Corda, clad in his dress tunic and cloak, stood beside the table, a look of great concern on his pale features. With a start, Varro realised his second in command was covered in dried rivulets and pools of blood. Varro’s blood, plainly.
Standing behind Corda was another figure in white. Even with his back to Varro, the captain recognised the low rumble of disapproval that was a trademark of Scortius, the chief doctor of the second cohort. The man was hunched over something on a table. Varro looked weakly up at Corda.
“Am I…”
The sergeant reached out a hand and clasped Varro’s in a time-honoured fashion.
“I found you on your floor. Don’t know how long you’d been out, but there was quite a pool of blood. You’re looking quite pale and Scortius had to take a chunk of chair out of your back. Another wound, sir, I’m afraid.”
Varro tried to lift his head from the table, failing drastically. There was so little strength in his body and the muscles refused to obey. Breathing deeply and collapsing back he closed his eyes. Corda cleared his throat.
“Your other wound opened right up again too. Scortius has been having a good look inside you.”
“Has he,” gurgled Varro with an edge of resentment. “And did he find anything he liked?”
Slowly the doctor turned and approached the table.
“Varro,” he said quietly, “lie still. You’re putting too much strain on what’s left of your body.”
“Nice.” The captain rolled his eyes. “At least I feel better.”
The doctor cleared his throat and leaned closer.
“You only feel better because I’ve filled you so full of pain-killing remedies that you probably couldn’t stand straight even if you were in full health.” He sighed. “I’ve got to tell you something; something you’re not going to like.”
Varro merely nodded as best he could.
“I’d a feeling something was wrong. I’ve been wounded many times, but it’s never hit me like this. Even worse-looking wounds I’ve suffered. But surely I can’t die from this? I mean; it’s not that bad a wound, surely?”
Resting the heels of his hands on the side of the surgical table, Scortius leaned over the captain and Varro felt his heart skip a beat when he saw the look in the doctor’s eyes; the same look that crossed them every time the man thought of his long-gone son, Terentius; a look that carried loss, and despair and utter hollowness. A look that frightened Varro to his very core.
“What…?” The captain’s voice came out little more than a croak, or a whisper.
“There’s nothing I can do, Varro.”
The captain’s eyes closed for a moment and then he frowned deeply before opening them once more.
“Would you just care to run that by me again, Scortius?”
The doctor sighed and, reaching out, pulled a basic wooden chair across to the table and took a seat.
“It’s not the wound. The wound is alright. It’s nasty, but it’d heal, as would the new furniture wound in your back.”
“So…” Varro’s frown deepened, “what are we talking about then?”
Scortius rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together and raised his sad eyes to Varro.
“Have you ever heard of Ironroot?”
Varro shook his head, pensively.
The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I can’t say I’m really surprised. Ironroot is the Imperial name for a substance the Pelasians know as Sher-Thais. It’s harvested from the seeds of a plant the locals call the ‘suicide tree’. I’ve seen it used in the eastern provinces as both a poison and a pesticide, but never this far north or west.”
Varro stared at the doctor, confusion and panic fighting for control of his expression.
“I’m sorry,” Scortius shook his head. ”There’s no cure.” He sat back with a flat look on his face.
Varro tried once more to raise his head, growling.
“How can this happen?”
Scortius pinched his nose again and frowned.
“There appears to be some discoloration of the organs and flesh around your wound. At this point, I’d say that the blade that cut you was coated with the stuff. Very nasty. And curious…”
“Curious?”
Varro’s growl deepened.
“Curious? That’s all you have to say?”
The doctor sat back slightly. “Curious that a hairy, unwashed barbarian from the northern mountains would have a sword coated with an exotic and expensive poison from the other side of the world? I’m sorry this has happened Varro, and if I could stop it, I would, but I can’t help being curious as to how he got it.”
“How long have I got?”
Scortius shrugged slightly. “He’s obviously used a strong dose. And straight into your body. Normally I’d expect a few days at most, but I think I can give you things that’ll keep you going longer than that. A week? Maybe two? I’d have liked to see that sword. Perhaps we could have learned more.”
Varro collapsed back, exhausted and stunned, as the doctor gave a weak and sympathetic half-smile.
“I’ll go see what I can mix up for you.” The doctor shuffled off among his bottles and bags in the corner, muttering “for pain, stimulation, retardation and blood. Hmm…”
Varro blinked and turned his head to look at Corda, clearly stunned, his face bleak, but showing the first signs of anger. The sergeant leaned down toward his officer and growled.
“I take it the bastard’s dead? We’ll not be able to find out.”
Varro’s eyes narrowed.
“The barbarian’s dead alright, but I don’t think he was the problem.”
“What?” Corda frowned and leaned closer. The captain closed his eyes and the veins on his temple pulsed as he tracked back over the last two days.
“The sword.“ Varro’s hand reached up and grasped his sergeant by the shoulder. “The bastard that stuck me had an Imperial sword; a nice one too. A proper officer’s sword. That hairy piece of shit didn’t get the poison at all. This is someone else’s doing! One of our own, for Gods’ sake, Corda… one of our own!”
Corda’s expression hardened.
“I’m going to go see the quartermaster and go through the loot; see if I can find an Imperial sword.” He looked up at Scortius as the captain sank wearily back to the table. “You get him up and about. I don’t care how you have to do it. Just get him moving.”
Corda gave his captain a last determined glance, grasped his shoulder, and then strode out of the tent as though he’d do battle with the Gods.
Varro watched Scortius approaching the table once more, his soul hardening like baked clay as he lay there. There was more to this than simple chance. Someone had engineered Varro’s death, and that made him angry. Hopefully angry enough to stay alive long enough to settle this. Someone was going to pay for this. Someone would pay.
And cleft in two does history lie…
I opened my eyes. It took a few moments for me to place myself and my surroundings, but after a minute or so I remembered being helped back to my house by two medical orderlies. Scortius had given me some compound that quickly begun to clear my head and return the strength to my body. I know I was still feeling a little strange and confused as I woke, but some of that could well have been natural grogginess on waking from deep sleep.
I wasn’t prepared for what happened.
Clearly I was still hallucinating. Of course, a few hours later I began to doubt that, and in retrospect I’m now totally convinced of the reality of the situation; or at least the reality of it to me. But nothing prepares you to wake from fuddled sleep and find yourself staring deep into the eyes of a stag.
Needless to say, my first reaction was to turn my head this way and that, convinced that this was some trick of the light or reaction to Scortius’ medicine in my brain. Evidently the early morning sunlight streaming in through the glass panes of my room, squeezed to a sliver by the heavy drapes, was colliding with the many dust motes and creating a vision my battered subconscious had forced into the shape of a stag.