The silhouettes of the men on horseback stood out on the horizon like a dark line between the white of the snow and the violet of the sunset. Immobile, they observed the slow movements of the convoy as it left the last sharp bends of the Alpine pass behind it. Theirs was a privileged point of view that allowed them to observe both the routes of escape from the road that cut through the mountains.
For a long time, they waited silently, then three of them broke away from the group and came over to meet the front of the convoy.
When they were in sight, Septimius Vegezius recognised two auxiliary horsemen preceded by a decurion.
“Finally,” he sighed, then he tugged on the reins and trotted in the direction of the Roman officer who was riding over towards him. After a formal handshake, the decurion handed him a parchment rolled up and closed with a seal.
“General Varro Murena sends you his greetings. But you are late.”
“We had a setback,” the tribune said testily.
“What kind?”
“An ambush. Twenty dead.”
“An ambush? We pay a tribute to avoid such annoyances.”
“It is too complicated a matter to explain.”
The decurion gave an embarrassed shrug.
“We must take delivery of the convoy.”
“As commanding officer of the expedition,” said Vegezius, “I hereby hand over to you the convoy in the entirety of men and means entrusted to me ab origine.”
“Where is the prefect Victor Julius Felix?” asked the decurion distractedly. It was as though Vegezius were transparent to his eyes.
“With them.” The tribune pointed to one of the wagons covered with black tarpaulin. “But officially I am the highest military authority and I have documents that prove it, so it is with me that you must speak as regards the formalities.”
The auxiliaries took leave almost indifferently.
“Wait, what are you doing?”
“Carrying out orders,” replied the decurion without turning around.
“What about us?”
“What about you?”
“We’ve been marching for weeks. We survived a battle and lost many men to get them all here safely,” said Vegezius, straightening his helmet, which had been knocked crooked by a gust of wind.
“You can put it all in your report,” said the decurion, stopping his horse for a moment, “though I don’t know if it would be in your interest to do so.” He gave a wry smile.
Vegezius ran a hand over his forehead. It was extremely cold but the tension was making him sweat anyway.
“We are exhausted. We need to rest.”
“I’m sorry but we have no camps nearby. We will continue tonight until Augusta Praetoria. That is where the commander awaits us.”
“Augusta Praetoria? What’s going on that that’s so important it deserves all this haste?”
The decurion spat on the ground.
“A war.”
“There’s been a war underway for centuries, decurion.”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot give you any more information.”
“At least accept our request for hospitality,” ventured the tribune, nodding at the wagons. “Legionaries were buried in the snow to bring you this cargo.”
“I only hope that it was worth it,” was the decurion’s laconic reply. Ignoring the tribune’s request, he galloped off again.
At that moment the prefect Victor Felix emerged from the ranks at a trot, followed by the faithful servant with the aquiline nose. With a wave of his hand he called the attention of the soldiers on horseback. The decurion rode over to meet him. As the prefect’s hands moved in the air, the servant translated.
At the end of the brief interview the prefect advanced to the head of the expedition, accompanied by the auxiliaries. The wagons draped in black and the hooded men who escorted them left the rest of the military procession. As he passed by Vegezius, he grasped his arm.
“Last night I saw your men fight the darkness.”
The prefect shrugged.
“If it is any consolation, I’ve seen far worse.”
“I lost two contubernia to get you here safely. Perhaps I have the right to an explanation?”
“No. But perhaps the men who are no longer with us do. When you see them again, they will ask you why you didn’t listen to us.”
Felix did not wait for an answer. Accompanied by his servant, he joined the mounted auxiliaries who continued to guard the valley. Meanwhile the black caravan left the rest of the convoy and the soldiers of Varro Murena led it along the track that would take it over the pass.
Vegezius nervously grasped the hilt of his sword. The last of the wagons rolled over a rut in the ground, making a loud noise that startled his horse, which backed up into the snow. The tribune’s eyes caught a movement beneath the dark cloth that covered it. A tiny hand pulled it aside and a hooded face poked out to see what was happening. The tribune recognised one of the dwarves he had seen at the port of Dyrrhachium.
All this silence and discretion could not go on forever. He summoned up his courage and then spurred his horse and rode over to the side of the wagon.
“Who are you? Where are you from?” he said to the dwarf. Not receiving an answer, he moved closer, further risking the safety of this steed mount. “Did you understand what I asked you?” He managed to grab a corner of the sagum of the dwarf, who immediately pulled himself free, then lifted his head and tilted his hood back. A child’s eyes, bright and curious, looked at Vegezius for a few moments as the cart continued on its way.