Ironroot (Tales of the Empire) Page 3

  “Mare’s mead,” he whispered in hushed tones. “Don’t overdo it as I’m going to be putting you on other medication in a minute and for Gods’ sake don’t tell anyone. This stuff is concentrated and I want you happy and quiet when I sew this up.”

  Varro grunted again and took the proffered flask, lifting it gingerly to his lips and taking a swig.

  “By the Gods that’s strong”, he choked in a hoarse voice.

  “I warned you. Now shut up and go numb while I work.”

  The next quarter hour or so passed in a haze for the wounded captain, who watched with placid and euphoric interest as metal objects and swabs were thrust under his ribcage and a surprising quantity of his lifeblood sprayed out and ran down the table leg. He later vaguely remembered chuckling at something, though the first thing he truly recalled was the sting as Scortius slapped him several times across the cheeks.

  “Come on, wake up you old goat. All done and I need the table. I’ve just had the standard bearer of the sixth cohort brought in.” He patted his apron.” Can’t find my needle. Oh well; if you feel anything sharp when you bend in the middle, we’ve found it. Come on,” he urged, gently shaking the captain’s shoulder, “look lively.”

  As Varro gradually emerged from the swimmy effects of the drug, he glanced at his side. A fresh bandage covered his wound with a small red stain blossoming.

  “Should it be leaking?” he asked absently.

  Scortius shook his head as he rummaged on his desk for something.

  “It’s only a little seepage; no harm. It’ll stop within the hour.”

  The captain swung himself around on the table and dropped his feet over the side. The sudden movement pulled at his wound and he winced. Scortius tutted.

  “Don’t be stupid. Do everything carefully for at least a few days. No duties of any kind. See me every day for the next three days and after that only when you feel the need.”

  “Here;” he said brusquely, thrusting out a hand. Varro peered myopically at it, his sight still a touch blurred. A small pouch sat in the open hand. He raised an eyebrow and looked quizzically up at the doctor, who sighed.

  “I know you well enough to know you’re not going to lay off the booze while you heal, so I’m a bit limited with what I can give you that’ll work well. Let one of these dissolve in liquid and then drink it when you get up and in the mid evening. It’ll lessen the pain and hopefully stop any infection. If it doesn’t do enough for you, you’ll just have to lay off the drink and I’ll give you something better. Now be a good chap and disappear; I’ve plenty of other patients waiting.”

  Varro slowly slid from the table, almost collapsing in a heap as his feet took his weight.

  “Want me to get an orderly to help you back to your tent?”

  Varro grunted and waved a hand, not trusting himself to speak without whimpering. Steadying himself against the table, he waited a moment for his head to clear a little further and then took a tentative step toward the open flap into the main hospital tent. As his leg straightened and he moved forward, pain rushed up and then down his side, a pain so intense he almost cried out. Gritting his teeth, he took another step, making sure to balance most of his weight on the good side. Less pain this time; good. He took a deep breath and then realised that someone behind him was clearing his throat. He turned and almost lost his balance again as the white fire exploded around his body. Scortius still had his hand extended with the bag of herbs and a maddening smile. Varro grunted again, snatched the bag and turned as fast and purposefully as he dared before limping painfully out into the main room.

  The scene here was blood and chaos. He tried not to actually see too much detail of the activity and was immensely grateful that his mind still seemed to be stuffed with something fluffy. Turning slightly he spotted the main tent doorway and the bright sunlight beyond. Being careful not to slip in the various nauseating pools inside the hospital, he straightened himself as much as he could, as befitted an officer, and tried his best to stride from the tent. In all, he managed seven purposeful steps before he had to stop, his teeth clenched and eyes shut tight against the pain. At least he’d reached the doorway. He realised as the pain subsided, that the thing he had gripped in his painful moment had not been the tent frame as he’d thought, but the shoulder of a soldier.

  He stood for a moment, letting his eyes focus and gradually a smile crept across his lips. The eager face of the young engineer regarded him with concern, but Varro’s smiling countenance passed that and his eyes fell on the bottle the soldier was holding tightly.

  “You found something? Out here? Well, well, well. Help me back to my tent and I’ll pay you for it.”

  Without a word, the engineer ducked to one side and grasped Varro’s wrist, draping the arm across his shoulder. Slowly and with great care, Varro and the young engineer picked their way through the viscera, blood and piles of used bandaging and out into the open, past the lines of wounded waiting their turns. The first waft of fresh air hit him and, as the wind changed again bringing with it the sickly-sweet smell of the hospital tent, the captain stopped, bent forward as far as his pain would allow, and vomited copiously onto the grass.

  “Come on sir,” the engineer said comfortingly, “let’s get away from this.”

  Varro nodded, wiping his chin with his wrist, and the two slowly wound their way through the supply and fabrication tents and off into the main part of the camp, away from the grisly sights, sounds and smells of the hospital. Along the deserted lines of identical bleached leather tents they staggered, through the quarters of the second cohort and finally, at the end of the ordered rows, to the command tents. Here, larger campaign tents had been pitched for the senior officers of the cohort, the largest being Varro’s own, subdivided by an interior wall and serving as both quarters and headquarters.

  The captain limped straight through the main tent and into the private quarters, where he slowly and carefully lowered himself onto the bunk with the young engineer’s help. The soldier, satisfied that his superior was safely settled, placed the bottle on a small three-legged stool and slid the makeshift table in front of the officer. Varro smiled and reached out to the desk nearby for a goblet. The sudden careless action brought a fiery, white blinding pain that almost caused him to topple forward off the bed. The engineer rushed forward and grasped Varro’s arm, steadying him. The captain breathed in shallowly, little more than a gasp, his eyes watering and, not trusting himself to speak, he pointed, wincing, at the tray of goblets on the desk and held up two fingers.

  The young soldier raised his eyebrows.

  “Are you asking me to join you sir? My sergeant’ll be wondering where I am.”

  Varro winced again and bit his cheek, pushing the pain down and away to where he could deal with it. A handy little trick a Pelasian mercenary had once taught him.

  “It’s all in the mind,” he muttered to himself, and then looked up at the engineer and smiled. “Pull up a seat and get two goblets. If your sergeant has anything to say, send him to me. I might be wounded worse than I thought and I’d rather have someone with me right now. Besides, drinking alone is for sad old men and lush women; not for soldiers.”

  As the engineer collected two goblets and placed them on the small makeshift table and dragged a small chest across for a seat, Varro tentatively prodded his side and winced once more.

  “Usually my second in command’s here with me. Missed his support on the field today. I daresay this wouldn’t have happened if he’d been there.”

  The young engineer nodded uncertainly. Sitting in the presence of such a senior officer seemed unthinkable, let alone speaking to one in such a familiar fashion. He cleared his throat.

  “Sergeant Corda wasn’t here today sir?”

  “No. He was given the dubious honour of commanding the prefect’s guard. He’s been gone since yesterday morning delivering Cristus to the command meeting at Vengen. Typical High Command, to draw an army’s commander in chief away during a campaign
for mindless bureaucracy, though I can’t imagine the day would have turned out any different if he’d been here.”

  The young engineer scanned the face of the captain, wondering how he had become involved in such a personal conversation with the most senior officer in the cohort. There was a misty film across Varro’s eyes, attesting to both the seriousness of the pain underlying his light conversation and the lingering effects of the doctor’s concoction. While every ounce of his training told him that this was wrong and he should make his excuses and respectfully bow out of the command tent, how could he leave the captain right now when he stood a very real chance of falling over at any moment? The young soldier swallowed nervously and gave the conversation a gentle prod.

  “I’ve heard tell that sergeant Corda is the longest serving non-commissioned officer in the fourth army, sir.”

  Varro shook his head, fuzzily.

  “Still feel groggy. That M…” He paused and corrected himself quickly. “Scortius’ concoction must’ve been strong.”

  The engineer nodded respectfully. “That’s probably a good thing sir,” he replied quietly.

  The captain sat for a long moment, focusing on the young man, shook his head once again, and waved his hand in the direction of the small stool bearing the goblets.

  “You do the honours while I start as I mean to go on,” he rumbled, as he fished in the small pouch Scortius had given him and dropped some of the contents into one of the goblets.

  The engineer carefully filled the goblets, pouring the dark wine across the medicinal herbs in one and, replacing the wine bottle, reached up for the jug to water down the heady liquid. Varro lunged forward, gently knocking aside the water jug and wincing with the sudden sharp and violent pain that lashed him. As he slowly and carefully let out a measured breath and the pain subsided, he noticed the look of concern on the young soldier’s face. He waved his arm dismissively.

  “Smells like good wine. Don’t waste it with water. B’sides, I think the stronger the better right now.”

  The engineer nodded uncertainly and replaced the water jug.

  “Perhaps I should go, sir? You need to rest.”

  Varro frowned and, moving as slowly and carefully as possible, leaned forward, bringing his face close to his companion’s.

  “Frankly, soldier, I’m groggy, in pretty constant pain, daren’t stand in case I topple and can’t reach out for fear of opening the wound up, so you stay. Where were we? Mind’s getting a little hazy.”

  The young man nodded. “Sergeant Corda, Sir.”

  “Ah yes. Known Corda since before there was a regular army; back in the days of the private armies. We were both on the field when Darius took the throne. Hell, I got splashed with Velutio’s blood when his head came off. ‘Course we were both non-commissioned then. There’s not a man in the army, nay the Empire, that I trust more than Corda.”

  He reached down gingerly and took a deep pull from the goblet, wiping his hand across his mouth. He eyed the young engineer from beneath arched brows.

  “How old are you lad?”

  “Nineteen sir.”

  Varro smiled. “You won’t really remember the chaos, do you? Before the Emperor?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “Actually sir, I was born to one of the tribes on the border. We weren’t really counted as part of the Empire then. It’s only since the borders have been settled we’ve even been allowed to enlist again.”

  The captain continued to nod slowly, mulling back over the last few sentences when a thought struck him and his brow furrowed. He took another sip and shuffled back onto the bunk.

  “You’re from one of the tribes up here?”

  The young engineer looked up at the captain, his face worried. “Yes sir. I’m totally committed to the Empire, though. I…”

  Varro waved aside the boy’s uncomfortable defensiveness.

  “I’m not suggesting anything, lad. I’ve some questions, though.”

  The young man nodded nervously and Varro continued.

  “My knowledge of the Gods of these tribes is fairly limited, but I know a little. The white stag is Cernus, yes?”

  The engineer nodded. “That’s right sir. Cernus of the beasts; Lord of the woodlands and more. He’s a symbol of nobility and pride.”

  Varro squinted through the growing haze in his mind. He stared down into the almost empty goblet where the dregs of the wine lapped at the bedraggled remnants of the herbal mixture. Perhaps he’d underestimated the effects of Scortius’ medicine? Once more he forced himself to focus on the young man. Couldn’t afford to fall asleep quite yet. He was on the edge of something… something important. If only he could think what it was.

  “Cernus. He’s connected with chieftainship, isn’t he?”

  “Yes sir,” the young man took a sip of the wine and tipped his head to one side, unsure of the direction the conversation was taking. “He’s a God of portents and change. Just seeing him can alter a person’s life. Some see him on more than one occasion, but still not often. There’s the tale of Faenn An Ghalaeg who was visited by the Stag Lord each full moon, but then that’s just a legend and he ended up becoming a God himself.”

  He noted the look on his commander’s face and swallowed nervously. “Of course, it’s all just barbarian folklore, sir.”

  Varro shook his head. “Don’t put your origins down, lad. Only a fool believes he knows everything about the world. In some places the Imperial Raven and Wolf still hold little sway.”

  The engineer continued to watch the captain carefully. The older officer’s eyes were starting to glaze and were already half closed.

  “I think it’s time I went sir. You need to sleep.”

  Varro nodded, his eyes flickering a couple of times and then focusing once more on his companion.

  “You’re probably right, soldier. I want to speak to you again. Tell your sergeant that you’re excused departure duties in the morning. Report to my tent at reveille.” His eyes flicked closed once again, and it took the young man only a second to realise his commander was already asleep. He leapt forward and caught the captain, allowing the goblet to fall away and roll under the bunk while he gently lowered Varro down to the soft pillow.

  Bending, he replaced the goblet on the tray, corked the bottle and quietly backed out of the tent, closing the flap as he left.

  Chapter Two

  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.