Ironroot tote-2

by S. J. A. Turney

  Varro stared and him and burst out laughing.

  “You did this during the night?”

  Salonius bridled.

  “You need an edge. I’m giving you that edge.”

  The captain clapped his hand over his young companion’s shoulder.

  “Oh, I am grateful Salonius. You have no idea how grateful. I think I regret the fact that I’ll not live to see the day you command a cohort.”

  Salonius blinked.

  “Sir?”

  “Oh come on.” Varro laughed. “When this is all over and I’m gone, you and Catilina will be the two who brought down a traitor and save the northern army. And you know the marshal personally and saved his daughter! Great things await you, my friend, and I think the army’s going to change when you get your hands on it. More flexible; more adaptable. The army’s always been led by brave men, but brave, intelligent and resourceful is rare. I think I’m going to miss you, Salonius.”

  “Captain…”

  Varro shook his head.

  “Strangely, the large doses of everything that I took last night seem to have given me the strength and energy of a race horse. I think I’m going to take the same again in the next hour. Damn him, if Cristus shows up here this morning, I’m going to carve bits off him until he begs for mercy.”

  The young man’s jaw set hard.

  “Good. Now stay still while I attach the shoulders.”

  Five minutes later the two men entered the main clearing to find Catilina up and dressed, the blankets folded into low seats and a pot heating over a low fire.

  “Plenty of dead wood on the ground. I brought oats. I though we should have some breakfast to strengthen us for the day.”

  Varro smiled.

  “It’s like some kind of conspiracy to be helpful! Remember my bad wounded side?”

  She nodded uncertainly as she fanned the flames of the small fire.

  Varro pick up a stick from the floor and, give the difficulty of the manoeuvre, swung the stick at his wounded side as hard as he could manage. Catilina leapt towards him in shock but stopped as the stick bounced of his tunic with a deep ‘clonk’.

  “What in the heavens?”

  Varro grinned.

  “Our engineer friend put his genius to the task at hand again. Hell, at this rate, I could even fight my way through Cristus’ guards to get to him.”

  She laughed.

  “I rather hope it doesn’t come to that. Now sit down and rest. Time to get the pair of you fed and watered before you start any trouble.”

  The sun was rising and bright morning light dappled the floor of the woodland as the three packed their gear.

  “Phaianis has been good to us,” Catilina noted. “I think when this is over I might dedicate an altar to her.”

  The two men nodded.

  “Time to finish this” Varro announced, testing his sword, sliding it an inch or so in and out of the sheath to ease the draw. “Let’s go see what we can see.”

  Salonius reached down for the debris by the captain’s pack. The empty wrappers spoke volumes. Cristus had better show up now; Varro had taken every last pinch of the medication he’d been given. The chances of him coming unstuck by noon due to severe overdosing were worryingly high. Gritting his teeth and forcing a casual smile onto his face, he turned and, as he did so, watching Varro’s retreating back as the man walked over to the track, he caught sight of Catilina’s face as she also gazed after him. There was something about the look on her face. He smiled knowingly.

  Pondering on his suspicions, he collected his pack, tipped the pan of water onto the already dead remnants of the fire and followed the others onto the track.

  Given the bright daylight, the three were able to position their selves only a few yards from the edge of the woodland and could see the activity outside. A dozen or so men stood to attention in full armour within view, the cordon continuing on out of sight, presumably surrounding the grove. Varro squinted at them and then turned to his companions, lowering his voice.

  “They’ve been on guard all night. Look at them; they’re all shattered.”

  Salonius nodded.

  “Good. And they had no sleep the day before. They’ll be slow. Don’t know what use that’ll be when Cristus turns up with fresh men, but it’s worth knowing anyway.”

  Catilina pointed off to the left.

  “Looks like were about to find out, boys. Look!”

  Away to the side, at the crest of the hill, men were arriving on horseback, bearing the standards of the Fourth Army and marching in Imperial green. Perhaps two dozen men; some senior officers; others members of the prefect’s guard. All well equipped and well rested bar one. That one must be Crino, riding alongside his master in deep conversation. Anger flared up inside Salonius as he watched the prefect riding calmly under the Imperial banner as though he were the greatest and most noble soldier of the Empire and not a cowardly, enslaving traitor. He only realised he had half drawn his sword when Varro’s hand enclosed his and slowly pushed the hilt back down.

  “Later. Whether I kill him or not, I suspect you’re going to have to fight your way out and protect Catilina.”

  Salonius shook his head.

  “We have to wait until Sabian arrives. This needs to be witnessed, and then Catilina will be safe.”

  “No, my friend.”

  Varro drew his sword.

  “I don’t know how long I’ve got. This might be my only chance. You stay here with Catilina when I go out. You’ll be safe here for now. You two are the clever ones. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Salonius’ face fell.

  “Now let’s see what we can do” said Varro stepping to the front and leaving the cover of the woods to stand under the eaves.

  It took a minute for the weary guards to spot the figure of the captain, standing in the shadows beneath the trees, then suddenly all was commotion. Varro’s eyes flicked to the side, to one guard who had unshouldered a bow and was reaching in his quiver for an arrow. Half a dozen men in senior officers’ uniforms came striding forward, Cristus and Crino among them. The guard captain gestured to the man with the bow.

  “That won’t be necessary, soldier.”

  The small party stopped around twenty yards from the tree line and the prefect, resplendent in his dress uniform and polished breastplate, stepped out to the front.

  “Captain Varro. You look tired.”

  “Cristus.” Varro acknowledged him with a faint nod of the head.

  “I was told you wanted to meet with me. I am glad. It’s time to put all of this unpleasantness behind us.”

  “Indeed.” Varro glared at him.

  “Is there some way we can come to an arrangement?”

  “What?” Varro looked genuinely baffled.

  “An agreement. Some sort of deal. I would always rather talk out a solution than fight one out.”

  Varro snarled.

  “Curious sentiments for a soldier.”

  “Not really.” Cristus smiled and removed his plumed helm. “Any good commander will agree. Fighting should always be a last resort; an end game when diplomacy fails. No general wants to fight unless he has to. It’s wasteful and stupid.”

  He smiled and relaxed his shoulders.

  “So… some sort of promotion for you and your man? I don’t know what we can do for the lady Catilina, but I’m sure she can be persuaded to see sense. You’re dredging up ancient history. I may have made a mistake or two in judgement when I was young, but why rock the boat now? What possible benefit can you reap?”

  Varro stopped. The argument was persuasive, he had to admit. He thought for a moment of the trials that were to come; of the sizeable portion of the officers and men of the Fourth who would be brought to justice and many of them executed. It was a waste. It was all history. And then for another moment, he thought on his own history. Petrus; a cousin he had loved, murdered in the night. Corda, tricked and cajoled into treachery himself. The men who had died these last
two weeks on both sides of the game, just because of this man’s greed. And finally he thought of his future. The future he didn’t have.

  “You’re a traitor, a liar, a murderer and a monster, Cristus. There can be no deal. Now I know you’ve always thought of yourself as a swordsman… well here’s your chance to prove it. Let the Gods decide and draw their own conclusions. Your men here will respect if you face me, and it’ll be real respect; the sort you earn through blood, sweat and sacrifice; not the sort you buy.

  Cristus smiled.

  “That’s your only offer?”

  Varro nodded.

  “To the death for the honour of the army. I’ve no fear, because even without divine retribution against lying scum, I know damn well I could gut you like a fish on a slab.”

  The prefect’s hearty laugh rang out again.

  “Varro, just look at yourself, man. You’re wounded and sick; dying even. You’re covered in your own blood. You haven’t rested properly in weeks. You’re a mess. I don’t need a sword; I could beat you to death with a tunic for heavens’ sake. Just see reason and end this with negotiation. This is my last offer of peace. We can try and get you healed and back to normal.”

  Varro’s feral grin marched across his face.

  “Take your offer and jam it up your arse sideways. Are you going to fight me or not?”

  Cristus sighed.

  “Very well. No armour. Just tunics and swords, yes?”

  “Fine by me.”

  With a growl, Varro hefted his blade and stepped forward.

  Cristus unbuckled his cuirass and handed it and his helmet to one of the staff officers beside him. He looked for a moment at the leather bracers on his wrists.

  “Would you mind if I keep these on? Personal reasons, you see. Awards for meritorious service. One doesn’t like to be without them.”

  Varro snarled.

  “Just get ready.”

  Cristus smiled again, broad and relaxed.

  “You must calm down, captain. Your skills with the sword will be of no avail if you blow a blood vessel and expire before you even reach me.”

  He stretched his shoulders and drew his sword, giving it a few experimental swings.

  “Feel free to invite your young engineer friend and the lady Catilina out. I will guarantee their safety. After you’ve needlessly thrown yourself away, the young man will certainly have a place with me in the Fourth, and I have nothing but respect and admiration for the lady.”

  “Just shut up and get ready.”

  Varro stopped five yards from the prefect who smiled and removed his scarf. With a flamboyant sweep of his arm, he handed it to another officer, who took it silently.

  “Now, gentlemen… if you’ll all step the requisite twenty paces back and give us some room.”

  The party of officers retreated up the hill a way and took up position with Crino’s men. Cristus flipped his sword around in his hand expertly a few times.

  “Isn’t it said for the modern military that bravery and stupidity are so often aligned in a man.”

  He grinned as he began to slowly circle Varro. The captain started to move likewise dropping his shoulders and holding his sword ready.

  “I’ve got to kill you Cristus, just to stop you talking if nothing else!”

  He stepped forward with lightning speed and lunged out towards Cristus. The prefect laughed and ducked to one side, knocking the blade out of the way with his own sword.

  “Fast, but sloppy and obvious.”

  Varro smiled and circled once more. After a momentary pause, Cristus suddenly twirled back on himself, bringing his blade out in a wide, flashing arc at shoulder height. Varro ducked, but only just in time. The damn contraption Salonius had made might save his life, but it meant he couldn’t bend low enough. Damn it! He would have to adjust. Adapt and adjust, like his friend would.

  “Flashy. Does that impress your friends, Cristus?”

  The prefect smiled an unpleasant smile.

  “Sadly, every move I make tells me something about you. And now I know that you can’t duck. Nasty wound and that evil toxin destroying you from within. I’m surprised you can move. Scortius must have done wonders with you to keep you upright.”

  Varro growled.

  “I’m not going to exchange chit chat with you, Petrus, you piece of shit. Just fight me.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Almost unbelievably fast, the prefect’s sword lashed out and caught Varro a stinging, if minor, blow to the thigh.

  “I’m really trying not to kill you, Varro. I’d like to give the men a bit of spectacle first.”

  “Sir!”

  Cristus’ head snapped round. For a moment Varro wondered whether to take advantage of the distraction, but decided against it. If this was to be done, it had to be done right.”

  “What?” Cristus demanded of the young cavalryman who’d just rode close to the combat and reined in.

  “Sir, marshal Sabian is on his way. He and his guard have just crossed the stream.”

  Varro was pleased to see the prefect’s smug expression slide for a moment.

  “Now we’ll get an audience, Cristus!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marshal Sabian arrived on the scene in spectacular fashion. Though a practical and realistic man, the marshal was well aware of the effect that pomp and splendour could have on a situation when used to its maximum effect. The trumpets calling the army to order were clearly audible before a single man became visible. Then, a few moments later, the standard bearers appeared over the slope, their banners fluttering in the light breeze and displaying the insignia of the marshal, the Northern Provinces, and all four armies under his command.

  At the first blast of the horn and without the need of a command from Cristus, every soldier on the hillside came to attention, and nervously maintained their posture as the standard bearers hove into view, followed in quick succession by the trumpeters and the drummers, beating out a marching cadence. Behind the musicians came Captain Iasus of the marshal’s guard, astride a magnificent black horse that matched his uniform in shade, giving him the appearance of some sorting of avenging spirit from the underworld. Iasus was accompanied by a dozen of his men in full dress uniform who rode in an arrow formation, forming a protective shield around the marshal himself on his white mare. The column went on behind them, with several of Sabian’s senior officers, more of his personal guard and two thousand troops split into four columns, representing the northern armies.

  It was a spectacular and fearsome force to behold and the effect was not lost on the two men facing each other with drawn blades. Regardless of whether Cristus won their melee, the day was now lost to him. Sabian’s force outnumbered the prefect’s by hundreds to one, and the sudden glorious reminder of the marshal’s power and influence would already be melting away the resolve of even Cristus’ most avid supporters. He smiled an odd smile.

  “It appears that my options are diminishing at an alarming rate, Varro.”

  The wounded captain snorted.

  “You have no options, Cristus.”

  “I fear you may be disappointed there, Varro; I make it a point to always have a way out. However, I feel bound to offer you one last time my hand in friendship. We could still walk away today. The marshal could be persuaded to put aside any animosity were the two of us to stand side by side.”

  Varro barked a laugh.

  “No options, Cristus! No way out today.”

  The prefect shook his head sadly.

  “Were I to find myself at the marshal’s mercy today, remember two things, Varro: firstly, I will kill you before I finish. That is not a boast or a threat but a simple statement. I am a better swordsman than you, despite all your frontline experience, and I am fully healthy and rested, while you are dying and weak.”

  He smiled.

  “And secondly, I am a master of politics. I can assure you that when all is done here, I will go on. I shall be leaving the military, of course, but I bel
ieve my place in the ruling council is still secure. No matter how sentimental over you Sabian gets and no matter how angry he may be over my dirty little secret, I have tricks up my sleeve and information in hand that will guarantee my safety and my future.”

  “You lying turd!”

  Cristus chuckled.

  “Come, Varro. Do you really think I haven’t planned for this kind of eventuality? That I did not set wheels in motion to protect myself decades ago? It will be a shame to have my commission removed and be mustered out without a triumphal parade and great show, and I daresay one or two of my senior men will have to be sacrificed for the look of the thing, but Sabian is practical and it will be much more trouble to punish me than to promote me, I can assure you.”

  Varro bared his teeth.

  “Then, skill or no skill, I’ll just have to make sure you don’t leave this field, eh?” he growled.

  The two men stood for a long moment, their eyes locked on each other; Cristus’ expression an unreadable mix of smugness and satisfaction, Varro’s a look of pure hatred. Slowly, distrustfully, the pair tore their gaze from each other and looked up at the approaching column of men. The troops of the four armies had begun to move into position in a wide arc with one tip at the wood’s edge and the other at the crest of the hill, enclosing the men on the slope. The standard bearers and musicians had fallen into ranks on either side of the command unit and had ceased their bleating and thumping. In the centre, the black-clad guardsmen settled into a protective cordon behind and alongside their captain and the marshal, who gently walked his steed forward.

  Cristus lowered his sword and gave a crisp military salute as the marshal and his men drew up their horses twenty yards from the combat. Varro merely let his sword drop and nodded a casual greeting.

  The marshal regarded the scene, allowing his gaze briefly to wander to the edge of the woods and scan the ranks of men on the hillside. He sat comfortably in the saddle, his face a blank mask. Cristus appeared not to read anything into this, but Varro had known the marshal on a personal level long enough to see through the mask and recognise the very dangerous current flowing beneath. Sabian was just about as angry as Varro had ever seen him. The marshal spoke in a flat, dead tone.