The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  “Both?” suggested Ambrosius.

  Though Cappa gave a nod of acknowledgement and set to work to open the door, he did not find it easy.

  “Come on, or the Franks will be inside before we are!” urged Xallas, but his habitual impatience did not appear to improve Cappa’s concentration.

  “It’s a tough one,” observed Cappa.

  “Enough!” said Ambrosius. “Quiet isn’t going to get us in.”

  Thrusting Cappa aside, he put his boot to the door and it crashed open at once.

  “That’s more like it!” said Xallas.

  Cries of alarm from within warned Ambrosius to be cautious as he went in. Sure enough, the moment he entered the small vestibule, Petro came at him with his sword and only just pulled back in time.

  “By Christ, brother!” he exclaimed. “How did you find us?”

  “I have a man who makes lucky guesses,” explained Ambrosius, following his half-brother into a long passage. From the passage, rooms led off at regular intervals in the area which had probably once been a grand atrium.

  “How many of you are there in here?” he asked Petro, as they entered a larger chamber at the front of the building – once a great entrance hall, with tall, solid wooden doors.

  “Enough,” drawled a familiar voice, “perhaps even enough to see you off, Dux.”

  With a sigh, Ambrosius looked around the room; he had found Petro and Lucidia, with half a dozen soldiers and servants, but he had also located his dangerous half-sister, Florina, along with the tribune, Puglio and a few more surviving members of the scutarii.

  “Forget our quarrel, Puglio!” he snapped. “The only way we get out of here is by fighting our way out – together.”

  As if to accentuate their plight, they heard the Franks begin to smash their axes once more into the heavy doors.

  “Perhaps I have the numbers to kill you first then fight my way out,” suggested Puglio, but they both knew that he did not.

  “We have a better chance with my brother than without,” argued Florina.

  Though slightly bemused by Florina acknowledging him as her brother, Ambrosius pressed home her point. “There are at least ten men at that door, tribune – too many for your few scutarii.”

  Though Puglio still seemed inclined to debate the issue, the sudden splintering of the door must have convinced him otherwise.

  “Very well,” he conceded, “but once we’re out of here, you’d better watch yourself, Dux.”

  As the Franks burst in and an axe flew past his head, Ambrosius moved closer to Petro and the few remaining members of the garrison. Pushing Lucidia and two of the servants behind him in Cappa’s charge, he looked across to Florina who stood alone. If he knew his elder half-sister at all, she would watch and wait - remaining aloof until she could tell who would emerge the stronger.

  When the young Franks swept aside the remains of the door and leapt at the defenders, at least a dozen warriors surged in, each one hard on the eager heels of the man before. Though he had no stomach for more bloodletting, Ambrosius raised his spatha and turned to meet the ferocious assault head on.

  Part Four: Ships and Harbour

  s

  25

  November 454 in the morning, in the port of Caracotinum

  When he managed to tear his gaze from the chaos at the northern docks, Onno looked away to the far southern end of the harbour where, by contrast, there appeared to be hardly any ships at all.

  “What’s along there?” he asked Prosperus, squinting at the area towards the harbour entrance.

  “Just the old ship repair yards,” replied Prosperus, “but they’re hardly used and, as you can see from here, there’s nothing there now.”

  But Onno was not so sure. “You can’t tell from here,” he said, almost to himself. “I think I see a mast. Come on.”

  Hurrying along the narrow wooden strip which ran alongside the harbour wall, he came to a sudden halt when he reached the remains of the structure which lay at the extreme southern end of it. Prosperus was quite wrong about it: what faced him was wholly undeserving of the term ship repair yard – ship grave yard might have been more appropriate! Though it might once have used to build or repair vessels, it was not much more than a rubbish heap now. Several floating platforms still jutted out at right angles to the harbour wall, but the bays between them served only to collect some of the objects which had drifted into the harbour.

  With some caution, Onno stepped onto the nearest of the pontoons and it seemed stable enough, but he could see at a glance that many of the others had been rotting away for half a lifetime. As he clambered from one bay to the next, all he found was floating timber debris. Here and there on the platforms, heaps of bent nails had formed small, rusting, iron humps which over time had welded themselves to the timber boards.

  “Come, Onno,” urged Caralla. “Prosperus was right: there’s nothing for us here…”

  Onno could hardly disagree, for even the mast he thought he saw turned out to be a broken one abandoned against the harbour wall. But as he turned to follow Prosperus and Caralla back to the main docks, a voice snarled at them.

  “Hey! This area’s private! Get out!”

  Though they could hear the voice, they could not see its owner.

  “Show yourself, man!” ordered Onno and at once a bald head popped up from within the carcass of a low vessel he had not even noticed at the far end of the yard.

  “What do you want here?” the stranger growled at them. “This is a priv-”

  “Yes, a private dock,” said Onno, making straight for the man. “We heard! We’re looking for a ship – are there any vessels here that might be seaworthy?”

  “Piss off!”

  “We’re in trouble, friend,” said Onno, gesturing towards the town. “Have you not seen how the whole of Caracotinum is in uproar?”

  “Uproar?” repeated the fellow, in confusion. “What uproar?

  “The Franks are sacking the town,” Onno informed him.

  When the man attempted to stand up but failed, Onno at once diagnosed his condition. “You’re drunk!”

  “I’m drunk?” mimicked the seaman. “You’re the one talking about the sack of the town!”

  With a shake of the head, Onno explained: “We need to leave soon – how about you?”

  “The Franks, you say?” said the fellow, uncomprehending, as he tried to peer at the town that lay behind Onno and Caralla. By the smell of him, the man had undertaken a lot more drinking than repairing.

  “What’s your name?” asked Onno.

  “Remigius!”

  Onno regarded the scruffy Remigius doubtfully. “Caralla,” he murmured, “assist dear Remigius to a standing position.”

  “Hey!” protested Remigius when Caralla hoisted him upright. “You dare lay hands upon me? I’m the master of this ship!”

  “What ship?” demanded Onno.

  “The one I’m standing in!”

  Onno thought there were a few things missing from the ship – at least if it intended to cross a sea – a mast for one thing.

  “Is this ship seaworthy, Remigius?” demanded Onno.

  “I don’t answer to you!” retorted the seaman.

  “Tell me then: who do you answer to?”

  “Aurelius Honorius Magnus! ‘Cos this vessel belongs to him!”

  “Not any more it doesn’t,” declared Onno. “It belongs to his son - Ambrosius Aurelianus.”

  “Eh?”

  “Now, tell me: is it seaworthy?”

  A sly smile ghosted across Remigius’ face. “No. She’s not… seaworthy…”

  “What’s wrong with it – her - then?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Remigius assured him. “Nothing’s wrong with her.”

  “How then is… she… not seaworthy?” asked Onno, summoning up his last reserves of patience.

  “’Cos she’s a… navis lusoria!” cackled the mariner.

  “Oh, good!” said Onno. “A river ship! But she could manag
e a trip along the coast, couldn’t she?”

  “Maybe, in fair weather, she could...”

  “What about across to Britannia?”

  “Pah! Only if you’ve got a death wish!” Remigius spat out his response, “but then I reckon you must have, if you want to go to that place!”

  “Could you sail her there?” Onno pressed him.

  “Only if I don’t sober up!” retorted Remigius.

  “Why is she here in the repair yard, if she’s fit to sail?” enquired Onno.

  “Just been fitted out with new steer boards – and a new mast,” said Remigius, pointing to the mast, which Onno now saw was lying on the deck.

  “It’s not much use lying there, is it?”

  “Pah, these ships mostly use oars anyway,” he said, “which is why - without a crew of oarsmen - you ain’t going nowhere!”

  “Let me worry about that. Just get this vessel ready to sail!” ordered Onno.

  Taking Caralla onto the dock, he said: “I’ll keep an eye on him, while you and Prosperus pile up all these broken wooden bits and pieces against the far end of the harbour wall as far away from the ship as you can.”

  “Alright, but what for?” asked Caralla.

  “Just do it,” said Onno, “You’ll see why later – and only dry bits!”

  For a short time, while Onno helped the still-inebriated mariner to haul up and fit the mast, Caralla and Prosperus gathered all the broken spars, planks, and even a few damaged oar-blades and built an impressive heap against the wall.

  “Now what, Onno?” called out Caralla.

  “I noticed a brazier of warm coals over there,” he replied. “Let’s put the two things together!”

  Pleased to see the light of understanding dawning upon his comrade, Onno concentrated on ensuring that the drunken Remigius did not let the mast, now poised precariously in mid-air, drop over the side into the water – or worse still, fall down and crack one of them on the head.

  “You still need a crew,” insisted Remigius, “even to launch her!”

  “We’ll push her out into the channel now,” Onno told him. “Then the four us can get her to the nearest dock.”

  Remigius laughed heartily. “Know much about tides, do you?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact I do,” retorted Onno, with confident grin.

  “What about tidal river estuaries?” was Remigius’ gruff response. “The tide’s going out. You push my ship out into the channel with only four men to row and no-one to steer and we’re heading out of control into the mud banks outside the harbour entrance. I may be drunk; but I’m not a shit-headed idiot!”

  It seemed to Onno, that as soon as he removed one obstacle, another raced along to take its place. Glancing across at Caralla and Prosperus, he reckoned that they were having little success in trying to start a fire.

  “Right,” said Onno. “You’re the master mariner: how do we get this ship over to the jetty there to make it easier to board?”

  “Put a rope on her, that’s how,” replied Remigius glibly.

  “Fine,” agreed Onno. “Then let’s get it done, shall we?”

  At that moment, there was sudden whoosh and a yelp from Caralla as the fire sprang to life, singeing its makers.

  “Give us a hand here!” cried Onno. “Or we’ll never get this mast fixed! By Christ! I only hope that when we’re done, we still have some comrades left alive to take aboard!”

  26

  November 454 morning, in Caracotinum

  As Ambrosius expected, from the first clash of spathas, the struggle was brutal. The Franks, mostly young men, were almost certainly part of Childeric’s vanguard, charged with sweeping every Roman from the port. Clearly angered that it had taken them so long to force their way into the building, they were in no mood to show restraint. In such a tangled mêlée, there could be no place of safety and Ambrosius was very aware that his sisters would make fine prizes for the young Frank warriors. Though at first he tried to keep a close eye on both ladies, the struggle itself soon craved every last scrap of his attention.

  Alongside him, his half-brother, Petro proved a resolute fighter, delivering blow after punishing blow with his heavy sword. Fleetingly, it occurred to Ambrosius, as he carved aside a stripling youth, that it was the first time he had ever fought alongside his brother. It might also, he reflected, be the last…

  Caught in a close-quarter clash, Ambrosius twisted and turned like an eel. Though the Romans were heavily outnumbered, he remained confident that they would prevail, but the determined Franks kept coming. Soon the floor was littered with bloodied bodies and, whether living or dead, they became a hazard for the combatants. Stumbling over casualties, Ambrosius finally managed to carve himself some space and free his arms to wield his spatha. Then his opponents truly began to feel the force of his controlled fury; for Ambrosius, as ever, fought with no fear, no doubt and not a trace of remorse.

  A glance behind reassured him that Cappa, grim-faced beside Lucidia, stood ready, spear in hand, to lunge at any man who strayed too close. Unruly and ill-favoured he might be, but Cappa had dragged himself from the squalid streets of Rome to claim a place among the fêted bucellarii of Aetius. And that, thought Ambrosius, as he narrowly evaded another thrust at his bare torso, was not achieved without being willing to shed a bucketful of blood.

  Around him, tired men were being slain in moments, their bodies chopped apart like butchered cattle. Every man, wild-eyed and frantic, was caught up in the manic, pointless slaughter. No sooner did Ambrosius put one man down, but another hopeful adversary flew at him and a pair of pale, blue eyes glared at him from under a knotted shank of black hair. Perhaps this youth was one of those he had strolled past in the Frankish camp the previous evening, but it counted for nothing when battle came. All past ties counted for nothing, reflected Ambrosius, as he drove his spatha through his opponent’s belly and twisted it free. No fear, no doubt and no remorse…

  Of course, the killing came to an end eventually and, when it did, the Franks fled as suddenly as they had come; but they did not leave empty-handed. Desperate to take some trophy - to give meaning to the river of blood they had shed - they seized the screaming Florina and escaped with her in their midst.

  With his practised eye, Ambrosius surveyed the room. The floor was slick with blood, and, though seven or eight Franks had been killed, the toll among the Romans was also high. A blood-covered Xallas gave Ambrosius a nod to confirm that most of the blood he wore was not his own. Petro was on his knees and nursing a cut shoulder, while the other local men had fared little better. Darting a look at Puglio, Ambrosius saw that only one other member of the scutarii had survived.

  Only then did he glance down at his own ribs, and saw that he would have yet another scar there tomorrow – if he was still alive tomorrow.

  From the floor, Petro cried out: “I must go after Florina!”

  “Not like that, you won’t!” retorted Ambrosius. “You wouldn’t get to her, Petro...”

  Nor did Petro’s two remaining soldiers, trembling with relief that they had survived the bloody onslaught, seem keen to embark upon the rescue of the lady.

  “What about you, Dux?” asked Puglio. “Are you going after your sister?”

  Clearly Puglio knew little of his relationship with his elder sister, if he thought that Ambrosius would risk Lucidia to save Florina. He could hardly leave the wounded Petro and Lucidia unprotected amid all the carnage being unleashed upon the town.

  “Tough decision, eh, Dux?” said Puglio. “I don’t give much for her chances though, do you?”

  “Ambrosius!” pleaded Petro, “You have to go after her!”

  “Bind up his wounds,” Ambrosius told the soldiers, snatching a cloak from one of the fallen. “We need to leave.”

  Despite his brother’s protests, Ambrosius decided that he could not risk going after Florina – by Christ, she was more likely to try to kill him than the damned Franks were!

  “She stabbed our father in the
back, Petro – her own father!” he told his brother.

  “I know!” cried Petro. “I saw it too, remember – it was my own damned knife!”

  “God knows I hated the man,” said Ambrosius, “but she’s not worthy of a brother’s love!”

  “But we can’t just leave her!” protested Petro.

  “Dear, dear, what a family spawned you, Dux,” remarked Puglio.

  While he was speaking, Ambrosius knew that the tribune would be weighing up his chances of success if he tried to kill Dux now. But the grim presence of Xallas was enough to dissuade him – at least for the moment.

  “Well if you’re going, Dux, you’d better go first,” invited the tribune, “but don’t worry, we’ll be close by – in case you find yourself in trouble… and I’ll see you very, very soon.”

  Lucidia was staring at her brother’s chest where the cloak hung open, no doubt seeing for the first time in daylight, all the recent wounds he carried.

  “You have so many scars,” she breathed.

  With a shrug, he replied: “Only the marks a soldier bears…”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled aside the cloak and drew her fingers over some of the rough, scarcely-closed gouges across his back. “And even some that were not inflicted by the weapons of men,” she murmured.

  “We need to make haste!” he said, brushing aside her concern.

  One of the slaves, who had somehow managed to survive, gave his shoulder to Petro, who could not walk unaided. Reminding Cappa to stay close to Lucidia, Ambrosius led the small group out, leaving Xallas to watch their rear.

  Outside the house, a chaotic and bloody scene awaited them.

  “Where to?” asked Cappa.

  “I said I would meet Marco,” said Ambrosius, “so I owe it to him to at least try.”

  “But don’t we need to find Onno and that pissing ship?” urged Cappa.

  “Yes, but we should join up with Marco first.”

  “But you sent Varta and the others after Marco,” protested Cappa.

  “Only because I had others to find – but now we’ve done that, we’ll look for Marco. What if Varta and the others haven’t found the main column yet?”