turned and looked back towards the west, in the hope of seeing signs that the relief forces from Gaul were on their way. But nothing moved in that vast and desolate waste of snow. It was empty of human beings and of hope. I descended the ladder and sat down on a bench, my sword unbuckled, and took the bowl of food that my orderly offered me. Quintus came in then, rubbing the snow from off his shoulders. He looked exhausted, and the stubble of his beard was white, like my own. We did not speak until we had eaten and drunk. He said, tiredly, “Flavius is dead. He went with me on my last charge. When we got back to camp he was still on his horse, with four arrows in him. He was always a good rider.”
I nodded. I felt very tired. I said, “I wanted so much to see Rome. My father once told me how he had stood in the Curia, the senate house down in the Forum, watching the senators offering incense to the figure of Victory before they went to their meeting. It stood on a pedestal at the end of the chamber, opposite the entrance, but it has gone now, like all the best things in our world. I wanted to see that, too.”
He said, “Oh, Maximus,” and touched my arm.
They came again and the fighting was as before. During a pause in the battle, while they prepared for yet another assault with ladders and planks, I walked down to the southern end of our defences to where Artorius stood, surrounded by his handful of battered gladiators and freed slaves. He held his sword as though it belonged to him now, and he grinned and saluted me as I came up.
“Artorius.”
“Sir.”
I took him by the shoulder and spoke quietly, “Where are those reinforcements that you promised us? Where is the Army of Gaul? The advance guard should have been here by now. Tell me.”
He said simply, “I don’t know.”
I held him close. I said, “It was a lie, wasn’t it? It was a lie to keep up morale? All lies?”
“Yes,” he said. He stuck his sword into the ground and rubbed his hands. They were covered with chilblains and he had difficulty in moving his fingers. He said, “We asked for help, and when the message came that there would be no help, we thought it best to pretend that everything would be all right. It is an old merchant’s trick, of course.” He spoke quietly and with confidence. Whatever else he was—he was not frightened any more.
I said, “You did right. You should have been on my staff.”
A trooper came up, dragging his right foot upon the ground. He said, “General Veronius sent me. If you do not need your horse, sir, could I have it? We are short of mounts.”
I nodded. “Take it. I do not need a horse now.”
He saluted his thanks, swung himself awkwardly into the saddle and disappeared in a flurry of snow.
I called out then, for Aquila. “Tell my bodyguard to join General Veronius. He has need of all the horsemen he can get.”
He looked shocked. “But, sir—”
I clapped him on the back. “You and I, Aquila, will walk out of this world on our feet. It is just as easy.”
And then, during another lull when the sun, low behind us, was in their eyes, came the moment that I had dreaded all day.
Aquila came up to me and said, “We are nearly out of missiles. What do we do when they attack us again?”
Fredegar, gulping wine, rinsed his mouth and spat. “None of my archers has arrows left. What do I do next when they come round on the flanks?”
I walked down the line, pausing to ask each man a question. No-one smiled now. They held out their hands and showed me their weapons, and that was all. Fabianus said, “The ballistae are now useless, like my horse.” He began to make patterns in the snow with the point of his sword. He knew, as I did, that he would never see the daughter of Rando again, but he did not speak of it. His life’s span was now little more than the length of his sword; but he was worth more to me dead, than to her living, though I did not tell him so.
I said nothing, but shut my eyes to avoid the sight of his young face.
Quintus walked up to me, limping heavily, his horse following with lowered head. He had changed horses four times this day, and the present beast was a bay with a white star on his forehead.
He said, bleakly, “I can mount four hundred men. That is all. What are the orders, O my general?”
I opened my eyes. The sun was just above the hills and the short day would soon be ended. “Where is Julius Optatus? Hurry.”
“Sir.” He came up to me, still the same stocky, cheerful man, slow in the uptake but careful in his accounts, whom I had first met, so long ago, in Segontium in the west. I owed him so much for his efforts to keep us supplied with everything that we needed; but I did not tell him so. He would only have been embarrassed. I said, “What have we left?”
He held out his hands. “Nothing, sir. I have issued every last weapon and missile in the camp.” His deep voice cracked for a moment. “I am a quartermaster without any stores. Friend Aquila at least still has some men.” He was almost crying with rage and frustration.
“Never mind. Bring everyone up from the camp who can walk, and put them into the firing line. Yourself included.”
“Couldn’t we hold the camp, sir?”
I shook my head. “Not enough men. Did you send out all the walking wounded?”
“Yes, sir. All who can’t fight, but who can walk, have been going out all day.” He grinned savagely. He said, “You can see their bodies marking the road to Treverorum.”
I turned away and looked up at the signal tower. That at least, was still standing; one thing that I had built was still standing; but not for long. Everything that I had built was crumbling to pieces in the wet snow.
I raised my arm. Agilio, Scudilio and the other commanders moved towards me, expectantly. In the distance I could see Artorius coming at a painful run, his right arm, wrapped in a rag, held close to his side. They stood around me in a half circle. Perhaps they were hoping for a miracle; I do not know; but their faces were quiet and relaxed as I spoke to them. They knew and were prepared.
I said, “There are no orders now. We stand here until we die.”
The wind blew the top off the ground snow, and I heard a faint sound and saw a flight of swans, skimming above the trees on their way to the Mosella, which we should not see again.
Quintus spoke to my orderly. “Fetch a bowl of wine and bring it to the left flank. Quickly now.” He took his helmet from his arm and set it carefully upon his head. As he buckled the straps under his chin I noticed that his hands were quite steady. He said, “Give me all your men, Fabianus. They are massing again. When they come close I shall ride out at the head of my ala and try to break them up a little.”
Fabianus said, “No, it is not worth it.”
Quintus smiled. “You are so very wrong,” he said. “It has all been worth it. Do not ever think otherwise.” He looked round us in turn, giving each man a smile and a nod. When he turned to me, I said, “I will come with you.” Fabianus moved forward, but Aquila held him by the arm.
I walked with Quintus to the left flank and watched him give his orders. His men mounted and formed up. They looked very calm and determined. They were very young, most of them only boys.
“Well?”
He turned and we tried to smile. “I did my best to be Maharbal,” he said.
“I know. And I to be Hannibal.”
He gripped my arm and I his, and then he mounted his horse. He took the standard with its red banner and its silver eagle, that Stilicho had given him, and settled it comfortably in his shield hand. “This time, I carry it,” he said. “It is my right.”
I nodded. The orderly came up and I took the cups of wine. I handed one to Quintus, and we looked at each other, and then we drank.
He said hoarsely, “It was better to do this than grow fat and rot upon the Wall.”
“I have always thought so.”
“Maximus.”
“Yes.”
“I never laughed.”
“I know,” I said. “Go now, my dear friend, in the name of Mithras, and may the fates be kind.”
“And to you, also, my general. In the name of Mithras.” He threw the wine cup on to the snow; and then
