relieved, the old general sank down and unbuckled his satchel. The worst was behind him. With the going now comparatively level, he should tonight reach the Hollenthal below the Feldberg; and tomorrow should see him through that narrow valley to the Alb, and then the Rhenus. The back of the journey would then be broken, and he could expect to reach Spolicinum on the fourth day as planned.
Having breakfasted, Gaius set out feeling much refreshed, and still uplifted in spirit; provided the weather held, allowing him to keep the Feldberg and the Kandel in view, navigation should no longer be a problem. Especially as there was now a clear-marked ridgeway track to follow, the Hohenweg. In contrast to the previous day, the going on the tops was superb, being firm gravel or springy turf. From the Kandel, fantastic views unrolled around him: the Vosegus and Mons Jura ranges and the distant rampart of the Alpes, while below, set off by the forest’s sombre green, tarns gleamed like turquoises. Then, at some point in the afternoon, his soldier’s instinct told him he was being followed. Turning, he saw some fifty paces behind him a huge wolf, long of leg and muzzle, gaunt to the point of emaciation, its fur dull and staring, lips drawn back in a snarl baring rows of vicious fangs.
Gaius experienced a moment of gut-churning fear. Clearly, the wolf had only one purpose in its mind, and he was in the poorest position imaginable to resist attack. He was remote from habitation; he had no weapon, not even a stick. Above all, he was old, lacking the strength to fend off an attack — something the wolf would have sensed instinctively, reinforcing its determination and aggression. Yet there had to be something he could do; there always was, even in the most desperate situation — as he had learnt during years of hard campaigning.
Then it dawned on Gaius that he was not, after all, entirely without means of defence; these grassy tops, studded with granite outcrops, were littered with stones of every shape and size. Even the heaviest stone, with only the power of an arm behind it, wouldn’t suffice to counter an attack by a savage wolf, but arm-power could be assisted. Propelled by a sling, a tiny pebble acquired enough force to kill. Think man, think. He had it! Dumping the contents of his satchel on the ground, Gaius hastily refilled it with stones, then hefted it by the carrying-strap, testing its weight and swing. Now he had a truly formidable weapon, the equivalent of the gladiator’s ball-and- chain.
The wolf attacked suddenly, coming at Gaius in a weaving rush. He swung the weighted satchel, missed, tried to dodge but felt the slashing teeth rake his thigh. Had its damaged foreleg not slowed the wolf’s impetus, it would have inflicted serious injury instead of merely a nasty gash. Twice more it charged, coming in from the side, gaining in confidence as its teeth ripped the man’s flesh. Both times Gaius’ improvised weapon missed its target, mainly because of the difficulty in co-ordinating timing and balance to deliver an effective sideways blow.
Nevertheless, he knew that if he could hold on, and shut his mind to the pain and loss of blood, his chance would come. So far, the wolf had been probing for weaknesses, testing his reactions. Sooner rather than later, in order to finish the contest, it must launch a frontal attack. Gaius now had the feel of his weapon; could he but land a solid blow, the odds might tilt in his favour.
On its fourth attack, the wolf came in for the kill, charging straight at Gaius and, when a few paces distant, springing for the throat. But Gaius was prepared. Already whirling the satchel round his head to build up impetus, he timed his blow sweetly. As the huge animal hurtled through the air towards him, the bag, with the full impact of its massive weight, slammed into the creature’s head with a meaty crunch. The animal collapsed on the ground, its head and neck horribly missapen. Gaius swung the satchel in a second tremendous blow, and crushed the beast’s skull like a stove-in barrel. A shudder rippled through the wolf’s body, then it lay still.
Reaction hit Gaius. He swayed, as blackness seemed to gather before his eyes. But he must not faint, he told himself; he must find the will-power and the strength to keep going and complete his mission. His wounds were bleeding copiously, so he tore strips from his tunic to make bandages, and managed to staunch the worst of the bleeding. Emptying the stones from his satchel, he replaced them with the provisions scattered on the ground. Though his stomach rose against it, he made himself eat in order to keep his strength up. Then, slowly and painfully, he resumed his journey, forcing himself gradually to increase his pace, in an effort not to lose time.
He reached the Hollenthal just as the sun was setting, and in the semi-darkness managed to clamber down the ravine’s steep and craggy nearer wall to its floor, aware that, in his weakened state, a night spent on the exposed tops might see him perish from the cold. Too tired to gather fuel for a fire, he passed the hours of darkness in a fitful doze, shivering beneath his cloak.
Next morning, he pressed on eastwards through the Hollenthal. The name, which meant Valley of Hell, was apt, he thought, oppressed by the savage chaos of rocky turrets that loomed on either side. The ravine narrowed, became wilder, the fantastic spires and crags of its containing walls seeming to defy every law of order and possibility. Then, with a welcome though almost shocking suddenness, the grim scene changed to one of beauty. The valley broadened, the grisly cliffs fell back, replaced by gentle slopes of green studded with groves of beech and starred by flowers, while the air was filled with birdsong and the chirring of grasshoppers. This, Gaius recalled, was called the Himmelreich, the Kingdom of Heaven.
The rest of that day passed in a dreamlike blur. He seemed to have crossed a threshold, beyond which pain and tiredness were scarcely felt. After skirting a marshy tract, the Todtmoos, or Dead Man’s Swamp, he joined the Albthal, a desolate valley lined with firs and beech growing between grey outcrops of granite. At times the Alb was a gently rippling stream, at others, where the valley twisted and steepened, a mountain torrent swirling round bends and crashing against rocks in cascades of spray. In these stretches, Gaius could proceed only with the utmost difficulty, clinging precariously to moss-grown crags and overhanging branches, as he worked his way along banks whose slopes at times approached the vertical. Then suddenly, far below him through a gap in the trees, he glimpsed a mighty river, slow-moving, majestic: the Rhenus! And those wooded slopes fringing the farther side were the Roman province of Maxima Sequanorum.
By now totally exhausted, Gaius staggered and stumbled the last few miles, reaching the Rhenus late in the afternoon. Shortly afterwards he was picked up by a state barge carrying timber and building stone, bound for Felix Arbor, a fortress on Lacus Brigantinus to the east of Spolicinum. At sunset, the barge put in at a landing-stage on the Roman side for the night, and the following morning rowed slowly upstream and entered the lake. Some hours later, Gaius was helped on to the pier serving Spolicinum, where some off-duty soldiers volunteered to take him to the commandant. He was delirious and very weak, but his mind cleared long enough for him to convey the news about the risings in Gaul.
As a personal favour, he asked that a messenger be sent to his son at the Villa Fortunata, and this was readily granted. Calling for a diptych, he scratched a brief letter to Titus, then tied the cords and gave it to the bearer. Gaius lingered for a few more hours, while the fort’s surgeon fought to save his life. But the old soldier’s heart had been overtaxed and he had lost too much blood. He died murmuring lines from Namatianus’ poem of farewell to Rome: ‘ “
1 The Black Forest.
2 ‘Thee we sing [O Rome], and shall ever sing, while the fates permit; no guest of thine can be forgetful of thee.’ This noble poem was penned in 410 — ironically, the very year in which, a few months later, Rome was taken and sacked by Alaric.
TWENTY-FOUR
He [Aetius], uniquely, was born for the salvation of the Roman Republic
‘
