The Last Legion (58 page)

Wulfila was nearly upon Aurelius and was screaming, enraged: ‘Fight, you coward! You won’t get away from me this time!’ He dealt the first, cleaving blow of his sword. Batiatus raised his shield, an enormous metallic disc, and saved Aurelius from the blade. The sword struck the shield with a terrible din, spraying off myriad sparks. Meanwhile the first wave of horsemen had penetrated the breach, flying through the flames and erupting into the camp. They unleashed their fury on everything they found, laying waste to the barracks and guard towers which were immediately set ablaze like giant torches.

‘There’s no one here!’ one of them shouted suddenly. ‘They’ve escaped. After them!’

Ambrosinus had scrambled to the top of the rock and beheld Aurelius fighting with desperate valour against Wulfila. The Roman’s shield flew into pieces, his sword bent under the blows of his adversary’s invincible blade, but all at once, in that chaos of wild screaming, in that din of clashing arms, a piercing, acute note rose above all else. It was a trumpet, sounding the attack. At that very instant, on the highest rim of the eastern hills, the glittering head and purple tail of the dragon came into view. A compact line of warriors advanced behind, their spears held low, their shields forming a wall, launching the ancient battle cry of the Roman infantry with every step. The Legion of the Dragon had appeared out of nowhere, and was hurtling down the slope, led by Kustennin flanked by two arrays of horsemen.

Wulfila had a moment’s hesitation and Batiatus charged him with all his bulk, throwing him off balance and pushing him sideways before he could deliver the mortal blow that would finish off Aurelius, totally unarmed now. Wulfila pitched to the ground, but as he was getting up, he caught a glimpse of Romulus falling off his horse and running towards the circle of stones to seek refuge. He bounded to his feet and set off after the boy but Vatrenus, who had guessed at his intentions, cut him off. Wulfila’s sword fell upon him with frightful power, slicing through his shield and cuirass. A stream of blood spurted from his chest as Wulfila broke away, shouting to his men ‘Cover me!’ Four of them lunged at Vatrenus, who continued to fight like a lion. Completely drenched in blood, he backed up to lean against a tree. They pierced him through once, twice, three times, nailing him to the trunk with their spears. Vatrenus had the strength to shout: ‘Go to hell, you bastards!’ before his head dropped, lifeless, to his chest.

The rest of the barbarians squared off against the small group of combatants, who continued to strike with fierce energy. Aurelius took the sword of a warrior who had fallen and resumed the battle, trying to get through to where he had seen Wulfila running, towards the megalithic circle that Romulus had escaped to. Demetrius and Orosius flanked him but fell one after the other, overpowered. Batiatus finally broke through, but not in time to save them, and managed to force the enemy line so that Aurelius broke through too on to open ground, heading towards the circle of stones. Surrounded now on every side, the giant swirled his axe, chopping off heads and arms, crushing shields and cuirasses, flooding the ground with blood. A spear stuck in his shoulder and he was forced to back up against a rock. Like a bear besieged by a pack of dogs, Batiatus continued to swipe at them with frightful power, even though his blood was flowing copiously down his left side. Livia spotted him and started shooting off her arrows as she raced over on her horse, transfixing the enemies who had their backs towards her as they swarmed around the wounded giant.

The fray continued ceaselessly, ferociously. The new combatants had reached the battle field, and advanced holding high the standard of the dragon. They drove back the enemy, who were completely taken aback by their sudden appearance, and forced them downhill.

Ambrosinus, in the meantime, had seen Wulfila’s move and was racing breathlessly at the edge of the battle field, trying to reach the circle of stones and shouting: ‘Seek shelter, Romulus! Run! Hide!’

Romulus had nearly reached the top of the hill and he turned around to seek out his friends in the midst of that bloody brawl.

He found before him a huge warrior with long white hair, his face covered with a mask of gold. He was very close now, rank with blood and sweat and brandishing a sword red with slaughter. He suddenly ripped the mask off his face, revealing a distorted grimace: Wulfila! Romulus drew back, terrified, towards one of the great pillars, holding his knife out in a feeble attempt at defence. In the distance he could hear the distressed cries of his tutor and the confused din of the battle, but his gaze was magnetically attracted to the tip of the blade being raised to kill him. With a swipe of the sword, the boy’s knife flew to his enemy’s feet. Romulus continued to back away, until he knocked against the stone pillar. His long flight was over. Anguish, fear, hope: that blade would finish them all off, in a moment, and yet the frenzy of his escape and the panicked terror which had engulfed him at the sight of his implacable enemy had given way to a mysterious serenity, as he prepared to die like a true soldier. As the sword lunged forward to pierce his heart he heard Ambrosinus’s voice within him, very clearly. ‘Defend yourself !’ it commanded, and he dodged the blow, miraculously, with a sudden twist to the side. The sword plunged into a crack in the stone and stuck there. Without even turning, Romulus grabbed a handful of the burning embers from the great slab and flung them into the eyes of Wulfila, who backed away, howling in pain. Ambrosinus’s voice inside him, again calm and clear, said: ‘Take the sword.’

Romulus obeyed. He grasped the magnificent golden hilt and pulled with tranquil strength. The blade meekly followed the young hand and when Wulfila opened his eyes he saw the boy pushing it two-handed towards his belly, his mouth wide in a cry more terrible than the roar of battle. In shock and amazement, he saw the blade penetrate his flesh and sink through his gurgling bowels. He felt it come out of his back, as sharp as the wild scream of that young boy.

He fell on to his knees and Romulus planted himself squarely in front of him to contemplate his end, but Wulfila felt his hate feeding the life still within him, igniting an energy that still craved victory. He grabbed the handle of the sword and pulled it slowly out of the horrible wound, raising it with one hand as the other pressed at his belly. He lurched forward, staring at his victim to immobilize him with the terrifying force of his gaze, but as he was about to deal the blow, another blade pushed out of his chest, driven in from behind. Aurelius was at his back, so close he could whisper in his ear with a voice as harsh and cold as a death sentence.

‘This is for my father, Cornelius Aurelianus Ventidius, who you murdered at Aquileia.’

A stream of blood leaked from his mouth but Wulfila was still on his feet, still trying to raise the sword which had become as heavy as lead. Aurelius’s blade transfixed him once again, from back to front, protruding from his sternum.

‘And this is for my mother, Caecilia Aurelia Silvia.’

Wulfila collapsed to the ground with a last rattling gasp. Under Aurelius’s astonished eyes, Romulus bent over, wet his fingers in his enemy’s blood and drew a vermilion line across his forehead. Then he raised the sword to the sky, launching a cry of triumph that echoed, tense and sharp, acute as a war horn, over the field of blood that lay at his feet.

The legion, victorious along the entire line, advanced in closed ranks towards the great circle of stones, following the glorious standard that had called them out of darkness and led them to victory. Kustennin grasped it in his hand, gleaming in the sun which had risen high in the sky. At the top of the hill, he dismounted and planted the standard into the ground near Romulus. He shouted: ‘Hail Caesar! Hail Son of the Dragon! Hail Pendragon!’

He gestured for four warriors to approach. They crossed their four spears, placed a huge round shield on top, and hoisted Romulus so that he was standing on it. They raised him to their shoulders in the Celtic manner so all could behold him. Kustennin began to strike his sword against his shield and the whole legion with him: thousands of swords clanged against shields as thousands of voices rose even louder than the deafening clangour of the arms, infinitely repeating that shout: ‘Hail Caesar! Hail Pendragon!’

Wulfila’s blood was on his forehead, the glittering sword was tight in his fist, and the victorious soldiers saw Romulus as a charmed being, as the young warrior of the prophecy. Their incessant shouting, fractured into a thousand echoes over the mountains, lit up his eyes with flaming passion, but, from on high, his gaze moved beyond the men to seek out his companions, and his triumph abruptly rang hollow. His frenzied euphoria gave way to choked emotion, as he jumped to the ground and made his way through the ranks of warriors who opened respectfully to allow his passage. Silence fell over the valley as he walked mute and dazed through the field strewn with cadavers. His eyes scanned the wounded and the dying, the frightful tangle of bodies still clutching each other in their death grip. He found Batiatus with a spear stuck in his shoulder, leaning against a rock, drenched in blood, in the middle of a heap of dead enemies. He saw his friends who had fallen in the unequal struggle: Vatrenus, nailed to a tree by three enemy spears, his eyes still open, still seeking an impossible dream; Demetrius and Orosius, inseparable in life, united in death, one alongside the other. Countless enemies, lying all around, had paid dearly for their deaths.

And Livia. Alive, but with an arrow in her side, her face a mask of pain.

Romulus burst out crying, hot tears that flooded his cheeks at the sight of his wounded companions and the friends that he would never see again. He walked on almost blindly, his sight dimmed by those harrowing visions, until he reached the shores of the lake. Small waves, just barely rippled by the wind, wet his sore feet and lapped at the tip of the sword still dripping blood. An infinite desire for peace washed over him, like a gentle springtime breeze. He cried out: ‘No more war! No more blood!’ and he washed his sword in the water until the blade shone like crystal. He stood up and began to swing it over his head, in a wider and wider circle, finally flinging it with all of his force into the lake. The blade flew through the air, dazzling bright against the sun, and plunged like a meteor into the heart of the moss-covered stone that rose at the centre of the lake.

The last breath of wind died down at that moment and the surface of the water calmed, revealing, reflecting a magical vision: the solemn figure of his tutor who had suddenly reappeared. The little silver mistletoe twig shone on his chest. His voice was nearly unrecognizable as he said: ‘It’s all over, my son, my lord, my king. No one shall ever dare touch you again, for you’ve passed through ice, fire and blood, like that sword which has penetrated the stone. You are the son of the dragon. You are Pendragon.’

Thus the battle was fought and was won: the battle of Mons Badonicus, which we call Mount Badon in our language. At the hand of Aurelianus Ambrosius Ventidius, a humble man, the last of the Romans. And thus the prophecy was fulfilled, a prophecy that had led me to undertake a journey that no one would have thought possible: first from my native land to Italy, and then, many years later, from Italy back all the way to Britannia. My disciple, emperor of the Romans for only a few days and then sentenced to endless imprisonment, thus became king of Britannia with the name of Pendragon, ‘the son of the dragon,’ as he had been acclaimed by the soldiers of the last legion on the day of his victory. Aurelianus remained at his side like a father, until he realized that the name Pendragon had definitively obscured the name Romulus, and that his love for Ygraine had completely occupied the heart of his adopted son. He then set off with Livia, the only woman he had ever loved in all his life, and nothing more was known of them. I like to think that they returned to their little homeland on the lagoon – Venetia – to continue to live as Romans without having to live like barbarians, and to build a future of liberty and peace.

Cornelius Batiatus departed with them, on the same ship, but perhaps he did not follow them to their destination. Perhaps he stopped at the Columns of Hercules, the gateway to his native land: Africa. I shall never forget that it was the warmth of his heart that restored breath to my lifeless boy on the icy peaks of the Alps. May the Lord permit him to meet others as noble and generous as he, on his life’s journey.

The seed which came from a dying world set down roots and produced fruit in this remote land, at the ends of the earth. The son of Pendragon and Ygraine is five years old now, as I finish this work of mine. He was given the name Arthur at birth, from Arcturius, which means ‘he who is born under the star of the Bear’. Only one who comes from the southern seas could give such a name to his son, which proves that whatever the destiny of a man may be, his most intimate memories never abandon him, until the day of his death.

Our enemies were driven back and our kingdom extended southward to include the city of Caerleon, one of the first we encountered upon our return to Britannia, but I have preferred to stay up here, to keep watch and to meditate in this tower at the Great Wall, listening to voices enfeebled by time. The wondrous sword still lies sunken into the stone, ever since that day of blood and glory. Only I now know the full inscription, I who read it that day long ago when I saw it for the first time:
CAI.IUL.CAES.ENSIS CALIBURNUS
, ‘the Calibian sword of Julius Caesar’.

Part of that inscription is buried deep in the stone now, and other letters have become covered by encrustations and lichens over the long years it has been exposed to the elements. The only letters still legible are
E S CALIBUR
, and that is the name that the people of this land give the sword, when frozen winter mornings allow them to walk over the ice to the centre of the lake and admire that extraordinary object. They say that only the hand of the king will ever extract it from the stone, on the day when he will once again have to combat evil.