“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
