“So Vengen it is. That’ll be, what, five days with the cohort?”
Corda frowned.
“It would be, but you four and I are riding ahead with Sabian’s men and my command guard. The rest can catch us up later.”
Varro shook his head.
“Catilina needs to travel slowly and with medics.”
“For Gods’ sake Varro, I can think, you know!” Corda turned to the one of the black-clad guards nearby. “Ride on ahead and get two of the field medics up front with full kit. They’re coming with us to Vengen ahead of the unit.
Corda turned his horse and he, Varro and Petrus rode slowly down toward the army, deep in conversation, the acting captain occasionally casting concerned glances back at Salonius and his wounded charge. The black-clad elite guardsmen neatly divided, half of them accompanying the three officers, while the others formed up around Salonius and Catilina in a manner the young man found disturbingly reminiscent of a prisoner escort. He glanced down at the lady, pale and swaying in the saddle in front of him. Sabian might well be beside himself now, but that was nothing to what the marshal would feel if Salonius was wrong and Catilina was worse than he thought. In a purely selfish moment for which he instantly chided himself, he decided that if Catilina didn’t make it to Vengen, they might as well all throw themselves on their swords. Facing Sabian after getting his daughter killed would likely be fatal anyway.
Still, he thought, forcing himself to smile and relax as much as he could; after days of hardship, flight and mortal danger, they were safe once more within the fold. They had a witness against Cristus and his cadre of betrayers, Catilina was alive and should recover completely, Gods willing, and hopefully Scortius would be able to do something about Varro’s condition which, while apparently stable, was still a constant worry hanging over them.
It was hard to believe all this had only been… he stopped and counted on his fingers as he rode… three days after the battle they’d left the fort, three more days after that when they’d met with Petrus, and almost two more days now back down the valley. Just a little over a week and yet it felt like a hundred years since he’d been an engineer, greasing pulleys and tying ropes on the huge war machines of the fourth army. He’d changed his unit and his entire career, been promoted, met war heroes and villains, knew the daughter of the marshal on first name terms, fought in three engagements and here he was riding with some of the most important people in the northern provinces, to the home fortress of the northern marshal, escorted by the marshal’s elite guard.
As an engineer he’d trained himself to think in pieces. One part at a time and the machine was assembled, but you couldn’t work on the whole machine at once; it was just too big and complex. One bit at a time. And he’d done that with this last week; one piece at a time, but when he tried to look at the events and the effects of the whole week at once, it made his head swim.
He sighed and turned his head to gaze into the woodland occupying the higher slope of the valley’s side.
“Cernus… I need more direction. I’m getting lost in all of this.”
But there was no sign of the great white stag.
The eaves of the forest glowered at him with what looked like malicious intent.
Vengen was more even than Salonius had expected. Once, long ago, it had been the hilltop fortress of the greatest of the northern tribes; so long ago that even the name of the tribe was considered obscure knowledge. The massive plateau had been carefully flattened and the steep banks on all sides carved and built into a succession of concentric ditches and embankments that would present, on their own, a serious impediment to attackers. Indeed, the innermost ditch even cleaved the hilltop in two, creating two separate zones connected by a bridge.
But where the ancient tribe had carved this monument to their independence, the Empire had done what it did best. Adopted, adapted and improved. Taking Vengen as the centre of military control for the entire northern quarter of the Empire, Imperial engineers had raised high walls with a series of towers around both separate zones. Each tower bore a siege weapon that, given the height of the plateau, would have an astounding range and field of fire.
Pennants bearing the Imperial raven and the wolf snapped in the late afternoon wind and sounds of civic and military life issued from beyond the walls. The young soldier stared up at the high walls and marvelled. Truly, this was a seat of Imperial power.
The riders and their escort slowly made their way among the maze of ridges that formed the slope leading up to the main gate, aware at all times of the number of guards watching over them from the walls above. As they approached, he noted the construction with a trained engineer’s eye. There had been several different building phases at Vengen that had left the walls more than twice their original height, with a clear line showing the original parapet where the stonework changed. Indeed, the main gatehouse showed four very obvious stages of building, both upwards and outwards, with the last being an external barbican that added an extra level of defence and would be a brutal killing ground for attackers. And even though such defences were beyond the hope of any besieging army, it would still be easier than traversing the six ridges and ditches full of traps and sharpened stakes, all clearly within sight of the archers on the walls.
Vengen was prepared for any kind of assault, though it was clearly unnecessary. Vengen had never been attacked and, with the strength and control of the Empire, it never would be. Vengen was, without a doubt, the most impressive symbol of strength and control Salonius had ever seen.
They passed beneath the arch of the outer gate, two oak doors almost a foot thick standing open but constantly guarded and greased ready to close in a matter of mere moments. The holes in the ceiling of the outer barbican would rain fire and oil and other deadly missiles, blistering and killing a crush of attackers as they desperately tried to cross the yard to the inner gate. The walls connecting the outer barbican to the inner main gate were crenellated on the inside as well as the outside, giving defenders plenty of cover as they butchered the attackers below.
But all of this detail filtered into Salonius’ mind on a subconscious, peripheral level, for from the moment he passed under the outer arch, his attention was seized and gripped tight by the main inner gate: an engineer’s dream, be they military or civil.
“The great Golden Gate of Cassius.” Whispered Catilina as she leaned toward him. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
Salonius opened his mouth to reply, but words failed him. Instead, he turned momentarily to look at the pale and drawn lady beside him. The medics had advised they leave the shaft of the arrow in place until they reach hospital facilities at Vengen. They had confirmed that nothing critical had been pierced and that moving the arrow would cause bleeding and worsen her condition. They had given her some kind of medication for the pain, carefully bandaged her and left her in Salonius’ care until she came around, which she’d done some four hours later. Salonius had cradled her gently, his eyes full of concern, and she had turned, looked up at him and smiled broadly.
“Did you arrange all this to get me on your horse?” she’d laughed. “Varro will be jealous!”
Since then, throughout the night and the next day, the lady had regained some of her strength, and certainly all her brightness and humour. That first night when they’d stopped for food she’d eaten ravenously and thanked Salonius for his cares before disappearing out of the circle of firelight with Varro for an hour.
And once they finished their meal and mounted once more, Catilina had taken her own horse back, brushing aside all queries and comments of concern…
“Stop staring at me Salonius. I’m fine!”
The young man felt an irritating blush rise to his cheeks and turned his attention back to the Golden Gate.