The tribune repeated his orders and rode back to send five hundred Celtic cavalrymen towards Curia, Bilitio and Novum Comun – and an unwitting Gaius Valerius Verrens.
XXVIII
‘He says we cross here.’
The road turned east after Bilitio and continued on through the high passes to Curia, from where a man could find his way to the Danuvius and distant Noricum and Pannonia. Valtir had reined in beside a ford where the river tumbled melt-green and foaming, knee deep, over the rocks. Beyond the ford a valley with a faint track at its centre cut through the otherwise unbroken wall of mountains to the north-west. Valerius studied the narrow opening in the iron half-light of the predawn. They had discussed this during the night. The traditional route was the safer and more reliable option. With half the normal levels of winter snow even the highest passes would be crossable. It was a well-travelled path and if they lost their way they would be able to find some outpost or village to set them back on the road. If it had not been for the unrest among the mountain tribes, Valerius would not even have considered the second option. The other road meant they would be entirely dependent on Valtir and entirely lost without him. With a nod and a prayer to Jupiter, controller of wind, snow and storm, Valerius urged his mount into the river.
At first the valley was relatively broad, making the going easy, but soon it narrowed and divided into two at a place where they passed a small settlement. Valtir didn’t even acknowledge the right-hand path, which appeared the more inviting, but carried on unerringly. Now the valley walls closed in and the mountains seemed to grow higher with every step. Snow capped the peaks and it began to fall in silken nuggets from leaden clouds that seemed to touch the mountain tops. Valtir led, followed by Valerius, Dasius and the four Thracian troopers, with Serpentius, ever alert, in the rear. One of the Thracians, Laslav, who couldn’t be more than seventeen, whooped and reached out to catch as many of the gently falling flakes as he could and cram them into his mouth before they melted. Soon, though, what had been a pretty diversion was transformed into a threat as a white curtain dropped between the riders and the world around them. Valerius darted a glance at Valtir, but the Celt barely seemed to notice the change. If a track existed, only he could see it, and they followed carefully in the hoofprints of his little pony. Eventually, he turned off the road and led them through a clump of scrub to a low shelter carved from the hillside by some long-dead optimist hoping to find gold, tin or lead. They tethered the horses close to the cave mouth, made a small fire and spread their bedding on the cold, hard rock. After a long day in the saddle Valerius slept the sleep of the dead.
He woke shivering, to be confronted by a world of black and white. Valtir stood at the entrance of the cave, silhouetted against the ankle-deep snow that blanketed everything outside. Valerius knew the mountain man would be evaluating the conditions, and everything depended on his decision. Dasius had spoken to the little Celt before they bedded down and he had warned of hard climbing ahead. The Roman suppressed a shiver at the thought of the jagged peaks that had formed an honour guard for their progress and imagined what the words ‘hard climbing’ would entail. ‘Dasius? Ask him if this changes anything.’
The Thracian dragged himself away from the tiny fire and joined the slight figure at the cave mouth for a whispered conversation. When he returned Valtir remained in the entrance as if his presence alone was keeping an enemy at bay.
‘He says it will make it more difficult, but not impossible.’ Dasius’s stolid face twisted in a grimace of concern. ‘That is his assessment and I have been with him often enough to believe it will be correct, but … My knowledge of his language is slight. Sometimes when he says one thing I think he means another. When he talks of what lies ahead, he sees it only through his own eyes and his own experiences. If I ask him about the horses, he shrugs and says he has made the journey in these conditions before. But I believe he considers only his mount, which is mountain bred, not our own, which are not. When he talks of climbs and obstacles, it is his own capabilities that are foremost in his mind. If there is more snow …’ He hesitated. ‘Sometimes when I look into his eyes I think I see fear there.’
They set off after dawn, with Valtir, as always, in the van, the horses’ flanks steaming gently in the frosty air and their hooves crunching the undisturbed white carpet underfoot. The mountain peaks towering over them were hidden behind a curtain of low, grey cloud that held the threat of more snow, and now the trail rose steadily to meet it. Unusually, it became even colder as the day progressed and they wrapped their cloaks tighter and breathed on their freezing hands to provide some semblance of warmth. After a steady climb, the valley curved west and the hills formed an unbroken barrier between Valerius and his goal. Studying the barren, scree-covered slopes he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. It did not seem possible that any man could scale those heights, never mind with horses. He heard awed murmuring of the cavalrymen behind him and knew they were thinking the same. Yet Valtir rode on unconcerned, his pony plodding steadily through the snow. After another hour he allowed the beast to amble to a halt and frowned through narrowed eyes at the snow-covered scarp to his right.