The Eagle’s Last Cry

Britannia, 483 A.D.

“Perhaps we should stop, Tribune. Visibility is terrible.”

“No, we go on.”

Like two vessels cutting through a strange white sea, two horses advanced slowly through the freezing mist that enveloped them. Upon one of them, a man’s breath seemed to merge with that impenetrable white barrier where, as if it were an immense forgotten canvas, he began to sketch his memories.

From nowhere appeared his homeland — a fishing village in distant Italy. Elsewhere, invisible ink traced his camp in Gaul. His commander, who had entrusted him with that desperate mission. Melancholic images that quickly faded when the vast canvas on which they were drawn seemed to shatter: the fog thinned, revealing a small rise where the man immediately saw that his guide’s horse, a few steps ahead, had stopped.

He reached him quickly.

From that sudden height, one could admire a magnificent view. The mist, still lingering in patches, gave way to an endless moor where hills followed one another into the distance. Yet it was not that infinite green that first caught the eye, but rather an imposing stone construction — a wall that, winding around those same hills, stretched across the entire horizon, connecting two distant edges of the world and giving the impression of dividing the planet into two perfectly distinct halves.

“This is the famous Hadrian’s Wall, am I right?”

The Celtic guide nodded.

The man studied the massive wall and soon noticed that it was interrupted by another large stone structure — an extensive fortress.

“What is that?”

“That is your fort of Petriana, my king.”

The man gazed long at the structure, noticing that outside it a large settlement seemed to flourish, with houses and mills.

“Is the Augusta here?”

“That is what the tales say, my king. No one knows precisely where your men ended up.”

“We shall find out. At least we will find something to restore our strength. Let’s go.”

As the two riders began descending the slope, another line of horsemen emerged from the fog behind them, followed by a determined contingent of men who had marched without rest for months. Their armor bore witness to how exhausting the journey had been, yet each of them carried unmistakable pride.

Soon they stood before the gates of the citadel, where a sizable group of armed men had already gathered outside.

“Lord, they are forming to defend the fort. They must be barbarians.”

“No. They are too well armed. It’s them,” the man said, smiling.

He let out a cry that shook the silent moor.

“We are Roman citizens!”

But the men of the fort did not answer, nor did they lower their weapons. The enthusiastic tribune began to worry: he knew well that in case of battle, the small force under his command would not prevail.

Then something unexpected happened.

A child emerged from the town’s gates and made his way through the ranks of soldiers, carrying something large and wondrous. A long pole topped with an unmistakable symbol, visible to all as soon as the boy planted it in the ground: a golden eagle.

At the sight of that emblem — the standard of a Roman legion — all fell to their knees.

The Second Legion Augusta Britannica.

The man had done it. He had found them.

He would save the Empire.

Weapons were lowered. The two sides advanced toward one another, soldiers embracing those who moments earlier had been feared as enemies. Like conquerors, the man and his troops entered the fort, marching down the main road toward a square filled with celebrating and curious onlookers.

The man stepped onto a pedestal at its center.

“Friends, you cannot imagine how my heart rejoices to see other Romans. Our journey has been long and perilous; we have come to the very ends of the world to find you. My name is Ambrosius Aurelianus, tribune of the First Legion Flavia Gallica, stationed in Augusta Suessionum. I come on behalf of the supreme general Syagrius, in the name of Emperor Julius Nepos, to ask for your aid.”

The crowd fell silent.

“As you well know, the Empire is passing through dark times. More than ever it needs its old strength, its old sinew. More than ever it needs the Second Legion Augusta Britannica.”

“I ask you to return with us to Gaul and defend the Empire — in the name of Rome.”

Instead of enthusiasm, a troubled murmur spread through the crowd.

“Valiant Tribune Aurelianus,” a man said, stepping forward through the sea of people, “all now call me Bennett Augustine, though perhaps my old name is more familiar to you — Benedetto Augustino. I bear responsibility for the men of this fort. You have traveled far; allow us to honor our guests according to our shared tradition. Refresh yourselves. We shall speak in due time.”

The evening passed quickly. Ambrosius’ soldiers sang and danced with those of the fort, as though they had found long-lost brothers.

At dawn, the tribune climbed the Wall. He noticed strange large stones dotting the unknown side — stones that seemed to hold something within them.

“They are swords.”

He turned to find Benedetto beside him.

“The Angles drive swords into stones, as a sign that their gods favor them — to show us that this is their land.”

“They are very close to the Wall.”

“The Wall is the only protection we have. We have been attacked many times. We have had to disappear to survive. That is why we cannot fulfill your request.”

Ambrosius stiffened.

“What do you mean?”

“Look,” Benedetto said, pointing toward the village. “This is our place. Many of us have wives and children. We are old. You cannot ask us to fight barbarians who now dominate the world. Without the Wall, we would already be gone.”

Ambrosius looked at the peaceful life unfolding there — and remembered his long-forgotten Italian village.

“What of our Roman identity? Are we surrendering the world to ignorance and violence?”

“Ambrosius, look at reality: the world is already so. The Second Legion served Rome for centuries. Even when Rome forgot us, we rebuilt her here. Look closely — this is a small island of Romanitas in a world that has forgotten it.”

Ambrosius fell silent. The Empire was fading into memory. Even victory in Gaul would not restore it.

“I understand your decision. I do not blame you.”

“You could stay,” Benedetto offered. “This is not Rome — but perhaps it is the only place that preserves her spirit.”

Ambrosius thought long.

“Your offer is noble. But my place is not here. We will fight. We swore to defend the Empire — even at the cost of our lives.”

Later that day he met a woman — Celtic in origin, with clear hair and sky-colored eyes.

“What have the barbarians done to you?” she asked.

“They have undermined the Empire itself.”

“I am Celtic,” she replied firmly. “Am I a barbarian? Rome’s strength was always integration.”

Ambrosius smiled.

“Barbarians are not those born outside Rome. They are those who reject knowledge and civilization.”

Their conversation was interrupted.

“Enemies beyond the Wall!”

An explosion shattered part of it. Ambrosius realized the terrible truth: the attack had come because of him.

He rallied his men.

“Rome is not a city. Rome lives within us. Rome is here — in this fort. And we have sworn to defend her. For Rome!”

“For Rome!” they cried.

The old legionaries donned their armor. The eagle of the Second Legion rose again.

The gates opened.

“Charge!”

Battle erupted across the moor. Romans fought bravely but suffered heavy losses. Ambrosius fell when his horse was struck. Wounded by an arrow, he continued fighting until he collapsed beside one of the sword-stones.

He saw the golden eagle fall into the mud.

All was lost.

Then he saw a cloaked figure in black.

An angel of death?

Sunlight pierced the clouds, illuminating a strange sword embedded in the stone — made of glass.

With his last strength, he grasped it.

“For Rome,” he whispered.

The earth trembled.

The sword blazed with light. Lightning struck it. Power surged through him. He rose, renewed. His wounds closed. With impossible strength he drove back the enemy, lightning cracking around him.

The cloaked figure raised a hand — and all the storm ceased.

The stranger removed his hood: a pale, blond youth with blue eyes.

“King of the Romans,” he spoke in flawless Latin, “you have shown noble power. But power without control is useless. I can teach you. Together we can rule our peoples. For peace.”

Ambrosius, shaken, answered:

“Very well, sorcerer. Teach me. Let there be peace.”

Days later, Ambrosius addressed the people again.

“I came to defend Rome. And I have found her — here. Rome is not hatred. Rome is integration.”

He looked at the sky-eyed woman.

“We shall rebuild — Romans, Saxons, Celts, Angles together.”

He turned to the cloaked youth.

“I too shall take a new name. The choice is yours.”

The youth spoke:

“Ambrosius Aurelianus, who fights with the fury of a bear — your duties to the emperors are ended. Your new name shall unite the word for your guiding animal in our two tongues.”

He cried out:

“Long live King Arthur!”

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Historical Note

When speaking of the Roman Empire and its fall, one immediately thinks of the collapse of the Latin civilization of its western part — the more European one. The Empire, which reached its greatest territorial extent in the 2nd century under Emperor Trajan, was divided into two parts by Diocletian in 285 A.D. While the eastern portion, which would later be known as the Byzantine Empire, survived for another entire millennium, the western part was repeatedly invaded by barbarian peoples. Historians commonly date its end to 476 A.D., when the king of the Heruli, Odoacer, deposed the child emperor Romulus Augustulus in Ravenna.

Odoacer returned the imperial insignia to the contemporary Eastern Roman emperor, Flavius Zeno, declaring himself a servant of the last legitimate Western emperor, Julius Nepos. The latter, who had previously taken refuge in Dalmatia, retained only formal authority. With the fall of the Western Roman Empire, historians traditionally mark the beginning of a new era: the Middle Ages.

However, the transition was not as clear-cut as it might seem. For many years after 476, Roman offices continued to function. In what is now northern France, the magister militum (supreme Roman general) Syagrius continued to control an extensive territory centered on Augusta Suessionum (modern Soissons). Answering both to the former Western emperor Nepos and to the Eastern emperor Zeno, Syagrius effectively acted on behalf of the Roman Empire until he was defeated by the Franks in 486 A.D.

In fact, he ruled this territory with the title rex romanorum — “king of the Romans” — a designation that barbarian peoples often attributed to Latin officials. For this reason, many accounts refer to Ambrosius with the title of “king,” a title he will inherit in his transformation into the Arthur we all know.

In the story, it is imagined that Syagrius sent Ambrosius’ detachment in search of the Second Legion Augusta Britannica, seeking support to defend his territories in Gaul. As far as we know, this never actually occurred, but it is a plausible scenario, since Syagrius controlled the northern coasts of France and the surrounding barbarian peoples were his allies.

The presence of the Second Legion in Great Britain, on the other hand, is well documented and spans several centuries, from the very beginning of Roman rule in the region. It was this unit that contributed to the construction of Hadrian’s Wall in the 2nd century A.D., an imposing stone barrier dividing Roman Britain from the lands of the barbarians. Traces of this wall, which ran along the present-day border between England and Scotland, still survive.

The legendary Second Legion is the Roman unit most easily connected with the events of the Arthurian cycle, since documents such as the Notitia Dignitatum attest to its presence in the region even in the 5th century A.D. However, in 410, Roman military units in Britain were officially ordered to withdraw. It is nevertheless reasonable to suppose that the Second Legion remained where it had spent more than three centuries, its soldiers by then deeply integrated with the local population.

As for that population, Great Britain at the time presented a complex profile. Even before Roman occupation, the islands were inhabited by various Celtic tribes, collectively known as the Britons. The Romans invaded and conquered what is now England beginning in 43 A.D., building several walls — first Hadrian’s Wall, later the Antonine Wall — to defend against the northern Scoti.

When Roman power began to weaken in the 4th century A.D., the island was repeatedly invaded by Germanic tribes: the Saxons from the south, the Angles from the east, and the Picts (together with the Scoti) from the north. The legacy of these invasions would profoundly shape the future of Great Britain — so much so that English is classified as an Anglo-Saxon language.

A final note concerns the main protagonist. Ambrosius Aurelianus was indeed a real leader of Latin origin, though very little is known about him beyond the fact that he was active in 5th-century Britain. He is one of several possible historical candidates for the legendary King Arthur of later tradition.

In reality, he was most likely a mercenary — far removed from the ideals of the Ambrosius portrayed in the story. But that is something we will probably never know.