AD NONUM

Gaul, 25 B.C.

Burning embers drifted across the rock walls of the gorge before vanishing as quickly as they had appeared. One might almost imagine that they were fireflies darting about.

“They’ve been following us for quite some time but they don’t dare attack us,” said a decurion while his horse snorted with cold.

Septimius Vegezius struggled to keep his temper.

“A handful of barbarians would never dare to attack a convoy of legionaries.”

“They are more than a handful of them, judging by the number of torches that the scouts counted,” replied the decurion. “But apparently they want to watch what we do.”

“Let them do as they wish. A bit of company never hurts.”

“I suggest carrying on without stopping,” said the voice of Victor Felix’s servant, without preamble. The prefect seemed to be counting the men of the convoy without paying too much attention to the tribune and his officer on horseback.

“Is that your idea, or your master’s?” asked Vegezius with a laugh.

“My idea,” the man replied coldly, “my… master would never allow himself to suggest anything to you.”

“You insolent scum! I could have you whipped to death!”

Intending to strike the man, the tribune raised an arm but then noticed the hilt of the Hispanic cavalry sword that could be seen under the servant’s cloak and stopped his hand in midair.

“It is a possibility that you could certainly consider,” replied the servant, pushing aside the folds to show the weapon better, “but I think you will have to postpone the matter to a more suitable time.”

Something was happening behind the tribune.

When Septimius Vegezius turned, he saw three barbarians on horseback coming down from the snowy hill to the left of the column. They carried burning torches but held no weapons. On their backs they carried small oval-shaped shields, their swords in their leather scabbards hung from their belts and their faces were almost entirely covered by thick hair and beards. To judge from the simple breeches, tunics and large fur capes they wore, they did not appear to be of high rank. At the sight of them, the nearest soldiers put their hands to their swords and broke formation. The centurion who stood beside Vegezius called them back with a shout that would have made a hungry lion tremble.

The three barbarians were soon only a few yards from the tribune and the gallop at which they had arrived soon turned into a more diplomatic trot. Their spokesman muttered something in a language made up of short guttural sounds.

“What language is that they’re speaking?” hissed Septimius Vegezius through his teeth.

“Perhaps it’s just indigestion?” commented the decurion.

Sensing that they were mocking him, the barbarian raised his voice while continuing to gesticulate. The long ponytail of salmon-coloured hair gathered at the nape of the neck swung through the air and the torch in his hand drew arcs of fire in the air.

The tribune raised a hand and gestured for him to calm down, and at that moment he heard the sound of hooves. He turned and saw the prefect Victor Felix arriving at a gallop.

Felix’s servant ignored the tribune and headed for the Salassi emissaries. He exchanged some words with them, putting his hand to his mouth as though wishing to draw the attention of his interlocutors to the movements of his lips, then, without ever turning his back on them, he walked backwards to the squad of officers.

“They want to talk to the person in command.”

“I don’t speak their language,” replied Vegezius, “but I don’t see what the problem is. Let’s pay them the fee established by the transit agreements and get it over with.”

“They don’t want our money, they want to talk to the person in command.”

The tribune swore under his breath. “Very well then,” he said, shooting the prefect an irritated look.

The discussion between Felix and the Salassi emissaries lasted a long time and the result was a long monologue with three voices interspersed with vague nods from the Roman officer.

Vegezius observed the scene. Meanwhile, more lights had appeared in the gloom, and they were much closer than before. While the three were talking, their comrades were taking the opportunity to get into position.

“Don’t let them fool you,” he shouted as he spoke behind the prefect, “they’re just trying to make us waste time so they can attack us at nightfall.”

At that moment the barbarians stopped talking, turned their horses around and went back to the trail over the highlands. Victor Felix shook his head and moved one of his hands as though drawing a kind of snake in the air.

No, now they are going away. It is no longer a matter that concerns them.”

“In … in what sense?” asked the tribune.

“They have refused your money.”

The servant stood beside him while his master galloped off towards the wagons. “They came only to criticise our decision, not to threaten us,” said the man with a smile as he massaged the horse’s neck. “They said they were very sorry about what will happen when the torches go out.”

“The torches? Why would the torches go out?” asked the tribune, and almost as if his question were an order, a breath of wind, rapid and invisible, blew over the helmets of the legionaries along the entire column and all the torches that lit up the rock walls like a blanket of stars were suddenly extinguished. Suddenly there was total darkness.

“By the gods,” shouted the decurion, “rekindle the torches!”

The command was passed down the line by word of mouth, and some of the legionaries tried to obey but to no avail.

Septimius Vegezius spurred his horse and halted before a soldier who was fumbling with a torch and an ember.

“Give that to me, you oaf!” he snapped, grabbing the torch and holding the ember to its upper end. All he managed to elicit though was a small wisp of smoke. “Give me a flint!” he shouted as he continued to fumble with torch and ember.

It was then that his horse reared up and threw him. The tribune landed on his back on the ground, the snow softening the impact. “What the…?”

The creature’s eyes were practically popping out of its head and the strip of white visible beneath its corneas was a clear sign of agitation and fear.

A hand helped the tribune to his feet. Vegezius frowned at the prefect who had come to his aid. “Thanks,” he muttered. The same hand that had pulled him up now pointed behind him, and he didn’t need the translator to know that Felix was asking him to turn around.

When he did, he saw that the darkness was advancing upon them. A solid, palpable, living darkness that began to creep into his nose, his mouth and his lungs like water entering the bodies of those who are about to drown. The horses kicked, the dogs started barking furiously and the wolves that were following the wagons through the pass began to howl.

The men instinctively drew their swords and many raised their hands to their throats, some falling to their knees, their faces red. The officers tried in vain to restore order, but the long human line disintegrated like a pile of sand in the wind. Few of the auxiliaries managed to stay in the saddle.

Vegezius coughed and realised that Felix was struggling to breathe too. The prefect had fallen to his knees and was holding his throat. “What should we do?” he asked in a faint voice. Breathing loudly, his servant tried to keep the horses still so they wouldn’t run away.

At that moment Jago and his companion appeared from behind one of the wagons. They advanced slowly towards the head of the convoy, passing between gasping legionaries and horses which were shaking their muzzles and neighing with terror. As the woman practically shoved him onwards, an ochre-coloured aura was visible covering the man’s eyes.

Septimius Vegezius noticed that another three or four people wrapped in those unusual wolf furs had climbed out from the carts, but they remained behind the blind man and his companion. At the sight of them, even the wolves, who until then had seemed rather agitated, became calm and lay down once more upon the snow.

The blind man stopped in the midst of the chaos and peremptorily raised both arms.

The wind rushed through the darkness, brushing at it with invisible tentacular offshoots, and at moments seeming almost to solidify, in mockery their human terror. The few obstacles that were unable to find shelter from it were flung aside like so many feathers, the absence of light hiding the flight of the armour as it smashed against the spikes of rock. Many soldiers cursed the layer of wool and fur wrapped around their loricas for making their death slower and more painful.

Septimius Vegezius watched the scene in shock. The darkness had loosened its grip and now allowed him to breathe regularly, but his men were at the mercy of the elements while an invisible and implacable enemy taunted them. The power of the wind carved waves in the snow, and tore from the irregular walls of the gorge giant pieces of white ice, which fell like catapult projectiles onto the soldiers trapped in the valley below. It was all too much for a young tribune eager for a rapid political career far away from the battlefields. Vegezius dropped to his knees, held his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

Suddenly, the storm abated, leaving behind only darkness and the absence of sound, as if a glass bell had descended from the heavens to seal the entire gorge under its transparent walls. When Septimius Vegezius opened his eyes again, he heard the voice of the blind man who was speaking in darkness.

“Let us come to an agreement!” shouted Jago.

The only answer was a whirlwind that raised a shower of sparkling snow.

“Let us come to an agreement I said!” he insisted.

The woman stood beside him.

“It won’t be easy.”

“How do you know?”

“I can see it.”

“How wonderful it is to spend one’s time with a seer – she is always there beside you to give you a word of comfort.”

“A visionary sees what will happen, not what you would like to happen.”