Ironroot (9 page)

“Sir?” The captain’s brow furrowed. Taking this in at face value was hard enough. Digesting the details and trying to read between the lines was positively crippling in his current state, though with the marshal it was always worth checking.

Sabian sighed and leaned forward over the plume of his helmet, resting his elbows on the knees of his black breeches and steepling his fingers.

“Catilina.”

“Catilina, sir?” replied Varro, thoughts rushing around his head and refusing to settle. For certain Sabian had known of their dalliance; Varro would never have been foolish enough to tangle with the marshal’s daughter in secret. But that had been over for years now, hadn’t it? And yet the marshal had come to his house; the house of a lowly captain, to speak of her?

“Yes Varro,” Sabian continued, his voice clear and suddenly much less familiar, “Catilina. I know the two of you had something together; a few years ago, back in Vengen. I might have been busy, but I couldn’t miss my daughter fawning and swooning over a scarred captain on a furlough. Besides,” he continued, “my son knew well enough. And he and I talk.”

A momentary panic seized Varro but faded into disbelief. Catilina was not a woman to whom anyone would apply words like ‘fawn’ and ‘swoon’.

“It was truly nothing sir. We never…”

Sabian stopped him with a hard look.

“She was sixteen and headstrong,” the marshal interrupted. “She’s always known exactly what she’s doing and I trusted her judgement even then; even with you.”

His look softened once more.

“But the problem is this: Cristus has asked me for permission to court her.”

Varro leaned back heavily in the chair. He tried to find his voice, but nothing seemed to be coming out, no matter how hard he tried.

Sabian continued to stare directly at him.

“Cristus will be one of the most powerful politicians in the Empire. Very suitable as a match for Catilina. But the problem is: I am very much afraid she still carries a torch for you. A worryingly bright torch. I almost had you broken when you went back the next month. You left her a mess, though she would have no one tell you of it. A father knows, though.”

Again Varro’s mouth moved with hardly any sound emerging.

“I won’t have her marry a soldier, Varro. It’s a dangerous profession, no matter how good at it one is. I love my daughter and I won’t have her destroyed because the man she loves is lying face down in a mountain pass with a spear in his back. Do you understand me?”

Varro nodded and managed an affirmative sound. He really was having trouble now. It was one thing to be feeling light headed and woolly, but he was now having real difficulty forming words in his head, let alone voicing them.

“Calm yourself, Varro. I’m not here to rake over the past with you. My visit here concerns the future. All I’m asking you to do is keep my daughter at arm’s length and, if she insists on being near you, to try and put her off; to dissuade her from pursuing this. She doesn’t know about Cristus’ troth yet, but she will do so before we return to Vengen at the end of the week.”

Varro nodded uncertainly.

“This may sound a little unfair to you, Varro,” the marshal continued. “But I’ve watched both you and Cristus. He’s moderately ambitious on a personal level and actively seeks a lifestyle that I’d like him to be able to provide for Catilina. You are an outstanding field officer. I’ve said as much many times. You may even be a truly great officer. But one thing I’m also certain of is that you will live and die a soldier. I’ve known your sort many times. Many of my closest friends fit that very mould.” He sat back once more.

“But that’s just not for my daughter.”

Varro shook his head again. Nothing he tried was clearing the fog that continued to settle on his mind. He smiled weakly at the marshal.

“So,” Sabian went on, “the fact remains that when Cristus steps down at the end of the year, the fourth will need a new prefect. By general right of seniority, I should give the position to the captain of the first cohort, but you know Parestes as well as I do.”

Varro nodded and cleared his throat.

“He’s ‘by th’ book’ sir. Good enough, but no ‘magination.” Why the hell wouldn’t his tongue work properly. Surely the drugs must be wearing off by now.

“He hasn’t an imaginative bone in his body, Varro. Moreover, though he’s commanding the senior cohort, you actually have more years’ active service than he. You were just held back by that incident at Fallowford. My doing, I know, and probably unfair, but necessary at the time.” The marshal smiled.

“So I’m going to name you. It’s my prerogative, and I really don’t think Parestes will be put out over the matter. He knows you have more ‘time-in’ than him.”

He turned to find the chair he’d been in, and as he spun, noted with fascination the way the light from the oil lamps in the recessed alcoves streaked along, like a greasy stain on a pane of glass. He smiled at that, or at least he thought he smiled. His mind didn’t seem to be functioning properly at that moment. He spotted what could well have been the expensive, carved oak chair with the leather padding and reached out to grasp the handle and sit while the feeling passed.

Varro pitched forward with all his weight, unconscious even before he fell through the oak chair with a crash, splintering the finely carved legs and coming, after a brief roll, to a halt amid the wreckage, viscera leaking from his reopened wound and fresh blood seeping from half a dozen new cuts.

When Varro awoke it felt as though his body were pierced through in a dozen places with jagged knives. His head felt heavy and thick and he had a headache that threatened to break through his skull, but the uncertain fluffiness of before seemed to have retreated. His eyes flickered open. The light immediately made his head thump all the louder, but he was grateful to note that after mere moments a dark wooden beamed ceiling swum into view. At least he could see.

With a groan he began to rise to a seated position and suddenly hands were on him, gently pushing him back down. In a minor panic, he turned his head, sending fresh thumping beats and waves of nausea through him. Two medical orderlies were performing some menial task over by the side bench.

The hospital then. He’d been here before often enough.

Very slowly and carefully rolling his head the other way, two more figures came into view.

Corda, clad in his dress tunic and cloak, stood beside the table, a look of great concern on his pale features. With a start, Varro realised his second in command was covered in dried rivulets and pools of blood. Varro’s blood, plainly.

Standing behind Corda was another figure in white. Even with his back to Varro, the captain recognised the low rumble of disapproval that was a trademark of Scortius, the chief doctor of the second cohort. The man was hunched over something on a table. Varro looked weakly up at Corda.

“Am I…”

The sergeant reached out a hand and clasped Varro’s in a time-honoured fashion.

“I found you on your floor. Don’t know how long you’d been out, but there was quite a pool of blood. You’re looking quite pale and Scortius had to take a chunk of chair out of your back. Another wound, sir, I’m afraid.”

Varro tried to lift his head from the table, failing drastically. There was so little strength in his body and the muscles refused to obey. Breathing deeply and collapsing back he closed his eyes. Corda cleared his throat.

“You only feel better because I’ve filled you so full of pain-killing remedies that you probably couldn’t stand straight even if you were in full health.” He sighed. “I’ve got to tell you something; something you’re not going to like.”

Varro merely nodded as best he could.

“I’d a feeling something was wrong. I’ve been wounded many times, but it’s never hit me like this. Even worse-looking wounds I’ve suffered. But surely I can’t die from this? I mean; it’s not that bad a wound, surely?”

Resting the heels of his hands on the side of the surgical table, Scortius leaned over the captain and Varro felt his heart skip a beat when he saw the look in the doctor’s eyes; the same look that crossed them every time the man thought of his long-gone son, Terentius; a look that carried loss, and despair and utter hollowness. A look that frightened Varro to his very core.

“I can’t say I’m really surprised. Ironroot is the Imperial name for a substance the Pelasians know as Sher-Thais. It’s harvested from the seeds of a plant the locals call the ‘suicide tree’. I’ve seen it used in the eastern provinces as both a poison and a pesticide, but never this far north or west.”

“There appears to be some discoloration of the organs and flesh around your wound. At this point, I’d say that the blade that cut you was coated with the stuff. Very nasty. And curious…”

The doctor sat back slightly. “Curious that a hairy, unwashed barbarian from the northern mountains would have a sword coated with an exotic and expensive poison from the other side of the world? I’m sorry this has happened Varro, and if I could stop it, I would, but I can’t help being curious as to how he got it.”

“How long have I got?”

Scortius shrugged slightly. “He’s obviously used a strong dose. And straight into your body. Normally I’d expect a few days at most, but I think I can give you things that’ll keep you going longer than that. A week? Maybe two? I’d have liked to see that sword. Perhaps we could have learned more.”

Varro collapsed back, exhausted and stunned, as the doctor gave a weak and sympathetic half-smile.

“I’ll go see what I can mix up for you.” The doctor shuffled off among his bottles and bags in the corner, muttering “for pain, stimulation, retardation and blood. Hmm…”

Varro blinked and turned his head to look at Corda, clearly stunned, his face bleak, but showing the first signs of anger. The sergeant leaned down toward his officer and growled.

“What?” Corda frowned and leaned closer. The captain closed his eyes and the veins on his temple pulsed as he tracked back over the last two days.

“The sword.“ Varro’s hand reached up and grasped his sergeant by the shoulder. “The bastard that stuck me had an Imperial sword; a nice one too. A proper officer’s sword. That hairy piece of shit didn’t get the poison at all. This is someone else’s doing! One of our own, for Gods’ sake, Corda… one of our own!”