Ironroot (Tales of the Empire)

by S. J. A. Turney

  “We’re all on the way home,” the sergeant replied, rubbing the dusty upper half of his face with his bandana. “The prefect doesn’t particularly need his full honour guard to protect him on the way back.”

  Varro raised an eyebrow questioningly.

  The sergeant let his bandana fall back down to his neck and took a deep breath.

  “Marshal Sabian’s coming with him.”

  “The marshal?” Varro whistled through his teeth. “I suppose this latest round of victories has earned the prefect more attention and honours. I wonder if he’s just going to hole up at Crow Hill with the staff, or whether he might want all the unit commanders involved.”

  Corda nodded. “That’s why the prefect sent me on ahead. He wants to make sure the entire army’s spick and span when they arrive at the fort and everything’s organised for a high command visit. I’m not sure it’s really necessary. You know Sabian. He’d rather things worked well than looked nice.”

  “What else?” Varro narrowed his eyes.

  Corda shifted uneasily.

  “Sorry?”

  “I said what else?” Varro growled. “You’re avoiding telling me something.”

  The stocky sergeant cleared his throat and sighed.

  “Catilina’s coming with him.”

  He watched his captain intently, but Varro merely sat astride his horse for a moment and then shrugged.

  “It’s been a long time. She might not even remember me.”

  Corda smiled a rare smile and gave his superior a light punch in the upper arm.

  “You’re a hell of a sight better at fooling yourself than me, so don’t even try. This is what we’re going to do: Firstly, you’re going to go to either the engineer or quartermaster sergeant and travel on one of their wagons. Not comfortable, but at least you won’t shake yourself to bits or be jammed in with the wounded…”

  Varro waved a hand to interrupt, but Corda knocked his gesturing finger aside and continued, raising his voice slightly.

  “When you’re settled, I’m going to have a medic sent back to you so he can get that wound fixed back up and sort you out. I’m quite capable of leading the cohort back to the fort and you know that. I’ll go find the medics and deliver my message to the adjutant, then I’ll take command.”

  Once again, Varro opened his mouth to speak, but Corda pointed purposefully at him and went on.

  “And when we get back to the fort, you’re going to head straight off to the baths and get yourself clean and tidy, while Martis goes to sort out your dress uniform. We’ll only be a few hours ahead of the marshal, even if we rush, and you need to look commanding and a little bit dangerous, if you know what I mean.”

  A low rumbling growl rose in Varro’s throat.

  “I am not primping for a visit from the high command. I’m not a young social climber.”

  “Not for the marshal, you idiot!” Corda laughed. “For his daughter.”

  Varro furrowed his brows but said nothing for a long moment. Finally he sighed. “Well I suppose you’re right about my wound and the cart at least. Let’s get back to the column.”

  The two wheeled their horses and rode back toward the line, slow and noisy and choked with dust. As they approached, Corda turned and headed for the vanguard while Varro rode toward the engineers with their great wooden constructions, rumbling along the dusty trail dragged by teams of sweating oxen, the engineering teams of all six cohorts travelling together. The engineers in the army usually held to their own company anyway, having much more in common with each other than with the rest of their own cohorts. But the sense of unity among the engineers of the Fourth Army had been further enhanced by the prefect’s distrust of missile warfare and the fact that he plainly considered them superfluous to requirements on campaign.

  As the captain pulled alongside the head of the group, the various sergeants of engineers glanced at him in surprise before saluting. He waved the gesture aside and pointed at his discoloured leg.

  “Mind if I hitch a lift on one of your wagons?” He could have demanded or ordered, but when dealing with such an insular bunch it was always worth politeness and consideration, as he’d learned time and again over a twenty-five year career.

  The sergeant of the second cohort’s engineers whose name, Varro realised to his disappointment he didn’t even remember, hauled his horse to one side and rode out of the column to join his commander.

  “I’ll escort you to our supply wagon, sir. You’ll find it the most comfortable.”

  Varro nodded and rode alongside the sergeant, back along the slowly rumbling column of catapults, bolt throwers and other more arcane engines of war. As they trotted, he noted with a professional eye the care and attention with which the machines had obviously been treated and, equally obviously, the lack of use to which they had been put.

  The supply wagon of the second cohort’s engineers was equally well maintained, pulled by two horses, covered over with a waxed protective sheet that was carefully anchored with ropes to hooks drilled into the wagon’s side, and driven by a big soldier with a shaved head and a thick beard who looked, to Varro’s mild amusement, as though his head had been placed on his shoulders the wrong way up.

  The wagon driver and his superior exchanged brief words, and then the sergeant saluted and rode back to join his companions at the head of the engineering column. The driver untied the bag of goods strapped down to the seat next to him and hauled them into the back of the cart with one enormous arm while continuing to steer with the other. He turned back and grinned at Varro, revealing a wide mouth and large square teeth, two of which had been replaced with what appeared to be iron facsimiles. Glancing with a sort of horrified fascination at the man, Varro couldn’t decide whether he looked more like a blacksmith or a pit fighter.

  Matching his horse’s pace with the roll of the wagon, Varro slipped out of the saddle as gracefully as he could, wincing and emitting a small, involuntary squeak, and planted his feet on the board below the wagon’s seat. Still holding the reins, he slid onto the seat and then tied his horse off to one of the many hooks on the wagon’s side. A quick glance and the captain was satisfied that Targus was happily walking alongside.

  With a groan of comfort, he lounged back on the wagon’s seat and stretched languidly. Reaching into his pouch, he withdrew his flask containing a mix of one part wine with five parts water. Tipping some of Scortius’ herbal pain mixture into the almost empty flask, he shook it to mix and dissolve the medicine before taking a long swig. The relief began to trickle through him even before he returned the flask to its pocket. Closing his eyes, he raised his face skywards. While he knew he was still surrounded by the immense cloud of dust thrown up by marching feet, walking horses and rolling wheels, with his eyes closed he could feel the heat of the sun beating down on him, even through the muck. If he concentrated on the idea and turned his thoughts inwards, he could almost drown out the cacophony going on around him and imagine he was somewhere peaceful and pleasant. Almost. Ah well. Peace was not a soldier’s lot, he thought to himself humorously.

  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 mountains 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.”