by Derek Birks
Pressing a hand down upon the soft, muddy leaves, Ambrosius began to edge forward, but the closer he got to his prey, the more he realised that they could not easily approach the three men at once without at least one of them being spotted. Only if all three guards were facing away from their assailants, could they possibly succeed – and that was never going to happen.
Just then Xallas began to groan and attempt to wriggle free. Ambrosius shook his head in quiet admiration of his comrade and grinned as each of the guards turned towards Xallas. Since his wily comrade had made the unlikely possible, Ambrosius seized the moment and darted forward from his crouched position, knowing that Varta and Germanus would be moving at the same instant.
As one, the bucellarii struck and, in a breath, the three scutarii were dead – throats sliced through by men who had done it countless times before. Freeing Xallas was simple enough, but Uldar’s wounds meant that every time they moved him, he was in excruciating pain. In the end, Ambrosius decided to pick the youth up in his arms.
“My bow!” croaked Uldar, for Ambrosius had tossed it aside in his haste.
While Varta retrieved the bow, Xallas picked up a spear from one of the guards. Together, they retreated to the place where they had entered the camp, but in the darkness, the weary Xallas stumbled over a sleeping figure, who cried out in alarm. Within moments the camp was in uproar and they found their way out blocked.
Though clearly taken unawares, the scutarii were quick to launch themselves at the intruders. Seeing there was no escape by the way they had come in, Ambrosius changed direction to head for the gate.
Xallas hesitated. “There are even more men by the gate, Dux!”
“I’m sure there are,” replied Ambrosius, “but it’s where we need to be!”
Lunging, as he ran, at any man who stood in his path, he was only a dozen yards from the gate when his small band was forced to stop, hemmed in on all sides by a forest of spears and swords. With a smile of triumph upon his face, Puglio stepped forward from the crowd and the angry, rasping voices of his men dropped away into silence.
“Good rescue, Dux,” murmured Xallas, with a rueful grin.
Standing very still, Ambrosius stretched out his arm so that the tip of his spatha pointed directly at Puglio.
The tribune nodded. “Defiant to the end, eh, Dux?” he said, with a dismissive laugh. “Well, I’d expect nothing less; but to think I was worried about having to cut my way through all your men just to get to you. Is this all you brought with you?”
“Not quite all,” said Ambrosius. “There’s one more.”
“One?” cried Puglio. “Just one?”
“One,” repeated Ambrosius, “but, you know, tribune, I think that one might just be enough…”
As Puglio grinned at his trapped opponent, savouring the moment, his men began to get restless. Roughly dragged from their sleep, all they wanted now was a swift end to the night’s disturbance. Then they felt it; every man there felt it… and their weary, angry faces became furrowed with doubt, for it was as if the very ground beneath their feet was trembling.
Puglio tore his gaze from Ambrosius, eyes scanning the dark forest beyond the limit of his torches. With a shake of his head, he took a pace closer to Ambrosius, but hesitated as soon as he heard it: a sound like a dozen great hammers pounding into the earth. He did not look scared, simply bemused, by what he heard. But, by the time realisation dawned on the tribune’s face, the sound had become flesh. Not a dozen hammers, nor even a dozen horsemen, but just one. It was one man upon a horse, but yet, it was more than just man and horse… it was a beast.
“Cataphracts!” Puglio yelled the warning.
No, thought Ambrosius, just one cataphract: Aurelius Molinus Caralla, a renegade who, in his native Britannia, had once served in a whole regiment of cataphracts.
As the great monster burst out of the night forest, black and gleaming in the flickering torchlight, the scutarii stood transfixed. The two men at the gate died as the rider swept through it, bones cracking under the murderous hooves of the massive stallion. Two short, lead-weighted darts thudded into other men flanking Puglio.
“Varta!” yelled Ambrosius. “The horses!”
Leaving his three comrades to shield the wounded Uldar, Varta sped out of the fort’s gateway.
While his mighty horse, draped with scale-armoured cloth, turned aside spear points with ease, Caralla drove his long, heavy lance at half a dozen scutarii before abandoning it, like a giant stake, through two writhing bodies. Men bounced off the horse, as they attempted to carve their spathas at the rider’s legs. All in vain, for Caralla too was sheathed in mail. After that, the rest knew what was coming and, losing all interest in their prisoners, they scattered.
As the armoured stallion cantered around the dimly-lit camp, the iron blade of Caralla’s spatha chopped at fleeing flesh and severed muscle. But worse, far worse, was the carnage inflicted by the beast’s drumbeat hooves which splintered bone as if it were glass. Twisted bodies were left groaning on a carpet of bloody leaves, crying out for mercy – which never came.
Craving a chance to end the contest once and for all, Ambrosius searched for a glimpse of Puglio. But, with a quiet curse of resignation, he was forced to concede that the tribune was far too experienced to risk himself in some heroic, futile, gesture. He would be out there somewhere, in the shadows, doing something – but what? And where was Varta? It seemed like hours since the Frank had gone for their mounts, though Ambrosius knew it could scarcely be minutes.
Only when an arrow thudded into the ground by his foot, did he learn what the tribune had been doing. On the far side of the camp, several figures emerged from the darkness.
“Caralla!” he roared, pushing Xallas and Uldar closer to the gate.
In a moment, Caralla was there, slowing his horse to a walk.
“Archers!” Ambrosius told him, flinching as an arrow grazed Caralla’s shoulder and flew away into the night.
Though he could not see Caralla’s face for the chain mesh which hung over his helm, Ambrosius knew it would reveal little emotion. With only a slight nod of his helm, the Briton positioned his stallion between the archers and his comrades. Ambrosius feared that Caralla would want to do more than just stand there, but he did not rule Caralla – at least, not at that moment. Once in the fight, the heavily-armoured warrior did as he pleased; he fought in his own way - but forward, always forward. It made him vulnerable because Ambrosius knew that it would only take one fine shot, or one lucky arrow, and the cataphract, for all his armour, would fall just like any other soldier.
The next arrow snagged in the metal plates of the horse’s armoured skirt and perhaps it cut the beast slightly for it raised its front hooves and crashed them down again. Without warning, Caralla gave the stallion its head and, snorting and snarling, it surged forward. As it charged, the great horse made a fearsome noise, unnerving even Ambrosius, who had heard it a dozen times before. Loosing only a few more arrows, the archers fled into the trees.
By the time Caralla returned, leading a couple more horses, Varta was back with their own. Knowing that both Caralla and his mount would be exhausted, Ambrosius was anxious to make good their escape before the scutarii could regroup. Strong though Caralla appeared, every massive blow he delivered cost him dear. Before the scutarii could regroup, Ambrosius was anxious to return to the relative safety of their own camp.
“Come!” he ordered. “Don’t forget they still far outnumber us!”
A swift glance at Uldar told him the lad would be too weak to ride unaided – for only Xallas’ strong arm was keeping him on his feet.
“Take heart, lad!” Ambrosius told him. “The worst is over - Calens will soon have you fit again!”
“Hold him while I mount, Germanus,” said Xallas.
But Uldar stared at Ambrosius. “I told them, Dux!” he cried, weeping. “I told them all… I betrayed you – betrayed you all!”
Xallas now mounted, reached down a hand. “No m
an could have withstood what they did to you, lad,” he said. “There’s no shame in it! Now come, Germanus will help you up and you can ride between us. We won’t let you fall.”
But Uldar pulled away from them. “Don’t you see: I’ve already fallen!” he cried, lifting his bow and reaching for his quiver. But, of course, he no longer had a quiver, nor fingers to put an arrow to the bow. In despair, he stumbled back towards the camp anyway, shaking his bow at a few scutarii who were beginning to creep forward once more.
“Uldar!” commanded Ambrosius. “Come back!”
But before they could gather up their young comrade, the youth was plucked from his feet and hurled back against Xallas’ mount.
“No!” cried Ambrosius, as they snatched up the lad’s lifeless body and sped off into the night, with only bitterness in their hearts..
“God is cruel,” muttered Ambrosius, as he rode.
One fine shot, or one lucky arrow, was all it took…
9
On the sombre ride back to their own camp, Ambrosius – like all the rest – kept his dark thoughts to himself. Later, there would be questions – and unpalatable answers, no doubt; but for now, they were grieving. Over the past few years, serving Aetius, there had been losses, for death was the hazard of every soldier. But, considering what they did and where they did it, there had not been so many. Even so, Ambrosius remembered each one; but this felt somehow different. Perhaps it was Uldar’s youth, or the brutal torture he had endured before he died, or perhaps it was simply that he fell at the very last moment when his safety seemed assured.
Because it suited their mood, they rode slowly – more slowly than was safe – yet no pursuit came. It was as well, for both Caralla and his horse were exhausted – and the stallion’s work was not yet finished for it must carry its heavy load a few miles further yet. As they rode, the Briton peeled off the thick surcoat which covered his chain mail and tossed it to Germanus. Inside his remaining layers, Caralla was slowly cooking to death, and Ambrosius knew from experience that the cataphract would also be liberally covered with broad, ugly bruises from the blows he took – blows which appeared to have no effect, blunted as they were by padding and armour. Yet, they took their toll. The cataphract might have avoided a mortal wound, but he was still made of flesh and blood.
When they finally passed into their own camp, Ambrosius hoped to arrive unnoticed, but instead he found a crowd waiting. What good did it ever do, he reflected, to mill about with shit all else to do but worry? For now his stony-faced procession would spread further gloom into every man’s heart. Though morale had been improving, he knew that the loss of such a popular youth could only hit them all hard. Studying their faces, his fears were confirmed at once, for every mouth was tight with anger and every eye downcast. Then he saw Inga, beside his tent, and felt the chill of her gaze. She would feel Uldar’s loss more than most, and since he was not yet forgiven for wounding her, Ambrosius expected she would blame him for the youth’s death too.
As the riders came to a halt, many hurried forward to assist them. Xallas dismounted first and lifted down the still corpse of Uldar from his mount, aided by Calens and Canis. Onno helped the bone-tired Caralla to dismount and two grooms waited to lead the sweating horse away. The animal, so ferocious in battle, was as docile as a lamb with the grooms, with whom he was very much a favourite.
The first to embrace Ambrosius was Marcellus who led him to his tent. Inga, without even a glance at him, left at once with Calens, to help clean and prepare Uldar’s body. With a sigh, Ambrosius followed her with his eyes, before turning to toss his helmet through the opening to his tent.
“Dux?” said Marcellus.
“Once the camp has settled again,” he said, “summon our comrades – just the bucellarii…”
“What about Inga?”
“What about her?” snapped Ambrosius. “She’s not bucellarii – she’s not even a warrior, Marco, is she?”
“No, but she is still one of us and she was a friend to young Uldar – perhaps more than the rest of us...”
“We were his comrades… but alright, I suppose she must come…”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
They had a tradition amongst them – his bucellarii – and like most such traditions; it began by accident, rather than design. Yet, somehow the ritual appealed to men who spent all their days lingering on the frontier of death. In its own way it had fostered a sense of growing fellowship amongst them. Now, crammed inside his tent, the men with whom he had shared the past few years, awaited the next chapter in their collective journey. His boyhood friend, Varta, sat on his left hand, with Marcellus upon his right. Germanus, Xallas and Caralla – three of his most formidable warriors – were joined by a fourth: the dark-skinned North African, Aurelius Maurus Rocca. Beyond them sat Placido, flanked as always by his two great Molussian dogs: Ferox and Patricus. Kneeling by the body of Uldar, was Calens, the Greek, while the tall Onnophris – ‘Onno’ – the engineer from Alexandria, stood casting a giant shadow, which allowed the sly Roman, Cappa, to remain barely visible beside the tent opening – as was his habit…
All Ambrosius’ comrades were there… and too, sitting beside Calens, was Inga, who he had freed like so many others before her, but who, unlike all the others, had stayed. Though Ambrosius tried to catch her eye, she studiously avoided him.
“Comrades,” he began, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing the rest of the camp. “We have lost another man - a young man, full of promise, which will never now be fulfilled. If any folk need to know of this youth’s courage, let them study the wounds he bore for the sake of us, his fellow soldiers.”
It was a feature of the bucellarii that some men were mourned very little – even by their comrades – but that would not be true of Uldar. Looking around at each man in turn, Ambrosius saw that the same cloak of sadness enveloped them all.
“So, we keep our tradition,” he continued softly. “When one of us falls, he leaves something he values highly for one of his comrades – so that he will be honoured whenever the item is worn, or used. Since I have spoken with each of you, I know that Uldar – perhaps because he imagined his death to be a very long way off - did not bequeath anything to one of you.”
The long silence that followed weighed heavily upon them all.
“Then it is in your gift, Dux,” murmured Marcellus.
“It is,” agreed Ambrosius, wishing that it was not. “Uldar’s most prized possession was his bow – a very fine bow indeed. Every man here has told me who he thinks should receive Uldar’s bow,” he continued, “and since you all gave me the same name, it must be the right choice...”
He stood up with the bow of wood, bone and sinew in his hands and bent down to Inga.
Regarding the bow with obvious trepidation, she said: “It’s wasted on me, Dux; a warrior should have it - surely, any of you could use this bow better than me?”
“I agree,” replied Ambrosius, “several of my comrades could certainly use this bow with great skill, but they have other weapons and besides, you’re the only one that Uldar taught to handle it…”
“It’s true he did try to teach me, but I was a poor pupil and-”
“Would you dishonour our comrade by refusing it?” asked Ambrosius.
“No,” she said and, despite her obvious reluctance, she took the bow from him. Briefly, her eyes met his, but he found only apprehension there.
After a few more moments of reverence, Uldar’s body was borne away and Ambrosius dismissed all, save Xallas, Varta and Marcellus – and it was Xallas he turned to first.
“So, how much did Uldar tell Puglio?” he asked.
“He did his best, Dux… but…”
“I’m certain he did!” snapped Ambrosius. “But I still need to know!”
“By the time he was telling them anything his mind was wandering,” said Xallas. “He mentioned Gallia – but Puglio could probably have guessed that much himself.”
“Anything else?”
Xallas gave a troubled nod. “A place… Caracotinum…”
“Shit,” muttered Marcellus.
“I tried to send him back to you, Dux,” protested Xallas, “but the fool came back – to rescue me.” He gave a melancholy laugh. “Poor bugger…”
So, it was as he feared, thought Ambrosius. But what would Puglio do with the knowledge he now possessed? Perhaps he might expect that Ambrosius would change his plans, once he knew that he had been betrayed? But would a tribune of the scutarii really pursue him as far as Caracotinum? The north-west coast of Gallia was a very long way from Rome – surely no-one, not even an emperor afraid of his own shadow, could possibly fear Ambrosius’ presence there? Yet, in those moments at the camp, when he was face to face with Puglio, he sensed that their struggle had passed beyond simply what the emperor desired; it had become something more personal…
Was it when Puglio failed to take their camp, that it became personal? Or perhaps it began earlier, for the tribune was close to Anticus – one of those he had killed at the caupona. In the end, if Puglio chose to pursue him, he supposed that it mattered little why. For where else could Ambrosius go? No, he would do what he said he would: he would go home – and the only home he had ever known, imperfect though it was, lay on the west coast of Gallia. After that, well… that would depend upon what he found at Caracotinum.
10
Late October 454, on the road to Gallia
Early in the morning Ambrosius, reluctant to hand Puglio any further advantage, ordered the swift burial of Uldar and then broke camp. If the tribune decided to follow them, so be it; but now that his pursuer knew his destination, Ambrosius could see little point in changing his intended route. For the next few days, he led the column on along the forested valley and through the ancient towns of Vesontio and Augustodunum.
Each settlement seemed more forlorn than the last with their abandoned bastions and shrunken forts, their patched up walls and cracked paving. Garrisons were stripped bare to protect bridgeheads, granaries and storehouses. Here and there, a few proud inhabitants had struggled to rebuild and maintain parts of their once great cities, but their despair was almost tangible.
