“But why?”
Varro smiled grimly.
“He’s going to be useful. We need to give his friends a reason to leave the way station.”
Salonius frowned. He had a horrible suspicion about what was about to happen but, try as he might, he just couldn’t think of a better alternative. He started to feel increasingly uncomfortable as they entered the village, passing the outlying houses at the opposite end to where they’d first arrived. But the discomfort he felt heightened as he noticed villagers staring at him lugging a body along the road. The fact that the two men were clearly well armed would deter most ordinary folk from questioning these frightening strangers, but whatever Varro was up to, he’d have to hurry or things could turn ugly very fast.
The captain pointed at the small grassy area beneath the three beech trees in the centre of the village.
“Drop him there and then go pick up his friend and anything of theirs you can find in the barn. Be quick.”
Salonius flashed a quick, worried glance at his companion and then nodded and allowed the unconscious man to fall unceremoniously to the turf. Whatever it was that Varro had in mind, Salonius was pretty sure the man wouldn’t be walking away at the end of it. As he walked off, he deliberately avoided looking at both the captain and their prisoner. He shut his eyes tight as he heard the captain’s next words, then opened them and picked up his pace as he crossed the bridge toward the outlying farm buildings.
“You!” Varro turned and pointed at a group of half a dozen concerned spectators gathered outside the front of the inn. In other circumstances it might have humorous the way the individuals in the crowd automatically shuffled away from the finger, leaving a startled man leaning on a cane in the centre of a widening circle. The man gave Varro a frightened look and spoke, his voice shaking.
“Yes, sir?”
Varro shook his head in irritation.
“Somewhere in this village there are ropes, nails and a hammer. Find me them.”
The man turned his head left and right briefly, casting helpless looks at the crowd around him, none of whom met his eye. Quivering slightly, he picked up his stick and turned toward the house next to the inn.
Varro moved his finger and pointed at a young woman nearby.
“You go with him and make sure he finds those things for me. I don’t like to be kept waiting, and I’m not the world’s most patient man.”
As the woman turned and rushed after the absent man, Varro turned to see a lone figure standing across the green. Where the deep, narrow river briefly widened out into a pool, probably used for washing clothes, a fence with a gate had been erected, presumably to prevent children and animals falling into the rushing water. Leaning on the fence was a large, heavy set man with a drooping red moustache and a shiny bald pate, dressed in a huge leather overall. A blacksmith, clearly. And watching Varro with something akin to anger and visibly no fear at all. The captain smiled. Could be trouble; could be useful.
He waved a hand to the smith and wandered over.
“I need a hand to take a rail off this fence. Top rail only; it’ll still stop children and animals drowning.”
The big man glared at him.
“I have no interest in helping you, brigand!”
Varro smiled unpleasantly.
“I’ll let that one pass. I’m no brigand and, as always, what I do is for the good of the Empire.” He reached the fence and stood next to the blacksmith, considerably shorter, gazing up at him with a flinty look. His voice dropped to a low growl. “You will help me. If you do it without comment, we’ll be on our way shortly. You wouldn’t want to cause an ‘incident’!”
The big man glared at him for a while and then nodded slowly.
“You give me your word you’ll move on quietly and not come back and I’ll do what I have to in order to speed you on your way.”
The two men locked eyes for a moment and then Varro nodded. He gripped one end of the fence rail preparing to heave and blinked in momentary surprise as the large smith casually tore the rail form the fence, accompanied by the tortured shriek of stressed iron nails. He turned with the long piece of wood and walked back across the green.
As the two of them walked, Varro noted with interest the way the smith’s grip on the rail changed momentarily. With a smile, he ducked down and drew his belt knife. Even as the smith swung the huge rail at head height, Varro was underneath it and stood once more with the tip of his blade pressing very gently into the big man’s side by his kidney.
“Last warning, friend. Go stand with your neighbours.” He pointed to the growing crowd outside the inn.
Grunting, the smith dropped the rail to the grass and walked angrily away to join the throng. Varro looked around, stretching his shoulders and neck. Shame about this. Good people these, and the captain disliked looking needlessly cruel. Still, there were greater issues here.
Across the bridge, he saw the stocky figure of Salonius emerge from the cow byre, a body slung over one shoulder and a bag over the other. Back near the inn, the man with the stick and the young woman had reappeared from the house and were milling around at the back of the crowd, blending in. Varro dropped his head and smiled to himself, but then put on a fierce visage as he raised it again and used the knife to gesture to the man.
“Nails! Rope! Hammer!”
The man came hurrying nervously and jerkily with his stick as a third leg around the edge of the crowd with a small bag. He reached the green, stepped nervously around the body on the floor and stopped a few yards from Varro, holding out the bag with a terrified look in his eye. Varro smiled at him, trying not to look too fierce.
“I’m not here to hurt you. Drop the bag and go away!”
The man needed no second telling, scurrying across the grass, barely allowing his stick to touch the ground. Varro hid his smile as he removed the hammer and a long nail from the bag. Picking up the rail, he rested it against the tree at shoulder height and hammered the nail deep, driving it home until it protruded only half an inch and then bending the excess over. Collecting another nail, he grasped the other end of the rail and lifted it so that it rested at shoulder height on one of the other trees. With three efficient strokes of the hammer, he repeated the process. In short order he drove two more nails into each end for good measure and then tugged at and leant on the rail, testing the weight. Satisfied, he stepped back and examined his makeshift frame.
Behind him, panting with the effort, Salonius arrived with his burden.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, sir?”
Varro grunted.
“These men accepted the risks when they signed up. As far as I’m concerned, and you too, they’re enemy combatants, spies and assassins. They deserved to die, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so, sir, but I can’t say I like it.”
“Neither do I, Salonius, but sometimes you have to do things you don’t like. Sometimes it’s our job as officers to be harsh and unyielding for the greater good. And we’re not hurting an innocent here.”
Salonius nodded and let the mangled corpse drop to the floor. Dropping their kitbag next to the captain, he wandered over to the unconscious prisoner and grasped his wrists. With a deep breath he hauled on them and dragged the body across to the new construction. He glanced briefly at the now surprisingly large crowd outside the inn.
“I realise you’re trying to create a distraction, but I’m not sure how this is going to work?”
Varro nodded. “They’ll need a little prod, but keep watching. Now lift them up so I can tie them on.”
Salonius hauled the body up to the level of the rail and the captain tied the wrists to the wood. As he let go, the faceless, visceral body dropped and sagged, the legs dangling at uncomfortable angles to the floor. Reaching into the bag at his feet, he drew out two more nails. Placing one between his teeth, he held another over the man’s wrist, between the two bones and hefted the hammer.