The column had been rumbling across the landscape for half a day, the immense cloud of dust thrown up into the air by an entire army on the move making the beautiful azure blue sky somewhat difficult to see. The adjutant and the senior staff, along with the flag and standard bearers, rode as the vanguard, in the clear and open air. Behind them came the various ancillary officers, camp staff and the like, followed by the six cohorts themselves in numerical order and finally the engineers and the baggage train, slowly grinding away the miles.
Some half a mile behind the column came the army’s provosts with the prisoners taken the previous day, staggering along in three lines, chained together to be ransomed, sold or executed at the marshal’s whim later.
Varro sat astride his horse at the head of the second, blinking regularly to keep the dust from his eyes and wincing with every step of his horse. After only an hour of travel, he’d realised why Scortius had wanted him in a cart. By the second hour, his wound had begun to leak again slightly and, though it was a seep rather than a flow, by now, nine hours into the journey, his left leg was soaked with crusty dried blood and coated with dust. When they finally reached the fort it would take more than a quick dip to clean all this off.
He glanced over his shoulder at the command guard of the second, fifteen now off-white crests in three lines of five, riding silently behind him. With a quick motion to the guard to continue on as they were, he wheeled his horse and gently walked it out of the column, continuing a hundred yards or so until the cloud of disturbed dust swirled behind him and he could breathe fresh, untainted air. The summer sun shone down on a verdant green landscape, quite beautiful even with the disturbances of thousands of marching boots; a landscape most of the column would barely see through the dust.
Stopping his horse, the captain took several deep, clean and satisfying breaths. Perhaps he should request a break in the march? As he sat astride Targus, his bay colt, scanning the hills to the west, his eyes caught a brief sign of movement. Suddenly alert, he strained and focused on the shapes and slowly they swam into focus: perhaps a dozen or so riders. Some were clearly armoured, glittering in the sun. And then he saw the flag being borne by one of the riders, and recognised the black banner with the silver ram and bolt of lightning. With a sigh of relief, he kicked his horse into a trot once more and set off at a tangent to intercept the approaching riders, safe in the knowledge that no barbarians would be stupid enough to try a ruse against such a large armoured column. Besides, they’d broken the back of the local tribes yesterday.
As the party of a dozen riders slowed to a trot and hauled on the reins to pull alongside Varro and his mount, he recognised the pale face of Corda, his second in command, covered by his helmet and partially hidden behind the bandana pulled up across the lower half and hiding the thick, black beard. The dozen men were the second cohort’s contribution to the prefect’s honour guard. As Varro drew his steed to a halt, the riders also stopped, saluting their commander wearily. Varro grinned as his second in command untied the bandana, revealing the yet paler skin of his lower face, framed with his dark beard and untouched by the dust of travel. Corda, never a man given to frivolity, displayed his usual scowl, which deepened as he spotted the dried blood encrusting his superior’s leg.
“Sergeant,” Varro greeted him happily, “a sight for sore eyes, if ever there was one.”
Corda’s intense pale blue-grey eyes bored into the captain’s, carrying an air of disapproval.
“Captain,” he said at last, his voice surprisingly low and soft. “What the hell have they done to you?”
Varro shook his head. “It’s not bad, Corda. Scortius has sorted it, but I’ve sort of bounced it open on the horse.”
The sergeant opened his mouth to speak again, his eyes flashing angrily, but Varro interjected before he had the chance.
“Scortius did a good job, Corda, and I know I should be in the wounded carts, but I’d rather this than have to sit among the stench of serious injuries for a day or two, so forget about it.”
The sergeant sat still and silent for a few seconds, his eyes locked on his commander’s, until he was sure his point was made and his opinion noted.
“Very well sir. Permission to dismiss the guard?”
Varro nodded, and the sergeant turned and waved at the other riders, who saluted once again and then rode off past their officers to join their companions in the cohort’s cavalry squadron. As soon as they were out of earshot and sight of the two commanders, Corda’s attentive position relaxed and he slumped wearily in the saddle.
“Ok, Varro. Tell me everything, including how the hell you ended up in this state.”
The captain sighed. Corda was the quintessential sergeant among the cohort and the linchpin around which the unit moved, but on a personal level, the two had come up through the ranks together so many years ago that it was impossible now to feel any level of superiority over him when the two were alone. And, of course, Corda knew him perhaps better than he knew himself.
“I was unlucky. That’s all there is to it. I saw some barbarian bastard with a nice sword he’d stolen from an Imperial officer and I took it personally. Seems he did too. The doctor wasn’t concerned and the medics all reckon I’ll be fine in a few weeks. Now you need to tell me what you’re doing here. You’re supposed to be in Vengen with the prefect.”
Corda nodded wearily and shrugged his shoulders, allowing the interlocking plates of his armour to settle into a new and slightly more comfortable position. The standard Imperial kit was highly protective and certainly better than the chain mail the army had once worn, but it left a great deal to be desired when on horseback.
“We’re all on the way home,” the sergeant replied, rubbing the dusty upper half of his face with his bandana. “The prefect doesn’t particularly need his full honour guard to protect him on the way back.”
Varro raised an eyebrow questioningly.
The sergeant let his bandana fall back down to his neck and took a deep breath.
“Marshal Sabian’s coming with him.”
“The marshal?” Varro whistled through his teeth. “I suppose this latest round of victories has earned the prefect more attention and honours. I wonder if he’s just going to hole up at Crow Hill with the staff, or whether he might want all the unit commanders involved.”
Corda nodded. “That’s why the prefect sent me on ahead. He wants to make sure the entire army’s spick and span when they arrive at the fort and everything’s organised for a high command visit. I’m not sure it’s really necessary. You know Sabian. He’d rather things worked well than looked nice.”
“What else?” Varro narrowed his eyes.
Corda shifted uneasily.
“Sorry?”
“I said what else?” Varro growled. “You’re avoiding telling me something.”
The stocky sergeant cleared his throat and sighed.
“Catilina’s coming with him.”
He watched his captain intently, but Varro merely sat astride his horse for a moment and then shrugged.
“It’s been a long time. She might not even remember me.”
Corda smiled a rare smile and gave his superior a light punch in the upper arm.
“You’re a hell of a sight better at fooling yourself than me, so don’t even try. This is what we’re going to do: Firstly, you’re going to go to either the engineer or quartermaster sergeant and travel on one of their wagons. Not comfortable, but at least you won’t shake yourself to bits or be jammed in with the wounded…”
Varro waved a hand to interrupt, but Corda knocked his gesturing finger aside and continued, raising his voice slightly.
“When you’re settled, I’m going to have a medic sent back to you so he can get that wound fixed back up and sort you out. I’m quite capable of leading the cohort back to the fort and you know that. I’ll go find the medics and deliver my message to the adjutant, then I’ll take command.”
Once again, Varro opened his mouth to speak, but Corda pointed purposefully at him and went on.
“And when we get back to the fort, you’re going to head straight off to the baths and get yourself clean and tidy, while Martis goes to sort out your dress uniform. We’ll only be a few hours ahead of the marshal, even if we rush, and you need to look commanding and a little bit dangerous, if you know what I mean.”
A low rumbling growl rose in Varro’s throat.
“I am not primping for a visit from the high command. I’m not a young social climber.”
“Not for the marshal, you idiot!” Corda laughed. “For his daughter.”
Varro furrowed his brows but said nothing for a long moment. Finally he sighed. “Well I suppose you’re right about my wound and the cart at least. Let’s get back to the column.”
