Varro pulled his cloak tighter against the biting breeze that whistled across the common near the fortress as he kicked the lazy mare forward again. He’d only had time to throw on a cloak and some boots while the impatient provost sergeant had stood in his doorway, tapping irritably. He felt grateful for the presence of Salonius, fully armoured in his cohort guard uniform. While he had no reason to distrust the provost, these were highly unusual circumstances and he’d thought deeply about the wisdom of this course of action before grabbing his cloak in resignation and stepping forward.
He’d not even reached the door when he realised Catilina was by his side. He’d tried to deter her, unsuccessfully, as he’d expected, and the pair of them had joined the three provosts as soon as Salonius returned with three horses from the stables of the second.
The journey through the town was uneventful. It was now mid to late morning and the locals were going about their own business while the majority of soldiers were on duty within the fort. The growing civilian settlement would liven up considerably as the bulk of the troops were dismissed at sundown.
And almost a mile beyond the township, over wind-blasted heaths on a surprisingly chilly and blustery morning for so late in the season, the small party approached a knot of people clustering beneath a tree in the shelter of a hedgerow.
A gulley ran from near the crest of the hill down alongside the hedgerow and to the stream in the shallow valley. A seasonal stream, the ditch was currently dry and rocky. Beneath the beech tree, two more of the fort provosts stood with three locals, a boy and a girl of perhaps seven years and a man; presumably their father.
As they approached and reined in, the children huddled to their father’s knees, partially for warmth, as much for fear of the now seven soldiers around them. As the six riders dismounted, Varro stepped toward the ditch, scrunching up his eyes and peering into the shade of the tree.
A body lay curled up in the bottom of the ditch, his tunic covered in mud but, more disturbingly, blotted with dried blood. Dried rivulets meandered down the slope in the gulley. The provost sergeant stepped up beside him, clutching the bound leather parcel, as yet still unopened. Varro glared at him in irritation, but the man ignored him and pointed into the ditch.
“My first question, captain, is whether you know this man.”
Varro examined the body from the top of the bank, taking in as much detail as he could. The body was dressed in a plain and basic military tunic and breeches, with no armour or insignia. A cloak of plain grey wool lay several yards away up the gully, shredded and stained with mud and blood. Though the face was hidden from view by the body’s position, lying where it had either fallen or been thrown, the ruffled brown hair and skin colour were decidedly nondescript.
The cause of death was plain, though. Six holes in the man’s tunic spoke eloquently of the vicious stab wounds the man had suffered. In Varro’s professional opinion just two of those wounds were fatal alone, so the attacker had been unnecessarily violent. It was one thing for a soldier to die in the height of battle with an enemy spear through his middle, but ambushed and viciously murdered and left in a ditch for the crows was a bad end for any man.
“Can I see his face?”
The sergeant gestured to one of his provosts and the man clambered down into the ditch, along to where the body lay and carefully turned the torso so that the face was visible. His cheek and forehead were marked and cut from the stones in the ditch, but he was a young man, perhaps twenty years old, clean shaven and moon faced. Varro shook his head.
“I don’t recognise him, sergeant. But then I see an awful lot of recruits as I’m sure you’ll understand. Are these the people who found him?”
The provost nodded.
“They came to the fort to inform us. The man had done a search of the body when they found it and discovered this pouch tucked away beneath his tunic. They should have left well alone, but I’m satisfied their motives were good and they came straight to us, so I see no real reason to detain them. They told us everything they know and they live in the civilian settlement anyway.”
Varro nodded.
“And so the next question is ‘what was he doing here’?”
“Indeed,” the sergeant nodded, withdrawing the leather package from his bag and proffering it to Varro. “Out of deference to your rank, captain, I’ll let you read this first, but I will have to have it back and examine the evidence myself.”
Varro grumbled and untied the thong around the outside. He carefully unfolded the case and straightened the paper within as Salonius and Catilina made their way across to him. His eyes flicked across the writing as he scanned down the short and obviously hastily written note.
He blinked.
Rubbing his eyes, he straightened the paper once more and squinted as though trying to see through the paper itself.
“What is it?” enquired Catilina quietly as she stopped before him.
Varro stared at the paper a moment longer and then let his arm fall by his side as he rubbed his temple and forehead with the other hand. He looked across at her, a somewhat bewildered look upon his face.
“An impossible letter…”
“What?” Catilina stepped towards him again. Reaching down toward the paper she was momentarily taken aback as Varro’s hand twitched away, moving the letter out of reach. Wordlessly she gave him an appraising glance and decided not to push him.
“Not here,” the captain muttered, “and not now.”
As Catilina stepped back to join Salonius, the provost sergeant reached out his hand.
“Captain?”
“No.”
The soldier ground his teeth and snarled through tight lips “Now, captain!”
“No, sergeant.” Varro shook his head and folded the paper away inside the leather wallet again.
“Explain yourself, sir” The provost growled. His hand had, probably subconsciously, come to rest on the pommel of his sword. Threatening, however unintentional.
Varro fixed him with a hard stare.
“Not only is this personal, sergeant, it is also very, very confidential.”
“I’m afraid I must insist, captain Varro.”
Varro stepped back.
“You can insist all you like, sergeant, but you’re not having this piece of paper.”
The two men stood poised, staring at each other. The air around them almost tingled with the tension. Varro saw the other provosts striding up the hill to join their sergeant and noticed with some satisfaction that Salonius had sidled round and was almost by his side now.
“For Gods’ sake!”
Both men started at the anger in Catilina’s voice as she stepped between them, shattering the tension.
“Sergeant, you may have authority to make such demands, though I’m not sure about their viability in open areas outside military land. Varro, you may well outrank the sergeant, but you know that this is his job. Now the two of you need to saddle up and we’ll all ride back to the fort. My father can decide what to do. I’m assuming both of you will submit to the marshal?”
The provost had gone slightly pale, though Varro would be willing to wager that was through frustrated anger rather than fear. Deliberately turning away from the sergeant to face Catilina, he nodded.
“I will submit to the marshal’s judgement.”
There was a long, irritated silence, and finally the provost growled “I too” through clenched teeth.
As Varro and his companions returned to their mounts, the sergeant barked orders at his men, his eyes never leaving Varro. Two of his men gathered up the body and laid it carefully across the back of one of the horses.
Taking advantage of the delay, Varro, Catilina and Salonius mounted up and began a brisk walk back toward the fort. As soon as they were far enough away for Catilina to deem it safe, she leaned slightly in her saddle.
“Care to tell me what that was about now?”
Varro glanced back quickly to see the impatient sergeant hustling his men along.
“As I said: an impossible letter. “ He frowned. “A letter from an impossible source… or a lie.”
“Varro…”
“It’s from my cousin Petrus.”
Salonius frowned. “Why is that so strange, sir?”
Varro took another quick look behind him and saw that the provosts were hurrying to catch up. He settled into the saddle and growled.
“Because Petrus has been dead for a decade now.”
As the party rode slowly in through the gates of the fort, two of the provosts peeled off from the group and made for the hospital with the body of the unfortunate soldier. The sergeant exchanged quick words with another of his men and as the rider trotted off ahead, he pulled alongside Varro and eyed him suspiciously.
“My subordinate has gone ahead to arrange to meet with the marshal and the prefect.”
Varro nodded.
“Good for him.”
The whole party continued on in silence along the busy main street of the fort, though all the occupants hurriedly shifted out of the way of a senior officer and a noblewoman in the midst of a group of provosts. Two minutes later they reined in at the side of the headquarters building, where the other provost stood waiting. As they dismounted, he remained expressionless and at attention and followed in behind his sergeant as they entered the building. Members of the marshal’s guard joined them inside the doorway and escorted them through the colonnaded courtyard and through the main hall, into the main room where Sabian sat at a wide oak table with prefect Cristus on his left.
Salonius came to a halt next to the captain and scanned the room quickly and subtly. It was rare that anyone other than an officer or a guardsman saw the inside of the prefect’s office. Office was perhaps an understatement. The room was large enough to mount and fire a catapult in. Bright light streamed in through large leaded dormer windows high in the roof some twenty five feet above him. The floor was decorated in a mosaic depicting the Imperial raven, and maps and trophies adorned the walls all around. To a soldier who’d spent most of his time in a shared barrack block, the effect was quite breathtaking.
“Sergeant.” A curt acknowledgement of their presence from Sabian, who was busy studying paperwork on his table, drew Salonius’ attention back to the reason for their presence.
Sabian glanced up and Varro assumed he was not the only one who saw the anger in the marshal’s eyes or heard the irritation in his voice as he said sharply “Catalina! Join me.”
For a moment Catilina looked as though she might argue, but in the end good sense won her over and with a quiet “father,” she walked across the room and took the free seat to her father’s right. He gave her a quick look that Varro couldn’t see, though he was sure he knew what words that look conveyed. Then the marshal pushed the ledger away from him and sat back.
“Sergeant, what’s this all about?”
The provost stepped forward.
“Sir, three locals came to the gates this morning to inform us they had found a body. The father, whose name…”
”A succinct version if you please” barked Sabian. Varro sighed. Catilina had clearly put her father in a sharp and uncooperative mood.
The sergeant shifted uneasily.
“They found the body of a soldier in a ditch around a mile away. He’d been stabbed six times. The locals had quickly searched the soldier for any identification and had discovered a sealed leather wallet addressed to Captain Varro. The captain visited the body with us and had confirmed that he does not know the soldier in question, but now refuses to relinquish the item back to the provosts.”
“Is this true, Varro?”
The captain nodded.
“You know, captain, that in matters of military law, the provosts have the right to seize and withhold what they consider to be evidence. You may outrank the sergeant, but his authority is clear.”
“Ordinarily, sir, I would agree,” Varro stated clearly. “However, I feel that in the circumstances, certain aspects need to be considered before I’ll agree to let this go.”
“What aspects?” Sabian was beginning to look annoyed.
Varro drew himself up straight.
“If I said the wallet was connected with Petrus, would you expect me to relinquish it, sir?”
Sabian sat back heavily.
“Petrus?”
“Yes, marshal.”
Sabian waved his hand dismissively at the provosts.
“Sergeant, this is no longer your issue. Take your men back to barracks.”
The sergeant blinked in surprise, and then cast an angry glance at Varro before saluting, turning on his heel and marching from the room, followed swiftly by his provosts. Sabian frowned at Varro and the captain cleared his throat meaningfully.
Sabian rubbed his brow wearily and then turned to the fourth army’s prefect.
“Cristus, would you be so kind as to allow Varro and myself a little privacy.”
The prefect nodded sharply and stood, striding quietly from the room, though Varro couldn’t help glimpsing the irritation on the man’s face as he walked past the two men standing in the centre of the room.
“Sir?”
He turned to his side and realised that Salonius was awaiting the order to withdraw.
“No, Salonius. I need you to stay here.”
Sabian glanced briefly at Catilina and then beckoned to the captain. The room suddenly seemed remarkably large and empty with only four occupants. Varro nodded at Salonius and the two soldiers approached the table. Varro fiddled with the tie on the leather wallet.
“You remember Petrus, sir?”
As Sabian nodded, Salonius cleared his throat.
“Sir, if you’ll pardon the question, who is Petrus?”
The marshal leaned forward over the desk and cradled his fingers.
“Do you know the story of your prefect and the defence of Saravis Fork, soldier?”
Salonius nodded respectfully. “I know the story, sir. And Petrus?”
“Was my cousin,” Varro stated in a flat voice.
Salonius turned and blinked in surprise as the captain faced him and continued.
“My cousin, and the senior sergeant in Cristus’ cohort. We were the same age and both served under the marshal when Velutio ruled, along with Corda. But by the time Cristus pulled back from Saravis Fork, he’d lost three quarters of his men. Petrus had died in the siege.”
Sabian turned his gaze to the young soldier by Varro’s side.
“Your captain came to see me on Cristus’ return. He requested permission to take a scouting party out to the mountains to look for survivors; to look for Petrus, I suppose. I turned down his request. Cristus was already being commissioned to lead a punitive campaign.”
He coughed and reached out his hand towards Varro.
“I assume you have no objection to me reading this note.”
“Of course not, marshal. There’s not actually much to it, but… well I gather you’ve heard my news?”
Sabian let his hand fall to the table, and patted the rough wood reflectively.
“I have. I was intending to come and see you this afternoon to talk about it, but events seem to have run away with us.”
“Well, sir” Varro continued, “I’m fairly sure someone within the fortress is behind this and, given that, I’m doing my best to keep anything that might be remotely relevant under wraps.”
The marshal leaned back.
“You fear you have been poisoned by one of our own men?”
“I have reason to believe so, sir. I’m not sure of how all this ties in yet, sir, but I’m pretty sure it does. I was wounded in battle, as you know, but the wound was inflicted using a fine imperial blade coated with poison, albeit wielded by a barbarian. The sword seems to have vanished like a morning mist, but I intend to find it. It’s the only connection I had to my enemy… until this morning.”
Sabian nodded. “You think someone tried to kill you to prevent you receiving this?”
“Yes sir.”
Varro reached out and placed the package on the table.
“Have a look, and I think you’ll agree.”
Sabian leaned forward again and slowly unwrapped the thong, opening the wallet and smoothing out the paper flat on the wooden surface. He scanned down the brief missive. Scrawled in an almost childlike script were the words:
Varro.
I realise this will come as a shock to you, and you will find it hard to believe this is me, but it is true. I am alive. And I am safe. But the same is not true for you.
I urge you. I beg you to meet with me as I have the most dangerous information to share with you. I am at the civilian settlement outside the Saravis Fork fort, in a back room of the inn.
Tell no one, but hurry. It is vital that I see you.
Petrus.
Sabian looked up at Varro.
“I see your point. I assume you intend to go?”
The captain nodded.
“Then I’d best send an escort” the marshal said. “Dangerous territory up there. It may be Imperial land, but far too close to the border for comfort.”
Varro shook his head.
“No, sir. Considering what’s happening, I’m considerably safer on my own than with anyone from the military. Salonius here can ride with me.”
Sabian sat back for a moment and then nodded his agreement.
“I suppose so. I assume you intend to leave quickly and quietly?”
“Yes sir. I thought tonight, while it’s dark. We’ll need time to get supplies together, and I’ll have to go see Scortius and get some more medication. It’s three days to Saravis even at the fastest pace we can hope for, and I’m on a finite timescale.”
He turned to Salonius.
“I trust you’ll come along?”
“Of course sir,” the young man straightened slightly. Varro faced the marshal again, tapping his finger on his lower lip.
“I’ll need to speak to Corda about the sword too.”
Sabian stood and waved his hand gently.
“You concentrate on getting ready for the journey. I’ll speak to Corda and we’ll find your mysterious sword, Varro. And I want updates whenever something happens.”
He bent to one side and reached into a heavily bound chest, withdrawing a small bag, which he cast onto the table. It landed with a clink and sagged to one side. Varro raised an eyebrow.
“Around forty corona. Use it wisely. It should buy an awful lot of loyalty from the commoners en route and you can hire some couriers to apprise me of any changes or anything you think I need to know.”
Varro reached out and grasped the heavy bag of coins, tying it to his belt for safety.
“I am grateful for your support in this, marshal. It makes a great deal of difference having someone I trust here; there are so few at the moment.”
Sabian smiled. “We’ve known each other a very long time Varro. You know I value good men. Now get going and sort things out. And bear in mind that I want you back here in one piece. I shall be making it absolutely clear to Scortius that he’s not to give up on you. Just because no one knows of a cure doesn’t mean there isn’t one there somewhere.”
With a bow, Varro turned and strode from the room, with Salonius at his heel. Catilina watched them go and then turned to her father to find him looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face. She felt involuntary tears well up.
“What is it, father?”
The marshal smiled and gripped her arm reassuringly.
“He’ll be back, my dear. And if there is a cure, be certain Scortius will find it. I shall make sure of that.”
She smiled weakly.
“It all sounds like a conspiracy. Murders and poisonings and messages from dead people. Not trusting your own men. That’s how you used to describe the civil war…”
The marshal nodded sadly and stared past her at some invisible point in the air.
“Strangely, that’s how it feels. Makes me wish Caerdin was still around to sort it out. He had that kind of corkscrew mind. I think in too straight lines for intrigue. Fortunately, Varro’s clever and resourceful and he remembers the old days too.”
Scortius tapped his fingers absentmindedly on his forearm as he stared at his dispensary cabinet with its shelves and compartments stuffed with strange herbs and extractions.
Varro sat impatiently on the bench with Salonius at his side. Glancing round the doctor’s office that occupied but a small part of the fort’s hospital block, he took in the low, wooden beams, the plain whitewashed walls with a strained hint of pink, the utilitarian wooden floor and the scrolls and charts pinned to most of the open surfaces depicting strange and unpleasant visceral body parts with informative labels. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but Scortius waved a hand irritably without turning and made ‘tsk’ sounds. Finally the doctor found what he was looking for and withdrew a small muslin bag. Tipping a small quantity of powder into the mortar, he ground it into the existing mixture.
The two visitors waited, the captain tapping his fingers on his knee irritably. Scortius returned silently to his shelves and began to peruse them once more. After what felt to Varro like an hour, the doctor located a small bottle of something oily. He held it at an angle above the bowl and watched one of the viscous seeds slide down the glass and drop into the mixture.
“Right,” he said as he began to grind once more. “This is your last-ditch mixture.”
With a satisfied air, he tipped the mixture in a waterproof bag and carefully tied the top off. Turning back to his visitors, he marked the bag ‘III’ with an inked stylus.
“So,” he announced in a businesslike fashion. “The big bag with the ‘I’?”
Varro looked down at the first bag he’d been given almost an hour ago.
“’I’ is three times a day, every day regardless of circumstances.”
Scortius nodded. “Conditions?”
“Got to have eaten before hand and have something to drink afterwards.”
“And effects?”
Varro shifted like a scolded student.
“Symptoms only?”
Scortius’ jaw firmed up.
“Not all symptoms, Varro. Three times a day and that’ll keep your mind clear. It’s purely for your mental state and your wakefulness. But I will warn you right now, the poison’s setting in deeper every day. Even with the best medicines I can give you, you’ll gradually notice some deterioration in the brain. I’ve worked out a regime that should keep you going long after you’d normally be ‘toes up’. You shouldn’t really have more than a couple of days, but you might last two weeks or more on all this.”
“You’re such an optimistic man to be around, Scortius.”
The doctor glared at Varro.
“I’m a doctor, Varro, not a miracle man. If I could cure death, my son would still be around.”
The captain sat back and sighed.
“Alright then. The first is to keep me thinking and awake.”
Scortius nodded and the captain handed the bag to Salonius, who carefully placed it in the saddle bag on his lap.
“The ‘II’? Scortius prompted.
Varro lifted the second large bag off the bench and examined it.
“That’s for the pain. Once a day; twice if the pain starts to get too bad.”
“Details, man!” barked Scortius. “This stuff’s here to keep you alive. You need to keep on top of it!”
“Erm…” Varro looked blankly at the bag.
Scortius reached down and swiped it out of his hand.
“Every morning as you start your day’s activity. It’s very strong. If you take it and then lie around for a long time the medicine will only affect a small part of your system, but will over-medicate and you risk bringing on a whole slew of new problems. You need to be exercising once you’ve taken it so that the stuff gets pumped round your entire body. Only that way will it get everywhere it needs to be at the right concentration.”
Varro nodded unhappily.
“And…” the doctor went on, “if things get truly unbearable, and I mean unbearable, not if ‘it hurts’, you take a second dose sometime in the evening. And then you need to spend at least an hour doing enough to make your heart pump it round.”
Varro nodded again.
“And the third?” he enquired. “You’ve not told me that yet.”
He hefted the small waterproof bag as Salonius collected the second container from Scortius and put it in the saddle bag.
The doctor leaned back against the cabinet.
“Important. Very important that you remember this.” He was clearly speaking to Varro, though his eyes fell on Salonius as he tapped his left index finger into his right hand to emphasise his words.”
Varro and Salonius nodded in unison.
“This is one of the strongest mixtures I’ve ever put together.”
Tap.
“That bag holds four doses only.”
Tap.
“So make sure you take some scale to accurately measure exactly a quarter of that.”
Tap.
“Don’t take it within an hour either side of your other medicines.”
Tap.
“Don’t drink anything but water for three hours either side of it.”
Tap.
“Don’t let it touch an open wound.”
Tap.
“And be absolutely sure to take no more than one dose within a day.”
He finished tapping and folded his arms.
“And you.” He glared at Salonius. “Don’t touch it. That mixture misused could kill a healthy bear, let alone a human. It’s dangerous for Varro, but then what’s he got to lose?”
Varro stared at him but the doctor leaned over to the young guardsman.
“If he has too much, for any reason; or if he seems to be having a reaction to it; if there’s signs of a fit or his skin gets a purple tinge to it, make sure he drinks pint after pint after pint of water. Flush him right through. Don’t let him stop drinking water until he’s pissed himself raw. Do you understand?”
Salonius nodded and Scortius turned back to the captain.
“Good job you’ve got this sensible lad with you. I have a feeling you’d be dead before you got to the village if he wasn’t there to look after you.
“You haven’t asked where we’re going, Scortius? Aren’t you a little curious, given my circumstances?”
The doctor sighed.
“Varro, I haven’t got time to mess around. You’ve got things you need to do? Fair enough. Stick with my medication plan and you should be around long enough to do whatever it is and come back. In the meantime, I’ve got almost a hundred wounds to track and look after, some of which are life threatening, and the marshal’s sent word that he wants to see me, so I’m going to be busier than ever.”
The captain nodded and stood gently. Reaching out, he placed his hand on Scortius’ shoulder and squeezed lightly.
“Thank you. I will be back, hopefully within the week. Look after the men.”
The doctor smiled sadly.
“Don’t I always? Now get out of my hospital.”
As Varro turned stiffly and strode through the door, the doctor grasped Salonius by the arm as he rose to follow suit, hoisting the leather bag over his shoulder. He blinked in surprise and looked up.
“Look after him, young man. Make sure he’s careful with that medicine and make sure he gets back to me. I’ve a few ideas I need to follow up on.”
Salonius nodded, saluted and followed his commander out into the cold yet bright afternoon sun.
Varro tied the pouch tight and put it carefully away in the saddle bag draped across his knee once more. Using his index finger, he stirred the mug of lemon and water, mixing the powder thoroughly until fully dissolved, and then drained the contents in one long draught. He peered across at the window and then back at Salonius.
“I think it’s time.”
Salonius sighed gratefully. The two men had been packed and ready now for three hours waiting for darkness to descend before they made to leave. Slowly he stood, squared his shoulders and stretched hard. Deferentially, he stood quietly to one side to let Varro past and the captain stood, shouldering his bags.
“Salonius, there’s something I’ve got to say…”
The young man raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“I’m not a serving captain and you’re not even serving in an official capacity at the moment. I’m relying heavily on you and you’ll likely have to rely on me. We’re not going to be in camps, among soldiers or anywhere where rank’s going to matter.”
“Sir?” Salonius looked unsure.
“I know it seems odd,” the captain smiled, “but I’m Varro and you’re Salonius and I think that’s enough. No ranks. You’re not a soldier right now, nor a guard or a bodyguard. You’re my travelling companion. You understand?”
The young man nodded and grinned.
“Got it, sir.”
“Knock that off!” the captain grumbled.
Still smiling, Salonius followed Varro out of the room, hefting his saddle bag over his shoulder in the same manner as the captain. The two stopped momentarily in the kitchen area to the rear of the house, where Martis stood holding out a bag of prepared food for them. Varro stopped in front of his body servant and smiled sadly.
“This is it Martis. I’ll be gone for a week at least, so I doubt I’ll see you again.”
The stocky man looked up at Varro and cleared his throat.
“I do not need to rush away sir. I will await your return.”
Varro’s smile faltered for a moment before returning with a slightly forced look.
“I’m not going to be around much longer, Martis. You need to look for new employment. I’ve informed the fort commander that you have full control of my house in my absence. Stay as long as you need until you can secure a new position, and I’ve left a few months’ wages in a secure pouch. You know where to look.”
Salonius was surprised to see tears in the servant’s eyes and straightened, realising he himself was close to showing far more unhappiness than was seemly. He stood quietly as Varro clasped hands with the servant and wordlessly turned, striding out of the door to the stable at the rear.
Salonius grasped the bag being proffered by the servant and nodded gratefully at him.
“I hope everything works out for you, Martis.”
Casting a last sympathetic look at the suddenly frail looking man, Salonius turned and walked out into the late dusk breeze, across the small garden and into the stable. Martis had arranged for a fine chestnut mare for a very reasonable price from the settlement outside the walls. As an officer, Varro owned his steed, but that assigned to his companion remained the property of the cohort. Their efforts during the afternoon had been thorough, the horses laden with well balanced packs, all done within the privacy of the captain’s stable.
As he entered, the captain was just fastening the straps on his saddle bags. He walked round the horse, tugging straps and pulling at bags to test the fastenings as Salonius attached his own saddle bags and made final checks. He looked over at Varro, satisfied with the results, and the captain walked over to the stable doors and peered through the narrow gap.
“Dark enough. Let’s go.”
The two men led their horses a couple of steps forward and Varro threw back the wooden beam, swinging the doors wide open. The street, as they’d predicted, was all but deserted. Most of the men were now off duty, relaxing in the baths or in their rooms, or making the most of their free time in either the fort’s own bar or one of the less reputable drinking and whoring establishments in the civilian settlement.
The pair drew a few interested looks as, fully armoured, they led their mounts along the paved road between the officers’ houses and toward the fort’s west gate. Their exit had been carefully selected as the only road that passed between nothing but quarters, granaries and workshops, giving them the lowest number of personnel to encounter.
Varro eyed each man they passed with deep suspicion, though apparently unfounded. The few looks they drew were from the ordinary soldiery going about their evening business. Five minutes later they approached the gate with its burning braziers and torches and half dozen guards leaning on their spears until they saw a superior officer approaching and came hurriedly to attention.
The gates stood half open and would do until the evening guard came on duty and these men fell out. The guards saluted as they passed but made no move to question them. Such freedom was a novelty to Salonius, but then why would the guard be expected to question the authority of a senior officer leaving the camp. And then the two men were out in the night, the burning lights behind them making the darkness ahead seem that much deeper.
As soon as they were out of the circle of light from the gate, Varro gestured to his companion and the two of them mounted up and wheeled their horses at a right angle, away from the road and along the line of the fort wall, lit at intervals with braziers and patrolled by now distant shadowy shapes. Ahead the faint lights and brooding shapes of the civilian buildings stood out against the ever darkening skyline.
With another gesture, Varro directed them down the slope and behind a small knot of trees. Wordlessly, listening to the distant murmur of the men on the walls, they removed the crests from their helmets and slid them down into the open bags beside them. Then, removing the helmets altogether, they fastened the chin straps and hung them from the saddle horn in front of them before pulling the hoods of their cloaks up over their heads and drawing the woollen folds tighter around themselves. And no longer displaying openly their rank and position the two now mundane riders returned to the grassy slope and pressed on into the civilian settlement, between the houses and out onto the main north approach road to the fort.
The few figures wandering around in the open were entirely indifferent to the two cloaked figures trotting gently through the town, concerned as they were with making the most of their off-duty time, filling their free hours with cheap wine or beer, women of low moral virtue and games of chance. Reaching the end of the occupied area, Varro and Salonius began their journey north toward the mountains.
As they disappeared from view, shapes detached from the shadows cast by one of the fort’s towers and trotted out into the night, taking the northern road at a leisurely pace.