Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  ‘Go!’ Brinno was shouting. ‘We’re clear – go!’

  A rapid glance back to check that Ulpianus was still gripping tight to his saddle, then Castus was spurring on after Brinno, the tribune’s reins burning as they dug into his fist. There were two more Burgundians up ahead, cantering down from the trees. One look at the bloodied, screaming riders galloping towards them and they turned and retreated.

  Wind roared, hooves battered at stones and frozen turf, then the muffled darkness of the wooded valley rose on either side, and Castus knew, through the haze of violent energy, that they had survived.

  *

  They reached the dead town as dusk deepened into night. They had been following an old road that ran straight through the wilderness, and saw nothing at first but the trees and the undergrowth around them. Then the broken walls appeared from the gathering darkness, and the riders saw the pillars among the clumps of frosted ivy, the shattered hulks of buildings lost in tangled scrub.

  ‘We should be safe here, for a time,’ said the red-haired guide. His comrade had not made it through the fight; whether dead, fled or surrendered, nobody knew or cared. ‘Burgundii don’t come to these old places. Like tombs, they say. Too many ghosts.’

  ‘What sort of ghosts?’ asked the young slave from the rear of their little column. Besides Castus and Brinno, and the wounded tribune, only he and one of the archers remained of the despatch party.

  ‘Ghosts of Romans!’ the guide declared with a note of wry pride. ‘Killed by my ancestors, maybe, hmm?’

  They rode in silence, the town taking form around them even as the dark increased. The wide expanse of weeds and tangled scrub ahead would have been the forum once, Castus guessed. On the far side stood a large building, an old basilica perhaps, with a stepped entrance and part of the roof still remaining.

  ‘In there,’ he said.

  Dismounting, they led the horses through the wide portal and tethered them at the back of the hall, amidst a wrack of fallen roof timbers and rubble overgrown with ferns and long grass. They lifted Ulpianus down from his horse; the tribune was feverish and mumbling, and they wrapped him in his fur-lined cloak and laid him in the far corner on a bed of ferns with the slave to watch over him. The shell of the old building protected them from the breeze at least, but outside it the night stood around them like a black wall of ice.

  Castus took the first watch, with the guide. He pulled a fur hat down over his ears and crouched beside the open doorway, trying to suppress the shivers that ran through his body. As he stared into the darkness he began to make out the shapes of the ruins in the faint moonlight. Ghosts out there, he thought. The unquiet dead. He remembered something he had been told once, far away in the north of Britain. One day all our works will be like this. Nothing more than hummocks in the turf, for savages to wonder over… He remembered that the man who said those words was long dead too.

  ‘River is south of here,’ the guide said, mumbling through the fur edging his cloak. ‘Two hours’ good riding. Bridge is there somewhere. Far side – Roman territory.’

  ‘Whose?’ Castus asked. ‘Licinius’s or Maxentius’s?’

  He saw the man shrug, the slightest shift of the bunched furs, as if the affairs of Romans were of little interest to him. ‘Licinius? But maybe best to ask first, hmm?’

  Castus nodded. ‘And the Burgundii? Will they come after us tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ the guide said. ‘They out there now.’ His chin jutted towards the dark edge of the ruined town. ‘They waiting.’

  The hours passed, silent and fiercely cold, then Brinno came to relieve him and Castus crept back to the roll of blankets his friend had left still warm. He stretched out, his sword laid ready beside him, and pulled the blankets over his ears, but sleep did not come. For a long while he felt himself lying suspended in darkness, the cold pressing on him from all sides. Castus thought of his wife, Valeria Domitia Sabina; for six days, since leaving Treveris, he had tried to avoid thinking about her. Tried, and failed of course. Her image came to him now, keen and clear, warming his senses. He felt the blood stir in his body. He thought of Sabina, and of their son, only four months old when this mission had summoned him away from them. Every night they had filled his mind, and every morning he had banished them. It was too painful to imagine he might never see either of them again.

  Memory eased him from wakefulness, and in moments he had plunged down into sleep.

  ‘Dominus? Dominus!’ The slave was shaking his shoulder. Castus woke quickly, one hand grabbing for the sword beside him. The cold flared against his skin as he pulled the blankets from his head. Still dark, deep night; the tribune was calling for him, the slave said.

  Castus crossed the hall, groping in the blackness between the heaps of rubble, timbers and brambles. Ulpianus still lay where they had left him, but he was awake now, his eyes catching the faintest hint of moonlight through the broken roof. As Castus eased himself down beside him, the tribune reached out and seized his arm in a strong grip.

  ‘Can’t feel the pain now,’ he said, and his voice was thin and strained but clear. ‘Too cold… a mercy, at least. You must take the package. Do it tonight, before dawn. I am consigning it to you. Take it and complete the mission. Deliver it to the emperor Licinius.’

  ‘I understand, dominus,’ Castus said. ‘I’ll do it.’ There was no point in denying it now. Both of them knew that the tribune would not be leaving that place alive.

  The horses stirred in the darkness. Castus went to move away but Ulpianus still held him, using the last of his strength. ‘Don’t you want to know what the package contains?’ the tribune said. His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  ‘No,’ Castus said. He glanced up, and noticed that the slave had crept back into the deeper shadows, out of hearing.

  ‘You don’t want to know what your life’s worth?’

  He could hear the smile in the tribune’s words. No, he thought, I do not. Then he thought of Sabina, of his son. Of all that he could lose.

  ‘Tell me.’

  The grip on his arm slackened, as if the tribune was discharging something that had weighed him down for a long time. ‘The package contains a letter,’ he said. ‘A formal offer of alliance between our emperor Constantine and his brother emperor Licinius… against the usurper Maxentius.’

  Castus said nothing. He could have guessed as much.

  ‘Also,’ Ulpianus went on, halting, ‘the letter requests that in the coming spring Licinius deploy his forces south towards the Alps… as if he intends to invade Italy from the north-east. This will cause the usurper to move his own troops towards Aquileia… to guard the eastern approaches. His western flank will be left open…’

  ‘And Constantine will invade from the west,’ Castus breathed. He sensed the tribune’s nod.

  ‘So you see,’ Ulpianus said, ‘the success of our armies is in your hands now. If the package is intercepted by Maxentius’s agents… the plan will fail utterly.’

  ‘It won’t,’ Castus said. But he was already feeling the weight of the burden.

  ‘There’s something else,’ the tribune went on. ‘An offer of marriage… with Constantine’s sister. The package contains a portrait of her, an enamelled miniature. I’ve seen it – it hardly looks like her at all. She’s… not glamorous. But Licinius… has no taste for women anyway…’

  The words seemed to pain him now, and Castus could hear the gasp and lock of his breathing. Even in the cold air he could smell death.

  ‘Castus,’ the tribune cried, grabbing him again.

  ‘What, dominus?’ He hunched over the prone figure, leaning closer.

  ‘Don’t…’ the tribune said, and his voice wavered and cracked. ‘Don’t let the dogs eat my flesh. Pile stones on me – promise…’

  Castus gripped the man’s shoulder, a reassuring pressure. He could feel the feverish heat of Ulpianus’s body even through his thick clothing. ‘And be careful,’ the tribune said. ‘Be careful in Treveris… you must…
It’s dangerous, brother. Your wife…’

  ‘Yes…?’ Castus said. Cold dread pushed suddenly at his heart.

  He could hear the dying man struggling to breathe, struggling to form words. Something wet choked in his throat. The hand clasping his arm tightened, and then fell slack. Castus reached for the man’s face in the darkness, holding his palm over the open mouth. He felt nothing, no slight warm stir of breath.

  ‘Why did you say that?’ he asked the dead man. Doubt clawed at his back, and he shuddered. Then he pulled the fur cape over the tribune’s body.

  *

  They left the dead town in the first pale seep of dawn. The hooves of the horses were bound with rags, the men’s weapons muffled, and they moved on foot, leading the animals behind them. It seemed even colder, the air itself frozen, and the world was almost eclipsed by white fog. Frost lay so thick on the trees and the overgrown ruins that the town seemed carved from brittle ice, and the ground creaked beneath their feet as they walked.

  The guide had vanished in the night, and none of them were surprised by that. Now Brinno took the lead, with Castus and the slave following and the sole remaining archer bringing up the rear. Inside his tunic, Castus carried the package he had taken from the tribune’s saddlebag. It was hardly larger than a man’s hand, and sewn tightly into waxed linen. Such a small thing, he thought, to risk so many lives for.

  Once they reached what looked like the town boundary they mounted up and began to ride, slowly at first. The fog swirled around them, and the sound of the padded hooves was a dull thudding on the old mossy paving of the road. The world around them seemed utterly deserted, devoid of life. But they had travelled only a mile from the town when the fog began to lift and they realised they were not alone.

  ‘Left flank,’ Brinno said under his breath. ‘Three, maybe four.’

  ‘Same on the right,’ Castus said. ‘They’re shadowing us.’ He kicked his heels and his mount broke into a fast trot. From the fog to either side came the sound of voices, calling and responding.

  Cresting a rise, the riders saw the hills dropping away before them onto a wide flat plain, billowing with low mist. On the far horizon was a grey smudge, like a line drawn with a man’s thumb on frosted metal. The Danube.

  ‘Last ride!’ Brinno said, grinning. The four of them had slowed, grouping together. Without another word they leaned from their saddles and clasped hands, the differences between them forgotten. From either side they could hear the wild cries as the Burgundian horsemen closed in around them. Then, as one, they whipped their reins and began to gallop.

  Castus was in the lead now, hunched low over the saddle with the cold breeze rushing around his head and tugging at his cloak. The motion of the horse sent shocks up his spine; he tried to lift himself in the saddle but he was weary and his limbs were heavy. The world raced by in a blur of dirty whiteness.

  A scream from behind him; Castus glanced back and saw the archer tumble from his saddle, the slim black shaft of a javelin jutting from his side. He knew he could not urge his horse to any greater speed: there were still miles to go before the river, and the animal was tiring fast. The young slave went galloping past him, flogging his lighter pony into a headlong charge. Another figure loomed from the mist; Castus thought it was Brinno, but then he saw the raised spear. He tried to shout but the wind punched the breath from his mouth. The spear flew, striking the slave between the shoulders and knocking him from the pony.

  Brinno had a javelin stuck through the folds of his cloak. As Castus turned to look back at him, his friend plucked the weapon free and hurled it. One of the barbarians went down. There was another of them ahead, urging his horse up onto the road; Castus swept out his sword, levelling the long blade like a lance. The Burgundian barely had time to rein in his mount before Castus was onto him, driving the sword at his face. The man reeled, toppling from the saddle, and Castus rode on.

  For a few long moments he was conscious of nothing but speed and the cutting rush of the frozen air. The sun had risen, and lit the fog with an unearthly grey-white radiance, and Castus had the strange conviction that he passed from the world of the living into some cold hazy afterlife.

  He realised that he was alone on the road. Only the noise of his own horse’s hooves battering at the hard ground, his own heaving breath. Hauling at the reins, he looked back and saw Brinno some distance behind him, his horse lamed and limping. Around him dark shapes were moving through the grey murk. Without thinking, Castus wrenched at the reins and turned his horse towards his friend.

  ‘Get up behind me!’ Castus called to him. He was already shunting forward on the saddle. He saw Brinno shake his head.

  ‘No time,’ the younger man called. He raised his sword in salute, and grinned. ‘Go!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll hold them – go! Make this worthwhile, brother!’

  The first of the Burgundians was already galloping towards him.

  With a hiss of anguish Castus watched as the enemy riders closed in around his friend. He knew there was nothing he could do – except die at Brinno’s side. And then all of their deaths would have been in vain.

  We all have our duty… He dragged at the reins again; his horse reared, then spun on its rear legs and dropped into a heavy gallop towards the river. Castus closed his eyes, closed his throat against the wrenching cry trapped in his chest.

  Ten heartbeats, and he risked a glance back. Brinno was still there, still fighting against the whirl of men that surrounded him. Then, at that very moment, Castus saw the spear darting in to strike his friend in the side. He saw Brinno crumple and fall from the saddle. Then he turned away, howling through clenched teeth into the steady snarl of the wind.

  The road curved ahead of him; with a rush of choking horror Castus saw more of the riders appearing, coming from the flat misty plain to the right to cut him off. He sawed at the reins, swaying in the saddle as the horse crashed off the road and through the tangle of bushes onto the frost-crusted meadowland to the left. The river was there, clearer now, achingly close. It looked very wide, and there was no sign of a bridge. The horse was labouring over the broken ground, blowing hard, its neck and quarters steaming, and Castus could barely keep himself in the saddle.

  As he neared the river he saw the ice, a pale grey sheet of it stretching from the bank to the ribbon of open black water in midstream. There was an island about fifty paces out, low and thickly grown with scrub, and the ice had filled the channel between it and the nearer bank.

  Shouts from the right: the pursuers had left the road and ridden across country to meet the riverbank. More of them were coming up behind, their ululating cries carrying strangely in the mist. Castus let his horse slow as it neared the riverbank. He urged it on the last distance, through the crackling reeds and scrub to the edge of the frozen water. Birds burst up from the undergrowth and flapped wildly away across the ice.

  The riders sounded exultant now, seeing him trapped against the river. Castus reached beneath his cloak and checked that the package was still safely secured inside his tunic. Then he slipped from the saddle, feeling pain burst through the muscles of his thighs and back. He looked again at the ice. It might carry the weight of a man, but not a horse. If he could get across to the island, would his pursuers dare to follow? He drew his sword, took a last glance back at the approaching riders, then slapped the horse across the haunches with the flat of his blade.

  The animal flinched, then staggered up from the back, too exhausted to run. Castus was already scrambling down onto the ice, wrapping his cloak tight around his body, his sword held clear. He had thought to use it to probe ahead of him, but as soon as his boots were on the ice he was skating, flinging his arms out for balance. He could hear the approaching riders; from the corner of his eye he saw a flung javelin dart black against the sky.

  Ice groaned beneath his weight, but he forced himself onward, legs spread wide for grip and balance. Too slow – he pitched forward onto his hands, feeling the cold striking into his arms; then he began
dragging himself. Deep cracking noises came from beneath him. He could feel the water moving below the ice. For the first time he realised that he was about to die. He would lose his life in a frozen barbarian wasteland, and nobody would know. A gasp of laughter burst from his pit of his chest; then all he felt was a furious rage. He was scrambling on all fours, hands and knees sliding on the ice.

  Get up, he thought. Get up and run. Another spear hit the ice to his left. He was shuddering, feverish, grinding his teeth as he tried to stand. With a heave he got his feet under him, hobnailed boots gritting into the ice. Three staggering strides and he felt the surface of the river beginning to break into a web of fractures. The island was only ten paces away now – he could make it.

  With a noise like a heavy beam breaking, the ice beneath him gave and Castus felt himself pitching sideways. One snatched gulp of air, then the water burst around him and he was in the river, the weight of his heavy cloak and boots dragging him down. For a moment he was aware only of darkness; then the cold seized him like an iron fist closing around his chest, and he blew out air in a foaming torrent. Blood hammered in his skull; he could not tell where the surface was. He felt himself drowning, fighting, dying.

  Then one hand struck the ice; he grabbed and gripped, hauling his head up above the surface. Cold burned him, and he was screaming as he tried to suck air. The ice broke up even as he tried to pull himself onto it. He was facing back towards the riverbank. Two horses, riderless, cantering in the distance. As he stared, everything looked very clear and bright. Something split the air above his head and he heard a cry. A man fell from a third horse.