‘What are you doing out here at this hour?’ asked the shepherd, in a mix of Latin and his Ligurian dialect that not everyone could decipher.
‘I have an urgent message to deliver,’ replied Rufus between one mouthful and the next. ‘What’s it like on the summit?’
‘You’ll be able to make it over, but be careful. I’ve seen a pack of wolves up there: an old male, two or three young ones and four or five females. They might get brave in the dark and latch on to your horse’s hocks. You’d best take a brand from the fire and make sure it doesn’t go out until you’ve reached the top.’
‘Thanks for the warning,’ said Rufus.
He left a couple of pennies for what he’d eaten and drunk, then, with firebrand in fist, he went back out into the open. At least here he felt that he could draw breath again, clearing the foul stench that had saturated the hut and filled his nostrils.
He took his horse by the reins and started to make his way up on foot, lighting his path with the brand he held high in his left hand. He wondered from what distance the light could be seen. Perhaps at that very moment his commander was standing on the upper terrace at Lux fidelisand looking his way. He could almost hear him cry out, ‘There he is! I’ll bet a month’s pay that that bastard has already made it to the crest!’
He didn’t have far to go, in fact. Up ahead, less than half a mile away, a group of towering firs marked the ridge.
His horse was the first to sense the wolves and Rufus saw them himself an instant later, the flaming brand reflected in their eyes with a sinister gleam. He didn’t even have a stone to throw at them and they didn’t look likely to retreat. He shouted and waved the brand. The wolves ran, but stopped just a few paces further away.
Rufus shouted again, but this time the wolves did not retreat. In fact, they began to circle around him, growling. This did not bode well. They were carrying out the pack’s strategy for isolating prey and attacking. And he was their prey, or the horse, or both of them.
His horse was bucking and becoming difficult to control. If he panicked and fled, it would be all over for Rufus. He tied the reins to a tree branch so he could move more freely, then clutching his knife in one hand, he continued to wield the brand, which had burned right down to a stub, with the other.
Wolves had never been a problem before. It had always been easy to scare them off. Why were these ones so tenacious and aggressive? He thought of the legend about how his ancestors first arrived in Italy, guided by a wolf. But these were different, ravenous beasts with the worst of intentions. He backed up against a big fir tree and felt the lowest branches crackle, dry and brittle against his cloak. The gods had sent him help. He snapped them off and tossed them on what remained of the brand. The flame sparked up thanks to the resin in the wood and he thrust it forward.
The sudden flare repelled the wolves, but drove them back only just beyond the circle of light. The horse was kicking and whinnying and tugging wildly at the reins. If he hadn’t been wearing a bit, he would already have run off. Rufus wondered whether his commander could see this fire as well from the terrace of Lux fidelis. Someone was seeing it for sure, but they would never abandon the base without a good reason.
The duel between hunger and flames was about to end with the fire going out. Rufus then did the last possible thing he could, although it was deeply repugnant to him. He begged the gods of his forefathers to forgive him before he piled all the dry branches which remained around the base of the trunk. The fir tree caught fire and in just minutes had turned into a huge blazing torch. His Celtic soul was horrified by the screams he could hear from the spirit of the great fir racked by the flames, but his Roman soul justified the act because he was following the orders of his superiors.
The wolves fled. Rufus picked up one of the fallen branches that was still burning, mounted his horse and continued on his way, crossing a wide clearing and finally reaching the grey slate slabs of the Via Flaminia Minor.
In Monte Appennino, Lux fidelis, a.d. V Id. Mart., tertia vigilia
The Apennine Mountains, Faithful Light, 11 March, third guard shift, one a.m.
The station commander had just fallen into a deep sleep when a servant shook him awake.
‘What in Hades is going on?’ he demanded.
‘Master, come immediately — you must see this!’
The commander threw a cloak over his shoulders and, dressed as he was, made his way to the upper terrace. It was snowing and the vision that greeted him was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Directly to the south, at a distance that was difficult to assess, and at an altitude that made the scene look as if it was playing out in mid-air, he could see a globe of intense light surrounded by a reddish halo that trailed off in the direction of the wind in a kind of luminescent tail.
‘Ye gods! What is it?’
‘I don’t know, commander,’ replied the sentry. ‘I have no idea. I sent the boy to wake you as soon as it started.’
‘A comet. . with a tail of blood. . powerful gods! Something terrible is about to happen. Comets bring misfortune. This is a cursed night, lads,’ he added. ‘Keep your eyes wide open.’
He pulled the cloak tight, as if warding off any evil influence, then hurried back down the stairs and locked himself in his room.
Outside, on the terrace, the servant could not take his eyes off the strange phenomenon, and it surprised him when the light became much brighter for a few instants and then faded until it was swallowed up by the darkness.
The servant turned towards the sentry. ‘It’s gone,’ he said.
‘Right,’ replied the sentry.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing. It means nothing. The commander said it was a comet. Didn’t you hear him?’
‘What’s a comet?’
‘How am I supposed to know? Go and ask him. And while you’re downstairs get me some hot wine. I’m freezing out here.’
The servant ducked down through the hatch, leaving the sentry alone to keep watch over the night.
Ad flumen secretum, a.d. V Id. Mart., tertia vigilia
The secret river, 11 March, third guard shift, one a.m.
Mustela awoke feeling groggy and numb. He had no idea how long he’d been lying there, curled up in the damp grass. He was completely soaked through. There was no part of his body that didn t hurt and his chest shook with a dry, hacking cough. It was dark and all he could see was the water of the torrent flowing at a short distance. Where was the boat the old man had promised him? He looked around and immediately noticed a clump of trees a little further along the bank. He staggered in that direction. Could those be willows?
A break in the clouds revealed a sliver of moon and for a few seconds Mustela could see that they were indeed, and, sure enough, there was a boat tied to a stake in the river. The dark outline stood out clearly against the silvery moonlit water.
He was close now to the end of his mission. The worst was over, as long as he didn’t pass out first. He touched the bandage on his side and his hand came back sticky. So he hadn’t managed to stop the bleeding. He fastened the bandage tighter, then walked over to the boat and got in. He pushed off from the bank using one of the oars, then rowed his way into the middle of the current.