Free The Ides of March by Valerio Massimo Manfredi, Christine Feddersen-Manfredi

would understand. He made wide gestures with his arms, alternating and repeating them. The air was becoming quite chilly and the wrestler felt his chest burning so close to the flames, while his back was freezing in the cold night that was getting blacker and blacker by the moment.
    The clanking of dishes and drinking jugs wafted up from below, along with the good-natured bawling of the guests, but the man didn’t take his eyes off the white blanket of the mountain. Although it was surrounded by darkness, it emanated an immaculate glow all its own.
    He finally made out a red spot that became bigger and bigger until it was a pulsing red globe. The signalman up on the summit had received his message and was responding.
    Down below, the man in the grey cloak didn’t dare go up the tower stair: he had no desire to provoke a run-in with that animal. Even from the balcony, he could tell that the man was sending a signal, so he just flattened himself against the wall and waited for the reply.
    In Monte Appennino, Lux Fidelis, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., prima vigilia
    The Apennine Mountains, Faithful Light, 8 March, first guard shift, seven p.m.
    T HE MAN AT the signal station held a canvas screen that he raised and lowered over the fire, but the wind was picking up, making his task much more difficult. The terrace at the outpost was covered with icy snow and behind the building stretched a forest of fir trees that were bent under the weight of the recently fallen snow. A hatch suddenly opened in the floor and the station commander emerged, wrapped in a coarse woollen cloak with a fur-lined hood. He was an army officer, an engineer.
    ‘What are they sending?’ he asked.
    The signalman leaned the tablet on which he’d written the message close to the light of the fire. ‘ “The Eagle is in danger.
    Warn Cassia VIII.” Do you know what that means? Do you know who the Eagle is, commander?’
    ‘I do know and it means trouble. Terrible trouble. How many men have we got?’
    ‘Three, including the one who just sent us the signal.’
    ‘The wrestler?’
    ‘Yes, him, plus the two we have here.’
    ‘The wrestler will be leaving as soon as possible, if he hasn’t left already. The other two will set off immediately from here. They’re used to travelling at night. I’ll talk to them myself.’
    The light pulsing from the top of the Medias tower stopped. Transmission of the message was complete.
    The commander went back down the steps, pulling the wooden hatch shut after him. Three oil lamps illuminated the passageway that led to a landing from which the living quarters of the staff on duty at the station could be accessed. The two young men inside were both about thirty. The first, clearly a local, had a Celtic build and features. He was tall, blond and brawny, with iridescent blue eyes and long, fine hair. The second was a Daunian, from Apulia in the south. He wasn’t nearly as tall, his hair was sleek and dark and his black eyes sparkled. The first was called Rufus, the second Vibius. They used a strange jargon when speaking to each other, a mix of Latin and dialect from their native lands. There was probably no one else in the world who could have understood them.
    They were eating bread and walnuts when their commander walked in. Jumping to their feet they swallowed quickly. They could see from the scowl on his face that the situation was serious.
    ‘Orders to deliver a message of the highest priority,’ he began. ‘Naturally, you won’t be alone. You know the protocol. Relying on light signals at this time of year with this bad weather is madness. If they tried it, it must mean they’re trying everything. A good courier is always the safest way. The message is simple. Easy to memorize, even for a couple of chumps like yourselves. “The Eagle is in danger.” ’
    ‘ “The Eagle is in danger”,’ they repeated in unison. ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘The concise nature of the message leads me to believe it’s come from Nebula.