The Last Legion (19 page)

‘An island as big as Italy!’ repeated Romulus. ‘How is that possible?’

‘It’s absolutely true,’ Ambrosinus assured him, reminding him of how Admiral Agricola had completely circumnavigated the island at the time of Emperor Trajan.

‘But beyond . . . beyond those endless nights, what comes then,
Ambrosine
?’

‘Beyond lies the outermost land above sea level. Ultima Thule, surrounded by a wall of ice two hundred cubits high, beaten day and night by freezing winds, guarded by sea serpents and monsters with fangs like daggers. No one who reached those lands has ever returned alive, except for a Greek captain from Marseilles called Pytheas. He described a huge whirlpool that swallows up the waters of the Ocean for hours and hours, then vomits them up with a frightening clamour, fraught with skeletons of boats and of sailors, spitting them so far that miles and miles of beaches are inundated.’ Romulus’s eyes filled with wonder, and for a moment he forgot his troubles.

During the day, they wandered around the vast courtyards and walkways overhanging the sea. When they found a place to sit in the shade of a tree, Ambrosinus would give lessons to his pupil, who listened intently. As the days passed, however, space seemed to narrow and the sky became distant and indifferent. Everything seemed frightfully unchanged and unchanging: the flight of the seagulls, the armed guards patrolling the bastions, the lizards basking under the last sun of autumn and skittering into the cracks in the walls when the sound of a step drew close.

The boy was gripped then by sudden anguish and piercing melancholy, and he would stare at the sea for hours without moving. At other times he was overcome by rage and desperation and would throw stones hard at the wall, dozens, hundreds of stones, under the bemused eyes of the barbarian guards, until he fell over, out of breath and drenched with sweat. His tutor watched him then with tenderness, but did not let himself be moved to pity. He would reprimand the boy instead, reminding him of the dignity of his forebears, the austerity of Cato, the wisdom of Seneca, the heroism of Marius, the incomparable greatness of Caesar.

One day, as he saw him breathless and exhausted over that foolish, pointless game, humiliated by the jeers of his jailers, he approached Romulus and laid a hand on his shoulder: ‘No Caesar, no. Save your strength for when you shall grasp the sword of justice.’

Romulus shook his head: ‘Why are you trying to fool me? That day will never come. Don’t you see those men up there on the walkway? They’re prisoners of this place just as we are. They will grow old in boredom and weariness until they send in others to replace them, but I’ll still be here. They’ll come and go, but it will always be me here, like the trees and the walls. I’ll grow old without ever being young.’

A bird’s feather drifted slowly from on high. Romulus grabbed it and crumpled it tight. He opened his fist, looking his tutor straight in the eyes: ‘Or will you build me wings of feathers and wax, like Daedalus did for Icarus? Shall I take off from here?’

Ambrosinus lowered his head: ‘If only I could, my boy. If only I could! But there is something, maybe, that I can do for you. Something I can teach you: do not allow your soul to be imprisoned in your body.’ He raised his eyes to the sky: ‘See that gull up there? Do you see him? Let your spirit fly with him . . . up there, on high. Take a long breath . . . again . . . another,’ he placed his hands on the boy’s temples, closing his eyes. ‘Fly, my son, close your eyes and fly. Fly past this misery, beyond the walls of this crumbling house, over the cliffs and the forests. Fly towards the disc of the sun and bathe in its infinite light.’ He lowered his voice as tears trickled slowly from the boy’s closed eyes. ‘Fly,’ he said softly. ‘No one can imprison a man’s soul.’ Romulus’s breathing, rapid at first like that of a frightened puppy, slowed to the calm rhythm of an easy sleep.

Other times, when none of this helped, when there were no words that had meaning any more, Ambrosinus would go and sit in a corner of the courtyard and dedicate himself to writing his memories. Romulus would go off on his own, drawing lines in the sand with a stick, but then little by little he would draw nearer, observing him out of the corner of his eye, trying to imagine what his tutor was setting down in his neat, regular hand.

One day he showed up and asked: ‘What are you writing?’

‘My memories. You too should be thinking about writing, or reading at least. Reading helps us to forget our troubles; it liberates our spirits from the anxiety and boredom of everyday life, and puts us in contact with another world. I’ve asked to have books for your library, and they’ll be arriving today from Naples: not only philosophy and geometry and agricultural manuals, but also beautiful stories: Heliodorus’s Ethiopian tales, the pastoral love of Daphnis and Chloe, the adventures of Hercules and Teseus and the voyages of Ulysses. You’ll see! Now I have some things to take care of, and then I’ll prepare your dinner, so don’t go off too far. I don’t want to have to shout myself hoarse.’

Ambrosinus placed his book on the bench he had been sitting on, closed the inkwell and put away the quill. He walked to the ancient imperial library, once the repository of thousands and thousands of volumes from every part of the empire, in Latin and Greek, Hebrew and Syrian, Egyptian and Phoenician. Now the niches that had contained the shelves were empty as blind eye sockets, staring at nothing. Only a bust of Homer, blind as well, remained, white as a ghost in that big dark room.

Romulus wandered aimlessly around the huge courtyard, but every time he passed near Ambrosinus’s book he gave it a distracted look. Abruptly he stopped and stared at it longingly. Perhaps he shouldn’t read what he’d written but after all, if his tutor had left it there unguarded and without forbidding him to touch it, maybe he wouldn’t mind if he had a look. He sat down and opened it. On the title page was a cross with the letters alpha and omega at the ends of the arms. A sprig of mistletoe was drawn beneath, looking like the silver pendant that Ambrosinus wore round his neck.

The evening was warm and the last swallows gathered at the centre of the sky, calling each other, as if reluctant to leave their empty nests to migrate towards warmer climes.

Romulus smiled and said softly: ‘Off with you, now! You who can, fly away. You’ll find me here next year in this very place. I’ll stay and guard your empty nests.’

Then he turned the page and began to read.

I was not even born yet when the last eagles of the Roman legions left Britannia, never to return. The emperor was recalling all of his troops, and thus my land was abandoned to its destiny. Nothing happened at first. The authorities continued to govern the cities by the laws of their fathers and the magistrature of the empire, maintaining contact with the distant court of Ravenna, hoping that sooner or later the eagles would return. But one day the barbarians of the north who live beyond the Great Wall invaded our lands, sowing death, destruction and hunger with their unending raids and plundering. We asked the emperor for help, in the hope that he had not forgotten us, but there was certainly nothing he could do. A flood of barbarians was threatening the eastern confines of the empire. Ferocious, untiring horsemen with olive skin and slanted eyes had arrived from the boundless Sarmatian plain. Like spectres from the deep of night, they destroyed everything in their path. They never rested nor slept, only laying their heads on the necks of the shaggy horses. They macerated the meat that they ate by storing it under their saddles.

The high commander of the Imperial Army, a hero named Aetius, drove back the slant-eyed barbarians with the aid of other barbarians in a tremendous battle that lasted from dawn to dusk, but he could not restore our legions to us. Our envoys implored him, reminding him of the ties of blood, laws and religion that had bound us together for centuries. In the end he was deeply moved, and promised to do something. He sent us a man named Germanus who was said to be gifted with magic powers, entrusting him with the standard of the legions of Britannia: a dragon of silver with a purple tail that seemed to come to life as the wind blew. He could do no more than this, and yet the sight of that ensign was enough to stir our demoralized spirits and arouse our sleeping pride. Germanus was a valorous and charismatic leader. His flashing, feverish eyes, his cries as shrill as a hawk’s, his hooked hands gripping the standard and his unwavering faith in law and civilization worked a miracle. He led his men into battle crying ‘Hallelujah!’ And the barbarians were repulsed. Many citizens took up arms and stood vigil over the Great Wall, restored the parts in ruin and guarded the abandoned castles. This day of sweet victory has been known ever since as the Hallelujah battle.

As the years passed, people returned to their own occupations, and only a few poorly equipped groups of badly trained troops were left to guard the High Lands from the towers of the Wall. So when the barbarians launched a surprise attack, they massacred the defenders. They picked our men off the Wall with their hooked pikes, stringing them up like fish. The attackers spread then towards the south, taking the undefended cities by storm, burning, destroying. What terror they inspired! Their faces were painted black and blue and they spared no one, not women nor children nor elders.

Another embassy was sent to Aetius, the high commander of the Imperial Army, to plead for help once again. But once again, the most he could do was to send Germanus, who had succeeded before in instilling vigour and determination in the hearts of Britannia. Germanus had long abandoned the practice of arms. He had become the bishop of a city in Gaul and was famed as a saint, but he would not shirk his duty, and he returned to our island for the second time. He reunited forces, and convinced the inhabitants of the cities to forge swords and spears and to march against the enemy. Unfortunately, the outcome of this battle was not conclusive, and Germanus himself was seriously wounded.

He was brought to the forest of Gleva and laid on the grass at the foot of an age-old oak tree, but before dying he made the army chiefs swear that they would never surrender, that they would continue to defend themselves by building a permanent, disciplined corps, modelled on the Roman legions, to protect the Great Wall. Their banner would be the dragon which had already led them to victory.

I witnessed these events directly. I was still quite young, but I had been instructed in the Druidic arts of medicine, prophecy and the study of the heavenly bodies. I had travelled in many countries and learned many important things. They called me to cure the dying hero. There was nothing I could do for him but relieve the pain of his wound, but I still remember his noble words, the flash in his eye that not even death could extinguish. When Germanus died, his body was taken to Gaul and buried at Lutetia Parisiorum where he still rests today. His tomb is venerated as a saint’s and visited by many pilgrims from both Gaul and Britannia.

That corps of selected warriors was established in accordance with his wishes, commanded by the best men of Britannia, descendants of the highest Roman and Celtic nobility. It was stationed in a fort of the Great Wall near Mons Badonicus, or Mount Badon, as we call it in our Carvetian dialect.

Several years passed, and it seemed that Germanus’s sacrifice had procured peace in our lands, but this was not to be. A series of very cold winters and arid summers decimated the herds of the northern barbarians, causing a great famine. Attracted by the mirage of the rich cities on the plain, they attacked a number of places along the Great Wall, putting the defenders’ resistance to a severe test. I myself was at the fort of Mount Badon as their doctor and veterinarian. The commander, a man of great dignity and valour named Cornelius Paullinus, had me called. By his side was his deputy commander, Constantine, called Kustennin in the language of Carvetia, a man who held the office of consul.

Paullinus spoke with an expression of grave worry and discouragement. ‘Our forces can no longer hold out against enemy attacks unless someone comes to our aid. You’ll leave immediately for Ravenna to speak with the emperor, along with the dignitaries I have chosen for this mission. Make him see that we need reinforcement troops, remind him of the faith of our cities and of our people in the name of Rome. If he cannot send an army our houses will be burned, our woman raped, our children carried off in slavery. You’ll hold vigil at the door of the imperial palace, day and night if necessary, refusing food and drink until he has seen you. You are the only man I know who has travelled across the seas to Gaul and Iberia. You know many languages besides Latin and you are an expert in medicine and alchemy. I’m sure you will win over his esteem and consideration.’

I listened without ever interrupting him. I could not help but be aware of the extreme gravity of the situation and of his great trust in me, but in my heart of hearts I knew that such an expedition would be exceedingly risky and have little hope for success. Most of the provinces of the empire were in the hands of turbulent populations, the roads were fraught with danger and it would be nearly impossible to find food for myself and my companions along the way. Sizeable obstacles all, but nothing compared to the final challenge: being received by the emperor and obtaining his help.

I replied: ‘Noble Paullinus, I am ready to do what you ask. I shall gladly risk my own life for the salvation of my homeland if necessary, but are you certain this is the best solution? Would it not be better to come to an agreement with noble Wortigern? He is a valorous combatant of great strength and courage and his warriors are numerous and well trained. This would not be the first time they will fight at our side against the barbarians of the north, if I remember correctly. His father was Celtic and his mother Roman, and that strengthens his ties with all the people of this land. Your deputy, Kustennin, knows him very well.’