Derek Birks - Britannia Worlds End: The Last of the Romans: Book Two

BRITANNIA: WORLDS END

THE LAST OF THE ROMANS: II

Derek Birks

Derek Birks 2020

Derek Birks has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 2020 by Sharpe Books.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

For all those fellow writers who gave me support and encouragement when I started out on this fantastic journey of creating historical fiction. You are far too numerous to name, but I remain very grateful to you all.

Table of Contents

November 454, off the south coast of Britannia

Ambrosius had been rowing for hours, but his body still felt chilled for the rain washed the beads of sweat off his skin almost as fast as they formed. This was not the soft, warm rain of southern Italia, but a freezing, insidious downpour, stiffened by slivers of ice that caught in the hairs on his arms. What would he give to be back in Italia now? But, of course, he could never go back there. Nowhere, inside the empire was safe now for Ambrosius Aurelianus.

All he had leftall that he valuedwas on the small, windswept navis lusoria which, against all the odds, had carried them from Gallia. What madness it had been to risk crossing the Mare Britannicum in such a cramped vessela river boat designed only to supply the empires troops along the Rhinus. With precious little food and fresh water, he had thrust all their lives into Gods hands, offering up only a desperate prayer.

Well, God must have been listening for, from the Gallic coast, they had found a calm sea and a favourable, if cold, breath of wind in their lone sail. After that, it was up to them: to work the oars with what little strength remained in their tired limbsand to believe. In the end, it was faith that brought them to the shores of Britanniawell, almost to the shores

Rowing was a new, and thoroughly unpleasant, experience for Ambrosius and he would have wagered that not a single one of the men who accompanied him had even picked up an oar before. Their hands, like his, were not callused by years of rowing; they were forged to grasp the hilt of a spatha, or the shaft of a spear But for now, their survival lay only in rowingand rowing togetherdriven on by the relentless, rhythmic calls of Remigius, the only one amongst them who knew how to sail such a vessel. So the men rowed, grunting and swearing when the exertion tore their muscles and opened up their raw wounds to be burned by splashes of salt water.

Remigius, of course, was rarely sober; but, since he was the only seafaring man aboard, their lives rested in his trembling hands. All they could do, their minds bewildered by weariness, was row and stare ahead at the never-ending expanse of grey water and sky. For hours already they had gazed at it, glared at it and a few had even railed against it; yet still, it stretched, unbroken, ahead.

An angry bark from Remigius, at the steer board, snapped Ambrosius out of his dreaming torpor and he strained once more to bring his oar back under control and match the stroke of his comrades. Only when their Gallic tormentor called a rest, could Ambrosius slump forward over his oar, exhausted. When a hand gently tapped his shoulder, he peered up through the rain to see his comrade, Varta, crouching above him. No words between them were necessary for the two teams of oarsmen had been changing places every hour or so.

As always, the effort of climbing up onto the deck almost finished Ambrosius and he was obliged to pause for a few moments to gather a little more strength before clambering, stiff-limbed, to the stern where Remigius stood, exhorting the next cohort of men to drive the small boat forward once more.

Passing several young lads bailing out water with whatever they could find, his attention was drawn to one of the objects being used.

Thats my helmet, he grumbled.

The youth looked up at him, blank-faced. But you dont need it just now, Dux, he asked.

No, replied Ambrosius, but you make sure its readyand drywhen I do need it.

As he passed the inadequate covered area, two faces peered out at him from the gloomy interior but their expressions could not have been more different. The elder woman, his half-sister, Florina, fixed him with a blank stare, devoid even of the bitterness she had always displayed towards him. By contrast, his blood sister, Lucidia, offered him something akin to a smile of encouragement. Acknowledging both with only a weary nod, he passed on by them to speak to Remigius.

Where, in the name of Christ, are we now, he groaned.

With a shrug, Remigius replied: Pah. Lets hope Christ does know, cos I dont. Its the time of yearand I warned you. I told you: a crossing in Novembers worse than foolhardyand in this this flimsy, sodding navis lusoria, its asking for a swift death. I told you all that. But when did soldiers ever listen to sense?

Sense? scoffed Ambrosius. You were drunk, as I recalland, for all I know, you still are.

Aye and why not, muttered Remigius. Only a drunkard would have taken on this fools journey.

Swallowing his frustration, Ambrosius tried again. Well, tell me where you think we might be.

Screwing up his face as if to focus his eyes, Remigius said: Look straight ahead and tell me what you see.

Nothing, replied Ambrosius. I see nothing but a blanket of rain

Yeh, me too, said Remigius, cos my eyes are no better than yours.

But even Remigius seemed surprised when the boat gave sudden lurch and its keel scraped across some unforgiving, feature beneath the water.

Reef! he bellowed. Ship those oars, you devils. Ship your oars!

Moments later, the boat juddered to a halt and an uneasy silence settled over them all, punctuated only by the slap of the waves against the gunwales. Then, as the company realised how close they were to the shore and shallow water, there came a collective sigh, followed by a handful of half-hearted cheers.

Ship the oars, I said! repeated Remigius, but in vain, for several of the men abandoned their oars at once and leapt into the water. Since they landed on firm ground, with only the surf washing around their knees, more of the company followed.

Ambrosius did not rush to enter the water and instead cast an eye over the scarcely visible, barren shore. Its only promising quality, at first sight, appeared to be that it was somewhere other than the sea. No-one could tell, through the perpetual rain, what lay on the stretch of land, but they had no desire to linger on the boat for an instant longer.

This landing place is very bare, observed Varta, joining Ambrosius.

Having known the Frank warrior since boyhood, he was as close to him as a brotherindeed closer than his own half-brother, Petro, who lay wounded in the bowels of the boat.

True enough, my friend, agreed Ambrosius. When we get ashore, send out scouts and hunters; well need to eat this evening

Florina, with a face like iron, pushed past him to get to the side of the boat. Though she had suffered more than most in the last hours of their escape from Caracotinum, it was difficult for him to forget the long and bitter enmity between them. All the same, it appeared that her terrible ordeal had changed herso perhaps the deep chasm between them could yet be bridged.

I knew youd get us here, laughed Lucidia, pressing her brothers hand, before following Florina over the side into the water. But despite her gentle words of comfort, his sisters face betrayed every fibre of her trepidation and she gasped as her legs met the chill sea.

Ambrosius looked along the boat for Inga, and when he could not see her, a cold fear clutched at his belly. But, of course, she must have disembarked alreadyand it appeared that the ill-tempered, war dog, Ferox, had gone with her. Scanning the beach, he was relieved to see her being carried across the foreshore in the arms of one of his comrades: Germanus, the Burgundian. Leaping into the water, Ambrosius waded through the waves to join the others on the stony shore. What did it matter now exactly where they were? Better to be on this wretched, deserted beach in Britannia than embroiled in the bloody chaos they had left behind them in Gallia.