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 changing 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.
“Just suffering a little after effect from the battle. Apologies.”
“No apology necessary, captain, as long as you’re alright”, the man replied sincerely.
Varro stepped back and straightened a little. The cooler night air was beginning to clear his head a little and his focus was sharpening. The man was not alone, but indeed part of a squa
d of six guards, all in the marshal’s guard dress uniform, and betwixt them stood a slighter, shorter figure wrapped tightly in a lustrous dark blue robe against the chill of the night air. Varro frowned as he caught sight of the pale, slender hand holding the robe closed, and the two white gold and amethyst rings on the hand.
“Catilina?”
The captain stepped back and straightened, a dozen emotions fighting for control of his face. He suddenly felt quite ill.
“Catilina…”
The lady let the hood of the robe fall back to reveal her delicate porcelain features. Her prefect brow and the tresses and curls of her ebony hair gave her an austere and otherworldly appearance in the strange, waning sunlight. Catilina had been renowned as a beauty from a very young age and many a courtier had been deceived by her looks into believing her to be flighty, weak or even vapid. Nothing could be farther from the truth and, given her parentage, there was no surprise in that. marshal Sabian had built the modern Imperial army back up from scratch, and the Lady Cassida had survived twenty years of civil war as mistress of her own estate, purely through nerve and insight, while many a powerful lord had fallen.
“Captain Varro, you should address me as Lady Sabianus.” The primness of her words caught Varro off guard and he stood dumb, weighing her words and trying to decide whether she was truly serious or playing some game with him. This was not a simple woman, even in simple conversation.
She waited a moment, watching the uncertainty on Varro’s face. “Has the constant drudgery of battle finally driven your Gods-born manners from you?” she enquired in a flat tone.
The captain remained still. When he opened his mouth to reply, all that came out was a choking, stuttering noise. He felt a slight flush rise in his cheeks and damned himself to more than one hell for showing such childish weakness in front of professional soldiers. He was a longstanding and decorated veteran and yet, faced with a dozen words from Catilina he fell apart like a fresh faced boy. A low growl of irritation or anger began to well up deep in his throat.
“Varro,” the woman laughed lightly, her eyes suddenly sparkling in the moonlight, matching the amethysts on her fingers almost perfectly. “I do believe you are blushing!”
Before he could react, for which he was truly grateful, Catilina’s smile warmed and she tilted her head slightly to one side.
“But I see you’ve been wounded again, my dear captain.”
Varro’s hand went to his aching side in an involuntary movement.
“Yes.”
The lady locked his eyes with her own for a moment and a look of concern passed briefly across her face before being replaced once more with a visage of good natured elegance. Her eyes bored into his.
“You’re not yourself, Varro” she stated as a matter of fact.
He shook his head and gave a weak smile, but Catilina tapped her cheek with a slender finger, her gaze never leaving his face.
“You’ve no banter and no quick wit. Most unlike you. Your eyes seem hazy and they wander while I speak.” To emphasise her point, she held up her index finger and moved it slowly from side to side while her eyes remained locked on his face.
Varro found with great irritation, that he was watching her finger and shaking his head like an idiot. He growled and waved a hand at her irritably, dismissing the conversation, but her look hardened.
“You’ve been on mare’s mead,” she said with a note of accusation. “Or something stronger, possibly. Whatever it is, you don’t look well.”
Finally Varro found his voice. It wasn’t as strong as he’d like, but still clear enough in the cool evening air.
“I’m fine, Lady Sabianus.” He stressed the title a little too much. “A little battered, but I’m fine. I’m due to see Scortius sometime today…” He looked around the street, now almost dark with the sun fully set. “Tonight, I suppose.”
Catilina glared at him.
“You need to see him now, Varro. Not later. I’ll have two of the guard escort you.”
Varro waved his hands at her in a way he hoped looked pleasantly admonishing and shook his head, which threatened to send his brain spinning once more. The queasiness came again in a sudden blast but was, fortunately, gone in a flash.
“I’m going to see him later,” he replied flatly. “Right now, I’m going home for a while. I haven’t eaten for a year or so, my stomach tells me.”
For a long moment the two held each others’ gaze, locked in a battle of wills, until Catilina looked away, folding her arms indignantly to indicate to all present that she had decided the captain’s decision was wrong but was willing to watch him fail to prove her point.
Varro ground his teeth in frustration. No matter how he dealt with Catilina, in every argument, every conversation and even every minor exchange of greetings, he had always left feeling that he had lost the debate and she had let him go.
“I’ll no doubt see you shortly, Lady Sabianus. I expect your father and the prefect will want to see me tomorrow.”
Catilina regarded him with an unreadable expression.
“In this world, Varro, all things are possible.”
She gestured at the man Varro had bumped into.
“Crinus, take two others and make sure the captain gets back to his house safely.”
She looked at him and smiled mischievously.
“If, that is, he can remember where he lives.”
Varro continued to grind his teeth, unable to form a suitable reply. His mind was feeling surprisingly clouded, even here in the late evening breeze.
“Come!” Catilina waved to her retinue and swept away past the captain toward the grand headquarters building at the centre of the fort.
The captain watched her go with a curious mixture of desire and relief. The three remaining guards exchanged a look that Varro recognised in irritation: soldiers that had been assigned a duty they felt was beneath them. Baby-sitting. He grinned a wicked grin.
“So, lads. Who’s for a jug of good wine?”
The senior of the soldiers regarded Varro with something akin to disdain, as though he were some sort of carrion, and returned the captain’s smile with no warmth.
“Home, Captain.”
The other two guards reached for Varro’s elbows as if to support him, and he pulled away indignantly with as much pride as he could muster.
“I’m quite capable of walking, even if the Lady feels I need an escort,” he narrowed his eyes at their leader. “So let’s just go.”
The group of four walked purposefully along the street toward the officers’ quarters as the arteries of the fortress gradually filled with off-duty soldiers on their way to the baths, taverns, gambling pits, or to the other dens of pleasure that were to be found in the civilian settlement just beyond the fort’s massive walls. As he walked, Varro found he had to concentrate with every step to prevent himself staggering.
As they rounded a corner, sergeant Corda strode into view, still in his armour and coated in the grime of travel. Varro nodded a professional greeting as he came to as steady a halt as he could manage.
“Corda. Would you care to join me this evening? Martis is making something fowl.”
The sergeant smiled a rare smile at the pun and nodded.
“I’d be glad to, sir, but I must settle in and bathe first. I’ll join you shortly.”
With a salute, he strode off toward his quarters while Varro made for the welcoming lights of his house. At the door, he thanked the marshal’s guards with mock extravagance and entered, closing the door behind him. He leaned on the door jamb for support for a moment, breathing heavily, and then turned and walked into his main room.
“Good evening, captain Varro,” the marshal said from his seat beside the fire.
Varro stopped in his tracks and swayed for a moment before recovering himself as best he could and coming to a surprisingly smart salute. The sudden movement certainly made his head swim a little, but he snapped his arm back down by his side and stood as straight and as st
ill as he could, a gentle sweat beginning to glisten on his brow.
Marshal Sabian, tall and imposing with his iron grey hair and his handsome, yet lined and careworn face, sat with his legs crossed and his black-plumed helmet on his lap. The fact that the marshal already held a crystal glass of what was clearly Varro’s best wine and a small platter or cold meats lay on the table beside him made it plain that Martis had been as diligent and efficient as ever in dealing with the man who was, after all, the second most powerful man in the Empire.
The captain smiled weakly.
“Marshal, you honour my house.”
Sabian waved his hand, brushing aside the compliment.
“Gods, Varro, I have more than enough obsequious sycophants hanging around me at Vengen; I don’t need the same here. Sit down before you fall down. I sent your servant out for a short while. I don’t want us to be disturbed.” He reached and took a neat slice of chicken from the plate, rolling it and dipping it in the accompanying pickle before popping it into his mouth. His eyes swept the room, taking in its austere appearance, almost entirely lacking in decoration, and that which could be seen was clearly of military origin: a worn pennon here, a scabbard with a telling dent there. Clearly the home of a career soldier.
Without a word, and quietly grateful, the captain made his way to a seat close by; close enough for low conversation, but not close enough to seem discourteous.
“It’s been a long time, marshal,” he replied, being careful to keep his tone slightly familiar and yet thoroughly respectful.
Ironroot (Tales of the Empire) Page 6
