“Thank you, Martis. I’m actually going to attempt to dress myself, if you could just unstick this pad and put my dressing back on.”
The body servant nodded curtly and very carefully and slowly peeled the edges of the patch away from Varro’s wound. As the skin pulled slightly taught with each gently tug, the captain clenched his teeth and grunted. He looked down at the wound as the last of the bees’ glue came away. The mark was now a straight line of purple and grey with some ancillary bruising. It looked so innocent and belied the intense pain and complication it was causing. And then it was covered with a fresh pad and linen. Somehow, Martis had also found fresh dressing material too.
As the linen was tied off, Martis went back to his leatherwork as the captain slowly dressed, keeping every movement as slight and gentle as possible.
As he finally settled his tunic into place and shuffled round to the bunk to take a seat and lace his boots, there was another knock on the tent frame.
“Enter,” he called.
Salonius, the young engineer, pushed the heavy leather flap aside and entered in full kit, sporting a white horsehair crest and his dress cloak. In his arms he carried the captain’s plated armour, recently polished. Varro smiled and reached out to his body servant for the leather under-vest. Martis stood with it, but Salonius cleared his throat and stepped between them.
“Doctor’s orders, Sir,” he said quietly. “The chief medic gave me strict instructions that you were to travel today on one of the carts, rather than horseback, and on no account are you allowed to wear body armour.”
Varro growled.
“I’m an officer, boy. I need my armour to keep this rabble in line.”
Salonius nodded slowly. “I understand that, sir, but the sergeants can get us de-camped and on the move, and you need to put as little strain on your side as possible. Doctor’s orders, sir: tunic and cloak only.”
Varro glared at his newest guard for a moment and then seemed to arrive at a decision.
“Very well. Let’s go out and tour the cohort while they decamp; make sure they know I’m still alive. Leave the armour. It can be packed away with the rest of my things now we’re heading back to the fort.”
Salonius placed the armour gently on the bunk, and turned to escort his commander from the tent. As they exited into the crisp morning air, the young soldier thought he saw, just for a moment, a flicker of emotion pass across the face of the guard beside the door. Dislike, he thought; or possibly even hatred. Have to be careful around that man, he noted, memorising the guard’s face with its flinty eyes and lantern jaw.
Taking a deep breath, Varro strode out with as normal a gait as he could manage, and began the walk down the slight incline to the tents. Salonius stayed to one side and slightly to his rear, enough to display the respect due a senior officer, yet close enough to grasp the captain should he suddenly falter.
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.
