Ironroot tote-2

by S. J. A. Turney

  The young soldier raised his eyebrows.

  “Are you asking me to join you sir? My sergeant’ll be wondering where I am.”

  Varro winced again and bit his cheek, pushing the pain down and away to where he could deal with it. A handy little trick a Pelasian mercenary had once taught him.

  “It’s all in the mind,” he muttered to himself, and then looked up at the engineer and smiled. “Pull up a seat and get two goblets. If your sergeant has anything to say, send him to me. I might be wounded worse than I thought and I’d rather have someone with me right now. Besides, drinking alone is for sad old men and lush women; not for soldiers.”

  As the engineer collected two goblets and placed them on the small makeshift table and dragged a small chest across for a seat, Varro tentatively prodded his side and winced once more.

  “Usually my second in command’s here with me. Missed his support on the field today. I daresay this wouldn’t have happened if he’d been there.”

  The young engineer nodded uncertainly. Sitting in the presence of such a senior officer seemed unthinkable, let alone speaking to one in such a familiar fashion. He cleared his throat.

  “Sergeant Corda wasn’t here today sir?”

  “No. He was given the dubious honour of commanding the prefect’s guard. He’s been gone since yesterday morning delivering Cristus to the command meeting at Vengen. Typical High Command, to draw an army’s commander in chief away during a campaign for mindless bureaucracy, though I can’t imagine the day would have turned out any different if he’d been here.”

  The young engineer scanned the face of the captain, wondering how he had become involved in such a personal conversation with the most senior officer in the cohort. There was a misty film across Varro’s eyes, attesting to both the seriousness of the pain underlying his light conversation and the lingering effects of the doctor’s concoction. While every ounce of his training told him that this was wrong and he should make his excuses and respectfully bow out of the command tent, how could he leave the captain right now when he stood a very real chance of falling over at any moment? The young soldier swallowed nervously and gave the conversation a gentle prod.

  “I’ve heard tell that sergeant Corda is the longest serving non-commissioned officer in the fourth army, sir.”

  Varro shook his head, fuzzily.

  “Still feel groggy. That M…” He paused and corrected himself quickly. “Scortius’ concoction must’ve been strong.”

  The engineer nodded respectfully. “That’s probably a good thing sir,” he replied quietly.

  The captain sat for a long moment, focusing on the young man, shook his head once again, and waved his hand in the direction of the small stool bearing the goblets.

  “You do the honours while I start as I mean to go on,” he rumbled, as he fished in the small pouch Scortius had given him and dropped some of the contents into one of the goblets.

  The engineer carefully filled the goblets, pouring the dark wine across the medicinal herbs in one and, replacing the wine bottle, reached up for the jug to water down the heady liquid. Varro lunged forward, gently knocking aside the water jug and wincing with the sudden sharp and violent pain that lashed him. As he slowly and carefully let out a measured breath and the pain subsided, he noticed the look of concern on the young soldier’s face. He waved his arm dismissively.

  “Smells like good wine. Don’t waste it with water. B’sides, I think the stronger the better right now.”

  The engineer nodded uncertainly and replaced the water jug.

  “Perhaps I should go, sir? You need to rest.”

  Varro frowned and, moving as slowly and carefully as possible, leaned forward, bringing his face close to his companion’s.

  “Frankly, soldier, I’m groggy, in pretty constant pain, daren’t stand in case I topple and can’t reach out for fear of opening the wound up, so you stay. Where were we? Mind’s getting a little hazy.”

  The young man nodded. “Sergeant Corda, Sir.”

  “Ah yes. Known Corda since before there was a regular army; back in the days of the private armies. We were both on the field when Darius took the throne. Hell, I got splashed with Velutio’s blood when his head came off. ‘Course we were both non-commissioned then. There’s not a man in the army, nay the Empire, that I trust more than Corda.”

  He reached down gingerly and took a deep pull from the goblet, wiping his hand across his mouth. He eyed the young engineer from beneath arched brows.

  “How old are you lad?”

  “Nineteen sir.”

  Varro smiled. “You won’t really remember the chaos, do you? Before the Emperor?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “Actually sir, I was born to one of the tribes on the border. We weren’t really counted as part of the Empire then. It’s only since the borders have been settled we’ve even been allowed to enlist again.”

  The captain continued to nod slowly, mulling back over the last few sentences when a thought struck him and his brow furrowed. He took another sip and shuffled back onto the bunk.

  “You’re from one of the tribes up here?”

  The young engineer looked up at the captain, his face worried. “Yes sir. I’m totally committed to the Empire, though. I…”

  Varro waved aside the boy’s uncomfortable defensiveness.

  “I’m not suggesting anything, lad. I’ve some questions, though.”

  The young man nodded nervously and Varro continued.

  “My knowledge of the Gods of these tribes is fairly limited, but I know a little. The white stag is Cernus, yes?”

  The engineer nodded. “That’s right sir. Cernus of the beasts; Lord of the woodlands and more. He’s a symbol of nobility and pride.”

  Varro squinted through the growing haze in his mind. He stared down into the almost empty goblet where the dregs of the wine lapped at the bedraggled remnants of the herbal mixture. Perhaps he’d underestimated the effects of Scortius’ medicine? Once more he forced himself to focus on the young man. Couldn’t afford to fall asleep quite yet. He was on the edge of something… something important. If only he could think what it was.

  “Cernus. He’s connected with chieftainship, isn’t he?”

  “Yes sir,” the young man took a sip of the wine and tipped his head to one side, unsure of the direction the conversation was taking. “He’s a God of portents and change. Just seeing him can alter a person’s life. Some see him on more than one occasion, but still not often. There’s the tale of Faenn An Ghalaeg who was visited by the Stag Lord each full moon, but then that’s just a legend and he ended up becoming a God himself.”

  He noted the look on his commander’s face and swallowed nervously. “Of course, it’s all just barbarian folklore, sir.”

  Varro shook his head. “Don’t put your origins down, lad. Only a fool believes he knows everything about the world. In some places the Imperial Raven and Wolf still hold little sway.”

  The engineer continued to watch the captain carefully. The older officer’s eyes were starting to glaze and were already half closed.

  “I think it’s time I went sir. You need to sleep.”

  Varro nodded, his eyes flickering a couple of times and then focusing once more on his companion.

  “You’re probably right, soldier. I want to speak to you again. Tell your sergeant that you’re excused departure duties in the morning. Report to my tent at reveille.” His eyes flicked closed once again, and it took the young man only a second to realise his commander was already asleep. He leapt forward and caught the captain, allowing the goblet to fall away and roll under the bunk while he gently lowered Varro down to the soft pillow.

  Bending, he replaced the goblet on the tray, corked the bottle and quietly backed out of the tent, closing the flap as he left.

  Chapter Two

  Varro was awakened by the jarring blare of the horns calling reveille though, truth be told, he’d spent several hours drifting in and out of conscio
usness during the night through discomfort, so the interruption was not entirely unwelcome. The captain hauled himself very slowly and carefully from his bunk, still fully dressed in his bloodied tunic and the leather vest worn beneath the armour to prevent chafing, the sheets stained pink with the leakage from his wound. Wincing and gritting his teeth, he pulled himself slowly upright and reached out to the cupboard to steady himself. A little further movement brought on a wracking cough that threatened to floor him.

  There was a respectful knock at the door and a voice called out.

  ”Are you alright sir? Can I help?”

  Varro stood a moment, shaking, disconnected thoughts flittering around him like the memories of dreams. Slowly he focused on the tent flap and recalled the young engineer. Ah yes. He’d told the lad to come at reveille, hadn’t he?

  “I’m ok lad. Come in. Is my body servant out there?”

  The soldier lifted the heavy leather tent flap with one hand and poked his head through.

  “He was here a few minutes ago, sir. He left toward the laundry tent saying something about your uniform.”

  Varro nodded. Martis, his ever-efficient servant would be preparing clean clothes for the journey back to camp. He turned, staggering slightly, and the engineer was there in the blink of an eye, supporting his commander’s shoulder. Varro smiled a weary smile and, as he sat to regain his balance and began to unlace the boots he’d slept in last night, a thought welled up and he eyed the engineer speculatively.

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Salonius, sir,” the young man replied, stamping his feet and coming to a perfect salute.

  Varro finished unlacing his boots and stood, allowing Salonius to take the brunt of his weight as he swayed slightly. Two steps forward and he swept aside the tent flap and gestured at one of the two soldiers on guard outside, bearing the white horsehair crest of the command guard.

  “Send word to the sergeant of engineers that I’m seconding one of his men. Salonius is being reassigned. And get him a white crest and pass the details along to my clerk.”

  “Sir!” barked the guard as he snapped a salute and jogged off toward the engineers’ compound, visible above the lines of tents as a collection of tall, oak-beamed siege engines and plumes of smoke, accompanied by the sound of smiths hammering iron. Varro glanced round at his newest guard.

  “Go and get your personal gear. Ignore the tent or any shared equipment and report back to here in an hour to help take the headquarters tent down. We’ll be moving out just after lunch.”

  Salonius was still blinking in shock, but pulled himself together sharply, saluted his captain and ran off toward the lines of tents that lay outside the engineers’ compound.

  As the young man left, a thought occurred to Varro, and he called after him.

  “Salonius! Go by the hospital on the way back and pick up my armour.”

  The soldier spun on his heel, almost losing his footing and saluted before turning once more and disappearing among the tents.

  Varro watched him run out of sight and then turned to the other guard, standing at attention beside the tent flap.

  “Break him in, but gently. I might need him.”

  “Aye sir,” the guard saluted.

  Varro retreated inside the tent and let the leather flap fall. For a moment, he staggered, and then sank onto the edge of the bunk once more, letting his unlaced boots fall away. One of his woollen socks was crusty and dark red from where his lifeblood had pooled in his boot. That was going to take some cleaning. He briefly scanned his breeches and tunic and realised the job wouldn’t stop at his ankle. He felt unpleasant. Sleeping in his sub-armour had given him aches and pains that only added to his general discomfort, and the clothes soaked with sweat and blood had given him a smell that, he was sure, would be noticeable from a considerable distance.

  Slowly and with care, he removed the leather vest and let it fall to the floor with a thud, tiny droplets of sweat bouncing as it landed. Gently he lifted the shreds of his tunic to one side and tugged at the dressing. The sudden pain and the smell from the wound almost made him vomit and he gently toppled backward onto the bunk.

  This was no good. He couldn’t disturb the wound, but he was going to have to clean himself up and get rid of this mind-rotting smell. He began to force himself slowly upright again, when he noticed the figure standing just within the tent flap: Martis, his body servant. Relief swept across the captain.

  “Oh good. Martis, I’m very much going to need help cleaning up. I need to wash down properly without touching my dressing and wound. And I might need a bit of help getting down to the wash tent too.”

  Martis, a short and stocky bald easterner, frowned and shook his head. He was a man of few words, but as efficient and careful as they came. He’d been the most expensive servant available at the Vengen markets five years ago, but had been worth every corona over those years, and probably more. Soon Varro was going to have to raise his wage, or he’d leave for a position more sedentary and considerably less dangerous. Yes, a raise was definitely due.

  The servant pointed to the rear of the tent and, turning gingerly, Varro noticed for the first time a low steel bathtub, wisps of steam rising gently from it.

  “Prepared it while you were sleeping sir.”

  Reaching out, he gently took his master’s arm, helped him across the tent to the tub and began to remove the grimy and bloodied clothes. Varro moved as much as he dare, but in the end resigned himself to luxury and allowed Martis to finish undressing him and help him step into the tub.

  “I have to be careful not to soak my wound.”

  Martis nodded and produced a square of leather, smeared around the edge with a dark shiny substance. He slowly and carefully removed the captain’s dressing and placed the patch over the freshly sealed wound, very lightly but firmly pressing down at the edges to form a water-tight seal.

  “Propolis and waxed leather; watertight as long as we’re careful, sir”, he said quietly.

  Varro smiled and nodded. Where had Martis found bees’ glue in a temporary camp? The man really was a marvel. With gratitude, he sank slowly into the warm water and allowed himself finally, properly, to relax. He was dozing gently as Martis took away his bloodied clothes and left a fresh set on the stool nearby before retiring to the corner where he began the laborious job of repairing the three leather strops on the armoured skirt as seamlessly as possible.

  For a moment Varro panicked and splashed, and then suddenly two stocky arms were around him, gently hauling him upwards. The panic quickly receded as the captain remembered where he was and allowed himself to be helped out of the now lukewarm tub. Though he’d fallen asleep before he could scrub himself clean, the difference the hot water had made to him was tangible. He felt fresher, cleaner and considerably more relaxed.

  “Thank you, Martis. I’m actually going to attempt to dress myself, if you could just unstick this pad and put my dressing back on.”

  The body servant nodded curtly and very carefully and slowly peeled the edges of the patch away from Varro’s wound. As the skin pulled slightly taught with each gently tug, the captain clenched his teeth and grunted. He looked down at the wound as the last of the bees’ glue came away. The mark was now a straight line of purple and grey with some ancillary bruising. It looked so innocent and belied the intense pain and complication it was causing. And then it was covered with a fresh pad and linen. Somehow, Martis had also found fresh dressing material too.

  As the linen was tied off, Martis went back to his leatherwork as the captain slowly dressed, keeping every movement as slight and gentle as possible.

  As he finally settled his tunic into place and shuffled round to the bunk to take a seat and lace his boots, there was another knock on the tent frame.

  “Enter,” he called.

  Salonius, the young engineer, pushed the heavy leather flap aside and entered in full kit, sporting a white horsehair crest and his dress cloak. In his arms he carried the capta
in’s plated armour, recently polished. Varro smiled and reached out to his body servant for the leather under-vest. Martis stood with it, but Salonius cleared his throat and stepped between them.

  “Doctor’s orders, Sir,” he said quietly. “The chief medic gave me strict instructions that you were to travel today on one of the carts, rather than horseback, and on no account are you allowed to wear body armour.”

  Varro growled.

  “I’m an officer, boy. I need my armour to keep this rabble in line.”

  Salonius nodded slowly. “I understand that, sir, but the sergeants can get us de-camped and on the move, and you need to put as little strain on your side as possible. Doctor’s orders, sir: tunic and cloak only.”

  Varro glared at his newest guard for a moment and then seemed to arrive at a decision.

  “Very well. Let’s go out and tour the cohort while they decamp; make sure they know I’m still alive. Leave the armour. It can be packed away with the rest of my things now we’re heading back to the fort.”

  Salonius placed the armour gently on the bunk, and turned to escort his commander from the tent. As they exited into the crisp morning air, the young soldier thought he saw, just for a moment, a flicker of emotion pass across the face of the guard beside the door. Dislike, he thought; or possibly even hatred. Have to be careful around that man, he noted, memorising the guard’s face with its flinty eyes and lantern jaw.

  Taking a deep breath, Varro strode out with as normal a gait as he could manage, and began the walk down the slight incline to the tents. Salonius stayed to one side and slightly to his rear, enough to display the respect due a senior officer, yet close enough to grasp the captain should he suddenly falter.