The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  With a shrug, Varta replied: “We parted company with Dux, Xallas and Cappa a while ago. Where they are now, I don’t know.

  Marcellus had just begun to convince himself that the worst was over, but without a ship, all their problems would return soon enough. Suddenly, his wound seemed worse…

  “So, what do we do then?” he asked.

  “We’re supposed to meet Dux down on the docks,” said Varta. “If we keep together, we might still have a chance.”

  “This is all a complete mess!” grumbled Marcellus. “By Christ, we’ve lost half our men, Varta!”

  “I see that,” said Varta, with a shrug, “but we are bucellarii, Marco. We go where Dux goes and we live, or die, with him.”

  “Yes, but in doing so, we’ve brought ruin upon the whole damned town – and ourselves! It’s been a slaughter!”

  “I know,” acknowledged Varta. “I’ve seen it too, but how could Dux have known what awaited us here? And do you think my fellow Franks were going to camp outside the town walls forever, Marco? They were making scaling ladders before we even arrived and the small garrison could never have held out against so many. So, if you have saved some folk this day, then you’ve done all you ever could have done.”

  Marcellus gave a weary nod, relieved at least to have his three formidable comrades with him – and then he remembered Calens and Inga…

  28

  November 454, on the south docks at Caracotinum harbour

  Ambrosius could only stare at the boat. “A navis lusoria… is too small, Onno. I mean, that thing can’t cross the channel in November – it can’t cross the channel at all…”

  “Well, it’s the only ship we’ve got!” retorted the Egyptian. “By the time Caralla and I got to the docks, there was nothing else!”

  “But you were the only one who knew where I intended to go,” he groaned. “I told you so that you could choose a suitable ship, like a liburnia! But… this is just a river patrol boat!”

  “Choose, Dux? There was no choice in it! Just ask those poor souls over there!” he cried, pointing to the northern docks. “Either we make use of this ship, or we don’t leave here at all.”

  “Well, we can’t stay here!” declared Ambrosius. “That’s certain!”

  “So, Dux, we’ll just have to pray that we don’t drown crossing the channel. Won’t we?”

  “By Christ,” murmured Ambrosius. “How many can we take aboard?

  “About thirty rowing and, I suppose a few more on the deck…”

  With a heavy sigh, Ambrosius acknowledged that there was no alternative. “We’d better start getting everyone aboard,” he said.

  “And… by everyone… you mean all half dozen of you,” said Onno. “Where in God’s name are the rest, Dux?”

  “Let’s hope they’ve seen your signal fire and are on their way…”

  Some of those he wanted to take with him, like Lucidia, were already frightened; what greater terrors would the sight of this tiny vessel conjure up for them? It was not built to cross the sea to Britannia, nor was it large enough to carry all his men and his family, let alone any refugees from the Roman garrison. His situation was both simple and terrible: he would be forced to leave people behind…

  “When Marco and the others arrive,” he told Onno, “we’ll just have to go and take another ship – or some of our comrades will be swimming alongside!”

  “What other ship?” protested Onno. “Take another look, Dux - a good look, because most of the other ships have gone! And when they’ve all gone, we’ll be lucky to keep hold of this one, never mind take another!”

  “You in charge of these fools then?” interrupted the ship master.

  “Who are you?” grumbled Ambrosius.

  “Manned a ship before have you?”

  “No! Who are you?” repeated Ambrosius.

  “He’s Remigius, the ship’s master,” said Onno, “albeit a drunken one!”

  “Yeh, I’m the poor sod who keeps this vessel – which, as I told your slave, belongs to the port commander.”

  “Onno’s not my slave; and as for the port commander, well, let’s say that he won’t be requiring your services anymore.”

  “You telling me Magnus is dead?” said Remigius.

  “I am.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “Listen, fellow: he was my own father, so trust me on this; he’s dead! Now, can you sail this ship, or not?”

  The master, who looked thoroughly put out by the sudden change in his circumstances, made no reply.

  “I’ve not much time – and even less patience,” growled Ambrosius. “So tell me: can you manage this ship, or not? Because, if you can’t, I’ll throw you off it, to make room for another of my men!”

  “Course I can sail it,” muttered Remigius, “just not to Britannia…”

  “You’d rather stay behind here then?” suggested Ambrosius.

  With a furtive glance across the harbour, the master conceded: “I suppose I might be able to do it… if you had enough rowers – which you clearly haven’t!”

  “We’ll have rowers,” Ambrosius assured him. “You just be ready to leave on my command!”

  If Remigius had any thoughts of arguing further, he did not get the chance.

  “Dux!” called Caralla.

  Looking up, Ambrosius saw a weary company approaching and frowned. There was no mistaking Varta and Marcellus but the rest of the straggling group were scarcely recognisable as the ranks of seasoned veterans he had brought out of Italy.

  “By Christ,” he muttered, “what have you done with my men, Marco?”

  Among the soldiers he saw several women and even one or two children - a few souls saved then. While Caralla and Cappa went off to greet their comrades and help some of the wounded, Ambrosius could only look on in disbelief from the deck of the ship.

  “Dux,” said Marcellus, nodding to his commander.

  “What happened?” demanded Ambrosius.

  “The Franks, Dux - your friends, the Franks - they happened...”

  “They attacked you?”

  “No, we threw ourselves onto their spear points!”

  Marcellus’ savage response revealed the depth of his bitterness and Ambrosius’ face softened when he saw the despair on his wounded comrade’s face.

  “Then you did well to get anyone out alive, Marco,” he said, gripping his friend’s arm.

  Marcellus gave a shake of the head and indicated Varta. “Without Varta and the others, we’d all be dead.”

  “I never thought Clodoris would break his word to me…” said Ambrosius.

  “If it makes you feel any better, Dux, I don’t think it was his doing - I’m not even sure he was there...”

  “Then he damned well should have been!” cried Ambrosius. “Look at this broken shell of a town – its people killed, robbed or ravished!”

  “You’ve seen it before, Dux,” murmured Marcellus. “We all have…”

  “True enough, but I’ve not had a hand in causing it before!” said Ambrosius, tasting bile in his mouth.

  Staring at the faces of the survivors as they filed onto the ship, one caught his eye: a woman hunched over in a borrowed cloak, with a boy beside her. Ambrosius was still studying her when Lucidia leapt from the ship and enveloped the woman in her arms. Wincing at the sight of her, he did not follow Lucidia’s example. Compassion was the last thing the woman would expect from anyone, but least of all from her estranged half-brother.

  “Who is that?” asked Marcellus.

  “That… is my elder sister, Florina. She was captured…”

  “Dear God, Dux! I’m sorry; we’ve done our best but, when we found her… let’s just say she had not been treated well…”

  “Who’s the boy?” asked Ambrosius. “Not hers, that much I know!”

  “His mother was killed before his eyes – and… Lady Florina sort of… took him with her…”

  Ambrosius was still wrestling with the concept of Florina showing k
indness towards anyone, especially some poor, abandoned child who could offer her nothing, when a sudden thought struck him like a blow to the stomach.

  Seizing Marcellus by the shoulder, he whispered: “Inga? Calens? They’re not with you! Where are they, Marco?”

  Marcellus bowed his head. “I was hoping they’d already be here,” he said. “I prayed they would be…”

  Swiftly, he explained how he had tried to protect the girl and her escort from being trapped amongst the great host of Franks.

  Ambrosius nodded. “Of course, you did the right thing, Marco, as ever… but where can they be now?”

  Standing up, Marcellus said: “I’ll go after them at once, Dux!”

  “Sit down, my friend; you’re already bleeding out onto my deck; and you’ve done more than your share already. I’ll go myself.”

  “Then take some others, Dux,” insisted Marcellus, “because, God’s breath, you’re going to need them!”

  With a shake of the head, Ambrosius replied: “Not as much as you will, Marco. Better I slip out there alone; you’ll need every man here just to defend this ship against those who’ll be trying to take it. Now, where do you think Inga might be?”

  “I sent them to the south east of the town, thinking it was furthest from the Frank attack – and thus, trouble… They should have reached the docks long before us and their road should have taken them past the large warehouses on the seaward side of the town…”

  “Dux,” said Onno, “there was a group of Franks with ladders at the southern wall – they came over before dawn and cleared the rampart there. The litter could have run straight into them…”

  Dux said nothing, unwilling to reveal his despair, but at once he leapt from the ship onto the jetty.

  “You can’t go alone, Dux!” protested Varta.

  “You,” ordered Ambrosius, “will stay here with everyone else. Keeping this ship in our hands will be near impossible once folk realise it’s here – and they very soon will! Some of those aboard will be terrified and they’ll want to cast off. Then they’ll be angry at you for not doing so. I need you here, Varta, because I want to know that when I get back, there’ll still be a ship here to come back to!”

  “I see all that, Dux, but you must take at least some of us,” replied Varta. “Inga will need to be carried, so you’ll need someone with you and - I simply won’t let you go alone.”

  “I’ll go,” offered Placido, who had been listening close by. “You know me, Dux, I’ll only get bored waiting here; I’d most likely pick a fight with someone and anyway, the dogs could do with a run…”

  “And I suppose I’d better go,” chirped up Cappa, “’cos, to be honest, Dux, you’ve no hope of finding them without me.”

  “Very well,” conceded Ambrosius, turning to Varta. “I’ll take Placido and Cappa. Are you happy now?”

  “Not till I see you coming back with our comrades,” grumbled Varta. “And Dux, best not take too long…”

  29

  November 454, in the morning on the east side of Caracotinum

  Gently easing the corpse of Canis away from her, Inga tried, with the aid of slow, steady breaths, to calm her shattered nerves. If she did not, she was lost. The Franks, perhaps supposing that she was already dead, had moved off without giving her a second glance. For once, her extensive wounds and deathly pallor had served to protect her.

  Steeling herself for the agony to come, she stared up at the street and buildings nearest to her. With no evidence that any members of her escort had survived, she had to assume she was on her own. So, if she wanted to live, it was up to her – just a normal day for a warrior like her, she thought, giving a nervous giggle. Before she knew it, however, a tear was tracing a path through the grime upon her cheeks; then another rolled down, salty at the corner of her mouth. She wept then, an uncontrollable river of tears such as no self-respecting bucellarius had ever cried before.

  When the moment passed, she scrubbed away the tears with an angry swipe of her damaged hand, ashamed at her sudden weakness. But no, she told herself, there was no harm in a few tears – or in her case a whole torrent of them. Because, once the weeping ended, her mind felt clearer, sharper. She had no broken bones, so she knew she could move well enough; only pain was preventing her from getting to her feet and simply walking away. Pain, that was all – and pain could be her friend… prodding her awake and keeping her alert.

  Holding out her hands before her, she began to flex her damaged fingers, slowly at first as the ragged wounds shrieked in protest. Then she gripped the wooden shaft of her bow – her bow now, not Uldar’s – and with each hand in turn, clenched her palm and fingers tight around it. She kept doing it until her hands not only became accustomed to the feel of the sinew and horn, but also the excruciating agony the movement caused her. Then, taking several deep breaths, she planted the bow on the ground, pressed her back against the wall and eased it slowly upwards until she was standing tall.

  Though the torn muscles in her legs implored her to sit back down, Inga did not. Instead, using her bow for balance, she took a step forward, then another. Reassured that she had neither fallen over nor bled to death, she took a few more steps. It hurt but, in a strange way, it felt good. Step by step, she made her way along to the crossroads, passing several other unknown, wounded souls along the way.

  Fleetingly, she wondered what they made of her, this walking dead girl. But it did not deter her, because she was a warrior who had found her courage. Grunting with the effort, she stopped at the corner, averting her gaze from the blood-soaked bodies that lay there. All about her were shabby, derelict buildings – it was a place without hope, she thought. Yet, as long as she could still put one foot in front of the other, she would not surrender her hope.

  When she moved on again into the broader road, she could see several warehouses and, beyond them, the harbour wall, which did much to strengthen her resolve. Though still wary of encountering some of the Franks, she plodded on down the hill, encouraged by the knowledge that the docks were close now. As she passed a side street on her right hand, she came to an abrupt halt, her attention caught by a lone figure limping towards her. Calens!

  Despite her weariness, she cried out and set off along the street to meet him, knowing she had more chance of survival with the Greek physician than without him. Her elation quickly evaporated though when she noticed half a dozen or so Franks coming down the street behind him. Though they did not appear to be pursuing Calens, they would surely reach him before she could – and what would they make of her?

  Seeing her looking behind him, Calens glanced back and at once moved a little faster.

  “Go back, Inga!” he cried. “For God’s sake, go!”

  It made complete sense, of course, for her to leave him and flee. If she did, she would almost certainly reach the docks ahead of the Franks, but what then? For the rest of her days, she would remember how she had deserted Calens. So she did not run, for bucellarii did not leave wounded comrades behind. Instead, she gritted her teeth and forced her aching limbs to work just a little harder. With Calens walking towards her, the distance between them closed rapidly, but the Franks too – perhaps noticing her arrival – were now moving with more haste.

  She had assumed that the Greek was hampered by a leg injury, but as she came nearer she realised that the wound was higher up – in the groin, or the belly. A chill swept over her, with the knowledge that his wound might, after all, be a mortal one. When she reached him, they had only a few moments before the Franks would overtake them.

  “You should have gone, you foolish girl!” Calens rasped at her. “God knows, I’m already dead!”

  “Pah, what do you physicians know?” she replied simply. “But, if you are going to die, Calens, you won’t die alone.”

  “For the love of God, Inga,” he cried, “just go on to the docks… I beg you!”

  Ignoring his protests, she wrapped an arm around him to support some of his weight.

  “Either
we both go,” she declared, “or neither of us do.”,

  By then the Franks had drawn level with them and come to a halt. One man half-drew out his spatha, but another, staring at the wounded pair, shook his head. “They’re almost dead already and they’ve nothing worth taking,” he said. “Leave them; they’re not worthy of your sword.”

  One or two nodded agreement and the rest shrugged their indifference, so the spatha was sheathed and they hurried on without further discussion.

  With a long sigh, Inga remained still, her heart beating so hard she expected it to leap out of her breast at any moment.

  “Any man who doubts there is a God, should have been here,” murmured Calens. “Did you recognise him?”

  “No, should I have?” she asked, helping the Greek to stand.

  Calens managed a weak smile, but winced before replying. “No, perhaps not… I don’t think you ever saw him, but his name is Caranis. It was he that rescued you and Dux from the wolves…”

  “What?” breathed Inga.

  “Yes, my dear Inga,” said the Greek, “you’ve been saved twice - by the same man! Surely God must have some great purpose for you for, as hard as you try to get yourself killed, He just keeps saving you…” He attempted a laugh, but only choked for his pains.

  Though they managed to walk a few more yards, Inga could feel that he was weakening fast and stopped to sit him down by the roadside so that she could examine his wound.

  “You want to play the physician now?” he croaked at her, face paler by the moment. “Well, I can tell you: your patient will die…”

  Probing the still-bleeding wound with her fingers, she explored his belly which was badly torn - too badly torn, she knew.

  “I’ll stay with you,” she told him, gripping his hand in hers.

  “Why?” he murmured. “Are you eager… to watch me die?” His voice was but a hoarse whisper.

  “I won’t leave you…”

  “My death will be long and slow, Inga… and only you can prevent that…”

  “No!” she cried.

  “It’s what bucellarii do, Inga,” said Calens. “It’s what… I’ve done before, for a comrade. It’s quite simple: you need to… go – and I need to die…”