Ironroot (4 page)

“Come on sir,” the engineer said comfortingly, “let’s get away from this.”

Varro nodded, wiping his chin with his wrist, and the two slowly wound their way through the supply and fabrication tents and off into the main part of the camp, away from the grisly sights, sounds and smells of the hospital. Along the deserted lines of identical bleached leather tents they staggered, through the quarters of the second cohort and finally, at the end of the ordered rows, to the command tents. Here, larger campaign tents had been pitched for the senior officers of the cohort, the largest being Varro’s own, subdivided by an interior wall and serving as both quarters and headquarters.

The captain limped straight through the main tent and into the private quarters, where he slowly and carefully lowered himself onto the bunk with the young engineer’s help. The soldier, satisfied that his superior was safely settled, placed the bottle on a small three-legged stool and slid the makeshift table in front of the officer. Varro smiled and reached out to the desk nearby for a goblet. The sudden careless action brought a fiery, white blinding pain that almost caused him to topple forward off the bed. The engineer rushed forward and grasped Varro’s arm, steadying him. The captain breathed in shallowly, little more than a gasp, his eyes watering and, not trusting himself to speak, he pointed, wincing, at the tray of goblets on the desk and held up two fingers.

The young soldier raised his eyebrows.

“Are you asking me to join you sir? My sergeant’ll be wondering where I am.”

Varro winced again and bit his cheek, pushing the pain down and away to where he could deal with it. A handy little trick a Pelasian mercenary had once taught him.

“It’s all in the mind,” he muttered to himself, and then looked up at the engineer and smiled. “Pull up a seat and get two goblets. If your sergeant has anything to say, send him to me. I might be wounded worse than I thought and I’d rather have someone with me right now. Besides, drinking alone is for sad old men and lush women; not for soldiers.”

As the engineer collected two goblets and placed them on the small makeshift table and dragged a small chest across for a seat, Varro tentatively prodded his side and winced once more.

“Usually my second in command’s here with me. Missed his support on the field today. I daresay this wouldn’t have happened if he’d been there.”

The young engineer nodded uncertainly. Sitting in the presence of such a senior officer seemed unthinkable, let alone speaking to one in such a familiar fashion. He cleared his throat.

“Sergeant Corda wasn’t here today sir?”

“No. He was given the dubious honour of commanding the prefect’s guard. He’s been gone since yesterday morning delivering Cristus to the command meeting at Vengen. Typical High Command, to draw an army’s commander in chief away during a campaign for mindless bureaucracy, though I can’t imagine the day would have turned out any different if he’d been here.”

The young engineer scanned the face of the captain, wondering how he had become involved in such a personal conversation with the most senior officer in the cohort. There was a misty film across Varro’s eyes, attesting to both the seriousness of the pain underlying his light conversation and the lingering effects of the doctor’s concoction. While every ounce of his training told him that this was wrong and he should make his excuses and respectfully bow out of the command tent, how could he leave the captain right now when he stood a very real chance of falling over at any moment? The young soldier swallowed nervously and gave the conversation a gentle prod.

The captain sat for a long moment, focusing on the young man, shook his head once again, and waved his hand in the direction of the small stool bearing the goblets.

“You do the honours while I start as I mean to go on,” he rumbled, as he fished in the small pouch Scortius had given him and dropped some of the contents into one of the goblets.

The engineer carefully filled the goblets, pouring the dark wine across the medicinal herbs in one and, replacing the wine bottle, reached up for the jug to water down the heady liquid. Varro lunged forward, gently knocking aside the water jug and wincing with the sudden sharp and violent pain that lashed him. As he slowly and carefully let out a measured breath and the pain subsided, he noticed the look of concern on the young soldier’s face. He waved his arm dismissively.

“Frankly, soldier, I’m groggy, in pretty constant pain, daren’t stand in case I topple and can’t reach out for fear of opening the wound up, so you stay. Where were we? Mind’s getting a little hazy.”

The young man nodded. “Sergeant Corda, Sir.”

“Ah yes. Known Corda since before there was a regular army; back in the days of the private armies. We were both on the field when Darius took the throne. Hell, I got splashed with Velutio’s blood when his head came off. ‘Course we were both non-commissioned then. There’s not a man in the army, nay the Empire, that I trust more than Corda.”

He reached down gingerly and took a deep pull from the goblet, wiping his hand across his mouth. He eyed the young engineer from beneath arched brows.

“Actually sir, I was born to one of the tribes on the border. We weren’t really counted as part of the Empire then. It’s only since the borders have been settled we’ve even been allowed to enlist again.”

The captain continued to nod slowly, mulling back over the last few sentences when a thought struck him and his brow furrowed. He took another sip and shuffled back onto the bunk.

The engineer nodded. “That’s right sir. Cernus of the beasts; Lord of the woodlands and more. He’s a symbol of nobility and pride.”

Varro squinted through the growing haze in his mind. He stared down into the almost empty goblet where the dregs of the wine lapped at the bedraggled remnants of the herbal mixture. Perhaps he’d underestimated the effects of Scortius’ medicine? Once more he forced himself to focus on the young man. Couldn’t afford to fall asleep quite yet. He was on the edge of something… something important. If only he could think what it was.

“Cernus. He’s connected with chieftainship, isn’t he?”

“Yes sir,” the young man took a sip of the wine and tipped his head to one side, unsure of the direction the conversation was taking. “He’s a God of portents and change. Just seeing him can alter a person’s life. Some see him on more than one occasion, but still not often. There’s the tale of Faenn An Ghalaeg who was visited by the Stag Lord each full moon, but then that’s just a legend and he ended up becoming a God himself.”

He noted the look on his commander’s face and swallowed nervously. “Of course, it’s all just barbarian folklore, sir.”

Varro shook his head. “Don’t put your origins down, lad. Only a fool believes he knows everything about the world. In some places the Imperial Raven and Wolf still hold little sway.”

The engineer continued to watch the captain carefully. The older officer’s eyes were starting to glaze and were already half closed.

“I think it’s time I went sir. You need to sleep.”

Varro nodded, his eyes flickering a couple of times and then focusing once more on his companion.

“You’re probably right, soldier. I want to speak to you again. Tell your sergeant that you’re excused departure duties in the morning. Report to my tent at reveille.” His eyes flicked closed once again, and it took the young man only a second to realise his commander was already asleep. He leapt forward and caught the captain, allowing the goblet to fall away and roll under the bunk while he gently lowered Varro down to the soft pillow.

Bending, he replaced the goblet on the tray, corked the bottle and quietly backed out of the tent, closing the flap as he left.

Chapter Two

Varro was awakened by the jarring blare of the horns calling reveille though, truth be told, he’d spent several hours drifting in and out of consciousness during the night through discomfort, so the interruption was not entirely unwelcome. The captain hauled himself very slowly and carefully from his bunk, still fully dressed in his bloodied tunic and the leather vest worn beneath the armour to prevent chafing, the sheets stained pink with the leakage from his wound. Wincing and gritting his teeth, he pulled himself slowly upright and reached out to the cupboard to steady himself. A little further movement brought on a wracking cough that threatened to floor him.

There was a respectful knock at the door and a voice called out.

”Are you alright sir? Can I help?”

Varro stood a moment, shaking, disconnected thoughts flittering around him like the memories of dreams. Slowly he focused on the tent flap and recalled the young engineer. Ah yes. He’d told the lad to come at reveille, hadn’t he?

Varro nodded. Martis, his ever-efficient servant would be preparing clean clothes for the journey back to camp. He turned, staggering slightly, and the engineer was there in the blink of an eye, supporting his commander’s shoulder. Varro smiled a weary smile and, as he sat to regain his balance and began to unlace the boots he’d slept in last night, a thought welled up and he eyed the engineer speculatively.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Salonius, sir,” the young man replied, stamping his feet and coming to a perfect salute.

Varro finished unlacing his boots and stood, allowing Salonius to take the brunt of his weight as he swayed slightly. Two steps forward and he swept aside the tent flap and gestured at one of the two soldiers on guard outside, bearing the white horsehair crest of the command guard.

“Send word to the sergeant of engineers that I’m seconding one of his men. Salonius is being reassigned. And get him a white crest and pass the details along to my clerk.”

“Sir!” barked the guard as he snapped a salute and jogged off toward the engineers’ compound, visible above the lines of tents as a collection of tall, oak-beamed siege engines and plumes of smoke, accompanied by the sound of smiths hammering iron. Varro glanced round at his newest guard.

“Go and get your personal gear. Ignore the tent or any shared equipment and report back to here in an hour to help take the headquarters tent down. We’ll be moving out just after lunch.”

Salonius was still blinking in shock, but pulled himself together sharply, saluted his captain and ran off toward the lines of tents that lay outside the engineers’ compound.

Varro retreated inside the tent and let the leather flap fall. For a moment, he staggered, and then sank onto the edge of the bunk once more, letting his unlaced boots fall away. One of his woollen socks was crusty and dark red from where his lifeblood had pooled in his boot. That was going to take some cleaning. He briefly scanned his breeches and tunic and realised the job wouldn’t stop at his ankle. He felt unpleasant. Sleeping in his sub-armour had given him aches and pains that only added to his general discomfort, and the clothes soaked with sweat and blood had given him a smell that, he was sure, would be noticeable from a considerable distance.

Slowly and with care, he removed the leather vest and let it fall to the floor with a thud, tiny droplets of sweat bouncing as it landed. Gently he lifted the shreds of his tunic to one side and tugged at the dressing. The sudden pain and the smell from the wound almost made him vomit and he gently toppled backward onto the bunk.