Lucius Varro, captain of the second cohort of the fourth army, tightened his grip on the large, heavy shield covering most of his body. The knuckles of his right hand whitened as he held fast to the short sword by his side, watching the ragged line of the barbarians only a hundred yards away, taunting their enemy, chanting unintelligible war cries and howling. Such behaviour may frighten their neighbouring tribes but it would take more than a few grunts and screams to turn the hearts of the Imperial army. Glancing down, he carefully memorised once more the ground beneath his feet.
A low grassy slope leading up to the enemy line; not the best terrain. There had been a strategy meeting in the command tent yesterday and Varro had been only one of several arguing over the need to make the terrain work with the army, but the prefect had been adamant that the incline be granted to the barbarians in order to keep the sun behind the imperial line. The discussion had raged on into the late afternoon, the Commander waving aside all suggestions regarding archers, slingers and artillery. This would be an easy fight, after all. Prefect Cristus had a disconcerting habit of ignoring the best tactical advice of his officers, yet had a track record of glorious successes regardless. But then the prefect would not be there to see the effect of his decisions, travelling to Vengen for a staff meeting as he now was. And though Varro had taken a long walk last night before the battle, it had done little to calm him. His eyes refocused on the grassy incline.
Only a couple of feet ahead lay what looked like a rabbit hole. Better be careful of that. One slip and he’d be delivered back to the fort in the dead-wagon. He shrugged his shoulders and felt the interlocking plates of his armour settle slightly as the weight distributed, eradicating that annoying pinch in his shoulder. He smiled.
Glancing to his left, he saw the standard bearer holding aloft the magnificent raven banner with the image of the emperor and the ram with a lightning bolt, symbol of the Fourth. Belianus glanced back at him and grinned.
“I wish they’d just charge. My feet ache.”
Varro laughed and returned his gaze to the enemy, whose blue-painted faces twisted with violent lust. Someone behind him began to whistle. He began to drift into a reverie once more, his mind tracking back through nineteen years in the Third and then Fourth Northern Armies, and five years of the civil war before that, serving in the private army of Velutio. Things had changed so much in his short time in this world. Shaking his head slightly, he returned his focus to the enemy line and saw some of the warriors in the centre lurch forward. Their companions remained in place, howling, and the bulge soon flattened back into the line. Stupid! How could anyone fight a battle without tactics or direction? Still, the barbarians were getting twitchy and any moment now that line would break as they surged down the hill towards the waiting steel line of the Empire. The second cohort, along with the first and the third, held the centre of the Imperial line. It was here the charge would hit hardest. He cleared his throat.
“Steady lads. They’re coming any moment now.”
Behind him and along the front line he heard the clink and rattle of his men settling into their stance, prepared for the force of a barbarian charge. Risking another glance away, he gazed far along to the right, past the infantry line, to the small cavalry force hidden behind a line of trees. If you knew they were there you could see movement, but the enemy had neither outriders nor scouts. They were blissfully unaware of the horsemen waiting for the opportunity to sweep behind them and cut them down from the rear.
There was a faltering in the cacophony up the slope and, returning his gaze once more, he saw weapons being raised by the more important looking warriors. The din fell to a low rumble and then rose once more into an ear-splitting crescendo as the line of filthy, hairy, leather-clad warriors began to pour down the slope.
“Lock shields!” he cried, as the men to his sides set themselves to receive the charge. His knuckles tensed again and he clenched his teeth in a snarl as the barbarian force flung themselves against the wall of Imperial iron. He was almost knocked from his feet with the initial impact, but held the line as the tribesmen began to swing wildly overhead, raining down blows upon the shield wall. As the line to both sides braced once more following the initial collision, the short swords of the second cohort began to lance out between the shields, carefully marking targets and delivering precise blows. The barbarians’ one great hope had been that a strong charge would break the line, but now they had failed and the Imperial force would hold for a moment and then begin their inexorable slow push forward. The front row of savages began to thin out almost immediately, their companions to the rear climbing over the fallen in their lust for Imperial blood. With an almost contemptuous flick, Varro thrust his blade through the narrow gap afforded in the shields and dug deep into the side of the man before him, who stiffened for a moment, his raised sword faltering and then falling loosely away. Withdrawing his blade for another thrust, the captain gritted his teeth and then called out along the line.
“Advance!”
The front line took one step forward slowly and carefully, navigating the fallen barbarians and various undulations of the ground instinctively. As the barbarians rallied and hit the line again, this time ragged and in small groups rather than one heavy charge, the men of the Fourth Army kept their shields close in a wall, stabbing purposefully with their short swords.
A series of crashes and screams rang out along the line as, with a steady and measured pace, the entire cohort took another pace forward, stabbing and slashing at their shabby opponents. Another step and more carnage, and the line had begun to falter. The advance was difficult over the corpses of their enemies and at irregular points along the line men of the Fourth had succumbed to the occasional well-aimed or lucky blow, the second line rushing forward to plug the gap. Still, Varro mused, as he drew his shoulder back and thrust the blade once more through the shield wall and bit deep into flesh, the enemy line had become a total shambles by now. With a glance over the heads of the opposition, he noted the cavalry wing now harrying the rear of the enemy force. This was the time. He drew a deep breath.
“Melee!” he cried over the sounds of steel and butchery.
Immediately the Imperial wall broke. Those men already engaged with a warrior continued to fight, while those with a clear field marked a target among the rabble and made for them, some lending aid to their more beleaguered companions as they surged forward. There was a note of panic in the unintelligible shouts of the enemy now. They were no longer advancing, but being forced backwards, while their rear ranks had turned as best they could to deal with the fast-paced cavalry. They were trapped.
Paying no heed to his men, who knew well enough how to proceed, Varro stepped forward, eyeing a short, yet heavy-built man clad in furs and leathers and a chainmail shirt. Nimbly stepping over the body of one of the fallen men, the captain raised his shield, staring out over the rim at his opponent. The man had clearly marked him. With a loud cry of challenge, the warrior strode forward, contemptuously knocking aside the blade of one of the Imperial soldiers and driving his own sword deep into the man’s ribs. The soldier collapsed with a shout, falling back among the melee and the barbarian let go of his hilt, allowing the blade to fall with the body. Smiling grimly, he drew a second sword from his belt and came on, sparing not a glance for his victim. With surprise, Varro noted that the new weapon was an Imperial blade of some quality. The hilt was bound in red leather and the pommel formed into the shape of the raven. This bastard had stripped an Imperial officer of his fine weapon in some previous engagement and the fact incensed Varro. With a growl, he stepped further forward from the now broken line and hefted his shield, changing his grip for comfort.
“Come on then, you son of a diseased dog!” he shouted at the stocky barbarian, momentarily loosening the grip on his sword hilt to beckon the man on with three fingers.
The man raised a small, round shield of bronze embossed with some bearded visage, presumably a depiction of one of their Gods Varro didn’t know, his own face fixed in a rictus of brutal lust. He closed the gap and leapt into the fray with agile enthusiasm.
Varro lifted his own shield a little and blocked the first blow, an over-arm thrust aimed above the shield, straight for his neck. The screech of the barbarian’s blade scraping along the shield’s bronze edging made Varro’s teeth vibrate and the weapon continued its descent to cut a large gash in the wood and leather. Varro reared back and retaliated with his own sword, jabbing sharply around his shield and aiming for the kidney, only to be blocked by the bronze shield in a surprisingly swift reaction, leaving a deep groove across the embossed face.
Again and again the two hammered at each other, their shields blocking every blow. The shriek of Varro’s sword against the bronze disc continued to grate on the captain as wood chips and scraps of leather showered away from his own rapidly-disintegrating shield.
And suddenly the barbarian was gone. One of the advancing infantry had lashed out with his shield as he passed and knocked the man from his feet. Varro glared at his underling irritably; even in the midst of battle there was a certain etiquette to be maintained. He didn’t have time to ponder however, as another barbarian leapt forward and faced off against him. The captain spared a brief glance at his erstwhile opponent who was trying to regain his feet as one of the Imperial soldiers battered against his bronze shield, trying to put him down for good. Returning his gaze to the new enemy before him clad in ragged furs, he raised his battered shield to ward off a sweeping blow from a long northern sword. With a crash the two met and began to hack and swipe at each other. This man was weaker and less prepared and, as the idiot swept his sword far too wide for a good strike, Varro flicked his blade out once, catching the man’s upper arm, just above the elbow. The warrior grunted, his sword falling away from suddenly spasming fingers, and Varro took advantage of his distraction, slamming his huge shield forward into the face of the surprised barbarian. The solid bronze hemispherical boss at the centre hit the man square in the face and filled the air with the sound of splintering bone. The man tried to scream but the sound came out a throaty gurgle as he gagged on his own blood.
Even with uncouth enemies, that battle-etiquette bred into the Imperial army held true. With a smile, Varro thrust his blade out once more straight at the heart, sinking his blade in deep and swiftly ending the man’s agony. Satisfied, he stepped around the falling body, trying to identify his next target. He squared his shoulders again, his grip tightening once more on sword and shield, as he felt a sudden pain in his side. His head shot round in surprise to see the stocky barbarian with the imperial blade rising from a crouch. The warrior had quickly despatched his infantryman and had taken the opportunity of Varro’s distraction. As the man withdrew his blade for a second strike, Varro turned, fiery pain lancing through his left side as he did so, and placed his shield firmly between them.
Feeling the warm blood pooling in his tunic above the belt and running in rivulets down his thigh, he ground his teeth and squared off against his opponent. As the barbarian drew back his blade for a second thrust, Varro slammed his shield down to the floor with all the strength he could muster. Even above the din of battle he heard the bones in the warrior’s foot smash beneath the bronze rim of the heavy shield, and the man faltered.
Grimly, Varro lifted his shield once more and pushed at the man, knocking him backwards. As the barbarian staggered on his crippled foot, Varro lanced out with his straight blade and bit deep into the man’s gut, the point ripping through the chain mail, severing links and scattering fragments of iron around. The man staggered again and stared down in surprise as the captain withdrew his blade and a gobbet of blood gushed from the wound. Giving him no second chance to rally, Varro thrust again, his sword plunging into the neck just above the collar bone. The barbarian’s eyes widened and he lurched back once more, stumbling. Dropping the stolen Imperial blade, he clutched at his neck, blood spraying finely between his fingers. He was done for. The captain grunted as he watched his opponent fall away onto his backside, clutching his neck and rocking gently back and forth as the colour drained slowly from his face.
The captain turned to move forward, and his left leg buckled. Perhaps the wound in his side had been worse than he thought. He glanced down to see his leg, soaked in crimson, shaking wildly. Damn that ignorant savage and his stolen blade. Cursing gently, Varro sank to his knees as his leg gave way again. With a growl, he toppled gently to the blood-soaked grass.
The second wave of infantry passed by, stepping carefully around him. The battle wouldn’t pause for a fallen man, whether he be soldier, captain or even the prefect himself. That was one of the great advantages of the Imperial war machine. Everyone knew his place and his task so well that when battle was joined the whole affair could continue smoothly even with a loss of command. He watched with growing annoyance as the second cohort passed their captain by, moving swiftly to support the first line in the carnage. The crash of steel on steel and cries of victory and agony swept over the battlefield like a blanket of sound as Varro pulled himself upright to look at the hill. It would soon be over.
Tentatively he prodded his side where the blow, either lucky or very well aimed, had slid between his skirt of leather strops and the lowest plate of his body armour. His eyes filled instantly as the pain lanced through his body once more.
“Damn it! A portent of great things eh?” he snapped.
And then somebody pushed his hand away from his side and he glanced round to see one of the field medics crouched beside him, rummaging in his bag. With a wave of his arm the medic called over two orderlies with a stretcher.
“Lie still, Captain,” the man uttered in a low voice as he quickly and efficiently packed and bound the wound. “You’re losing quite a bit of blood, but you’re very lucky. A few weeks and you’ll be out front again. An inch higher and I’d be putting coins on your eyes now.”
Varro struggled for a suitable reply, but the medic stood as soon as he’d tied off the bandage and disappeared across the field. With a sigh, Varro gave up on conversation, gritting his teeth against the pain while the two orderlies lifted him as gently as they could onto the stretcher. Glancing once more at the wound, the captain noted in irritation that the medic had snipped away three of the leather strops to bind him. That was going to cost.
As he was hoisted to shoulder height, the captain lifted his head a little to glance across the battlefield. The barbarian army had been boxed in and was shrinking by the minute. The whole thing would likely be over before he’d even reached the makeshift hospital at the camp. He clicked his tongue in irritation.
“Busy day for you gentlemen?” he enquired of the two stocky orderlies bearing him away from the field.
“Every day’s a busy day sir. If we’re not in battle, you’d be surprised how often we deal with frostbite and infections and all sorts. Wish they’d post us back down south where it’s warm.”
The other orderly gave a gruff laugh.
“Then there’s the other kind of infection too. We get a lot of that.”
Varro smiled. At least he could be proud of his scar. He rolled his head around and craned his neck awkwardly to see in the direction they were taking; it was making him irritable watching the battle progressing so well without him. He saw the two units of archers attached to the Fourth as he passed and they looked glummer than he. Command instructions had determined that the deployment of missile troops and artillery today would be unnecessary and wasteful, as the odds were so favourable anyway; and everyone knew Cristus had a certain mistrust of indirect warfare. The unit looked as bored as the artillery engineers who stood behind them, chewing on their lips as they watched the distant action.
With another smile, he beckoned to one of the engineers as he passed.
“You there!”
The engineer, startled at the unlooked-for attention from a senior officer, saluted and then ran over to the bobbing stretcher.
“Sir?” He looked nervous.
Varro hoisted himself as best he could onto his side, eliciting groans of discomfort from the two men carrying him.
“Go and find me a flask of something alcoholic and bring it to the hospital. I don’t mind what it is so long as it’s alcoholic. I’ll pay you double what it cost you when you get there.”
The engineer’s eyes lit up and he nodded and saluted before scurrying off to find his prize. Varro leaned back again to find one of the orderlies watching him with a raised eyebrow.
“Something you want to say, soldier?”
“Not me sir,” the orderly replied, “but probably the doctor will.”
“You let me deal with the doctor.”
He lay back again and groaned at every slight shift in the stretcher. He’d been wounded plenty of times of course, in almost twenty five years of service. Indeed, his first major wound had come in the civil war and he’d been quite lucky to live long enough to see the new Emperor installed at Velutio. But still, every wound was a fresh worry. He wasn’t as young as he’d been then, and he was taking longer to heal these days. And however lightly the field medic’s tone had been, he knew the feel of a more major wound and he’d be damn lucky to be in combat in a fortnight. Maybe a month or two.
His face turned sour at the thought of two months’ enforced convalescence; he’d never make it. He was still grumbling to himself about the stupidity of allowing distractions in battle to take his mind off the target when he realised they’d passed into the camp and were approaching the huge leather hospital tent. The smell was foul, but they’d only be here until the morning, then they’d all be heading back to the fort at Crow Hill to await the return of the prefect and inform him of his glorious victory.
He watched with some distaste as they passed the first wave of wounded who’d been brought in from the initial charge. Surprisingly light casualties, he supposed, but a grisly sight nonetheless and precious little consolation for the infantryman sitting outside the tent waiting for attention while he held his severed left arm in his right. Damn that Cristus for denying the archers and artillery. The man may have been a war hero, but whether he distrusted missile units or not, he should have taken every opportunity to thin out their ranks before the fight. The prefect may be lucky and with a record of victories but he was certainly no great tactician.
Mulling over what he perceived as the prefect’s mistakes and what he would have done differently, he issued another grunt as the two orderlies laid his stretcher inside the doorway of the huge tent. He spent long minutes listening to the groans and general hubbub of the hospital until one of the attendants strode over to where he lay.
“Captain Varro. You’ll have to bear with us for a minute, I’m afraid. Scortius is dealing with an amputation, but he’ll be free shortly.”
He crouched and examined the captain’s side, gently lifting aside the temporary dressing. With a nod he stood once more. “You’ll be fine.”
Varro grumbled and winced as he shuffled slightly on the uncomfortable stretcher.
“So long as I don’t spend an hour lying in a doorway I will.”
The attendant smiled and strode across to the line of wounded stacked along the outer facing of the huge leather tent. Varro watched him probing wounds and marking a I, II or III on them with a charcoal stick. The order of severity of their case; he’d seen it often enough to know his wound would rate a II at best, possibly even a III. Privilege of rank made him a I though.
“Varro?”
The captain turned to see Scortius, Chief Medical Officer of the Fourth, standing above him with blood-stained arms folded and an amused expression on his hawk-like face.
“Are you trying to get out of the paperwork?” the doctor barked. “How in the name of four hells did you manage to get yourself stabbed in the first five minutes? When are you going to learn to stand at the back?”
Varro grunted. Scortius knew full well why an officer led from the front, but over two decades of service together the pair had come to know one another very well and Scortius never passed up an opportunity to poke fun at the captain.
“Just shut up and stitch me, Scortius. I haven’t the time to lie in your doorway and bleed to death.”
The doctor laughed and craned his neck to glance across at the attendant, kneeling with the wounded.
“So what d’you think? A III?”
The attendant smiled back at them and cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps we should start using a IV, sir?”
Varro growled and Scortius gave a deep laugh. “Alright, captain. Don’t get yourself stressed; you’ll aggravate your wound.” He turned to look inside the tent and spotted two more orderlies.
“Get captain Varro here to the back room carefully and put him on the table.”
As the two orderlies ran out to collect the wounded officer on his stretcher, Scortius raised a hand to shade his eyes and gazed out across the open space to the battle raging on the opposite slope. The figures swarming along the hillside were predominantly in green now, giving a fair indication that the battle was all but over. He nodded to some internal question and then turned and followed the captain as he was borne aloft through the hospital tent and out to the back room, reserved for the most violent or most important cases.
Varro grunted once more as the orderlies lowered him gently to the table. His gaze lingered for a moment on the small desk to his right, covered with nightmarish instruments, as yet unused. Well, he shouldn’t need any of them poking in his side anyway. Turning his head again, he caught a dark, bleak look pass across Scortius’ face.
“You’re not about to tell me it’s worse than I thought, are you?” he enquired, only half jokingly. Scortius shook his head, apparently more to clear his gloom than to answer the question. Then he smiled and the smile was not a particularly inviting one.
“Oh you’re not going to die, Varro. Don’t be daft. But this is going to hurt rather a lot and you know I can’t give you mare’s mead since the general ban. Sorry. Battles make me… I don’t know, but not happy anyway. I know that’s a bit of a setback for a serving officer, but you know why. Now lie still.”
Scortius gestured to his two orderlies and they approached the table, gently lifted Varro’s torso until he half sat, half lay. There one held him, grunting with the effort, while the other unlaced the plated body armour and finally swept it out from beneath him. Relieved, the orderly let Varro fall slowly back to the table. Varro watched the two rubbing their arms after the strain and groaned, shifting his shoulders slightly, now free of the armour.
“I said lie still, Varro.”
The captain lay as rigid as he could as the doctor began to carefully remove his temporary dressing. It was in the nature of doctors to abhor battle, of course. A captain saw only the glory of the charge, the melee and the victory, or if he was unlucky, the defeat and the rout. The nearest he came to the true loss involved was the interminable casualty reports to be delivered to the staff the next day; the head-counts, hoping that old friends called out their names. But to a doctor the first five minutes of battle were spent preparing the facilities and the rest was an endless sea of blood and screaming. The captain’s brother, a civil servant in Serfium, had always lauded him, congratulating him on the bravery it took to charge headlong into a fight with barbarians, but Varro knew different. Battles were fought largely on adrenaline, and bravery wasn’t always a requisite. But he could never be a doctor. He didn’t envy Scortius the job.
Varro’s attention was brought rudely back to the present as a lance of white hot fire ran through his side. He gave a strangled cry and turned his head to focus on the doctor. Scortius merely clicked his tongue in irritation and used his free hand to gently push the captain’s head back down to the table.
“Do shut up, you baby. I’ve had to deal with amputations that caused less fuss. It’s only a damn probe.”
Varro growled as the fiery pain subsided. The doctor withdrew his nightmarish implement and wiped his hands on the towel beside him, already stained pink. Reaching over to the back of the desk he withdrew a flask and held it in front of Varro’s face.
“Mare’s mead,” he whispered in hushed tones. “Don’t overdo it as I’m going to be putting you on other medication in a minute and for Gods’ sake don’t tell anyone. This stuff is concentrated and I want you happy and quiet when I sew this up.”
Varro grunted again and took the proffered flask, lifting it gingerly to his lips and taking a swig.
“By the Gods that’s strong”, he choked in a hoarse voice.
“I warned you. Now shut up and go numb while I work.”
The next quarter hour or so passed in a haze for the wounded captain, who watched with placid and euphoric interest as metal objects and swabs were thrust under his ribcage and a surprising quantity of his lifeblood sprayed out and ran down the table leg. He later vaguely remembered chuckling at something, though the first thing he truly recalled was the sting as Scortius slapped him several times across the cheeks.
“Come on, wake up you old goat. All done and I need the table. I’ve just had the standard bearer of the sixth cohort brought in.” He patted his apron.” Can’t find my needle. Oh well; if you feel anything sharp when you bend in the middle, we’ve found it. Come on,” he urged, gently shaking the captain’s shoulder, “look lively.”
As Varro gradually emerged from the swimmy effects of the drug, he glanced at his side. A fresh bandage covered his wound with a small red stain blossoming.
“Should it be leaking?” he asked absently.
Scortius shook his head as he rummaged on his desk for something.
“It’s only a little seepage; no harm. It’ll stop within the hour.”
The captain swung himself around on the table and dropped his feet over the side. The sudden movement pulled at his wound and he winced. Scortius tutted.
“Don’t be stupid. Do everything carefully for at least a few days. No duties of any kind. See me every day for the next three days and after that only when you feel the need.”
“Here;” he said brusquely, thrusting out a hand. Varro peered myopically at it, his sight still a touch blurred. A small pouch sat in the open hand. He raised an eyebrow and looked quizzically up at the doctor, who sighed.
“I know you well enough to know you’re not going to lay off the booze while you heal, so I’m a bit limited with what I can give you that’ll work well. Let one of these dissolve in liquid and then drink it when you get up and in the mid evening. It’ll lessen the pain and hopefully stop any infection. If it doesn’t do enough for you, you’ll just have to lay off the drink and I’ll give you something better. Now be a good chap and disappear; I’ve plenty of other patients waiting.”
Varro slowly slid from the table, almost collapsing in a heap as his feet took his weight.
“Want me to get an orderly to help you back to your tent?”
Varro grunted and waved a hand, not trusting himself to speak without whimpering. Steadying himself against the table, he waited a moment for his head to clear a little further and then took a tentative step toward the open flap into the main hospital tent. As his leg straightened and he moved forward, pain rushed up and then down his side, a pain so intense he almost cried out. Gritting his teeth, he took another step, making sure to balance most of his weight on the good side. Less pain this time; good. He took a deep breath and then realised that someone behind him was clearing his throat. He turned and almost lost his balance again as the white fire exploded around his body. Scortius still had his hand extended with the bag of herbs and a maddening smile. Varro grunted again, snatched the bag and turned as fast and purposefully as he dared before limping painfully out into the main room.
The scene here was blood and chaos. He tried not to actually see too much detail of the activity and was immensely grateful that his mind still seemed to be stuffed with something fluffy. Turning slightly he spotted the main tent doorway and the bright sunlight beyond. Being careful not to slip in the various nauseating pools inside the hospital, he straightened himself as much as he could, as befitted an officer, and tried his best to stride from the tent. In all, he managed seven purposeful steps before he had to stop, his teeth clenched and eyes shut tight against the pain. At least he’d reached the doorway. He realised as the pain subsided, that the thing he had gripped in his painful moment had not been the tent frame as he’d thought, but the shoulder of a soldier.
He stood for a moment, letting his eyes focus and gradually a smile crept across his lips. The eager face of the young engineer regarded him with concern, but Varro’s smiling countenance passed that and his eyes fell on the bottle the soldier was holding tightly.
“You found something? Out here? Well, well, well. Help me back to my tent and I’ll pay you for it.”
Without a word, the engineer ducked to one side and grasped Varro’s wrist, draping the arm across his shoulder. Slowly and with great care, Varro and the young engineer picked their way through the viscera, blood and piles of used bandaging and out into the open, past the lines of wounded waiting their turns. The first waft of fresh air hit him and, as the wind changed again bringing with it the sickly-sweet smell of the hospital tent, the captain stopped, bent forward as far as his pain would allow, and vomited copiously onto the grass.
“Come on sir,” the engineer said comfortingly, “let’s get away from this.”
Varro nodded, wiping his chin with his wrist, and the two slowly wound their way through the supply and fabrication tents and off into the main part of the camp, away from the grisly sights, sounds and smells of the hospital. Along the deserted lines of identical bleached leather tents they staggered, through the quarters of the second cohort and finally, at the end of the ordered rows, to the command tents. Here, larger campaign tents had been pitched for the senior officers of the cohort, the largest being Varro’s own, subdivided by an interior wall and serving as both quarters and headquarters.
The captain limped straight through the main tent and into the private quarters, where he slowly and carefully lowered himself onto the bunk with the young engineer’s help. The soldier, satisfied that his superior was safely settled, placed the bottle on a small three-legged stool and slid the makeshift table in front of the officer. Varro smiled and reached out to the desk nearby for a goblet. The sudden careless action brought a fiery, white blinding pain that almost caused him to topple forward off the bed. The engineer rushed forward and grasped Varro’s arm, steadying him. The captain breathed in shallowly, little more than a gasp, his eyes watering and, not trusting himself to speak, he pointed, wincing, at the tray of goblets on the desk and held up two fingers.
The young soldier raised his eyebrows.
“Are you asking me to join you sir? My sergeant’ll be wondering where I am.”
Varro winced again and bit his cheek, pushing the pain down and away to where he could deal with it. A handy little trick a Pelasian mercenary had once taught him.
“It’s all in the mind,” he muttered to himself, and then looked up at the engineer and smiled. “Pull up a seat and get two goblets. If your sergeant has anything to say, send him to me. I might be wounded worse than I thought and I’d rather have someone with me right now. Besides, drinking alone is for sad old men and lush women; not for soldiers.”
As the engineer collected two goblets and placed them on the small makeshift table and dragged a small chest across for a seat, Varro tentatively prodded his side and winced once more.
“Usually my second in command’s here with me. Missed his support on the field today. I daresay this wouldn’t have happened if he’d been there.”
The young engineer nodded uncertainly. Sitting in the presence of such a senior officer seemed unthinkable, let alone speaking to one in such a familiar fashion. He cleared his throat.
“Sergeant Corda wasn’t here today sir?”
“No. He was given the dubious honour of commanding the prefect’s guard. He’s been gone since yesterday morning delivering Cristus to the command meeting at Vengen. Typical High Command, to draw an army’s commander in chief away during a campaign for mindless bureaucracy, though I can’t imagine the day would have turned out any different if he’d been here.”
The young engineer scanned the face of the captain, wondering how he had become involved in such a personal conversation with the most senior officer in the cohort. There was a misty film across Varro’s eyes, attesting to both the seriousness of the pain underlying his light conversation and the lingering effects of the doctor’s concoction. While every ounce of his training told him that this was wrong and he should make his excuses and respectfully bow out of the command tent, how could he leave the captain right now when he stood a very real chance of falling over at any moment? The young soldier swallowed nervously and gave the conversation a gentle prod.
“I’ve heard tell that sergeant Corda is the longest serving non-commissioned officer in the fourth army, sir.”
Varro shook his head, fuzzily.
“Still feel groggy. That M…” He paused and corrected himself quickly. “Scortius’ concoction must’ve been strong.”
The engineer nodded respectfully. “That’s probably a good thing sir,” he replied quietly.
The captain sat for a long moment, focusing on the young man, shook his head once again, and waved his hand in the direction of the small stool bearing the goblets.
“You do the honours while I start as I mean to go on,” he rumbled, as he fished in the small pouch Scortius had given him and dropped some of the contents into one of the goblets.
The engineer carefully filled the goblets, pouring the dark wine across the medicinal herbs in one and, replacing the wine bottle, reached up for the jug to water down the heady liquid. Varro lunged forward, gently knocking aside the water jug and wincing with the sudden sharp and violent pain that lashed him. As he slowly and carefully let out a measured breath and the pain subsided, he noticed the look of concern on the young soldier’s face. He waved his arm dismissively.
“Smells like good wine. Don’t waste it with water. B’sides, I think the stronger the better right now.”
The engineer nodded uncertainly and replaced the water jug.
“Perhaps I should go, sir? You need to rest.”
Varro frowned and, moving as slowly and carefully as possible, leaned forward, bringing his face close to his companion’s.
“Frankly, soldier, I’m groggy, in pretty constant pain, daren’t stand in case I topple and can’t reach out for fear of opening the wound up, so you stay. Where were we? Mind’s getting a little hazy.”
The young man nodded. “Sergeant Corda, Sir.”
“Ah yes. Known Corda since before there was a regular army; back in the days of the private armies. We were both on the field when Darius took the throne. Hell, I got splashed with Velutio’s blood when his head came off. ‘Course we were both non-commissioned then. There’s not a man in the army, nay the Empire, that I trust more than Corda.”
He reached down gingerly and took a deep pull from the goblet, wiping his hand across his mouth. He eyed the young engineer from beneath arched brows.
“How old are you lad?”
“Nineteen sir.”
Varro smiled. “You won’t really remember the chaos, do you? Before the Emperor?”
The young man shook his head.
“Actually sir, I was born to one of the tribes on the border. We weren’t really counted as part of the Empire then. It’s only since the borders have been settled we’ve even been allowed to enlist again.”
The captain continued to nod slowly, mulling back over the last few sentences when a thought struck him and his brow furrowed. He took another sip and shuffled back onto the bunk.
“You’re from one of the tribes up here?”
The young engineer looked up at the captain, his face worried. “Yes sir. I’m totally committed to the Empire, though. I…”
Varro waved aside the boy’s uncomfortable defensiveness.
“I’m not suggesting anything, lad. I’ve some questions, though.”
The young man nodded nervously and Varro continued.
“My knowledge of the Gods of these tribes is fairly limited, but I know a little. The white stag is Cernus, yes?”
The engineer nodded. “That’s right sir. Cernus of the beasts; Lord of the woodlands and more. He’s a symbol of nobility and pride.”
Varro squinted through the growing haze in his mind. He stared down into the almost empty goblet where the dregs of the wine lapped at the bedraggled remnants of the herbal mixture. Perhaps he’d underestimated the effects of Scortius’ medicine? Once more he forced himself to focus on the young man. Couldn’t afford to fall asleep quite yet. He was on the edge of something… something important. If only he could think what it was.
“Cernus. He’s connected with chieftainship, isn’t he?”
“Yes sir,” the young man took a sip of the wine and tipped his head to one side, unsure of the direction the conversation was taking. “He’s a God of portents and change. Just seeing him can alter a person’s life. Some see him on more than one occasion, but still not often. There’s the tale of Faenn An Ghalaeg who was visited by the Stag Lord each full moon, but then that’s just a legend and he ended up becoming a God himself.”
He noted the look on his commander’s face and swallowed nervously. “Of course, it’s all just barbarian folklore, sir.”
Varro shook his head. “Don’t put your origins down, lad. Only a fool believes he knows everything about the world. In some places the Imperial Raven and Wolf still hold little sway.”
The engineer continued to watch the captain carefully. The older officer’s eyes were starting to glaze and were already half closed.
“I think it’s time I went sir. You need to sleep.”
Varro nodded, his eyes flickering a couple of times and then focusing once more on his companion.
“You’re probably right, soldier. I want to speak to you again. Tell your sergeant that you’re excused departure duties in the morning. Report to my tent at reveille.” His eyes flicked closed once again, and it took the young man only a second to realise his commander was already asleep. He leapt forward and caught the captain, allowing the goblet to fall away and roll under the bunk while he gently lowered Varro down to the soft pillow.
Bending, he replaced the goblet on the tray, corked the bottle and quietly backed out of the tent, closing the flap as he left.