He looked back at the water foaming between the sharp rocks and said with horror in his voice, ‘This is madness.’
‘You’re not obliged to take this way,’ said the old man. ‘I can understand your uncertainty. We’ll go back, if you like. I’ll give you a strong, experienced horse who will take you down the short cut.’
Mustela’s eyes hadn’t left the swirling current, as though he had been bewitched by it. ‘I’ll end up smashed against the rocks,’ he whispered, ‘it’s so dark down here. . or I’ll die of the cold.’
‘Half make it,’ muttered the old man.
‘And half don’t,’ Mustela replied.
The old man shrugged, as if to say, ‘So what?’, and Mustela realized with a rush how stupid he’d been to pay so much for a passage to Hades. But evidently his terror conflicted with the even greater fear of being required to explain why he had failed.
In the end, with a deep sigh, he lowered himself into the torrent, holding on to the river rocks in an attempt to steady himself. He fought against the current briefly, then slowly let himself go and was sucked into the darkness, swallowed up by the swirling waters.
In Monte Appennino, Caupona ad Silvam, a.d. VI Id. Mart., prima vigilia
The Apennine Mountains, the Woodland Inn, 10 March, first guard shift, eight p.m.
Publius Sextius galloped along the track that wound down into the valley and then ascended again towards the summit. He was following Nebula’s map along a route that left Aemilia and cut through the mountains heading south, towards Etruria.
He rode mostly under the cover of the twisted boughs, his path lit up now and then by flashes of lightning. When the road started ascending, he slowed his pace so he wouldn’t exhaust his horse, letting him walk once in a while to allow him to catch his breath. He was a generous animal and it pained the centurion to oblige him to undergo such strain, to put his life at risk in such a desperate race against time. The rain began falling and the storm broke as he came into sight of the mansio.Just in time, as the horse was about to collapse beneath him. It seemed that one of the soldiers on guard had recognized him.
‘Something wrong, soldier?’ he asked as he dismounted and led the horse towards the stables.
‘No,’ said the legionary. ‘I was just thinking I’d seen you somewhere before.’
‘You’re right. Weren’t you with the Thirteenth?’
‘Ye gods!’ exclaimed the guard. ‘But you are-’
‘Front-line centurion Publius Sextius,’ replied the officer, turning to face the soldier.
The guard saluted him. ‘Can I be of help, centurion? It’s an honour to serve you. There’s no one who fought in Gaul who hasn’t heard about your deeds.’
‘Yes, you can, son,’ replied Publius Sextius. ‘I need to rest for a couple of hours while they change my horse and bring me something to eat. Keep your eyes open and, if anyone else arrives, inform me immediately, especially if it’s someone asking questions. You understand?’
‘Count on me, centurion. Not even the air can get by here without our permission. Rest easy. I’ll have something to tell my grandchildren about when I’m an old man. Great gods, Publius Sextius in person. “The Cane” himself! I can’t believe it.’
‘Thank you. You won’t regret it. You’re doing me a great service and I’ll remember this. What’s your name, boy?’
‘It’s Baebius Carbo,’ replied the soldier, standing stiffly at attention.
‘Very good. Keep your eyes open, then, Baebius Carbo. It’s a bad night.’
Another soldier took the horse and led him into the stables. Publius Sextius pulled his cloak up over his head to protect himself from the rain, walked to the door of the inn and entered. He was dead on his feet, but a couple of hours’ sleep would do the job and he’d be ready to resume his journey. At least he hoped so.
The innkeeper came up to him. ‘You must be in one hell of a hurry to be out on a night like this, my friend. But you’re in our hands now and you can take it easy.’
‘I’m afraid not. Prepare me something for dinner, but give me a couple of hours’ sleep first. Then I’ll eat and be on my way.’
The tone of his voice was peremptory, while the look in his eye and his bearing commanded fear and respect. The innkeeper didn’t say another word. He had the guest accompanied upstairs and went into the kitchen to prepare something for his dinner. The wind was getting stronger outside and it was pouring, but as the temperature dropped the rain mixed with sleet and covered the ground in white slush. When Publius Sextius awoke it had stopped raining completely and the snow had begun falling.
The centurion opened the window and looked outside. The two lanterns out in the courtyard lit up the big white flakes whirling about on the north wind. The tree trunks and branches were fast being blanketed by a layer of pure white which was getting thicker and thicker by the moment. The room was warm, thanks to the braziers and to the fire blazing in the fireplace downstairs, which warmed the walls and ceiling as well. Publius Sextius sighed at the idea of going out in the cold to travel down a road covered with snow in the middle of the night.
The innkeeper arrived to wake him and to tell him that dinner was ready. Having found the centurion already on his feet, he couldn’t resist warning the man against his plan.
‘You can’t really mean to resume your journey now. You can’t be so mad, my friend! Setting off at night, in such foul weather. . Who could blame you for staying? Listen to me. Forget about leaving now. Eat, drink a glass of good wine and go back to bed while it’s still warm. Tomorrow I’ll call you early, as soon as it’s light enough to see, and you’ll go wherever it is you need to go. Consider that you’re likely to get lost in the dark, in this snowstorm, and then any time you’d gained would go wasted.’
‘You’re right,’ replied Publius Sextius. ‘I need a guide.’
‘A guide? But. . I don’t know, I don’t have any-’
‘Listen, friend, I don’t enjoy travelling under these conditions and I have no time to lose. Is that clear? Find me a guide or you’ll be sorry. I have written orders of absolute priority. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, yes, I understand. I’ll try to find someone who can take you to the next rest stop. But if you end up down in a gully, you’ll have only yourself to blame.’
‘That I already know. I’ll eat whatever you’ve got prepared. You worry about arranging the rest.’
The innkeeper accompanied him downstairs, grumbling and holding his lantern high. He sat his guest down in front of a plate of lamb with lentils and went off, still muttering.
Publius Sextius began to eat. The meat was good, the lentils tasty and, as for the wine, he’d drunk worse. A hot meal was just what he needed to get himself moving again. As he ate, he calculated and recalculated how he might make his route any quicker. He began to wonder whether the innkeeper wasn’t right after all about waiting until morning, but when he’d swallowed the last mouthful of food and downed the last of his wine, he was more convinced than ever that he’d made the right decision. He threw his cloak over his shoulders and went outside.
The courtyard was completely white. A stable hand brought out a horse with his baggage strapped on to its back. Nearby stood another horse and, beside him, the man Publius Sextius assumed would be his guide: a fellow of about fifty wearing a waxcloth over his shoulders and a hood pulled up over his head. His face was stony, completely impassive, and he held a lit torch in his left hand to light their way. Another three or four spare torches were tied to the horse’s side.
There were only two legionaries on guard now. Neither one of them was Baebius Carbo.