The Last Legion Read online

  Flavia saw her boy and Ambrosinus and her heart skipped a beat: destiny had unexpectedly come to her aid.

  ‘This way,’ said Ambrosinus. ‘There’s a direct passage to the women’s gallery. Perhaps the barbarians don’t know about it.’ They hurried down the corridor, but the shouting of the guard that Aurelius had killed had drawn the attention of the others, who were appearing at the end of the hall. Aurelius managed to close an iron grating behind them, just in time, then ran on with his fleeing companions. Shouts sounded from every direction, torches lit up the courtyard and the windows, clanging weapons and excited cries seemed to surround them. Just as Ambrosinus was about to open the hidden door that led to the women’s gallery, some soldiers sprang out of a side staircase. A giant of a man – Wulfila! – flanked by two others.

  Ambrosinus had gone on ahead of his companions and found himself cut off from them. Consumed by anguish, he crouched behind the arch that concealed the door to the gallery, and helplessly watched the attack. The three warriors hurled themselves at Aurelius, who stood shielding Flavia and Romulus. Ambrosinus closed his eyes and grasped the pendant hanging from his neck with his left hand. It was a twig of mistletoe set in silver. He concentrated all the powers of his spirit in Aurelius’s arm, which struck lightning-swift and chopped off the head of one of the barbarians. It rolled between the man’s legs and for a moment the last contractions of his still-beating heart twitched through his body, spurting blood copiously through his neck before he fell backwards.

  Aurelius halted Wulfila’s blow with the dagger he held in his other hand, then abruptly leapt aside, tripping the third man who was about to attack. He spun back around with fierce energy and his dagger cleaved the air, landing between the shoulder blades of his fallen aggressor, and nailed him gasping to the ground. Aurelius turned then to face his most formidable adversary. Their swords clashed with deafening force as both delivered a sequence of deadly blows, sparks spraying all around them. Both swords were crafted of fine, hardened steel, and the frightful strength of the barbarian threatened to best the skill and agility of the Roman.

  The shouts of the other barbarians were drawing closer, and Aurelius realized that he would have to rid himself of his adversary or face a horrible death at their hands. Swords locked tight between the chests of the two warriors, each tried to cut the other’s throat, hands clutching each other’s wrists. At that moment, so close that they were staring each other down, Wulfila’s eyes widened in sudden surprise: ‘Who are you?’ he cried. ‘I’ve seen you before, Roman!’

  All he had to do was immobilize Aurelius for a few more moments and his comrades would be upon them, ending their fight and answering that question, but Aurelius managed to free himself by butting him hard in the face. He drew back to lunge at the barbarian, but slipped on the slick blood of his fallen enemies and fell to the ground.

  Wulfila was about to finish him off, but Romulus, who until that moment had been holding on tightly to his mother, frozen by fear, recognized his father’s murderer. He twisted free, grabbed the sword of one of the dead men and hurled himself at Wulfila. The giant could see him coming out of the corner of his eye and threw his dagger, but Flavia had moved forward to protect her child and took the blow full in the chest. Romulus began screaming, horrified, and Aurelius took advantage of his adversary’s momentary distraction to strike. Wulfila jerked back his head, but his face was slashed from his left eye to his right cheek. He howled in rage and pain, continuing to wave his sword.

  Aurelius pulled the boy off his mother’s body and dragged him down the staircase that his aggressors had emerged from. Ambrosinus shook off his fright and made to follow them, just as a squad of guards appeared. The old man backed into the shadow of the arch and then slipped behind the door that led to the gallery.

  *

  Ambrosinus found himself on the inside of the long marble balcony that faced the basilica’s nave. The apse was dominated by a large mosaic of Christ the Almighty, its golden reflections shining with pale light. He walked swiftly to the balustrade and crossed the presbytery and the sacristies, where he found the narrow corridor built into the church’s external wall that led outside. He tried to imagine where Aurelius might come out and how they might try to escape. He trembled at the thought of the boy exposed to such deadly peril.

  *

  Only one escape route remained for Aurelius, and it led directly through the palace baths. He emerged into a large room covered by a barrel-vaulted ceiling, dimly lit by a couple of oil lamps. The huge pool built into the floor was filled with water, once crystal clear, that the negligence of the palace’s new owners had allowed to become filthy and algae-coated. Aurelius tried the door that led to the street but it was locked from the outside. He turned to the boy: ‘Can you swim?’ he asked. Romulus nodded as his eyes focused with disgust on that smelly cesspool.

  ‘Then you get in after me. We have to swim down the drainage pipe that connects the pool with the canal outside. My horse is not far from there. The water is going to be very dark, and cold, but you can do it, and I’ll be helping you. Hold your breath and let’s go.’

  He lowered himself into the pool and then helped Romulus in. They ducked under and Aurelius began to make his way up the water drainage pipe. He put his hands forward to feel for the bulkhead that separated the pool from the canal. It was closed. His heart sank, but he was determined to find a way. He could feel the boy’s panic through the black water and realized how close he was to drowning. Aurelius succeeded in slipping his hands under the base of the bulkhead and slowly pushed it up with all his strength until he could feel it yield, little by little. Blindly he grabbed the boy and shoved him past the obstacle, then made it through himself and let the bulkhead drop shut behind him. His lungs nearly bursting, he surfaced along with Romulus. The child seemed about to faint; he was livid with the cold and his teeth were chattering helplessly. He couldn’t leave the boy in the water while he went for his horse. He pushed him up on to the bank, soaked and shivering, then hoisted himself up, dragging Romulus quickly to shelter behind the southern corner of the palace.

  ‘The fog is rising,’ he said. ‘Lucky for us. Don’t lose hope, we can make it now, but you stay here and promise me you won’t move.’

  The boy did not reply at first; he seemed to have lost every contact with reality. Then, with a barely perceptible voice, he said: ‘We have to wait for Ambrosinus.’

  ‘He’s old enough to take care of himself,’ responded Aurelius. ‘We’ll need all the luck we have to get out of here ourselves. The barbarians are already searching the grounds.’ They could hear the uproar as men on horseback rushed from the stables at the northern wing of the palace, heading out to patrol the roads. Aurelius ran off to retrieve Juba from the old rundown fish warehouse where he’d hidden him.

  He took the horse by its halter and retraced his steps, careful not to make the slightest sound. When he was not far from where he had left the boy, he heard a voice cry out in Herulian: ‘Here he is! I’ve found him! Stop!’ Romulus scurried away from his hiding place, running along the eastern side of the palace. They had flushed him out!

  Aurelius jumped on to his horse and burst into the vast open space in front of the facade of the imperial palace which was illuminated by a great number of lit torches. He saw Romulus racing at breakneck speed, chased by a group of Herulian warriors. Aurelius spurred on his horse and stormed into their midst, running through a couple of the barbarians from behind, one to his left and the other to his right, before they understood what was happening. He overtook the others and reached Romulus. Grabbing the boy under his arm, Aurelius urged on his horse: ‘Go, Juba. Go, boy!’ Just as he was about to hoist Romulus up on to the saddle, one of their pursuers sent an arrow flying. It hit Aurelius full in the shoulder. He tried to resist, but, as a painful spasm racked the muscles in his arm, he had to let the boy go.

  Romulus tumbled to the ground but Aurelius refused to give up. He tightened his legs against the horse’s flan
ks and swiftly twisted Juba around so he could yank up the boy with his good arm, but just at that moment Ambrosinus burst forth from a side door and threw himself on the emperor, flattening him to the ground as he shielded him with his own body.

  *

  Aurelius realized that he didn’t have a chance. He swerved down a narrow side street, jumping his horse over the canal that crossed it and proceeded at a mad pace towards the city walls where an old breach which had never been repaired allowed him to career up the side as if going up a ramp. He came down on the other side without great difficulty.

  A group of barbarian warriors on horseback erupted from one of the doors, brandishing torches and intent on stopping his escape. Aurelius raced to the embankment that crossed the lagoon and tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and his pursuers. The fog would do the rest. But the unbearable pain in his shoulder interfered with his control of the horse, who was losing speed. Through the darkness he could see a thick grove of trees and bushes growing alongside the swamp. He pulled up on the reins, and slipped to the ground. He tried to hide in the water, sliding down the bank, in the hope that his pursuers would ride on, but they immediately realized his intent and drew up short. There were at least half a dozen of them; they would soon see him and he would have no chance against them.

  He unsheathed his sword and prepared to die like a soldier, but at that very instant a whistle pierced the air. One of the barbarians crumbled to the ground, struck by an arrow. A second was hit in the neck and fell backwards, vomiting blood. The remainder realized that with their torches lit they were clear targets in the darkness and they were about to toss them away when a third arrow pierced the stomach of another horseman, who howled in pain. The others fled, terrified, from that invisible enemy hidden by the fog of the swamp.

  Aurelius tried to climb up the bank, pulling his horse after him, but he slipped backwards, completely drained of strength. The pain was insufferable, his vision clouded over and he seemed to be sinking into the fog in an endless fall. In a brief flash of consciousness he thought he saw a hooded figure bending over him, and there was the slow gurgling of water sliced by an oar. Then nothing.

  4

  AMBROSINUS GOT UP FROM the ground and helped Romulus up as well. Completely soaked, his clothes soiled with algae and mud, his hair plastered to his forehead, the boy was shivering and his lips were blue. Ambrosinus took off his cloak and wrapped it around the child’s shoulders, saying: ‘Come on, now. We’ll go back inside.’ They were completely surrounded by Wulfila’s guards who threatened them with their unsheathed swords.

  Ambrosinus passed through their ranks with his head held high, helping the boy along and whispering words of encouragement as they walked down the halls and up the stairs, back towards their detention chamber. Romulus said nothing, shuffling along with an uncertain step, tripping over his shredded clothes and over the cloak itself, much too long for him. His limbs were stiff and aching, and his soul was tormented by the image of his mother falling under the dagger of his father’s assassin. He hated the man who had deceived him with the hope of saving them. He had just caused worse trouble, and made his future look even more frightening. He raised his eyes to his tutor’s and asked: ‘My mother . . . she’s dead, isn’t she?’

  Ambrosinus lowered his head without answering.

  ‘Is she dead?’ insisted the boy.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m afraid so,’ replied Ambrosinus, putting his arm around the boy’s shoulders and drawing him close, but Romulus twisted away, shouting: ‘Let me be! Leave me alone! I want my mother! I want to see her. Where have you put her? I want to see her!’ He rushed at the barbarian guards, furiously beating his fists against their shields. They snickered and started teasing him, pushing him off one against the other. Ambrosinus tried to get hold of him and calm him down, but he wouldn’t be caught. He seemed out of his mind. In truth, the boy was devastated. There was no glimmer of hope in his life, no escape from the horror. He was so inconsolable that his tutor feared he might try to take his own life.

  ‘Let him see his mother,’ Ambrosinus implored the guards. ‘Perhaps he’ll give vent to his feelings and then be able to settle down. I beg of you, if you know where they’ve put her, let him see her. He’s only a frightened boy, have pity on him.’

  The barbarians stopped laughing as Ambrosinus stared into their eyes, one by one. His look was so intense, such disquieting power radiated from those blue eyes, that the guards dropped their gazes, as if subdued by some mysterious energy. Then, the one who seemed the squad leader said: ‘Not now. You have to go back to your room; these are our orders. I will refer your requests to my commander.’

  Romulus had finally quietened down, worn out and exhausted, and they were taken back. Ambrosinus said nothing, because anything he could say would only worsen the situation. Romulus slumped down at the far side of the room, his head leaning against the wall and his eyes staring. Every now and then he would sigh and shudder. His tutor would then get up and draw nearer to examine his expression and try to understand what part of his spirit was vigilant and what was lost to delirium. In this disturbed state of intermittent sleep they passed the rest of the night.

  When a little milky light had seeped into the room through a couple of loopholes high up on the wall, they heard a noise at the door. It swung open and two maidservants appeared. They carried a tub of water, fresh clothing, a jar of unguent and a tray with some food. They put everything down on a table and approached Romulus, bowing and kissing his hand deferentially. Romulus let himself be washed and dressed, but refused to eat despite Ambrosinus’s persistence. One of the maids, a girl of about eighteen, was very gentle and pretty. She poured some hot milk and honey in a cup and said: ‘Please, my lord, drink this at least. It will give you a little strength.’

  ‘Please!’ insisted the other girl, just a little older than the first. The thoughtfulness in her gaze was intense and sincere. Romulus took the cup and drank in long gulps. Then he set it back down on the tray and thanked them.

  Under normal conditions the boy would never have thanked a servant, Ambrosinus thought. Perhaps that situation of extreme pain and solitude made him appreciate any gesture of human warmth, no matter where it came from. When the girls got up to leave, the old man asked them whether they had noticed any particular comings and goings that morning in the palace. They shook their heads.

  ‘We need your help,’ said Ambrosinus. ‘Any information that you can give us could be precious. Crucial, even. The emperor’s life may be at stake.’

  ‘We’ll do what we can,’ answered the older girl, ‘but we don’t understand their language and often don’t know what they’re saying.’

  ‘Could you take out a message?’

  ‘They search us,’ replied the girl, blushing, ‘but we can repeat a message, if you want. Unless they have us followed. There’s great hostility and suspicion in the palace against anyone who is Latin.’

  ‘I understand. What I need to know is whether a Roman soldier was captured last night, a man of about forty-five, powerfully built, with dark hair, greying a little at the temples, and black eyes. His left shoulder was wounded.’

  The girls exchanged a glance and said that they hadn’t seen anyone who fitted that description.

  ‘If you should see him, dead or alive, please let me know as soon as possible. One last thing: who sent you?’

  ‘The master of the palace,’ answered the older girl. ‘Noble Antemius.’ Ambrosinus nodded: he was a senior functionary and had always been faithful to the emperor, whoever the emperor happened to be, without asking questions. Evidently it seemed only right to him that he should serve Romulus, until a successor had been named.

  The girls walked out, and their light steps faded into the heavier stride of the guards who were escorting them. Romulus curled into a corner of the room in obstinate silence, refusing to accept any invitation to converse on the part of his tutor. He simply didn’t have the strength to climb out of the ab
yss that he’d fallen into. To judge from the fixed, uncaring expression of his eyes, lost in the void, he was continuing to slip down deeper, but then his eyes would glitter with untold emotion and the tears would begin to run down his cheeks, wetting his clothing.

  More time passed: it must have been nearly noon when the door opened again and the guard Ambrosinus had spoken to the night before appeared on the threshold and said: ‘You can see her now, if you like.’ Romulus immediately shook himself out of his torpor and followed him out without even awaiting his tutor, who joined the two of them. Ambrosinus had not spoken because he knew that there were no words that could light up that chasm, and because he believed that nature protected her little ones, and only she could heal such painful wounds.

  They walked towards the southern wing of the palace, to the now-deserted quarters of the palatine guards. They went down a flight of stairs and Ambrosinus realized that they were headed for the imperial basilica, which he had entered from the women’s gallery such a short time ago. They crossed the nave and went down into a crypt, partially invaded by the brackish water of the lagoon. The central altar and the small presbytery rose out of the water like a little island, linked to the church floor by a walkway of bricks. They crossed the crystalline water which sparkled over an ancient mosaic that depicted the dance of the seasons. Flavia Serena’s body was lying on the marble altar table. White as wax, covered by a white wool blanket that fell on both sides, her hair had been combed and her face cleaned and lightly made up. One of the palace maidservants must have composed her body with great care.