The Last Legion (46 page)

But Romulus was clutching the spokes of one of the cart’s wheels, shouting: ‘No! I won’t go! I won’t go without the rest of you! I don’t want to run any more!’

‘Grab him and get going! Now!’ Vatrenus continued to shout, cursing all the gods and demons he knew. The enemy horsemen had reached the other side, directly opposite them, and were galloping on to the ice. Wulfila tried to hold them back, sensing the danger, but the heat of the chase and their desire to put an end to this unnerving hunt had unleashed their charge across the frozen surface of the river.

Demetrius excitedly turned to the others: ‘Look! They’re advancing all at once, the ice will never hold! We still have a chance, if we get out of here immediately. Come on boys, on the cart!’ He hadn’t finished speaking when a crack snaked open under the steeds’ hooves, widening as the second wave of horsemen hammered down hard. Water surged over the breaking ice, sending some of them into ruinous falls while others slipped and slid. A huge floe sank beneath the surface as Wulfila ordered: ‘Stop! Turn back! The ice won’t hold! Get back!’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ shouted Aurelius at the sight. ‘We can make it!’ They all scrambled into the cart, Ambrosinus lashed Juba’s back with the reins and off they went at full speed.

Their relief was short-lived: Wulfila managed to regroup and have his men cross a little further upstream, one at a time. They once again took up the chase, rapidly gaining on the overloaded cart. Aurelius handed out the men’s javelins while Livia nocked an arrow into her bow, taking aim, but as the warriors came within range, they slowed down and then abruptly stopped.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Vatrenus.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Aurelius, feeling that the cart’s speed was diminishing as well, ‘but don’t slow down, don’t stop!’

‘What’s happened is that we’re saved!’ yelled Ambrosinus. ‘Look!’

A group of armed men on horseback appeared before them, backed by a large infantry unit, emerging out of the fog. They were advancing at a march, spread out over a wide front, with their weapons in hand. Wulfila, dumbstruck, called his men to a halt and stopped at a respectful distance.

The infantry stopped as well. Their armour and their banners left no doubt: they were Roman soldiers!

An officer came forward. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, ‘and who are those men following you?’

‘May God bless you!’ exclaimed Ambrosinus. ‘We owe you our lives!’

Aurelius stiffened into a military salute. ‘Aurelianus Ambrosius Ventidius,’ he said. ‘First cohort, Nova Invicta Legion.’

‘Rufius Aelius Vatrenus, Nova Invicta Legion,’ his comrade echoed.

‘Cornelius Batiatus . . .’ began the gigantic Ethiopian.

‘Legion?’ repeated the officer, shocked. ‘There have been no legions for half a century. Where do you come from, soldier?’

‘You can believe him, commander,’ said Demetrius, ‘and if you have a bowl of hot soup and a glass of wine for us, we have some fine stories to tell!’

‘All right,’ replied the officer. ‘Follow me.’

They advanced for about a mile, circling a hill, until they found themselves in front of a fieldcamp which looked as if it could accommodate at least a thousand men. The commander had them leave the cart and brought them to his quarters, where his attendants hastened to unfasten his sword belt and to take his helmet and place it on a field stool. An orderly served them the same rations he was distributing to the troops and they all began to eat. Romulus, who was finally recovering from his fear and the numbing cold, would have liked to wolf down the food joyously, but he dutifully imitated his tutor, who was sipping the soup in small spoonfuls and sitting with his back perfectly straight.

‘A well-assorted bunch, I’d say,’ began the officer. ‘Three legionaries, if I’m to believe your words, a philosopher, to judge from his beard, a pair of deserters, if my eyes do not betray me, a lady with a bearing too haughty and legs too slender to be a bedtime companion, and a young man without even the shadow of whiskers beneath his nose, but with enough presumption to be a personage out of the ancient Republic. Not to mention that nasty swarm of cut-throats you had at your heels. What am I to make of you?’

Ambrosinus had already predicted those questions and was ready with an answer. ‘You have an acute sense of observation, commander. I realize that the condition we find ourselves in may engender suspicion, but we have nothing to hide and will gladly explain everything. This boy has been the victim of terrible persecution. He is the scion of a very noble family, and the arrogance of a barbarian at the service of the Imperial Army has deprived him of his rightful inheritance. Not content with having stripped this child of all his belongings, he has attempted in every way possible to kill the poor lad, so that he may never claim his birthright. He has had us pursued by a group of fierce hired assassins who today would have succeeded in their vile intent had it not been for you.

‘This girl is the boy’s older sister. She has grown up like a virago, emulating Camilla and Pentesilea, and can fight with a bow and a javelin with incredible mastery. She has been the foremost defender of her unlucky brother. As for myself, I am the boy’s tutor, and with some money that I had hidden away, I recruited these valiant warriors, who have survived the destruction of their division at the hands of other barbarians, and thus we have united our destinies.

‘Beholding your army decked in their splendid armour, seeing the Roman banners fluttering in the wind and hearing the Latin language sound on your lips have all been, for us, the greatest consolation. We are profoundly grateful to you for having rescued us.’

Everyone fell silent, stunned by such a display of polished eloquence, but the commander was a tough veteran and he was not overly impressed. He answered: ‘My name is Sergius Volusianus,
comes regis et magister militum
. We were sent on a mission of war in support of our allies in central Gaul and we are returning to Parisii where I am to report to our leader, Siagrius, King of the Romans. I will include you in my report, as well as the circumstances involved in our meeting. You will not for any reason stray from our division from this moment forwards. This is for your own safety: the territory we will be crossing is extremely dangerous and subject to sudden incursions by the Franks. You will be treated as Romans. Please allow me to take my leave of you now; our departure is imminent.’ He tossed down a cup of wine, reclaimed his sword and helmet and left, followed by his attendants and his field adjutant.

‘What do you think?’ asked Ambrosinus.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Aurelius. ‘I can’t say he seemed entirely convinced by that story you told.’

‘Well, it’s nearly the truth.’

‘The problems lies in that “nearly”. Let’s hope all goes well. In any case, our situation is now greatly improved, and we can consider ourselves safe for the time being. The commander is certainly an excellent soldier and most probably a man of his word.’

‘What about Wulfila?’ asked Orosius. ‘Do you think he’ll give up? There’s no way he can get at us now: we’re protected by a numerous division in full battle gear, and he’s the one who’d better look out for himself on this side of the Rhine.’

‘Don’t be fooled,’ answered Aurelius. ‘He can get help from the Franks. We’ve seen just how determined he is; he’s forced us to flee to the very ends of the earth! Anyone else in his place would have given up long ago, but not him: each time he shows up again, he seems fiercer and more aggressive, like a demon out of hell –
and
he has the sword of Caesar in his hands.’

‘Sometimes I think he really is a demon,’ said Orosius, the expression in his eyes more eloquent than his words.

‘Aurelius is the one who slashed his face; he can tell you Wulfila’s made out of flesh and blood,’ shot back Demetrius, ‘but I still can’t explain this implacable, relentless hate. He’s gone beyond every imaginable limit.’

‘I can explain it,’ mused Ambrosinus. ‘Aurelius has disfigured him; he’s made him unrecognizable compared with his former self. In this state, he can never hope to enter the warriors’ paradise, and that’s absolutely intolerable for someone like him. Wulfila comes from a tribe of eastern Goths who profess a fanatical faith in military valour and in the destiny that awaits combatants in the next world. To redeem himself, he must inflict on you what you have inflicted on him, Aurelius. He has to cut your face to the bone, and then he must offer a libation to the god of war inside your skull, whittled into a cup. We won’t be free of him until the day he’s dead.’

‘Can’t say I envy you that fate,’ commented Vatrenus, but Aurelius seemed to have taken Ambrosinus’s words very seriously. ‘Then it’s me he wants. Why did you wait so long to tell me that?’

‘Because you would have done something foolish, like challenge him to a duel.’

‘That may be a solution,’ replied Aurelius.

‘It most certainly would not. With that sword in his hands, you wouldn’t have a chance. He wants Romulus as well, there’s no doubt about that, otherwise he wouldn’t have shown up at the
mansio
in Fanum. All we can do, Aurelius, is stay together. It’s the only way we can survive. Keep one thing in mind, above all: Romulus must reach Britannia, at any cost. There everything we’ve fought for will come to pass and we will no longer need to fear anything. No more fear, can you understand that?’

They all looked at each other because in truth they didn’t understand, not yet, but they felt that somehow he was right, that the inspired light in his eye was true. Each and every time that he referred to their future destiny, so clear for him and so confused for the rest of them, he spoke like the man posted on a look-out tower at dawn who is the first to see the light of the rising sun.

S
ERGIUS
V
OLUSIANUS’S COLUMN
set off later that day, heading northwest. They marched for six days, covering twenty miles a day, until they reached the kingdom of Siagrius. The
rex Romanorum
’s territory was marked off by a line of defence with a palisade and trench, overseen by guard towers spaced one every mile. The men at the garrison wore heavy coats of mail and conical iron helmets with cheek- and nose-pieces like those worn by the Franks, and they carried long double-edged swords.

They entered through a fortified gate, were welcomed by long trumpet blasts, and continued their march until they reached the first river port on the Seine. There, they took ship and descended the river towards the capital, the ancient colony of
Lutetia Parisiorum
which everyone had become accustomed to calling simply by the name of its inhabitants, Parisii. The long, substantially tranquil voyage gave everyone the sensation that the threat that had loomed over their heads for so long had vanished, or that it was so far away that it wasn’t worth their while to worry about it. Each day of their journey brought them closer to their destination, and Ambrosinus was affected by a strange excitement, which not even he could explain. Their only cause for apprehension was their lack of contact with commander Volusianus, who they saw very rarely and fleetingly. He usually remained in his quarters, at the stern, and when going about the ship he was always surrounded by his staff, so he was practically unapproachable. Only Aurelius, one evening, had the chance to speak with him. He noticed the commander standing at the bow, watching the sun go down over the plains, and approached him.

‘Hail, commander,’ he said.

‘Hail, soldier,’ replied Volusianus.

‘A quiet journey, this.’

‘So far.’

‘May I ask you a question?’

‘You may, but don’t be certain you’ll receive an answer.’

‘I fought for years at the orders of Manilius Claudianus and I commanded his personal guard. Does this mean anything to you? Does it perhaps make me worthy of your consideration?’

‘Claudianus was a great soldier and an upright man, a Roman the like of whom no longer exists. If he trusted you this means that you were worthy of his consideration.’

‘You met him, then.’

‘Personally, and it was a great honour. I earned the vallar crown that you see on my standard under his command and he himself awarded it to me at the walls of Augusta Raurica.’

‘Commander Claudianus is dead, betrayed and attacked by Odoacer’s troops. My comrades and I are among the only survivors of the massacre, not one of us by way of cowardice or desertion.’

Volusianus stared at him with his penetrating gaze. His grey eyes looked like a hawk’s and his face was creased by deep wrinkles. He wore his hair very short, and hadn’t shaved for several days. His fatigue was evident in all his features, as was his ability to size up men.

‘I believe you,’ he said after a few moments of silence. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘If we are under your protection or in your custody.’

‘Both.’

‘Why?’

‘News regarding important changes in the balance of power travel much more quickly than you can imagine.’

‘I realize that. I’m not surprised that your
rex
knows about Odoacer and the assassination of Flavius Orestes and that you have been informed as well. What else have you heard, if I may ask?’

‘That Odoacer is searching over land and sea for a thirteen-year-old boy defended by a handful of deserters and accompanied by other . . . picturesque individuals.’