The Last Legion (53 page)

Wulfila embodied all that Wortigern no longer had: inexhaustible energy, potency and lightning quick reaction. The barbarian had become the physical prolongation of the old man’s craving for dominion, to the point where he no longer even needed to give him orders: Wulfila could predict them and carry them out even before he heard them in that great empty room. None the less, it was this very capability, the wicked intelligence that gleamed in his icy eyes, that made Wortigern fear him. He did not trust the apparent submissiveness of the mysterious warrior who had come from beyond the sea, although it seemed that his main desire was none other than to find that boy, in order to take his head back to Ravenna.

One day, to teach Wulfila what it would mean to betray him, or even just to think about betraying him, Wortigern had him witness the execution of a vassal whose only blame was having kept part of the booty he had taken during a raid.

There was a courtyard, alongside the tower, surrounded by a high stone wall, in which the tyrant kept his mastiffs. These tremendous beasts were often used in battle, and Wortigern’s only pastime was to feed them twice a day by tossing pieces of meat from the window that opened behind his throne. The condemned man was stripped of his clothing and allowed to drop slowly, tied to a rope, over the dogs who had not been fed for two days. They started to devour him alive, feet first, as he was lowered from above. The screams of pain of the poor wretch mixed with the deafening howls of the hounds, crazed by the odour of blood and the fiercely contended meal, and echoed and dilated within the tower until they reached a pitch that would have been unbearable for anyone with a bit of humanity, but Wulfila never even blinked, enjoying that terrible spectacle until the very end. When he turned to look at Wortigern his eyes held only a disturbing arousal and an unperturbed ferocity.

S
PRING WAS BEGINNING
, and the only place the snow hadn’t melted was the peak of
Mons Badonicus
, called Mount Badon in the local dialect. Many of the peasants returning from their work in the fields and the shepherds bringing their flocks in from the pasture had noticed the purple dragon fluttering in the distance. They’d seen the head of polished silver glittering on the highest tower of the fortress, a signal which awakened forgotten dreams of courage and glory.

Ambrosinus, wandering among the people at the market and among the farms in the countryside, heard and understood the restless emotions that that vision had aroused in them. Many of them were stirred by that symbol which had suddenly emerged from a remote, long unremembered past, although they dared not speak their thoughts. Once, watching a shepherd who had stopped to contemplate the legion’s standard from a distance, he pretended to be a stranger to the land, and asked him: ‘What is that banner? Why does it wave over that abandoned fort?’

The man looked at him with a strange expression. ‘You must come from very far away,’ he said, ‘if you don’t recognize that banner. For years it symbolized the supreme defence of the honour and liberty of this land, leading a legendary army to battle: the twelfth Legion, the Legion of the Dragon.’

‘I’ve heard speak of that,’ replied Ambrosinus, ‘but I always thought it was a fanciful story, merely invented to dissuade the barbarians of the north from conducting their incursions.’

‘You’re wrong,’ replied the shepherd. ‘That division really did exist, and the man you’re talking to was a part of it. When I was young.’

‘Well then, what happened to the legion? Was it wiped out? Or forced to surrender?’

‘No, neither of these,’ said the shepherd. ‘We were betrayed. We had penetrated beyond the Great Wall to pursue a band of Scots who had kidnapped the women in one of our villages, and we had left a tribal chief, one of our allies, to protect the passage through the Wall where we would enter upon our return, but as we raced back, followed by a horde of raging enemies, the passage was barricaded and our allies were pointing their weapons at us. We were completely trapped! Many of us fell in battle, but many others were spared, because a dense fog suddenly rose up and hid us. We managed to reach safety through a secluded valley which was concealed between high rock walls. We decided to disband then, and to return separately to our homes. The traitor’s name was Wortigern, the tyrant who still oppresses us and bleeds us dry with his taxes and his thieving, dominating us through terror. Since then, we have lived in obscurity and shame, dedicating ourselves to our work and trying to forget what we were. But now, that standard which has reappeared miraculously out of nowhere has reminded us that one who has fought at length for his liberty cannot die a slave.’

‘Tell me,’ pressed on Ambrosinus, ‘who was it that dissolved the legion? Who advised you to return to your families?’

‘Our commander had died in battle. It was his second-in-command, Kustennin, who offered us that opportunity. He was a wise and valiant man, and he wanted the best for us. His wife had just given birth to a child, a little girl as lovely as a rosebud, and perhaps life seemed the most precious thing to him then. We all thought of our wives, of our homes, of our children. We didn’t realize that had we stayed together, united under that banner, we could have truly defended what was dear to us . . .’

Ambrosinus would have liked to continue speaking with him, but the man could no longer go on, because a knot closed his throat. He gazed long and hard at the standard waving in the sun and then walked away in silence.

Struck by those revelations, the old man returned to visit Kustennin several times, to try to win him over to his cause, but it was all in vain. To challenge Wortigern’s power under those conditions was equivalent to committing suicide. The semblance of freedom that his people still enjoyed must have seemed sufficient to him, compared with the enormous risks of a rebellion. The mere thought was so worrisome that Kustennin had never even gone to the old fortress to greet the rest of the new arrivals.

Carvetia was the only city remaining under Wortigern’s dominion which still enjoyed a modicum of freedom, only because the tyrant needed the resources of their markets and ports on the Ocean. Some goods were still traded, and the news which arrived with the vessels from distant lands was no less indispensable for maintaining and extending his power than were the swords of his mercenaries.

*

Inside the fortress, in the meantime, the men had repaired the defences, rebuilt the turrets and the embattlements and embedded the rampart and the trench with pointed, flame-hardened stakes. Batiatus set the old forge to work again, and his hammer sounded incessantly on the anvil. Vatrenus, Demetrius and Orosius had restored the living quarters, the stables, the oven and the mill and Livia had delighted them all with freshly-baked loaves of fragrant bread and cups of steaming milk. Only Aurelius, despite his initial burst of enthusiasm, seemed to grow more sullen with each passing day. He spent long hours every night on the bastions, arms at the ready, scanning the darkness as if waiting for an enemy who never arrived – an enemy who none the less made him feel bewildered and powerless; a ghost, who resembled Aurelius himself: the ghost of a coward or worse, of a traitor. He was always up on the bastions readying his defences, preparing his strategy. When would the siege begin? When would the hordes on horseback appear at the horizon? When would the hour of truth strike out of that blue sky? Who would open the doors to the enemy this time? Who would let the wolf into the fold?

Ambrosinus sensed Aurelius’s thoughts, felt a pain so intense that not even Livia’s love could assuage it. He realized that the time had come to confront events head on, to force the hand of a destiny which had mocked and escaped them – and just as he was reflecting on the best course of action, Kustennin appeared on his white stallion. He brought sad news: Wortigern had ordered the dissolution of the senate by the end of the month. The people would have to forego the ancient magistratures, and within the city walls would have to accept a garrison of fierce mercenaries from the continent.

‘Perhaps you were right, Myrdin,’ reflected Kustennin. ‘The only true liberty is what we win with our sweat and our blood, but now it’s too late.’

‘That’s not true,’ replied Ambrosinus, ‘and you’ll know why if you drop in on tomorrow’s session of the senate.’

Kustennin shook his head as if he had never heard so much nonsense, then leapt into his saddle and rode off at a gallop through the deserted valley.

*

The next morning, when it was still dark, Ambrosinus took Romulus by the hand and they started off towards the city.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Aurelius.

‘To Carvetia,’ he replied. ‘To the senate, or to the market square where I’ll call the people to assembly, if necessary.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘No, your place is here, at the head of your men. Have faith,’ he said, and took his pilgrim’s staff, making his way with the boy along the path that meandered through the meadows, along the banks of the Virginis lake, leading to the city.

Carvetia still seemed a Roman city: its walls of rectangular stone guarded by sentries, its streets and its buildings, the customs of its people and its language. Ambrosinus found himself in front of the senate, where the people’s representatives were entering for a council session. Other citizens entered as well, crowding into the atrium before the doors were closed.

One of the orators stood to take the floor: an austere, striking figure wearing simple clothing and with a look of honesty. He must have enjoyed great respect and consideration, because a hush fell over the hall when he began to speak.

‘Senate and people of Carvetia!’ he commenced. ‘Our condition has become intolerable. The tyrant has hired new foreign mercenaries of unprecedented savagery, with the pretext of protecting the population of the cities still governed by autonomous institutions. He is about to dissolve the last symbol of the free assembly of citizens in Britannia: our senate!’ A buzz of consternation spread among the senate seats and the people thronging in the atrium.

‘What shall we do?’ continued the orator. ‘Bend our heads as we have done until now? Accept more bullying and more shame, allow them to trample our rights and our dignity, to profane our homes, to tear our own wives and daughters from our arms?’

‘Unhappily, we have no choice,’ spoke up one of the senators. ‘Resisting Wortigern would mean the death of us all.’

‘That’s true!’ another chimed in. ‘We can’t hope to face his ire. We’d be swept away. If we submit, we can at least try to preserve some of our advantages.’

Ambrosinus strode forward then, holding Romulus by the hand. ‘I would like to ask for the floor, noble senators!’ he shouted.

‘Who are you?’ asked the president. ‘Who are you to disturb our assembly?’

Ambrosinus bared his head and advanced to the centre of the hall, keeping Romulus close, sensing the boy’s reluctance to show himself.

‘I am Myrdin Emreis,’ he began, ‘Druid of the sacred wood of Gleva and Roman citizen with the name of Meridius Ambrosinus, for as long as Roman law reigned over this land. Many years ago you sent me to Italy with the mission of imploring the emperor for help, and returning with an army that would re-establish order and prosperity to this suffering land, just as in the glorious time of Saint Germanus, the hero sent by Aetius, the last and most valiant of the soldiers of Rome.’

Their stupor at his unexpected appearance had plunged the room into an oppressive silence and Ambrosinus continued: ‘I failed in this mission. I lost my companions during our journey as they fell to cold, to hunger, to disease and to attacks. It was a miracle that I survived. I sat for days and days, suppliant, in the court of the imperial palace of Ravenna. All in vain. I was never even admitted into the presence of the emperor, a spineless man totally under the power of his barbarian militias. Now I have returned. I’m late, this is true, but I’m not alone. My hands are not empty!

‘All of you, I believe, are familiar with the oracle that announces the coming of a young, pure-hearted man who will bring the sword of justice to this land and restore her lost liberty. I have brought you this young man, noble senators!’ he shouted out, and had the boy advance until he stood alone before them.

‘This is Romulus Augustus Caesar, the last emperor of the Romans!’

His words met with a deep, astonished silence, then a confused murmur which grew to a widespread muttering. Some seemed awestruck by Ambrosinus’s claims, others began to laugh and to make fun of the unexpected orator.

‘Where is this miraculous sword?’ asked a senator, raising his voice over the fracas.

‘And where are the legions of the new Caesar?’ asked another. ‘Do you have any idea of how many warriors Wortigern has? Any idea at all?’

Ambrosinus hesitated, wounded by their words. He began again: ‘The twelfth Draco legion is being reinstated. The emperor will be presented to the soldiers, who I’m sure will find the will and the strength to fight and to oppose this tyranny.’

Thunderous laughter echoed through the hall, and a third senator took the floor to speak. ‘You’ve been gone a long time, Myrdin,’ he said, using his Celtic name. ‘That legion was dissolved long ago. No one would ever even dream of taking up arms again.’

More laughter followed and Romulus felt overwhelmed by that wave of derision and scorn flooding over him, but he stood his ground. He covered his face with his hands and stood immobile in the centre of the hall. The uproar died down at the sight of him, becoming a buzz of embarrassment and sudden shame. Ambrosinus laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and began to speak again, enflamed by his indignation. ‘Laugh, noble senators! Mock this poor boy. He has no way to defend himself nor to retort to your foolish insolence. He has seen his own parents cruelly butchered, he has been hunted relentlessly, like an animal, by all of the powers of this earth. Once accustomed to imperial pomp, he has had to deal with the harshest privation. He is a hero. He has concealed in his heart the pain, the desperation and the fear that are more than understandable in a boy his age, with the strength and the dignity of an ancient hero of the Republic.