Ironroot (8 page)

Leaning his head back on the tiled edge of the semi-circular bath, he allowed himself to doze lightly for a while.

A half hour later, cleaner if not refreshed, the captain walked out of the baths and into the dark street, the dying embers of the day casting an orange glow on the dark cerulean horizon and lending the shadowy street a strange glow. His head still hazy and his sight slightly blurred, presumably from the mixture of the dull pain, the after effects of the drug and the steam heat within the baths, he walked directly into the soldier before he saw him.

“You alright, captain?” the soldier asked with concern, grasping him by the upper arm and holding him.

Varro shook his head slightly, startled. The lower ranks didn’t treat their seniors like this. He squinted in the low light and the figure swam slowly into focus. The neat uniform and shiny armour, the black crest and cloak and the white baldric bearing the raven and the wolf; the uniform of the marshal’s personal guard. Even the lowest member of that honoured unit might argue seniority over a cohort captain. Varro steadied himself and nodded, as though to an equal.

“Just suffering a little after effect from the battle. Apologies.”

“No apology necessary, captain, as long as you’re alright”, the man replied sincerely.

Varro stepped back and straightened a little. The cooler night air was beginning to clear his head a little and his focus was sharpening. The man was not alone, but indeed part of a squad of six guards, all in the marshal’s guard dress uniform, and betwixt them stood a slighter, shorter figure wrapped tightly in a lustrous dark blue robe against the chill of the night air. Varro frowned as he caught sight of the pale, slender hand holding the robe closed, and the two white gold and amethyst rings on the hand.

The lady let the hood of the robe fall back to reveal her delicate porcelain features. Her prefect brow and the tresses and curls of her ebony hair gave her an austere and otherworldly appearance in the strange, waning sunlight. Catilina had been renowned as a beauty from a very young age and many a courtier had been deceived by her looks into believing her to be flighty, weak or even vapid. Nothing could be farther from the truth and, given her parentage, there was no surprise in that. marshal Sabian had built the modern Imperial army back up from scratch, and the Lady Cassida had survived twenty years of civil war as mistress of her own estate, purely through nerve and insight, while many a powerful lord had fallen.

“Captain Varro, you should address me as Lady Sabianus.” The primness of her words caught Varro off guard and he stood dumb, weighing her words and trying to decide whether she was truly serious or playing some game with him. This was not a simple woman, even in simple conversation.

She waited a moment, watching the uncertainty on Varro’s face. “Has the constant drudgery of battle finally driven your Gods-born manners from you?” she enquired in a flat tone.

The captain remained still. When he opened his mouth to reply, all that came out was a choking, stuttering noise. He felt a slight flush rise in his cheeks and damned himself to more than one hell for showing such childish weakness in front of professional soldiers. He was a longstanding and decorated veteran and yet, faced with a dozen words from Catilina he fell apart like a fresh faced boy. A low growl of irritation or anger began to well up deep in his throat.

“Varro,” the woman laughed lightly, her eyes suddenly sparkling in the moonlight, matching the amethysts on her fingers almost perfectly. “I do believe you are blushing!”

The lady locked his eyes with her own for a moment and a look of concern passed briefly across her face before being replaced once more with a visage of good natured elegance. Her eyes bored into his.

“You’re not yourself, Varro” she stated as a matter of fact.

He shook his head and gave a weak smile, but Catilina tapped her cheek with a slender finger, her gaze never leaving his face.

“You’ve no banter and no quick wit. Most unlike you. Your eyes seem hazy and they wander while I speak.” To emphasise her point, she held up her index finger and moved it slowly from side to side while her eyes remained locked on his face.

Varro found with great irritation, that he was watching her finger and shaking his head like an idiot. He growled and waved a hand at her irritably, dismissing the conversation, but her look hardened.

“You’ve been on mare’s mead,” she said with a note of accusation. “Or something stronger, possibly. Whatever it is, you don’t look well.”

Finally Varro found his voice. It wasn’t as strong as he’d like, but still clear enough in the cool evening air.

“I’m fine, Lady Sabianus.” He stressed the title a little too much. “A little battered, but I’m fine. I’m due to see Scortius sometime today…” He looked around the street, now almost dark with the sun fully set. “Tonight, I suppose.”

Catilina glared at him.

“You need to see him now, Varro. Not later. I’ll have two of the guard escort you.”

Varro waved his hands at her in a way he hoped looked pleasantly admonishing and shook his head, which threatened to send his brain spinning once more. The queasiness came again in a sudden blast but was, fortunately, gone in a flash.

“I’m going to see him later,” he replied flatly. “Right now, I’m going home for a while. I haven’t eaten for a year or so, my stomach tells me.”

For a long moment the two held each others’ gaze, locked in a battle of wills, until Catilina looked away, folding her arms indignantly to indicate to all present that she had decided the captain’s decision was wrong but was willing to watch him fail to prove her point.

Varro ground his teeth in frustration. No matter how he dealt with Catilina, in every argument, every conversation and even every minor exchange of greetings, he had always left feeling that he had lost the debate and she had let him go.

Varro continued to grind his teeth, unable to form a suitable reply. His mind was feeling surprisingly clouded, even here in the late evening breeze.

“Come!” Catilina waved to her retinue and swept away past the captain toward the grand headquarters building at the centre of the fort.

The captain watched her go with a curious mixture of desire and relief. The three remaining guards exchanged a look that Varro recognised in irritation: soldiers that had been assigned a duty they felt was beneath them. Baby-sitting. He grinned a wicked grin.

“So, lads. Who’s for a jug of good wine?”

The senior of the soldiers regarded Varro with something akin to disdain, as though he were some sort of carrion, and returned the captain’s smile with no warmth.

“Home, Captain.”

The other two guards reached for Varro’s elbows as if to support him, and he pulled away indignantly with as much pride as he could muster.

“I’m quite capable of walking, even if the Lady feels I need an escort,” he narrowed his eyes at their leader. “So let’s just go.”

The group of four walked purposefully along the street toward the officers’ quarters as the arteries of the fortress gradually filled with off-duty soldiers on their way to the baths, taverns, gambling pits, or to the other dens of pleasure that were to be found in the civilian settlement just beyond the fort’s massive walls. As he walked, Varro found he had to concentrate with every step to prevent himself staggering.

As they rounded a corner, sergeant Corda strode into view, still in his armour and coated in the grime of travel. Varro nodded a professional greeting as he came to as steady a halt as he could manage.

With a salute, he strode off toward his quarters while Varro made for the welcoming lights of his house. At the door, he thanked the marshal’s guards with mock extravagance and entered, closing the door behind him. He leaned on the door jamb for support for a moment, breathing heavily, and then turned and walked into his main room.

“Good evening, captain Varro,” the marshal said from his seat beside the fire.

Varro stopped in his tracks and swayed for a moment before recovering himself as best he could and coming to a surprisingly smart salute. The sudden movement certainly made his head swim a little, but he snapped his arm back down by his side and stood as straight and as still as he could, a gentle sweat beginning to glisten on his brow.

Marshal Sabian, tall and imposing with his iron grey hair and his handsome, yet lined and careworn face, sat with his legs crossed and his black-plumed helmet on his lap. The fact that the marshal already held a crystal glass of what was clearly Varro’s best wine and a small platter or cold meats lay on the table beside him made it plain that Martis had been as diligent and efficient as ever in dealing with the man who was, after all, the second most powerful man in the Empire.

“Gods, Varro, I have more than enough obsequious sycophants hanging around me at Vengen; I don’t need the same here. Sit down before you fall down. I sent your servant out for a short while. I don’t want us to be disturbed.” He reached and took a neat slice of chicken from the plate, rolling it and dipping it in the accompanying pickle before popping it into his mouth. His eyes swept the room, taking in its austere appearance, almost entirely lacking in decoration, and that which could be seen was clearly of military origin: a worn pennon here, a scabbard with a telling dent there. Clearly the home of a career soldier.

Without a word, and quietly grateful, the captain made his way to a seat close by; close enough for low conversation, but not close enough to seem discourteous.

“It’s been a long time, marshal,” he replied, being careful to keep his tone slightly familiar and yet thoroughly respectful.

“Long indeed,” Sabian replied quietly, his gaze slowly wandering down to rest on his boots. “Always knew you’d be commissioned, Varro. Even in the old days, I mean. I suspect if I hadn’t given command of the Fourth to Cristus, it would have wound up with you, sooner or later.”

Varro blinked a few times, gently shaking his head. Likely it was the fault of the drugs and the drowsiness, but his mind seemed to be refusing to work correctly. He was suddenly entirely unsure of the situation around him and the scene felt increasingly unreal to him.

Here was the second most powerful man in the Empire, a close friend of the Emperor himself, speaking to him as though they were campfire companions on campaign in the wilderness; suggesting that he could be a staff officer in the right circumstances. Oh, not that he hadn’t considered that himself from time to time, but had never thought to hear it from above. And perhaps he hadn’t done. It wouldn’t entirely surprise him to find his mind was playing tricks on him. He focused once more on Sabian, aware that the marshal had continued to talk, long after he’d stopped listening.

Varro blinked in alarm. He’d missed something. Trying not to sound panicked, he settled slightly in the seat and gave a reassuring smile.

“You are taking all this in, aren’t you Varro? If I didn’t know better I’d say you were topped up on Mare’s Mead.” His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in his seat.

“I expect it does, Varro; I expect it does. Still, it’ll be towards the end of the year before Cristus can actually fully step down. He’s plenty to do before then, but he’ll be looking at a position on the Imperial Council in Velutio. And that’s where I need to strike a bargain with you, Varro.”