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 t
o 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.”
Ironroot (Tales of the Empire) Page 10