Sword of Rome

XXVI

‘You were foolish to travel this road alone.’

Valerius stayed silent, still uncertain whether he could trust the grave young man who had saved their lives. Foolish or desperate, the end would have been the same if the auxiliary cavalry squadron hadn’t arrived to scatter the bandit tribe screaming into the mist.

‘There was no point in following them,’ the soldier went on. ‘The swamps are their rats’ nest. A fool to tempt them, but a bigger fool to fight them on their own ground.’

Massaging the leather stock where his wooden hand met the stump of his wrist, Valerius nodded to acknowledge the truth of the second statement and the admonition in the first. He could still feel the sting of the spear point slicing the flesh of his shoulder, but the wound had turned out to be superficial. The auxiliary unit’s medicus had cleaned it thoroughly and thought it unlikely to mortify, which was little short of miraculous given the festering source of the weapon that caused it. They sat by the open fire while the young man’s troopers bedded down eight to a room in the cramped accommodation offered by the mansio. A few paces away Serpentius lay back on a couch covered in a blanket with his injured foot raised. His eyes were closed, but Valerius knew the Spaniard would be listening to every word. The officer’s eyes said he knew it also.

‘You are a man of few words for a merchant. I usually find them somewhat garrulous. And then,’ his gaze drifted to Valerius’s sleeve, ‘there is your wooden hand; the mark I was told would identify the man I sought.’

The words were casual enough, but both men understood the threat they contained. Valerius kept his expression blank, but inside his heart hammered at his ribs like a wild beast trapped in a pen. He saw Serpentius tense beneath the blanket. Fight or flight. The appraising glint in the cavalryman’s eyes told him bluff wasn’t an option. In fact, the officer appeared remarkably relaxed for someone who had just passed what could be a death sentence on two very dangerous men. The troopers’ insignia identified them as a turma of the Ala Siliana, the Thracian auxiliary unit Valerius had been told had already rejected Otho’s claim to the purple. These men were paving the way for Aulus Vitellius’s army to march on Rome. Why save the lives of two dangerous enemies? The answer was simple and likely to be very painful. Valerius had counted the Siliana’s commander Tiberius Rubrio a friend, but with an Empire at stake friendship meant little, and if Rubrio wanted information he would go to any lengths to get it. Fight then, Valerius thought wearily. Better to go down like a lion than a lamb.

The young cavalry commander recognized the moment of decision. His hand fumbled beneath the cloak at his side and Valerius prepared to throw himself at the sword. What appeared was an innocuous leather document case of a type Valerius had seen many times. He forced himself to relax as the other man continued.

‘Not all of us believe Vitellius is our rightful Emperor. Aurelius Dasius, decurion of the third turma of Ala Siliana,’ the soldier introduced himself, ‘and as of last night commander of the Emperor Otho’s cavalry in the north,’ he waved at the sleeping men beyond the flickering shadows of firelight, ‘which currently amounts to thirty-two auxiliaries. When Rubrio declared for Vitellius two weeks ago, I persuaded my troop that there was a more certain way to gain a reward than the promises of plunder he gave: to abide by the oath we swore to the Senate and people of Rome. Word came yesterday that a one-armed man would be travelling north and should be offered what protection we could give. It was fortunate that we heard news of your departure from Placentia. Even so, we were almost too late.’

‘But you were in time. Gaius Valerius Verrens.’ Valerius rose and offered his wooden right hand. Dasius hesitated just for a second before taking it. ‘And for that we are grateful.’

The Thracian brought his face closer, so the Roman could see the premature lines brought on by fatigue and strain. His voice lowered to a whisper, which indicated to Valerius that either Dasius was rightly cautious or, more worryingly, he didn’t trust his men as much as he would like.

‘Our orders are to escort you as far north as possible without compromising your mission, though that decision is at your discretion. I should add that under Rubrio I took responsibility for the security of these parts, out to the hill country beyond Mediolanum, and have knowledge of the area that might be useful to you.’

Valerius nodded to indicate he understood — understood, but had not agreed. Not yet. He shifted his seat and winced as a pain shot through his injured shoulder. There was a balance to be stuck here. On one side of the scales lay the weighty certainty that the tactic of posing as merchants, which had served them well enough in Italia proper, would not protect them in this wild place. In fact, it made them a target. Neither was there any guarantee that two men could fight their way through against the kind of odds they had faced earlier. Death held no fears for Gaius Valerius Verrens, but he had begun to believe that Serpentius was indestructible. The fight with the swamp bandits had proved the lie in that. The truth was that without Dasius’s fully armed veteran cavalry they would have been dead. Yet there would still come a time when invisibility was more important than security; in the wrong place, the Thracians would stand out like a Vestal virgin at a Bacchanalia celebration.

He kept his voice neutral as he gave his decision. ‘I will accept your offer to take us past Mediolanum. After that we will see.’

Dasius sniffed, uncertain whether he was being insulted, but Thracian enough to be offended anyway.

‘When we reach the city you will have a decision to make. East or north. Brixia or Novum Comun. Brixia is the better road and the passes were certainly open a week ago, but it is Vitellius’s country and will bring you closer to my old comrades. The way to Novum Comun is more treacherous, but if we follow the river we will be safe enough. After that …’ He shrugged. ‘I know a reliable guide.’

‘Novum Comun then,’ Valerius decided, more difficult or not. ‘What is the country like there?’

Dasius smiled for the first time. ‘That you must see for yourself.’

Even on a winter’s day as washed out as a legionary’s ten-year-old tunic it was the most beautiful place Valerius had ever seen. From the southern shore he felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice. The sheer walls of the valley that held the lake in its dragon’s jaws plunged down to be reflected on the slate-blue mirror of the surface, creating the effect of a giant chasm. All around was metal: tree-lined hillsides the colour of lead sling pellets, clouds shot with pewter, and a sky of burnished iron that changed tone even as he watched, like a sword blade turned in the dawn light, to a hundred shades of grey he had no names for. And, all around, silver. Vast, towering mountains of silver, and beyond them, higher still, another range, and another, that made him feel like an ant at the steps of the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. The sheer scale of them sucked all the faith from him.

Dasius saw his look and smiled. ‘Do not worry. It is not as daunting as it appears.’

Time and circumstance had made Valerius’s decision for him. They were seven now, and the better for it. Enough to give the opportunist bandits who inhabited these mountains pause before attacking, but not so many as to draw unwanted attention. And the remnant was the best of Dasius’s dwindling band of cavalry. The rest had dribbled away, like water through a thirsty man’s fingers. ‘They are getae at heart,’ the Thracian spat. ‘The spawn of thieves and robbers. I thought to keep them from raid, plunder and rapine, but all they sought was a better opportunity. They looked on the plump farms and pretty villas we passed at Mediolanum and saw riches for the taking. And in time of war none to come after them when the deed is done. We are better without them.’

The guide Dasius knew proved to be a wiry hillman, made bulky by the thick furs he wore. He had dark skin the texture of leather and slanting eyes accustomed to peering through blizzards. A Celt, his demeanour was surly, even for that taciturn race, and he had the facial expression of a particularly ugly dog otter. He spoke a dialect that was neither Latin nor any other language Valerius had heard, but Dasius understood enough to exchange simple sentences with him.

‘His name is Valtir and he calls himself a prince of the Orobii, who were here before the Romans came and will be here when the Romans are gone. This is his land, but he says he welcomes you as his guest.’

Valerius bowed, smiling at the poetic Celtic combination of insult and courtesy. Valtir’s claim to be a prince seemed unlikely, but it gave Valerius an idea. With grave ceremony he handed over the curved knife he had carried from Rome. It was only a kitchen blade for cutting up food, but it would be an improvement on the rusting spike at Valtir’s belt. The little Celt tested the point against his thumb and his dour face broke into a grin when it drew blood.

‘He says he honours you for his gift. If he’d had a knife like this when he was a young man he would have slit many Roman throats with it.’ Dasius darted a worried glance at Valerius, but the one-handed Roman only laughed.

‘Tell him I am happy for him, but glad I did not meet him when he was young. Tell him there will be another like it if he takes us where we wish to go.’

With Valtir leading on his sturdy, long-haired pony and each second man trailing a pack horse, they made their way north-west to the lake in the next valley, which if anything was even greater in scale than that on which Novum Comun stood. ‘Luanus.’ The Celt pointed to a small settlement a mile away on the far side of the mirrored surface, and led them down a precarious path cut into the hillside which eventually reached a small pier with a flat-bottomed boat tied to it. Valtir held a conversation with the boat’s owner that sounded for all the world like two terriers snarling at each other over a bone, but eventually it appeared he had agreed a price for ferrying men and horses across. It took them four hours and five trips to transport all eight men and eleven animals, and by the time it was done they had no option but to spend the night in Luanus, a mean little place, but at least it boasted a tavern. Next day they rose and broke their fast with bread, oil and olives, washed down with watered wine, before crossing the ridge behind the town and following a broad river valley north. Here at least there was a road, even if it was in poor repair, with bridges that had been badly mended and potholes deep enough to break an ankle. For the first time in a week the sun shone, the skies cleared and Valerius was left to wonder at the dangerous, majestic glory all around. The mountains did not rise; they soared to unreachable summits where only the gods would ever set foot. Elysium would be like this, he thought, with air so clear that it invigorated even a soul as dark as his and chased away the demons that had haunted him for eight years.

Serpentius saw him grinning. ‘You won’t be smiling so much when you have to climb them,’ he pointed out. Still, the appearance of the sun seemed to reinvigorate them all. The Spaniard broke into an incomprehensible song in his own language that seemed to have nothing approaching a tune and Valerius thought he could feel the wound in his shoulder healing.

It was obvious to the others that Valtir was as at home among these peaks as he was on his lake. His mood changed and he chattered endlessly as he rode, and it seemed even Dasius only understood one word in ten. ‘I think he says he has never seen the hills so free of snow at this time of year. But the weather means a greater danger of the thunder god calling the mountains down.’ He shrugged. ‘More chance of an avalanche.’

Valerius found himself warming to the personable young Thracian. It became clear that Dasius had taken an enormous risk by backing Otho’s cause. If the wrong man won this fight, he could lose everything, including his family’s hereditary lands on the plains beside the Hebrus river. But that was not why he had made his decision.

‘I have visited Rome and seen its glory, and I have seen what war does. It is beyond imagination that those great temples could burn, the statues be torn down or the Forum run with men’s blood, yet that is what will happen if we cannot prevent it. Rome is the Empire and Otho was chosen by the people and the Senate of Rome.’ He shrugged. ‘That is enough for me. I do not know the detail of your mission, but I know that your aims and mine are one, and I will do anything I can to help you succeed.’

With those words he kicked his mount and rode ahead. Serpentius drew up beside Valerius. ‘He reminds me of another young pup with a head full of principles.’

Valerius smiled and shook his head sadly. ‘There is very little of Tiberius Crescens in Aurelius Dasius,’ he said.

‘I wasn’t thinking of Tiberius. The young man he reminds me of is Publius Sulla.’

As dusk fell they reached the head of a third lake, which Valtir told them was called the Verbanus. Valerius decided not to risk the trading post at Bilitio, where there was the possibility of a military presence of unknown loyalty. Instead, they camped by the lake shore. As the campfire waned, the Thracians chattered sleepily in their own language, their faces visible as pale blurs in the darkness. Serpentius stood guard by the tethered horses and Valerius could hear him singing quietly to them. Valtir sat with his hands round his knees, his dark eyes glittering, wearing a frown of intense concentration. As Valerius watched, he rose and called Dasius. Together they approached the patch of brush where the Roman had laid out his bed.

‘Valtir is agitated about something,’ the Thracian explained. ‘From what I can work out, the high passes to Curia will be open, but he talked to a trader making for Bilitio and there is word of trouble between the Caluci and the Suanetes, the tribes who control the area. The tribune in command of the post is advising anyone travelling that way to wait until he sends a patrol to investigate. It could be a week.’

Valerius suppressed a curse. ‘We didn’t come all this way to sit on our backsides for a week or turn back. We’ll have to risk it.’

Valtir frowned and spat something at the Thracian. Dasius shook his head, but the little Celt waved a finger and pointed east where the skyline stood out as a shark-toothed line of unbroken shadows.

‘What does he say?’

‘He became very excited. He said he did not understand that you needed to hurry. Curia is the safest route, but there is another path, known only to a few. There is a road, for what it is worth, as far as Airolus, but after that we must leave the valley and take the mountains. It would cut your journey by a week.’

Valerius felt a surge of hope. ‘Is he sure we can get the horses through?’

Dasius snapped a question and the little man frowned. ‘He believes so. He would not have tried it any other year, but he thinks the conditions are right. It will not be easy, but we could reach Augusta Raurica on the Rhenus by the time your friends in Rome have finished celebrating the festival of Lupercalia.’

Valerius met Serpentius’s eyes. Mid-Februarius, then another week at most to sail downriver to Colonia. Where Vitellius waited.