The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  With a glance down at the knife on his belt, which was the only weapon he ever carried, Calens took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Take my knife, girl – and take my bag with you, if you can carry it. There are salves… and…other things…”

  Inga could find no words of solace for the man who had saved her life twice over.

  “Tell me,” he said, “do you know if Canis still lives?”

  “I’m very sorry, Calens,” she whispered, “but he fell beside me…”

  “Ah… I prayed that he escaped; but never mind, if God wills it, I shall see him again before you do... now that I’ve made my peace with God and men...”

  Though she drew out his knife, when she contemplated what he was asking of her, she froze.

  “Just guide my hand,” he told her, “and I’ll show you how…”

  “But…”

  “Grant a dying man’s last wish, eh?” he said, with a glint of humour in his eye even at the last.

  Wrapping her fingers around the hilt along with his, she steered the point to his throat but then he passed out. At first she thought – hoped - he had simply died peacefully, but the slight rise and fall of his chest told a different story and, beneath her hands, she could feel the gentle tremor of his beating heart.

  With a deep breath, she let his fingers fall from the hilt and gripped it more tightly in both her hands. For a moment, all her doubts resurfaced. She had never killed a man… yet, she could not simply let him bleed to death. In a moment of embittered rage, she thrust the blade into his neck and carved it back and forth. It seemed to take forever and her hands stung with the effort but finally blood poured forth - less than she expected but then he must have already lost so much.

  For a while she lay down on top of him, utterly spent, her head filled with a miserable brew of regret and horror. She still had the murder weapon in her hands when she became aware of the tramp of feet. In panic, she sat up and glared back along the street; then she shut her eyes and slumped forward against Calens’ still warm body. If she played dead perhaps these Franks too would pass by, as their fellows had done before. But this time, she reflected, her saviour, Caranis would not be amongst them.

  30

  November 454, near the harbour in Caracotinum

  Passing through a break in the harbour wall, Ambrosius and his two companions moved swiftly towards the eastern quarter of the town. Cappa led the way, avoiding the main streets to thread his way between the warehouses adjacent to the docks. In a town which had descended into chaos, Ambrosius hardly dared to hope that Inga would be safe. He also knew that, even if she had survived thus far, she could have ended up almost anywhere. After the litter and its escort had left Marcellus, how far had it got? To find out that, he must put his trust in the skills of the stocky, taciturn Cappa.

  Stalking alongside the three men were Placido’s two dogs, Ferox and Patricus. Not for the first time in their acquaintance, Ambrosius was relieved to have the belligerent animals on his side, for everywhere lay evidence of slaughter and pillage.

  “This is the end of the road they should have taken to the docks,” explained Cappa, pointing up the street.

  “I used to know this area well,” murmured Ambrosius. “It’s straightforward enough, so what went wrong? Most of the Franks should have been well behind them.”

  “Except the Franks that Onno mentioned,” said Cappa, “the ones who came over the south wall before dawn. I suspect those are the ones that caused problems for our friends.”

  “Calens and the escort could have walked right into them,” said Ambrosius.

  “That’d be my guess, Dux,” agreed Cappa.

  “Come on then,” said Ambrosius, “let’s see if we can see where it happened, but keep sharp! Cappa, you concentrate on finding the litter – Placido, eyes everywhere - especially at our backs!”

  Turning to the two dogs, Placido said: “Shield!” and at once the pair separated to flank his comrades.

  No longer were they slipping unnoticed by privy alleys; now they were searching in plain sight. What Ambrosius noticed first – indeed, could not help but notice – were the dead. Corpses lay everywhere: beside the road, in doorways, slumped over shop tables… everywhere. Still confounded by the excesses of his Frank allies, he could not imagine how his adopted father, Clodoris, had allowed matters to get so far out of control.

  Half-way down the street, they found the first member of the escort – a fellow Ambrosius remembered well – at least by sight, though he could not recall the soldier’s name. How many nameless men had followed him from Verona and would never leave Caracotinum, he wondered?

  “Dux!” Cappa was already moving on and had found something else. At the sight of it, Ambrosius found himself trembling – an unfamiliar sensation, though one which he had observed often enough in others. He could not remember the last time he had known genuine fear, but he knew it when he saw the blood-stained remains of the frame that had served as Inga’s litter. At the mere sight of it, he recalled the light touch of her hand - the simple gesture which had conveyed so much between them.

  A snarl from Ferox behind him brought Ambrosius back to the present with a jolt, as a couple of young Franks appeared from nowhere and ran at them screaming: “Death to all Romans!”

  In one furious movement, Ambrosius swung around, drawing out his spatha as one of the Franks launched himself to attack. Even when the weapon lunged into the man, his momentum carried him forward impaling him further until his wild-eyed face was only inches from Ambrosius.

  Glaring at the dying youth, whose thin moustache dripped with blood and spittle, he yelled: “Death to all Romans, you fool? Your people have lived like Romans since the day you were born – as did your forefathers!”

  With a savage twist he wrenched out the spatha to let his assailant fall at his feet. Fuelled by wine the youth might have been - no doubt liberated from some poor inn, or shop – but the mindless assault served only to darken Ambrosius’ mood further. Too slow to meet the attack of the other Frank, he was only saved by the fearless Ferox. Clamping his mighty jaws around the assailant’s leg, the dog dragged him to the ground, where Placido buried a spear in his breast. After a hasty glance around, lest others were close by, Placido slapped Ferox on the flank in congratulation.

  Meanwhile, Ambrosius, still distracted by his glimpse of Inga’s smashed up litter, began to dread what dark deeds he might be capable of, if he discovered that she had been killed. When Cappa moved slowly on, examining the roadway and the houses they passed, Ambrosius trudged after him, motioning Placido to hang back a little further. Only a few yards on, Cappa stopped once more and turned left into a side street. Despite all that he had already witnessed, even Ambrosius was shocked at what he saw next.

  A carpet of bodies clothed the cobbled street and even the most casual observer could see that both Franks and Romans lay there. Here, the escort must have been attacked and, as far as he could tell, all had been killed. A close scrutiny revealed that his men had not sold their lives cheaply, for the majority of the dead were Franks. After each one of their fallen comrades was examined, Ambrosius reckoned that the number was about right, though he was relieved to find that Calens, Canis and Inga were not among the dead.

  “She sat here, I think,” said Cappa, indicating a short length of wall. “Well, someone, I suppose, sat here. See, where there’s a smear of blood on the stone…”

  “By God, man - that could be anyone’s blood!” retorted Ambrosius.

  “Perhaps,” conceded Cappa, “but not any of those lying in the road, eh?

  Amid his bleak despair, Ambrosius grasped at the faint ray of hope offered by his comrade. Those few words from the grubby son of Rome rekindled Ambrosius’ fragile hopes. “Where then?” he demanded. “Where did they go next?”

  “This way - don’t you think?” said Cappa, pointing at a soiled linen bandage by the roadside, “Because that is most certainly Inga’s.”

  Ambrosius kn
elt to retrieve it, as if it were some precious necklace fashioned of gold Further along the street, he recovered another similar relic of Inga’s passing; blood-blackened and filthy though it was; it was now all he had of her.

  It was many years since he had been to this quarter of the town, where once he had communed with other disaffected youths. It was where he had first met Varta and come up with the notion of fleeing the town to live outside it amongst his people. Then this place had been a familiar retreat; it did not seem so safe now.

  “There’s nothing here,” he murmured.

  Yet Cappa seemed undaunted. “You give up too easily, Dux,” he said. “We’re doing well; we just need to pick up her trail again, that’s all.”

  But Ambrosius, fearing that time was running too short, did not share Cappa’s optimism. The longer their search lasted, the more his ship would be at risk; even a handful of desperate men could overwhelm and capture such a small vessel.

  When Cappa led them back to the broader street once more, it only invited further despair. A small clutch of local men and women, their grey faces etched with misery, studied the three Romans. Though he and his comrades might appear Roman, he could well understand that few would trust them. When the citizens heard the distant roar of Frank celebration, they slunk away into several of the nearby, shattered houses. He too had heard the Franks, and exchanged a warning glance with Placido as Cappa foraged ahead again.

  Where a small street crossed the main road, Cappa stopped and touched the road. “Someone was badly wounded here – not too long ago – an hour perhaps?”

  “This is madness, Dux,” grumbled Placido. “We’re clutching at straws! ‘Someone’ was wounded, Cappa? By Christ, half the damn town’s been wounded!”

  Pointing up the side street, Placido indicated a baying crowd at the far end – no more than a hundred paces from them.

  “Sooner or later, Dux,” he warned, “some of those bastards are going to notice us…”

  But Ambrosius, also staring up the street, did not hear him. Open–mouthed, he could not draw his eyes from a figure crouched at the side of the street midway between him and the Franks. While he watched, the woman turned around to stare behind her at the oncoming horde and then slumped back down again. Desperate to cry out to her, his lips shaped the words but his stone-dry mouth refused to utter them. Instead, he reached out to Placido, gripped his arm and stabbed a finger along the street. Then he was moving, spatha sliding out of its scabbard as he ran.

  “Ferox!” gasped Placido, “Guard Inga!” and the great dog leapt forward, racing past Ambrosius, towards the girl.

  Whether his boots on the cobbles alerted her, or perhaps the sound of the dog, for whatever reason, she looked up. Crying out, she scrambled unsteadily to her feet and began to hobble towards him. Willing her to move faster, he heard a sudden, single cry from the midst the Franks and they broke into a run.

  She was still ten yards from him when spears began to fly – hurled wildly in anger, but still a mortal danger. Ferox, unable to protect the girl from the missiles, stood, snarling at the oncoming Franks. The instant Ambrosius reached her; he scooped her up to carry her back to his two waiting comrades. A spear flew past him and another skidded along the cobbles beside him, followed swiftly by a growling Ferox. Run straight, he told himself. Run straight and let God scatter their spears!

  Against his chest, he felt her pounding heart, and her hot tears burned his neck. Perhaps God was protecting him, for he was not struck down and, accompanied by the tireless Ferox, reached the broad street without injury. Nevertheless, the Franks were almost upon them.

  “We won’t make it!” he told the others, coming to an abrupt halt. “Take Inga to the ship!” Passing her into Placido’s arms, he kissed her hair and turned to face the Franks.

  “Dux!” cried Cappa. “Don’t be a fool! We’ll take our chances together - as always!”

  “Go! If I can talk to Clodoris, I have a chance – but with you two there, they’ll just see Rome. Now get her to the ship!” he railed. “Both of you - and take the dogs with you!”

  “No!” protested Inga, but Placido must have known that the slightest hesitation would get them all killed, so he set off at a run with Cappa.

  Ambrosius’ last glimpse of Inga was of her struggling and shrieking at him like a wild woman. Yet, as he waited for the Franks to reach him, he smiled at the thought: for, at times, she was indeed a wild woman. But, as he stood there, for the first time that day, strangely, he felt at peace.

  31

  November 454 at midday, on the ship in Caracotinum Harbour

  While Lucidia attempted to bind up his wounds, Marcellus was lying on the ship’s open deck, listening with growing concern to the argument among his comrades.

  “All I’m saying, Varta,” said Stavelus, “is that we should pull away from the dock – just a short way, that’s all.”

  “This ship is not leaving that dock before Dux returns,” declared Varta.

  “We all want Dux to come back!” Stavelus assured the Frank. “Of course we do! We didn’t follow him all the way here, just to abandon him, did we?”

  “Good,” said Varta, “then we’re agreed.”

  “But… loyal though we all are to Dux,” argued Stavelus, “let’s not forget that he never told us to expect this whole shit storm we’re in, did he? I mean, scutarii – we knew they’d come, but the further we got from Rome, the less we expected to be fighting for our lives – never mind being carved about by a host of Franks!”

  “We’re all soldiers,” said Rocca, “What else is there for a soldier but fighting?”

  “We don’t all live in the hope of getting a praiseworthy death, Rocca,” said Stavelus, his expression stern. “Some of us sort of intended to live a bit longer - we’re not all damned, gladiatorial slaves!”

  Rocca, though slow to anger, would be difficult to restrain, thought Marcellus, if the argument continued much longer. What worried him most was that Stavelus had the backing of many of the score or so rank and file soldiers who had survived this far. Though Varta, Rocca and the others could most likely crush any troublemakers, the last thing Dux would want to find when he did return was a bloodbath among his own men. Stavelus was a good, reliable soldier, but he was also very fond of his own voice. It sounded as if he was warming a little too much to the role of self-appointed spokesman for the ordinary soldier – with whom, it had to be said, Dux’s bucellarii had very little in common.

  The men who, like Stavelus, had given their oaths to Ambrosius in Leucerae, were used to routine soldiering and – even in these times of barbarian raids across the empire – such men expected to fight, for the most part, behind stone walls. They hoped to survive their service where, by contrast, the bucellarii always expected to face yet another impossible challenge, knowing that survival was a luxury they were unlikely ever to experience. These two groups of men had utterly different outlooks on life and, so far, they were only bonded together by their loyalty to Ambrosius. How much further, Marcellus wondered, would that loyalty stretch?

  “Just remember,” continued Stavelus, glowering at Varta now, “that quite a few of our lads were hacked down by those treacherous Franks that Dux promised us were our allies!”

  “Hah, well perhaps if they were better fighters,” grumbled Rocca, “they’d still be alive.”

  “Do you want to see who the better fighters are then?” cried Stavelus, incensed. “Is that what you want, Rocca?”

  Realising it was all getting out of hand, Marcellus eased Lucidia aside and scrambled up onto his knees.

  “Stay down,” warned Lucidia. “You’re too weak to even stand!”

  Ignoring her, Marcellus staggered to his feet and sucked in a deep breath which hurt like hell and made him feel a little faint. Nonetheless, he was determined - despite any reservations he might have of his own – that he would keep the ship’s company intact until Ambrosius returned.

  “Listen!” he shouted. “All of you! Hear me!”
Satisfied that he could still command silence, he continued: “We’ve journeyed this far together and faced death many times. We’ve protected each other against all threats; and now, when our unity really counts, we must not give in to fear and bickering like children!”

  “We hear you, Marco,” replied Stavelus, “truly we do, but look along the wharf. You can see them gathering there, whipping themselves into a frenzy, egging each other on to have a crack at us. Some know who we are and they fear us; but soon their desperation will overcome all their fears… and, if we stay yoked to that jetty, they’ll kill us all and take this ship. But, if we stand off the dock a little, they can’t reach us, can they? And the ship will still be here for Dux – and for all of us as well…”

  “How far, Stavelus?” demanded Varta. “How far off do we wait? An arm’s length - or a spear’s length? Or should we stay even further out, to guard against spears and axes thrown at us? How far?”

  “Well, what you said last sounds about right,” said Stavelus.

  “A spear throw then?” asked Varta.

  “Yes, probably.”

  “And how far is that exactly, Stavelus? I’ll tell you: it’s too sodding far! Because, unless we are right next to that dock, Dux and the others will never make it aboard! Never!”

  Stavelus turned away in disgust. “Well, we could have left ages ago, couldn’t we, if Dux hadn’t gone off to rescue his damned whore!”

  There was uproar across the ship at that remark, with supporters of Stavelus echoing his words, while the bucellarii shouted abuse and rested their hands on their sword hilts.

  “Peace!” shouted Marcellus, though the effort almost killed him.

  To his relief, it seemed that most men were still prepared to respect his authority and at least hear what else he had to say. He must find the words to bind these men together, but he was not Ambrosius and it did not come naturally to him.

  “My friends,” he began.

  When the spear took him full in the chest, Marcellus could only stare down at the blood spilling down his torso, until the strength vanished from his legs and he toppled over into the water.