Ironroot (Tales of the Empire)

by S. J. A. Turney

  Varro smiled at him. “I think they’re in a better position than us, now come on!”

  Salonius reached out a heavily muscled arm and relieved Catilina of her heavy saddle and saddle bags. Seriously laden, he walked on into the settlement.

  “Strong lad, isn’t he” she observed to Varro as they followed on.

  The town became busier as they passed from the suburban road into a wider street, bustling with people. Here they hardly raised a glance from the locals; three dusty strangers in travelling cloaks, all on foot. As the wide street opened out into the main square at the centre of the town, a cluster of market stalls came into view, with crowds around them squawking like a flock of birds.

  “Should be easy for us to get ourselves lost in.” Varro observed.

  “Yes,” Catilina nodded, “but easy for other people to hide among too.”

  Salonius frowned.

  “Why is there only one inn here? Your cousin said in his note he was at the inn. A place as big as this with a fort so close? There are half a dozen bars outside Crow Hill.”

  Varro nodded.

  “That just means that the soldiers at Crow Hill are off duty outside the camp most nights. This is frontier territory. I’d suspect it requires command authorisation to leave the fort on personal business. There’ll be no soldiers down here getting drunk on a night. Means we’ll probably stand out a bit, but it also means we’re unlikely to bump into any of the garrison.”

  Salonius nodded his understanding and turned as they entered the square, lightly tapping a young man on the shoulder. Catilina blinked and Varro stopped in surprise as a guttural string of unintelligible chatter issued from their companion. As they watched in fascination, the young man turned to Salonius, replying in the same dialect and beginning a deep and complex conversation that neither of them could understand. Finally, the young man grinned and clasped Salonius’ hand briefly before turning away and going about his business. The other two were grinning when he turned back to face them.

  “What? You think the tribe I was born into speak your lovely southern tongue normally?”

  Varro laughed and Salonius gestured forwards. The three of them pushed on through the crowded square, finally breaking out in the open area between all the stalls.

  “What did you two talk about?” Catilina asked with a smile.

  “All sorts,” Salonius replied. “But firstly, where to find the inn.”

  He stopped and pointed to a large wooden building with a stone base at the far end of the square. The inn stood proud of the other buildings around the central square by an entire story, matched only by the temple opposite. Three storeys and wide enough to accommodate perhaps four rooms along the front face, it was an impressive piece of architecture for a largely timber-based northern town. The three of them hurried across the square and made for the wide open doorway, surprised to find the interior well lit with windows and heated by a log fire, far from the dingy and shady room Varro had expected.

  Salonius gestured at an empty table, the most inconspicuous in the room, tucked away in a corner.

  “I’ll get us a drink. Wine for you both?”

  Catilina nodded but Varro shook his head. “Get me a beer. I need to keep the clearest head possible right now.”

  “Alright.” Salonius joined them for a moment, dropping his heavy load near the wall, and then walked across to the bar to speak to the innkeeper. Catilina and Varro took wooden chairs with their backs to the wall and carefully observed the bar and its patrons. There were less than a dozen folk in the room but, judging by the size of the place and the number of tables, the usual crowd would be considerably larger. There were clearly no soldiers here and most of the conversation was in the guttural speech that Salonius had used in the market. No one seemed to be paying them any attention, which caused a sigh of relief to pass through Varro.

  He turned his attention to Salonius at the bar, deep in conversation with the keeper as the man poured wine from a plain bottle into a plain glass and stood it next to the two mugs of beer on the bar top. The stocky soldier finished his conversation and began to carefully gather up the three vessels in his large hands.

  “Sight for sore eye!”

  Varro started and turned to see the man standing at the table. He’d approached soundlessly and, judging by the indrawn breath to his left, Catilina had been looking at something else too. Cursing himself for his wandering attention, Varro looked up into the face of the man standing opposite him.

  Petrus had changed a great deal in the last fourteen years. Plainly the man had not had an easy time of it. His right eye twinkled with some of the intelligent mischief Varro remembered, but his left was white and filmy, the barest hint of a pupil visible within the milky sickness. Three parallel scars crossed his cheek just below the eye, horizontally and so likely unconnected to the eye, terminating in a long-healed wound that had slightly misshapen the nose. Allowing his eyes to draw back and take in the rest of the man, Varro also noticed Petrus’ left hand suffered a constant uncontrollable twitch. The man had tucked the hand into his waist band, but that had merely muted the twitching rather than masking it. All in all, Petrus would have been a sorry sight, had that sight not been so welcome. Varro could feel emotion welling up inside him; emotion that he could scarce afford to allow to the surface. With a grunt he forced it down and maintained his grimace. Petrus gave a lopsided smile that displayed more damage, three or four teeth missing from the left on both upper and lower jaw. He turned that disturbing smile on Catilina.

  “Varro, you brought a lady with you? Strange choice, though I can see why you’d pick him.” He gestured over his shoulder at Salonius who was approaching the table carrying the drinks.

  Varro nodded.

  “Not just a lady, Petrus. You remember Catilina?”

  For a moment a look of genuine surprise crossed that scarred face and the smile broadened.

  “Catilina? By all the Gods! Last time I saw you, you couldn’t even pronounce my name!”

  Varro nodded. “It’s been a long time. We might have caught up earlier if you hadn’t been dead.” The comment had an edge to it and as Petrus recoiled slightly, Salonius stepped round him and placed the four drinks on the table.

  Petrus continued to look at Catilina.

  “How’s your brother, Catilina? He was always hanging around my knees asking to use my sword.”

  Catilina smiled.

  “He’s fine, Petrus. Not a soldier though. Never will be. Always buried in a book, my brother.”

  Salonius took one of the spare seats, his eyes never leaving the stranger, and coughed meaningfully.

  Varro shook his head slightly, as if to clear it. “Quite right. More important matters to think about. So, Petrus, I think you need to take a seat and tell us what happened to you and what’s so important people are being murdered to stop you saying it!”

  Petrus blinked.

  “Murdered?”

  “Long story,” Varro replied. “But let’s start…”

  His voice tailed off as Salonius put a restraining hand on his arm.

  “What?”

  “We need to move, now!” the young man said quietly but with force. As he bent and collected up the bags, Catilina frowned and leaned across to him.

  “What’s happened, Salonius?”

  The young man gestured subtly toward the bar.

  “That man who just came in. He told the barman to get his best glasses out, coz some new soldiers were on their way.”

  “Shit!”

  The other two quickly shuffled out from behind the table and began gathering up their kit as fast as possible. Petrus grumbled in the background, his hand slipping from his belt and beginning to twitch more violently.

  “You were followed? Varro, you idiot!”

  “Not like I had a great deal of choice in the matter, Petrus. We need to get somewhere safe right now!”

  The man ground his teeth for a moment and then nodded.

  “Follow me
.”

  Varro couldn’t help noticing the slight limp as his cousin walking surprisingly swiftly and quietly to the door. The three of them caught up with him as he stepped out into the sunshine. Varro carefully scanned the crowd outside with a practiced eye but there was no immediate sign of their pursuers. Petrus limped off along the front of the inn and round the corner. As they followed, he disappeared into an alley and along the side of the building. Rounding the next corner, they found themselves at a single story wooden wall with a single small door.

  “Stables. Back entrance.” Petrus announced, as he flipped open the latch and entered the building. The smell of horse sweat and leather flooded out of the building and the three of them followed him in to a large stable surrounded by a dozen stalls, many of which were occupied. A large open door stood at the other side, the common entrance to the building, a young boy with a pitchfork leaning against the jamb, chewing on an apple. A second stable door to their right stood solid with the top half open. The sounds of the bar issued from it. Petrus pointed to a fourth door, small and unobtrusive, to the right, in the corner.

  As the other three made for that door, Petrus pointed at the boy and the door and threw him a coin. The stable hand nodded his understanding and pocketed the coin, turning his attention to the grassy bank outside.

  Petrus wandered over to join the others as they entered the small door one by one. The space beyond was dark and surprisingly cold. After a short corridor, the space ended with a set of wooden steps descending into further darkness.

  “What is this place?” Salonius asked.

  “Cellar,” Petrus replied. “Where they keep the beer barrels and the crates of wine. I’m taking you to the safest place I can think of: my room.”

  Salonius blinked at him in surprise and then turned and began to follow Catilina down the stairs. Slowly, his eyes became accustomed to the change in light levels. It wasn’t actually pitch black in the cellar, just considerably dimmer than the bright day above. The longer they stood in the room, the stone flagged floor covered with a light carpet of rushes, the more they could see in the low light cast by the minute skylights at ceiling height, set into the base of the inn’s walls.

  The cellar was large, likely half the size of the inn itself, with a huge dividing arch supporting the heavy building above. The centre of the large space was filled with stacked wooden tables and chairs. Along the cellar’s outer wall huge beer casks were stacked two deep, kept cool by the natural chill of the cold earth seeping through the stonework. To the other side, wine bottles stood in wooden crates and beyond them a solid set of wooden stairs ascended to the inn’s interior.

  “You’ve been staying here?” Catilina asked incredulously. “How have you not been caught by the innkeeper?”

  Petrus smiled his unpleasant smile again.

  “Arun and I have an understanding. A silver coin every few days buys a lot of understanding. And I don’t sleep in here. I have a hidden room. A secret space.”

  Varro nodded. “Reasonable. Arun will have it for smuggling purposes, out here on the border, but under the watchful eyes of an Imperial garrison.”

  Petrus crossed to the far wall and pulled a rickety wooden shelf unit aside to reveal a door. Varro shook his head. Had they stood by the unit, he’d have been able to see the door between the shelves.

  “That’s not hidden. It’s just not very obvious!”

  Petrus flashed him a sharp look as he unlatched the door and swung it open.

  “You’d prefer perhaps to stay out here and get caught?”

  Varro shook his head with a cheeky smile.

  “No. Let’s get ourselves almost hidden in your ‘not very obvious’ room!”

  “Gah!” Petrus disappeared into the darkness within.

  Catilina gave Varro a warning glance and then followed their guide within.

  Varro shrugged at Salonius and the two entered, closing the door behind them.

  “Shit!” Varro’s voice called from the darkness.

  “Shut up” grunted Petrus in a forceful whisper. “If we…”

  The sound of Varro slumping to the floor and breathing as though he’d been punched heavily in the gut stopped him mid-sentence.

  “What happened?” whispered Catilina.

  Over Varro’s laboured breathing, Salonius’ concerned voice answered. “I think he caught his side on something sticking out of the wall next to the door. I’ve just put my hand on it and it’s wet. I think it might have opened his wound.”

  “Uh!” Varro was trying to stand with a great deal of grunting.

  “For fuck’s sake, shut him up!” whispered Petrus urgently.

  There was the sound of a leather flap being unfastened and further rustling.

  “What the hell are you doing?” demanded Petrus again, the anger rising in his voice, even as the level remained quiet.

  Salonius bit back an angry retort and replied patiently.

  “He’s got a few doses of medication in case his pain gets too bad. I’m finding that and some water. If he’s bleeding badly, it’ll have to wait until we can get into the light.”

  “Not the third… one!” grunted Varro between gasps. “Just… give me some of the ordinary… one for now. Can’t afford… to be out of it right now.”

  Salonius nodded, unseen in the dark and passed over the bag of medication for Varro. “Be careful.”

  “Huh!”

  “What’s he got medicine for?” Petrus asked quietly, concern suddenly filling his voice.

  “He can tell you when we get out of here later. Wait!”

  There was a creak as a door was opened at the far end of the room and heavy footfalls on the wooden stairs. The four refugees fell completely still in the silent darkness, the only sound the faintly laboured breathing of the wounded captain. They could hear voices through the door, but not clearly enough to discern what they were saying. The conversation stopped as the boots of two men rand out on the stone flags. Clearly the two separated at the bottom of the stairs and were searching the cellar.

  Varro’s voice whispered so quietly the others barely heard the bitter humour in his voice.

  “You’d better hope they’re blind or stupid or both. Your ‘not very obvious’ room’s not hidden by the shelves anymore!”

  Petrus replied just as quietly “Yes it is, now shut up!”

  The only sounds for what felt like hours were those of boots thumping around on the cellar floor and crates being pushed aside. Every time one of the searchers began a particularly loud action, Varro took the opportunity to gingerly unwrap the medicine in the bag. During one particularly loud scrape beyond the door, Varro lifted a water flask to his lips and swigged down his medicine.

  “There’s nothing down here. Come on!”

  The welcome sound of receding footsteps brought relief washing over the four hidden figures. Petrus waited around a minute after the sounds of the door closing before striking flint and steel and sparking a small oil lamp into life. The room was small, perhaps ten feet square, cold stone with shelves recessed into three of the walls. A rough straw mattress was covered with a sleeping blanket.

  “Lucky for you that you only attract thick pursuers!”

  In the flickering light, they could see Varro leaning against the wall, a small patch of blood staining the tunic around his wound.

  “What happened to you?” their guide asked.

  Varro shook his head.

  “No time for that now. I’ll tell you when we get out of here. We’ll have to go really soon, but we took a very dangerous three day ride to find you. We’ll have to give it at least five minutes before we leave here to be sure, so why don’t you fill the time with words?”

  Petrus smiled.

  “You always were a charmer! Alright then.”

  He settled back against the wall and uncorked a bottle from a narrow stone shelf.

  “I’ve been here a few weeks now.”

  “Start at the beginning” grumbled Varro. “Like the
bit about how you don’t die?”

  “Oh I should have died,” Petrus answered lightly. “That bastard Cristus would be a lot happier. I gather he’s some sort of hero for saving the fort from a barbarian horde these days?”

  Varro nodded. “Prefect for over a decade now.”

  Petrus gave a humourless laugh. “Prefect! Indeed. Well even back when he was still captain Cristus, there was something going on. The bastard was building up some sort of personal group of supporters inside his cohort. I’ve the feeling he was thinking he might be able to push for higher office. I saw it happening over weeks, months even; good men being brushed aside and given shit duty while his favourite lackeys got preferential treatment. But there wasn’t much I could do about it. You and me were Sabian’s men, see? He’d never put his trust in us. But still, what harm could it really do me?”

  Varro glanced round at his companions and was surprised to see a look of abject fury pasted across Salonius’ features. The young man was incensed. He turned his attention back to his cousin.

  “So what happened?”

  “You remember the reports of the Clianii attacking Saravis? We were sent to relieve the garrison. When we got here there was no garrison. The fort had been overrun pretty much without a fight. Don’t ask me how, but I suspect Cristus had even organised that somehow. The garrison was down to a few dozen men hiding out in the land around the fort. There were a couple of small breach points in the walls, but not enough to cause the fort to fall. Cristus put those of us who were out of favour to work on the walls, repairing the structure. As senior sergeant I was left in charge of the work detail.”