Julius Nepos was the reigning emperor. He was a cowardly and incapable man but a friend of the Emperor of the East, Zeno. Orestes decided to depose him and seize the imperial purple. He told me about his decision and even asked me what I thought. I replied that his plan was pure folly: how could he imagine that his destiny would be any different from that of any of the other emperors who had succeeded one another on the throne of the Caesars? What tremendous danger would he be exposing his family to?
‘This time it will be different,’ he replied and refused to say more.
‘But how can you be certain of the loyalty of these barbarians? All they want is money and land. As long as you can provide these, they will follow you, but when you can no longer make them rich, they’ll find someone else who can, someone more powerful and more open to their demands and their boundless avidity.’
‘Have you ever heard of the Nova Invicta Legion?’ he asked me.
‘No. The legions were abolished long ago. You know well, my lord, that military technique has undergone considerable evolution in the last hundred years.’ I thought of the legion that Germanus had founded before dying at the foot of the Great Wall, a legion to guard the fort at Mount Badon. Perhaps it no longer existed.
‘You’re wrong,’ retorted Orestes. ‘The Nova Invicta is a select unit made up of Romans from Italy and the provinces. I’ve reorganized the legion in complete secrecy and it’s been ready for action for years, at the command of an absolutely upright man of great civil and military virtue. They are advancing this way at a forced march, and they will soon make camp not far from our residence in Aemilia. But that’s not the only surprise. I won’t be the emperor.’
I looked at him, stunned, while a terrible thought began to worm itself into my brain: ‘No?’ I asked. ‘Who will the emperor be then?’
‘My son,’ he answered. ‘My son Romulus, who will also assume the title of Augustus. He will bear the names of the first king and the first emperor of Rome, and I will shield him by maintaining the high command of the Imperial Army. No one and nothing will be able to hurt him.’
I said nothing because I knew that anything I said would be useless. He had already decided and nothing would dissuade him from his plans. He didn’t even seem to be aware that he was exposing his own son, my pupil, my boy, to such extreme danger.
That night I went to bed late and sat up at length with my eyes wide open, unable to sleep. Too many thoughts assailed me, not least of all the vision of those men advancing at a forced march to shield the boy emperor: legionaries of the last legion, sworn to supreme sacrifice for the destiny of the last emperor . . .
*
Here the story finished and Romulus raised his head, closing the book. He found Ambrosinus standing in front of him: ‘Interesting reading, I suppose. I’ve been calling you for ages and you haven’t even bothered to answer. Dinner is ready.’
‘I’m sorry, Ambrosine! I didn’t hear you. I saw that you had left this here and I thought . . .’
‘There’s nothing in that book that you can’t read. Come now, let’s go.’
Romulus put the book under his arm and followed him towards the refectory: ‘Ambrosine . . .’ he said suddenly.
‘Yes?’
‘What does that prophecy mean?’
‘That prophecy? It certainly isn’t a complicated text to understand.’
‘No, it’s not, but . . .’
‘It means:
A youth shall come from the southern sea with a sword,
bringing peace and prosperity.
The eagle and the dragon will fly again
over the great land of Britannia.
‘It’s a prophecy, Caesar, and like all prophecies, difficult to interpret. It speaks to the hearts of the men that God has chosen for his mysterious designs.’
‘Ambrosine . . .’ started up Romulus again.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you . . . love my mother?’
The old man bowed his head and nodded gravely. ‘Yes, I loved her – a humble, devoted love, that I would never have dared confess even to myself, but for which I would have been ready to give my life at any instant.’
He turned to the boy and his eyes gleamed like embers in the dark when he said: ‘The man who made her die will pay for it with the most atrocious death. I swear it.’
15
AMBROSINUS HAD DISAPPEARED. For some time he’d been devoting himself to exploring the less apparent corners of the villa, especially the old quarters which were no longer in use, where his insatiable curiosity was fed by a number of disparate objects which he found exceptionally interesting: frescoes, statues, archival documents, laboratory materials and carpentry tools. He spent his time repairing old implements that had fallen into disuse ages ago, like the mill and the forge, the oven and the latrine with running water.
The barbarians considered him some kind of eccentric lunatic and snickered as he passed, making fun of him. All but one: Wulfila. He was all too aware of the old man’s intelligence. He let him roam freely in the villa, but not outside the external circle of walls, unless he was subject to strict surveillance.
Romulus imagined that Ambrosinus had forgotten about the Greek lesson they were supposed to have that day; he must have found some new engrossing activity. The boy wandered down to the lower part of the villa which descended along the slope. There were very few guards down there because the wall was high and had no access from below, ending in a steep, rocky precipice. It was a cool day in late November, so clear that from the highest vantage points he could see the ruins of the Athenaion of Surrentum and farther off the cone of Mount Vesuvius, iron red against the intense blue of the sky. The only sounds to be heard were his own footsteps on the pavement and the whisper of the wind through the leafy fronds of the pines and age-old holm-oaks. A robin redbreast took flight with a slight fluttering of wings, an emerald green lizard scuttled to hide in a crack in the wall. That little universe acknowledged his passing with barely perceptible murmurs.
There had been a terrible racket coming from the soldiers’ quarters all night after the arrival of a shipload of prostitutes, but Romulus did not feel tired from lack of sleep. How could he be tired when there was no activity, no plans, no prospects, no future? At that moment he did not feel particularly unhappy, nor especially happy, since there was no reason for either emotion. His soul reached out absurdly and uselessly to the world around him like a spider’s web in the wind. The clean air and the tranquil breath of nature were reassuring. He hummed a little children’s song that for some reason had just come into his mind.
He thought that perhaps he’d get used to his cage, after all. One can get used to anything and his fate was certainly not worse than that of many others. On the mainland there were massacres and wars and invasions and famine. He need only succeed in wiping the image of Wulfila from his mind. The thought of him was the only thing that could shake the apathy that he had fallen into and set off wild convulsions in his spirit, unleashing an anger that he could not allow himself nor sustain, a fear that was no longer justified, an oppressive sense of shame that was as troublesome as it was inevitable.
All at once he felt the strange sensation of a gust of air against his face: intense, concentrated, smelling of moss and the trickle of hidden water. He looked around but saw nothing. He was about to move when he felt the same sensation again, clear and strong, accompanied by a barely discernible hiss of the wind. He realized suddenly that it was coming from below him, from the holes of a clay grate for draining off rainwater. He glanced around surreptitiously: there was no one to be seen. He took the stylus from his pocket, knelt down and began scraping at the grate which was emitting that curious sigh. When he’d cleaned all around, he prised up one side with a stick and lifted out the grate, placing it alongside on the pavement. He took another quick look around, then stuck his head into the hole. The vision before him was astonishing, even more impressive upside down: a vast cryptoporticus adorned with frescoes and grotes
ques, opening up into the heart of the mountain.
One of the side walls had crumbled, forming a sort of slide that he could use to drop down on to the floor below. He entered and pulled the grate back over his head, slipping down without much difficulty. A dreamlike sight unfolded before his eyes: beams of light filtered from the drainage grate above him, revealing a long paved passageway flanked to the right and left with statues of the Roman emperors, each on a marble pedestal, their storied cuirasses and faces illuminated by the changeable light that poured in from above. The boy walked on, overcome by wonder: each pedestal reported that man’s endeavours, his honorary titles, his triumphs over his enemies.
With every step he felt increasingly overwhelmed by the sheer mass of history. What a heritage he had weighing on his fragile shoulders! He strolled slowly, reading the inscriptions, repeating those names and titles under his breath: ‘Flavius Constans Julianus, Restorer of Rome, Defender of the Empire. Lucius Settimius Severus, Particus Maximus, Germanicus, Particus Adiabenicus, High Pontiff. Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Pius Felix, semper Augustus, High Pontiff, six times Tribune of the People. Titus Flavius Vespasianus, Augustus. Claudius Tiberius Drusus Caesar, Britannicus. Tiberius Nero Claudius, Germanicus, Father of the Country, High Pontiff. Augustus Caesar, son of the divine Julius, High Pontiff, seven times Consul . . .’
A light layer of dust had settled on those impressive effigies, on their thick eyebrows, on the deep wrinkles that furrowed their brows, on the draping, the weapons and the decorations, but none of them showed signs of disfigurement or mutilation. The place must be some sort of sacrarium, created in secret. By whom? Julianus, perhaps, the first of the figures, whom the Christians had condemned to infamy with the name of Apostate, inaugurating the line-up of the lords of the earth with his own frowning, melancholy image.
Now Romulus, trembling with emotion and astonishment, found himself in front of the northern wall of the cryptoporticus. Before him was a vertical slab of green marble, decorated at the centre with a laurel crown in relief made of gilded bronze. Inside this, in capital letters, were the words: CAIVS IVLIVS CAESAR. Caius Julius Caesar! Beneath, in cursive letters, was an enigmatic expression: quindecim caesus, that Romulus repeated softly: ‘Stricken fifteen times.’ What could it mean? Caesar had been struck by thirty-eight dagger blows as everyone knew from their history books, not fifteen, and why would such a sad reminder of the Ides of March appear in a grandiose epigraph of precious marble, bronze and gold? It made no sense: an inscription that commemorated the slaughter of the greatest of all Romans.
What could that number mean? He thought of all the acrostic and enigmatic puzzles that his tutor proposed so often to sharpen his mind and keep boredom at bay. He read the letters forwards and backwards; there must be a trick of some sort, a key to interpreting that strange expression.
No sound came from outside except the monotonous chirping of the sparrows. In that empty, suspended atmosphere, the boy’s mind frenetically explored any and every combination to find a solution. He realized that someone would be noticing his absence soon and that all hell would break loose in the villa. Ambrosinus himself would be in danger. His mounting anxiety honed all the powers of his intellect and his thoughts alighted like a butterfly on those words, breaking them down into a series of numbers that added up to a total of fifteen. The sum of V, V and V: the Vs of gilded bronze that appeared in the words CAIVS IVLIVS. The inscription which followed – quindecim caesus – had deliberately been written in cursive letters instead, where the ‘u’ was not equivalent to ‘v’ as it could be in a capital letter. That must be the key to the solution! He pressed his trembling hand in succession on the three Vs: they receded into the slab but nothing happened. He sighed resignedly and was turning to go when he suddenly had another idea: the phrase said ‘quindecim’ which meant three times five, not three fives in a row. He turned back and pressed all three Vs in the words CAIVS IVLIVS at once. The three letters receded and he heard a sharp metallic click, the sound of a counterweight, the creaking of a winch and then a puff of air emanated from the sides of the slab as the huge stone revolved upon itself and opened.
Romulus grabbed the edge, pulled hard so that it turned a little on its hinges and put a stone in place so it couldn’t close behind him. He took a deep breath and went in.
A sense of marvel rushed over him as soon as his eyes became used to the dusky light: before him was a magnificent statue, sculpted using different coloured marbles that imitated natural tones. It carried real metallic weapons, finely embossed.
Romulus slowly ran his eyes over the statue, exploring every detail, from the knotted footwear rising up his muscled calves to the storied cuirass with images of gorgons and sea monsters with scaly tails. His face was austere, his nose aquiline, his eyes flashing with the fierce pride of the dictator perpetuus. Julius Caesar himself! A strange light seemed to flutter over the surface, like the reflection of invisible waves, and he realized that a shifting blue light was illuminating the statue from below, from a carved marble well-head that he had taken for an altar at first. Romulus leaned over the edge; all he could see at the bottom was a light blue glimmer. He dropped a stone and listened for long seconds before he heard the splash of the stone being swallowed up into water. The drop must be tremendous!
He backed away and walked around the statue, examining it with greater attention. He had never seen such realism in any statue of bronze or marble. The belt bearing the sheathed sword seemed real. He climbed up on to one of the capitals and reached out a shaky hand until he could grasp the hilt, trying to avoid the withering stare of the dictator. He pulled. The sword docilely followed his hand and began to emerge from the sheath that contained it. He’d never seen such a blade before! Sharp as a razor, shiny as glass and dark as night. There were letters carved into it, but he couldn’t quite make them out. He held it tight with both hands at a palm’s width from his face and he quivered at the sight like a leaf in the wind. This was the sword that had subjugated Gauls and Germans, Egyptians and Syrians, Numidians and Iberians. The sword of Julius Caesar!
His heart beat wildly and he thought again of Ambrosinus, who must be terribly worried at not finding him anywhere. Wulfila would be enraged. He considered putting the sword back in its place but a force greater than his will stopped him. He would not, and could not, separate himself from it.
He took off his cloak and wrapped it around the sword then retraced his steps and moved the slab back into place. He shot a last glance at the stern dictator before he disappeared from sight and whispered: ‘I’ll only keep it a little while. Don’t worry, I’ll bring it back . . .’
It took some doing to get back up out of the hole, but he managed, looking all around and waiting for the moment in which no one could see him. He slipped behind a row of bushes and scurried between a double line of clothing hung out to dry until he succeeded in reaching his room. He hid the bundle under his bed. Outside, the entire villa resounded with cries and shouts and spreading uproar as the guards could not seem to find him. He went down to the ground floor and walked through the stables, plastering some of the chaff on to himself before he came out into the open. One of the barbarians noticed him immediately and shouted: ‘He’s here! I’ve found him!’ He grabbed the boy brutally by one arm and dragged him towards the guards’ house. Romulus recognized the moaning coming from within and his heart leaped in his chest: Ambrosinus was paying dearly for the temporary disappearance of his pupil.
‘Let him go!’ he shouted, wriggling away from his warder and hurrying inside. ‘Let him go immediately, you bastards!’ Ambrosinus was immobilized on a stool with his hands tied behind his back. He was bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth and his left cheek was swollen. Romulus ran towards him and hugged him tightly: ‘Forgive me, forgive me, Ambrosine!’ he cried. ‘I didn’t want . . .’
‘It’s nothing, my boy, nothing at all,’ he replied. ‘The important thing is that you’re back. I was worried about you.’
Wulfila grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him backwards, sending him sprawling: ‘Where were you?’ he screamed.
‘I was in the stables. I fell asleep on the straw,’ replied Romulus, leaping back on his feet and confronting him bravely.
‘You’re lying!’ shouted Wulfila, dealing him a backhanded blow that hurled him violently against the wall. ‘We looked everywhere!’
Romulus wiped away the blood dripping from his nose and approached him again with a courage that Ambrosinus could barely believe. ‘You didn’t look well enough,’ he retorted. ‘Can’t you see I still have chaff on my clothes?’ Wulfila raised his hand to slap him again but Romulus stared at him unperturbed, saying: ‘If you dare touch my tutor again, I’ll slit your throat like a pig. I swear I will.’
Wulfila burst into noisy laughter. ‘With what?’ he sneered. ‘Get out of my sight now and thank your God that I’m in a good mood today. Get out of here now, you and that old cockroach!’
Romulus untied Ambrosinus’s bonds and helped him to get up. The tutor saw something in the eyes of his disciple, a fierceness and pride, that he had never seen before, and was greatly struck by this unexpected miracle. Romulus held him up lovingly, leading him towards his quarters amidst the laughter and jeers of the barbarians, but their euphoric and almost frenetic rejoicing revealed just how terrified they had been a few moments before. A boy of just thirteen had eluded the surveillance of seventy of the best warriors of the Imperial Army for more than an hour, throwing them all into utter panic.