As Varro gradually emerged from the swimmy effects of the drug, he glanced at his side. A fresh bandage covered his wound with a small red stain blossoming.
“Should it be leaking?” he asked absently.
Scortius shook his head as he rummaged on his desk for something.
“It’s only a little seepage; no harm. It’ll stop within the hour.”
The captain swung himself around on the table and dropped his feet over the side. The sudden movement pulled at his wound and he winced. Scortius tutted.
“Don’t be stupid. Do everything carefully for at least a few days. No duties of any kind. See me every day for the next three days and after that only when you feel the need.”
“Here;” he said brusquely, thrusting out a hand. Varro peered myopically at it, his sight still a touch blurred. A small pouch sat in the open hand. He raised an eyebrow and looked quizzically up at the doctor, who sighed.
“I know you well enough to know you’re not going to lay off the booze while you heal, so I’m a bit limited with what I can give you that’ll work well. Let one of these dissolve in liquid and then drink it when you get up and in the mid evening. It’ll lessen the pain and hopefully stop any infection. If it doesn’t do enough for you, you’ll just have to lay off the drink and I’ll give you something better. Now be a good chap and disappear; I’ve plenty of other patients waiting.”
Varro slowly slid from the table, almost collapsing in a heap as his feet took his weight.
“Want me to get an orderly to help you back to your tent?”
Varro grunted and waved a hand, not trusting himself to speak without whimpering. Steadying himself against the table, he waited a moment for his head to clear a little further and then took a tentative step toward the open flap into the main hospital tent. As his leg straightened and he moved forward, pain rushed up and then down his side, a pain so intense he almost cried out. Gritting his teeth, he took another step, making sure to balance most of his weight on the good side. Less pain this time; good. He took a deep breath and then realised that someone behind him was clearing his throat. He turned and almost lost his balance again as the white fire exploded around his body. Scortius still had his hand extended with the bag of herbs and a maddening smile. Varro grunted again, snatched the bag and turned as fast and purposefully as he dared before limping painfully out into the main room.
The scene here was blood and chaos. He tried not to actually see too much detail of the activity and was immensely grateful that his mind still seemed to be stuffed with something fluffy. Turning slightly he spotted the main tent doorway and the bright sunlight beyond. Being careful not to slip in the various nauseating pools inside the hospital, he straightened himself as much as he could, as befitted an officer, and tried his best to stride from the tent. In all, he managed seven purposeful steps before he had to stop, his teeth clenched and eyes shut tight against the pain. At least he’d reached the doorway. He realised as the pain subsided, that the thing he had gripped in his painful moment had not been the tent frame as he’d thought, but the shoulder of a soldier.
He stood for a moment, letting his eyes focus and gradually a smile crept across his lips. The eager face of the young engineer regarded him with concern, but Varro’s smiling countenance passed that and his eyes fell on the bottle the soldier was holding tightly.
“You found something? Out here? Well, well, well. Help me back to my tent and I’ll pay you for it.”
Without a word, the engineer ducked to one side and grasped Varro’s wrist, draping the arm across his shoulder. Slowly and with great care, Varro and the young engineer picked their way through the viscera, blood and piles of used bandaging and out into the open, past the lines of wounded waiting their turns. The first waft of fresh air hit him and, as the wind changed again bringing with it the sickly-sweet smell of the hospital tent, the captain stopped, bent forward as far as his pain would allow, and vomited copiously onto the grass.
“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.