“You’ve been on mare’s mead,” she said with a note of accusation. “Or something stronger, possibly. Whatever it is, you don’t look well.”
Finally Varro found his voice. It wasn’t as strong as he’d like, but still clear enough in the cool evening air.
“I’m fine, Lady Sabianus.” He stressed the title a little too much. “A little battered, but I’m fine. I’m due to see Scortius sometime today…” He looked around the street, now almost dark with the sun fully set. “Tonight, I suppose.”
Catilina glared at him.
“You need to see him now, Varro. Not later. I’ll have two of the guard escort you.”
Varro waved his hands at her in a way he hoped looked pleasantly admonishing and shook his head, which threatened to send his brain spinning once more. The queasiness came again in a sudden blast but was, fortunately, gone in a flash.
“I’m going to see him later,” he replied flatly. “Right now, I’m going home for a while. I haven’t eaten for a year or so, my stomach tells me.”
For a long moment the two held each others’ gaze, locked in a battle of wills, until Catilina looked away, folding her arms indignantly to indicate to all present that she had decided the captain’s decision was wrong but was willing to watch him fail to prove her point.
Varro ground his teeth in frustration. No matter how he dealt with Catilina, in every argument, every conversation and even every minor exchange of greetings, he had always left feeling that he had lost the debate and she had let him go.
“I’ll no doubt see you shortly, Lady Sabianus. I expect your father and the prefect will want to see me tomorrow.”
Catilina regarded him with an unreadable expression.
“In this world, Varro, all things are possible.”
She gestured at the man Varro had bumped into.
“Crinus, take two others and make sure the captain gets back to his house safely.”
She looked at him and smiled mischievously.
“If, that is, he can remember where he lives.”
Varro continued to grind his teeth, unable to form a suitable reply. His mind was feeling surprisingly clouded, even here in the late evening breeze.
“Come!” Catilina waved to her retinue and swept away past the captain toward the grand headquarters building at the centre of the fort.
The captain watched her go with a curious mixture of desire and relief. The three remaining guards exchanged a look that Varro recognised in irritation: soldiers that had been assigned a duty they felt was beneath them. Baby-sitting. He grinned a wicked grin.
“So, lads. Who’s for a jug of good wine?”
The senior of the soldiers regarded Varro with something akin to disdain, as though he were some sort of carrion, and returned the captain’s smile with no warmth.
“Home, Captain.”
The other two guards reached for Varro’s elbows as if to support him, and he pulled away indignantly with as much pride as he could muster.
“I’m quite capable of walking, even if the Lady feels I need an escort,” he narrowed his eyes at their leader. “So let’s just go.”
The group of four walked purposefully along the street toward the officers’ quarters as the arteries of the fortress gradually filled with off-duty soldiers on their way to the baths, taverns, gambling pits, or to the other dens of pleasure that were to be found in the civilian settlement just beyond the fort’s massive walls. As he walked, Varro found he had to concentrate with every step to prevent himself staggering.
As they rounded a corner, sergeant Corda strode into view, still in his armour and coated in the grime of travel. Varro nodded a professional greeting as he came to as steady a halt as he could manage.
“Corda. Would you care to join me this evening? Martis is making something fowl.”
The sergeant smiled a rare smile at the pun and nodded.
“I’d be glad to, sir, but I must settle in and bathe first. I’ll join you shortly.”
With a salute, he strode off toward his quarters while Varro made for the welcoming lights of his house. At the door, he thanked the marshal’s guards with mock extravagance and entered, closing the door behind him. He leaned on the door jamb for support for a moment, breathing heavily, and then turned and walked into his main room.
“Good evening, captain Varro,” the marshal said from his seat beside the fire.
Varro stopped in his tracks and swayed for a moment before recovering himself as best he could and coming to a surprisingly smart salute. The sudden movement certainly made his head swim a little, but he snapped his arm back down by his side and stood as straight and as still as he could, a gentle sweat beginning to glisten on his brow.
Marshal Sabian, tall and imposing with his iron grey hair and his handsome, yet lined and careworn face, sat with his legs crossed and his black-plumed helmet on his lap. The fact that the marshal already held a crystal glass of what was clearly Varro’s best wine and a small platter or cold meats lay on the table beside him made it plain that Martis had been as diligent and efficient as ever in dealing with the man who was, after all, the second most powerful man in the Empire.
The captain smiled weakly.
“Marshal, you honour my house.”
Sabian waved his hand, brushing aside the compliment.
“Gods, Varro, I have more than enough obsequious sycophants hanging around me at Vengen; I don’t need the same here. Sit down before you fall down. I sent your servant out for a short while. I don’t want us to be disturbed.” He reached and took a neat slice of chicken from the plate, rolling it and dipping it in the accompanying pickle before popping it into his mouth. His eyes swept the room, taking in its austere appearance, almost entirely lacking in decoration, and that which could be seen was clearly of military origin: a worn pennon here, a scabbard with a telling dent there. Clearly the home of a career soldier.
Without a word, and quietly grateful, the captain made his way to a seat close by; close enough for low conversation, but not close enough to seem discourteous.
“It’s been a long time, marshal,” he replied, being careful to keep his tone slightly familiar and yet thoroughly respectful.
“Long indeed,” Sabian replied quietly, his gaze slowly wandering down to rest on his boots. “Always knew you’d be commissioned, Varro. Even in the old days, I mean. I suspect if I hadn’t given command of the Fourth to Cristus, it would have wound up with you, sooner or later.”
Varro blinked a few times, gently shaking his head. Likely it was the fault of the drugs and the drowsiness, but his mind seemed to be refusing to work correctly. He was suddenly entirely unsure of the situation around him and the scene felt increasingly unreal to him.
Here was the second most powerful man in the Empire, a close friend of the Emperor himself, speaking to him as though they were campfire companions on campaign in the wilderness; suggesting that he could be a staff officer in the right circumstances. Oh, not that he hadn’t considered that himself from time to time, but had never thought to hear it from above. And perhaps he hadn’t done. It wouldn’t entirely surprise him to find his mind was playing tricks on him. He focused once more on Sabian, aware that the marshal had continued to talk, long after he’d stopped listening.
“…and so you might still get that chance, Varro; probably will in fact.”
The marshal raised those insightful eyes, ‘a window onto genius’ as some poet had once written of him, and rested them on Varro.
“But for that to happen,” he said with surprising force, ”I need you to do something.”
Varro blinked in alarm. He’d missed something. Trying not to sound panicked, he settled slightly in the seat and gave a reassuring smile.
“Can you just repeat that, sir?”
Sabian gave him an odd look; disturbingly reminiscent of the one Catilina had given him in the street outside the bathhouse.
“Prefect Cristus will, tomorrow, be formally announcing his decision to step down from command.”