The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  The Frank had a point because, though Ambrosius was only two yards away, he was still fending off his father’s sporadic attacks. It was time to settle matters. He aimed a cut at Magnus’ upper leg, wounding him. Then, in one great bound, he leapt beyond the Frank, who was thus trapped between Ambrosius and his raging father.

  While her captor was distracted, Lucidia wrenched her arm free from his grasp and dropped to the floor.

  “You made your choice,” said Ambrosius, as the Frank, suddenly realising his peril, tried to turn to face Magnus. In his desperation to reach his son, the Roman commander chopped the Frank down with two powerful blows. Then, appearing to draw renewed vigour from the kill, he launched another furious assault upon Ambrosius, who pushed Lucidia into a nearby apse and shouted to his half-brother: “Petro! Take our sisters out!”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Petro clambered over one of the couches and grasped Lucidia’s hand. Guiding her to where Florina stood, with several of the servants and slaves, in the far corner of the room, Petro handed Florina his dagger and she accepted it with cool resolve, as if impervious to the bloody confusion that surrounded her.

  One moment chaos echoed around the large chamber and then, as if by some dismissive, divine gesture, only one mortal contest lingered on: that between Ambrosius and Magnus. Though covered in blood where the Comes had nicked his flesh here and there, Ambrosius could see that his father, increasingly hampered by the wound in his thigh, was tiring fast. Not only that, but Magnus must have been well aware that he no longer commanded the room. After the scutarii hacked down the last two Franks, it was Puglio who held sway – and the tribune was not a man renowned for his patience.

  “Put the dog down, old man!” said Puglio. “Or I will! If you take much longer, none of us will get out of this place alive!”

  About that at least, Puglio was surely right for very soon the palace must be overrun. Ambrosius had never intended to be trapped in there at all; so much for getting his family safely to the harbour! With Puglio triumphant, his only hope – and it was a slim one - was to prolong the struggle with his father until Varta and the others could reach him. To do so, he would have to lessen the intensity of his blows to allow his father to make a fight of it. Sooner or later though, a man of Puglio’s experience would notice what he was doing. How long, he wondered, would the tribune wait before intervening?

  Drawing the murderous Magnus on, without getting himself killed, required all Ambrosius’ skill since his father had no such reservations. While Ambrosius scrapped and fought to keep Magnus at bay, he glanced at Puglio for any hint that the tribune might step in. When the bitter struggle came to an abrupt end, it was a shock – not just to Ambrosius, but to everyone else in the room too.

  Darting forward, Florina stabbed Petro’s knife up to its hilt into her father’s exposed side, forcing the blade far up into his chest. With a pitiful groan, Magnus dropped to his knees, staring up at his beloved daughter, as the blood pouring through his fingers from the fatal wound she had inflicted. Even Puglio seemed unable to find any suitable words, but all eyes were now focussed on Florina and her next words confirmed Ambrosius’ worst fears.

  “In the name of God, take your traitor, tribune,” she said, with icy calm. “But despatch him quickly and then get me out of this butcher’s yard!”

  Such a formidable woman might have been admirable, thought Ambrosius, had she not just killed her own father and urged the death of her brother. A glance towards the doorway, guarded by two of the scutarii, told Ambrosius there was no way out there.

  “Petro!” he shouted. “Take Lucidia down to the port! Go to the river gate and I’ll find you!”

  His brother, struck dumb by what had just happened, stared at Florina and then Lucidia. Seizing his hand, Lucidia dragged him away and with one final glance back at Ambrosius, they fled and the few remaining servants and garrison soldiers fled with them, leaving only Florina and the scutarii.

  “Well, well,” said Puglio, with a smile, “it takes a bit to surprise me, but well played, Lady Florina. I say, well played!”

  “Enough talking, tribune - make haste!” Florina ground out the words in a rebuke stern enough to quell a riot.

  Yet, despite the dire circumstances, Puglio seemed strangely reluctant for his long pursuit to come to such an abrupt end.

  “You had a good run, Dux,” he said, taking a step towards his trapped quarry.

  “I’ve been in worse places,” said Ambrosius, remembering the caupona at Ardelica.

  “If you’re just going to exchange fond memories,” growled Florina, “then perhaps I should kill him myself!”

  Whilst Puglio’s attention was on Florina, no doubt studying the shape of her breasts under the expensive clothes, Ambrosius backed away from him. Pausing only to snatch up his father’s sword from the floor, he set himself with his back up against the wall, ready to meet the impending attack with a weapon in each hand.

  Puglio interrupted his assessment of Lady Florina’s finer points to motion his comrades forward. Not all of the scutarii would survive the coming encounter – and they knew it. To give themselves a better chance, they would have to come at Ambrosius together.

  “There are only five of you,” cried Ambrosius, in defiance.

  “Five’s more than enough, Dux,” said Puglio, more relaxed now, perhaps because his mission was so close to its end.

  “Tell that to Anticus – remember him, Puglio?”

  “What about him?”

  “Six imperial guards were sent to kill me… six of the emperor’s best men. Anticus was the sixth to die… and, as I said, there are only five of you…”

  Knowing his words would have little effect on the veteran, Puglio, he concentrated on each of the other scutarii in turn. They were no callow youths but even so, he wondered, just how willing they were to embrace certain death? Because that was the difference really: Ambrosius had looked death in the eye countless times. It held no fear for him, because… in every battle… when he picked up his weapon, he carried the spectre of death upon his shoulder.

  He was still thinking about death when they rushed him.

  22

  November 454, before dawn, at the south barracks in Caracotinum

  “How long do you think we’ve been in here?” asked Caralla.

  “Too damned long!” snapped Onno, trying hard not to surrender to despair. Always Dux relied upon him to push through and get the task done - and never had he let his commander down – until now. Though he had pleaded with the garrison soldiers, they had insisted upon locking the two bucellarii up until morning.

  “We’re on your side!” he told them but, if he was honest, he couldn’t blame them, for he wasn’t even sure himself that his assertion was true.

  “You’re in league with those Franks outside!” replied one the Roman guards. “We know - we’ve been watching you!”

  “Do I look like a Frank to you?” he argued.

  The fact was that Onno did not look much like your average soldier of the empire either, but Caralla certainly did. He had told them his comrade was a cataphract, but they had just laughed and asked him where his horse was. That jibe had not amused Caralla much; the Briton was getting quite sensitive about his damned horse.

  So, as dawn bore down upon them, they were still bottled up – and they weren’t even sure exactly where! Somewhere in the southern part of the town was all Onno knew but, incarcerated as they were, and with no weapons there was not a chance of finding a ship! At dawn, the Franks would swarm into the town and they could do nothing but watch the attack unfold.

  But Onno was wrong because the trouble came even before the sun rose. He had forgotten all about the other Franks – and their ladders - until two dozen of them swarmed over the south wall. At first, there was just a lot of shouting and the shuffling of feet across the yard outside, followed by the rap of boots on the steps up to the rampart, while Onno rattled the door of their cell and banged on it.

  “Let
us out,” he bellowed, “and I swear we’ll help you against them!”

  “You calling to the Romans,” asked Caralla, “or the Franks?”

  Onno blinked and stopped banging for a moment. “The Romans, of course… I think; though, just now, anyone who lets us out of here may be my friend for life!”

  One of their Roman captors, his left arm running with blood, stopped at their cell door and stared in at them.

  “Did you speak truly when you swore to help us?” he asked, his eyes darting wildly about him.

  “Yes, yes,” insisted Onno. “I swear it! I swear we’ll fight by your side!” But then, at that moment Onno would have sworn anything in exchange for his freedom.

  Though the fellow clearly still doubted them, with the garrison in deep trouble, he had little choice. Reaching to his belt with his uninjured hand, the soldier selected a long key. Never had a man looked less certain, but assailed by ever closer and murderous cries from all around him, he finally placed the key in the lock.

  Before he had time to turn it, a spear grazed across his back. Though his mail shirt saved him from death, he was knocked forward into the cell gate. No doubt expecting another, killing, blow to come, he clutched the key and hastily turned it. But his attacker had moved on without a second glance at the downed man who did not know - as Onno did - that the Franks would be in a hurry to join up with their comrades entering by the north gate.

  Caralla pushed open the gate and between them they helped the guard up.

  “Our weapons?” enquired Onno.

  “Next storeroom along,” gasped the wounded man.

  “How many of you are left?” asked Onno, as he retrieved his knife and spatha.

  “On the south wall?” said the soldier. “You’re looking at him…”

  “Shit…”

  “Yeh, shit. Christ knows what I’m supposed to do now! I ought to head along to the barracks at the north gate.”

  “I wouldn’t,” advised Onno.

  “You knew that attack was coming,” grumbled the soldier.

  “Yes, we did!” replied Caralla. “And, if you recall, we tried very hard to warn you!”

  “You got a name?” asked Onno.

  “Prosperus.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! So what are you two going to do now I’ve let you out?”

  “We need to find a ship,” said Onno.

  “A ship?” said Prosperus. “What for?”

  “Well, I’m not going to juggle with it!” said Onno. “What do you think I want a ship for?”

  “You climbed over the wall just to get a ship so you could leave again?” asked Prosperus.

  “Well, it’s a bit of a longer story than that,” said Onno, “but I suppose, more or less, yes. You know any ship’s masters?”

  “Not a single one…” said Prosperus.

  “Excellent! But you can take us to the port?”

  “That I can do,” agreed Prosperus, “since it’s not far away.”

  “By now some of the ships might already be heading out of the harbour,” said Onno.

  “Because it’s getting lighter!” complained Caralla.

  “Nothing to do with light,” said Onno, “but a lot to do with tides.”

  When they ventured out of the barracks gate, they found themselves surrounded by produce gardens, such as many towns now had. In November, of course, there was much bare earth and little cultivation - though here and there makeshift pens held a few animals. As dawn arrived in all its splendour, Prosperus led them along the line of the wall to their left, past two great warehouses towards the harbour. Their view of activity along the docks was obscured by the long harbour wall. Once, Onno guessed, it had been a bulwark to defend the town against sea raiders, but the wall – like many of the buildings they passed – was crumbling and in desperate need of repair.

  Only when they passed through the harbour wall, could they confirm that Onno was correct about the ships: several ships were already converging on the harbour entrance at great speed and thus in grave danger of hitting each other or blocking the channel completely. Surprised at their reckless haste, Onno scanned the whole harbour to left and right. Furthest away from him were the northern wharves which were already more active than usual with people having no doubt heard of the incursion by the Franks. Might Dux and the others be somewhere in there? But, of course, he had no way of knowing.

  What was clear to him at once was that he could not get to any of the ships at the northern docks because there were already too many people gathered there. To his left, at the southernmost point of the harbour, lay a ship repair yard while, closer to him, scarcely a few yards to his right, were the southern docks where several ships were also preparing to leave. Each one was already packed with last minute passengers, so seizing control of any of those ships looked impossible. The day before perhaps – as they had intended – but not now, not amid such blind panic and disorder…

  “What are we going to do, Onno?” murmured Caralla. “What in God’s name are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know, my friend,” he replied, staring at the docks, where, here and there, ships edged away a few feet from the heaving jetties which thrust out into the harbour. But even as the vessels tried to leave, scores of desperate people flung themselves at the ships, hoping to land on aboard. Most did not even reach the decks but fell straight into the churning water; a few more struck the oars as the rowers attempted to manoeuvre their vessels out into the channel.

  Though Onno was distressed by the utter futility of it all, he was not a man to be dispirited for long. Dux had enough warriors among his bucellarii; hence, he valued Onno for a different set of skills, and he expected the Alexandrian to use those skills to solve problems. Well, Onno reflected, the lack of a ship was certainly a very considerable problem and, if he was going to solve it, he would have to think like an engineer, not a warrior.

  23

  November 454 after dawn, outside the north gate of Caracotinum

  It fell to Canis and Calens to be Inga’s litter bearers but, from the moment they set off, she knew that it was not a task to which the two men were well suited. After several steps, Canis stumbled and the litter came to a shuddering halt, sending a shiver of pain through her body. She seemed to feel every one of her numerous wounds, which Calens explained, was because, as the wounds dried out and healed, her already tortured skin was being stretched and torn anew.

  His words did little to alleviate her discomfort which seemed worse than she remembered in those first hours when she lay in the cot next to Ambrosius. Whatever Calens was administering to her now, it hardly seemed to dull the pain at all. Nevertheless, it helped her to know that the Greek physician was with her for, lying on her back in the litter, she felt utterly helpless. In fact, she had felt nothing but helpless since the wolf attack – all the more galling since it came when she had just begun to earn a little respect – at least from some of the men.

  After another awkward lurch of the litter, she cried out: “Calens, why do my wounds seem to hurt more than before?”

  Calens, who was carrying the rear of the litter and was thus facing her, replied: “I suppose… your body is not so easily dulled by my potions now.”

  When she stared at him, he looked away, unwilling to meet her eyes.

  “Calens?” she murmured.

  With a sigh, he said: “Alright, Dux told me not to give you so much...”

  “But why?” she said, “Why would he want me to endure this?” She was puzzled, distraught – for had he not shown that he cared for her – at least in his way?

  “I think he feared that you might not…”

  “Might not what?” cried Inga.

  “Might not… wake up again,” replied Calens softly. “He told me to give you every chance of life… that you had proven yourself… as one of the bucellarii… and should be treated as one.”

  As she absorbed the import of his words, she said nothing, but her first, overwhelming, emotion w
as relief – relief that Ambrosius cared about her enough to want her to live. Her breast filled with pride to be spoken of as one of them – one of Dux’s bucellarii…

  “Perhaps I should give you a little more,” said Calens.

  “No,” she said at once, “I can manage without.”

  “We’re almost at the gate now,” said the physician. “Once we get you through the town to the harbour and aboard a ship – then you can rest properly again.”

  When their column reached the gates, Calens and the litter came to an abrupt halt but, after a brief pause, they lurched forward again.

  “The gateway’s crammed with Franks,” Calens explained. “But, don’t worry, Marco’s forcing a path though.”

  Moments later, Inga saw the rampart pass over her head as they entered the town. But beyond the gates, shouts of anger and cries of warning told her that it was utter chaos.

  “What’s happening?” she asked, frustrated that she could see so little.

  “Stay calm,” Calens assured her.

  But Inga could hear fighting and, whatever was happening ahead of them, she could tell that it was nothing to stay calm about. Her escort suddenly closed in around the litter, spear points facing out to left and right. At her breast, Inga gripped Uldar’s bow which she had refused to entrust to any other – though she could hardly have used it.

  As the litter was jostled and driven sideways, a grim-faced Marcellus appeared at her side.

  “Calens and the escort will take you to the port by another, quieter, route,” he told her. “I’ll see you down at the harbour!”

  But Inga knew Marcellus too well to accept, even in her weakened state, that all was well.

  “What’s wrong?” she demanded.

  “We’ll never get your litter through the crowd of men… and, in any case, I need to find Dux and the others. To do that we’ll have to do more than just stroll down the main street. We may need to fight our way to the harbour. It’ll be safer for you to take the route beside the south wall…”

  She nodded acceptance, though she imagined that his casual explanation played down the actual risks they were all facing. After giving her hand a brief squeeze of encouragement, he was gone again. At once Canis steered the litter and its escort down a side alley which at first was quieter but even there, they passed small groups of marauding Franks and fleeing citizens caught up in a violent, rolling struggle. Passing three men of the town’s hapless garrison surrounded by half a dozen Franks, Inga cried out: “Help them! We must help them, Calens!”