Over Varro’s laboured breathing, Salonius’ concerned voice answered. “I think he caught his side on something sticking out of the wall next to the door. I’ve just put my hand on it and it’s wet. I think it might have opened his wound.”
“Uh!” Varro was trying to stand with a great deal of grunting.
“For fuck’s sake, shut him up!” whispered Petrus urgently.
There was the sound of a leather flap being unfastened and further rustling.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Petrus again, the anger rising in his voice, even as the level remained quiet.
Salonius bit back an angry retort and replied patiently.
“He’s got a few doses of medication in case his pain gets too bad. I’m finding that and some water. If he’s bleeding badly, it’ll have to wait until we can get into the light.”
“Not the third… one!” grunted Varro between gasps. “Just… give me some of the ordinary… one for now. Can’t afford… to be out of it right now.”
Salonius nodded, unseen in the dark and passed over the bag of medication for Varro. “Be careful.”
“Huh!”
“What’s he got medicine for?” Petrus asked quietly, concern suddenly filling his voice.
“He can tell you when we get out of here later. Wait!”
There was a creak as a door was opened at the far end of the room and heavy footfalls on the wooden stairs. The four refugees fell completely still in the silent darkness, the only sound the faintly laboured breathing of the wounded captain. They could hear voices through the door, but not clearly enough to discern what they were saying. The conversation stopped as the boots of two men rand out on the stone flags. Clearly the two separated at the bottom of the stairs and were searching the cellar.
Varro’s voice whispered so quietly the others barely heard the bitter humour in his voice.
“You’d better hope they’re blind or stupid or both. Your ‘not very obvious’ room’s not hidden by the shelves anymore!”
Petrus replied just as quietly “Yes it is, now shut up!”
The only sounds for what felt like hours were those of boots thumping around on the cellar floor and crates being pushed aside. Every time one of the searchers began a particularly loud action, Varro took the opportunity to gingerly unwrap the medicine in the bag. During one particularly loud scrape beyond the door, Varro lifted a water flask to his lips and swigged down his medicine.
“There’s nothing down here. Come on!”
The welcome sound of receding footsteps brought relief washing over the four hidden figures. Petrus waited around a minute after the sounds of the door closing before striking flint and steel and sparking a small oil lamp into life. The room was small, perhaps ten feet square, cold stone with shelves recessed into three of the walls. A rough straw mattress was covered with a sleeping blanket.
“Lucky for you that you only attract thick pursuers!”
In the flickering light, they could see Varro leaning against the wall, a small patch of blood staining the tunic around his wound.
“What happened to you?” their guide asked.
Varro shook his head.
“No time for that now. I’ll tell you when we get out of here. We’ll have to go really soon, but we took a very dangerous three day ride to find you. We’ll have to give it at least five minutes before we leave here to be sure, so why don’t you fill the time with words?”
Petrus smiled.
“You always were a charmer! Alright then.”
He settled back against the wall and uncorked a bottle from a narrow stone shelf.
“I’ve been here a few weeks now.”
“Start at the beginning” grumbled Varro. “Like the bit about how you don’t die?”
“Oh I should have died,” Petrus answered lightly. “That bastard Cristus would be a lot happier. I gather he’s some sort of hero for saving the fort from a barbarian horde these days?”
Varro nodded. “Prefect for over a decade now.”
Petrus gave a humourless laugh. “Prefect! Indeed. Well even back when he was still captain Cristus, there was something going on. The bastard was building up some sort of personal group of supporters inside his cohort. I’ve the feeling he was thinking he might be able to push for higher office. I saw it happening over weeks, months even; good men being brushed aside and given shit duty while his favourite lackeys got preferential treatment. But there wasn’t much I could do about it. You and me were Sabian’s men, see? He’d never put his trust in us. But still, what harm could it really do me?”
Varro glanced round at his companions and was surprised to see a look of abject fury pasted across Salonius’ features. The young man was incensed. He turned his attention back to his cousin.
“So what happened?”
“You remember the reports of the Clianii attacking Saravis? We were sent to relieve the garrison. When we got here there was no garrison. The fort had been overrun pretty much without a fight. Don’t ask me how, but I suspect Cristus had even organised that somehow. The garrison was down to a few dozen men hiding out in the land around the fort. There were a couple of small breach points in the walls, but not enough to cause the fort to fall. Cristus put those of us who were out of favour to work on the walls, repairing the structure. As senior sergeant I was left in charge of the work detail.”
“And what did his favourites do?” Salonius’ voice was thick with contempt.
“He took an honour guard and rode up the valley to meet with the chieftain of the Clianii. He was gone for a whole day. To be honest, those of us busy repairing the fort were hoping they’d dealt with him for good. We were starting to get our spirits back. The next morning we’d pretty much repaired the walls. We were putting the finishing touches to it after a day and a night’s exertions. We had guards and pickets out of course…”
“But?”
“But they were looking for barbarians…”
“What?”
“Cristus’ personal sycophant army returned early in the morning. They arrived at the camp, with no sign of the captain. Cristus’ cohort guard sergeant told me we were dismissed and could get some rest. That annoyed me. I outranked the little weasel. That should have been a warning really. We all turned in for a rest.”
He took a deep breath.
“Next think I know, I’m being woken at sword point by some Clianii bastard with a wide grin. They were all over the fort. We were marched out into the open; all of us who’d stayed behind on the work party. We were marched out to the parade ground and chained together like prisoners of war. And all the time it was happening, Cristus was sat there on the wall, with the bloody chieftain, drinking and laughing. And all his favourites lounging around and watching us get marched off.”
Salonius’ grinding teeth were audible in the quiet as he stopped. Varro sat staring at his cousin in abject shock. Catilina was shaking her head gently.
“You don’t believe me, Varro? You think he’s some kind of honourable war hero? Why are his men chasing you down then?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Varro replied slowly. “Really it isn’t. I wouldn’t put anything past Cristus and the more I learn about him the less I’m inclined to think of him as my superior. So you’ve been where these past fourteen years? Cristus killed the Clianii off…”
He slapped his head.
“He covered his tracks; and his own arse! He wiped out the tribe. He did a deal with them. Probably got more cash than the Gods, got his fame and his promotion and then went back and exterminated the whole damn tribe to cover himself!”
“Better than that,” Catilina interjected. “He lost more than a cohort during that punitive mission. That nearly cost him his new job, those high casualties. I’d be willing to bet that not a man who’d been at Saravis Fork survived that campaign.”
Varro nodded.
“Very neat. He plays half an army off against the other, makes a deal with barbarians, then kills both the barbarians and the army off and walks away rich and clean. If I didn’t hate the bastard so much, I’d have to admire him!”