The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  “Marco’s got more than thirty men with him. They’ll be alright, I tell you!”

  “And I’m telling you,” growled Ambrosius, “that if Marco has to fight his way here from the north gate, every damned Frank will turn upon him and there won’t be many of our thirty men left, will there?”

  “But, Dux-”

  Ambrosius cut him short. “We need those men, Cappa – unless you intend to row our ship all on your own! So, we try to find Marco! You lead; we’ll follow…”

  He did not add that there was someone else he was most eager to find… and, he supposed, he must also keep a look out for Lady Florina…

  In the streets, men and women hurried away at the sight of them, while others cowered in doorways in the vain hope of escaping the attentions of their attackers. One fellow, his clothes torn and bloody, stood in the shattered remains of his looted shop, glaring at them as they passed.

  “They’ve taken everything I’ve got!” he wailed.

  Ambrosius seized him by the shoulder. “Not yet everything, man!” he said roughly. “But if you stand there much longer complaining, you’ll lose your life too!”

  “We should be doing something for these people!” cried Lucidia, eyes red with tears.

  But Ambrosius pushed her on along the street to follow in Cappa’s footsteps. “They’re beyond our help now,” he said. “We must protect our own first.”

  “But Rome is their protector!” she declared, her voice breaking.

  “Rome, sister?” he replied. “The Rome of our fathers is long gone – it can’t even protect itself…”

  “Dux!” cried Cappa, pointing up the street. “I don’t think we can get to Marco this way…”

  Ambrosius scanned the road ahead as far as a large church and, in the distance, he saw the palace. Cappa’s assessment, he decided, was prudent enough: there was just no way through, for every yard of space was occupied by Franks jostling and roaring as they broke into shops and looted their way steadily down towards the warehouses and the docks. Ambrosius knew now that he could not stop them; nothing could stop them. Only a passing desire to ransack the houses of the wealthy along their way would even slow their advance.

  Constantly, he looked behind him for Puglio, but saw no sign of him - nor any of the other scutarii. Perhaps the tribune would be swallowed up by the horde of Franks; if so, he was unlikely to survive the experience. With a sigh, Ambrosius conceded that Cappa had been right from the start: there was no more time for searching – for comrades, or loved ones. There was scarcely even time left to flee. So they hurried back to the docks, where matters were even worse than before.

  There was hardly room to stand, let alone move and, as they watched, two ships left the wharves, overloaded with people and with more clinging on to their oars. On another vessel, there was a running battle for control, which was preventing it from departing at all. The decks of other ships were piled so high with people and goods that the vessels were in danger of being swamped. Frantic ship masters bellowed instructions in vain above the screaming voices of their would-be passengers. All too soon the struggle took a darker turn as mariners started to toss both people and their unwelcome baggage into the harbour. In all the chaos, Ambrosius sought a glimpse of Onno or Caralla, but could not see them.

  “You should have sent me to get you a ship, not that fool of an Egyptian!” complained Cappa.

  “Stop moaning and keep moving!” shouted Ambrosius.

  “Move? I can’t pissing move!” cursed Cappa. “I can’t even-”

  The Roman broke off as a finger of flame flared up on the far side of the harbour.

  “There!” cried Ambrosius.

  “God’s mercy!” cried Lucidia. “They’re burning the town!”

  “No! That’ll be Onno!” declared Ambrosius. “And that fire is where we need to get to: right at the far south end of the harbour!”

  “Hah! It might as well be Rome!” snorted Cappa. “We’re stuck here, I tell you!”

  “Then use your knife to persuade your way through,” ordered Ambrosius.

  “I could stab all the buggers,” retorted Cappa, “but they’ve nowhere to fall, so they’d still be blocking my way!”

  “It’s hopeless!” groaned Petro.

  “No!” cried Ambrosius, “Go right up to the harbour wall and force a path alongside it. You can use the wall to help you - press against it to force aside any folk in your way!”

  Acknowledging at once the sense of his suggestion, Cappa led the way to the stone wall. Though it was centuries old and long past need of repair, it provided a way for them. Squeezing along beside it meant they had half as many folk to push out of the way. But sometimes the crowd could not be moved an inch and they were forced to clamber past over a ruined section of wall. Such moments, Ambrosius saw, were agony for the wounded Petro but never did his brother utter a word of complaint.

  The further along the dock they moved, the more the mass of people began to thin out. Everyone else was heading to the centre and north of the docks where the few remaining ships were moored so, going away from the congestion, speeded their progress. Nevertheless, it occurred to Ambrosius, belatedly, that he would look very foolish if the flames he could still see close to the harbour entrance proved not to be a signal from Onno at all.

  When they were still fifty yards away, his face broke into a grin of relief for he recognised the bulk of Caralla, wrestling with several others to control of a small vessel which was veering out into the main channel.

  “Xallas, Cappa!” he ordered. “Run ahead and give them a hand! You too,” he told the slave, transferring Petro’s weight to his own shoulder.

  Minutes later, they were all staring at the ship now safely moored against a wooden jetty. A smiling Onno leapt off to meet Ambrosius, who at once took him aside.

  “This ship won’t do!” he told the Egyptian. “It’s too small - but you must know that!”

  “I know it, Dux, but too small compared to what?” replied Onno, with a rueful smile.

  27

  November 454 in the morning, near the palace in Caracotinum

  Having watched Inga’s litter veer away to the south, Marcellus felt a little easier about what was to come. Already, as he led his column towards the palace building where he hoped to find Dux, he knew that they were vastly outnumbered by the Franks. All around them spears and spathas were brandished with ever-growing enthusiasm – indeed some warriors actually leapt up and down as they scoured the streets and houses for someone to fight.

  In the nervous glances of his own men, he saw, not fear exactly, but a creeping unease rooted in simple mistrust of their allies. Were these men in their bright tunics, with long hair bunched strangely over their foreheads, truly their friends? Not to Marcellus, they weren’t; and not to many of those who marched with him…

  When they reached the palace and found no trace of Dux and the others, Marcellus wanted to stop and wait – perhaps even conduct a swift search of the building. But what he wanted soon became irrelevant, for the small Roman column was swept along in the Frankish tide. For another two hundred yards or so, it was good-humoured and all was well. Franks and Romans admired each other’s weaponry, exchanged crude insults and laughed at each other’s ribald jokes – as soldiers always did. Passing the town baths, they cheerfully discussed the possibility that there would be brothels close by. But then they were joined by another, different group of Franks, who must have swept first through the barracks along the north wall and then turned back to join their comrades.

  With their arrival, a dark shadow seemed to pass over the crowd and the mood changed. Their swords and spears bloodied, these men had clearly already seen some hard fighting against the local garrison – who were, of course, Roman. Now, when they found yet more Romans in their midst, the casual banter started to take on a more rancorous tone. Marcellus could see disaster coming but, like a man falling from a rooftop, he could do nothing to stop it.

  “Steady lads!” he warned. “
Keep your order now – and keep those weapons sheathed!”

  Even if they heard him, amid the clamour all around them, their nerves were too frayed to heed any instructions. Even Placido’s dogs – usually so disciplined – were growling and grumbling as they flanked their master. With their spiked collars and armoured coats, they rippled with menace. Any moment, Marcellus thought, one of them will snap its jaws around a nearby Frank who waves his spear too close to Placido. And he knew, well before anything happened, that it would only take one such rash action, by man or dog, or one barbed word, to provoke a bloodbath.

  Having missed Dux at the palace, the only other place Marcellus could make for was the harbour. Trying to calculate how far away the docks were, he found himself silently counting off each yard and praying that the tense accord between Franks and Romans would endure a little longer. But his prayers went unanswered and all hope vanished when a great swathe of the Frankish warriors came to an abrupt halt, without warning, thirty paces ahead of him.

  As one, they turned about to face the Roman column in a manoeuvre that could not have happened by chance. Other Franks close by, he noticed, hastily sheered away from the Romans as death hurtled towards them in a blur of thrown axes and spears. Men beside him cried out, or clutched at mortal wounds as they dropped to their knees.

  In vain, Marcellus flung out orders that no man could hear. Surrounded by so many, he knew they were doomed; their only chance of avoiding complete annihilation, was to form small, tight groups. Six or eight men with shields together and spears pointing outwards might just force a bloody path out of the crowded street. Bullying the nearest soldiers into formation, he all but dragged them down a side street.

  “Take the blows on your shields and keep those spear points low!” he bellowed. “Strike at their bare legs – and, in God’s name, stay on your feet!”

  He said a lot more, hurling abuse and roaring encouragement every time an axe looped down upon them. Those who were not cut down in the first attack were quick to follow his lead for they were experienced men. But the Franks too had spears to lunge at the tight Roman groups - sometimes to no avail, but one or two pierced bellies or tore through thighs… and men fell. Wounded men had to be abandoned to their fate, as the survivors trampled away over their fallen comrades.

  Though Marcellus’ dwindling band of men had scrambled their way out of the clutches of the surrounding army, they were still being pursued. To break ranks and run was tempting, but they dared not risk being isolated. So, though they relaxed their formation a little, they were still a tight unit of men. Most had sustained minor wounds and a few were limping but, as long as they could walk, Marcellus reckoned they might just get to the docks.

  Raging with anger and bitterness, he cursed the perfidious Franks, but also his friend – for Dux should never have trusted the Franks in the first place. It was foolish – and a folly which had now brought about the slaughter of many of the soldiers who had followed him so willingly out of northern Italy. They had put their trust in him and he had betrayed them…

  But what, thought Marcellus, if Dux himself was already dead – killed by his father the moment he entered the town? Remembering the many times that Dux had been all that stood between him and certain death, he regretted his rage against his friend. The sudden ambush had unnerved him, causing dark thoughts to surface; but now he felt ashamed. Dux deserved better than that - and Dux had entrusted him with the lives of these men…

  Leading the small group through a warren of narrow alleys, Marcellus summoned up some of his usual confidence. Every now and then, he was given further encouragement by the arrival of stragglers from the column who had also managed to escape the carnage. One such group was led by Placido and his now blood-smeared dogs. When several of the local garrison joined them, he soon had about twenty men with him. Even so, with Franks spilling out of every side street, their situation still appeared hopeless.

  Everywhere, the inhabitants of the town were fleeing – though Marcellus could not think where they hoped to escape to. There were only two routes out of Caracotinum that he was aware of: the north gate - which was now impossible to reach - and the port itself which was where everyone was going. It occurred to him that, even if Onno had already secured a ship, he might not be able to hold it against so many. Nevertheless, as they edged closer to the harbour, Marcellus felt his spirits rise, especially when they rounded a corner and found that the central, walled dock area was only fifty yards away. The wall was old and half ruined, but it might give them a place they could actually defend if the Franks caught up with them. But the elation that put new light into each man’s eyes was swiftly and cruelly extinguished.

  They heard the screams first before a tide of people swept towards them - not Franks, but townsfolk – bewildered men and women whose small world was being torn asunder. Seeing the score of armed Romans, they fled towards them, mobbing them in their relief. Some folk were wounded and scarred beyond reason, but others were simply in shock. Among them was a bloodied and shivering, half-naked woman who did nothing but mutter to herself. After a few moments trying to talk to her, Marcellus gave up and told one of his men to drape a cloak over her. Though he could not undo what had been done to her, he could at least hide it from others.

  Shepherding the civilians ahead of them, they continued to the port, with Marcellus determined to escort the refugees there in safety. It was not the first time he had found himself in a town on the brink of destruction, so he knew that for most folk, he could offer no reprieve from what was to come. But for these few at least, he vowed to try.

  With the docks now only yards away, a small band of young Franks overtook the Romans and, though hopelessly outnumbered, the youths went on the attack. Fearless in battle, the young warriors whirled their shields around and hurled themselves at the Romans. Marcellus’ men, having endured more than enough punishment earlier, were hungry for revenge. Within a few minutes, led by Placido, they scythed down their opponents, killing them all. No mercy was shown and the shaken townsfolk shrieked and spat upon the blood-soaked bodies.

  Their celebration was abruptly curtailed, however, when a far larger number of Franks rounded the street corner, launching spears and throwing axes. Flying blades punched through light mail coats to bore into flesh. Soldiers and civilians alike were struck down. One woman, shielding her young son, cried out as first a spear buried itself in her midriff and then she was hacked to the ground. Staring down at his mother, the boy stood motionless. While, all around him, men snarled and women screamed, he simply stood watching the dark blood pump from her body.

  Marcellus was about to snatch up the lad when a spear struck him in the shoulder and spun him around.

  “Make for the docks!” he barked, snapping off the spear shaft, as he attempted to form up his men in a ragged screen to protect the townspeople.

  The motherless boy might have remained where he was, had not the cloaked woman reached out a hand to grasp his and haul him away. Together, the unlikely pair shambled along with the others, with the Franks in fierce pursuit.

  They’re going to drive us straight into the harbour, thought Marcellus; but, in a way, that made his decision easy. With no signal of any kind from Onno, he had to assume there was no ship. Thus, he had no choice now but to make a stand with the harbour wall at his back. Better that than flee beyond the wall onto the wharves where they would be easily cut down, or driven backwards into the water. With the exhausted civilians cowering against the wall behind him, devoid of all hope, he arrayed the men he had left to face the oncoming Franks. Standing just ahead of the others, with Placido beside him, Marcellus resolved that he would fight to the death where he was.

  The Franks came at a pace, roaring and bellowing, but then, oddly, their advance seemed to falter – and, to Marcellus’ surprise, the great, unstoppable surge of men started to come to a halt. Only when he turned to his left, did he see why. From the dockside, the tall and unmistakable figure of Varta ambled into view, followed
by Germanus and Rocca. Aside from Dux himself, it would be difficult to find three such imposing warriors. The three men nodded to Marcellus, sauntered in front of his line of men and took their positions beside him, with Placido.

  Yet, thought Marcellus, they were only five men – so how could they make any difference? Varta was a Frank, of course - known perhaps to some of those now facing him and very probably a blood relative of one or two, but even so...

  Taking a pace forward, Varta raised his right arm and spatha aloft. The street and the area around it fell silent.

  “These Romans,” declared Varta, “are… my… friends…”

  At once his words caused a murmur of anger among some of the Franks and Marcellus gripped the hilt of his weapon more tightly, anticipating a rush attack. But Varta, seemingly unconcerned, continued and his deep voice quelled the crowd once more.

  “Now that I’ve told you all… that these people are my friends, you should know that I will personally disembowel any man who threatens their safety. So, go away, and look elsewhere for your amusement…”

  It would certainly be a brave Frank who took on Varta, but then there was a whole host of brave men to do so. Even with the three mean-looking men flanking Varta, Marcellus could not see how they would hold up the Franks for long.

  From what he knew of Childeric, Marcellus had no doubt that, had the young Frank chieftain been there, he would not have allowed Varta’s challenge to go unanswered. But no-one who was there appeared willing to answer it and Marcellus watched, astonished, as the crowd of armed men began to disperse. Though some left muttering and moaning, they did leave.

  “That was a good trick, my friend,” he said, as he clasped Varta’s arm to congratulate him. “How in God’s name did you know that would work?”

  “I didn’t think it would,” laughed the Frank. “Mind you, Rocca and Germanus are disappointed – they would have preferred a fight!”

  “Have you found Onno?” asked Marcellus. “Does he have a ship for us? And what about Dux – where is he?”