Ironroot tote-2

by S. J. A. Turney

  Varro looked across at her and grinned.

  “Who does know how long they’ve got eh?”

  Salonius burst through the leaves and ran out into the clearing, trying to arrest his momentum. Coming to a halt in the centre, he put his hands on his knees and breathed deeply, looking up at Varro and Catilina. The two were sitting close together with their hands on their knees. Catilina was smiling a genuine warm smile, while the captain appeared flushed and looked away momentarily.

  Salonius grinned at Catilina.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything my lady?” he muttered very quietly.

  “Of course not, Salonius” she replied, almost in a whisper, her smile taking on a mischievous edge. “I take it we’re moving?”

  The young soldier nodded.

  “They should be passing us any moment now.”

  “How many?” Varro enquired, professionalism once more taking over.

  “I counted eight.”

  Varro nodded with satisfaction.

  “Assuming they’re a normal outpost garrison, there’s only going to be two left up there.” He reached up and started to untie his reins from the branch. “And I’m guessing that our two friends are among the riders coming down here we’ll just have two lightly armed guards to deal with there.”

  Salonius reached out and grasped his own reins. He stopped for a moment and then put a finger to his mouth and cupped his hand around his ear. The others fell silent and listened intently. The drumming of hooves was deadened somewhat by the undergrowth between the open clearing and the road around six hundred yards away, but there were clearly several riders pushing their horses as hard as they dare.

  Once the sound of the hooves began to recede and the riders were out of sight in the direction of the village, the three slowly made their way out of the bushes and onto the road. There was no sign of the horsemen passing bar the slowly settling dust kicked up by their passage. As they mounted and began to move at a brisk pace up the valley Salonius, with a troubled look on his face, cleared his throat and looked across at Varro.

  “I can’t do that again, sir.”

  “What?” Varro replied in confusion.

  “I’m a soldier” he said flatly. “It’s not fear. I’ll fight the enemies of the Empire. I’ll go into battle with no regrets, sir. But…”

  “What?” the captain repeated, with a trace of irritation.

  “I’ll fight the Empire’s enemies, sir, but I won’t execute any more of its men.”

  Catilina raised an eyebrow and leaned across.

  “I know Varro, Salonius. He won’t have liked this any more than you, but those men were no longer soldiers of the Empire. They were prepared to kill us. That makes them fair game.”

  “Yes ma’am, I know. It’s just… well I don’t think a soldier should be required to torture or execute. That’s why we have provosts.”

  Varro looked down for a moment and then fixed his young companion with a hard look.

  “Sometimes you have to be everything from the accuser to the executioner. It’s not a nice thing, but it’s necessary. If you ever intend to make it as a sergeant or even an officer you have to understand that. It’s not easy, and everything about you tells you it’s wrong, but you have to push yourself past that and do what needs doing.”

  “You’ve done that before, sir?” Salonius asked.

  Varro nodded sullenly.

  “A couple of years ago we had a problem with supplies. We were campaigning in the mountains about thirty miles west of here and had to drop to half rations for a week or so, to eke out our stores. But the supply trains never came. So we had to drop further, to quarter rations. I sent a request to Vengen for extra supplies but things were almost as bad there.”

  The young man nodded and risked an interruption.

  “I remember the time. Crop failures all over the north. The tribes were starving too.”

  The Captain smiled sympathetically. “It was a hard time for everyone. Finally we were on emergency rations for more than a week; not really enough to feed a dog, let alone a human being. The men were beginning to lose their fighting strength, but we couldn’t afford to leave our position.”

  He grasped the reins tighter and shared a look with Catilina that Salonius couldn’t see.

  “Things just kept getting worse and the mood of the men got ugly. We started having to break up fights over food. We even had the occasional desertion, though why’s beyond me. If the army had no food, why would a man think he could do better for himself? And then one night the camp guards caught three men stealing food from the commander’s supply; from my supplies, you see. Well, it’s not as though I had any more spare food than any other man; I was living on the same rations as them, but some men will always think their officers feast on a roast hog while they starve. The thieves attacked the guards when they were spotted and almost killed one of them before they were overcome.”

  He squared his shoulders.

  “Well, what could I do? I know there were extenuating circumstances, but there comes a point when discipline has to be maintained, even at the expense of personal preference.”

  “What did you do, Sir?”

  “We found out who the ringleader was; a promising young soldier called Terentius. He took responsibility straight away. Good man really. It meant he saved his companions.”

  Varro glanced across at his young audience and let out an explosive sigh.

  “I had the other two beat him to death on the parade ground in front of the entire cohort.”

  Salonius lowered his eyes.

  “It’s all about discipline, Salonius” the captain added. “You sometimes have to make hard choices and do unpleasant things because, if you don’t, you lose control and without control an army turns into a wolf pack.”

  Salonius nodded.

  “I understand that sir; I’m just not sure whether I’d be able to do that.”

  “Then I hope you’re never given the situation.”

  The young man continued to nod, grimly. “So what do we do when we get to the outpost? Those two men are probably entirely innocent.”

  “Relax” Varro smiled. “Catilina and I worked that out while you were keeping watch.”

  The way station was more of a small fortress than a simple outpost. Four walls roughly two hundred feet long enclosed two barracks, a commander’s room, garrison office, a small granary and storeroom and a small house to provide accommodation for passing dignitaries, Imperial couriers or men of rank. The single, heavy gate was surmounted by a higher parapet. And yet this small fort seemed strangely quiet and empty as Catilina approached, the gentle breeze that flowed down the valley rippling the rough and basic cloak wrapped around her.

  As she walked, she carefully kicked up as much dust as she could, to dirty her clothing and make herself appear more mean and poor than her clothes would normally suggest. Her arm was beginning to ache from the heavy bundle of sticks she carried awkwardly. The gate of the way station stood open, surprisingly. She narrowed her eyes and squinted through the dust she’d created. Two figures stood deep in conversation in the gate’s interior.

  Salonius and Varro had been careful to stay far enough back that there was no chance of being spotted from the station but, given the soldiers’ lack of attention, they could likely have walked up to the gate before being seen. Still, while her father would have the men hauled over the coals for their ineptitude, she had no complaints since it all served their cause so well.

  Finally, as she was little more than ten yards away, one of the men spotted her and held his spear point toward her menacingly.

  “Who’s that?” he barked.

  “Sir…” she called back, hurrying, but giving herself a slight shuffling gait.

  “I said who goes there?”

  Catilina smiled inwardly. Varro had insisted that they’d need a signal, but she’d been sure he’d be able to tell when she’d arrived. She shuffled to a halt and waved her sticks as best she could.”


  “Magda… from the farm, sir!”

  The spear wavered for a moment and the second man stepped out of the gate’s shadow and into the sunlight.

  “What do you want, woman!”

  “Your men…” she broke into a grating cough that positively reeked of serious illness. Her mother had always said that if the family lost their wealth and privilege Catilina had a future on the stage. It was important to both create the right impression and to drag this encounter out as long as she could.

  “What!”

  The man was quickly getting angry. Balance was required. She couldn’t afford to lose his attention, but she also could not have him run and fetch his horse.

  “Your men… down to the village.”

  “What about them!” As the first man grounded his spear, Catilina tried not to smile. The other, more senior, guard reached out and grasped her by the upper arms. Over his shoulder, she watched Varro step like a cat from the bushes beside the fort and creep along the wall toward the relaxing guard’s back. She looked up into the commander’s eyes.

  “Your men are in danger!”

  “Why?” He swung his arm up to bring it down in a ringing slap, but at the apex it would not descend. He looked round in surprise and Salonius’ face split into a wide grin.

  “Morning.”

  The guard started to open his mouth, but the pommel of Salonius’ sword thunked into the back of his head with some force and his eyes glazed over as he slowly collapsed. Salonius caught him by the arm before he could slump too far and lifted him, slinging him over a shoulder. The young man smiled at Catilina and turned with his burden to see Varro dragging the other man, unconscious, toward the gate.

  As the two soldiers dropped their prisoners unceremoniously in the first building they found, Catilina searched the store and reappeared with a roll of twine. As she and Salonius busily set about binding the wrists and ankles of the two men, Varro stuffed bundles of cloth into their mouths and gagged them.

  Finally the three stepped back to admire their handiwork and Catilina smiled.

  “You do realise we’ve probably only an hour or so before those riders come back. We need to get a good head start.”

  Varro nodded.

  “Leave that to me” he smiled as he ushered them out of the building and closed the door. “You go out and get the horses ready.”

  As his companions left the fort, Varro stopped behind them and closed and barred the heavy gate. Happy with the result, he ascended the staircase to the wall. Looking down the twenty five feet from the wall walk to the dust, he took a deep breath and swung his legs out over the drop. He heard Catilina draw a sharp breath and, smiling, lowered himself until only his fingertips clutched the wall and let himself drop.

  “Let’s get going. If we ride hard and through the night, we should be at Saravis Fork by sunset tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eight

  They’d made excellent time. The high saddle of one of the most important passes in the northern mountains opened up to a grand and breathtaking sight. As the three riders and their exhausted mounts crested the high point and looked down, none of them could deny the astonishment they felt. The pass descended slowly and gently, becoming a wide but short valley, bisected at the far end by a spur of land, turning it into the ‘Y’ from which its name stemmed. A small, fast river ran from the left fork and off down the right, cutting through the centre of a large civilian settlement of stone and wood houses that nestled in the valley at the foot of the spur. On all sides the mountains reared up higher than those through which the riders had passed, protecting the valley from the worst of the weather and making it a haven of lush greenery amid the snowy grey.

  And yet, given all this wonder and glory, their eyes were drawn inexorably up to the spur of land towering above the village and bounded on two of its three sides by a steep slope and a fast river. And rising like the Imperial Raven Standard itself, testament to the undying power of the Imperial army, rose the stone walls of the fort of Saravis Fork. Salonius whistled through his teeth as he studied the strong walls with the trained eye of an engineer.

  “That got overrun by barbarians?”

  Varro nodded.

  “The Clianii were a big tribe, and I mean big. A cohort’s a great fighting machine, but even ours wouldn’t be able to hold that from an entire tribe of, what, ten thousand? And the Clianii weren’t traditional barbarians. They weren’t like the lot we fought the other day, all hair and teeth and bloodlust. The Clianii had learned from the Empire over more than a century. Hell, some of them had even served in our military. They knew how to build your machines, Salonius; machines that could batter those walls from across the valley.”

  Catilina nodded and pointed at the brooding walls of the fort.

  “Cristus held that for five days against odds of almost ten to one. That’s why my father likes him. That’s why Cristus is your commander.”

  “How?”

  Varro and Catilina turned to face Salonius, who was rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  “How did he hold it?” The young man waved his arm expansively at the spur and the valley. ”If they had catapults and bolt throwers like ours and the knowledge to use them.”

  “What do you mean?” Catilina frowned.

  “Well without wanting to annoy you, sir,” Salonius replied. “You’re not an engineer. It looks like a heroic deed, I’m sure. But to an engineer it’s quite simply impossible. If you gave me two catapults, I could have one of those walls in rubble inside a day. How does a cohort stand against ten to one odds for four days with no walls?”

  Catilina stared at him and shrugged.

  “Cristus told me the first time I met him, back at Vengen when I was about twelve, but it was such a self-centred tale of daring and heroism that I can’t remember a word of it. Probably mostly lies. I expect we’ll find out more when we find Petrus.”

  The three set off once more at a walk, Salonius with a perpetual frown and rubbing his brow with one hand, clearly troubled.

  The road led down through slowly mounting scrub and greenery and finally apple trees and brambles thick with fruit. As they approached the civilian town, the fort on its great promontory became increasingly oppressive. The settlement was extensive, even for one gathered around such an important fort; almost the size of one of the towns of the southern provinces, complete with shops, a mill, granaries, large tavern, and even a temple to the Imperial pantheon. Farms dotted the two valleys as far as the eye could see. As they slowly descended the road to the town Salonius, his brow still tightly knit, glanced across at his captain.

  “What sort of man is Petrus, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Varro raised his eyebrow and the young man continued.

  “Well I think we can all agree that there’s no reason to trust prefect Cristus in our current circumstances. And anyone he’s got control over is therefore similarly untrustworthy.”

  “What are you getting at, Salonius?” Varro rumbled.

  Catilina leaned forward, riding between her two companions and blocking the line of sight between the two brooding men. She turned her face to Varro.

  “What he’s skirting around asking you is whether we can trust Petrus. He has a point too, Varro.”

  The captain shook his head vehemently.

  “Petrus and I are like brothers. Always were. Hell, he was the good and trustworthy one of the pair of us.”

  “He was also to Cristus what Corda is to you” Catilina said flatly. “They were closely tied, Varro. I’m not saying we can’t trust him, but don’t be distracted by blind loyalty. You haven’t seen him in a decade. People change.”

  Varro continued to shake his head.

  “I understand what you’re saying, but you’re wrong. Petrus served with me under your father. He was one of Sergeant Cialo’s men on Isera. He was there when General Caerdin burned the villa and ended the civil war. You don’t come with a better pedigree for trust than
that. On Petrus’ count, you’re wrong.”

  “I hope so.”

  The three fell silent once more as they crossed the bridge over the fast and deep, clear, cold river and entered the town. Salonius, his face still dark with notions of conspiracy, looked left and right as they passed the first outlying buildings. Varro and Catilina watched him with interest, paying no attention to the occasional locals glancing at them from doorways or windows.

  “What is it?” Varro finally snapped with a despairing sigh.

  Salonius’ frown seemed to deepen, if that were possible.

  “There was a week long siege here ten years ago?”

  Varro nodded. “Actually more like fourteen years ago, I think. But not just a week. Cristus held the place for five days, but the captain who’d been in charge of the garrison beforehand had held out for over a week himself. The whole siege was at least two weeks long.”

  Salonius shook his head.

  “There was never a siege here, sir.”

  “What?”

  The young man pointed up at the fort walls and then gestured around them at the civilian houses.

  “It’s obvious to me, sir. And to you I think if you look.”

  Catilina stared at him. “Not to me. What is it?”

  “These houses are perfectly stable, ma’am, and the roofing tiles are old and shabby.”

  “So?” Catilina frowned.

  “So if there were siege engines across the valley and in the fort flinging stones back and forth for over a week, the chance of these buildings surviving intact is almost nonexistent. And an invading army needs food, loot and security. All of those things mean the village would be razed and the people raped, killed or enslaved. I know how tribal warfare works, ma’am.”

  She shook her head.

  “So the village got lucky. Or they made a deal.”

  “No,” Salonius shook his head and pointed up at the fort. ”And what about the fort’s walls, sir.”

  Varro stared up the hill and suddenly slapped his head.

  “He’s right. Those towers are square!”