Valerius shook his head and continued unbuckling his armour with Serpentius’s help. ‘How many cliffs did you climb in all your years in Rome, old man?’ He saw Marcus flinch at the reference to his age and smiled to take the edge off the jibe. ‘You could do it, Marcus, so could Serpentius, but only I can do what needs to be done when I reach the bottom. They are soldiers, and they will only be led by another soldier.’
‘But your hand…’
‘When I searched the cliffs on my father’s estate for pigeon eggs, I often had to climb down single-handed. If anything this is simpler.’
Which was easy to say, but, now that he put it into practice, not so easy to do. It was true that he’d climbed one-handed, but he’d always carried the eggs in his left hand and he’d had the option of dropping them if he got into trouble. Now, he edged his way downwards in the certain knowledge that if the fingers of his left hand lost their grip nothing would save him. He was sweating heavily, and not because of the warmth of the night. Yet the further he descended, the more confident he became. He might only have a single hand, but it had gripped a sword every day for the past six years. The skin had the texture of part-cured leather and the fingers the strength of an iron claw. The walnut fist of his right hand could be used to jam into cracks in the rock, and, even where there were none, to steady and balance himself. At first he clung close to the surface, but gradually he became more confident as his bare feet unerringly found one toehold after another.
He was a third of the way down when his boldness betrayed him.
Valerius knew he’d made a mistake the moment he allowed his weight to settle on the outcrop beneath his left foot. The soft rock crumbled just as his left hand loosed the grip that anchored him to the face. He felt himself falling away and flailed desperately at the rock for some kind of hold. The cliff flashed past his face and he knew he was dead.
He would never understand how he did it. As he fell, his momentum took him in a half-turn away from the wall of rock, which was now out of reach of his left hand. Yet, somehow, he managed to lunge forward with his right. A jagged slash of pain tore at him as the walnut fist jammed into a narrow cleft and the leather strings binding the socket sliced into his flesh, driven by the entire weight of his body. A heartbeat later even that agony was overwhelmed by a sickening jerk that threatened to pull his arm from its socket. He bit his lip to stop himself from crying out and for a few awful moments hung suspended, praying the cowhide would hold him. Gradually, panic receded and he was able to reach out with his sound hand and pull himself back to the rock face. Once there, he drew himself upwards to take the weight off his arm and managed to unjam the wooden hand from the fissure. He spent the next minute clinging to the face, frozen by a combination of shock and pain, but eventually he willed himself to resume the descent.
When he reached the base of the cliff he crouched for a few moments in the darkness, attempting to get a sense of his surroundings. Ahead, he could see the hilltop silhouetted in the glow of the Dacian fires. The soft snicker of a cavalry mount confirmed that the horses were picketed somewhere to his right. But had the Tungrians set a guard? That was the next hurdle. To make himself known without getting a spear in the throat. He ghosted his way past the tethered horses. If they were watched, the sentry must be asleep because he saw no sign of him. On the brow of the hill prone figures lay scattered like odd-shaped rocks, the only sign of life the almost imperceptible movement of their breathing and the occasional animal whimper. He chose a shape on the outer edge of the group and drew the dagger he’d carried at his belt.
‘Careful, soldier,’ he whispered as he placed the point beneath the sleeping auxiliary’s chin. A pair of dark eyes flicked open and the man’s mouth gaped, before immediately closing as Valerius increased the pressure. Valerius nodded slowly and allowed himself a smile. ‘I want you to call whoever is in command. Do it in a normal voice and ask him to come over. Nod if you understand.’ Valerius lifted the knife point and the Tungrian complied. By now puzzlement had replaced the fear in his eyes. ‘Good. Now say it.’
‘Lucca?’ The call was hesitant, but loud enough to elicit an ill-tempered response.
‘What the fuck do you want, Fabius? If you haven’t thought of a way to get us out of here go back to sleep.’
‘Please, I need to talk to you.’
‘I hope it’s not what I think it is,’ the auxiliary grumbled. ‘Bad enough we’re all going to die tomorrow without you suddenly deciding you’re in fucking love with me.’ A dark figure rose from the ground a dozen paces away and scratched energetically before walking stiff-legged to where Valerius crouched beside Fabius.
Valerius stood as Lucca approached. He heard a sharp hiss of indrawn breath and the sound of a sword being drawn. ‘I’d have thought you’d lost too many men to go around killing your only reinforcement, friend.’
The man’s face was lost in the darkness but Valerius sensed him relax. ‘You’re supposed to be dead. Festus said-’
‘Festus is the one who’s dead,’ Valerius said brutally. ‘But we can discuss that later. For the moment let’s talk about our position. How many men do you have left?’
Lucca hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Fifteen… no, fourteen… Brigio died after we got here. Three of the others are too badly injured to fight, but they can still ride.’
‘Horses?’
‘Enough for everyone and two spares, but we only have fodder for another day and the water won’t last till noon.’
Valerius accompanied the auxiliary while he outlined the position. As they walked in the darkness, Lucca’s manner transformed from belligerent suspicion to a subordinate’s wary respect.
‘I’d have ridden for it, but we’d lost two men among the trees and Festus ordered us to hole up while he went back for them. An idiot, but a brave idiot. He never came back, but we heard him screaming. At least I think it was him. By then we were already in the shit. Hundreds of vermin crawling among the trees and no way out.’
‘And now?’
‘We were due back before dark. I thought maybe they’d send someone out after us.’ Valerius laughed and Lucca joined him. ‘I know, but… ah, shit!’ His shoulders slumped, an admission of defeat. ‘How did you get here? We all thought you’d been killed. Festus said…’
‘What did Festus say?’
‘He said you were here to arrest the legate and return him to Rome and we couldn’t let that happen. We were to take you out in the woods and lose you. The Dacians would do the rest. There’d been some kind of arrangement, and we were to ride away, free and clear. Only it looks like nobody told the Gets.’
‘The Gets?’
‘Getae. The Dacians. Anyway, the bastards ambushed us about half an hour after we left you.’
Valerius considered the story. It made sense, in a perverse, soldierly sort of way. If someone had convinced the Tungrians their respected general was under threat they wouldn’t take much persuading to mislay four of the despised Praetorian Guard and hope nobody back in Rome noticed. An unfortunate accident on the frontier. By the time any investigation was launched, the evidence would be a pile of wolf-gnawed bones, if the Dacians left any evidence. It also reinforced his suspicions: someone had known in advance where they were coming and why. They’d tried to stop him on the way east, and now they’d tried again. But Gaius Valerius Verrens was not going to be stopped. Publius had unwittingly given him another piece of the puzzle but he needed to get back to Rome if he was going to use it.
‘What happens now?’ the cavalryman asked.
Valerius’s eyes glinted in the darkness. ‘I suppose I could arrest you and your men and when we get back to the fort I can have you roasted over an open fire…’