“Sergeant,” Varro greeted him happily, “a sight for sore eyes, if ever there was one.”
Corda’s intense pale blue-grey eyes bored into the captain’s, carrying an air of disapproval.
“Captain,” he said at last, his voice surprisingly low and soft. “What the hell have they done to you?”
Varro shook his head. “It’s not bad, Corda. Scortius has sorted it, but I’ve sort of bounced it open on the horse.”
The sergeant opened his mouth to speak again, his eyes flashing angrily, but Varro interjected before he had the chance.
“Scortius did a good job, Corda, and I know I should be in the wounded carts, but I’d rather this than have to sit among the stench of serious injuries for a day or two, so forget about it.”
The sergeant sat still and silent for a few seconds, his eyes locked on his commander’s, until he was sure his point was made and his opinion noted.
“Very well sir. Permission to dismiss the guard?”
Varro nodded, and the sergeant turned and waved at the other riders, who saluted once again and then rode off past their officers to join their companions in the cohort’s cavalry squadron. As soon as they were out of earshot and sight of the two commanders, Corda’s attentive position relaxed and he slumped wearily in the saddle.
“Ok, Varro. Tell me everything, including how the hell you ended up in this state.”
The captain sighed. Corda was the quintessential sergeant among the cohort and the linchpin around which the unit moved, but on a personal level, the two had come up through the ranks together so many years ago that it was impossible now to feel any level of superiority over him when the two were alone. And, of course, Corda knew him perhaps better than he knew himself.
“I was unlucky. That’s all there is to it. I saw some barbarian bastard with a nice sword he’d stolen from an Imperial officer and I took it personally. Seems he did too. The doctor wasn’t concerned and the medics all reckon I’ll be fine in a few weeks. Now you need to tell me what you’re doing here. You’re supposed to be in Vengen with the prefect.”
Corda nodded wearily and shrugged his shoulders, allowing the interlocking plates of his armour to settle into a new and slightly more comfortable position. The standard Imperial kit was highly protective and certainly better than the chain mail the army had once worn, but it left a great deal to be desired when on horseback.
“We’re all on the way home,” the sergeant replied, rubbing the dusty upper half of his face with his bandana. “The prefect doesn’t particularly need his full honour guard to protect him on the way back.”
Varro raised an eyebrow questioningly.
The sergeant let his bandana fall back down to his neck and took a deep breath.
“Marshal Sabian’s coming with him.”
“The marshal?” Varro whistled through his teeth. “I suppose this latest round of victories has earned the prefect more attention and honours. I wonder if he’s just going to hole up at Crow Hill with the staff, or whether he might want all the unit commanders involved.”
Corda nodded. “That’s why the prefect sent me on ahead. He wants to make sure the entire army’s spick and span when they arrive at the fort and everything’s organised for a high command visit. I’m not sure it’s really necessary. You know Sabian. He’d rather things worked well than looked nice.”
“What else?” Varro narrowed his eyes.
Corda shifted uneasily.
“Sorry?”
“I said what else?” Varro growled. “You’re avoiding telling me something.”
The stocky sergeant cleared his throat and sighed.
“Catilina’s coming with him.”
He watched his captain intently, but Varro merely sat astride his horse for a moment and then shrugged.
“It’s been a long time. She might not even remember me.”
Corda smiled a rare smile and gave his superior a light punch in the upper arm.
“You’re a hell of a sight better at fooling yourself than me, so don’t even try. This is what we’re going to do: Firstly, you’re going to go to either the engineer or quartermaster sergeant and travel on one of their wagons. Not comfortable, but at least you won’t shake yourself to bits or be jammed in with the wounded…”
Varro waved a hand to interrupt, but Corda knocked his gesturing finger aside and continued, raising his voice slightly.
“When you’re settled, I’m going to have a medic sent back to you so he can get that wound fixed back up and sort you out. I’m quite capable of leading the cohort back to the fort and you know that. I’ll go find the medics and deliver my message to the adjutant, then I’ll take command.”
Once again, Varro opened his mouth to speak, but Corda pointed purposefully at him and went on.
“And when we get back to the fort, you’re going to head straight off to the baths and get yourself clean and tidy, while Martis goes to sort out your dress uniform. We’ll only be a few hours ahead of the marshal, even if we rush, and you need to look commanding and a little bit dangerous, if you know what I mean.”
A low rumbling growl rose in Varro’s throat.
“I am not primping for a visit from the high command. I’m not a young social climber.”
“Not for the marshal, you idiot!” Corda laughed. “For his daughter.”
Varro furrowed his brows but said nothing for a long moment. Finally he sighed. “Well I suppose you’re right about my wound and the cart at least. Let’s get back to the column.”
The two wheeled their horses and rode back toward the line, slow and noisy and choked with dust. As they approached, Corda turned and headed for the vanguard while Varro rode toward the engineers with their great wooden constructions, rumbling along the dusty trail dragged by teams of sweating oxen, the engineering teams of all six cohorts travelling together. The engineers in the army usually held to their own company anyway, having much more in common with each other than with the rest of their own cohorts. But the sense of unity among the engineers of the Fourth Army had been further enhanced by the prefect’s distrust of missile warfare and the fact that he plainly considered them superfluous to requirements on campaign.
As the captain pulled alongside the head of the group, the various sergeants of engineers glanced at him in surprise before saluting. He waved the gesture aside and pointed at his discoloured leg.
“Mind if I hitch a lift on one of your wagons?” He could have demanded or ordered, but when dealing with such an insular bunch it was always worth politeness and consideration, as he’d learned time and again over a twenty-five year career.
The sergeant of the second cohort’s engineers whose name, Varro realised to his disappointment he didn’t even remember, hauled his horse to one side and rode out of the column to join his commander.
“I’ll escort you to our supply wagon, sir. You’ll find it the most comfortable.”
Varro nodded and rode alongside the sergeant, back along the slowly rumbling column of catapults, bolt throwers and other more arcane engines of war. As they trotted, he noted with a professional eye the care and attention with which the machines had obviously been treated and, equally obviously, the lack of use to which they had been put.
The supply wagon of the second cohort’s engineers was equally well maintained, pulled by two horses, covered over with a waxed protective sheet that was carefully anchored with ropes to hooks drilled into the wagon’s side, and driven by a big soldier with a shaved head and a thick beard who looked, to Varro’s mild amusement, as though his head had been placed on his shoulders the wrong way up.