Varro was awakened by the jarring blare of the horns calling reveille though, truth be told, he’d spent several hours drifting in and out of consciousness during the night through discomfort, so the interruption was not entirely unwelcome. The captain hauled himself very slowly and carefully from his bunk, still fully dressed in his bloodied tunic and the leather vest worn beneath the armour to prevent chafing, the sheets stained pink with the leakage from his wound. Wincing and gritting his teeth, he pulled himself slowly upright and reached out to the cupboard to steady himself. A little further movement brought on a wracking cough that threatened to floor him.
There was a respectful knock at the door and a voice called out.
”Are you alright sir? Can I help?”
Varro stood a moment, shaking, disconnected thoughts flittering around him like the memories of dreams. Slowly he focused on the tent flap and recalled the young engineer. Ah yes. He’d told the lad to come at reveille, hadn’t he?
“I’m ok lad. Come in. Is my body servant out there?”
The soldier lifted the heavy leather tent flap with one hand and poked his head through.
“He was here a few minutes ago, sir. He left toward the laundry tent saying something about your uniform.”
Varro nodded. Martis, his ever-efficient servant would be preparing clean clothes for the journey back to camp. He turned, staggering slightly, and the engineer was there in the blink of an eye, supporting his commander’s shoulder. Varro smiled a weary smile and, as he sat to regain his balance and began to unlace the boots he’d slept in last night, a thought welled up and he eyed the engineer speculatively.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Salonius, sir,” the young man replied, stamping his feet and coming to a perfect salute.
Varro finished unlacing his boots and stood, allowing Salonius to take the brunt of his weight as he swayed slightly. Two steps forward and he swept aside the tent flap and gestured at one of the two soldiers on guard outside, bearing the white horsehair crest of the command guard.
“Send word to the sergeant of engineers that I’m seconding one of his men. Salonius is being reassigned. And get him a white crest and pass the details along to my clerk.”
“Sir!” barked the guard as he snapped a salute and jogged off toward the engineers’ compound, visible above the lines of tents as a collection of tall, oak-beamed siege engines and plumes of smoke, accompanied by the sound of smiths hammering iron. Varro glanced round at his newest guard.
“Go and get your personal gear. Ignore the tent or any shared equipment and report back to here in an hour to help take the headquarters tent down. We’ll be moving out just after lunch.”
Salonius was still blinking in shock, but pulled himself together sharply, saluted his captain and ran off toward the lines of tents that lay outside the engineers’ compound.
As the young man left, a thought occurred to Varro, and he called after him.
“Salonius! Go by the hospital on the way back and pick up my armour.”
The soldier spun on his heel, almost losing his footing and saluted before turning once more and disappearing among the tents.
Varro watched him run out of sight and then turned to the other guard, standing at attention beside the tent flap.
“Break him in, but gently. I might need him.”
“Aye sir,” the guard saluted.
Varro retreated inside the tent and let the leather flap fall. For a moment, he staggered, and then sank onto the edge of the bunk once more, letting his unlaced boots fall away. One of his woollen socks was crusty and dark red from where his lifeblood had pooled in his boot. That was going to take some cleaning. He briefly scanned his breeches and tunic and realised the job wouldn’t stop at his ankle. He felt unpleasant. Sleeping in his sub-armour had given him aches and pains that only added to his general discomfort, and the clothes soaked with sweat and blood had given him a smell that, he was sure, would be noticeable from a considerable distance.
Slowly and with care, he removed the leather vest and let it fall to the floor with a thud, tiny droplets of sweat bouncing as it landed. Gently he lifted the shreds of his tunic to one side and tugged at the dressing. The sudden pain and the smell from the wound almost made him vomit and he gently toppled backward onto the bunk.
This was no good. He couldn’t disturb the wound, but he was going to have to clean himself up and get rid of this mind-rotting smell. He began to force himself slowly upright again, when he noticed the figure standing just within the tent flap: Martis, his body servant. Relief swept across the captain.
“Oh good. Martis, I’m very much going to need help cleaning up. I need to wash down properly without touching my dressing and wound. And I might need a bit of help getting down to the wash tent too.”
Martis, a short and stocky bald easterner, frowned and shook his head. He was a man of few words, but as efficient and careful as they came. He’d been the most expensive servant available at the Vengen markets five years ago, but had been worth every corona over those years, and probably more. Soon Varro was going to have to raise his wage, or he’d leave for a position more sedentary and considerably less dangerous. Yes, a raise was definitely due.
The servant pointed to the rear of the tent and, turning gingerly, Varro noticed for the first time a low steel bathtub, wisps of steam rising gently from it.
“Prepared it while you were sleeping sir.”
Reaching out, he gently took his master’s arm, helped him across the tent to the tub and began to remove the grimy and bloodied clothes. Varro moved as much as he dare, but in the end resigned himself to luxury and allowed Martis to finish undressing him and help him step into the tub.
“I have to be careful not to soak my wound.”
Martis nodded and produced a square of leather, smeared around the edge with a dark shiny substance. He slowly and carefully removed the captain’s dressing and placed the patch over the freshly sealed wound, very lightly but firmly pressing down at the edges to form a water-tight seal.
“Propolis and waxed leather; watertight as long as we’re careful, sir”, he said quietly.
Varro smiled and nodded. Where had Martis found bees’ glue in a temporary camp? The man really was a marvel. With gratitude, he sank slowly into the warm water and allowed himself finally, properly, to relax. He was dozing gently as Martis took away his bloodied clothes and left a fresh set on the stool nearby before retiring to the corner where he began the laborious job of repairing the three leather strops on the armoured skirt as seamlessly as possible.
For a moment Varro panicked and splashed, and then suddenly two stocky arms were around him, gently hauling him upwards. The panic quickly receded as the captain remembered where he was and allowed himself to be helped out of the now lukewarm tub. Though he’d fallen asleep before he could scrub himself clean, the difference the hot water had made to him was tangible. He felt fresher, cleaner and considerably more relaxed.
“Thank you, Martis. I’m actually going to attempt to dress myself, if you could just unstick this pad and put my dressing back on.”
The body servant nodded curtly and very carefully and slowly peeled the edges of the patch away from Varro’s wound. As the skin pulled slightly taught with each gently tug, the captain clenched his teeth and grunted. He looked down at the wound as the last of the bees’ glue came away. The mark was now a straight line of purple and grey with some ancillary bruising. It looked so innocent and belied the intense pain and complication it was causing. And then it was covered with a fresh pad and linen. Somehow, Martis had also found fresh dressing material too.
As the linen was tied off, Martis went back to his leatherwork as the captain slowly dressed, keeping every movement as slight and gentle as possible.
As he finally settled his tunic into place and shuffled round to the bunk to take a seat and lace his boots, there was another knock on the tent frame.
“Enter,” he called.
Salonius, the young engineer, pushed the heavy leather flap aside and entered in full kit, sporting a white horsehair crest and his dress cloak. In his arms he carried the captain’s plated armour, recently polished. Varro smiled and reached out to his body servant for the leather under-vest. Martis stood with it, but Salonius cleared his throat and stepped between them.
“Doctor’s orders, Sir,” he said quietly. “The chief medic gave me strict instructions that you were to travel today on one of the carts, rather than horseback, and on no account are you allowed to wear body armour.”
Varro growled.
“I’m an officer, boy. I need my armour to keep this rabble in line.”
Salonius nodded slowly. “I understand that, sir, but the sergeants can get us de-camped and on the move, and you need to put as little strain on your side as possible. Doctor’s orders, sir: tunic and cloak only.”
Varro glared at his newest guard for a moment and then seemed to arrive at a decision.
“Very well. Let’s go out and tour the cohort while they decamp; make sure they know I’m still alive. Leave the armour. It can be packed away with the rest of my things now we’re heading back to the fort.”
Salonius placed the armour gently on the bunk, and turned to escort his commander from the tent. As they exited into the crisp morning air, the young soldier thought he saw, just for a moment, a flicker of emotion pass across the face of the guard beside the door. Dislike, he thought; or possibly even hatred. Have to be careful around that man, he noted, memorising the guard’s face with its flinty eyes and lantern jaw.
Taking a deep breath, Varro strode out with as normal a gait as he could manage, and began the walk down the slight incline to the tents. Salonius stayed to one side and slightly to his rear, enough to display the respect due a senior officer, yet close enough to grasp the captain should he suddenly falter.
Varro cast his experienced gaze across the commotion as they walked. Everywhere they went, soldiers would immediately stop what they were doing and salute their commander. The more veteran among them had long since perfected the art of straightening the back and saluting with one arm whilst continuing to grip the tent rope with the other. To the untrained eye it would appear to be chaos, but to Varro all was clearly proceeding according to cohort standards. They would be ready to move within the hour. The captains would all be required to attend the post-battle meeting in the command tent, along with all the auxiliary unit commanders and the adjutants of the general staff. Injured officers would not be required to attend, for which Varro would be grateful enough to make a little libation on the altar back at the fort.
A little further and they passed the entrance of the engineers’ compound, a palisade ring full of burly soldiers hauling ropes or carrying timber to the wagons that would transport it back to the fort. Once more, Varro clicked his tongue in irritation. Such a waste, hauling literally tons of siege equipment forty miles from the fort and not even deploying it. Shaking his head sadly, the captain turned, looping slowly round the farthest tents, and began the more exerting climb back up the slope towards his tent.
Not far from the command tents, Varro spotted his counterpart from the third cohort observing preparations among his own troops. Turning to Salonius, Varro gestured towards the captain of the third. “You can leave me now,” he told the young guard. ”I’ll be fine from here. Go help with packing the headquarters tent and my gear.”
Salonius saluted and began to stride off between the last of the tents to the captain’s at the summit, while Varro slowly and carefully made his way to his comrade. The standards outside the tent had already been taken down, Salonius noted as he approached, and a number of the ropes had been unfastened. Ducking beneath a remaining line, the young guard pulled aside the leather flap and, leaning into the darker confines of the Headquarters tent, suddenly found himself dragged bodily inside.
He took a moment after he was released to regain his footing. Glancing quickly around himself, he caught the heavy-set faces of three men, including the memorable square jaw of the guard from earlier. Yanking himself back, he pulled his tunic out of the grip of the man who had hauled him in and stood as straight as he could, raising his arms and clenching his fists tight.
“Alright. Let’s get this over with, then.”
Varro arrived at the muster area for the wounded. The carts were full, noisy and gave off the sickly-sweet stench of wounds, sickness and decay. One of the medical orderlies waved him over respectfully. The captain walked carefully across to him, took one look at the meagre space in the cart and shook his head.
“There is not a hope; not a chance in three hells of you getting me on that cart. Scortius or no Scortius, I’m taking my horse.”
He turned his back on the protesting orderly and strode away from the carts to where the Fourth were busy performing their last minute checks before the return journey began. He strode over to the collection of white crests gathered around the horses at the head of the column. A quick head count revealed the command guard of the second cohort to be a man short. As he approached, they moved fluidly into two lines of seven, came to attention and saluted in unison. Varro nodded his acknowledgment and scanned the lines for Salonius. Perhaps he was attending to something before assembly and… no; there he was. So who was missing?
The captain glanced once more up and down the lines and allowed his gaze to settle on his newest guard, noticing for the first time the faint purple and brown of a sizeable bruise blossoming slowly around his left eye. With a frown, his eyes wandered among the other guards, this time paying close attention. Two more of them sported facial bruising.
“I’m not going to ask what went on, but I’m a man down, and I want to know where he is.”
There was a moment’s silence, then someone from the second row cleared his throat.
“Gallo had to go see the medic, sir, for stitches. He’ll be back in a few minutes”
Varro grumbled and allowed his frown to deepen.
“As if there aren’t enough barbarians out there waiting to give you all a damn good thrashing, you have to go beating your own to a pulp. Get your horses saddled and ready. We leave in ten minutes, with or without Gallo.”
Still grumbling to himself, the captain spun and headed for his own horse, already saddled and being tended to by his servant who would travel with the baggage train at the rear. As soon as their officer was out of sight, the guards stood at ease and the man beside Salonius turned his head slightly, giving the shorter, younger recruit a sidelong glance up and down.
“You fought off three of them?”
Salonius nodded, concentrating on a point in the middle distance.
“Maybe you do deserve the crest.” The soldier turned away, his plated torso armour scraping Salonius’ as he went.
“Short and young does not necessarily mean weak and frightened”, Salonius grumbled to himself under his breath and from between clenched teeth. The engineers were happy enough with new recruits as long as they could handle a mallet and haul on a rope, but the command guard were supposedly the cohort’s best, and were paid accordingly. It would take some time to settle in here and turn their resentment into respect.
With a sigh, he turned and looked at the horse he’d been given. He’d ridden a horse a few times, years ago, but not since joining up; engineers used horses for transporting equipment and for labour, not for riding. It was already saddled and waiting. With a disbelieving shake of his head, Salonius walked over to the horse.
The column had been rumbling across the landscape for half a day, the immense cloud of dust thrown up into the air by an entire army on the move making the beautiful azure blue sky somewhat difficult to see. The adjutant and the senior staff, along with the flag and standard bearers, rode as the vanguard, in the clear and open air. Behind them came the various ancillary officers, camp staff and the like, followed by the six cohorts themselves in numerical order and finally the engineers and the baggage train, slowly grinding away the miles.
Some half a mile behind the column came the army’s provosts with the prisoners taken the previous day, staggering along in three lines, chained together to be ransomed, sold or executed at the marshal’s whim later.
Varro sat astride his horse at the head of the second, blinking regularly to keep the dust from his eyes and wincing with every step of his horse. After only an hour of travel, he’d realised why Scortius had wanted him in a cart. By the second hour, his wound had begun to leak again slightly and, though it was a seep rather than a flow, by now, nine hours into the journey, his left leg was soaked with crusty dried blood and coated with dust. When they finally reached the fort it would take more than a quick dip to clean all this off.
He glanced over his shoulder at the command guard of the second, fifteen now off-white crests in three lines of five, riding silently behind him. With a quick motion to the guard to continue on as they were, he wheeled his horse and gently walked it out of the column, continuing a hundred yards or so until the cloud of disturbed dust swirled behind him and he could breathe fresh, untainted air. The summer sun shone down on a verdant green landscape, quite beautiful even with the disturbances of thousands of marching boots; a landscape most of the column would barely see through the dust.
Stopping his horse, the captain took several deep, clean and satisfying breaths. Perhaps he should request a break in the march? As he sat astride Targus, his bay colt, scanning the hills to the west, his eyes caught a brief sign of movement. Suddenly alert, he strained and focused on the shapes and slowly they swam into focus: perhaps a dozen or so riders. Some were clearly armoured, glittering in the sun. And then he saw the flag being borne by one of the riders, and recognised the black banner with the silver ram and bolt of lightning. With a sigh of relief, he kicked his horse into a trot once more and set off at a tangent to intercept the approaching riders, safe in the knowledge that no barbarians would be stupid enough to try a ruse against such a large armoured column. Besides, they’d broken the back of the local tribes yesterday.
As the party of a dozen riders slowed to a trot and hauled on the reins to pull alongside Varro and his mount, he recognised the pale face of Corda, his second in command, covered by his helmet and partially hidden behind the bandana pulled up across the lower half and hiding the thick, black beard. The dozen men were the second cohort’s contribution to the prefect’s honour guard. As Varro drew his steed to a halt, the riders also stopped, saluting their commander wearily. Varro grinned as his second in command untied the bandana, revealing the yet paler skin of his lower face, framed with his dark beard and untouched by the dust of travel. Corda, never a man given to frivolity, displayed his usual scowl, which deepened as he spotted the dried blood encrusting his superior’s leg.
“Sergeant,” Varro greeted him happily, “a sight for sore eyes, if ever there was one.”
Corda’s intense pale blue-grey eyes bored into the captain’s, carrying an air of disapproval.
“Captain,” he said at last, his voice surprisingly low and soft. “What the hell have they done to you?”
Varro shook his head. “It’s not bad, Corda. Scortius has sorted it, but I’ve sort of bounced it open on the horse.”
The sergeant opened his mouth to speak again, his eyes flashing angrily, but Varro interjected before he had the chance.
“Scortius did a good job, Corda, and I know I should be in the wounded carts, but I’d rather this than have to sit among the stench of serious injuries for a day or two, so forget about it.”
The sergeant sat still and silent for a few seconds, his eyes locked on his commander’s, until he was sure his point was made and his opinion noted.
“Very well sir. Permission to dismiss the guard?”
Varro nodded, and the sergeant turned and waved at the other riders, who saluted once again and then rode off past their officers to join their companions in the cohort’s cavalry squadron. As soon as they were out of earshot and sight of the two commanders, Corda’s attentive position relaxed and he slumped wearily in the saddle.
“Ok, Varro. Tell me everything, including how the hell you ended up in this state.”
The captain sighed. Corda was the quintessential sergeant among the cohort and the linchpin around which the unit moved, but on a personal level, the two had come up through the ranks together so many years ago that it was impossible now to feel any level of superiority over him when the two were alone. And, of course, Corda knew him perhaps better than he knew himself.
“I was unlucky. That’s all there is to it. I saw some barbarian bastard with a nice sword he’d stolen from an Imperial officer and I took it personally. Seems he did too. The doctor wasn’t concerned and the medics all reckon I’ll be fine in a few weeks. Now you need to tell me what you’re doing here. You’re supposed to be in Vengen with the prefect.”
Corda nodded wearily and shrugged his shoulders, allowing the interlocking plates of his armour to settle into a new and slightly more comfortable position. The standard Imperial kit was highly protective and certainly better than the chain mail the army had once worn, but it left a great deal to be desired when on horseback.
“We’re all on the way home,” the sergeant replied, rubbing the dusty upper half of his face with his bandana. “The prefect doesn’t particularly need his full honour guard to protect him on the way back.”
Varro raised an eyebrow questioningly.
The sergeant let his bandana fall back down to his neck and took a deep breath.
“Marshal Sabian’s coming with him.”
“The marshal?” Varro whistled through his teeth. “I suppose this latest round of victories has earned the prefect more attention and honours. I wonder if he’s just going to hole up at Crow Hill with the staff, or whether he might want all the unit commanders involved.”
Corda nodded. “That’s why the prefect sent me on ahead. He wants to make sure the entire army’s spick and span when they arrive at the fort and everything’s organised for a high command visit. I’m not sure it’s really necessary. You know Sabian. He’d rather things worked well than looked nice.”
“What else?” Varro narrowed his eyes.
Corda shifted uneasily.
“Sorry?”
“I said what else?” Varro growled. “You’re avoiding telling me something.”
The stocky sergeant cleared his throat and sighed.
“Catilina’s coming with him.”
He watched his captain intently, but Varro merely sat astride his horse for a moment and then shrugged.
“It’s been a long time. She might not even remember me.”
Corda smiled a rare smile and gave his superior a light punch in the upper arm.
“You’re a hell of a sight better at fooling yourself than me, so don’t even try. This is what we’re going to do: Firstly, you’re going to go to either the engineer or quartermaster sergeant and travel on one of their wagons. Not comfortable, but at least you won’t shake yourself to bits or be jammed in with the wounded…”
Varro waved a hand to interrupt, but Corda knocked his gesturing finger aside and continued, raising his voice slightly.
“When you’re settled, I’m going to have a medic sent back to you so he can get that wound fixed back up and sort you out. I’m quite capable of leading the cohort back to the fort and you know that. I’ll go find the medics and deliver my message to the adjutant, then I’ll take command.”
Once again, Varro opened his mouth to speak, but Corda pointed purposefully at him and went on.
“And when we get back to the fort, you’re going to head straight off to the baths and get yourself clean and tidy, while Martis goes to sort out your dress uniform. We’ll only be a few hours ahead of the marshal, even if we rush, and you need to look commanding and a little bit dangerous, if you know what I mean.”
A low rumbling growl rose in Varro’s throat.
“I am not primping for a visit from the high command. I’m not a young social climber.”
“Not for the marshal, you idiot!” Corda laughed. “For his daughter.”
Varro furrowed his brows but said nothing for a long moment. Finally he sighed. “Well I suppose you’re right about my wound and the cart at least. Let’s get back to the column.”
The two wheeled their horses and rode back toward the line, slow and noisy and choked with dust. As they approached, Corda turned and headed for the vanguard while Varro rode toward the engineers with their great wooden constructions, rumbling along the dusty trail dragged by teams of sweating oxen, the engineering teams of all six cohorts travelling together. The engineers in the army usually held to their own company anyway, having much more in common with each other than with the rest of their own cohorts. But the sense of unity among the engineers of the Fourth Army had been further enhanced by the prefect’s distrust of missile warfare and the fact that he plainly considered them superfluous to requirements on campaign.
As the captain pulled alongside the head of the group, the various sergeants of engineers glanced at him in surprise before saluting. He waved the gesture aside and pointed at his discoloured leg.
“Mind if I hitch a lift on one of your wagons?” He could have demanded or ordered, but when dealing with such an insular bunch it was always worth politeness and consideration, as he’d learned time and again over a twenty-five year career.
The sergeant of the second cohort’s engineers whose name, Varro realised to his disappointment he didn’t even remember, hauled his horse to one side and rode out of the column to join his commander.
“I’ll escort you to our supply wagon, sir. You’ll find it the most comfortable.”
Varro nodded and rode alongside the sergeant, back along the slowly rumbling column of catapults, bolt throwers and other more arcane engines of war. As they trotted, he noted with a professional eye the care and attention with which the machines had obviously been treated and, equally obviously, the lack of use to which they had been put.
The supply wagon of the second cohort’s engineers was equally well maintained, pulled by two horses, covered over with a waxed protective sheet that was carefully anchored with ropes to hooks drilled into the wagon’s side, and driven by a big soldier with a shaved head and a thick beard who looked, to Varro’s mild amusement, as though his head had been placed on his shoulders the wrong way up.
The wagon driver and his superior exchanged brief words, and then the sergeant saluted and rode back to join his companions at the head of the engineering column. The driver untied the bag of goods strapped down to the seat next to him and hauled them into the back of the cart with one enormous arm while continuing to steer with the other. He turned back and grinned at Varro, revealing a wide mouth and large square teeth, two of which had been replaced with what appeared to be iron facsimiles. Glancing with a sort of horrified fascination at the man, Varro couldn’t decide whether he looked more like a blacksmith or a pit fighter.
Matching his horse’s pace with the roll of the wagon, Varro slipped out of the saddle as gracefully as he could, wincing and emitting a small, involuntary squeak, and planted his feet on the board below the wagon’s seat. Still holding the reins, he slid onto the seat and then tied his horse off to one of the many hooks on the wagon’s side. A quick glance and the captain was satisfied that Targus was happily walking alongside.
With a groan of comfort, he lounged back on the wagon’s seat and stretched languidly. Reaching into his pouch, he withdrew his flask containing a mix of one part wine with five parts water. Tipping some of Scortius’ herbal pain mixture into the almost empty flask, he shook it to mix and dissolve the medicine before taking a long swig. The relief began to trickle through him even before he returned the flask to its pocket. Closing his eyes, he raised his face skywards. While he knew he was still surrounded by the immense cloud of dust thrown up by marching feet, walking horses and rolling wheels, with his eyes closed he could feel the heat of the sun beating down on him, even through the muck. If he concentrated on the idea and turned his thoughts inwards, he could almost drown out the cacophony going on around him and imagine he was somewhere peaceful and pleasant. Almost. Ah well. Peace was not a soldier’s lot, he thought to himself humorously.
He opened his eyes and started. His travelling companion’s bearded and shiny head was only a foot away from his own, peering at him with that increasingly disturbing grin. Varro returned the smile weakly, and then closed his eyes again and began to drift off into thoughts; a stream of consciousness.
What the hell was Sabian doing coming to the fort? True, it was well known that Cristus was Sabian’s favourite prefect, but that was based on events decades ago. Oh certainly Cristus was an adequate commander, but the captain had served under some of the best, including Sabian himself before the reconstitution of the Imperial army, and the prefect was far from that league. His flat refusal to place any reliance on archers or catapults had cost them dearly today, and had done in several previous engagements. In fact, his decision to surrender the terrain in favour of some largely-imagined lighting advantage gave Varro rise to question whether the commander should have been involved in planning the strategy of the battle at all. The officers could have altered the battle plan once he’d left without him ever finding out.
But still, it was a captain’s job to command his men and to carry out the orders of his prefect without calling the man’s ability into question. There was no doubt at all that Cristus was lucky, and likely that luck had carried him throughout his career. And yet he must have been a hell of a commander early on in his career.
“What, sir?”
Varro stirred from his reverie, opening his eyes suddenly and blinking, the effects of Scortius’ drug now beginning to draw a cloth of hazy whiteness across his mind. He turned his head to find the bulky engineer peering at him questioningly with his brown furrowed.
“Sorry?” said the captain in confusion. “What was that?”
The big man frowned. “You said ‘lucky bastard’, sir. Sorry if you was asleep. Din’t mean to wake you. Just thought you might been talkin’ to me.”
“Ah, no soldier. Just ruminating aloud.”
He looked at the deepening look of confusion on the big man’s face and adjusted his thinking once again.
“Just thinking on things; on the prefect.”
“Ah,” replied the engineer in a flat voice, “the prefect sir. Yes sir.”
“You don’t approve of the prefect, soldier?”
The big man rumbled for a moment, his expression changing several times in the process.
“Not my place to say, sir.”
Varro nodded. It certainly wasn’t, but whether because of the effects of the medicine, or purely due to his own need to vent his feelings, he found himself sympathising with the quiet giant beside him on the wagon seat.
“Tell you what, soldier,” he said, settling back into a relaxed posture and closing his eyes, partially due to the slight haze that seemed to have settled over them, and partially because of the ever-present dust. “There’s only you and me in earshot and I’m wounded and drugged and tired and I just can’t be bothered to stand on ceremony. I give you permission to freely speak your mind. Even if I remember this, I’ll not report anything.”
The engineer cleared his throat nervously.
“Well sir… I don’t think the prefect likes us, sir.” The big man recoiled slightly as though expecting a blow, but the captain merely opened one eye and scrutinised him briefly before closing it again.
“I think you’re right. He’s never trusted missiles of any type. And before you say it, yes, I think that’s short sighted, wasteful and probably just plain stupid.”
The big man frowned again.
“But why would someone so important throw away good men because he don’t like a catapult, sir?”
Varro shrugged as best he could, given the limitations imposed by his wound and the plain wooden bench.
“Some people are set in their ways, and not all of them are good ways. In one respect we’re lucky. The prefect may create strategies or make decisions we don’t agree with, but he’s got the luck of the Gods. I can name at least three engagements we’ve been in over the years that we should by all rights have lost, but he’s managed to pull out of the fire at the last minute and turn it around.”
“Yessir,” the big engineer nodded, “but maybe he shouldn’t ’ve put his men in that shit in the first place, sir?”
Varro opened his eyes again and gave the man a flinty look.
“Speak freely, but be careful. That’s still our commander you’re talking about. Respect where it’s due…” he growled, “even if it isn’t.”
The engineer nodded.
“’Course sir. Never meant anything by it.”
Varro laughed a short and sharp laugh.
“Whatever you say, soldier. Just remember, the man’s a war hero. And the marshal’s favourite.”
The big man scratched his beard reflectively with his free hand.
“War hero sir?”
Varro blinked. “You don’t know the history of your own prefect?”
“Only been serving five years sir, and the engineers… well we don’t really get to hang around with the rest, sir. Camp regulations keeps us in our own stockade. Where we can’t do no harm, so my sergeant says.”
“He does, does he?” Varro smiled coldly.
“We engineers is kind of second class soldiers in the Fourth, sir. No use denying it. We all know it. But we’re happy anyway.”
Varro shook his head irritably.
“Shouldn’t be like that. Maybe the prefect was better cut out to be a captain. He was a damn good captain. Won his reputation at Saravis Fork over a decade ago.”
The burly man raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“The Clianii are the big tribe up there” Varro said wearily. “Back… what fourteen? Fifteen years ago? Something like that… there was a series of invasions by northern tribes. Cristus was a captain in the Second Army under Sabian at the time. He was sent to Saravis Fork to relieve the garrison of the fort there.”
The captain turned his head and looked at the big man who was regarding him with rapt attention. For all gruff look and massive frame, he was still a young man when one looked closer. He’d probably have only been ten or eleven years old at the time. With a slightly sad smile, Varro closed his eyes and leaned back as he resumed his tale.
“When he got to the fort, he found they’d been under attack for weeks. Their captain was dead and they were running at about a quarter strength; a totally hopeless situation. He took command and sent out harrying and distracting strikes for a day while he rebuilt the fort.”
“Must’ve had engineers with him then, sir.”
“Don’t believe so,” Varro mused. “Never thought of that before. Never heard about engineers there, but still, I guess any soldier can pile rocks, eh?”
The engineer nodded, his expression clearly registering other thoughts on the subject.”
“Still,” the captain went on, “he got the fort to a defensible state again. He held on to that fort for another four days before they were overrun and had to pull back down the pass. Impressive, regardless of whether it be brilliance or luck. Just to have tried makes him one of the bravest men I’ve known.”
The engineer gave another nod; this time genuine, if given grudgingly.
“So what happened, sir? I’ve not heard of these Clini or whatever they’re called.”
Varro shook his head slightly.
“Not surprised.”
He shuffled into a new position and looked up at the burly engineer, squinting with the sun almost directly in his eyes.
“Cristus had given the Clianii such a mauling they didn’t dare come down out of the pass. Basically, he averted an invasion. He and his men rode back to Vengen and delivered their report to Sabian. The marshal made him a prefect on the spot and gave him command of the Fourth that had just been raised, in order to go back and finish the job.”
“Back to Saravis Fork, sir?”
“Yes. And beyond. He went through the mountains like the wrath of the Gods and wiped the Clianii from the world of men. Killed everything in those mountains that moved, walked and talked.”
The engineer looked momentarily taken aback, a strange look on the brawny giant.
“That’s not right sir.”
“Maybe not,” agreed the captain, “but he got his revenge, and after that the other tribes sued for peace. It was more than a decade before any of them dared cross the mountains again. A bloodthirsty bastard he might have been, but he saved the northern provinces.”
Varro sighed as he settled once more into his cloak.
“War hero, as I said. I suppose the day we’ve saved a province from a barbarian invasion we’ll have the right to criticise Cristus. Until then, he’s our prefect and we do what he tells us.”
The big soldier nodded and let out a gentle sigh.
“It’ll be good to get back to the fort, sir.”
“Oh, yes.”
The engineer cleared his throat. “Do you think…” But as he turned to look at his travelling companion, the captain was already fast asleep.