Ironroot (21 page)

And yet, given all this wonder and glory, their eyes were drawn inexorably up to the spur of land towering above the village and bounded on two of its three sides by a steep slope and a fast river. And rising like the Imperial Raven Standard itself, testament to the undying power of the Imperial army, rose the stone walls of the fort of Saravis Fork. Salonius whistled through his teeth as he studied the strong walls with the trained eye of an engineer.

“That got overrun by barbarians?”

Varro nodded.

“The Clianii were a big tribe, and I mean big. A cohort’s a great fighting machine, but even ours wouldn’t be able to hold that from an entire tribe of, what, ten thousand? And the Clianii weren’t traditional barbarians. They weren’t like the lot we fought the other day, all hair and teeth and bloodlust. The Clianii had learned from the Empire over more than a century. Hell, some of them had even served in our military. They knew how to build your machines, Salonius; machines that could batter those walls from across the valley.”

Catilina nodded and pointed at the brooding walls of the fort.

“Cristus held that for five days against odds of almost ten to one. That’s why my father likes him. That’s why Cristus is your commander.”

“How did he hold it?” The young man waved his arm expansively at the spur and the valley. ”If they had catapults and bolt throwers like ours and the knowledge to use them.”

“What do you mean?” Catilina frowned.

“Well without wanting to annoy you, sir,” Salonius replied. “You’re not an engineer. It looks like a heroic deed, I’m sure. But to an engineer it’s quite simply impossible. If you gave me two catapults, I could have one of those walls in rubble inside a day. How does a cohort stand against ten to one odds for four days with no walls?”

Catilina stared at him and shrugged.

“Cristus told me the first time I met him, back at Vengen when I was about twelve, but it was such a self-centred tale of daring and heroism that I can’t remember a word of it. Probably mostly lies. I expect we’ll find out more when we find Petrus.”

The three set off once more at a walk, Salonius with a perpetual frown and rubbing his brow with one hand, clearly troubled.

The road led down through slowly mounting scrub and greenery and finally apple trees and brambles thick with fruit. As they approached the civilian town, the fort on its great promontory became increasingly oppressive. The settlement was extensive, even for one gathered around such an important fort; almost the size of one of the towns of the southern provinces, complete with shops, a mill, granaries, large tavern, and even a temple to the Imperial pantheon. Farms dotted the two valleys as far as the eye could see. As they slowly descended the road to the town Salonius, his brow still tightly knit, glanced across at his captain.

“What sort of man is Petrus, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Varro raised his eyebrow and the young man continued.

“Well I think we can all agree that there’s no reason to trust prefect Cristus in our current circumstances. And anyone he’s got control over is therefore similarly untrustworthy.”

“What are you getting at, Salonius?” Varro rumbled.

Catilina leaned forward, riding between her two companions and blocking the line of sight between the two brooding men. She turned her face to Varro.

“He was also to Cristus what Corda is to you” Catilina said flatly. “They were closely tied, Varro. I’m not saying we can’t trust him, but don’t be distracted by blind loyalty. You haven’t seen him in a decade. People change.”

Varro continued to shake his head.

“I understand what you’re saying, but you’re wrong. Petrus served with me under your father. He was one of Sergeant Cialo’s men on Isera. He was there when General Caerdin burned the villa and ended the civil war. You don’t come with a better pedigree for trust than that. On Petrus’ count, you’re wrong.”

“I hope so.”

The three fell silent once more as they crossed the bridge over the fast and deep, clear, cold river and entered the town. Salonius, his face still dark with notions of conspiracy, looked left and right as they passed the first outlying buildings. Varro and Catilina watched him with interest, paying no attention to the occasional locals glancing at them from doorways or windows.

Varro nodded. “Actually more like fourteen years ago, I think. But not just a week. Cristus held the place for five days, but the captain who’d been in charge of the garrison beforehand had held out for over a week himself. The whole siege was at least two weeks long.”

“So if there were siege engines across the valley and in the fort flinging stones back and forth for over a week, the chance of these buildings surviving intact is almost nonexistent. And an invading army needs food, loot and security. All of those things mean the village would be razed and the people raped, killed or enslaved. I know how tribal warfare works, ma’am.”

“Ever since the civil war and the change in command, new forts are built with rounded towers. It deflects catapult missiles better. Your father’s bloody idea!” Varro barked. These walls haven’t been changed since before the civil war, what… forty years ago?”

“Your father’s not daft, Catilina. The moment he got my note, he’ll have been surrounded by his personal guard and rushed off to Vengen.”

She shook her head, worried eyes fixing on Varro.

“You know my father. There’s every possibility he’ll stay just to try and help sort this out.” She sighed. “Still, there’s no point in panicking now. We’d best find your cousin and see what he has to say.”

“The garrison commander.” Salonius pointed at the fort once more. “Most of the men there will be too young to notice these things; I wouldn’t have thought of it myself were it not for my training as an engineer. But the commander up there, he’s got to know. He’ll be a captain, so he’s old enough to remember what happened here. He’s commanding one of the most important outposts in the northern Empire, so he’s not stupid by any stretch of the imagination. And he’s running what appears to be a quiet, settled fort with no qualms. I’m guessing the same man’s been in command here since the ‘siege’. I’d also guess he was a close friend of prefect Cristus. You know what that means.”

Varro nodded.

“Sharp. Yes, it means that we can’t trust the soldiers of Saravis Fork. If Cristus really is trying to kill us, then it’s a fair bet these men are under similar orders to the men chasing us.”

“Just let them loose, Varro. They’re broken after that ride. We’ll need new horses when we leave or they’ll catch us before we can leave the valley.”

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.

“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.

“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.