clutched at his neck, blood spraying finely between his fingers. He was done for. The captain grunted as he watched his opponent fall away onto his backside, clutching his neck and rocking gently back and forth as the colour drained slowly from his face.
The captain turned to move forward, and his left leg buckled. Perhaps the wound in his side had been worse than he thought. He glanced down to see his leg, soaked in crimson, shaking wildly. Damn that ignorant savage and his stolen blade. Cursing gently, Varro sank to his knees as his leg gave way again. With a growl, he toppled gently to the blood-soaked grass.
The second wave of infantry passed by, stepping carefully around him. The battle wouldn’t pause for a fallen man, whether he be soldier, captain or even the prefect himself. That was one of the great advantages of the Imperial war machine. Everyone knew his place and his task so well that when battle was joined the whole affair could continue smoothly even with a loss of command. He watched with growing annoyance as the second cohort passed their captain by, moving swiftly to support the first line in the carnage. The crash of steel on steel and cries of victory and agony swept over the battlefield like a blanket of sound as Varro pulled himself upright to look at the hill. It would soon be over.
Tentatively he prodded his side where the blow, either lucky or very well aimed, had slid between his skirt of leather strops and the lowest plate of his body armour. His eyes filled instantly as the pain lanced through his body once more.
“Damn it! A portent of great things eh?” he snapped.
And then somebody pushed his hand away from his side and he glanced round to see one of the field medics crouched beside him, rummaging in his bag. With a wave of his arm the medic called over two orderlies with a stretcher.
“Lie still, Captain,” the man uttered in a low voice as he quickly and efficiently packed and bound the wound. “You’re losing quite a bit of blood, but you’re very lucky. A few weeks and you’ll be out front again. An inch higher and I’d be putting coins on your eyes now.”
Varro struggled for a suitable reply, but the medic stood as soon as he’d tied off the bandage and disappeared across the field. With a sigh, Varro gave up on conversation, gritting his teeth against the pain while the two orderlies lifted him as gently as they could onto the stretcher. Glancing once more at the wound, the captain noted in irritation that the medic had snipped away three of the leather strops to bind him. That was going to cost.
As he was hoisted to shoulder height, the captain lifted his head a little to glance across the battlefield. The barbarian army had been boxed in and was shrinking by the minute. The whole thing would likely be over before he’d even reached the makeshift hospital at the camp. He clicked his tongue in irritation.
“Busy day for you gentlemen?” he enquired of the two stocky orderlies bearing him away from the field.
“Every day’s a busy day sir. If we’re not in battle, you’d be surprised how often we deal with frostbite and infections and all sorts. Wish they’d post us back down south where it’s warm.”
The other orderly gave a gruff laugh.
“Then there’s the other kind of infection too. We get a lot of that.”
Varro smiled. At least he could be proud of his scar. He rolled his head around and craned his neck awkwardly to see in the direction they were taking; it was making him irritable watching the battle progressing so well without him. He saw the two units of archers attached to the Fourth as he passed and they looked glummer than he. Command instructions had determined that the deployment of missile troops and artillery today would be unnecessary and wasteful, as the odds were so favourable anyway; and everyone knew Cristus had a certain mistrust of indirect warfare. The unit looked as bored as the artillery engineers who stood behind them, chewing on their lips as they watched the distant action.
With another smile, he beckoned to one of the engineers as he passed.
“You there!”
The engineer, startled at the unlooked-for attention from a senior officer, saluted and then ran over to the bobbing stretcher.
“Sir?” He looked nervous.
Varro hoisted himself as best he could onto his side, eliciting groans of discomfort from the two men carrying him.
“Go and find me a flask of something alcoholic and bring it to the hospital. I don’t mind what it is so long as it’s alcoholic. I’ll pay you double what it cost you when you get there.”
The engineer’s eyes lit up and he nodded and saluted before scurrying off to find his prize. Varro leaned back again to find one of the orderlies watching him with a raised eyebrow.
“Something you want to say, soldier?”
“Not me sir,” the orderly replied, “but probably the doctor will.”
“You let me deal with the doctor.”
He lay back again and groaned at every slight shift in the stretcher. He’d been wounded plenty of times of course, in almost twenty five years of service. Indeed, his first major wound had come in the civil war and he’d been quite lucky to live long enough to see the new Emperor installed at Velutio. But still, every wound was a fresh worry. He wasn’t as young as he’d been then, and he was taking longer to heal these days. And however lightly the field medic’s tone had been, he knew the feel of a more major wound and he’d be damn lucky to be in combat in a fortnight. Maybe a month or two.
His face turned sour at the thought of two months’ enforced convalescence; he’d never make it. He was still grumbling to himself about the stupidity of allowing distractions in battle to take his mind off the target when he realised they’d passed into the camp and were approaching the huge leather hospital tent. The smell was foul, but they’d only be here until the morning, then they’d all be heading back to the fort at Crow Hill to await the return of the prefect and inform him of his glorious victory.
He watched with some distaste as they passed the first wave of wounded who’d been brought in from the initial charge. Surprisingly light casualties, he supposed, but a grisly sight nonetheless and precious little consolation for the infantryman sitting outside the tent waiting for attention while he held his severed left arm in his right. Damn that Cristus for denying the archers and artillery. The man may have been a war hero, but whether he distrusted missile units or not, he should have taken every opportunity to thin out their ranks before the fight. The prefect may be lucky and with a record of victories but he was certainly no great tactician.
Mulling over what he perceived as the prefect’s mistakes and what he would have done differently, he issued another grunt as the two orderlies laid his stretcher inside the doorway of the huge tent. He spent long minutes listening to the groans and general hubbub of the hospital until one of the attendants strode over to where he lay.
“Captain Varro. You’ll have to bear with us for a minute, I’m afraid. Scortius is dealing with an amputation, but he’ll be free shortly.”
He crouched and examined the captain’s side, gently lifting aside the temporary dressing. With a nod he stood once more. “You’ll be fine.”
Varro grumbled and winced as he shuffled slightly on the uncomfortable stretcher.
“So long as I don’t spend an hour lying in a doorway I will.”
The attendant smiled and strode across to the line of wounded stacked along the outer facing of the huge leather tent. Varro watched him probing wounds and marking a I, II or III on them with a charcoal stick. The order of severity of their case; he’d seen it often enough to know his wound would rate a II at best, possibly even a III. Privilege of rank made him a I though.
“Varro?”
The captain turned to see Scortius, Chief Medical Officer of the Fourth, standing above him with blood-stained arms folded and an amused expression on his hawk-like face.
“Are you trying to get out of the paperwork?” the doctor barked. “How in the name of four hells did you manage to get yourself stabbed in the first five minutes? When are you going to learn to stand at the back?”
Varro grunted. Scortius knew full well why an officer led from the front, but over two decades of service together the pair had come to know one another very well and Scortius never passed up an opportunity to poke fun at the captain.
“Just shut up and stitch me, Scortius. I haven’t the time to lie in your doorway and bleed to death.”
The doctor laughed and craned his neck to glance across at the attendant, kneeling with the wounded.
