The Last Legion (54 page)

‘Where is your pride, senators of Carvetia? Where is your dignity? You deserve the tyranny of Wortigern. You have got your just deserts, because you harbour the souls of servants! This boy has lost everything but his honour and his life. His is the suffering majesty of a true sovereign. I have brought him to you as the last seed of a dying tree, so as to bear forth a new world, but the ground I’ve found here is putrid and sterile. It is only right that you refuse him, because you do not deserve him. No! You deserve the scorn of any man of honour or faith!’

Ambrosinus had finished his heartfelt speech to dead silence. A leaden weight lay upon that dismayed and confused assembly. Ambrosinus spat on the ground as a sign of his extreme disdain, then took Romulus by the arm and walked out scornfully, as a few faint voices tried to call him back. As soon as they had left, making their way through the crowd, the discussion started up again and soon rose to quite a pitch, but one of the senators hastened to a side door and slipped into a waiting carriage, ordering the driver to depart immediately. ‘To Castra Vetera,’ he said. ‘To Wortigern’s castle, hurry!’

Ambrosinus, furious over the insult, had walked out into the square. He was trying all the same to encourage Romulus to hold fast against the insults of destiny, when suddenly he was taken by the arm.

‘Myrdin!’

‘Kustennin!’ exclaimed Ambrosinus. ‘My God, what shame! Did you see what happened? Were you in the senate?’

The man lowered his head: ‘I was. Do you understand now why I said it was too late? Wortigern has corrupted most of the senators. He can easily dissolve the institution today without encountering any resistance.’

Ambrosinus shook his head solemnly. ‘I must speak with you,’ he said. ‘I must speak with you at length, but I cannot remain here now. I have to take my boy home . . . Romulus, come on, let’s leave . . .’ He looked around, but Romulus was nowhere to be seen. ‘Oh God, where are you? Where is the boy?’ he exclaimed in anguish.

Egeria had just arrived, and she approached him. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the woman with a smile. ‘There he is, down there on the beach. My daughter Ygraine is with him.’

Ambrosinus breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Let them talk together for a little while. Young people need each other,’ added Egeria. ‘Tell me, is it true what I’ve just heard from the people leaving the senate? I couldn’t believe my ears. Where has common dignity gone? Or at least the decency to hide one’s cowardice?’

Ambrosinus answered with a nod of his head, but his eyes never moved from the boy sitting down there at the edge of the sea.

*

Romulus watched silently as the waves washed over the pebbles on the shore and he could not control the sobs which racked his chest.

‘What’s your name? Why are you crying?’ asked the voice of a girl behind him. It was a pretty, carefree voice that irritated him, but then the touch of a hand on his cheek, as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, passed on a little soothing warmth.

He replied without turning, because he didn’t want her face to be different from the one that he had suddenly imagined: ‘I’m crying because I’ve lost everything: my parents, my home, my land; because I may lose the last friends I have, and perhaps even my name and my freedom. I’m crying because there’s no peace for me anywhere on this earth.’

Those words were much bigger than she was, and the girl wisely responded with silence, but her hand continued to caress Romulus’s hair and his cheek, until she understood that he had calmed. Then she said: ‘My name is Ygraine, and I’m twelve. May I stay here with you a bit?’

Romulus nodded, drying his tears with the end of his sleeve, and she crouched down on the sand, sitting on her heels in front of him. He lifted his face to see if her face was as sweet as her voice and the touch of her fingers. He found two moist blue eyes and a face of delicate beauty, framed by a cascade of fiery-red hair that the sea breeze tousled, covering and baring her forehead and her splendid eyes. His heart skipped a beat, and a rush of heat rose from his chest. He’d never felt anything like it before. Her gaze held all the warmth and beauty and comfort that life might perhaps still have in store for him. He wanted to say something, to let his heart speak, but just then he heard Ambrosinus’s footsteps approaching, along with the others’.

‘Where will you sleep tonight?’ asked Kustennin.

‘At the fort,’ replied Ambrosinus.

Kustennin seemed worried: ‘Take care Myrdin! Your words won’t have gone unnoticed.’

‘That’s what I was hoping,’ retorted Ambrosinus, but he’d understood the import of Kustennin’s words and felt afraid.

‘Come now, Ygraine,’ said Egeria. ‘We have many chores to finish before evening.’ The girl stood up unhappily and followed her mother, turning back to look at the young foreigner, so different from the other boys she knew. His face was so very pale, his features and his voice quite noble. The intensity of his words was reflected in the deep melancholy of his eyes. Kustennin took his leave as well and walked away with his family.

Egeria let Ygraine skip off ahead and spoke to her husband: ‘They’re the ones who have raised the emblem of the dragon on the old fort, aren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ replied Kustennin. ‘Absolute folly – and today Myrdin claimed that the legion has been reinstated whereas in truth there are only six or seven of them in all. What’s more, he has revealed the boy’s identity to the senators. Can you believe it?’

‘I can’t imagine what the reaction to such a revelation might be,’ responded Egeria, ‘but that standard flying up there has certainly created an uproar, roused expectations. They say that some have dug up the arms that have lain buried for years. Lots of young men, I’ve heard, want to join up with the foreigners. There have been rumours of strange lights flashing at night up on the bastions, sounds like thunder echoing in the mountains. I’m worried. I fear that this semblance of peace, this laboured survival of ours, will be shaken by new upheavals, turbulence, blood.’

‘They’re only a group of fugitives, Egeria, an old visionary dreamer and a boy,’ replied Kustennin. He took a last look at his friend who had reappeared as if by magic after all these years.

The old man and the boy were on their feet, side by side. Without saying a word, they were watching the waves breaking against the cliff in a seething white foam.

*

The next day, towards evening, the senator’s carriage pulled up at the gates of Castra Vetera. He was allowed into Wortigern’s residence, but first had to pass muster with Wulfila, who enjoyed his lord’s complete trust. As they spoke, a satisfied sneer distorted the barbarian’s features.

‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘You must report directly to our sovereign. He will be most grateful.’ Then he accompanied him to the castle’s inner reaches, into Wortigern’s presence. The old man who received him sat sunken into his throne: his golden mask was the only note of light in that twilight atmosphere.

‘Speak,’ Wulfila ordered and the senator spoke.

‘Noble Wortigern,’ he said, ‘yesterday, at the senate of Carvetia, a man dared to speak out against you in public; he called you a tyrant and incited the people to rebel. He said that an old, long-dissolved legion is being reinstated, and he presented a boy, claiming that he was the emperor . . .’

‘It’s them,’ Wulfila interrupted him. ‘There can be no doubt. The old man raves about a prophecy that speaks of a young sovereign who will come from beyond the sea. He represents a true danger to you, believe me. He’s not as mad as he appears. On the contrary, he’s quite astute, and plays on the superstitions and the nostalgia of the old Roman-Celtic aristocracy. His goal is evident: he means to turn that little impostor into a symbol, and use him against you.’

Wortigern raised his thin hand to dismiss his informer and the senator bent over in an endless bow until he reached the door, through which he made a hurried escape.

‘What do you suggest then?’ the tyrant asked Wulfila.

‘Give me free rein. Allow me to depart with my men, with the men I can count on. I know these bastards, trust me: I’ll find them and I’ll rout them out, wherever they’re hiding. I’ll bring you the old man’s skin to stuff and I’ll keep the boy’s head.’

Wortigern tried to draw himself up. ‘It’s not the old man’s skin I’m interested in. We had a different deal.’

Wulfila started. In that very moment, destiny was offering him a priceless opportunity: his entire plan was falling into place. He just had to provide the final touch, and a future of limitless power would open itself to him. He replied, trying to keep his excitement under control: ‘You’re right, Wortigern! In my enthusiasm for finally winding up this long hunt of mine, I had forgotten my promise for an instant. Our agreement! You let me keep the boy’s head and give me the chance to wipe out these murdering deserters who are protecting him, and I will repay you with the gift I promised.’

‘I see that you can always read my thoughts, Wulfila. So, have this gift that you’ve had me wait for so anxiously brought here. But first there’s one thing you must tell me.’

‘Speak.’

‘Among those men you want to wipe out, is there perchance the one who cut your face?’

Wulfila lowered his eyes to hide the fierce light that flashed there and replied, despite himself: ‘That’s right. It’s as you say.’

The tyrant had had his satisfaction. He had once more established the superiority of his perfect mask of gold over the deformed mask of flesh of his present servant and potential antagonist, because Wulfila’s scar was the work of a man, while the gangrene that devoured the tyrant’s face could be nothing but the work of God.

‘I’m waiting,’ said Wortigern, and his words sounded hollow inside the mask, like the voice of judgement.

Wulfila went to call one of his warriors and ordered him to bring the object to him immediately. The man soon reappeared carrying a long, narrow case of oak, adorned with burnished iron studs, and deposited it at Wortigern’s feet.

Wulfila gestured for him to leave and drew closer to the throne himself, kneeling to open the precious case with the promised gift. He lifted his gaze to the inscrutable mask which loomed above him, and at that moment he would have given anything to glimpse the old man’s expression of obscene lust.

‘Here is my gift, my lord,’ he said, opening the lid with a swift gesture. ‘This is the Calibian sword of Julius Caesar, the first lord of the world, the conqueror of Britannia. It is yours!’

Wortigern couldn’t resist the fascination of that superb weapon. He reached out his hand and hissed: ‘Give it to me! Give it to me!’

‘Immediately, my lord,’ replied Wulfila, and in his gaze the tyrant read – too late – the lethal intentions burning within. He tried to cry out, but the sword was already sinking into his chest, stabbing through his heart, plunging all the way back into the throne. He collapsed without a whimper, and a trickle of blood dripped from his mask, the only sign of life on that immutable face appearing, in the extreme irony of fate, at the moment of his death.

Wulfila extracted the sword from the lifeless body and seized the golden mask from Wortigern’s face, revealing a bloody, unrecognizable mess. He cut into the skin of the scalp all around the head and tore off the white locks with a single yank. He dragged the body, little more than a larva, over to the window behind the throne and tossed him into the courtyard below. The howling of the famished mastiffs confined in their pen invaded the room like screams out of hell. Their muffled growling continued to echo through the tower as they contended the sorry flesh of their master.

Wulfila put the golden mask on his face and pulled Wortigern’s white mane of hair over his head. He grasped the blazing sword and thus he appeared to his warriors, like a demon, his temples scored with blood. They were already on horseback in the great courtyard and they gazed upon him, dumbstruck as he jumped into his stallion’s saddle and spurred him on, shouting: ‘To Carvetia!’

T
WO DAYS LATER
a man on horseback entered Kustennin’s courtyard at a full gallop, bringing incredible news with him. He was one of the few informers Kustennin still had inside Castra Vetera, his only resource in hedging the disastrous raids of the tyrant’s mercenaries.

‘They’ve always said that Wortigern made a pact with the devil!’ panted the man, his eyes wide with terror. ‘It’s true! Satan in person has given him back the strength and vigour of his youth, but he has increased his ferocity beyond all imagining!’

‘What are you saying? Have you lost your mind?’ exclaimed Kustennin, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him, as if that could restore his reason.

‘No, my lord, it is nothing but the truth! If you had nourished hope that he was on his last legs, you were deceived! It’s as if he were . . . resurrected! He’s possessed by Satan, I tell you! I saw him with these very eyes. He looked like a vision out of hell, with his golden mask on his face, dripping blood instead of sweat from his temples. His voice sounded like thunder, a voice no one has ever heard before, and the sword he gripped was so marvellous that I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life. Its blade was as sharp as a razor, it reflected the light of our torches like transparent glass, the hilt was an eagle’s head in solid gold. Only the archangel Michael could have forged such a marvel. Or the devil himself !’

‘Try to calm down,’ insisted Kustennin. ‘You’re raging.’