The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  “Quiet!” snapped Ambrosius, suddenly feeling a chill in the air. Though he rarely felt the cold, this afternoon was different: dark columns of cloud marched along the estuary from the sea, threatening the town with storms, or at the very least, heavy rains. In truth, it seemed cold enough for snow. And then, there was the solid block of ice in his heart, for Inga had not awoken before he set out. Unable to speak to her, he thought about taking out his pain on Calens but then who would care for her?

  “Remember what you’re here for!” he scolded his men, dragging his own attention back to the task.

  “Yeah, patricide followed by suicide,” grumbled Cappa.

  And Ambrosius, preoccupied by the memory of Inga, lying pale as death, could find no fault with Cappa’s grim assessment.

  Before they were within thirty yards of the fort, they were hailed from the rampart atop the gatehouse and Ambrosius thrust aside the image of the wounded Saxon girl.

  As it turned out, the initial exchange of greetings went rather better than he had feared. To demonstrate his good faith – or, Marco might argue, to better disguise his betrayal - Ambrosius led forward the horse with his brother’s body laid over its back. Assuming that those inside were aware of Gallo’s absence, they could hardly reject the return of his body even if they might have reservations about those who were returning it.

  As he anticipated, none of the defenders was keen to leave the safety of the fort at the day’s end to inspect a corpse, so they opened their gates to allow the band of men inside. The soldiers of the Roman garrison were watchful, every eye and sharp weapon pointing at the small party as it came to a halt twenty yards inside the gates. Turning to scan the rampart behind him, Ambrosius found his father, Comes Aurelius Honorius Magnus, staring down at him, stony-faced. With a wave of the commander’s hand, the gates were shut tight once more.

  Leaving his men still mounted, Ambrosius climbed down from his horse - awkwardly, for the wounds of the wolf attack were still fresh and raw. Taking down his brother’s corpse, he held it out towards his father.

  “I return my brother, Gallo, to you… father,” he said. Loud, so that there could be no misunderstanding; so that all present would know that he too was Magnus’ son.

  There was a gasp from the soldiers in the street around them, most of whom would have been unaware of his close connection to their commander. If, like Ambrosius, they had looked up at Magnus they would have seen no trace of emotion in his father’s face: neither regret, nor sadness. When Magnus finally descended the steps to the courtyard, Ambrosius walked towards him in silence to lay Gallo at his feet.

  Without even a glance at Ambrosius, Magnus cried out: “Arrest them all!” and, after only a moment’s hesitation, the soldiers closed in, spears stabbing towards the newcomers.

  Though Varta, Germanus and Rocca drew out their spathas, Ambrosius shouted: “Lay down your arms! We’re Romans; and we’ll not shed the blood of Romans! Soon Magnus will see that and he’ll release us!”

  With much show of reluctance, his comrades surrendered their weapons and dismounted, whereupon they were, to their obvious disgust, stripped of all their armour. If his plan failed, Ambrosius knew that neither he, nor any of his close comrades would leave the fort alive, but then they would all die somewhere… for such was the true soldier’s fate.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  When Ambrosius came to, he ached all over. His chin was especially sore – that would be from the blow his father landed moments after his arrest. Clearly the old bastard still had a bit of iron left in his fist. Even so, Ambrosius was surprised that he was still experiencing the effects of it: a kind of permanent dizziness, as if he was swinging in mid-air. When he opened his eyes and looked about him, he realised that he actually was swinging in mid-air, imprisoned in a small, wooden cage, suspended from the outer wall of the rampart.

  Thinking back, he scarcely noticed the small cage the morning he first rode into the Frank camp. At the time, his attention was focussed more upon the Franks than the walls of the Roman fort. Now he had an excellent, if unlooked for, opportunity to examine both wall and cage. Stripped almost naked, he could see, even in the fading daylight, why he ached all over. So many cuts and bruises… but then he recalled taking quite a beating from staves on the way to his tiny, hanging prison. That, added to the injuries inflicted by the wolves, was more than enough to make him feel very sore indeed, especially when the raw gouges on his back chafed against the rough-hewn wood used in the cage’s construction.

  Peering up to the nearby rampart he saw two guards loitering a few yards away with their backs to him, leaning easily upon their spears. He turned around to look out towards the Frankish encampment stretched out below, and watched as the evening fires began to flicker into life. Directly beneath him lay the fort’s exterior ditches, replete with all sorts of debris including the remains of animal carcasses – at least he hoped they were animals… He didn’t like the idea of landing among those...

  What, he wondered, had become of the five men that he had brought in with him? If they were still alive, they would make their move during the night. If they were not, then everything would rest upon him alone but he swiftly banished that thought from his mind. Much was going to depend upon quite a few folk in this great scheme: his men, yes, but also the Franks - and Marcellus too. Though, either way, in the end their fate would hang on whether Onno could find suitable ships... So many parts were there to his strategy, he began to doubt it had any chance of success at all.

  Clodoris would keep his word – of that, Ambrosius had no doubt – but it was not Clodoris he was worried about, for it was young Childeric who had been chosen to lead the Frank assault. The presence of the brash youth worried him. He was one of a new breed among the Franks – but not just among Franks, for Ambrosius had encountered many such young men across the empire. Rome and its armies held no fear for them because, when they looked at Rome, they saw an old and weakened matriarch, near to death and ready to bequeath her riches to any who were strong enough to wrestle their way to the front of a long queue of mourners. Childeric aimed to be one of the beneficiaries of Rome’s demise.

  Only the falling sun helped Ambrosius to judge the passage of time and it seemed to take an age for it to slink below the roof line of the fort and disappear behind him. When it did, his cage was plunged into the gloom of twilight until the glow of the Frank fires below illuminated him a just a little against the wall. Though he must have presented a tempting target, not one Frank launched any missiles at him. Perhaps then, after all, his father was right: he was more Frank than Roman.

  All along the rampart, as daylight faded, torches were lit. The two guards watching over him suddenly straightened their stance and turned to glare at their prisoner which gave him ample warning that his father was approaching. Magnus waved the soldiers away as he came to a halt on the rampart beside the cage. As stiff and aloof as ever, he was just as Ambrosius remembered him: unyielding in every conceivable way.

  “Did you kill your brother?” asked Magnus.

  That he could even ask the question spoke volumes about their relationship. When Ambrosius did not deign to answer, he added: “Or perhaps was it one of your friends among the Franks?”

  Ambrosius, usually so calm and measured, wondered at how easily this man had already begun to rile him.

  “I found my brother just as you see him,” he said. “I’m sure some of the Franks did kill him – but that’s hardly surprising, after what you’ve done to them.”

  “The Franks have become much more trouble since you left years ago,” said Magnus. “Oh yes, I know you lived among them once, though by now, I thought – I prayed even - that you would be dead.”

  Ambrosius spread his hands in apology. “Sorry to disappoint you father, yet again, after all these years. But, if it helps, I made similar prayers about you… and yet, here you still are.”

  “So, assuming you were long dead,” said Magnus, “that is what I told the imperial tribune wh
o arrived two days ago.”

  Ambrosius could only pray that the sudden, mortal despair he felt had not changed his expression.

  “Imagine my surprise,” continued Magnus, “to learn from this tribune that, not only were you still alive, but that he was pursuing you on charges of murder, sedition and treason!”

  “The imperial scutarii,” murmured Ambrosius, understanding now that the heavily armed Romans whose arrival had surprised Clodoris, were not reinforcements at all but Puglio’s men. By racing on ahead, the tribune had made excellent use of the knowledge he had gained from poor Uldar.

  “Yes, amusing isn’t it?” said Magnus. “When your friends, the Franks, trapped the scutarii in here, the tribune was distraught. Of course, the last thing he expected was that you would be stupid enough to enter the fort. He was worried about being shut up in this little backwater of ours, but now… well now, he seems so very pleased that he was obliged to linger here.”

  “Where are my men?” asked Ambrosius.

  “Your men?” scoffed Magnus, with a look of disdain. “They’re a disgrace to Rome; they don’t even try to look Roman!”

  “Well, I did ask them to try…” mused Ambrosius, “but the imperial guard only want me, so why don’t you release the others?”

  “If the emperor doesn’t want them, they’ll be executed – I’m sure some charge will spring to mind – perhaps: pretending to be soldiers of Rome…”

  “Those men are soldiers of Rome and they’ve fought for Aetius across the empire!” declared Ambrosius.

  “Perhaps they have, but Aetius, so the tribune informs me, is dead – also a traitor to his emperor - and you, his fellow conspirator, are to share his fate. They wanted to take you back to Rome, but I interceded on your behalf.”

  “You did?” Ambrosius looked up in genuine surprise.

  “Yes, I wanted to make certain you were dead,” said Magnus. “So they’re just going to take back your head! The rest of you, I will take pleasure in burning – or perhaps scattering your entrails for the dogs.”

  “As always, your paternal love overwhelms me,” replied Ambrosius, through gritted teeth.

  “Paternal love? You lost all claim to that when you ran off to live with the damned Franks!”

  “You can’t lose what you never had…” said Ambrosius.

  “Sometimes,” said Magnus, glowering at him, “when the branch of a tree is rotten, you just have to … cut it off. How I thank God that I still have another son!”

  When his father turned to pace away along the rampart, Ambrosius called after him. “Will you free my men? I ask only that.”

  Without breaking stride, Magnus replied: “So that they can fight against me? Not a chance. Say your last prayers, boy - the tribune seems rather eager to proceed. I don’t think he’ll wait very long…”

  With his father’s words echoing along the rampart like an epitaph, Ambrosius sat down to contemplate his predicament. On the rampart behind him two torches allowed the guards to saunter back and forth without stumbling over their own feet. Since his father had left, the pair lost interest in him and engaged instead in a lengthy conversation about the dexterity and artistry of the fort’s slave girls. Only when their conversation abruptly stopped did Ambrosius look up and gasp – for he was looking into the eyes of his mother – at least, a younger version of her. She was so very different, so very much older... his little sister, Lucidia.

  When she waved the soldiers away, they retreated, albeit only a few yards. In the harsh and flickering light it was hard to be sure, but she looked well enough. The torchlight glow imbued her features with a certain… ferocity, but perhaps it was the great, untidy bundle of bronze hair that flowed about her face.

  “Sister?” Threading his arm through the bars of his cage, he reached for her hand.

  “Why did you come back?” she demanded, spurning the outstretched hand.

  “I suppose I thought it was time I saw you all…”

  “He’ll kill you, you fool,” she said, her tone a little softer, “but you must know that. Wasn’t that why you left us?”

  “You don’t know how it was…”

  “I know well enough how it was!” she spat at him, shaking her head so that the wisps of angry hair seemed to fly around her in a way that reminded him even more of their mother.

  “After you left, she never stopped telling me how badly you were treated, how father could never see you as his son – only as a rival to his first born, Petro. I heard all that from the age of five – day after wretched day. She told me how loyal you were and that you would come back for us one day. But then, over the years, I began to wonder. I began to ask myself why, if you were such a great son and such a great brother, you did not take us with you when you left? Do you know, every day she expected you to come, but you never did, did you? I suppose you just… forgot about us…”

  “It was she who told me to leave!” he protested. “She told me to ‘go – and never come back.’ Those were her words!”

  “You did little else she told you to do – why start with that?”

  “Is she…?”

  “Dead? Oh, yes, long dead,” replied Lucidia, “but still singing your damned virtues to her last breath. By then, I could have strangled her myself!”

  Shocked by her bitterness, Ambrosius could think of no response.

  “Did you?” she snarled at him. “Did you just forget us?”

  “No, I always wanted to save you both…” But that was a lie and she knew it.

  “If that was the case, then you wouldn’t have waited ten years to do it!” she cried. “You can’t save our mother now! It’s too late for her - and too late for me too. Soon I’ll be wed to Gaius - one of father’s aides, who’s been drooling over me since I had nipples worth a second look.”

  “That isn’t going to happen!” he told her. “It was enough that our mother was…”

  Hesitating, he looked up to find her studying his face.

  “Our mother was… what?” murmured Lucidia. “She told you something… what did she tell you, that she didn’t tell me?”

  With a sigh, he nodded. “She didn’t intend to tell me. I heard Magnus arguing with her, shouting at her. I went at him, fists flailing, but he just swatted me aside with the back of his hand, as he bawled at her to ‘piss off back to the… brothel where he found her.’ I didn’t really take in what he was saying until I looked at her face and saw the shame written there. She couldn’t look at me…”

  “How did she keep that secret from me all those years,” breathed Lucidia, “even in her last days?”

  “That’s why I left,” he told her. “It was never because of Magnus – though Christ knows, I hated him even more after that - but I could put up with his beatings. No, I left because my own mother simply couldn’t look at me. I didn’t see it - slave, whore – what did matter, I thought? They’re just words. She had always been my heroine… fighting against the odds to make a life for herself and for us. But the words mattered to her… and once I knew…”

  “Well, I suppose her shame will live on in me then,” groaned his sister, “when I’m whored out to wed Gaius.”

  “No,” protested Ambrosius, “because you; I can still save!”

  “Hah! Says the condemned prisoner in his little cage…” mocked Lucidia. “I should go. Petro will be looking for me.”

  “Ah Petro… How is our older brother?”

  “Poor man – half-man, really… Petro is still struggling to meet our dear father’s monumental expectations.”

  “Petro was always kind to his little brother,” he said, “at least when father wasn’t there. I always loved Petro...”

  For the first time she smiled, perhaps at some memory long forgotten. “He’s looked out for me too – as much as he could.”

  “And Florina?”

  Lucidia’s smile vanished at the mention of her elder half-sister.

  “Florina? What can I tell you about Florina? Just that she is the same frost-
hearted bitch that you left behind. How our father wished that she had been a son… but, even so, he’s taught her all he knows about power and manipulation. And she uses every scrap of it – more than even he knows… Our father is a cruel and vindictive bastard, but every man in this port knows that the one person you don’t want to cross is Lady Honoria Florina.”

  Guilt swept over Ambrosius, as he contemplated for the first time the bleak household in which he had abandoned his mother and sister. Reaching out again for her hand, he was heartened when she took it in hers.

  “Soon, I’ll be free, Luce,” he said, “and so will you.”

  “It’s a long time since anyone called me Luce,” she said, “but I’m not five now and I don’t believe any more that you can work miracles. Pray for a swift end, brother...”

  “I think it’s a little early for that, Luce,” he said, lowering his voice, lest the nearby guards should hear him. “Are you still where we used to live?”

  “Hah! The palace, he calls it now! Quaint, isn’t it?” she groaned. “It’s no longer a home, but the place where father’s clients come to bend the knee and fawn upon him! And yes, I’m still in the same tiny chamber as before - when I was five!”

  “Then go to that chamber now and wait there. I’ll come for you soon.”

  Lucidia stared at him in disbelief. “Why is every man in my family either a fool, or a bully?” she cried. “Listen to me, brother, there’s nothing you can do but make your peace with God, for there is none to be made with our father…”

  “Believe me, sister, I am not the boy that left here,” he told her, “and I swear that I will get you out of this town.”

  “Out? There are Franks all around us! I’m safer in here – and to go where? Where in God’s name would you take me, brother?”

  “I’ve an arrangement with the Franks-”

  “What!”

  “And I’ve more than just half a dozen men. We’ll take a ship and we’ll get out of here!”

  “A ship?” she breathed. “But, where to?”