All day we fought; the men retiring in little groups back to the camp, to squat, exhausted on the ground and eat a hot mess of crumbled biscuit, chopped up veal and beans, with trembling fingers; and swallow wine with mouths dry with fear.
In his second charge, Quintus lost, in two minutes, three tribunes, four decurions, fifty-seven men and thirty-nine horses. And with each charge that followed, our losses grew heavier and heavier. The cavalry, backed by Fredegar’s Franks, held the wings; and the cohorts, and the auxiliaries, held the centre. We tried to save arrows and missiles as much as possible, and volunteers would rush out during a lull to snatch the arrows from the dead, as well as the spears that littered the ground beyond the palisade, like timber in a builder’s yard. They were the only weapons that broke up the terrible rushes of maddened, angry men, who stormed the ditches, now choked and full, climbing the bodies of their own dead, as they had done at Moguntiacum, to reach us behind our thin fence. And, at the end of each fresh assault, I would ride along the crooked rank of dark faced men, black with dirt and sweat, who leaned, panting, upon their swords or their spears, and do my best to encourage them with a smile and a jest. But each time I did so the lines of men in Roman helmets grew thinner, until there were few reserves left, except those who were wounded.
My right shoulder was stiff and painful from the arrow wound, and I could only lift the arm with difficulty. My left shoulder was damaged, too, but I knew that when the time came I should have to use my sword left-handed. I was of little use as a fighting man now. I walked back along the palisade, and stumbled over a bundle of fur huddled in the snow. I turned it over, mechanically, and looked at the blind, still face. It was Fredbal. He had had his wish, and he was happy now. He was not alone any more.
Outside the signal tower I found Agilio, sitting exhausted upon the steps. He was so tired he did not even look up as I passed him. I climbed the ladder, it was the tenth time that day, and went out on to the platform. I turned and looked back towards the west, in the hope of seeing signs that the relief forces from Gaul were on their way. But nothing moved in that vast and desolate waste of snow. It was empty of human beings and of hope. I descended the ladder and sat down on a bench, my sword unbuckled, and took the bowl of food that my orderly offered me. Quintus came in then, rubbing the snow from off his shoulders. He looked exhausted, and the stubble of his beard was white, like my own. We did not speak until we had eaten and drunk. He said, tiredly, “Flavius is dead. He went with me on my last charge. When we got back to camp he was still on his horse, with four arrows in him. He was always a good rider.”
I nodded. I felt very tired. I said, “I wanted so much to see Rome. My father once told me how he had stood in the Curia, the senate house down in the Forum, watching the senators offering incense to the figure of Victory before they went to their meeting. It stood on a pedestal at the end of the chamber, opposite the entrance, but it has gone now, like all the best things in our world. I wanted to see that, too.”
He said, “Oh, Maximus,” and touched my arm.
They came again and the fighting was as before. During a pause in the battle, while they prepared for yet another assault with ladders and planks, I walked down to the southern end of our defences to where Artorius stood, surrounded by his handful of battered gladiators and freed slaves. He held his sword as though it belonged to him now, and he grinned and saluted me as I came up.
“Artorius.”
“Sir.”
I took him by the shoulder and spoke quietly, “Where are those reinforcements that you promised us? Where is the Army of Gaul? The advance guard should have been here by now. Tell me.”
He said simply, “I don’t know.”
I held him close. I said, “It was a lie, wasn’t it? It was a lie to keep up morale? All lies?”
“Yes,” he said. He stuck his sword into the ground and rubbed his hands. They were covered with chilblains and he had difficulty in moving his fingers. He said, “We asked for help, and when the message came that there would be no help, we thought it best to pretend that everything would be all right. It is an old merchant’s trick, of course.” He spoke quietly and with confidence. Whatever else he was—he was not frightened any more.
I said, “You did right. You should have been on my staff.”
A trooper came up, dragging his right foot upon the ground. He said, “General Veronius sent me. If you do not need your horse, sir, could I have it? We are short of mounts.”
I nodded. “Take it. I do not need a horse now.”
He saluted his thanks, swung himself awkwardly into the saddle and disappeared in a flurry of snow.
I called out then, for Aquila. “Tell my bodyguard to join General Veronius. He has need of all the horsemen he can get.”
He looked shocked. “But, sir—”
I clapped him on the back. “You and I, Aquila, will walk out of this world on our feet. It is just as easy.”
And then, during another lull when the sun, low behind us, was in their eyes, came the moment that I had dreaded all day.
Aquila came up to me and said, “We are nearly out of missiles. What do we do when they attack us again?”
Fredegar, gulping wine, rinsed his mouth and spat. “None of my archers has arrows left. What do I do next when they come round on the flanks?”
I walked down the line, pausing to ask each man a question. No-one smiled now. They held out their hands and showed me their weapons, and that was all. Fabianus said, “The ballistae are now useless, like my horse.” He began to make patterns in the snow with the point of his sword. He knew, as I did, that he would never see the daughter of Rando again, but he did not speak of it. His life’s span was now little more than the length of his sword; but he was worth more to me dead, than to her living, though I did not tell him so.
I said nothing, but shut my eyes to avoid the sight of his young face.
Quintus walked up to me, limping heavily, his horse following with lowered head. He had changed horses four times this day, and the present beast was a bay with a white star on his forehead.
He said, bleakly, “I can mount four hundred men. That is all. What are the orders, O my general?”
I opened my eyes. The sun was just above the hills and the short day would soon be ended. “Where is Julius Optatus? Hurry.”
“Sir.” He came up to me, still the same stocky, cheerful man, slow in the uptake but careful in his accounts, whom I had first met, so long ago, in Segontium in the west. I owed him so much for his efforts to keep us supplied with everything that we needed; but I did not tell him so. He would only have been embarrassed. I said, “What have we left?”
He held out his hands. “Nothing, sir. I have issued every last weapon and missile in the camp.” His deep voice cracked for a moment. “I am a quartermaster without any stores. Friend Aquila at least still has some men.” He was almost crying with rage and frustration.
“Never mind. Bring everyone up from the camp who can walk, and put them into the firing line. Yourself included.”
“Couldn’t we hold the camp, sir?”
I shook my head. “Not enough men. Did you send out all the walking wounded?”
“Yes, sir. All who can’t fight, but who can walk, have been going out all day.” He grinned savagely. He said, “You can see their bodies marking the road to Treverorum.”
I turned away and looked up at the signal tower. That at least, was still standing; one thing that I had built was still standing; but not for long. Everything that I had built was crumbling to pieces in the wet snow.
I raised my arm. Agilio, Scudilio and the other commanders moved towards me, expectantly. In the distance I could see Artorius coming at a painful run, his right arm, wrapped in a rag, held close to his side. They stood around me in a half circle. Perhaps they were hoping for a miracle; I do not know; but their faces were quiet and relaxed as I spoke to them. They knew and were prepared.
I said, “There are no orders now. We stand here until we
die.”
The wind blew the top off the ground snow, and I heard a faint sound and saw a flight of swans, skimming above the trees on their way to the Mosella, which we should not see again.
Quintus spoke to my orderly. “Fetch a bowl of wine and bring it to the left flank. Quickly now.” He took his helmet from his arm and set it carefully upon his head. As he buckled the straps under his chin I noticed that his hands were quite steady. He said, “Give me all your men, Fabianus. They are massing again. When they come close I shall ride out at the head of my ala and try to break them up a little.”
Fabianus said, “No, it is not worth it.”
Quintus smiled. “You are so very wrong,” he said. “It has all been worth it. Do not ever think otherwise.” He looked round us in turn, giving each man a smile and a nod. When he turned to me, I said, “I will come with you.” Fabianus moved forward, but Aquila held him by the arm.
I walked with Quintus to the left flank and watched him give his orders. His men mounted and formed up. They looked very calm and determined. They were very young, most of them only boys.
“Well?”
He turned and we tried to smile. “I did my best to be Maharbal,” he said.
“I know. And I to be Hannibal.”
He gripped my arm and I his, and then he mounted his horse. He took the standard with its red banner and its silver eagle, that Stilicho had given him, and settled it comfortably in his shield hand. “This time, I carry it,” he said. “It is my right.”
I nodded. The orderly came up and I took the cups of wine. I handed one to Quintus, and we looked at each other, and then we drank.
He said hoarsely, “It was better to do this than grow fat and rot upon the Wall.”
“I have always thought so.”
“Maximus.”
“Yes.”
“I never laughed.”
“I know,” I said. “Go now, my dear friend, in the name of Mithras, and may the fates be kind.”
“And to you, also, my general. In the name of Mithras.” He threw the wine cup on to the snow; and then saluted, and rode off.
I returned to my post. The plain was dark with the great hordes of moving men. They stretched out to the woods on either side, and I knew that nothing would stop them. The aquilifer fetched the Eagle, and a wounded man brought a brazier glowing, white hot with our fire, and stood it by the signal tower.
“When they reach the palisade, take the Eagle from its standard and do what has to be done,” I said.
“Upon my life,” he replied.
Artorius came up to me, his face working. He was shivering like a dog. He said, and his voice was curiously calm, “This is the end for all of us.”
I nodded.
He said, “I wanted so much for my family. Not this.” He gestured with a shaking hand.
I said, “You are a brave man, Artorius. I have known men less frightened who would have run from the field long since.”
He said, “You make it all sound so easy.”
“It is very easy. I promise you that.”
He nodded and stumbled away, back to his waiting men.
They came nearer and nearer, and then a trumpet sounded, and Quintus Veronius, former commander of the Ala Petriana, and now Master of Horse in the Province of Upper Germany, raised his sword high, so that the blade glinted in the dying sun, and led his cavalry out across the snow on their last charge.
The charge went home: the mass broke up, and the horsemen disappeared into a tumultuous, sea of men. I saw the bright helmets vanish, one by one; watched rigidly as the standard dipped suddenly, as though the Eagle dived in flight; had a glimpse of a red cloak thrown high by a triumphant foe; and then the Vandals were across the ditch and smashing at the palisade with their axes. They swept round on the flanks, riderless horses with blood-stained saddles amongst them, and Fredegar’s Franks fell back, dying at every step. A loose bay with a white star fled past, snorting with terror, as we closed up in a tight circle about the signal tower; Fabianus and Aquila on my left and right, while Artorius and Scudilio stood a little beyond. I called out then: “I am dying in good company,” and they turned, smiled and lifted their sword hilts in salute. As the enemy checked and fell back before the thrust of our swords, I heard, above the screams of the wounded, and the hard yells of the Vandals, a deep voice that shouted, “Hail and Farewell.”
I turned. I saw the Eagle of the Twentieth, bright, fierce and once immortal, standing upon the fire. As I watched, it turned red and then black, and soon ceased to be anything but a lump of dripping, melted bronze.
They stormed the ditches and the ringed palisade. Fire arrows set the wooden tower blazing above our heads, and I could hear the wounded in the camp scream, as the barbarians fired the waggons and the tents, and butchered with their swords everything that moved. They closed in again and came at us, snarling like foxes, a mass of coloured shields and whirling swords. I thrust and parried and thrust again, until I was fighting behind a litter of their own dead; but still they came, and the circle grew smaller and smaller. Artorius, sobbing with rage and fighting like a madman, dropped with three swords in his chest; and Aquila, dying, killed four men with quick thrusts before he fell on the point of a boar spear. Fredegar, decapitating two men with one stroke of his great axe, was struck in the face by a fire arrow. He staggered backwards, flung up his arms, cried, “Marcomir!” and disappeared under the feet of an enemy horseman.
Scudilio said, across the body of my Chief Centurion, “I always wanted to be a Roman citizen. It is too late now.”
I said, “You have been a friend, which is better still.”
I smiled grimly, saw Fabianus lying in a huddle at my feet, and felt a searing pain in my right arm. I thrust desperately, and felt the sword go home as the bearded faces snarled about me. I heard a voice say, “Remember me to the Gods,” and, as I fell, it was Scudilio who dropped across my back with blood pouring from the javelins in his chest and neck.
It was the sixteenth day of January in the year one thousand one hundred and sixty, after the foundation of Rome, when the Twentieth Legion, the last to carry the Eagle, died at the thirtieth milestone, upon the road to Augusta Treverorum.
The last cohorts lay in their triple ranks behind the palisade, and they were as quiet as if they had been on parade. But they would salute no general as their emperor now; they would draw no gold for their pay; and they would hear no trumpets. They were beyond all hope and all fear; and they were colder than any snow.
EPILOGUE
MAXIMUS STIRRED THE ashes of the dead fire with a stick. It was light now, and the shadows were drawing back from the broken walls of the shattered camp where the listeners crouched in silence.
He said, “There is little more to tell. I remember a tent and a waggon, and voices that spoke a tongue I did not understand. I remember a voice that cried, once, in Latin, ‘He is mine. Give him to me.’ I remember the walls of a tent flapping in the wind, and a great pain in my wrist and hand. I remember warmth and hot drinks, and times of sickness and fever. I remember little else.
“When I began to recover I was in a house, and the Bishop was in the room. He had a livid scar on his cheek, and his hair was now quite white. He told me that two months after the city had been sacked, a man in the dress of the Alemanni brought me to him in a cart, secretly and by night. Before he left, the man spoke to the Bishop. He said, ‘If he lives, which I doubt, tell him it was for the sake of the happy times.’ That was all.
“I stayed there a long time. I was very ill, very weak, and very tired. Also, the hand that I had lost hurt me a great deal. The city was like all sacked cities; a place unclean and full of horror. The Bishop was kind, and I stayed on, for I had nowhere else to go. I had no purpose. I had nothing. What else was there for me to do?
“The barbarians devastated Gaul, and the provinces never recovered. They burned and sacked city after city, and made for the south; for that land of sun which was barred to them by high mountain
s that they could not cross.
“That summer when I was stronger, we had news that Constantinus had crossed to Gaul. He came to Treverorum, and I watched him ride through the streets with his men—the sweepings of the old Sixth and Second—on his way to the south. His son, Constans, was at his side. He had not changed. He rode with a swagger and his chin up, and I remembered there had been a time when he had offered his sword to another man. His father, plump and smiling, made promises, and the people shouted for him. But one man cried out, ‘You should have come before and helped Maximus who is dead.’ I shrank back against the wall when I heard that name, and pulled my hood about my face. Maximus had been a general, Dux Moguntiacensis, and Legate of the Twentieth. What was Maximus to me, who did not even own the cloak upon my back?
“I watched the young Constans ride out in the summer sun to his great adventure. And I wished him luck. He would need all the favours that the Gods could bestow, and even then he would still end as Maximus had ended.
“In the late autumn I borrowed a horse and I rode out through the great gate that ghosts had once named Romulus, and down the road to Moguntiacum—that road to nowhere. I stopped at the thirtieth milestone, where the road forked right and left, and looked at the ruins of my past. The bleached bones of my dead lay where they had fallen, but there was no message for me there, in that long grass among the broken spears, the rusted sword hilts and the smashed helms. I saw crows perched on a fragment of splintered paling, while a field mouse ran up and down the scorched pole of a burnt-out waggon. I poked at an overturned brazier, but it had been used as a nest and was full of dried grass. It meant nothing to me now. The ditches had been carelessly filled in, and the raw earth was covered with green weeds. A light wind ruffled the long grass, but that was all.
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