The young cavalry commander recognized the moment of decision. His hand fumbled beneath the cloak at his side and Valerius prepared to throw himself at the sword. What appeared was an innocuous leather document case of a type Valerius had seen many times. He forced himself to relax as the other man continued.
‘Not all of us believe Vitellius is our rightful Emperor. Aurelius Dasius, decurion of the third turma of Ala Siliana,’ the soldier introduced himself, ‘and as of last night commander of the Emperor Otho’s cavalry in the north,’ he waved at the sleeping men beyond the flickering shadows of firelight, ‘which currently amounts to thirty-two auxiliaries. When Rubrio declared for Vitellius two weeks ago, I persuaded my troop that there was a more certain way to gain a reward than the promises of plunder he gave: to abide by the oath we swore to the Senate and people of Rome. Word came yesterday that a one-armed man would be travelling north and should be offered what protection we could give. It was fortunate that we heard news of your departure from Placentia. Even so, we were almost too late.’
‘But you were in time. Gaius Valerius Verrens.’ Valerius rose and offered his wooden right hand. Dasius hesitated just for a second before taking it. ‘And for that we are grateful.’
The Thracian brought his face closer, so the Roman could see the premature lines brought on by fatigue and strain. His voice lowered to a whisper, which indicated to Valerius that either Dasius was rightly cautious or, more worryingly, he didn’t trust his men as much as he would like.
‘Our orders are to escort you as far north as possible without compromising your mission, though that decision is at your discretion. I should add that under Rubrio I took responsibility for the security of these parts, out to the hill country beyond Mediolanum, and have knowledge of the area that might be useful to you.’
Valerius nodded to indicate he understood – understood, but had not agreed. Not yet. He shifted his seat and winced as a pain shot through his injured shoulder. There was a balance to be stuck here. On one side of the scales lay the weighty certainty that the tactic of posing as merchants, which had served them well enough in Italia proper, would not protect them in this wild place. In fact, it made them a target. Neither was there any guarantee that two men could fight their way through against the kind of odds they had faced earlier. Death held no fears for Gaius Valerius Verrens, but he had begun to believe that Serpentius was indestructible. The fight with the swamp bandits had proved the lie in that. The truth was that without Dasius’s fully armed veteran cavalry they would have been dead. Yet there would still come a time when invisibility was more important than security; in the wrong place, the Thracians would stand out like a Vestal virgin at a Bacchanalia celebration.
He kept his voice neutral as he gave his decision. ‘I will accept your offer to take us past Mediolanum. After that we will see.’
Dasius sniffed, uncertain whether he was being insulted, but Thracian enough to be offended anyway.
‘When we reach the city you will have a decision to make. East or north. Brixia or Novum Comun. Brixia is the better road and the passes were certainly open a week ago, but it is Vitellius’s country and will bring you closer to my old comrades. The way to Novum Comun is more treacherous, but if we follow the river we will be safe enough. After that …’ He shrugged. ‘I know a reliable guide.’
‘Novum Comun then,’ Valerius decided, more difficult or not. ‘What is the country like there?’
Dasius smiled for the first time. ‘That you must see for yourself.’
Even on a winter’s day as washed out as a legionary’s ten-year-old tunic it was the most beautiful place Valerius had ever seen. From the southern shore he felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice. The sheer walls of the valley that held the lake in its dragon’s jaws plunged down to be reflected on the slate-blue mirror of the surface, creating the effect of a giant chasm. All around was metal: tree-lined hillsides the colour of lead sling pellets, clouds shot with pewter, and a sky of burnished iron that changed tone even as he watched, like a sword blade turned in the dawn light, to a hundred shades of grey he had no names for. And, all around, silver. Vast, towering mountains of silver, and beyond them, higher still, another range, and another, that made him feel like an ant at the steps of the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. The sheer scale of them sucked all the faith from him.
Dasius saw his look and smiled. ‘Do not worry. It is not as daunting as it appears.’
Time and circumstance had made Valerius’s decision for him. They were seven now, and the better for it. Enough to give the opportunist bandits who inhabited these mountains pause before attacking, but not so many as to draw unwanted attention. And the remnant was the best of Dasius’s dwindling band of cavalry. The rest had dribbled away, like water through a thirsty man’s fingers. ‘They are getae at heart,’ the Thracian spat. ‘The spawn of thieves and robbers. I thought to keep them from raid, plunder and rapine, but all they sought was a better opportunity. They looked on the plump farms and pretty villas we passed at Mediolanum and saw riches for the taking. And in time of war none to come after them when the deed is done. We are better without them.’