The Last Legion (23 page)

‘Is that possible?’

‘More than possible,’ replied Ambrosinus. ‘Certain. We’ll know right away if you’ve found the strongest sword in the world. Come on, take it in fist!’

Romulus obeyed.

‘Now strike that candelabrum, with all your might.’

Romulus delivered the blow: the sword whirled through the air with a sharp whistle but missed its target by a hair’s breadth. The boy shrugged and prepared to try again, but Ambrosinus’s hand held him back.

‘I’ll get it this time, you’ll see,’ said Romulus. ‘Watch . . .’ but he was stopped by his tutor’s rapt gaze.

‘What is it,
Ambrosine
? Why are you looking at me like that?’

The swing that had missed the candelabrum had slashed a cobweb hanging in the corner of the room neatly in two, leaving only the top half for the spider that had woven it. The cut was so clean and so perfect that they were awestruck.

Ambrosinus walked towards it and whispered incredulously: ‘Look, my son, look! No sword in the world is capable of this.’

He watched spellbound as the spider abandoned his halved trap, dangled for an instant in the golden dust of a ray of sun penetrating from a crack in the shutter, then disappeared into the darkness. He turned to look at Romulus. The boy’s eyes glittered with the same light of fierce pride as when he had dared to face up Wulfila in the guardhouse: a light he’d never seen before, the same sharp, metallic reflection that gleamed on the edge of that blade, in the golden eyes of the eagle. And the ancient verses poured from his lips like a prayer: ‘
Veniet adulescens a mari infero cum spatha
. . .’

‘What did you say,
Ambrosine
?’ Romulus asked, wrapping the sword back up in the blanket.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ replied his tutor. ‘Only that I’m happy. Happy, my boy.’

‘Why? Because I’ve found this sword?’

‘Because the time has come for us to leave this place, and no one will be able to stop us.’

Romulus said nothing. He put away the bundle and left, closing the door behind him. Ambrosinus fell on to his knees on the floor and gripped the twig of mistletoe which hung from his neck. He prayed, from the depths of his heart, that the words he had just pronounced might come true.

R
OMULUS WAS SITTING ON
a wooden bench, poking at an ant hill with a little stick. The minuscule community, already settled in for the winter, were panic stricken, the ants running every which way to try to save the queen’s eggs. Ambrosinus was walking by at that moment and he stopped: ‘How is my little Caesar?’

‘Not well. And don’t call me that. I’m nothing.’

‘And you’re letting your frustration out on those poor innocent creatures? In proportion you’ve caused a tragedy no less awesome than the fall of Troy or the great fire of Rome in Nero’s time.’

Romulus tossed away his stick in a temper: ‘I want my father, I want my mother. I don’t want to be alone, and a prisoner. Why does fate have to be so cruel?’

‘Do you believe in God?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You should. No one is closer to God than the emperor. You are his representative on earth.’

‘I don’t remember an emperor who lived more than a year after taking the throne. Perhaps God should choose more long-lasting representatives on this earth, wouldn’t you say?’

‘He shall, and his power will mark his chosen one in an unequivocal way. Now stop wasting your time with the ants and go back to the library to study. You’ll have to tell me about the first two books of the
Aeneid
today.’

Romulus shrugged: ‘Stupid old stories.’

‘That’s not true. Virgil tells us the tale of the hero Aeneas and his son Julus, a boy just like you who became the founder of the greatest nation of all times. They were refugees, in desperate conditions, and yet they found the courage and the will to build a new destiny for themselves and their people.’

‘Anything’s possible in mythology, but the past is the past and it certainly doesn’t touch me now.’

‘Really? Then why are you keeping that sword under your bed? Isn’t that a relic from a stupid old age?’ He glanced at the sundial at the centre of the courtyard and seemed suddenly to remember something. He turned his back to the boy without another word and disappeared into the shadows of the portico. A few moments later Romulus saw him going up a stair that led to the parapet of the wall facing the sea. He stood there, straight and still, while the wind ruffled his long grey hair.

Romulus got up, but before directing himself towards the library he shot a last glance at Ambrosinus, who now seemed intent on one of his experiments. He was looking out over the sea and writing with his stylus on his inseparable tablet. Perhaps he was studying the movement of the waves, or the migration of the birds, or the smoke that rose increasingly from the mouth of Vesuvius, accompanied by a threatening rumble.

He shook his head and walked towards the library door, but just then Ambrosinus turned and waved him over. Romulus obeyed and ran towards his tutor, who was wordlessly pointing at a spot in the middle of the sea. Directly in front of them, still small because of the distance, was a fishermen’s boat, a nutshell on the blue expanse.

‘Now I’ll show you an interesting game,’ said Ambrosinus. He took a shiny bronze mirror from the folds of his robe and directed it at the sun, projecting a small flittering light alongside the boat, and then on the bow and then on the sail, with amazing precision.

Then Ambrosinus started to move his wrist with a series of quick, studied movements, making the little dot of light appear and disappear intermittently on the boat’s deck.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Romulus in surprise. ‘Can I try?’

‘Not just yet. I’m speaking with those men on the boat using light signals. It’s a system called
notae tironianae.
It was invented by one of Cicero’s servants named Tiro, five centuries ago. At first, it was just a system for taking down dictation quickly, but it later became a code of communication for the army.’

He hadn’t even finished his explanation when a similar signal was returned by the boat.

‘What are they saying?’

Ambrosinus answered him with eyes full of emotion: ‘They’re saying: “We’re coming to get you. The Nones of December.” Which means . . . in exactly three days. I told you we wouldn’t be abandoned!’

‘You’re not teasing me?’ asked Romulus incredulously.

Ambrosinus hugged him: ‘It’s true!’ he replied with a tremulous voice. ‘It’s true, at last.’

Romulus was trying hard to control his emotions. He did not want to let his hopes be crushed again. He asked only: ‘How long have you been doing this?’

‘A couple of weeks. We had many things to discuss.’

‘Who started first?’

‘They did. They got a message to me through one of the servants who goes down to the port to do the shopping in the morning, so I was ready with my mirror well polished. It was nice to speak to someone from the outside world for a change.’

‘And you never told me anything . . .’

Shocked, Romulus looked first at his tutor, who winked at him with a smile, and then back at that little boat so far away. Their conversation was soon struck up again, breaking off when the sound of footsteps indicated that the guards were making their rounds. Ambrosinus took him by the hand as they descended the stairs and headed towards the library.

‘I didn’t want to raise your hopes until I was sure, but now I’m convinced that they can succeed. There’s just a handful of them, but they have a very powerful weapon . . .’

‘What weapon?’

‘Faith, my boy. The faith that moves mountains. Not faith in God, they’re not used to counting on him. They have faith in man, despite the darkness of our age, despite the collapse of all our ideals and our certainties. Let’s go and study now. I can teach you the
notae tironianae
if you like.’

Romulus looked up at him admiringly: ‘Is there anything you don’t know,
Ambrosine
?’

His tutor’s face became suddenly thoughtful: ‘Many things,’ he answered, ‘many of the most important things in life. I’ve never had a child, for example, a home, a family . . . the love of a woman.’ He glanced affectionately at his young charge and the shadow of regret passed through his eyes.

*

The boat continued on its route, rounding the northern tip of the island.

‘Are you sure you got that straight?’ asked Batiatus.

‘Of course. It’s not the first time we’ve exchanged messages,’ replied Aurelius.

‘There’s the eastern promontory, and that’s the north cliff,’ observed Vatrenus. ‘By Hercules, it’s as straight as a wall – and you say we’re going to scale the face of it, take away the boy against the wishes of seventy ferocious guards, drop back down to the sea, hop in the boat and take off
insalutato hospite
?’

‘More or less,’ replied Aurelius.

Livia slackened the sheet, easing off the sail, and the boat came to a stop, drifting lightly on the waves. The barren rock jutted out directly above them, topped by the wall of the villa.

‘This is the only point of access for us,’ continued Aurelius. ‘Precisely because no one would consider it possible to get up from this side. We’ve seen that it’s only patrolled twice: once during the first guard shift and again during the third, just before dawn. So we have nearly three hours to complete our mission.’ He overturned an hourglass filled with water and pointed at the various levels marked on the glass: ‘An hour to climb up, half an hour to rescue the boy, half an hour to climb back down and the last hour or so to return to the coast, where the horses will be waiting for us. Batiatus will remain at the base to guard the boat and man the ropes while the rest of us go up. Livia will be waiting for us on the upper walkway of the villa’s north wall.’

‘How’s she going to do that?’ asked Vatrenus.

Aurelius exchanged a look with Livia: ‘Using the oldest trick in the world. The Trojan horse.’

Batiatus examined the rock face with his eyes, foot by foot, up to the top wall, and sighed: ‘What a lucky man I am to stay put on the ground! I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.’

‘It’s not all that terrible,’ protested Livia. ‘It’s already been done by one man alone who made it to the top climbing barehanded.’

‘I can’t believe that,’ retorted Batiatus.

‘Well, it’s true. At the time of Tiberius, a fisherman had caught an enormous lobster that he wanted to give to the emperor as a gift. Since they wouldn’t let him in the front gate, he climbed straight up from the sea.’

‘Great Hercules!’ exclaimed Vatrenus. ‘And how did it turn out?’

Livia cracked a half smile: ‘I’ll tell you when our mission has been accomplished. I say we go back now, before the wind changes.’ She shortened the sheet as Demetrius manned the boom, setting the sail to take advantage of the wind. The boat turned in a wide curve, pointing its bow towards the mainland. Aurelius looked up at the bastions of the villa, where he distinctly saw a spectral figure appear: a gigantic warrior wrapped in a black cloak swelling in the breeze. Wulfila.

*

Three days later towards nightfall, a large cargo ship entered the little port of Capri and the captain called out to the dockers, throwing them out a line. The helmsman tossed another rope from the stern and the boat drew up. The dockers lowered a gangplank and the stevedores began to unload the smaller packages: bags of wheat and flour, beans and chickpeas, jars of wine, vinegar and concentrated must. Then they towed a lift up alongside for the heavier loads: six huge earthenware doliums weighing two thousand cotili each, three full of olive oil and three of drinking water for the villa garrison.

Livia, crouching at the stern amidst the bags, made sure that no one was watching and approached one of the doliums. She took off her cloak and lifted the lid of the first which was full of water. She threw in a coil of rope and then lowered herself in, pulling the lid back over her head. A little water splashed out, but the crew were all busy with unloading and no one noticed. One after another the enormous containers were lifted and placed on a cart drawn by two pairs of oxen. When the cart was fully loaded, the driver snapped his whip and shouted at the beasts, and the cart started up along the steep, narrow road that led towards the villa.

By the time it arrived, the lower part of the island was already in shadow, while the last reflections of the setting sun still reddened the cirrus clouds in the sky and the rooftops of the old villa. The gate was thrown open and the cart entered the lower courtyard with a great clattering of its steel wheels on the cobblestones. Geese and chickens began to squawk and scatter and the dogs set to barking until a group of servants and porters came out to unload its cargo.

The head of the servants, an old Neapolitan with a wizened face, called out to his men who had already prepared the hoist on the upper loggia. They used a winch to lower the platform until it was level with the floor of the cart. The first of the doliums was turned on its side, rolled over to the platform and secured with ropes and wedges. The head servant cupped his hands around the side of his mouth and yelled: ‘Heave ho!’