The presence of the black-clad marshal’s Guard kept people at bay, though. The beggars stared at them in abject misery from alleyways; street hawkers with their stalls of random goods tried one half-hearted shout and then turned their attention to more likely targets. Five minutes of riding at a slow pace brought them to the other end of Vengen’s main street.
A small, yet heavily defensible, gate in the town walls stood open, guarded by four men. Beyond, a bridge arched out over the deep ditch between the two plateaus, wide enough to allow a cart or carriage or, in this case, three riders abreast. Salonius was impressed to note that every defensive effort had been taken even with the bridge. The parapet was smoothly rounded with no lip to allow a grapple hook. The other walls of the bridge sloped inwards as they rose such that, in the unlikely event of an attacker managing to create a stable ladder tall enough to reach, it would not settle comfortably against the stone. Even the stones themselves had been fitted flush and the cement between the blocks smooth and regularly repointed. Not a single handhold was visible anywhere on the bridge.
As they rode across the bridge, some ten yards long, he took in the walls and gate of the military sector of Vengen. Constructed earlier than the walls of the civil town, the military defences of Vengen were no less defensive or inventive. The buttresses of the towers spaced evenly around the plateau’s circumference had been cleverly embedded in the rock that formed the bulk of the plateau, carved out to allow a fusion of solid rock and stonework. War machines stood atop each tower, as they had around the town, though the towers were more tightly spaced here.
The gate to the military plateau was the first they’d reached that stood closed. The column reined in on the bridge and the commander of the guard unit accompanying them rode out to the front and announced himself. Moments later the perfectly oiled and balanced gates swung ponderously open and the commander geed his horse and led them forward into the military sector.
Despite the limits imposed by the shape and size of the rocky plateau, the military fortress of Vengen had been very carefully and efficiently organised. Salonius picked out the different sections with an eye for their construction. To the left and right of the road by the bridge stood barrack blocks in neat rows; presumably the accommodation of the standing garrison. Beyond that, two large buildings to the right held the telltale signs of a bathhouse and a hospital. The presence of fountains and water troughs, presumably fed by natural springs, bore out that opinion. Opposite stood a plethora of smaller, more utilitarian buildings: granaries, store houses, workshops and the like.
Beyond them came more barracks. These, however, were set apart from each other in organised clusters with one small office-like building fronting on to the main road. Momentarily Salonius was confused by this, until he noticed the flags and standards proudly displayed outside the small office. The ram and lightening of the Fourth Army; the scorpion and crossed swords of the Fifth; the bull and crown of the Eleventh; the Goat and Star of the First. Of course, it was standard practice for one cohort of each army to be assigned to the marshal at Vengen. The Fourth had been excused for the last few months due to being on active campaign punishing border tribes for incursions and looting. Presumably Corda and the second cohort had now taken on the assignment at Vengen.
Ahead stood the huge complex of the marshal’s palace; a mix of civilian comfort, civic government and military austerity. As he focused on it, the column once more came to a halt. Salonius and Catilina caught up with the others as Corda turned in his saddle.
“This is as far as I go for now. I’ve got to get things prepared for the second cohort when they arrive to take up residence. I expect I’ll see you all in the morning.”
Varro nodded.
“Don’t know whether the marshal’s going to want to see us tonight but I, for one, could seriously use a rest.”
A chorus of nods answered him and he even raised a small grin from the commander of the marshal’s guard. Corda gave them a brief salute, smiled a weary smile and, dismounting, led his horse between the buildings assigned to the Fourth Army.
Salonius watched him go and sighed. It would be good to sleep in a comfortable bed. With a chortle he remembered a conversation only a couple of weeks ago with one of his fellow engineers in which they had complained vociferously about the quality of the bunks in the barracks at Crow Hill. Thinking back, he realised how naive he’d been. An engineer’s bunk would have been immeasurably more comfortable than almost any of the recent places he’d spent the night wrapped in a blanket against the cold and welcoming the smell of the horses, because it meant that the beasts were close and radiating a tiny amount of heat. Bed.
“Salonius!”
He allowed his mind to focus once more and realised he’d almost drifted off wearily in the saddle and the column had begun to walk once more toward the marshal’s palace. Looking around guiltily at the waiting guardsmen and with a faint colour rising in his cheek, he walked his horse on and caught up with the others.
The great doors of the palace were only a little less defensive than the entrance to the military compound had been. Guardsmen clad in black stood above the parapet and by the doorway. They saluted as the guard commander approached and dismounted. As his heavy boots hit the ground, he adjusted his armour with the clink of chainmail and handed his reins to his second in command. Turning back to the column, he gestured to the four remaining riders.
“We’re on foot from here, gentlemen; my lady.”
Varro nodded.
“If we’re headed for the guest quarters, I know the way, commander.”
“I realise that, Captain,” the guardsman replied with a stony face, “but I have orders that you are to have guard protection at all times, and I am not about to exceed my authority just because we are within the palace.”
Varro nodded again.
“Fair enough. Feels nice that someone has our back for a change.”
They dismounted wearily and Salonius began to unhook his gear from the saddle. One of the escort leaned down.
“You can leave those, sir. We’ll have them brought to you once the horses are stabled.”
For a moment Salonius considered arguing. He didn’t like leaving his few treasured possessions in the care of someone else, no matter who they were. But still, this was a courtesy and courtesy needed repaying in kind.
“Thank you,” he replied, continuing to untie the two thongs that kept his tool roll attached. “If you have no objection, I will take this, as the contents need to be cleaned and oiled urgently.”
The guard gave him an odd look and then shrugged.
“Of course, sir.”
Salonius smiled at him and shouldered the roll, turning back to the others. He cast his eye over Varro’s horse and cleared his throat.
“Captain?”
Varro turned. “Yes?”
“You need your medicine with you. You’re overdue.”
Varro glared at him, but reached into his saddle pack and withdrew his bag of medication.
“Lead on,” he urged the guard commander and the four fell into step behind him as the tall man swept off into the palace, his black cloak billowing impressively behind him. The palace corridors continued the mixed theme of civic grandeur and military austerity. Everything was constructed of rare marble and expensive glass; the floors were panelled with black and white marble and occasional mosaics of heroic deeds. The only other decoration evident was statues and busts of Emperors, Gods and generals placed at strategic points.
Salonius noted with interest that a great emphasis had been placed on the last dynasty of Quintus and the architects of the Empire’s rebirth twenty years ago. Of course, Sabian had been a part of those momentous events, and yet no bust of the marshal was visible, evidence of his self-effacing modesty. A shrine to the Emperor at the end of the first main corridor exhibited a statue of Darius the Just, with a bust of marshal Caerdin to his right and some young man Salonius didn’t recognise, but who bore a look of infinite sadness.
Turning at the shrine, they strode on past a hall of generals and finally to an octagonal room, lit by a glazed oculus in the ceiling. Doors radiated from the room in four directions, with alcoves between them displaying the symbols of the Empire and of the Dynasty of Quintus. The commander came to a halt and rapped on one of the doors. Two black-clad guardsmen opened the door from within to show a much more utilitarian, whitewashed
