The Last Legion (39 page)

‘I thank you,’ said Aurelius. ‘Please help us.’

The man nodded and set his dog off on the trail. ‘Go on, Argus, there you go, boy, find our friends for us. His name is Argus,’ he said, turning to Aurelius. ‘Like Ulysses’ dog. It’s a good name, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is,’ commented Vatrenus. ‘Let’s hope he’s as good as his name.’

The dog had already sniffed something out and was digging frenetically with his front paws. ‘Dig where he shows you,’ ordered Ursinus. Aurelius and Vatrenus obeyed and pulled out Ambrosinus, livid and half frozen.

‘Help us, quickly!’ called out a voice on their right, from the rocky brink of the cliff. Aurelius rushed over, taking care not to slip. The scene he found was shocking: Orosius was hanging over the abyss, holding on to a pine tree which dangled over the void. Demetrius gripped the hilt of his dagger, which he’d planted into the ice and Livia was sliding down the length of his body until her legs were stretching out towards Orosius’s arms. He grabbed on, and Livia started pulling herself back up, hanging on to Demetrius’s belt as he desperately clutched his dagger. It seemed to Aurelius that he might let go at any moment. Aurelius plunged his own dagger into the ice and stretched out his other hand until he could grasp Demetrius’s and enable him to secure a better hold and drag himself slightly forward, where he could stick his weapon into a more compact layer of ice. The improved resistance of the new anchor and the fresh energy supplied by Aurelius gave the human chain new impetus and the strength to drag itself to safety.

‘Batiatus?’ gasped Aurelius.

‘The last time I saw him, he was rolling down that slope, in a clinch with two or three of the enemy. He’ll be back,’ replied Demetrius.

‘If they haven’t killed him,’ objected Aurelius.

‘If they haven’t killed him,’ echoed Demetrius, ‘but somehow I don’t think they will have.’

They were startled by a groan, and a barbarian soldier rose up just behind Livia, who wheeled around and knocked him over with a kick to the face, sending him tumbling into the precipice.

‘Where’s Romulus?’ she asked, not seeing him anywhere, just as Ambrosinus’s anguished voice reached them.

‘Run!’ he was shouting. ‘Run, for the love of God, this way!’

Batiatus’s bulky shape appeared just then at the edge of the slope facing east, and the Ethiopian rushed over as fast as he could. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

‘I think they’ve found the boy,’ replied Aurelius, with a voice that reserved no hope.

They neared the point where the dog was yelping and saw Vatrenus lifting Romulus’s lifeless body in his arms. The veteran’s face, whipped by the wind, was a mask of stone. Livia touched the boy’s frozen limbs and burst into tears. ‘Oh, my God! No!’

Aurelius got closer and looked questioningly into Vatrenus’s eyes.

‘He’s dead,’ announced his comrade. ‘There’s no pulse, and his heart has stopped beating.’ They all looked at each other, appalled. Batiatus was weeping, and drying his tears with the back of the hand still holding his sword. Only Ambrosinus seemed to remain in possession of his faculties in that storm of wind and despair. ‘We must find a shelter, quickly,’ he said, taking control of the bewildered group. ‘There’s not a moment to lose. If night falls upon us we shall be ruined.’

‘Follow me, then,’ said Ursinus. ‘There’s one not far from here. Stay close; it’s easy to get lost.’ He walked at mid-slope, circling the hill to its northern face, and pointed at a slab of rock jutting from the mountainside. A palisade of fir trunks reached up from the ground, creating a sort of enclosure fenced in on three sides. He slipped in and had the others enter as well. At the back was a thick layer of dry leaves and slender pine branches, while the inside of the palisade was lined with tanned goatskins. ‘They bring the sheep here when they are lambing,’ he said. ‘It’s the best I can offer.’

Vatrenus laid the boy’s body on the ground and Livia wept her heart out, hiding her face against the wall. Ambrosinus seemed neither to hear nor feel a thing. Distant, never forgotten images passed through his mind: a little boy who lay dying in a tent in the Apennine forest so many years before, a woman crying, overcome with grief. He would never give up. Never. He gave the boy a long caress, then began to undress him.

‘What are you doing?’ gasped Aurelius.

Ambrosinus placed his hand on the boy’s bare chest and closed his eyes. ‘There’s still a spark of life in him,’ he said calmly. ‘We have to feed it.’

Aurelius shook his head incredulously. ‘He’s dead, can’t you see? Dead, Ambrosinus.’

‘He cannot be dead,’ replied Ambrosinus, completely sure of himself. ‘The prophecy cannot be wrong.’

It was totally dark now, and the only reply to his words was the furious raging of the wind which whipped the mountainside. Ambrosinus had undressed the boy to his waist and had laid him on the blanket of leaves. His white skin stood out against that utter darkness. Ambrosinus turned to Batiatus: ‘You give off more warmth than anyone,’ he said, ‘because you have accumulated all the heat of Africa within you. Bare your chest and hold him tight; let your heart beat against his until it awakens again. I will try to light a fire.’

Batiatus did as he was asked, lifting the lifeless boy like a twig and clasping him close. Livia covered them both with a blanket so no heat would be lost. Aurelius and Vatrenus shook their heads, inconsolable and unbelieving.

Ambrosinus groped along the wall until he found a little dry moss, which he arranged carefully in a little pile, adding a few dry leaves. He then took the flints from his satchel and began to rub them one against the other with an expert hand. Large sparks sprayed up from the base of the little hearth and then a minuscule red spot appeared, barely visible at first. Ambrosinus got down on his knees and started to blow. The others watched with scepticism, unable to believe that he might succeed, but the little red spot slowly began to spread and the old man never stopped blowing at it, as if in doing so he could infuse life into the spent spirit of his boy.

Suddenly a little flame glittered in the dark, so small that it could scarcely be seen, but it soon grew in size and the moss caught fire and fed the flames which became brighter and more vigorous. Ambrosinus blew and blew, adding strips of moss, a leaf or two, a twig, until the flame became fire, and light. Little by little it conquered the darkness of that wretched shelter, illuminating the bodies huddled inside that tiny space, revealing Ambrosinus’s haunted expression and the broad face of the Ethiopian giant. Batiatus’s eyes were wide open in the dark, and filled with tears. Of joy.

‘He’s breathing!’ he whispered.

Ambrosinus had a shaken look, the look of a man who has startled awake in the dead of night, escaping a frightful nightmare.

They all gathered around Romulus, eager to hug him, each wanting to hold him close, while Ambrosinus warned: ‘Careful! The boy is still very weak. Let him catch his breath and gain back a little strength.’ Ursinus left the shelter to collect what dry branches he could find and added them to the fire, then rearranged the goatskins around the entrance to keep out the cold. A little warmth had begun to spread through the enclosure, and Romulus held his numb hands over the fire.

‘It was Batiatus who brought you back to life,’ Ambrosinus told him. Romulus got up and hugged the big Ethiopian close. Batiatus hugged him back, gently, so as not to crush him. Aurelius said, ‘I’m going out to cover my horse; he’s the only means of transport we’ve got left, apart from Ambrosinus’s mule, who won’t do us much good. It’s going to get very cold tonight.’

Ambrosinus saw the sadness in his gaze, which contrasted with everyone else’s joy. He waited a little while, then threw his cloak over his shoulders, saying: ‘I’d better go all the same and take care of my mule.’

He found Aurelius outside near Juba, grasping his cloak tight around him. He seemed to be looking out over the valley and the river, and Ambrosinus’s voice startled him: ‘Two truths. Two diverse and contrasting versions of your past, Livia’s and Wulfila’s. Who to believe?’

Aurelius didn’t even turn. He just pulled his cloak closer, as if the chill had penetrated all the way to his soul. ‘You know both of them. Why don’t you tell me?’

‘It’s true, I did hear the words of that barbarian, but you’re asking too much from a simple tutor. A vision has emerged from the past, forcing you to face a blot on your conscience that you didn’t know you had.’

Aurelius didn’t answer.

‘It hurts, I know,’ continued Ambrosinus, ‘but it’s better this way. A hidden ill devours us slowly without allowing any remedy, and can take us by surprise at any moment. Now at least you know.’

‘I don’t know anything.’

‘That’s not possible. You must remember something.’

Aurelius sighed. He felt a great desire to talk, to confide with someone who could lift the millstone crushing his heart. ‘Just fragments of memories,’ he muttered, ‘and a nightmare that haunts me.’

‘What nightmare?’ prompted Ambrosinus.

Aurelius’s voice began to tremble. ‘It’s night. Two old people, each hanging from a stake, tied by the wrists. Their bodies are horribly mutilated, and then . . .’

‘Continue, you must continue.’

‘And then . . . a barbarian soldier advances with a drawn sword and runs them through, first one and then the other.’ He let out a long shudder, as if his words had required an immense effort.

‘Who are they?’ asked Ambrosinus. ‘Perhaps it is there that the secret to your identity lies.’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Aurelius, covering his eyes with his hands. ‘I just don’t know.’

Ambrosinus could feel the torment that racked his soul, and he placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t let it vex you so,’ he said. ‘Whoever it was makes no difference now. Only the present exists, and it does you honour. The boy, perhaps, can give you a future. You’ve seen for yourself that his life force can’t be snuffed out.’

‘I’ve lost the sword,’ said Aurelius.

‘Don’t think about it. We’ll find it again, I’m certain of it. And you’ll find your past, but you’ll have to go through hell, like that innocent boy has already done.’

A
N HOUR BEFORE DAWN
, when it was still dark, Demetrius finished the last shift of guard duty and woke his companions. They were all stiff despite the little fire they’d managed to keep burning all night inside their shelter. Even the horse and mule, who had spent the night out in the open, had drawn close to the enclosure to find some respite from the bitter cold. After their immense joy at the unexpected salvation of Romulus, the group had to face a harsh, if not desperate, reality. All they had left to them was one horse and a mule, and Aurelius’s sword was now in the hands of Wulfila, who certainly could not wait to test its devastating power. How could they continue their journey? More importantly, how could they hope to escape Wulfila and his men if they were discovered? Their enemies would undoubtedly return to the hill to search for their corpses, and would find the evident signs of their escape, which the night’s snowfall had not completely erased.

They all decided after consulting briefly that it was necessary to leave that place as soon as possible, descend to the valley and cross the border. Ursinus urged them to make the river crossing as soon as possible, before their enemies became aware of their presence. Then he bid each of them farewell, choked with emotion. ‘The river is straight ahead of you. You’ll find a pontoon bridge, you can’t miss it. If I weren’t so old, I’d join you. It would be a great honour for me to fight for my emperor, but I’m afraid I would be more of a nuisance than anything else, seeing the task you have before you. Also, I must see how my wife is faring; she will be frightened to death.’

He approached Romulus and kissed his hand respectfully. ‘May the Lord God protect you, Caesar, wherever you go, and may Rome continue to exist through you and your descendants for centuries to come.’ Then he walked off with his dog so he would reach his home before daybreak. They watched him go, just as moved as he was, and worried about what might befall him for the help he had given them.

‘We must go now,’ said Ambrosinus. ‘It won’t be long before daylight.’

They began to make their way slowly down towards the valley. Aurelius was last, leading Juba by the reins, while Vatrenus led the column, probing out the safest terrain. He suddenly raised his arm: ‘Stop!’

Aurelius rushed to his side: ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Look for yourself,’ replied Vatrenus.

At the bottom of the slope there was an area of level ground, perhaps two or three hundred feet wide, crossed to the north by a torrent that glittered in the dark valley. The banks were joined by a bridge of boats held together by a pair of ropes anchored to the shores. At a distance of perhaps one hundred feet beyond the river they could see the dark mass of a dense forest of fir trees, contrasting with the snowy white bank.

‘The bridge! If we manage to cross, we’re saved. They’ll never find us, once we get into the woods. At least I hope not.’

‘That’s not what I’m talking about,’ retorted Vatrenus. ‘Down there, to your left. You don’t see anything?’

Aurelius cursed: ‘Damned sons of bitches! What do we do now?’ A column of armed men proceeded towards the river, barely visible in the dim light reflecting off the snow.