The Last Legion, Page 2

  Aurelius reached the infirmary just as the surgeon was wrenching the tip of the pike from the shoulder of their wounded leader, and he saw the noble patrician’s face twist in a grimace of pain. Aurelius moved closer: ‘General, the barbarians are attacking. There are thousands and thousands of them, and they are completely encircling our camp. What are your orders?’

  Blood spurted copiously from the wound on to the hands and face of the surgeon and his assistants who were doing their utmost to staunch it while another approached with the red hot iron. The surgeon plunged it into the hole and Commander Claudianus moaned, gritting his teeth so as not to cry out. The acrid odour of burnt flesh saturated the little room and a dense smoke arose from the scorching iron which continued to sizzle in the wound.

  Aurelius said again, ‘General . . .’

  Claudianus stretched out his free hand towards Aurelius: ‘Listen . . . Odoacer wants to exterminate us, because we represent an insurmountable obstacle for him. The Nova Invicta is a relict from the past but we still frighten them. All Romans, from Italy and the provinces; he knows we’ll never obey him. That’s why he wants us all dead. Go at once to Orestes, he must be told what’s happening here. Tell him that we’re surrounded . . . that we desperately need his help . . .’

  ‘Send someone else,’ answered Aurelius, ‘I beg of you. I want to stay. All my friends are here.’

  ‘No. You must obey my orders. Only you can succeed. We still have control over the bridge on the Olubria; it will certainly be their first objective in cutting us off from Placentia. Go, now, before the circle closes in, hie to it and never stop. Orestes is at his villa outside the city with the emperor. We’ll manage to hold out here.’

  Aurelius lowered his head: ‘I’ll be back. Fight them off for as long as you can.’ He turned. Behind him, Batiatus stared mutely at his commander, wounded and deathly pale, stretched out on the planks soaked with his blood. Aurelius didn’t have the courage to say a word. He ran out and reached Vatrenus on the sentry walk: ‘He has ordered me to go and seek reinforcements: I’ll be back as soon as I can. Hold them off; I know we can do it!’ Vatrenus nodded without speaking. There was no hope in his gaze, just the determination to die like a soldier.

  Aurelius couldn’t bring himself to speak. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. A whinny could be heard in reply, and a bay stallion trotted towards the bastions. Aurelius sprang into the saddle, spurring him towards the rear gate. Vatrenus ordered the doors to be unbolted for just long enough to let out the galloping horse and his rider, then had them closed again immediately.

  Vatrenus watched as he rode off into the distance, heading towards the bridge on the Olubria. The squad guarding the bridgehead realized immediately what was happening, as a large group of barbarian horsemen detached from the bulk of the army and raced directly towards them.

  ‘Will he make it?’ asked Canidius at his side.

  ‘You mean will he make it back? Yes. Perhaps,’ replied Vatrenus. ‘Aurelius is the best we’ve got.’ The tone of his voice and his expression told a different story.

  He turned back again, observing Aurelius as he raced to cover the open ground between the camp and the bridge. He soon saw another squad of barbarian cavalry emerging suddenly on the left and joining up with the squad arriving from the right, closing in like a pair of pincers to cut short his flight, but Aurelius was as fast as the wind, and his horse devoured the flat terrain between the camp and the river. Aurelius was stretched out nearly flat on the horse’s back so as to offer less resistance and less of a mark for the arrows which were bound to start raining upon him.

  ‘Run, run,’ growled Vatrenus between his teeth, ‘That’s the way to do it, boy . . .’

  He realized almost instantly that the assailants were too numerous and that they would soon overwhelm the soldiers at the bridgehead. Aurelius needed a greater lead. ‘Catapults!’ he shouted. The men arming the catapults were ready, and aimed their missiles at the barbarian cavalry converging on the bridge.

  ‘Fire!’ shouted Vatrenus again, and sixteen catapults discharged their arrows towards the heads of the two squads, hitting their mark. Those in the lead keeled over while those just behind them tumbled headlong over their fallen comrades. Others were crushed by the weight of their horses, while the archers stationed at the bridge picked off a number of those on the sides. First they sent a swarm of arrows horizontally into the crowd, then flung their javelins high to swoop down in the centre. Many barbarians fell, run through, as more horses stumbled and rolled over, dragging and burying their horsemen beneath them. The remaining comrades continued their charge, fanning out, yelling in fury at this reverse.

  Aurelius was close enough so that his companions drawn up on the bridge could hear his voice. He recognized Vibius Quadratus, a tent mate, and shouted: ‘I’m going for help! Cover me! I’ll be back!’

  ‘I know!’ shouted Quadratus and raised his arm to signal the others to open a passage for Aurelius. He shot through the line of comrades like a lightning bolt and the bridge thundered under the hooves of his powerful steed. The garrison closed up compactly behind him, shields clanging tight against shields. The front line knelt while the second stood, only the tips of their spears protruding, shafts planted firmly in the ground.

  The barbarian horsemen flung themselves at that little garrison in a blind frenzy, submerging that last bulwark of Roman discipline like a tidal wave. The bridge was so narrow that some of the assailants crashed into each other and were flung to the ground. Others made their way to the centre where they furiously attacked the small contingent. The Romans were pushed back, but held their line. Many of the barbarians’ horses were wounded by spears, while others reared up and threw their horsemen, who ended up on the iron spikes. The combat was fierce, man against man, sword against sword. The defenders knew that every instant gained meant ground gained for Aurelius, and this could mean the salvation of the entire legion. They knew what horrible torture awaited them if they were taken alive, so they fought with utter disregard for their fate, loudly urging each other on.

  Aurelius had reached the far end of the plain and turned around before bounding into the forest of oak trees before him. The last thing he saw was his comrades being overrun by the relentless vehemence of the enemy.

  ‘He’s made it!’ exulted Antoninus from the camp’s sentry walk. ‘He’s in the forest, they’ll never get him now. Now we have a chance.’

  ‘You’re right,’ replied Vatrenus. ‘Our comrades on the bridge let themselves be slaughtered so they could cover his retreat.’

  Batiatus arrived then from the infirmary.

  ‘How’s the commander?’ asked Vatrenus.

  ‘The surgeon has cauterized the wound, but he says the pike has punctured a lung. He’s coughing up blood and his fever is rising.’ He clenched his cyclopean fists and tightened his jaw. ‘The first one of them I see I swear I’ll butcher him, I’ll demolish him, I’ll smash him into pieces. I’ll eat his liver . . .’

  His comrades looked at him in a sort of admiring shock: they knew quite well that his weren’t mere words.

  Vatrenus changed the subject: ‘What day is it today?’

  ‘The nones of November,’ replied Canidius. ‘What difference does it make?’

  Vatrenus shook his head: ‘Just three months ago Orestes was presenting his son to the Senate, and now he already has to defend the boy from Odoacer’s fury. If Aurelius is lucky he’ll get there sometime in the middle of the night. The reinforcements could leave at dawn and be here in two days’ time. If Odoacer hasn’t occupied all the passes and bridges, if Orestes has loyal troops he can set to march right away, if . . .’

  His words were interrupted by blasts of alarm coming from the guard towers. The sentries shouted: ‘They’re attacking!’

  Vatrenus reacted as if lashed by a whip. He called the standard bearer: ‘Raise the ensign! All men at their battle posts! Machines in firing position! Archers to the palisade! Men of the Nova Invicta L
egion, this camp is the last outpost of Rome, the sacred land of our ancestors! We shall defend it at all costs! Show these beasts that the honour of Rome is not dead!’

  He grabbed a javelin and ran to his place on the bastions. At that very same instant from the hills exploded the howl of barbarian fury, and thousands upon thousands of horsemen made the earth tremble with their wrathful charge. They dragged chariots and wheeled carriages loaded with sharpened poles to hurl against the fortifications of the Roman camp. The defenders thronged the palisade, drawing the strings of their bows, spasmodically clutching at the javelins in their fists, pale with tension, their foreheads drenched with cold sweat.

  2

  FLAVIUS ORESTES GREETED his guests personally at the door to his country villa: notables from the city, senators, high army officers, all with their families. The lamps were lit and dinner was ready to be served: the lavish celebrations for his son’s thirteenth birthday were about to commence. It was three months since young Romulus Augustus had risen to the throne.

  Orestes had long pondered on whether it would be wise to postpone this banquet, given the dramatic situation unfolding. This unforeseen rebellion of Odoacer, with his Herulian and Skyrian troops! But in the end he had decided there was no reason to sow panic by abruptly changing plans. After all, his most seasoned division, the Nova Invicta, trained in the manner of the ancient legions, were on their way at that very moment, proceeding at a forced march. His brother Paulus was advancing from Ravenna at the head of more select troops. The rebellion would soon be quashed.

  *

  Flavia Serena was exceedingly ill-humoured, worried and sullen. Orestes had tried to hide the fall of Ticinum from his wife, but he had to think that she knew much more than she let on.

  Orestes’ gaze fell on her melancholy figure, off on her own by the tablinum door. Her attitude stung him as a harsh rebuke. She had always been against Romulus’s ascent to the throne, and these celebrations irritated her beyond measure. Orestes approached her, trying to hide his inner conflict and his disappointment. ‘Why so withdrawn? You are the mistress of this house and the mother of the emperor. You should be at the centre of attention, at the centre of the festivities!’

  Flavia Serena looked at her husband as if the words he had just pronounced were totally devoid of sense, and replied harshly: ‘You have succeeded in fulfilling your ambitions by exposing an innocent child to mortal danger.’

  ‘He’s not a child! He’s practically a young man now, and he has been educated to become a sovereign. We’ve discussed this so often; I was hoping that you would spare me your ill humour, at least for today. What are you worried about? Look around you. It’s a lovely party, our son is happy, and his tutor is satisfied as well; Ambrosinus is a wise man, and you’ve always trusted his judgement.’

  ‘How can you rave on like this? What you’ve built is already falling to pieces. The barbarian troops of Odoacer, who had pledged to back you, have risen up in rebellion and are sowing death and destruction everywhere.’

  ‘I shall force Odoacer to come around, and stipulate a new agreement. It isn’t the first time such things have happened. They have no interest in bringing about the fall of an empire that provides them with land and money.’

  Flavia Serena sighed and lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them directly to her husband’s: ‘Is it true what Odoacer is going around saying? Is it true that you had promised him a reward? A third of all Italy? And then that you went back on your word?’

  ‘No, it’s not true. He . . . misinterpreted what I’d said.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t change the situation much, does it? If he prevails, how do you think you’ll be able to protect our son?’

  Orestes took her hands between his. The noise of the surrounding festivities seemed to abate, muffled by the anguish that was growing between them like a nightmare. A dog barked in the distance and Orestes felt his wife’s hands trembling. ‘You must not worry,’ he said. ‘We have nothing to fear. I want you to know you can trust me, so I’m about to tell you something I’ve kept hidden from you all these years. I’ve established a special division, in complete secrecy – a loyal, cohesive fighting unit, all Romans from Italy and the provinces, trained like the legions of old. They take orders from Manilius Claudianus, an officer from the Roman aristocracy, a man who would sooner die than go back on his word. These soldiers have proven their incredible valour on our borders and I have ordered them now to return here, at a forced march. They could be here in two or three days’ time. What’s more, Paulus is on his way here from Ravenna at the head of another contingent. You see, you have nothing to worry about. Now, please, come and join our guests.’

  Flavia Serena let herself be convinced that his words were spoken in truth, because in her heart of hearts she wanted nothing but to believe him, but as she tried to find her smile so she could take part in the reception, the dog’s barking became louder and was joined by furious howling from all the others. The guests paused in their pleasantries and in that moment of silence a cry of alarm rose from the courtyard and the horns sounded the falling-in of the guard. An officer charged into the room and ran towards Orestes: ‘We’re being attacked, sir! There are hundreds of them, with Wulfila at their head!’

  Orestes swiftly pulled a sword from a panoply which hung on the wall and shouted: ‘Quickly, take up arms! We’re under attack! Ambrosine, take the boy and his mother and hide in the woodshed. Don’t move from there for any reason until I come to get you. Quickly, quickly!’

  They could already hear the deafening roar of a battering ram at the gate and the entire line of fortification of the villa shook under its blows. Just as the defenders were rushing to the sentry walk in an attempt to drive back the attack, dozens of scaling ladders were being leaned up against the parapet, and hundreds of warriors were surging in from every direction, filling the air with their wild cries. The gate gave way and a gigantic horseman burst through with an acrobatic leap of his horse. Orestes recognized Odoacer’s lieutenant and lunged at him, waving his sword: ‘Wulfila! You traitor! You villain!’

  *

  Ambrosinus had managed to reach the woodshed, dragging the shaking, terrified boy behind him, but in the general confusion he had not noticed that Flavia Serena was not following. From a crack in the door, Romulus could see the tragedy unfolding. He saw the guests fall one after another to the floor in their own blood. He saw his father, challenging that beastly giant with the courage of his despair: Orestes was wounded and fell to his knees, yet he rose again, sword still in hand, and fought bravely until his energies abandoned him and he finally dropped, run through. The convulsive flickering of the boy’s eyelids broke the experience up into a thousand sharp splinters and drove them deep into his memory. He heard his mother crying: ‘No! Curse you! May you all be damned!’ as Ambrosinus ran out to protect her. She screamed in horror, pulling out her hair and digging her nails into her face as she knelt beside her dying husband. Romulus scurried out of hiding as well. He would rather die with his parents than remain alone in that savage world! The boy gasped as the gigantic warrior dipped his hand into his father’s blood and drew a red line with it across his forehead. He rushed to where his father’s sword had fallen: he would take it up himself, he would destroy the enemy!

  Ambrosinus, moving lightly and somehow unnoticed through that shower of darts, amidst the combatants clutching each other in hand-to-hand contest, planted himself between the boy and the sword of a barbarian who had just run up and whose blade would have taken the boy’s head off had Wulfila himself not blocked the blow: ‘Idiot!’ he growled at the soldier. ‘Can’t you see? Don’t you know who he is?’

  The other lowered his sword in confusion. ‘Take all three of them,’ Wulfila ordered. ‘The woman too. We’ll be taking them with us. To Ravenna.’

  The battle was over. The defenders had been overpowered and put to the sword, one after another. Some of the guests had escaped through the windows into the dark countryside and others
had hidden in the servants’ quarters, under beds or in storehouses or in the midst of the farm tools, but many had been mowed down without pity in the fury of the attack. Even the musicians who had been delighting the guests with their melodies were dead now and lay with their eyes wide open, still holding their instruments. The women had been raped repeatedly as their fathers and husbands were forced to look on, before their own throats were slit like lambs at the slaughter.

  The statues had been toppled from their pedestals in the garden, the plants and bushes had been uprooted and the fountains were flowing with blood. Blood stained the floors and splashed the frescoed walls, and the barbarians were busy finishing up the job by sacking all the precious objects in that sumptuous residence: candelabra, furnishings, vases. Those who were not able to get their hands on anything of value contemptuously mutilated the corpses or soiled the magnificent mosaic floors. The incoherent cries of those savages drunk on the butchery were joined by the crackling of the flames that had begun to devour that unfortunate house.

  The three prisoners were dragged away and thrown on to a cart pulled by a couple of mules. Wulfila shouted: ‘Let’s get out! Out of here, I said, we have a long way ahead of us!’

  His men grudgingly abandoned the devastated villa and lined up one after another on horseback, trotting along after the small convoy. Romulus wept in silence in the dark, curled into his mother’s arms. In less than an hour he had fallen from imperial triumph to the most miserable of all fates. His father had been massacred before his eyes and he was a prisoner of these beasts, completely in their power. Ambrosinus sat behind them, unspeaking and shocked. He turned to look at the great rural villa going up in flames. The spiralling smoke and sparks that rose towards the sky spread an evil glow over the horizon. He had been able to save only his satchel, the one that he had brought with him to Italy so many long years ago, and just one of the thousands of books in his library: the splendidly illustrated Aeneid that the senators had presented as a gift for Romulus. His hand skimmed the leather cover of the volume and he thought that fate had not been so cruel after all, if it had left him with Virgil’s verses for company. Prophetic, in a way.