Ironroot tote-2

by S. J. A. Turney

  The captain turned to move forward, and his left leg buckled. Perhaps the wound in his side had been worse than he thought. He glanced down to see his leg, soaked in crimson, shaking wildly. Damn that ignorant savage and his stolen blade. Cursing gently, Varro sank to his knees as his leg gave way again. With a growl, he toppled gently to the blood-soaked grass.

  The second wave of infantry passed by, stepping carefully around him. The battle wouldn’t pause for a fallen man, whether he be soldier, captain or even the prefect himself. That was one of the great advantages of the Imperial war machine. Everyone knew his place and his task so well that when battle was joined the whole affair could continue smoothly even with a loss of command. He watched with growing annoyance as the second cohort passed their captain by, moving swiftly to support the first line in the carnage. The crash of steel on steel and cries of victory and agony swept over the battlefield like a blanket of sound as Varro pulled himself upright to look at the hill. It would soon be over.

  Tentatively he prodded his side where the blow, either lucky or very well aimed, had slid between his skirt of leather strops and the lowest plate of his body armour. His eyes filled instantly as the pain lanced through his body once more.

  “Damn it! A portent of great things eh?” he snapped.

  And then somebody pushed his hand away from his side and he glanced round to see one of the field medics crouched beside him, rummaging in his bag. With a wave of his arm the medic called over two orderlies with a stretcher.

  “Lie still, Captain,” the man uttered in a low voice as he quickly and efficiently packed and bound the wound. “You’re losing quite a bit of blood, but you’re very lucky. A few weeks and you’ll be out front again. An inch higher and I’d be putting coins on your eyes now.”

  Varro struggled for a suitable reply, but the medic stood as soon as he’d tied off the bandage and disappeared across the field. With a sigh, Varro gave up on conversation, gritting his teeth against the pain while the two orderlies lifted him as gently as they could onto the stretcher. Glancing once more at the wound, the captain noted in irritation that the medic had snipped away three of the leather strops to bind him. That was going to cost.

  As he was hoisted to shoulder height, the captain lifted his head a little to glance across the battlefield. The barbarian army had been boxed in and was shrinking by the minute. The whole thing would likely be over before he’d even reached the makeshift hospital at the camp. He clicked his tongue in irritation.

  “Busy day for you gentlemen?” he enquired of the two stocky orderlies bearing him away from the field.

  “Every day’s a busy day sir. If we’re not in battle, you’d be surprised how often we deal with frostbite and infections and all sorts. Wish they’d post us back down south where it’s warm.”

  The other orderly gave a gruff laugh.

  “Then there’s the other kind of infection too. We get a lot of that.”

  Varro smiled. At least he could be proud of his scar. He rolled his head around and craned his neck awkwardly to see in the direction they were taking; it was making him irritable watching the battle progressing so well without him. He saw the two units of archers attached to the Fourth as he passed and they looked glummer than he. Command instructions had determined that the deployment of missile troops and artillery today would be unnecessary and wasteful, as the odds were so favourable anyway; and everyone knew Cristus had a certain mistrust of indirect warfare. The unit looked as bored as the artillery engineers who stood behind them, chewing on their lips as they watched the distant action.

  With another smile, he beckoned to one of the engineers as he passed.

  “You there!”

  The engineer, startled at the unlooked-for attention from a senior officer, saluted and then ran over to the bobbing stretcher.

  “Sir?” He looked nervous.

  Varro hoisted himself as best he could onto his side, eliciting groans of discomfort from the two men carrying him.

  “Go and find me a flask of something alcoholic and bring it to the hospital. I don’t mind what it is so long as it’s alcoholic. I’ll pay you double what it cost you when you get there.”

  The engineer’s eyes lit up and he nodded and saluted before scurrying off to find his prize. Varro leaned back again to find one of the orderlies watching him with a raised eyebrow.

  “Something you want to say, soldier?”

  “Not me sir,” the orderly replied, “but probably the doctor will.”

  “You let me deal with the doctor.”

  He lay back again and groaned at every slight shift in the stretcher. He’d been wounded plenty of times of course, in almost twenty five years of service. Indeed, his first major wound had come in the civil war and he’d been quite lucky to live long enough to see the new Emperor installed at Velutio. But still, every wound was a fresh worry. He wasn’t as young as he’d been then, and he was taking longer to heal these days. And however lightly the field medic’s tone had been, he knew the feel of a more major wound and he’d be damn lucky to be in combat in a fortnight. Maybe a month or two.

  His face turned sour at the thought of two months’ enforced convalescence; he’d never make it. He was still grumbling to himself about the stupidity of allowing distractions in battle to take his mind off the target when he realised they’d passed into the camp and were approaching the huge leather hospital tent. The smell was foul, but they’d only be here until the morning, then they’d all be heading back to the fort at Crow Hill to await the return of the prefect and inform him of his glorious victory.

  He watched with some distaste as they passed the first wave of wounded who’d been brought in from the initial charge. Surprisingly light casualties, he supposed, but a grisly sight nonetheless and precious little consolation for the infantryman sitting outside the tent waiting for attention while he held his severed left arm in his right. Damn that Cristus for denying the archers and artillery. The man may have been a war hero, but whether he distrusted missile units or not, he should have taken every opportunity to thin out their ranks before the fight. The prefect may be lucky and with a record of victories but he was certainly no great tactician.

  Mulling over what he perceived as the prefect’s mistakes and what he would have done differently, he issued another grunt as the two orderlies laid his stretcher inside the doorway of the huge tent. He spent long minutes listening to the groans and general hubbub of the hospital until one of the attendants strode over to where he lay.

  “Captain Varro. You’ll have to bear with us for a minute, I’m afraid. Scortius is dealing with an amputation, but he’ll be free shortly.”

  He crouched and examined the captain’s side, gently lifting aside the temporary dressing. With a nod he stood once more. “You’ll be fine.”

  Varro grumbled and winced as he shuffled slightly on the uncomfortable stretcher.

  “So long as I don’t spend an hour lying in a doorway I will.”

  The attendant smiled and strode across to the line of wounded stacked along the outer facing of the huge leather tent. Varro watched him probing wounds and marking a I, II or III on them with a charcoal stick. The order of severity of their case; he’d seen it often enough to know his wound would rate a II at best, possibly even a III. Privilege of rank made him a I though.

  “Varro?”

  The captain turned to see Scortius, Chief Medical Officer of the Fourth, standing above him with blood-stained arms folded and an amused expression on his hawk-like face.

  “Are you trying to get out of the paperwork?” the doctor barked. “How in the name of four hells did you manage to get yourself stabbed in the first five minutes? When are you going to learn to stand at the back?”

  Varro grunted. Scortius knew full well why an officer led from the front, but over two decades of service together the pair had come to know one another very well and Scortius never passed up an opportunity to poke fun at the captain.

  “Just shut up and stitch me
, Scortius. I haven’t the time to lie in your doorway and bleed to death.”

  The doctor laughed and craned his neck to glance across at the attendant, kneeling with the wounded.

  “So what d’you think? A III?”

  The attendant smiled back at them and cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps we should start using a IV, sir?”

  Varro growled and Scortius gave a deep laugh. “Alright, captain. Don’t get yourself stressed; you’ll aggravate your wound.” He turned to look inside the tent and spotted two more orderlies.

  “Get captain Varro here to the back room carefully and put him on the table.”

  As the two orderlies ran out to collect the wounded officer on his stretcher, Scortius raised a hand to shade his eyes and gazed out across the open space to the battle raging on the opposite slope. The figures swarming along the hillside were predominantly in green now, giving a fair indication that the battle was all but over. He nodded to some internal question and then turned and followed the captain as he was borne aloft through the hospital tent and out to the back room, reserved for the most violent or most important cases.

  Varro grunted once more as the orderlies lowered him gently to the table. His gaze lingered for a moment on the small desk to his right, covered with nightmarish instruments, as yet unused. Well, he shouldn’t need any of them poking in his side anyway. Turning his head again, he caught a dark, bleak look pass across Scortius’ face.

  “You’re not about to tell me it’s worse than I thought, are you?” he enquired, only half jokingly. Scortius shook his head, apparently more to clear his gloom than to answer the question. Then he smiled and the smile was not a particularly inviting one.

  “Oh you’re not going to die, Varro. Don’t be daft. But this is going to hurt rather a lot and you know I can’t give you mare’s mead since the general ban. Sorry. Battles make me… I don’t know, but not happy anyway. I know that’s a bit of a setback for a serving officer, but you know why. Now lie still.”

  Scortius gestured to his two orderlies and they approached the table, gently lifted Varro’s torso until he half sat, half lay. There one held him, grunting with the effort, while the other unlaced the plated body armour and finally swept it out from beneath him. Relieved, the orderly let Varro fall slowly back to the table. Varro watched the two rubbing their arms after the strain and groaned, shifting his shoulders slightly, now free of the armour.

  “I said lie still, Varro.”

  The captain lay as rigid as he could as the doctor began to carefully remove his temporary dressing. It was in the nature of doctors to abhor battle, of course. A captain saw only the glory of the charge, the melee and the victory, or if he was unlucky, the defeat and the rout. The nearest he came to the true loss involved was the interminable casualty reports to be delivered to the staff the next day; the head-counts, hoping that old friends called out their names. But to a doctor the first five minutes of battle were spent preparing the facilities and the rest was an endless sea of blood and screaming. The captain’s brother, a civil servant in Serfium, had always lauded him, congratulating him on the bravery it took to charge headlong into a fight with barbarians, but Varro knew different. Battles were fought largely on adrenaline, and bravery wasn’t always a requisite. But he could never be a doctor. He didn’t envy Scortius the job.

  Varro’s attention was brought rudely back to the present as a lance of white hot fire ran through his side. He gave a strangled cry and turned his head to focus on the doctor. Scortius merely clicked his tongue in irritation and used his free hand to gently push the captain’s head back down to the table.

  “Do shut up, you baby. I’ve had to deal with amputations that caused less fuss. It’s only a damn probe.”

  Varro growled as the fiery pain subsided. The doctor withdrew his nightmarish implement and wiped his hands on the towel beside him, already stained pink. Reaching over to the back of the desk he withdrew a flask and held it in front of Varro’s face.

  “Mare’s mead,” he whispered in hushed tones. “Don’t overdo it as I’m going to be putting you on other medication in a minute and for Gods’ sake don’t tell anyone. This stuff is concentrated and I want you happy and quiet when I sew this up.”

  Varro grunted again and took the proffered flask, lifting it gingerly to his lips and taking a swig.

  “By the Gods that’s strong”, he choked in a hoarse voice.

  “I warned you. Now shut up and go numb while I work.”

  The next quarter hour or so passed in a haze for the wounded captain, who watched with placid and euphoric interest as metal objects and swabs were thrust under his ribcage and a surprising quantity of his lifeblood sprayed out and ran down the table leg. He later vaguely remembered chuckling at something, though the first thing he truly recalled was the sting as Scortius slapped him several times across the cheeks.

  “Come on, wake up you old goat. All done and I need the table. I’ve just had the standard bearer of the sixth cohort brought in.” He patted his apron.” Can’t find my needle. Oh well; if you feel anything sharp when you bend in the middle, we’ve found it. Come on,” he urged, gently shaking the captain’s shoulder, “look lively.”

  As Varro gradually emerged from the swimmy effects of the drug, he glanced at his side. A fresh bandage covered his wound with a small red stain blossoming.

  “Should it be leaking?” he asked absently.

  Scortius shook his head as he rummaged on his desk for something.

  “It’s only a little seepage; no harm. It’ll stop within the hour.”

  The captain swung himself around on the table and dropped his feet over the side. The sudden movement pulled at his wound and he winced. Scortius tutted.

  “Don’t be stupid. Do everything carefully for at least a few days. No duties of any kind. See me every day for the next three days and after that only when you feel the need.”

  “Here;” he said brusquely, thrusting out a hand. Varro peered myopically at it, his sight still a touch blurred. A small pouch sat in the open hand. He raised an eyebrow and looked quizzically up at the doctor, who sighed.

  “I know you well enough to know you’re not going to lay off the booze while you heal, so I’m a bit limited with what I can give you that’ll work well. Let one of these dissolve in liquid and then drink it when you get up and in the mid evening. It’ll lessen the pain and hopefully stop any infection. If it doesn’t do enough for you, you’ll just have to lay off the drink and I’ll give you something better. Now be a good chap and disappear; I’ve plenty of other patients waiting.”

  Varro slowly slid from the table, almost collapsing in a heap as his feet took his weight.

  “Want me to get an orderly to help you back to your tent?”

  Varro grunted and waved a hand, not trusting himself to speak without whimpering. Steadying himself against the table, he waited a moment for his head to clear a little further and then took a tentative step toward the open flap into the main hospital tent. As his leg straightened and he moved forward, pain rushed up and then down his side, a pain so intense he almost cried out. Gritting his teeth, he took another step, making sure to balance most of his weight on the good side. Less pain this time; good. He took a deep breath and then realised that someone behind him was clearing his throat. He turned and almost lost his balance again as the white fire exploded around his body. Scortius still had his hand extended with the bag of herbs and a maddening smile. Varro grunted again, snatched the bag and turned as fast and purposefully as he dared before limping painfully out into the main room.

  The scene here was blood and chaos. He tried not to actually see too much detail of the activity and was immensely grateful that his mind still seemed to be stuffed with something fluffy. Turning slightly he spotted the main tent doorway and the bright sunlight beyond. Being careful not to slip in the various nauseating pools inside the hospital, he straightened himself as much as he could, as befitted an officer, and tried his best to stride from the tent. I
n all, he managed seven purposeful steps before he had to stop, his teeth clenched and eyes shut tight against the pain. At least he’d reached the doorway. He realised as the pain subsided, that the thing he had gripped in his painful moment had not been the tent frame as he’d thought, but the shoulder of a soldier.

  He stood for a moment, letting his eyes focus and gradually a smile crept across his lips. The eager face of the young engineer regarded him with concern, but Varro’s smiling countenance passed that and his eyes fell on the bottle the soldier was holding tightly.

  “You found something? Out here? Well, well, well. Help me back to my tent and I’ll pay you for it.”

  Without a word, the engineer ducked to one side and grasped Varro’s wrist, draping the arm across his shoulder. Slowly and with great care, Varro and the young engineer picked their way through the viscera, blood and piles of used bandaging and out into the open, past the lines of wounded waiting their turns. The first waft of fresh air hit him and, as the wind changed again bringing with it the sickly-sweet smell of the hospital tent, the captain stopped, bent forward as far as his pain would allow, and vomited copiously onto the grass.

  “Come on sir,” the engineer said comfortingly, “let’s get away from this.”

  Varro nodded, wiping his chin with his wrist, and the two slowly wound their way through the supply and fabrication tents and off into the main part of the camp, away from the grisly sights, sounds and smells of the hospital. Along the deserted lines of identical bleached leather tents they staggered, through the quarters of the second cohort and finally, at the end of the ordered rows, to the command tents. Here, larger campaign tents had been pitched for the senior officers of the cohort, the largest being Varro’s own, subdivided by an interior wall and serving as both quarters and headquarters.

  The captain limped straight through the main tent and into the private quarters, where he slowly and carefully lowered himself onto the bunk with the young engineer’s help. The soldier, satisfied that his superior was safely settled, placed the bottle on a small three-legged stool and slid the makeshift table in front of the officer. Varro smiled and reached out to the desk nearby for a goblet. The sudden careless action brought a fiery, white blinding pain that almost caused him to topple forward off the bed. The engineer rushed forward and grasped Varro’s arm, steadying him. The captain breathed in shallowly, little more than a gasp, his eyes watering and, not trusting himself to speak, he pointed, wincing, at the tray of goblets on the desk and held up two fingers.