They’d made excellent time. The high saddle of one of the most important passes in the northern mountains opened up to a grand and breathtaking sight. As the three riders and their exhausted mounts crested the high point and looked down, none of them could deny the astonishment they felt. The pass descended slowly and gently, becoming a wide but short valley, bisected at the far end by a spur of land, turning it into the ‘Y’ from which its name stemmed. A small, fast river ran from the left fork and off down the right, cutting through the centre of a large civilian settlement of stone and wood houses that nestled in the valley at the foot of the spur. On all sides the mountains reared up higher than those through which the riders had passed, protecting the valley from the worst of the weather and making it a haven of lush greenery amid the snowy grey.
And yet, given all this wonder and glory, their eyes were drawn inexorably up to the spur of land towering above the village and bounded on two of its three sides by a steep slope and a fast river. And rising like the Imperial Raven Standard itself, testament to the undying power of the Imperial army, rose the stone walls of the fort of Saravis Fork. Salonius whistled through his teeth as he studied the strong walls with the trained eye of an engineer.
“That got overrun by barbarians?”
Varro nodded.
“The Clianii were a big tribe, and I mean big. A cohort’s a great fighting machine, but even ours wouldn’t be able to hold that from an entire tribe of, what, ten thousand? And the Clianii weren’t traditional barbarians. They weren’t like the lot we fought the other day, all hair and teeth and bloodlust. The Clianii had learned from the Empire over more than a century. Hell, some of them had even served in our military. They knew how to build your machines, Salonius; machines that could batter those walls from across the valley.”
Catilina nodded and pointed at the brooding walls of the fort.
“Cristus held that for five days against odds of almost ten to one. That’s why my father likes him. That’s why Cristus is your commander.”
“How?”
Varro and Catilina turned to face Salonius, who was rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“What?”
“How did he hold it?” The young man waved his arm expansively at the spur and the valley. ”If they had catapults and bolt throwers like ours and the knowledge to use them.”
“What do you mean?” Catilina frowned.
“Well without wanting to annoy you, sir,” Salonius replied. “You’re not an engineer. It looks like a heroic deed, I’m sure. But to an engineer it’s quite simply impossible. If you gave me two catapults, I could have one of those walls in rubble inside a day. How does a cohort stand against ten to one odds for four days with no walls?”
Catilina stared at him and shrugged.
“Cristus told me the first time I met him, back at Vengen when I was about twelve, but it was such a self-centred tale of daring and heroism that I can’t remember a word of it. Probably mostly lies. I expect we’ll find out more when we find Petrus.”
The three set off once more at a walk, Salonius with a perpetual frown and rubbing his brow with one hand, clearly troubled.
The road led down through slowly mounting scrub and greenery and finally apple trees and brambles thick with fruit. As they approached the civilian town, the fort on its great promontory became increasingly oppressive. The settlement was extensive, even for one gathered around such an important fort; almost the size of one of the towns of the southern provinces, complete with shops, a mill, granaries, large tavern, and even a temple to the Imperial pantheon. Farms dotted the two valleys as far as the eye could see. As they slowly descended the road to the town Salonius, his brow still tightly knit, glanced across at his captain.
“What sort of man is Petrus, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Varro raised his eyebrow and the young man continued.
“Well I think we can all agree that there’s no reason to trust prefect Cristus in our current circumstances. And anyone he’s got control over is therefore similarly untrustworthy.”
“What are you getting at, Salonius?” Varro rumbled.
Catilina leaned forward, riding between her two companions and blocking the line of sight between the two brooding men. She turned her face to Varro.
“What he’s skirting around asking you is whether we can trust Petrus. He has a point too, Varro.”
The captain shook his head vehemently.
“Petrus and I are like brothers. Always were. Hell, he was the good and trustworthy one of the pair of us.”
“He was also to Cristus what Corda is to you” Catilina said flatly. “They were closely tied, Varro. I’m not saying we can’t trust him, but don’t be distracted by blind loyalty. You haven’t seen him in a decade. People change.”
Varro continued to shake his head.
“I understand what you’re saying, but you’re wrong. Petrus served with me under your father. He was one of Sergeant Cialo’s men on Isera. He was there when General Caerdin burned the villa and ended the civil war. You don’t come with a better pedigree for trust than that. On Petrus’ count, you’re wrong.”
“I hope so.”
The three fell silent once more as they crossed the bridge over the fast and deep, clear, cold river and entered the town. Salonius, his face still dark with notions of conspiracy, looked left and right as they passed the first outlying buildings. Varro and Catilina watched him with interest, paying no attention to the occasional locals glancing at them from doorways or windows.
“What is it?” Varro finally snapped with a despairing sigh.
Salonius’ frown seemed to deepen, if that were possible.
“There was a week long siege here ten years ago?”
Varro nodded. “Actually more like fourteen years ago, I think. But not just a week. Cristus held the place for five days, but the captain who’d been in charge of the garrison beforehand had held out for over a week himself. The whole siege was at least two weeks long.”
Salonius shook his head.
“There was never a siege here, sir.”
“What?”
The young man pointed up at the fort walls and then gestured around them at the civilian houses.
“It’s obvious to me, sir. And to you I think if you look.”
Catilina stared at him. “Not to me. What is it?”
“These houses are perfectly stable, ma’am, and the roofing tiles are old and shabby.”
“So?” Catilina frowned.
“So if there were siege engines across the valley and in the fort flinging stones back and forth for over a week, the chance of these buildings surviving intact is almost nonexistent. And an invading army needs food, loot and security. All of those things mean the village would be razed and the people raped, killed or enslaved. I know how tribal warfare works, ma’am.”
She shook her head.
“So the village got lucky. Or they made a deal.”
“No,” Salonius shook his head and pointed up at the fort. ”And what about the fort’s walls, sir.”
Varro stared up the hill and suddenly slapped his head.
“He’s right. Those towers are square!”
“So what?” Catilina demanded irritably.
“Ever since the civil war and the change in command, new forts are built with rounded towers. It deflects catapult missiles better. Your father’s bloody idea!” Varro barked. These walls haven’t been changed since before the civil war, what… forty years ago?”
Catilina nodded.
“Then Cristus lies. And we’ve a reasonable assumption that he’s behind at least two deaths. I hope father got safely away.”
Varro nodded.
“Your father’s not daft, Catilina. The moment he got my note, he’ll have been surrounded by his personal guard and rushed off to Vengen.”
She shook her head, worried eyes fixing on Varro.
“You know my father. There’s every possibility he’ll stay just to try and help sort this out.” She sighed. “Still, there’s no point in panicking now. We’d best find your cousin and see what he has to say.”
Salonius turned his ever-present frown on Varro.
“There’s another unanswered question yet though.”
The captain answered with only a raised eyebrow.
“The garrison commander.” Salonius pointed at the fort once more. “Most of the men there will be too young to notice these things; I wouldn’t have thought of it myself were it not for my training as an engineer. But the commander up there, he’s got to know. He’ll be a captain, so he’s old enough to remember what happened here. He’s commanding one of the most important outposts in the northern Empire, so he’s not stupid by any stretch of the imagination. And he’s running what appears to be a quiet, settled fort with no qualms. I’m guessing the same man’s been in command here since the ‘siege’. I’d also guess he was a close friend of prefect Cristus. You know what that means.”
Varro nodded.
“Sharp. Yes, it means that we can’t trust the soldiers of Saravis Fork. If Cristus really is trying to kill us, then it’s a fair bet these men are under similar orders to the men chasing us.”
Catilina frowned and spoke through gritted teeth.
“And even if they don’t know we’re here, as soon as those two other riders get here, we’ll have every man in the fort down on us.”
“Shit.” Varro rubbed his temple wearily. “We’d best get out of sight fast. Where shall we tie the horses?”
Catilina smiled at him.
“Just let them loose, Varro. They’re broken after that ride. We’ll need new horses when we leave or they’ll catch us before we can leave the valley.”
The three of them dismounted, removing their pack and gear. Salonius hoisted the saddle bags over his shoulder.
“We just leave them here? Milling around? Seems unfair somehow.”
Varro smiled at him. “I think they’re in a better position than us, now come on!”
Salonius reached out a heavily muscled arm and relieved Catilina of her heavy saddle and saddle bags. Seriously laden, he walked on into the settlement.
“Strong lad, isn’t he” she observed to Varro as they followed on.
The town became busier as they passed from the suburban road into a wider street, bustling with people. Here they hardly raised a glance from the locals; three dusty strangers in travelling cloaks, all on foot. As the wide street opened out into the main square at the centre of the town, a cluster of market stalls came into view, with crowds around them squawking like a flock of birds.
“Should be easy for us to get ourselves lost in.” Varro observed.
“Yes,” Catilina nodded, “but easy for other people to hide among too.”
Salonius frowned.
“Why is there only one inn here? Your cousin said in his note he was at the inn. A place as big as this with a fort so close? There are half a dozen bars outside Crow Hill.”
Varro nodded.
“That just means that the soldiers at Crow Hill are off duty outside the camp most nights. This is frontier territory. I’d suspect it requires command authorisation to leave the fort on personal business. There’ll be no soldiers down here getting drunk on a night. Means we’ll probably stand out a bit, but it also means we’re unlikely to bump into any of the garrison.”
Salonius nodded his understanding and turned as they entered the square, lightly tapping a young man on the shoulder. Catilina blinked and Varro stopped in surprise as a guttural string of unintelligible chatter issued from their companion. As they watched in fascination, the young man turned to Salonius, replying in the same dialect and beginning a deep and complex conversation that neither of them could understand. Finally, the young man grinned and clasped Salonius’ hand briefly before turning away and going about his business. The other two were grinning when he turned back to face them.
“What? You think the tribe I was born into speak your lovely southern tongue normally?”
Varro laughed and Salonius gestured forwards. The three of them pushed on through the crowded square, finally breaking out in the open area between all the stalls.
“What did you two talk about?” Catilina asked with a smile.
“All sorts,” Salonius replied. “But firstly, where to find the inn.”
He stopped and pointed to a large wooden building with a stone base at the far end of the square. The inn stood proud of the other buildings around the central square by an entire story, matched only by the temple opposite. Three storeys and wide enough to accommodate perhaps four rooms along the front face, it was an impressive piece of architecture for a largely timber-based northern town. The three of them hurried across the square and made for the wide open doorway, surprised to find the interior well lit with windows and heated by a log fire, far from the dingy and shady room Varro had expected.
Salonius gestured at an empty table, the most inconspicuous in the room, tucked away in a corner.
“I’ll get us a drink. Wine for you both?”
Catilina nodded but Varro shook his head. “Get me a beer. I need to keep the clearest head possible right now.”
“Alright.” Salonius joined them for a moment, dropping his heavy load near the wall, and then walked across to the bar to speak to the innkeeper. Catilina and Varro took wooden chairs with their backs to the wall and carefully observed the bar and its patrons. There were less than a dozen folk in the room but, judging by the size of the place and the number of tables, the usual crowd would be considerably larger. There were clearly no soldiers here and most of the conversation was in the guttural speech that Salonius had used in the market. No one seemed to be paying them any attention, which caused a sigh of relief to pass through Varro.
He turned his attention to Salonius at the bar, deep in conversation with the keeper as the man poured wine from a plain bottle into a plain glass and stood it next to the two mugs of beer on the bar top. The stocky soldier finished his conversation and began to carefully gather up the three vessels in his large hands.
“Sight for sore eye!”
Varro started and turned to see the man standing at the table. He’d approached soundlessly and, judging by the indrawn breath to his left, Catilina had been looking at something else too. Cursing himself for his wandering attention, Varro looked up into the face of the man standing opposite him.
Petrus had changed a great deal in the last fourteen years. Plainly the man had not had an easy time of it. His right eye twinkled with some of the intelligent mischief Varro remembered, but his left was white and filmy, the barest hint of a pupil visible within the milky sickness. Three parallel scars crossed his cheek just below the eye, horizontally and so likely unconnected to the eye, terminating in a long-healed wound that had slightly misshapen the nose. Allowing his eyes to draw back and take in the rest of the man, Varro also noticed Petrus’ left hand suffered a constant uncontrollable twitch. The man had tucked the hand into his waist band, but that had merely muted the twitching rather than masking it. All in all, Petrus would have been a sorry sight, had that sight not been so welcome. Varro could feel emotion welling up inside him; emotion that he could scarce afford to allow to the surface. With a grunt he forced it down and maintained his grimace. Petrus gave a lopsided smile that displayed more damage, three or four teeth missing from the left on both upper and lower jaw. He turned that disturbing smile on Catilina.
“Varro, you brought a lady with you? Strange choice, though I can see why you’d pick him.” He gestured over his shoulder at Salonius who was approaching the table carrying the drinks.
Varro nodded.
“Not just a lady, Petrus. You remember Catilina?”
For a moment a look of genuine surprise crossed that scarred face and the smile broadened.
“Catilina? By all the Gods! Last time I saw you, you couldn’t even pronounce my name!”
Varro nodded. “It’s been a long time. We might have caught up earlier if you hadn’t been dead.” The comment had an edge to it and as Petrus recoiled slightly, Salonius stepped round him and placed the four drinks on the table.
Petrus continued to look at Catilina.
“How’s your brother, Catilina? He was always hanging around my knees asking to use my sword.”
Catilina smiled.
“He’s fine, Petrus. Not a soldier though. Never will be. Always buried in a book, my brother.”
Salonius took one of the spare seats, his eyes never leaving the stranger, and coughed meaningfully.
Varro shook his head slightly, as if to clear it. “Quite right. More important matters to think about. So, Petrus, I think you need to take a seat and tell us what happened to you and what’s so important people are being murdered to stop you saying it!”
Petrus blinked.
“Murdered?”
“Long story,” Varro replied. “But let’s start…”
His voice tailed off as Salonius put a restraining hand on his arm.
“What?”
“We need to move, now!” the young man said quietly but with force. As he bent and collected up the bags, Catilina frowned and leaned across to him.
“What’s happened, Salonius?”
The young man gestured subtly toward the bar.
“That man who just came in. He told the barman to get his best glasses out, coz some new soldiers were on their way.”
“Shit!”
The other two quickly shuffled out from behind the table and began gathering up their kit as fast as possible. Petrus grumbled in the background, his hand slipping from his belt and beginning to twitch more violently.
“You were followed? Varro, you idiot!”
“Not like I had a great deal of choice in the matter, Petrus. We need to get somewhere safe right now!”
The man ground his teeth for a moment and then nodded.
“Follow me.”
Varro couldn’t help noticing the slight limp as his cousin walking surprisingly swiftly and quietly to the door. The three of them caught up with him as he stepped out into the sunshine. Varro carefully scanned the crowd outside with a practiced eye but there was no immediate sign of their pursuers. Petrus limped off along the front of the inn and round the corner. As they followed, he disappeared into an alley and along the side of the building. Rounding the next corner, they found themselves at a single story wooden wall with a single small door.
“Stables. Back entrance.” Petrus announced, as he flipped open the latch and entered the building. The smell of horse sweat and leather flooded out of the building and the three of them followed him in to a large stable surrounded by a dozen stalls, many of which were occupied. A large open door stood at the other side, the common entrance to the building, a young boy with a pitchfork leaning against the jamb, chewing on an apple. A second stable door to their right stood solid with the top half open. The sounds of the bar issued from it. Petrus pointed to a fourth door, small and unobtrusive, to the right, in the corner.
As the other three made for that door, Petrus pointed at the boy and the door and threw him a coin. The stable hand nodded his understanding and pocketed the coin, turning his attention to the grassy bank outside.
Petrus wandered over to join the others as they entered the small door one by one. The space beyond was dark and surprisingly cold. After a short corridor, the space ended with a set of wooden steps descending into further darkness.
“What is this place?” Salonius asked.
“Cellar,” Petrus replied. “Where they keep the beer barrels and the crates of wine. I’m taking you to the safest place I can think of: my room.”
Salonius blinked at him in surprise and then turned and began to follow Catilina down the stairs. Slowly, his eyes became accustomed to the change in light levels. It wasn’t actually pitch black in the cellar, just considerably dimmer than the bright day above. The longer they stood in the room, the stone flagged floor covered with a light carpet of rushes, the more they could see in the low light cast by the minute skylights at ceiling height, set into the base of the inn’s walls.
The cellar was large, likely half the size of the inn itself, with a huge dividing arch supporting the heavy building above. The centre of the large space was filled with stacked wooden tables and chairs. Along the cellar’s outer wall huge beer casks were stacked two deep, kept cool by the natural chill of the cold earth seeping through the stonework. To the other side, wine bottles stood in wooden crates and beyond them a solid set of wooden stairs ascended to the inn’s interior.
“You’ve been staying here?” Catilina asked incredulously. “How have you not been caught by the innkeeper?”
Petrus smiled his unpleasant smile again.
“Arun and I have an understanding. A silver coin every few days buys a lot of understanding. And I don’t sleep in here. I have a hidden room. A secret space.”
Varro nodded. “Reasonable. Arun will have it for smuggling purposes, out here on the border, but under the watchful eyes of an Imperial garrison.”
Petrus crossed to the far wall and pulled a rickety wooden shelf unit aside to reveal a door. Varro shook his head. Had they stood by the unit, he’d have been able to see the door between the shelves.
“That’s not hidden. It’s just not very obvious!”
Petrus flashed him a sharp look as he unlatched the door and swung it open.
“You’d prefer perhaps to stay out here and get caught?”
Varro shook his head with a cheeky smile.
“No. Let’s get ourselves almost hidden in your ‘not very obvious’ room!”
“Gah!” Petrus disappeared into the darkness within.
Catilina gave Varro a warning glance and then followed their guide within.
Varro shrugged at Salonius and the two entered, closing the door behind them.
“Shit!” Varro’s voice called from the darkness.
“Shut up” grunted Petrus in a forceful whisper. “If we…”
The sound of Varro slumping to the floor and breathing as though he’d been punched heavily in the gut stopped him mid-sentence.
“What happened?” whispered Catilina.
Over Varro’s laboured breathing, Salonius’ concerned voice answered. “I think he caught his side on something sticking out of the wall next to the door. I’ve just put my hand on it and it’s wet. I think it might have opened his wound.”
“Uh!” Varro was trying to stand with a great deal of grunting.
“For fuck’s sake, shut him up!” whispered Petrus urgently.
There was the sound of a leather flap being unfastened and further rustling.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Petrus again, the anger rising in his voice, even as the level remained quiet.
Salonius bit back an angry retort and replied patiently.
“He’s got a few doses of medication in case his pain gets too bad. I’m finding that and some water. If he’s bleeding badly, it’ll have to wait until we can get into the light.”
“Not the third… one!” grunted Varro between gasps. “Just… give me some of the ordinary… one for now. Can’t afford… to be out of it right now.”
Salonius nodded, unseen in the dark and passed over the bag of medication for Varro. “Be careful.”
“Huh!”
“What’s he got medicine for?” Petrus asked quietly, concern suddenly filling his voice.
“He can tell you when we get out of here later. Wait!”
There was a creak as a door was opened at the far end of the room and heavy footfalls on the wooden stairs. The four refugees fell completely still in the silent darkness, the only sound the faintly laboured breathing of the wounded captain. They could hear voices through the door, but not clearly enough to discern what they were saying. The conversation stopped as the boots of two men rand out on the stone flags. Clearly the two separated at the bottom of the stairs and were searching the cellar.
Varro’s voice whispered so quietly the others barely heard the bitter humour in his voice.
“You’d better hope they’re blind or stupid or both. Your ‘not very obvious’ room’s not hidden by the shelves anymore!”
Petrus replied just as quietly “Yes it is, now shut up!”
The only sounds for what felt like hours were those of boots thumping around on the cellar floor and crates being pushed aside. Every time one of the searchers began a particularly loud action, Varro took the opportunity to gingerly unwrap the medicine in the bag. During one particularly loud scrape beyond the door, Varro lifted a water flask to his lips and swigged down his medicine.
“There’s nothing down here. Come on!”
The welcome sound of receding footsteps brought relief washing over the four hidden figures. Petrus waited around a minute after the sounds of the door closing before striking flint and steel and sparking a small oil lamp into life. The room was small, perhaps ten feet square, cold stone with shelves recessed into three of the walls. A rough straw mattress was covered with a sleeping blanket.
“Lucky for you that you only attract thick pursuers!”
In the flickering light, they could see Varro leaning against the wall, a small patch of blood staining the tunic around his wound.
“What happened to you?” their guide asked.
Varro shook his head.
“No time for that now. I’ll tell you when we get out of here. We’ll have to go really soon, but we took a very dangerous three day ride to find you. We’ll have to give it at least five minutes before we leave here to be sure, so why don’t you fill the time with words?”
Petrus smiled.
“You always were a charmer! Alright then.”
He settled back against the wall and uncorked a bottle from a narrow stone shelf.
“I’ve been here a few weeks now.”
“Start at the beginning” grumbled Varro. “Like the bit about how you don’t die?”
“Oh I should have died,” Petrus answered lightly. “That bastard Cristus would be a lot happier. I gather he’s some sort of hero for saving the fort from a barbarian horde these days?”
Varro nodded. “Prefect for over a decade now.”
Petrus gave a humourless laugh. “Prefect! Indeed. Well even back when he was still captain Cristus, there was something going on. The bastard was building up some sort of personal group of supporters inside his cohort. I’ve the feeling he was thinking he might be able to push for higher office. I saw it happening over weeks, months even; good men being brushed aside and given shit duty while his favourite lackeys got preferential treatment. But there wasn’t much I could do about it. You and me were Sabian’s men, see? He’d never put his trust in us. But still, what harm could it really do me?”
Varro glanced round at his companions and was surprised to see a look of abject fury pasted across Salonius’ features. The young man was incensed. He turned his attention back to his cousin.
“So what happened?”
“You remember the reports of the Clianii attacking Saravis? We were sent to relieve the garrison. When we got here there was no garrison. The fort had been overrun pretty much without a fight. Don’t ask me how, but I suspect Cristus had even organised that somehow. The garrison was down to a few dozen men hiding out in the land around the fort. There were a couple of small breach points in the walls, but not enough to cause the fort to fall. Cristus put those of us who were out of favour to work on the walls, repairing the structure. As senior sergeant I was left in charge of the work detail.”
“And what did his favourites do?” Salonius’ voice was thick with contempt.
“He took an honour guard and rode up the valley to meet with the chieftain of the Clianii. He was gone for a whole day. To be honest, those of us busy repairing the fort were hoping they’d dealt with him for good. We were starting to get our spirits back. The next morning we’d pretty much repaired the walls. We were putting the finishing touches to it after a day and a night’s exertions. We had guards and pickets out of course…”
“But?”
“But they were looking for barbarians…”
“What?”
“Cristus’ personal sycophant army returned early in the morning. They arrived at the camp, with no sign of the captain. Cristus’ cohort guard sergeant told me we were dismissed and could get some rest. That annoyed me. I outranked the little weasel. That should have been a warning really. We all turned in for a rest.”
He took a deep breath.
“Next think I know, I’m being woken at sword point by some Clianii bastard with a wide grin. They were all over the fort. We were marched out into the open; all of us who’d stayed behind on the work party. We were marched out to the parade ground and chained together like prisoners of war. And all the time it was happening, Cristus was sat there on the wall, with the bloody chieftain, drinking and laughing. And all his favourites lounging around and watching us get marched off.”
Salonius’ grinding teeth were audible in the quiet as he stopped. Varro sat staring at his cousin in abject shock. Catilina was shaking her head gently.
“You don’t believe me, Varro? You think he’s some kind of honourable war hero? Why are his men chasing you down then?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Varro replied slowly. “Really it isn’t. I wouldn’t put anything past Cristus and the more I learn about him the less I’m inclined to think of him as my superior. So you’ve been where these past fourteen years? Cristus killed the Clianii off…”
He slapped his head.
“He covered his tracks; and his own arse! He wiped out the tribe. He did a deal with them. Probably got more cash than the Gods, got his fame and his promotion and then went back and exterminated the whole damn tribe to cover himself!”
“Better than that,” Catilina interjected. “He lost more than a cohort during that punitive mission. That nearly cost him his new job, those high casualties. I’d be willing to bet that not a man who’d been at Saravis Fork survived that campaign.”
Varro nodded.
“Very neat. He plays half an army off against the other, makes a deal with barbarians, then kills both the barbarians and the army off and walks away rich and clean. If I didn’t hate the bastard so much, I’d have to admire him!”
Petrus leaned back and took another swig of wine.
“We were all put to work logging and mining. By the time the winter was over the conditions had killed most of us. There were maybe a score of us left and we were the strong ones. We’d tried to escape many times, but when you’re in Clianii lands in the deep mountains where can you run to? Every time we got caught we were tortured. By spring those of us left were too weak to work in the forests or mines, so the Clianii sold us on to another tribe further out. Good thing really, I suppose. Six months later the Clianii had been exterminated and we’d have gone with them if we’d still been there.”
“So where have you been since then?”
“I was put in the fields for some smaller tribe along the mountains a ways. I wasn’t much use in the fields and I think my time was nearly up pretty quick, but then they discovered I could read. That changed things. Within a year I had my own hut, fire and food. I taught the whole tribe, boys and men and women. They never quite put me in a position where I could run, though. That only came a few weeks ago.”
“Well?” Catilina urged.
“That’s really not relevant to the main issue, Catilina!”
“I want to know, Petrus.”
“Alright, I was sent out with the chieftain’s younger son and a couple of guards. We were going to buy paper from another tribe for more lessons, but the boy had something to do while we were there. Well on the way, his horse threw him. Poor sod’s back was broken on impact. He’d have been dead in a few minutes. Both the guards ran to help him. Well I didn’t. I just ran. Kicked my horse and rode south and west until the beast nearly died of exhaustion. Got back to Saravis to find everything all peaceful and nice. Still had the bag of coins to buy paper. Worth a lot to some of these tribes, so I’ve been living here for weeks waiting for you.”
Varro nodded. “How did you get a soldier to come find me? And why didn’t you come?”
“Stupid cousin! I couldn’t come on my own! I may have changed a bit, but what do you think would have happened if I turned up at Cristus’ fort and knocked on the door asking for you? The soldier was a deserter. He’d been on a four day drinking binge and decided that going back to the fort would be a death sentence. I offered him an alternative. He’s not known elsewhere and the money I gave him would have kept him drunk for a few weeks.”
Varro shook his head sadly.
“He should have stayed here and taken his punishment. Poor bastard was stabbed half a dozen times near Crow Hill.”
“So what do we do now?” Petrus held his cousin’s gaze.
“We go see Sabian. He should be safely holed up back at Vengen. He’s the man who’ll deal with all of this. We need to get to Vengen as fast as we can.”
“Agreed.” He sighed. “I guess we’ll have to steal a few horses then.”
Varro nodded and, clutching his bloody waist and wincing, slowly opened the door onto the wide cellar room. The four of them piled out, Varro and Catilina carrying their saddles and personal bags, Salonius following along behind, laden with his own kit and his companions’ saddle bags. Petrus watched the stocky young man, under his burden, climb the steps to the stable with surprising ease. He raised an eyebrow but made no comment. As he emerged from the stairway, Petrus walked across the room to the stable boy. The young lad smiled curiously at him and the scarred veteran withdrew a pouch from his tunic. He gave it a shake so that it jingled. There were maybe half a dozen coins still in it of different denominations. Ah well. He tossed the bag to the boy, whose eyes opened wide.
“Take it and piss off for about fifteen minutes lad, eh?”
The boy needed no further encouragement. A swift nod and he disappeared into the building.
Varro and his companions had already taken a quick glance into the stalls and selected three horses. As Petrus chose his own and nonchalantly lifted the owner’s saddle from the peg, the other three strapped their own saddles and kit to their stolen steeds. Less than a minute later, the four fugitives led their horses from the stable doorway and onto the grass bank. As they mounted up, Petrus pointed behind the next house.
“If we follow the embankment, it takes you most of the way to the edge of the town without going out onto the streets, but we’ll have to do a bit of classy riding. There’s back garden fences and two orchards on the route. Still, better than going out onto the street, eh?”
Catilina gave him an encouraging grin and kicked her horse into a trot.
The four riders emerged from among the last houses in the town and dropped out onto the road in relative privacy. Barring three children playing with a dog and a woman hanging out washing they were alone. Varro shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun, now beginning to disappear behind the highest peaks out to the west, and peered into the distance up the road.
“Two men on foot. We could outrun them.”
Catilina shook her head.
“Not this time, Varro. They’re enemies. Pure and simple.”
“Ok then,” Varro sighed and drew his sword. “But you’re getting out of danger. You and Petrus wait here while Salonius and I deal with them.”
The stocky young soldier nodded sagely, but Petrus glared at him.
“I think I’ve earned this, Varro!”
Salonius looked across at Varro and after a moment’s pause, the captain nodded. Salonius passed his sword to Petrus and walked his horse across to join Catilina. The two sat and watched as the cousins kicked their horses into a gallop, swords at their side, ready to swing.
“I’d not be the man to get between Petrus and an enemy,” he said to the beautiful woman by his side. I swear I heard him growling as he went.
“He’s got good reason. But then I suppose we all have. Come on, let’s go…”