Ironroot (6 page)

As the party of a dozen riders slowed to a trot and hauled on the reins to pull alongside Varro and his mount, he recognised the pale face of Corda, his second in command, covered by his helmet and partially hidden behind the bandana pulled up across the lower half and hiding the thick, black beard. The dozen men were the second cohort’s contribution to the prefect’s honour guard. As Varro drew his steed to a halt, the riders also stopped, saluting their commander wearily. Varro grinned as his second in command untied the bandana, revealing the yet paler skin of his lower face, framed with his dark beard and untouched by the dust of travel. Corda, never a man given to frivolity, displayed his usual scowl, which deepened as he spotted the dried blood encrusting his superior’s leg.

“Scortius did a good job, Corda, and I know I should be in the wounded carts, but I’d rather this than have to sit among the stench of serious injuries for a day or two, so forget about it.”

The sergeant sat still and silent for a few seconds, his eyes locked on his commander’s, until he was sure his point was made and his opinion noted.

“Very well sir. Permission to dismiss the guard?”

Varro nodded, and the sergeant turned and waved at the other riders, who saluted once again and then rode off past their officers to join their companions in the cohort’s cavalry squadron. As soon as they were out of earshot and sight of the two commanders, Corda’s attentive position relaxed and he slumped wearily in the saddle.

“Ok, Varro. Tell me everything, including how the hell you ended up in this state.”

The captain sighed. Corda was the quintessential sergeant among the cohort and the linchpin around which the unit moved, but on a personal level, the two had come up through the ranks together so many years ago that it was impossible now to feel any level of superiority over him when the two were alone. And, of course, Corda knew him perhaps better than he knew himself.

“I was unlucky. That’s all there is to it. I saw some barbarian bastard with a nice sword he’d stolen from an Imperial officer and I took it personally. Seems he did too. The doctor wasn’t concerned and the medics all reckon I’ll be fine in a few weeks. Now you need to tell me what you’re doing here. You’re supposed to be in Vengen with the prefect.”

Corda nodded wearily and shrugged his shoulders, allowing the interlocking plates of his armour to settle into a new and slightly more comfortable position. The standard Imperial kit was highly protective and certainly better than the chain mail the army had once worn, but it left a great deal to be desired when on horseback.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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.”

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.