Ironroot (25 page)

As they neared the remaining five men who, Varro thought, were doing well to retain a disciplined front in the face of such a brutal onslaught, the single man behind his four compatriots called out.

“We still have you outnumbered. You can still surrender.”

Salonius sneered, remembering his own cohort in battle. When the Second went into combat, Varro stood in the front line and Corda only a row or two back. That was how to motivate men, he thought. Lead by example, not like this idiot, cowering behind his men. He almost bit off his tongue as a lead bullet whizzed through the air between him and Varro, so close he felt the faint vibration on his ear.

The enemy commander opened his mouth to make another fatuous demand and disappeared instantly from view with a ‘crack’. Salonius grinned as he heard Catilina fumbling in the bag for another lead shot. Varro’s eyes were wide with shock, the bullet having almost clipped him and Salonius, and having been aimed exquisitely between the helmets of two men in the front line. A shot like that would make a professional hunter green with jealousy.

The four men, again to their credit, set their shoulders and brandished their swords. Varro, Petrus and Salonius fell on them like a tide of bloody fury. The defenders’ blades lashed out desperately from between their large shields but the three attackers, unencumbered by heavy armour and large shields, easily avoided the flashing blades. Salonius bent to his left, parried two blows from the end soldier and one from the man next to him, and ducked back out of the way for a second. As the innermost of the two men became distracted once more by Varro’s furious onslaught, the end man momentarily looked away. Taking advantage of the pause, Salonius dropped his sword and leapt at the man, diving onto him, far too close for the man to use his sword. As the man’s eyes widened and he struggled to stay upright under the weight of the bulky young man, Salonius grasped the man’s neck defender with one hand and chin strap with the other and twisted with all his might.

The crunch was audible even over the sounds of steel on steel and, increasingly often, steel on bone. Varro glanced across in surprise, almost falling foul of a well-placed blow, and saw the helmet wobble backwards as the neck broke inside and Salonius and his victim disappeared to the ground with a crash and a cloud of dust.

Moments later, as Salonius stood once more, brushing down his tunic, and went to collect his sword, Varro and Petrus delivered the final blows to the only remaining combatant and turned to survey the scene.

Salonius nodded sagely, watching with unhappy fascination as Petrus, in the background, went about the grisly business of dispatching the wounded enemies. Trying to ignore the unpleasant sounds and the death rattles, he tapped the parapet where the wooden rail had been inserted with his forefinger.

“This bridge has been here a long time.”

“Solid, then” remarked Varro with a sigh.

“Yes and no” replied Salonius with a thoughtful look. “It was pretty solidly constructed a few hundred years ago, probably by the army when that outpost at the top of the valley was built, but it’s not been maintained by the military and I’d assume the locals either don’t know what to do or don’t care.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well“, Salonius continued in a tutorial manner, “this was built with mortar and not cement or concrete and it’s a fairly basic arch bridge with a keystone.”

“And?” Varro sounded frustrated.

“Mortar is not as strong as cement or concrete. That’s why we use them now. And with an arch and keystone, all the weight of the bridge rests on the keystones. The more weight, the better the arch, in fact. But the weather up here in the mountains has eroded a lot of the mortar. That’s how they could wedge the wood across the bridge, you see? The mortar’s so old, you can pull it out with your fingers.”

“No,” the young man replied, “but it’ll block it completely; and it’s small enough that four horses should be able to pull it over.”

Varro blinked and a slow smile crept over him.

“That’d stop them alright. And the valley’s too steep and covered in scree here to get a horse up. They’ll have to go back a few miles to get round. Hang on… what’s to stop them pulling it back out of the way?”

Salonius smiled. “Firstly, they’ll only have access to the delicate, easily breakable branches at the top of the tree. And secondly, we’ll drag it at an angle and wedge it.”

Varro narrowed his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “Petrus!” he shouted at the disfigured veteran, limping toward them from the bridge.

As Varro unhooked a length of rope that had been with the saddle when he stole it, and began to unwind it, fastening it to his horse, he frowned.

As Varro ran over toward the mill with him, Salonius unhooked a leather roll on his horse’s flank and turned to yell after the others “Just get one. One’ll be enough!”

“Always be prepared” grinned Salonius as he untied a three foot long shaft from the roll. Examining it for a moment, he grasped it by the narrower end and Catilina realised the haft tapered slightly. Placing the wider end on the ground, he untied a heavy axe blade from the roll and placed the hole in it over the shaft, allowing it to drop to the bottom, where it wedged against the thicker wood. Stamping on the blade with a foot to force it as far as it would go, he lifted his axe and walked over to the tree.

Catilina allowed her attention to wander away from the sound of the axe biting into the young wood, noticing for the first time the frightened eyes of the villagers where they peered out from windows and doors.

And, of course, the growing cloud of dust not far from the village. If she strained she was sure she could hear hooves.

“Hurry up” she said, though quietly and to herself.

By the time Petrus and Varro came running back across the grass with a large coil of rope, Salonius had stopped cutting and was leaning all his weight on the tree with an experimental push. Nodding in satisfaction, he smashed the top of the axe head against the bole a couple of times until the blade began to slide back down the shaft. Dismantling it, he wandered over to his horse and neatly returned it to its place. He tutted in irritation before selecting another instrument; a small hand-pick.

“What’s up?” Catilina asked.

“I hate putting it away without cleaning and oiling. That’s no way to treat a good tool.”

He carefully and neatly rolled up the leather container and fastened it under the lady’s faintly amused gaze, while Petrus tied the second rope to his own steed and mounted.

“So, engineer… how best do we do this?” the scarred veteran enquired.

Salonius led his horse over to Catilina, casting a professional eye over the tree and the ropes as he walked.

“Take her across with you,” he asked Catilina. She nodded and took the young man’s reins, leading the horse ahead and over the bridge.

Salonius turned back to Petrus.

“Catilina and I need to get out ahead. Then you both need to walk forward onto the bridge until the ropes are taught; they’re obviously different lengths. Once they’re tight, start stepping forward very slowly and in unison. Try not to jerk too much. Very slow but very steady. Constant pressure’s what we want. I’ve given you a good start low on the trunk, so once you reach breaking point, the whole thing will come down very, very quickly.”

Petrus and Varro shared a look.

“The ropes are long enough” Salonius went on, “that you’ll be well out of the way on the other side of the bridge by then, but you need to stop the moment the tree comes down, or you might drag it into the river or even across the bridge. Got all that?”

“Slowly forward, stop when it goes bang. Think I can just about master that” grumbled Petrus.

Salonius gave him what he hoped was an infuriatingly condescending smile and walked ahead of them onto the bridge. He stopped at the centre, shaded his eyes and carefully judged the length of the ropes, the size and angle of the tree trunk and the location of the cut he’d made. Hoping beyond hope that his calculations were correct, he leaned down low and selected one of the largest stones mortared into the bridge parapet around half way up.

Giving the mortar around the stone an experimental prod, he was pleased to see that a mere poke with a finger brought a flood of crumbled mortar like sand in an hourglass. Quickly and efficiently, he dealt a dozen blows with his pick, removing the mortar around the stone. Satisfied, he leaned out over the parapet and, quickly locating the outer face of the stone, he repeated the process there.

Hanging the pick on his belt, he gave the great stone a heave and grinned as it smoothly slid out of the bridge wall and disappeared into the rushing water with a deep and resounding splash.

Running across the bridge he saw Catilina more than twenty yards from the bank, staying well back. He jogged across to her and, retrieving his reins, vaulted onto the horse. Catilina gave him a friendly smile and then turned to watch the cousins slowly manoeuvring onto the bridge, the ropes raising from the floor behind them and slowly tightening.

Salonius sat fidgeting, tapping his fingers nervously on the pommel of his saddle. He began to worry that the ropes would be too old and weak, or his cut in the tree not deep enough. Perhaps the tree was tougher than he’d anticipated, or the horses too tired. Perhaps…

‘CRACK’.

The break came so suddenly and crashed to the ground so noisily that all four horses started. As Salonius and Catilina steadied their startled mounts, the young man watched in mild panic as Petrus and Varro tried to stop their horses bolting, still attached to the tree that lay, still shaking and vibrating on the grass eight feet from the far side of the bridge.”

“Shit!” Varro wheeled his horse, bucking and thrashing.

Petrus was having more luck, his horse now merely snorting and the eyes rolling as it craned its neck to see the rustling tree it was still attached to.

“For Gods’ sake get him under control!” yelled the young engineer.

“Salonius, look!”

Catilina pointed at the tree and Salonius narrowed his eyes, trying to discern what it was she was indicating, when his eyes refocused and he realised she hadn’t meant the tree. She was pointing between the branches at the shapes of riders cresting the hill on the far side of the village.

“Oh, shit!”

He kicked his horse and rode over to the two cousins. Varro had finally stopped his horse bucking and was stroking its mane soothingly as the eyes continued to roll.

“Company!” he yelled, pointing past the tree.

“Alright, the next part needs to be done quickly but just right! Varro? About fifteen feet forward and cut the rope! Petrus, you need to keep going until you feel it pull so tight you can’t move any more.”

He wheeled his horse and quickly stepped to where he estimated they would need to stop and then pointed at the ground next to him.

Varro and Petrus slowly and soothingly goaded their frightened horses into walking forwards. The few steps seemed to take forever, accompanied by the creak of rope and the scraping and rustling of the tree as it dragged and rolled from the open space into the bridge’s aperture and a third of the way across.