by Derek Birks
“Carry on!” Calens ordered the escort, and to her dismay, they marched on without pause, leaving the cornered men to their fate.
“We daren’t stop, Inga!” explained Calens. “Since we can only move slowly, we must keep well ahead of the Franks.”
“But-”
Calens cut short her protest. “It stinks of cowardice - I know that - but the fact is, the more distracted the Franks are by others, the less they’ll trouble us!”
“You’re buying our lives with theirs?” she wept. “But you’re a physician!”
“No!” he retorted. “I’m a servant, Inga, not bucellarii… I spend most of my time stitching up men’s wounds – or women’s. I do what Dux tells me to do. He told me to keep you alive and safe, so that’s what I’m going to do.”
She argued no more and, for a time, Calens’ judgement proved correct; the Franks did not follow them – as far as Inga could tell at least. All she saw, as the litter bearers and escort hurried on, was a glimpse of run-down houses and even one or two tall insulae that looked fragile enough to collapse at any moment and disgorge all their inhabitants – if they still had any - into the adjacent, rubble-strewn streets. After another fifty yards or so, dilapidated buildings gave way to open ground, which she assumed was used for growing crops.
When they passed between several buildings again, Calens called a halt to get his bearings. For what seemed like a long time, he and Canis stood in the middle of the narrow street conversing, but when they returned to the litter, they looked confident.
Picking up their burden once more, they carried on. “At the next crossroads, we’ll head left,” announced Calens, “and that should lead us straight the docks!”
But the Greek’s initial confidence evaporated when they found themselves in an alley which simply came to a dead end at the town wall.
“This can’t be right,” grumbled Canis, while the soldiers of the escort darted nervous glances around them.
Inga, weary from the bruising journey, suspected that they must be close to the harbour, for she could smell the pungent marshlands, exposed along the estuary at low tide. Soon enough, the Greek too realised his mistake and turned the litter around for them to retrace their steps. Despite their confusion, Inga smiled, for she was struggling to keep her eyes open - a sure sign that her pain was at last diminishing.
It seemed only a moment later that a cacophony of snarling voices assaulted her ears. Someone, close by, cried: “By God, no!” and she was tipped out of the litter onto the street. The fall onto the cobbled surface snapped her awake as the pain returned with a vengeance. Though her natural inclination was to scramble to safety, with one hand already injured, it hurt even to drag herself a few feet. Refusing to abandon Uldar’s bow, she tried to use it to support her weight and escape from the throng. In a matter of moments, the litter itself disappeared, scattered by the careless boots of an unruly crowd.
Surrounded by so many thrashing legs, her chief fear was that she would be trampled to death there and then. Though she managed to evade all the boots and crawl her way to the side of the road, she could feel her raw wounds opening up again. Only her will to survive drove her to endure the agony – aye, her will and the knowledge that Dux had accepted her as one of the bucellarii. If he truly believed her to be a warrior, then she must act like one.
Slowly it dawned upon her that they were back at the crossroads where she remembered several low walls that might just help to preserve her life. Rolling onto her left side – the one less ruinously savaged by the wolves – she used the bow and her left arm to claw her way along the street. Perhaps it might have been easier if she discarded the bow, but there would only be dishonour in that…
Dropping, finally, behind the shelter of one of the walls, she took a succession of short, shallow breaths to alleviate her distress. The urge to scream her despair was strong, but instead she propped herself against the wall and remained still, praying that no-one would notice her. The strips of clean linen, so carefully applied to her wounds by Calens, were now besmirched by every sort of the filth from the streets. So, who would look twice at someone, whose blood seeped through countless bandages? Her hiding place was not, however, a good vantage point, for she could not tell how far from the harbour she actually was. A few yards distance she might manage, but any more would surely be beyond her.
Though she could make out a few of her escort entangled in the great crowd of snarling, grappling people that stretched across the street, there was no sign of Calens. For the time being, no-one fighting for their lives in the bloody skirmish was remotely interested in her, But when the fighting stopped – which at some point it must – that’s when she would be most at risk - hopelessly exposed to anyone who cared to prey upon her.
With no weapon – save a bow she could not use - and precious little strength left to wield one in any case, her only hope was that her brave escort would be able to regroup and come to rescue her. That thought sustained her whilst the struggle raged on, until one of her escort did join her. Falling down only a few yards away, Canis rolled to a halt beside her, coughing his life’s blood out into her startled face.
24
November 454 after dawn, at the Comes’ Palace
When facing several men in combat, a soldier had few advantages, decided Ambrosius – well, perhaps only one: whilst his opponents were obliged to co-ordinate their efforts, he was not. He could defend himself as he pleased, devoid of any pattern or design, simply because the only flesh his blades would encounter was that of his enemies. A co-ordinated, disciplined assault would kill him, but from the first, furious moment he knew that this encounter would be far from disciplined. Puglio, no doubt driven by the frustration of his long and bloody pursuit, seemed oblivious to anyone else. Thus, his desire to kill Ambrosius caused him to hamper the efforts of his comrades; he simply got in their way.
Ambrosius, who was proficient with a spatha in either hand, now wielded one in each and focussed all his attention on Puglio. Though the tribune was a handful for any opponent, Ambrosius kept him moving this way and that. As a result, his comrades - understandably reluctant to stab their own commander - were obliged to hang back a little from the fight. For several precious minutes, Ambrosius was thus able to distract his adversary until - too late - Puglio realised his error and took a pace backwards. But by then, Varta and the others arrived to unleash all the devils of hell upon the scutarii.
It was over in seconds – and Puglio, seeing his remaining scutarii being cut down, retreated to the far door of the chamber. Dragging the livid Florina with him, he fled the same way as Petro and the rest had gone.
“We need to get after them!” shouted Ambrosius, when the last of the abandoned scutarii fell.
But before they could follow the tribune, the chamber was engulfed by Franks pouring up from the streets below. Left facing them, Ambrosius lowered his swords at once and the bucellarii were quick to follow his lead. Many of the Franks, no doubt, were Childeric’s men, but the rest most likely followed several other war leaders, some of whom might see Ambrosius as an ally. Seizing upon their confusion, he shouted aloud:
“The fort is yours, my friends, but Clodoris swore to allow us safe passage to the port.”
As he hoped, it was a puzzled group of warriors who now filled the room, but that was far from unusual where the collaboration of several war bands was involved. Since their loyalty was to a man, they were bound to his oaths as much as their own. As a result, in no time, a dispute erupted between rival groups: Childeric’s hotheads arguing that all the Romans – including the bucellarii - should be summarily despatched, while others felt obliged to honour the oath that Clodoris had given to Ambrosius. More than a few probably believed that killing the adopted son of the Frank leader might be seen as overzealous.
When the Franks’ good-humoured discussion descended into abusive argument, Ambrosius and his men took their chance and left. Hard on the heels of Puglio and Florina, they fled from the room and
descended back to street level, where they found the town in uproar. For the most part, the Franks were roaming utterly out of control. What a fool he had been to accept Clodoris’ assertion that his people wanted only to occupy the port! Aye, occupy it and bring ruin to its Roman inhabitants! How could he have so misjudged his adopted father? Much of the actual fighting seemed already over, as looting was in full swing – and worse, far worse...
Though he had agreed to meet Marcellus outside the palace, there was no sign of his friend, or any of his men. With every thoroughfare crammed with hostile warriors and terrified townsfolk, he could not see over their heads to the streets beyond. Without the rest of his men he could not leave Caracotinum, but if he delayed now then Petro and Lucidia would be too far ahead and finding them might prove impossible. Such were the decisions, he thought, that determined life and death…
“Make for the port!” he ordered.
“What about Marco?” roared Varta, above the clamour.
“First we have to find our ship before Childeric seizes control of the whole damned town!” insisted Ambrosius. “We find the ship – and we hold it against anyone – or Marco will have nowhere to run to!”
But, even as he set off to force a path towards the harbour, part of him was cursing his decision, because he knew that not only was he abandoning Marco, but he was also abandoning Inga. Nor did the carnage he witnessed along the way, do anything to relieve his anguish. It was an easy lie to tell himself that the town’s fate was inevitable, that the small garrison could never have held out for long – even without his surrender of the main gate. Yet, all too soon, his head was filled to bursting with the wrath of men and the screams of women and children and the word they screamed was treachery.
Shutting out the unwelcome distractions, he forced himself to carry on until he reached the river which fed into the harbour. Since it was the quickest way to the port, Petro was sure to have taken it. With any luck, they would overtake his brother and sister soon after reaching the harbour. But his hopes of finding anyone – including Onno – swiftly evaporated when they arrived at the river gate which marked one end of the harbour. From there they beheld a scene of burgeoning chaos on the docks as desperate townsfolk competed for a precious place on one of the ships.
Ambrosius had expected something of the sort to happen – even without the ferocity of the Frank attack - which is why he had despatched Onno and Caralla to commandeer a vessel before panic struck. But when he saw the degree of disorder, he started to doubt whether his two men, even if they had located a suitable vessel, could possibly defend it until the rest of their comrades arrived. Even at the river gate men, desperate to escape the town, were beginning to squabble and come to blows over possession of even the tiniest river craft.
“Where now, Dux?” cried Varta.
A fair enough question: what to go for first: Onno and his ship, or Petro and Lucidia? And then there was Marcellus… and Inga. To attempt to find all of them at once would be futile, he realised.
“We’ll have to split up,” he told his comrades. “Varta, take Rocca and Germanus to find Marcellus and the others - Inga’s litter should make them easy enough to pick out…”
He stopped for a moment because, as he stared at the seething mass of bodies stretching up towards the palace, it struck him that Marcellus could not possibly propel Inga’s litter through such a vast array of hostile, jostling warriors.
“Oh, shit…” muttered Varta, who must have drawn the same conclusion. “What do you think they’ll have done?”
“I gave Marcellus a rough description of the shape of the town,” said Ambrosius. “They might have been forced to take a different street - most likely further east. Perhaps that’s why we can’t see them.”
“Who are we looking for, Dux: Marco… or Inga?” asked Germanus.
Of course, they all knew there was no right answer.
Ambrosius swallowed hard. “Find Marco first,” he told them. “With luck, Inga and Calens will still be with him. If not, then you’ll have more men to go looking for Inga.”
“As you wish,” acknowledged Varta, “so where do we meet?”
“By Christ’s sword!” growled Ambrosius. “Let’s pray that Onno will give us a sign by then!”
“And if not?” said Varta.
“If not, meet us back here.”
“It’s a long way back here, Dux,” said Varta. “With all these crowds…”
“Yes, yes; it is,” said Ambrosius, struggling to clear his head. “Just get back down to the docks any way you can and I’ll find you. But if I know Onno, he’ll find a way to tell us where he is; so stay alert and watch for his signal!”
As he clasped Varta’s arm, his friend said: “Don’t get lost, Dux; already, this place has the smell of death about it.” Then the Frank was gone, forging a path through the crowd, hurling aside anyone who blocked into his path, with Germanus and Rocca following in his wake.
With Xallas and Cappa, Ambrosius was confident that, if only he could find Petro and Lucidia, he would be able to protect them from the Franks. Standing beside the river gate, he scanned the crowds for a sight of his sister. Every moment, more folk were flooding on to the wharves and jetties in an attempt to clamber aboard one of the ships. Trying to pick out an individual was simply out of the question.
Where could Petro have gone, he wondered? He had told his brother to make for the river gate, yet he was not there. Perhaps he feared it was too dangerous to wait there for long and was holed up somewhere close by. Ambrosius tried not to consider that he might already have been cut down by the rampant Franks surging through the town. By Christ! What might they do with Lucidia? He did not to dwell upon it – for, after all, the Franks were civilised men, not savages. Yet he had seen enough already to remind him that a horde of soldiers, once let off the leash, had no code of behaviour at all.
Disconsolate, Ambrosius led the way from the river gate back into the town where they struggled through the crowd, peering at each building they passed – though more in hope than belief. They even entered one or two houses where they thought a few fleeing Romans might have taken refuge.
“We can’t search every damned building, Dux!” cried Xallas.
Ambrosius replied with a shake of the head, his expression tight-lipped. No, they most certainly could not, but he knew that Petro would have gone to ground somewhere and it could not be far away.
Without warning, Cappa seized his arm. “Look there, Dux!”
Having spent his youth in the festering back streets of Rome, Cappa was a shrewd observer of men and their ways. On the battlefield he was sometimes a liability, but here in the streets, untroubled by baying crowds or bloody squabbles, he was better suited than any of the other bucellarii for what they needed to do now.
When Ambrosius followed Cappa’s pointed finger, he expected to see a clutch of fleeing Romans, but what Cappa had noticed was a band of Frank warriors attempting to stave in the doors of a building set back a little from the street. They might, of course, simply be bent on pillaging one of the more luxurious-looking houses and, in the present circumstances, there was nothing too surprising about that. Yet they seemed to be meeting with some stout resistance from within and surely the average householder – even a wealthy one – would struggle to defend his home against so many heavily-armed warriors?
“I’ll take a wager there are Romans in there,” declared Cappa. “If not your brother, Dux, then at the very least some men of the garrison are in there. Either way, we could help get them out – and it would swell our numbers a bit.”
Cappa was right: whoever was trapped there, it was in his interests to help them.
“You two want to fight your way in past all those Franks?” asked Xallas. “We’ll be cut down in seconds!”
“We’re not going in the front!” said Cappa. “Do you know this house, Dux?”
“No, too prestigious for the likes of me,” replied Ambrosius.
Cappa nodded. “Well, I doubt i
t’s so rich inside. You know what happens: some greasy little landlord buys up a big, old property and in a few weeks it’s twenty rooms for rent!”
“So it could be a warren of smaller rooms inside?”
“Might be,” said Cappa, “so we’ll just have to rely on my dark skills, won’t we?”
Without another word, he darted to a walled property adjacent to the house which had attracted their attention.
“What are you doing?” gasped Ambrosius.
“Getting us inside!” called Cappa over his shoulder, as he studied the aged wooden gate.
With a grin, he kicked out hard and the rotten timber splintered at the hinges into several large pieces.
“Learn from the master, Dux!” declared Cappa, pushing on past the debris.
Ambrosius and Xallas could do little but follow and put their trust in the stocky Roman as he hurried on. Keeping close alongside the perimeter fence, Cappa seemed to ghost across the property. Ambrosius could not help noticing how ill-kept and overgrown the garden was and even the briefest glance at the house itself revealed a distinct lack of maintenance. Here and there, roof tiles were either broken or missing completely. Even a short wall abutting the house had collapsed and been left where it had fallen. Such a house provided ample evidence that the decline of Caracotinum began long before the arrival of a few Franks.
Abruptly Cappa disappeared through a gap in the broken boundary fence and Ambrosius beckoned Xallas to follow.
Careful to avoid being seen by the Franks, who were still hurling abuse and battering at the door, they headed for the rear of the house.
“How do you want to do this?” enquired Cappa. “Quick, or quiet?”