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.
‘I’m sorry to put you to this trouble, friend,’ said Publius Sextius to the guide, ‘but I’m in a hurry and I can’t afford to waste any time. Do your duty well and you’ll be amply rewarded. Just take me to the next rest station and after that you can turn back.’
The man nodded his head and then, without saying a word, got on his horse. Publius Sextius mounted as well, touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and rode him out the gate. The two legionaries saluted him and the other rider gave them a quick salute back. They let the two horsemen pass before closing the gate behind them.
As soon as they were outside, they were struck by a blast of cold wind and blowing snow, which was beginning to fall faster and faster.
Publius Sextius drew closer to his companion, who still hadn’t opened his mouth. ‘What’s your name, friend?’ he asked.
‘Sura.’
‘I’m Publius. We can go.’
Sura started down the road, setting a slow, steady pace and lighting the way with his torch. Publius Sextius rode behind him, staying to the centre of the path. He couldn’t shake the impression that they were being followed, and kept turning to scan the forest around them. The road was winding and sloped steeply upwards through the oak and chestnut trees green with moss and white with snow. There were no signs of human presence, but the light cast by Sura’s smoky torch was weak, so he couldn’t be sure.
Publius Sextius had realized immediately that his guide was not a man of many words and he didn’t try to make conversation. He asked questions only when necessary, obtaining grunts of assent or refusal in response. He tried to keep his mind occupied with thoughts, reflections, plans. His intention was to reach Caesar in time to depart with him on his expedition to the east, about which he’d heard great things. Caesar’s objectives were, as always, formidable.
He had been with Caesar in Gaul and in Spain, and would gladly follow him to Mesopotamia, to Hyrcania, to Sarmatia if necessary. He would follow him to the ends of the earth.
Publius Sextius believed that Caesar was the only man who could save the world.
Caesar had ended the civil wars and had achieved reconciliation with all his adversaries. He was firmly convinced that the only civilization capable of governing humankind was the one that had its fulcrum and force in Rome. He believed that Rome was the world and the world was Rome. He understood his enemies, the peoples who had fought against him to save their independence, he even admired their bravery, but he knew that his victory over them was already destined, written in stone.
Whenever Publius Sextius had had the opportunity to speak with him, he’d been impressed by the expression in Caesar’s eyes and by the sense of determination and command that emanated from him. A predator, yes, but not bloodthirsty. He was quite sure that Caesar felt repugnance at the sight of blood.
How often he had marched at his side, watching as the commander rode by, as he spoke with his officers and with his soldiers. When Caesar recognized someone who had distinguished himself on a day of pitched battle, he would always get off his horse to talk with him, make a joke or two. But his most vivid memory of Caesar went back to the night after the battle against the Nervii, after he, Publius Sextius, commander of the Twelfth, had returned to camp on a stretcher, a bloody mess, more dead than alive, but victorious. He had seized the standard that day and carried it forward towards the enemy himself. He had regrouped the fighting units, instilling courage into his men, and had been the first to set an example.
Caesar had come to visit him, alone, in the tent where the surgeons were trying to stitch him up by the dim light of a few tallow lamps. Leaning close, Caesar had said:
‘Publius Sextius.’
The centurion could barely form a word but he recognized his commander.
‘You saved your comrades today. Thousands of them would have been massacred and years of work would have been lost in a single moment. You saved me, too, along with the honour of the republic, the people and the Senate. There’s no reward that equals such an act, but if it means anything to you, you should know that you will always be the man I rely on, even if everyone else abandons me.’
