Ironroot tote-2

by S. J. A. Turney

  He opened his eyes and started. His travelling companion’s bearded and shiny head was only a foot away from his own, peering at him with that increasingly disturbing grin. Varro returned the smile weakly, and then closed his eyes again and began to drift off into thoughts; a stream of consciousness.

  What the hell was Sabian doing coming to the fort? True, it was well known that Cristus was Sabian’s favourite prefect, but that was based on events decades ago. Oh certainly Cristus was an adequate commander, but the captain had served under some of the best, including Sabian himself before the reconstitution of the Imperial army, and the prefect was far from that league. His flat refusal to place any reliance on archers or catapults had cost them dearly today, and had done in several previous engagements. In fact, his decision to surrender the terrain in favour of some largely-imagined lighting advantage gave Varro rise to question whether the commander should have been involved in planning the strategy of the battle at all. The officers could have altered the battle plan once he’d left without him ever finding out.

  But still, it was a captain’s job to command his men and to carry out the orders of his prefect without calling the man’s ability into question. There was no doubt at all that Cristus was lucky, and likely that luck had carried him throughout his career. And yet he must have been a hell of a commander early on in his career.

  “What, sir?”

  Varro stirred from his reverie, opening his eyes suddenly and blinking, the effects of Scortius’ drug now beginning to draw a cloth of hazy whiteness across his mind. He turned his head to find the bulky engineer peering at him questioningly with his brown furrowed.

  “Sorry?” said the captain in confusion. “What was that?”

  The big man frowned. “You said ‘lucky bastard’, sir. Sorry if you was asleep. Din’t mean to wake you. Just thought you might been talkin’ to me.”

  “Ah, no soldier. Just ruminating aloud.”

  He looked at the deepening look of confusion on the big man’s face and adjusted his thinking once again.

  “Just thinking on things; on the prefect.”

  “Ah,” replied the engineer in a flat voice, “the prefect sir. Yes sir.”

  “You don’t approve of the prefect, soldier?”

  The big man rumbled for a moment, his expression changing several times in the process.

  “Not my place to say, sir.”

  Varro nodded. It certainly wasn’t, but whether because of the effects of the medicine, or purely due to his own need to vent his feelings, he found himself sympathising with the quiet giant beside him on the wagon seat.

  “Tell you what, soldier,” he said, settling back into a relaxed posture and closing his eyes, partially due to the slight haze that seemed to have settled over them, and partially because of the ever-present dust. “There’s only you and me in earshot and I’m wounded and drugged and tired and I just can’t be bothered to stand on ceremony. I give you permission to freely speak your mind. Even if I remember this, I’ll not report anything.”

  The engineer cleared his throat nervously.

  “Well sir… I don’t think the prefect likes us, sir.” The big man recoiled slightly as though expecting a blow, but the captain merely opened one eye and scrutinised him briefly before closing it again.

  “I think you’re right. He’s never trusted missiles of any type. And before you say it, yes, I think that’s short sighted, wasteful and probably just plain stupid.”

  The big man frowned again.

  “But why would someone so important throw away good men because he don’t like a catapult, sir?”

  Varro shrugged as best he could, given the limitations imposed by his wound and the plain wooden bench.

  “Some people are set in their ways, and not all of them are good ways. In one respect we’re lucky. The prefect may create strategies or make decisions we don’t agree with, but he’s got the luck of the Gods. I can name at least three engagements we’ve been in over the years that we should by all rights have lost, but he’s managed to pull out of the fire at the last minute and turn it around.”

  “Yessir,” the big engineer nodded, “but maybe he shouldn’t ’ve put his men in that shit in the first place, sir?”

  Varro opened his eyes again and gave the man a flinty look.

  “Speak freely, but be careful. That’s still our commander you’re talking about. Respect where it’s due…” he growled, “even if it isn’t.”

  The engineer nodded.

  “’Course sir. Never meant anything by it.”

  Varro laughed a short and sharp laugh.

  “Whatever you say, soldier. Just remember, the man’s a war hero. And the marshal’s favourite.”

  The big man scratched his beard reflectively with his free hand.

  “War hero sir?”

  Varro blinked. “You don’t know the history of your own prefect?”

  “Only been serving five years sir, and the engineers… well we don’t really get to hang around with the rest, sir. Camp regulations keeps us in our own stockade. Where we can’t do no harm, so my sergeant says.”

  “He does, does he?” Varro smiled coldly.

  “We engineers is kind of second class soldiers in the Fourth, sir. No use denying it. We all know it. But we’re happy anyway.”

  Varro shook his head irritably.

  “Shouldn’t be like that. Maybe the prefect was better cut out to be a captain. He was a damn good captain. Won his reputation at Saravis Fork over a decade ago.”

  The burly man raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “The Clianii are the big tribe up there” Varro said wearily. “Back… what fourteen? Fifteen years ago? Something like that… there was a series of invasions by northern tribes. Cristus was a captain in the Second Army under Sabian at the time. He was sent to Saravis Fork to relieve the garrison of the fort there.”

  The captain turned his head and looked at the big man who was regarding him with rapt attention. For all gruff look and massive frame, he was still a young man when one looked closer. He’d probably have only been ten or eleven years old at the time. With a slightly sad smile, Varro closed his eyes and leaned back as he resumed his tale.

  “When he got to the fort, he found they’d been under attack for weeks. Their captain was dead and they were running at about a quarter strength; a totally hopeless situation. He took command and sent out harrying and distracting strikes for a day while he rebuilt the fort.”

  “Must’ve had engineers with him then, sir.”

  “Don’t believe so,” Varro mused. “Never thought of that before. Never heard about engineers there, but still, I guess any soldier can pile rocks, eh?”

  The engineer nodded, his expression clearly registering other thoughts on the subject.”

  “Still,” the captain went on, “he got the fort to a defensible state again. He held on to that fort for another four days before they were overrun and had to pull back down the pass. Impressive, regardless of whether it be brilliance or luck. Just to have tried makes him one of the bravest men I’ve known.”

  The engineer gave another nod; this time genuine, if given grudgingly.

  “So what happened, sir? I’ve not heard of these Clini or whatever they’re called.”

  Varro shook his head slightly.

  “Not surprised.”

  He shuffled into a new position and looked up at the burly engineer, squinting with the sun almost directly in his eyes.

  “Cristus had given the Clianii such a mauling they didn’t dare come down out of the pass. Basically, he averted an invasion. He and his men rode back to Vengen and delivered their report to Sabian. The marshal made him a prefect on the spot and gave him command of the Fourth that had just been raised, in order to go back and finish the job.”

  “Back to Saravis Fork, sir?”

  “Yes. And beyond. He went through the mountains like the wrath of the Gods and wiped the Clianii from the world of men. Killed everything in those mounta
ins that moved, walked and talked.”

  The engineer looked momentarily taken aback, a strange look on the brawny giant.

  “That’s not right sir.”

  “Maybe not,” agreed the captain, “but he got his revenge, and after that the other tribes sued for peace. It was more than a decade before any of them dared cross the mountains again. A bloodthirsty bastard he might have been, but he saved the northern provinces.”

  Varro sighed as he settled once more into his cloak.

  “War hero, as I said. I suppose the day we’ve saved a province from a barbarian invasion we’ll have the right to criticise Cristus. Until then, he’s our prefect and we do what he tells us.”

  The big soldier nodded and let out a gentle sigh.

  “It’ll be good to get back to the fort, sir.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  The engineer cleared his throat. “Do you think…” But as he turned to look at his travelling companion, the captain was already fast asleep.

  Chapter Three

  “Fort’s up ahead, sir.”

  Varro desperately tried to remember where he was before he opened his eyes. The pain medication Scortius had given him must be potent stuff. A lot of hours must have passed since he’d taken the damn powder and his brain still felt as though his was trying to think through a linen sheet.

  Rumbling.

  Yes, he was on a cart. On the engineering wagon, with the bearded giant. Oh yes, and he was wounded.

  “Ow!”

  The captain sat up with a sharp motion, causing his head to swim slightly. The field medic, who had joined the wagon shortly after Varro and had stayed aboard ever since, gave him the despairing look that doctors reserve for a difficult patient, and pulled a dressing tighter round his middle.

  “Captain, you really have to sit still.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Varro asked.

  The medic sighed and directed a level glare at the captain.

  “You gave me so much trouble last time I changed the dressing, I thought I’d try again while you were asleep. You wouldn’t have needed all these changes, sir, if you’d not tried riding your horse until the wound was fully sealed.”

  With a last tug, he tied off the dressing.

  “I’ll not bother making a neat job of it, captain. You’ll be in the camp in five minutes and then you’ll need to go and clean up properly. Be very careful and I need you to go and see doctor Scortius at some point before sunset tonight.”

  Varro grumbled something that could have been an agreement and prodded at his side.

  As the medic clambered down from the wagon and hurried alongside the column, stuffing his kit back into the medical bag, Varro leaned to one side and saw through the dusty haze the familiar and welcome sight of the great, heavy grey stone walls of the Crow Hill fort and the large oak gates standing wide open to admit the column. The vanguard were already inside and dispersing. Corda and the Second would be inside in a few minutes, but despite what the medic had said, it would be at least fifteen minutes before the slow, lumbering carts and wagons of the engineers crossed the threshold. With a sigh, he leaned back and drifted away into comfortable sleep once more.

  “Sir.”

  Again Varro stirred with difficulty and took a moment to focus his gaze on the great, bearded young engineer sitting beside him.

  “Mmmph?” The captain wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and pulled himself a little further upright.

  “We’re here sir. Thought you might wanna get down ‘fore I head to the compound?” the engineer said quietly. “You sure you’re alright sir? You’ve slept most of the day away.”

  Varro nodded wearily.

  “Just the medication. Thanks for the lift lad. And thank your sergeant for me.”

  The big man smiled. “I’ll do that, sir.”

  As the captain climbed down and unhooked his horse’s reins from the wagon, the engineer sat patiently and, as soon as Varro and his mount were free, he saluted, shook his own reins and trundled slowly off toward the engineers’ section. The captain stood for a moment, getting his bearings, and then realised the soldier had brought the wagon round half the camp and deposited him about thirty paces from his house.

  “That’s what a little courtesy gets you” he muttered smugly to himself as he led his colt to the one-horse stable that formed the rear entrance to his abode. Every fort, Empire-wide, followed the same rough plan as Crow Hill, but in these days of relative stability, the four great armies rarely moved from their base for any length of time, preferring to send out small sub-units on six month tours to man smaller forts on the frontiers. The centre of the fortress held the great headquarters building with its fine arcade, the prefect’s house with its peristyle garden and three wings, and also those small, yet still impressive, abodes of his adjutant and staff officers. Behind them stood the temple to the Imperial Gods in white marble, the shrine to the Emperor Darius with its gilt statue and the many facilities the fort required, from the enormous vaulted bathing complex to the contained rows of shops staffed and run by civilians from the local area. Then, fanning out from the centre like the rays of the Sun God depicted on Pelasian temples, the rows of barrack blocks, each with a sergeant’s small house at the end. And at the near terminus of each street of barracks, the houses of the departmental sergeants for each cohort. Finally, between them and the central area: the houses of the six cohort captains and the other two mid-ranking officers in charge of the camp and the stores.

  These houses, eight identical buildings standing facing one another along the near end of the four streets that cut the fort into quarters, were well-appointed as befitted a cohort’s commanding officer. Essentially a two-storey town house with a garden and stable at rear, they towered above the barracks and were, in turn, towered above by the headquarters and command area.

  Fastening his horse in the compact stable he noted that Martis had run on ahead and filled the feed rack with hay. With a weary smile, he closed up and headed through the interior door into his house, already glowing with the light of small oil lanterns and slowly beginning to warm through with the crackle of fire from the hearth on the main room.

  “Martis?”

  The stocky manservant came sauntering slowly from the kitchen, a large knife in one hand and a fresh half-plucked game bird hanging from the other. “Sir?”

  He shook his head.

  “Never mind, Martis. You keep preparing dinner. Best prepare a good amount too. I’ll likely have Corda round for the evening. If anyone calls for me, I’ll be in the bathhouse for the next forty five minutes or so.”

  Martis nodded. “I anticipated a larger gathering, sir. I’ve also placed another waterproof pad on the table by the door, along with your dress uniform. It will save time if you dress fully before returning from the baths.”

  Varro laughed loud. “Martis, I need to give you an extra corona a week. Are you content with that?”

  “Most assuredly, sir.” The servant bowed slightly and then spun and returned to the kitchen with his goods.

  Varro, still smiling, collected the neat pile of green tunic and breeches, his cloak and other accoutrements, along with the waxed and treated leather pad, and made his way out of the house and along the busy street in the rapidly diminishing daylight. Even after a day of relative rest, twice on the short journey he had to stop at the side of the street and lean on the wall, clutching his painful side while he regained his breath and each time, concerned soldiers would ask him if he needed help. As he once more pushed himself away from the wall in the direction of the baths, waving aside offers of assistance, he made a mental note to ask Scortius later about the possibility of different medicine. Something that lasted longer but allowed him to think a little straighter. This felt like the time as a newly-commissioned captain he’d caught some Gods-awful fever in the swamps near the northwest coast.

  Finally arriving at the baths some minutes later, he passed beneath the great arch and made his way to the cha
nging room. Leaving his clothes in one of the alcoves under the watchful eye of the civilian attendant, he carefully removed the temporary dressing the field medic had applied on the cart. Wincing as the last of the pad came away where it had stuck to the blood, he slipped a robe over his shoulders, carefully pressed the treated leather patch to his side, and entered the central area of the bathhouse. Within minutes he had been oiled, scraped and rubbed down and was sinking gratefully into a small, private, warm bath. Fortunately, while most of the army would be desperate to get to the baths after the day’s travel, the majority of them would have innumerable tasks to perform before they had the chance; even the non-wounded officers, who would be required to settle their units and report in before going off-duty.

  Leaning his head back on the tiled edge of the semi-circular bath, he allowed himself to doze lightly for a while.

  A half hour later, cleaner if not refreshed, the captain walked out of the baths and into the dark street, the dying embers of the day casting an orange glow on the dark cerulean horizon and lending the shadowy street a strange glow. His head still hazy and his sight slightly blurred, presumably from the mixture of the dull pain, the after effects of the drug and the steam heat within the baths, he walked directly into the soldier before he saw him.

  “You alright, captain?” the soldier asked with concern, grasping him by the upper arm and holding him.

  Varro shook his head slightly, startled. The lower ranks didn’t treat their seniors like this. He squinted in the low light and the figure swam slowly into focus. The neat uniform and shiny armour, the black crest and cloak and the white baldric bearing the raven and the wolf; the uniform of the marshal’s personal guard. Even the lowest member of that honoured unit might argue seniority over a cohort captain. Varro steadied himself and nodded, as though to an equal.