by Derek Birks
32
November 454 in the early afternoon, in Caracotinum
It was Childeric, not Clodoris, who led the formidable-looking Franks advancing upon Ambrosius. The young chieftain did not stop until he was face to face with Ambrosius, scarcely a yard away.
“You look lonely, Roman,” he said, with a grin. “Have even your friends deserted you now?”
“I thought you and I should have a few words,” replied Ambrosius, “or perhaps I should talk to the man in charge?”
Childeric curled his lip in a disdainful smile. “That’s just it, Roman; you are talking to the man in charge…”
“I meant Clodoris…”
Childeric gave a little nod. “Ah, Clodoris – well, you can speak to him, if you wish… but he’ll not hear you… for alas, he met with a sudden accident….”
In a breath, everything had changed; Ambrosius, though rocked to the core, refused to reveal his despair and said only: “When?”
“Very early this morning,” replied Childeric. “So, of course, someone had to take charge… and since I was already chosen to lead the dawn attack… the choice for my people was not a difficult one...”
Fuming with impotent rage, Ambrosius fought to control himself, knowing that Childeric was only too eager to bait him into some rash response.
“Very well,” said Ambrosius, “but that’s between you and your folk, not me. I’ve honoured our agreement and now I intend to go, leaving the town in your hands. Do you have any problem with that?”
“With you leaving?” said Childeric. “No, none at all.”
“Very good then,” agreed Ambrosius, relieved and surprised in equal measure.
“But…” began Childeric.
There it was: a condition… “But what?” asked Ambrosius, still seething inside.
“You may take with you only your family and your bucellarii – your sworn men. So, no Roman guards, or townspeople…or anyone else…”
“There are only a handful of others with me,” replied Ambrosius.
“Even so, they must be surrendered to the new Frank authorities.”
“What Frank authorities?” scoffed Ambrosius. “You’ve only been here a few hours!”
“Do you agree, or not?” persisted Childeric.
“Very well,” said Ambrosius, deciding to put Childeric to the test. “I agree.”
He had no intention of handing anyone over to Childeric and was not surprised when the young Frank looked rather put out by his prompt agreement. As Ambrosius feared, behind the youth’s eyes, a darker purpose lurked.
“And the girl,” said Childeric abruptly.
“Which girl?”
“The one you just picked up and carried off.” Childeric ground out the words. “That girl!”
“What about her?”
“She stays too.”
“No,” said Ambrosius. “She’s one of us – bucellarii.”
Childeric laughed at that assertion. “No, she’s not! She’s not even Roman. She’s just your whore! So, if you want safe passage for you and your men, you’ll have to give your whore up to me!”
Struggling to restrain himself, Ambrosius took a pace forward.
“What are you going to do?” asked Childeric. “Fight us all for her?”
This prompted an outbreak of mirth from many of Childeric’s followers close by, but when Ambrosius took another step, Childeric’s hand went to his sword hilt. Raising his arms clear of his belt, Ambrosius showed his hands were empty of any weapon and the Frank relaxed a little.
“Come on, ‘Dux’,” goaded Childeric. “She’s just a girl; surely a man of your talents can find another one he likes?”
Extending his right hand out to Childeric, Ambrosius said: “You know, when I first met you, I really didn’t like you at all…”
Childeric nodded, clasping the outstretched hand. “Oh, believe me, I felt the same, Dux...”
“It’s always as well to trust that first… feeling in the gut, isn’t it?” murmured Ambrosius, as he wrenched the Frank’s arm up behind his back and, from nowhere, swept a knife to his neck.
“Move and I’ll kill you!” he announced loudly, more for the benefit of the others than Childeric. He wanted all the Franks left in no doubt what would happen to their new leader, if they tried to rush him.
“They’ll butcher you,” said Childeric, with a sigh, “and whatever you do now to me - or don’t do – neither you, nor any of your people, will ever leave this town...”
“The thing is, my young friend,” breathed Ambrosius, “I’m ready to accept death – God knows I’ve escaped it enough times, so I reckon I already owe death. But how about you, are you ready to be ‘butchered’, boy, on the point of my blade? Why, you scarcely have any hairs on your face yet...”
Several of the warriors edged forward.
“Hold!” Childeric shouted at them.
“And I’ve spoken to a few of the other Franks about you,” continued Ambrosius, holding his prisoner tight against the knife, the sharp blade pressed to his neck. “And they tell me that there are several husbands who wouldn’t be at all sorry to see your throat cut here, right now. That devil’s hunger you have inside you, boy, that desire to know every woman, it’ll be the death of you. It’s up to you though whether that’s going to be today… or not.”
“What do you want?” snarled Childeric.
“Just to leave, in peace, that’s all. Just to leave… Now, you and I are going to take a little walk down to the docks and we’re going to leave all your men behind us.”
Raising his voice, he told the restless Franks: “If any man follows us, or appears ahead of us, I’ll cut your leader – and every time I even see a man even close, I’ll cut him again.”
One of the warriors stepped forward.
“One more thing,” added Ambrosius, “I don’t make idle threats…”
Scoring the knife along Childeric’s jawline, he felt his captive tense from the wound. Then he began to back away, with Childeric still locked in his tight embrace, relieved that the Franks remained where they were.
“I was never very good at walking backwards,” complained Childeric.
“You stumble once and I promise you, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground!”
But despite the confidence he tried to show, Ambrosius knew that it was a very long walk to the ship. If he made just one mistake, he had no doubt that Childeric would seize upon it. When they reached the broad street that led down to the harbour, Ambrosius pushed the young warrior ahead of him so that they could move faster, while darting regular glances behind him to ensure that no Franks were following.
“Is there an itch in your back, Roman?” asked Childeric. “Because that’s where a spear will strike before you reach your ship.”
By now, Ambrosius expected that Placido and Cappa would have conveyed Inga to the ship and that knowledge alone gave him the strength and the determination to ensure that he might join them. Though it seemed to take forever, he knew he must keep his concentration. Despite the chill winter wind, both he and Childeric were sweating as both men focused upon the arm hold which was all that locked them together. It was Ambrosius who had everything to lose, for the Frank would be waiting for the slightest hint that his grip was weakening.
So slow was their progress that every moment Ambrosius feared the street would be flooded by Franks. Yet no Franks appeared – so it seemed that young Childeric’s word carried some genuine power. Though he was gasping for breath and his chest felt tight with the sustained effort, he knew that Childeric too would be feeling the intense pressure of their close proximity. All the same, he was almost there: only one large warehouse and the harbour wall stood between them and the docks.
“Well, well, it must be true what they say: someday, every man’s prayers will be answered.”
The familiar drawl came as a body blow, not simply because Puglio was there, but because he was not alone. They must have been waiting behind the warehouse, perha
ps observing his slow progress towards them with considerable amusement. Now they stood no more than twenty yards away, blocking his way to the docks.
“I take it these fellows are not your allies?” choked out Childeric.
Ambrosius did not reply.
“Release me and I’ll help you against them,” said Childeric.
“Now, why would you do that?” asked Ambrosius, watching Puglio and his comrades spread out to surround him.
“Because they’ll kill me as well,” gasped Childeric. “Anyway, you can’t fight them all and hold me too, so what choice do you have?”
“Oh, I do have a choice,” said Ambrosius. “I can just kill you now.”
“A risk though, eh?” said Childeric. “And what would you gain by killing me?”
“I’d prevent you stabbing me in the back!”
“True enough, I might do that,” conceded the Frank, “but not before we’ve hacked down these three…”
As Puglio took a step towards the pair, Ambrosius could see no other way out. And, if it came to it, what did it matter whether it was the Frank or the Roman who was the instrument of his death? Childeric was right: he had to release him to defend himself against Puglio. The scutarii had chosen their killing ground well, for none of them could be seen from Ambrosius’ waiting ship. Thus, his own comrades would not even know what was happening.
“What’s with that shit pile you’re holding, Dux?” enquired Puglio. “For Christ’s sake, save me another task and cut the young bastard’s throat, will you?”
When he released his grip on the Frank, Ambrosius took a swift pace away – just in case.
With a wolf-like grin, Childeric swept out his spatha and swivelled to face the Romans.
“Oh, like that, is it?” scorned Puglio. “All friends now, are you? But then I hear you’re a bit of a Frank yourself, Dux. True blood will out, eh?”
“Your blood, true or not, will very soon be pouring out, tribune,” growled Ambrosius.
“Enough jawing,” said Puglio and, as if perhaps by some prearranged agreement, he made straight for Ambrosius while his two comrades combined to attack Childeric.
Ignoring the young Frank now, Ambrosius concentrated all his attention upon Puglio, for the tribune came with a formidable reputation. Worse still, at that moment, they were ill-matched for Puglio wore not only a helmet, but also a breast plate and a few other assorted bits of armour – all of which Ambrosius lacked. And, of course, the tribune carried a shield - a considerable edge for a fighter who, like Puglio, relied very much upon brute strength.
Wasting no time, the imperial officer launched himself at Ambrosius, battering his spatha at head and shoulders. Using both knife and sword, Ambrosius deflected every blow except one, which scraped across his scalp like a razor. He really should find a helmet again; his months in Ardelica had truly made him only half a soldier.
Content to allow his opponent to retain the initiative for the time being, he backed away, getting closer to the harbour with every step. A glance across at his temporary ally told him that the clever Childeric was also retreating - but in the other direction. There was every chance that when he got closer to his own men, they would see his predicament. But Childeric’s gambit also helped Ambrosius, for Puglio was being drawn further from his two comrades and he knew it.
“You’re going to have to kill me before I get to that harbour wall,” taunted Ambrosius, “because, after that, my men will swarm all over you.”
“I think you’ll find that your men are a little too busy just now,” replied Puglio, with a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “Last time I looked, they had one or two… troubles of their own.”
That was all too likely, Ambrosius had to concede, but still he backed away, for the closer he was to the ship, the better his chances of survival. Perhaps Puglio recognised that too, for he launched another brutal assault with his spatha and for good measure swung his shield hard at Ambrosius. Slamming into his left shoulder, the rim of the shield bit into his flesh. Numbed fingers let fall his knife, but he managed to carve his spatha across the wrist that bore the shield. Knowing that he had hurt the tribune badly did not alter the fact that his own left arm was hanging limp at his side. So again, it suited him to retreat a little further and draw the tribune on.
Though forced to discard his shield, Puglio was no less dangerous. His wrist might be dripping blood, but it would only prove a telling wound if Ambrosius could stay alive long enough to take advantage of it. Each man now fought with one arm and Ambrosius’ left was little use even for maintaining balance.
His attention was focused solely upon his opponent’s eyes for the eyes would tell him more about his adversary’s intention than anything else. Puglio darted to his left in a clever attempt to stop Ambrosius from slipping away to the harbour wall. When tribune then renewed his assault upon Ambrosius’ head and body, just blocking each of the heavy blows was exhausting him. Survival was his first objective, so he swayed and parried without any thought of a riposte. Even when he turned aside the tribune’s blade, he was still sometimes cut and soon the tribune was not the only one losing a steady trickle of blood.
Again and again they went to it, sinews straining as their sweat-soaked bodies were pushed beyond all endurance. Like two tired wrestlers who only knew one manoeuvre, they seemed doomed to replay their bout over and over again. Yet surely one man’s patience or concentration would break soon.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ambrosius saw that Childeric had cut down one of the two scutarii but was limping heavily as he tried to fend off his remaining assailant. All the while though, the young Frank was retreating towards the crossroads where he knew that scores of his comrades would finally be able to see him. Time was thus not on Ambrosius’ side for, at any moment, a host of Franks could descend upon the two Romans – and when they did, he knew it would be a bloody end for them both.
Though Puglio redoubled his efforts to pound Ambrosius into submission, his eyes began to betray his own doubts and therein, for the first time, Ambrosius detected a trace of fear. Seizing the moment, Ambrosius flew at him, aiming to distract him with a wild slash so that he could slip past and make his way to the harbour wall. Before the tribune could come at him again, he was rewarded with a glimpse of the waiting ship. It was certainly still at the jetty, but what he saw filled him with horror.
Far from getting any assistance from his comrades, he wondered whether he would ever see them again for the ship was rocking and dipping beside the dock under the relentless assault of a large crowd. Next moment, Puglio attacked again. Damn the man! Did he never tire? Any normal man would have bled to death by now! Just for an instant, Ambrosius was forced to admire the tribune’s dogged determination to carry out the imperial orders – for what did the emperor’s orders matter now, here in this graveyard of Roman power?
“Give it up, Puglio!” he cried. “For God’s sake, give it up!”
Narrowly dodging another swingeing slash at his chest, Ambrosius tried persuasion once again: “You’ve more than done your duty, man - what does it matter to you whether you take that fool of an emperor my head, or not?”
For the first time Puglio laughed out loud, which was as unnerving as it was surprising.
“You think I care this much about the emperor? Anyway, it was Petronius Maximus who sent me to kill you, not the emperor!”
“Aye, and paid you a fortune in gold for it, I dare say!” snarled Ambrosius, knocking aside a sudden lunge at his belly.
“Oh, he did, Dux, but I’d have done it for nothing,” admitted Puglio.
“Did I offend you, tribune?” asked Ambrosius, snatching a few short breaths while he could.
“Offend me?” said Puglio. “Your very existence - your rank and position - offend me, Dux, because they should have been mine!”
Attacking again, he carved his weapon at Ambrosius, as he hurled more bitter words.
“I was Aetius’ man too, you know - poised for great things under his protectio
n! But then along came a sullen, arrogant youth!”
Puglio’s spatha rang against his and the street echoed with the clash of their weapons. “A half-Roman and half–Frank mongrel who was just a butcher of men,” continued the tribune. “Every man sent against him, the youth despatched and then – God help us - he saved Aetius’ life! And, in that one fortunate moment, that youth stole the glittering future I had earned – earned! So, you see, Dux, no amount of gold was needed at all…”
From behind them, where Childeric was still scrapping gamely, came a rumble of sound. Puglio and Ambrosius exchanged a glance, knowing what it meant. It was the sound of the roaring voices and pounding boots of Childeric’s Franks; and very soon, the outcome of their struggle would no longer be in their own hands.
If Ambrosius hoped that Puglio’s relentless assault had exhausted him, he was wrong because the tribune kept on coming. Trying to adjust his footing, ready to meet the next onslaught, Ambrosius slipped sideways and, quick as an eel, Puglio seized his chance. Crashing blow after blow at him, Puglio bludgeoned him to the ground and it was all Ambrosius could do to meet every lunge and cut. And, of course, he could not do so forever; with a final, mighty swing of his weapon, Puglio knocked the spatha from Ambrosius’ grasp.
“Oh, how I’d like to savour this moment, Dux,” he groaned, “and make it as painfully slow as possible; but sadly, as you know… I can’t stay long...”
A tumult of cries informed them both that the Franks had rescued their leader, Soon they would be there, but too late for Ambrosius - not that Childeric had any intention of sparing him in any case.
Utterly spent, Ambrosius could not move. “Get on with it then, old man!” he urged, for what was a soldier’s lot, but death?
With an exultant roar, Puglio lifted his sword up to punch it through his fallen opponent’s chest. As the tribune’s sword plunged down at him, all Ambrosius saw was a sliver of steel slicing through a beam of sunlight.
33
Having embraced death so completely, it was a shock for Ambrosius to discover that he was still alive – but how could Puglio have contrived to miss his aim? After another moment, a raging pain in his side told Ambrosius that the tribune had not missed – at least not completely. The imperial spatha had torn through his flesh to leave a wound which, though it hurt more than a wolf’s bite, was not, he decided, a mortal one.