The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  “Britannia, our mother’s homeland!”

  “Britannia?” she hissed at him. “What in God’s name do we know of Britannia? Whatever our mother remembered was from long ago – and it’s well known that Britannia now is in an even worse mess than Gallia! Believe me, I’m better off here! Now, I have to go – I’ve spent too long with you already!”

  “But-”

  “There’s nothing for you in Britannia, brother – and there’s certainly nothing there for me! From what we’ve heard here, there’s nothing there for anyone. God knows, I’d sooner leap off a cliff into the sea!”

  “No, listen to me! I’ve been thinking about it a lot; we could find our true roots-”

  “Stop it!” she hissed at him. “Our roots are shallow, and they lie here at Caracotinum. And, as for our mother, who knows where her roots lie?”

  “Did she never say anything to you about Britannia?” he asked.

  Pulling her hand away from his, she glared at him. “In the last weeks of her life, she talked of nothing but you – and I can tell you, at that time, I did not remember you fondly, brother!”

  She swept away, leaving her damning words lingering in the air beside him. And, for the first time, he saw that, however many whores he bought and freed, he would never be able to free the one that mattered.

  18

  November 454 in the early evening, at the Bucellarii Camp

  In the gloomy interior of their absent commander’s tent, Marcellus and Calens stood watching over Inga.

  “She seems worse now,” breathed Marcellus. “She seems so… distressed…”

  Calens shrugged. “That’s because I’ve stopped dosing her with mandragora wine.”

  “But, why in God’s name would you do that?”

  “Because Dux more or less told me he’d kill me if I carried on giving it to her…”

  “What? The callous bastard!” cried Marcellus. “Hasn’t he damaged this girl enough? At least we have to give her some peace!”

  “Dux doesn’t want her to die, Marco.”

  “Well, I don’t either, but at least she deserves something to dull the pain! Surely you told him that, didn’t you?”

  “I did, but he said I’d given her too much… and now, I’m beginning to think perhaps he was right… When she came in, she was bleeding so much - and I wasn’t quite… myself…”

  “You were out of it!” said Marco, glaring at him.

  “Perhaps,” said Calens. “And I gave her some opium… as well as the mandragora-”

  “Well, you need to give her some more – you can see she’s wracked with pain!”

  “I can see she’s restless, Marco,” murmured the Greek. “But I think Dux was right: I need to let her feel her injuries and then – if she needs it – I will give her something to relieve the pain. I believe the mandragora has helped to stop the bleeding and her wounds are drying out. This girl is young, Marco – and a quick healer.”

  “But, look at her; she’s squirming in her sleep!” pleaded Marcellus.

  “Dux said she’s proven herself to be a warrior – and, despite my worst fears, I think perhaps he has judged her better than you or I.”

  “Hah! Not very likely!” said Marcellus. “Dux knows almost nothing about women! And what about when she finds out how scarred she will be?”

  “The point, Marco, is to let her decide for herself,” replied Calens. “We’ll let her body and her spirit decide. She must decide whether she can live with who she is now…”

  “But by tomorrow at dawn we need to be ready to embark on a ship, for God’s sake! How will she cope with that?”

  “She’s surprisingly strong, Marco,” said Calens, “so perhaps we should use what little time remains to work out how we can convey her safely to the port.”

  “Pah! This is nonsense!” cried Marcellus. “Am I the only one that cares about her?”

  With a shake of his head, Calens watched Marcellus storm out and then went to Inga, who was still shivering and moaning. Yet, she was not, as Marco believed, writhing in agony. If he was any sort of judge, her condition was more settled than it had been. When he took her hand, her eyes flew open.

  “Dux?” she muttered.

  “No, just Calens,” he replied.

  “Oh, where’s Dux?”

  “He’s in the-”

  “-fort…” she said softly. “Yes, I remember…”

  “How do you feel, Inga?”

  “Like I’ve been… ripped apart – it hurts to move my lips… how do I look?”

  “Bandaged…” replied Calens gently.

  “By the gods, I wish I’d seen him again, just once more…”

  After that, she drifted into a restless sleep once more. Though he could not be certain yet, he reckoned that when she awoke again, he would need some warm broth to give her…

  There was a flurry of movement outside and the tent opening parted to allow one of the Franks inside, escorted by two of Dux’s men.

  Calens nodded to the guards and they left, but the young Frank had eyes only for Inga.

  “You were one of those who found her and her companion,” said Calens, “and brought them to me.”

  “Yes, I’m Caranis,” said the Frank. “Will she live?”

  “Yes, she will – thanks to you.”

  Caranis nodded. “That’s good! You must know that I serve Childeric and he is no friend to your Dux. But still, I am pleased that she lives.”

  “But we are all on the same side,” said Calens.

  With a frown, Caranis said: “We are not… all… on the same side; take care with her when you enter the town tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Calens.

  “I mean take great care – both with your enemies and… your allies…”

  By the time Calens understood what Caranis was telling him, the Frank was gone. Heaving a weary sigh, the Greek went to find Marcellus again, knowing he would have to burden him with yet more troubles.

  19

  November 454 in the evening, outside Caracotinum’s south gate

  By dawn, unable to effect an entry through the south gate, the two bucellarii were forced to concede defeat and seek a hiding place to wait out the long hours of daylight. They settled for a patch of reeds on the edge of the estuary marshes. It was cold, damp and thoroughly unpleasant but there was nowhere else. They were tempted to declare their presence to the Franks and try to work with them, but Onno thought the risk was just too great. If the Franks decided to take them back to the main camp, he could not imagine how he would explain to Dux why they were not at least still trying to get him a ship.

  Watching the dozen or so Franks amuse themselves on the shore passed the time for a few moments, but Onno and Caralla found that there was a limit to how much excitement a Frank pissing contest could create. They sensed that the Franks themselves were as bored as they were, especially when a minor, but bloody, skirmish broke out which left one man dead and another bleeding profusely. Perhaps chastened by their loss, the Franks settled back into idleness, for they too were waiting out the hours until the dawn attack.

  “I have an idea,” said Onno abruptly. “In the night, we could swim along the channel to the port entrance and into the harbour that way. Can you swim?”

  “No, of course I can’t swim,” retorted Caralla. “Why would I need to swim? I’ve got a damned great horse to do my swimming!”

  “Well, you won’t have him much longer,” remarked Onno.

  Caralla frowned. “No, I suppose not. I’ll miss that evil bastard…”

  “So you can’t swim?”

  “No.”

  “I suppose at low tide it’s probably not that deep,” said Onno.

  “Probably?” echoed Caralla.

  “If we could wade along the edge of the channel – at least as far as the entrance towers…”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I suppose you’d most likely drown...”

  They fell silent again, devoid of any
other ideas.

  “The Franks are quiet now at least,” observed Caralla.

  “Stay here; I’ll take a look,” said Onno, glad to find an excuse to move his stiffening limbs.

  On his knees, he crawled across the scrub land that bordered the marshes and crept closer to the Frank camp. As he did so, he became aware that the Franks were actually not very quiet at all – in fact they were a lot noisier than before. The reason became apparent soon enough: reinforcements had arrived and not empty-handed either, for he noted with interest that half a dozen or so roughly-made ladders were now stacked at one side of the camp.

  So, it appeared that the Franks were not willing to rely solely on Dux to get them into Caracotinum. They were planning an assault of their own on the south wall, more than likely at dawn when the most of the town’s garrison would be summoned to defend the breached north gate.

  At once Onno considered stealing one of the ladders, but the difficulty of doing so under the noses of so many Franks, seemed too great. Nevertheless, when he returned to Caralla he brought with him a few ideas at last.

  “We could follow them over the wall,” said Caralla. “Wait for them to attack and then use one of the same ladders.”

  “We could, but that would be far too late!” said Onno. “God’s breath! We’re supposed to be finding a ship now; now, Caralla, not at dawn tomorrow!”

  “Well, what else can we do?” demanded Caralla. “Even if we steal one of the ladders, we can hardly use it in daylight, can we? We might as well surrender now!”

  “I agree that, whatever way we choose, we can’t move before this evening,” said Onno.

  “But that will mean seeking a ship at the dead of night,” cried Caralla. “What ship’s master would even let us aboard to talk at such an hour?”

  “We’re going to be desperate, my friend. I fear that talking may not come into it much... One thing is certain: we’ve got to get into that port tonight! Either we swim, or we steal a ladder and climb. All our comrades are depending upon us; so, whoever chooses to stand in our way, they cannot be allowed to stop us. ”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  By evening, when the Franks settled down to snatch a few hours’ sleep before their dawn attack on the town, they numbered more than twenty. Though sentries had been posted, none was awake when Onno and Caralla paid them a nocturnal visit. Creeping through the low scrub, they found a slumbering camp – or so it seemed. Once at the outer limit of the encampment, the two Romans made for the pile of ladders. With a final glance at those closest to the stack, Onno went to take one end while Caralla went to the other.

  “Who are you?” a husky voice slurred from the far side of the pile of ladders.

  Dry mouthed, Onno leant over to find one of the young warriors staring back up at him.

  “We’re to join your attack tomorrow,” whispered Onno.

  “But who are you?” repeated the Frank.

  “We’re on your side,” Onno soothed, as he and Caralla lifted the ladder from the top of the stack.

  “Noooo….wait,” groaned the Frank, lurching to his knees. “Who are you, though? You look sort of Roman…”

  With a sigh, Onno put down his end of the ladder as the worried Frank tried to stand and swayed with the effort of it.

  Catching the man as he fell, Onno rapped the poor fellow on the back of the neck to be sure and then laid him on the ground.

  “Finished?” hissed Caralla, still bearing one end of the ladder.

  With a curt nod, Onno seized the ladder again and the pair hurried away towards the wall, stumbling in the dark with every few steps they took.

  “Where to?” gasped Caralla. “It’ll be too soft near the old gate.”

  “The problem is, my friend that the further away from the docks we are when we go over the wall, the longer it will take us to get to the ships,” said Onno.

  “But we can’t go up too close to those Franks,” added Caralla.

  “Let’s just move!” said Onno. “Anywhere where the ditch is firm will have to do!”

  As they hurried across the open ground, Onno felt a few raindrops, which was all they needed! Planting the ladder, they leant it against the wall as gently as they could. Knowing one of the guards might spot the ladder at any moment; Onno gripped his knife between his teeth and started to climb up. Beneath him he felt the timber give a little as the mighty Caralla began to follow him up. The horseman, he knew, would be nervous, for this was not his sort of activity. Onno couldn’t suppress a sympathetic grin as he climbed: poor old Caralla - unable to swim and not comfortable with heights, his sweaty hands would be slipping on the wooden rungs. It was just as well the fellow rode better than any other man he knew.

  Reaching the top of the ladder, Onno took his knife in his right hand and poked his head above the parapet to squint along the rampart. Pulling back for a moment he was aware of a heavily breathing Caralla coming up close behind him. Though they had chosen a dimly-lit section of the rampart and the nearest guard was a long way along the wall, Onno was still concerned. If they were seen on the rampart at all, they could so easily be trapped up there. There was almost certainly a flight of steps close by at the gatehouse, but there they might also encounter some of the garrison.

  “You going?” wheezed Caralla.

  Onno leapt softly down onto the rampart, took a pace to the right to allow room for his comrade to join him and then crouched down low. Caralla thudded onto the rampart, his greater weight making the timber boards shudder.

  “That should give everyone fair warning,” said Onno.

  “Where next?” asked Caralla.

  “Quickest way down,” hissed Onno, setting off towards the nearest tower.

  Though he expected the tower to be heavily guarded, he was relieved to discover that it was empty – both of stored weapons and armed men. It was cold, dark and abandoned… It seemed that the garrison really was terribly depleted in both men and resources. Nevertheless, they exercised much caution as they made their way down a stair which Onno knew must lead to ground level. At last, they were inside Caracotinum.

  According to Dux, they ought now to be in a small, walled enclosure originally intended to house the garrison which protected the harbour itself from attack. Several yards away a flickering torch illuminated enough to confirm that Dux’s recollection had been correct and Onno gave a sigh of relief. Though the rain was coming on heavier, he thought it might work to their advantage when they were caught out in the open, as now.

  “To work then, my friend,” he said, feeling optimistic for the first time that night. “Let’s get ourselves onto the town docks, shall we?”

  “No,” growled a voice close by. “Let’s not.”

  A figure stepped out into the wavering pool of torchlight, followed by another and then two more.

  “On the bright side,” muttered Caralla, “I think we’re soon going to be out of the rain…”

  20

  November 454 in the early hours, in the barracks at the north gate

  Fingers clenched around an iron bar of the gate, Varta waited with the rest, while Cappa worked at the lock.

  “Is it open yet?” demanded Xallas, for the third time.

  “No, it isn’t!” hissed Cappa, not even troubling to glance at his comrade. “It’ll be done when I tell you it’s done!”

  “God’s hammer! Let him work!” grumbled Varta. “Or it’ll be dawn before he gets it open!”

  “He said it would only take a moment,” Xallas reminded his comrades.

  “There, it’s done now,” announced Cappa, “so stop complaining!”

  “We need our weapons, Varta,” said Rocca. “Without them, we’ve no chance.”

  “We can make do with borrowed weapons for now,” snapped Varta. “All that matters now is getting to the north gate!”

  Standing ready beside the door, Varta waited for the guard. The fellow was more reliable than most gaolers and sure enough, after a few moments, he strolled around the corner to chec
k on his prisoners. The iron gate swung open fast, cracking the guard on his chin. Catching him as he fell, Varta dealt him another blow and tossed him inside the cell. One by one, the others shuffled out into the stone-walled passage.

  Reaching the barracks courtyard without any alarm, they paused for a moment, each man seeking his own place of concealment. Varta was pleased with what he saw: only a handful of torches still burned, giving them just enough, but not too much, light. Dux had told him that the garrison was undermanned, so there should only be a few men left in the barracks – hopefully asleep. The north gate itself, however, might be a different matter.

  “You know what to do, lads,” said Varta. “So be swift - swift and silent... and try not to kill the local soldiers. Germanus and I will free Dux and join you back at the gate. By then our Frankish allies should be making their way in. Oh, and we could do with a few more spears – if you should come across any.”

  He nodded to Germanus. “Come, my friend, let’s free the caged animal, shall we?”

  A simple plan, reflected Varta, but the trouble with all simple plans was that they were often equally simple to foil. Once the alarm was raised, they would have to fight for their lives – and somewhere, very close by, would be the imperial guard and their tribune, Puglio. The latter had already paid them a visit in the cells, unable to disguise his triumph. But, Varta suspected, Puglio might still be wondering where the rest of Dux’s small army was.

  He permitted himself a silent smile for Puglio himself had in fact saved them a deal of time searching for their imprisoned leader. In his eagerness to gloat, he had told them precisely where and how Dux was caged. They might have spent the rest of the night in a fruitless attempt to find him in a cell somewhere; as it was, all they had to do was search the rampart walls.

  With Germanus following close behind, he moved with stealth up the steps to the rampart. From the courtyard below he heard only a few grunts as guards were rendered unconscious. Then he concentrated on carrying out his own task with equal effectiveness. Approaching the two men posted on the walkway, he began to chuckle aloud.

  The guards swivelled at once to face him and Germanus.

  “What are you two Franks doing up here?” demanded one.