efforts would prove to be in vain.
There had to be a reason. Fleetingly, when the vice loosened and the cold air let him breathe, he felt he was close to finding a solution. The answer must lie with several key people, not many, perhaps three or four. With the balance of power or interests among them. He forced himself to consider every possibility, the likely motives of each individual and how they might overlap or conflict. He would have liked to jump to the ground and use the tip of his knife to sketch out the complicated connections on the immaculate snow, in the way that he would use the hard ground of an army camp to plan the action for his unit during a battle. But then he would lose track and his thoughts would dissolve into thousands of small, confused fragments, at which point he would realize he was no closer to a solution than he had been at the start and his gaze would drift again to the spinning white flakes.
Now and then he even suspected that the map Nebula had given him in Modena, before disappearing into the morning fog, was leading him straight into a trap. But even if that were so, he convinced himself, he had no choice and had to run this risk. The alternative was arriving too late to pass on his message.
Sura now broke one of his interminable silences to announce that they were close to the source of the Arno river and were on an ancient Etruscan road. He said nothing more.
Publius Sextius rode on, torturing himself with his thoughts all night long.
The Apennine Mountains, 11 March, third guard shift, after midnight
Only Rufus was suffering as much pain as he struggled to reach the Via Flaminia Minor in as little time as possible, which meant cutting straight across the mountainside. At first he followed the barely visible path that wound down the slope forming the western embankment of the Reno valley to get to the river. He managed this with considerable difficulty, often having to dismount and lead his horse by the reins, until he arrived at the riverbank. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The falling snow was now mixed with a fine, relentless drizzle that trickled down his cloak and dripped on to the ground from the hem.
He found the ford by following the sound of the water rushing between the rocks and urged his horse into the river. The water deepened at the centre, rising to the horse’s chest, but they were soon treading on a bed of fine gravel and sand, having reached the opposite bank.
The path on that side ascended steeply, but when Rufus met up with the snow again the low glimmer of the white blanket helped him to get his bearings, enabling him to set forth on the path he had used so many times before. He soon reached the hut of a shepherd he knew well and he stopped there to drink a cup of warm milk and eat a chunk of bread and cheese. The cabin was lit inside by the flames in the hearth. Its walls, plastered with dried mud, were completely blackened by the smoke. The whole place stank of sheep, from his host to the hulking Molossian hound lying on the ash that circled the hearth, a hairy beast that everyone called by a different name. Rufus scratched him behind his flea-ridden ears by way of greeting.
‘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
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
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.
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.’
