Ironroot tote-2

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Ironroot tote-2 Page 4

by S. J. A. Turney


  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 rider
s, 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 att
ention 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.

 

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