by this time tomorrow.”

  “Then we’ll have to return to Dux and tell him we couldn’t get in. We’ll have to go in the north gate with Marcellus and the rest.”

  “That won’t give us time to find a ship, will it?” argued Onno. “We need to be ahead of everyone else – not behind them! By tomorrow we’d be stuck in the chaos with the rest of them!”

  “But what then? If there’s no way in…”

  “We’ll just have to find another way – and we’ve only got a few hours before it’ll be light!”

  16

  November 454 in the early hours, at Dux’s camp

  Ambrosius was in his tent, though with no recollection at all of how he got there. Beside the bed where he lay, an oil lamp illuminated a small heap of bloody linen cloths on the ground. He was lying on his stomach but his back felt as if it was on fire – then he remembered the wolves, every single moment of their attack until he died… because, yes, he felt sure he should be dead.

  A fingertip brushed the back of his outstretched hand, a gentle
reassuring touch, but he could hardly move.

  “Inga?” he murmured, but if she was there, she said nothing and he lapsed into sleep once more.

  When he awoke again, it was still dark and the lamp still burned. In its light this time, stood Calens, watching him. Even in his weakened state, Ambrosius could see that the physician looked most displeased.

  “How did I get back here?” asked Ambrosius.

  “You were lucky…” said Calens. As so often, the Greek’s tone was brusque and dismissive – except it seemed rather more so than usual.

  “Some of my men found us?”

  “No, guess again…”

  “You really are a miserable shit at times, Greek… I’m not in any fit state to play guessing games! Now tell me why I’m so very lucky!”

  “Because the brave young girl who was with you fought to keep you alive even as the wolves tore at her.”

  “Did she… did the wolves… take her?”

  “No, we all heard her screams and then your cries of wolf, but it was a couple of Franks who reached the pair of you first, with Marcellus and Germanus close behind, or so they tell me. The Franks got to you just in time and brought you up here, waking me from an unusually deep… slumber… Without them, you would certainly have fed a pack of wolves by now.”

  “Inga… she’s not dead, is she?”

  “She should be, Dux; she should be – and I dare say when she comes round, she’ll wish she was…”

  “What do you mean?” Ambrosius tried to get up, wincing with pain despite a determination not to show his discomfort. “Where is she?” he demanded.

  When Calens shifted his gaze beyond him, Ambrosius remembered the featherlike touch in the night – perhaps he had not imagined it. Struggling up onto his haunches he turned to see another bed a yard away from his.

  “Christ’s sword,” he muttered. “I promised to keep her safe…”

  “Well you did a piss poor job of it!” observed Calens.

  “A piss poor job of it, Dux,” corrected Ambrosius, eyes fixed upon the girl - the beautiful girl, most of whose face and torso were now swathed in linen bandages.

  “It looks terrible,” he murmured.

  Reaching out for her hand, he gave it a gentle squeeze, as he had done when they were cornered by the wolves. But this time there was no answering pressure against his fingers. He swallowed deep, raging silently at himself. Far from keeping the girl safe, he had almost got her killed.

  “Cheer up, Dux,” said Calens. “It’s not as bad as it looks with all those bandages.”

  “But she’s not responding to my touch!” he cried.

  “That’s because she’s been given half my sack of powders!” said Calens. “Marco insisted!”

  “You mean she’s so drugged she can’t feel anything?” said Dux.

  “That’s sort of the idea, Dux…”

  “Being able to feel is good,” growled Dux, “it reminds you that you’re alive.”

  “You’d better rest,” said Calens. “If what Marco tells me is true, you’re going to need a lot more salve on those wounds to your back.”

  “They’ll be alright,” he murmured, still unable to drag his eyes away from Inga.

  “Staring at her won’t change anything,” declared Calens, his expression solemn and unforgiving.

  “Get out!” snapped Ambrosius.

  “I need to put some-”

  “Get out now, Greek, and take your salves with you!”

  Calens, clearly shocked at Ambrosius’ sudden vehemence, retreated hastily from the tent.

  Ambrosius was still holding Inga’s hand as he slid from his bed and knelt beside hers.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the bed beside her breast. “I let you down, Inga – after all these weeks, I let a few sodding wolves take you…”

  When her hand squeezed his, it felt like a lightning strike. He returned the slight pressure and she pulled his hand towards her breast. Her eyes were two dark, glistening orbs cut in the bandages. He could hardly look at her, so swathed in linen cloths. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out, so she took her hand from his, touched it to her lips then rested it against his. For a long time after that, he held onto her hand until she slid into unconsciousness again.

  Returning to his bed, he lay down once again on his chest and fell asleep. Only a moment later, it seemed, Marcellus shook him gently awake.

  “You had us worried for a while,” said his friend.

  “Don’t tiptoe around it, Marco,” he said. “You at least can be honest with me.”

  “Very well,” said Marcellus, “You’re damned a fool – why did you let her leave the camp?”

  “By Christ, it was Inga that ran off - I only went to see her safe!”

  “You didn’t manage that though, did you?”

  “Don’t you start! But, no, you’re right: I didn’t. How is she now?”

  “Not great, but Calens says she’s looking better this morning. But, she’s hurt, Dux and she lost some blood…”

  “Damned Greek! What does he know? She’s lost blood before – and she’s a strong girl! There’s no-one stronger!”

  Marcellus smiled at him, but it was a bitter smile. “Pity you didn’t notice her strength sooner…”

  “I noticed,” retorted Ambrosius. “I just didn’t know what to do about it.”

  “For such a brave, inspiring leader, Dux, you’re sometimes a complete fool…”

  “You won’t hear me arguing about that. Go and fetch Calens for me.”

  “He’s taking a rest, Dux,” protested Marcellus. “He was up with the pair of you all night!”

  “I don’t care, Marco. He can sleep tonight – unlike me! So get him up!”

  “But Dux…”

  “Just get him here,” said Ambrosius, scowling as he climbed stiffly from his bed to begin dressing.

  Marcellus lingered by the entrance. “Do you want some help?”

  “What I want is Calens here… now!”

  “As you wish,” agreed Marcellus, with a sigh.

  He could do without everyone sighing too, thought Ambrosius, as he bent down to her. Though she looked peaceful, he knew that Calens would have given her the strongest potions he possessed to spare her as much pain as possible. In fact, the more he reflected upon it, the more he decided that it explained her show of affection during the night. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps the poor girl hadn’t even known it was him.

  Calens stumbled through the tent entrance and fell headlong. “What’s happened?” he cried, scrambling to his feet. “Is there a change?”

  “No, there isn’t – by God, how could there be any change when you’ve stuffed her full of your vile powders? I know what you use those for, you little turd! And, even if there had been any change, you, the so-called healer wouldn’t have seen it because you weren’t here!”

  “Marco sent me to get some rest…”

  “I want you by her side all the time!” ordered Ambrosius.

  “I don’t think she’ll wake yet, Dux; better she sleeps for longer anyway. That way she’ll feel no pain, I assure you.”

  “Because you’ve drugged her?”

  “Of course, Dux. The pain of her injuries was just too great to bear.”

  “How would you know?” grumbled Ambrosius. “When have you felt any pain? Don’t forget, I’ve seen you put dying men out of their misery before. Trust me: she had better wake up again, or she’ll be your last ever patient!”

  “But if she stirs now, she’ll be in agony, Dux!”

  “Hear me, Greek: don’t give her any more of your sleeping draughts.”

  “I can’t do that, Dux; I just can’t let her suffer. Nor will I!”

  “You will do as you’re told, Calens! She is not some dumb beast to be lulled towards death.”

  “But-”

  “She’s a warrior!” he said savagely. “She’s proven herself! She’s one of us! If Cara
lla came to you with half his belly hanging out, would you simply put him to sleep forever? No, you damn well wouldn’t! You’d tell him to swallow his pain and you’d do whatever you could to restore him – whatever agony you put him through along the way.”

  He took Calens by the throat. “She deserves the same! She fought like one of the bucellarii – so you will treat her as one!”

  When Ambrosius released him, Calens, visibly shaken by his commander’s onslaught, murmured: “I understand, Dux.”

  “Do you, Greek?” snarled Ambrosius. “I hope to God you do, because I can’t be watching over you all day. So you just make sure that girl is alive and awake by the time I go into the fort this afternoon! Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Dux,” said the Greek. “Couldn’t really be… any clearer…”

  17

  November 454 in the late afternoon, at Caracotinum

  So here he was, attempting to gain entrance to his father’s fort - with only treachery in mind - and it was a strange, thoroughly unsettling, feeling. As he approached the north gate, he was appalled at how tiny his force was – just the six of them. He would get inside – of that he had no doubt - for they were too few to be attacked for no reason and too many to be ignored. To the Franks who watched them ride out, they might seem Roman, but to his father, the horsemen would look more like renegades, or deserters. It was true enough that his hardened soldiers, with their unconventional dress and their array of weapons gathered from across the empire, hardly resembled Roman soldiers much now.

  “Try to look as Roman as you can,” he instructed them as they neared the gate.

  “I am Roman!” declared Cappa. “Unlike most of you illiterate barbarians, I was actually born in Rome!”

  “You weren’t born,” said Rocca, “you crawled out of a Roman sewer.” And the retired gladiator, Rocca, knew the seedier parts of Rome better than most.

  “You don’t look very Roman these days, Cappa,” added Xallas. Ambrosius had to concede that the soldier from Baetica looked more Roman than any of them.

  “I’ll have to rely upon my natural charm then,” laughed Cappa.

  “Then we are all in very deep shit…” remarked Varta, causing the rest to laugh.