The wagon driver and his superior exchanged brief words, and then the sergeant saluted and rode back to join his companions at the head of the engineering column. The driver untied the bag of goods strapped down to the seat next to him and hauled them into the back of the cart with one enormous arm while continuing to steer with the other. He turned back and grinned at Varro, revealing a wide mouth and large square teeth, two of which had been replaced with what appeared to be iron facsimiles. Glancing with a sort of horrified fascination at the man, Varro couldn’t decide whether he looked more like a blacksmith or a pit fighter.
Matching his horse’s pace with the roll of the wagon, Varro slipped out of the saddle as gracefully as he could, wincing and emitting a small, involuntary squeak, and planted his feet on the board below the wagon’s seat. Still holding the reins, he slid onto the seat and then tied his horse off to one of the many hooks on the wagon’s side. A quick glance and the captain was satisfied that Targus was happily walking alongside.
With a groan of comfort, he lounged back on the wagon’s seat and stretched languidly. Reaching into his pouch, he withdrew his flask containing a mix of one part wine with five parts water. Tipping some of Scortius’ herbal pain mixture into the almost empty flask, he shook it to mix and dissolve the medicine before taking a long swig. The relief began to trickle through him even before he returned the flask to its pocket. Closing his eyes, he raised his face skywards. While he knew he was still surrounded by the immense cloud of dust thrown up by marching feet, walking horses and rolling wheels, with his eyes closed he could feel the heat of the sun beating down on him, even through the muck. If he concentrated on the idea and turned his thoughts inwards, he could almost drown out the cacophony going on around him and imagine he was somewhere peaceful and pleasant. Almost. Ah well. Peace was not a soldier’s lot, he thought to himself humorously.
He opened his eyes and started. His travelling companion’s bearded and shiny head was only a foot away from his own, peering at him with that increasingly disturbing grin. Varro returned the smile weakly, and then closed his eyes again and began to drift off into thoughts; a stream of consciousness.
What the hell was Sabian doing coming to the fort? True, it was well known that Cristus was Sabian’s favourite prefect, but that was based on events decades ago. Oh certainly Cristus was an adequate commander, but the captain had served under some of the best, including Sabian himself before the reconstitution of the Imperial army, and the prefect was far from that league. His flat refusal to place any reliance on archers or catapults had cost them dearly today, and had done in several previous engagements. In fact, his decision to surrender the terrain in favour of some largely-imagined lighting advantage gave Varro rise to question whether the commander should have been involved in planning the strategy of the battle at all. The officers could have altered the battle plan once he’d left without him ever finding out.
But still, it was a captain’s job to command his men and to carry out the orders of his prefect without calling the man’s ability into question. There was no doubt at all that Cristus was lucky, and likely that luck had carried him throughout his career. And yet he must have been a hell of a commander early on in his career.
“What, sir?”
Varro stirred from his reverie, opening his eyes suddenly and blinking, the effects of Scortius’ drug now beginning to draw a cloth of hazy whiteness across his mind. He turned his head to find the bulky engineer peering at him questioningly with his brown furrowed.
“Sorry?” said the captain in confusion. “What was that?”
The big man frowned. “You said ‘lucky bastard’, sir. Sorry if you was asleep. Din’t mean to wake you. Just thought you might been talkin’ to me.”
“Ah, no soldier. Just ruminating aloud.”
He looked at the deepening look of confusion on the big man’s face and adjusted his thinking once again.
“Just thinking on things; on the prefect.”
“Ah,” replied the engineer in a flat voice, “the prefect sir. Yes sir.”
“You don’t approve of the prefect, soldier?”
The big man rumbled for a moment, his expression changing several times in the process.
“Not my place to say, sir.”
Varro nodded. It certainly wasn’t, but whether because of the effects of the medicine, or purely due to his own need to vent his feelings, he found himself sympathising with the quiet giant beside him on the wagon seat.
“Tell you what, soldier,” he said, settling back into a relaxed posture and closing his eyes, partially due to the slight haze that seemed to have settled over them, and partially because of the ever-present dust. “There’s only you and me in earshot and I’m wounded and drugged and tired and I just can’t be bothered to stand on ceremony. I give you permission to freely speak your mind. Even if I remember this, I’ll not report anything.”
The engineer cleared his throat nervously.
“Well sir… I don’t think the prefect likes us, sir.” The big man recoiled slightly as though expecting a blow, but the captain merely opened one eye and scrutinised him briefly before closing it again.
“I think you’re right. He’s never trusted missiles of any type. And before you say it, yes, I think that’s short sighted, wasteful and probably just plain stupid.”
The big man frowned again.
“But why would someone so important throw away good men because he don’t like a catapult, sir?”
Varro shrugged as best he could, given the limitations imposed by his wound and the plain wooden bench.
“Some people are set in their ways, and not all of them are good ways. In one respect we’re lucky. The prefect may create strategies or make decisions we don’t agree with, but he’s got the luck of the Gods. I can name at least three engagements we’ve been in over the years that we should by all rights have lost, but he’s managed to pull out of the fire at the last minute and turn it around.”
“Yessir,” the big engineer nodded, “but maybe he shouldn’t ’ve put his men in that shit in the first place, sir?”
Varro opened his eyes again and gave the man a flinty look.
“Speak freely, but be careful. That’s still our commander you’re talking about. Respect where it’s due…” he growled, “even if it isn’t.”
The engineer nodded.
“’Course sir. Never meant anything by it.”
Varro laughed a short and sharp laugh.
“Whatever you say, soldier. Just remember, the man’s a war hero. And the marshal’s favourite.”
The big man scratched his beard reflectively with his free hand.
“War hero sir?”
Varro blinked. “You don’t know the history of your own prefect?”
“Only been serving five years sir, and the engineers… well we don’t really get to hang around with the rest, sir. Camp regulations keeps us in our own stockade. Where we can’t do no harm, so my sergeant says.”
“He does, does he?” Varro smiled coldly.
“We engineers is kind of second class soldiers in the Fourth, sir. No use denying it. We all know it. But we’re happy anyway.”
Varro shook his head irritably.
“Shouldn’t be like that. Maybe the prefect was better cut out to be a captain. He was a damn good captain. Won his reputation at Saravis Fork over a decade ago.”
The burly man raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“The Clianii are the big tribe up there” Varro said wearily. “Back… what fourteen? Fifteen years ago? Something like that… there was a series of invasions by northern tribes. Cristus was a captain in the Second Army under Sabian at the time. He was sent to Saravis Fork to relieve the garrison of the fort there.”