The Last Legion
Valerio Massimo Manfredi
THE LAST LEGION
VALERIO MASSIMO MANFREDI is the professor of classical archaeology at the Luigi Bocconi University in Milan. He has carried out a number of expeditions to and excavations in many sites throughout the Mediterranean, and has taught in Italian and international universities. He has published numerous articles and academic books, mainly on military and trade routes and exploration in the ancient world.
He has published ten works of fiction, including the Alexander trilogy, which has been translated into twenty-four languages in thirty-eight countries, and The Last Legion, recently released as a major motion picture.
He has written and hosted documentaries on the ancient world, which have been transmitted by the main television networks, and has written fiction for cinema and television as well.
He lives with his family in the countryside near Bologna.
Also by Valerio Massimo Manfredi
ALEXANDER: CHILD OF A DREAM
ALEXANDER: THE SANDS OF AMMON
ALEXANDER: THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
SPARTAN
HEROES
(formerly The Talisman of Troy)
TYRANT
THE ORACLE
EMPIRE OF DRAGONS
THE TOWER
VALERIO MASSIMO MANFREDI
THE LAST LEGION
Translated from the Italian by Christine Feddersen-Manfredi
PAN BOOKS
First published 2003 by Macmillan
First published in paperback 2003 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2009 by Pan Books
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ISBN 978-0-330-51560-3 in Adobe Reader format
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Copyright © Valerio Massimo Manfredi 2002
Translation c opyright © Macmillan 2003
First Published in Italian 2002 as L’Ultima Legione by Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A, Milano
The right of Valerio Massimo Manfredi to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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I would like to thank Carlo Carlei and Peter Rader, who helped me to develop the idea for this novel in view of a cinematic adaption: their contributions significantly enriched this story.
PROLOGUE
These are the memories of Myrdin Emreis, Druid of the sacred wood of Gleva, who the Romans called Meridius Ambrosinus. I have taken upon myself the task of writing them down so that those who shall come after me will not forget the events which I have been the last to witness.
I have long crossed the threshold of extreme age and I cannot explain why my life continues to go on, so far beyond the limits which nature usually assigns humankind. Perhaps the angel of death has forgotten about me, or perhaps he wants to leave me this last bit of time so that I may repent of my many sins, of no small consequence. Presumption, foremost. I have been guilty of great pride in the intelligence gifted me by God, and I have allowed, out of pure vanity, legends about my clairvoyance – even about supposed powers that can only be attributed to our Supreme Creator and the intercession of His saints! – to take root amongst the people. Oh, yes, I have even devoted myself to the forbidden arts, to the writings of the ancient pagan priests of these lands on the trunks of trees. Yet I believe I have done no evil. What evil can come of listening to the voices of our Ancient Mother, of Sovereign Nature, the voices of the wind amidst the leafy boughs, the song of the nightingales to the moon, the gurgling of the spring waters and the rustling of the dry leaves, when the hills and the plains are cloaked with the gleaming colours of autumn in those quiet sunsets that hint at the winter.
It is snowing. Big white flakes dance in the still air and a candid mantle covers the hills that crown this silent valley, this lonely tower. Will the land of Eternal Peace be like this? Is this the image that we shall see forever with the eyes of our souls? If it were such, death would be sweet, soft the passage to our final rest.
How much time has passed! How long since those bloody, tumultuous days of hate and war, of the convulsions of a dying world which I had believed immortal and eternal, and which I saw collapse. Now, as I prepare myself to take my last step, I feel the need to hand down the story of that failing world, and to tell how the last bloom of that parched tree was carried by fate to this remote land, where it took root and gave origin to a new era.
I don’t know whether the angel of death will leave me the time, nor whether this old heart will hold up to reliving the emotions that nearly broke it asunder when I was so much younger, but I will not let the immensity of my endeavour discourage me. I feel the wave of memories rising like the tide among the cliffs of Carvetia. I have once more seen distant visions that I had thought forever vanished, like an ancient fresco faded by time.
I had thought that taking up my quill and touching it to this fresh parchment would have been sufficient to recreate the story, setting it free to flow like a river through a field when the snow melts in the spring, but I was wrong. Memories throng and press, a knot fills my throat and my hand falls impotent on the white page. I must first evoke the images, restore the strength of those colours, of the lives and the voices enfeebled by the years and the distance. I must even recreate what I have not seen with my own eyes, as the dramatist plays out scenes on his stage which he has never experienced.
It is snowing on the hills of Carvetia. All is white and silent as the last light of the day is slowly extinguished.
From nations far apart you have made a single fatherland
– Rutilius Namatianus, De Reditu suo, 63
CONTENTS
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
Part Two
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
Part Three
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
EPILOGUE
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
PART ONE
1
Dertona, fieldcamp of the Nova Invicta Legion,
Anno Domini 476, 1229 years after the foundation of Rome
THE LIGHT PIERCED through the clouds covering the valley, and the cypr
esses straightened up suddenly like guards, alert on the ridge of the hills. A shadow bending over a bundle of twigs appeared at the edge of a stubble field and vanished at once, as if in a dream. A cock’s crow rose from a distant farmhouse, announcing another grey, leaden day, only to be swallowed up instantly by the fog. Nothing penetrated the mist, save the voices of the men.
‘Blasted cold.’
‘It’s this damp that gets into your bones.’
‘It’s the fog. I’ve never seen such thick fog in all my life.’
‘Nor have I. And not a sign of our rations.’
‘Perhaps there’s nothing left to eat.’
‘Not even a little wine to warm us up.’
‘And we haven’t been paid for three months.’
‘I can’t take it any longer, I’ve had it with this whole thing. A new emperor practically every year, barbarians controlling all the main posts, and now, to top it all off: a snotty-nosed kid on the throne of the Caesars! A thirteen-year-old brat who hasn’t even got the strength to hold up the sceptre is supposed to be running the world – the West, at least. No, this is it for me, I’m getting out. As soon as I can I’m leaving the army and going my own way. I’ll find myself a little island where I can put goats out to pasture and make cheese. I don’t know about the rest of you, but my mind is made up.’
A light breeze opened a breach in the mist and revealed a group of soldiers huddled around a brazier. They were waiting to go off the last shift of guard duty. Rufius Vatrenus, a Spaniard from Saguntum and a veteran of many battles, commander of the guard corps, turned to his comrade, the only one who hadn’t yet said a word or sounded a complaint: ‘What do you say, Aurelius, are you with me?’
Aurelius poked the tip of his sword into the brazier, rekindling a flame that crackled into life and set a swirl of sparks dancing in the milky mist.
‘I’ve always served Rome. What else could I do?’
A long silence fell. The men looked at each other, gripped by a feeling of dismay and restless unease.
‘He’ll never hang up his sword,’ said Antoninus, a senior officer. ‘He’s always been in the army. He doesn’t even remember what he used to do before he joined up. He simply doesn’t remember ever being anywhere else. Isn’t that true, Aurelius?’
He got no answer, but the reflection of the nearly burnt-out embers revealed Aurelius’s melancholy look.
‘He’s thinking of what’s ahead,’ observed Vatrenus. ‘The situation is out of control again. If the reports I’ve heard can be believed, Odoacer’s troops have rebelled and attacked Ticinum, where the emperor’s father Orestes had taken refuge. They say that he’s heading for Placentia, and that he’s counting on us to knock some sense into these barbarians and buttress the tottering throne of his young Romulus Augustus. You know, I’m not sure we can do it this time. If you want to know what I think, I really doubt it. There’s three times as many of them as of us and—’
‘Wait – did you all hear that?’ asked one of the soldiers, the one closest to the palisade.
‘It’s coming from the field,’ replied Vatrenus, his gaze searching the semi-deserted camp, its frost-covered tents. ‘It’s the end of the night shift; it must be the daytime picket coming on duty.’
‘No!’ said Aurelius. ‘It’s coming from outside. Sounds like—’
‘Horsemen,’ nodded Canidius, a legionary from Arelate.
‘Barbarians,’ concluded Antoninus. ‘I don’t like it.’
The horsemen appeared all at once out of the fog along the narrow white road that led from the hills to the camp. Imposing, on their massive Sarmatian steeds covered with metallic scales, they wore studded iron helmets, conical in shape and bristling with crests. Long swords hung at their sides, and their blond or reddish locks fluttered in the misty air. Their black cloaks were worn over trousers made of the same coarse, dark wool. The fog and the distance made them look like demons out of hell.
Aurelius leaned over the paling to observe the band drawing closer and closer. The horses plodded through the puddles that had formed on the road after the rain of the night before had melted the snow, raising muddy splashes. ‘They’re Heruli and Skyrians from the Imperial Army, Odoacer’s men probably. Looks bad to me. What are they doing here at this hour, and why weren’t we notified? I’m going to report to the commander.’
He clambered down the stairs and ran across the camp towards the praetorium. The camp commander, Manilius Claudianus, a veteran nearly sixty years old who had fought as a young man with Aetius against Attila, was already on his feet, and as Aurelius entered his tent he was hooking his scabbard to his belt.
‘General, a squad of Herulian and Skyrian auxiliary troops are approaching. No one said anything about them coming, and I don’t like it.’
‘Neither do I,’ answered the officer in a worried tone. ‘Deploy the guard and open the gates. Let’s hear what they want.’
Aurelius ran to the palisade and instructed Vatrenus to have the archers take position. He then went down to the guard post, drew up the available forces, had the praetorian gate opened and walked out with the commander. In the meantime, Vatrenus woke the troops with a whispered alarm, one man to the next, almost in silence and without sounding the trumpets.
The commander was completely armed and wore his helmet, a manifest sign that he considered this a war zone. His guard flanked him on both sides. One man towered head and shoulders above all the rest: Cornelius Batiatus was a gigantic Ethiopian, black as coal, who never abandoned the general’s side. He carried an oval shield built to measure by an armourer to cover his huge body. A Roman sword hung from his left shoulder, while a barbarian double-edged axe hung from the right.
The band of barbarians on horseback were just paces away by now, and the man at their head raised his arm as a signal to stop. He had a thick head of red hair which fell at the sides in two long braids. His shoulders were covered by a cloak trimmed with fox fur and his helmet was decorated by a crown of tiny silver skulls. His bearing denoted his importance. He turned to Commander Claudianus without getting off his horse, speaking in a rough, guttural Latin:
‘Noble Odoacer, head of the Imperial Army, orders you to deliver your charge over to me. As of today, I shall assume command of this legion.’ He threw a roll of parchment tied with a leather cord at his feet, adding: ‘Your certificate of discharge and retirement orders.’
Aurelius stooped to pick it up but the commander stopped him with a peremptory gesture. Claudianus was from an ancient aristocratic family proud of their direct descent from a hero of the Republican Age, and the barbarian’s gesture stung him as an intolerable insult. He replied without losing his composure: ‘I don’t know who you are and I’m not interested in finding out. I take orders only from noble Flavius Orestes, the supreme commander of the Imperial Army.’
The barbarian turned towards his men and shouted: ‘Arrest him!’ They spurred on their horses and surged forwards with their swords unsheathed: it was evident that they had been ordered to kill them all. The guards retaliated in kind, as a unit of archers simultaneously appeared at the bastions of the camp, their arrows already nocked to the bowstrings. They let fly, at Vatrenus’s order, with deadly precision. Nearly all of the horsemen in the front line were hit, as were many of their horses. Wounded or lamed, they pulled their riders down with them in calamitous falls.
This did not stop the others, however, who jumped to the ground so they wouldn’t be so easy to hit and rushed headlong at Claudianus’s guards. Batiatus hurled himself into the fray, charging like a bull and delivering blows of unstoppable power. Many of the barbarians had never seen a black man, and they backed up, terrorized at the sight of him. The Ethiopian giant sheared off their swords and smashed their shields, chopping off their heads and their arms, whirling his axe and yelling: ‘Behold the Black Man! I hate you freckled pigs!’ In the fury of his assault, however, he had come too far forward and Commander Claudianus’s left flank was left unguarded. Aurelius had just rid
himself of an adversary when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, an enemy warrior lunging at the general, but his shield arrived too late to stop the barbarian’s pike from sinking into Claudianus’s shoulder. Aurelius shouted: ‘The commander! The commander is wounded!’
Meanwhile the gates to the camp had been thrown open and the heavy line infantry was charging forward full force, in complete battle gear. The barbarians were driven off, and the few survivors leapt on to their horses and fled with their chief.
*
Shortly thereafter, on the other side of the hills, they reported to their commander, a Skyrian named Mledo who regarded them with scorn and contempt. They looked pitiful: weapons dented, clothing ripped, filthy with blood and slime. Their chief muttered, head low: ‘They . . . refused. They said no.’
Mledo spat on the ground, then called his attendant and ordered him to sound the falling-in. The deep bellow of the horns rent the cloak of fog that still covered the countryside like a shroud.
*
Commander Claudianus was eased gently on to the plank bed in the infirmary and a surgeon prepared to remove the pike still stuck in his shoulder. The shaft had been sawn off to contain the damage caused by its swaying back and forth, but the tip had penetrated just below the collar bone and there was the risk of its perforating the lung as well. An assistant brought an iron to a red heat over coals, readying it for cauterizing the wound.
Trumpet blasts and cries sounded a new alarm from the bastions. Aurelius left the infirmary and ran up the stairs until he found himself beside Vatrenus who was staring at the horizon. The entire line of the hills was black with warriors.
‘Great gods,’ murmured Aurelius, ‘there are thousands of them.’
‘Go back to the commander and tell him what’s happening. I can’t see that we’ve got much choice here, but tell him we’re awaiting his orders.’
