Ironroot (12 page)

“You’ve heard?” Varro frowned.

“Your doctor gave the prefect the post-battle casualty reports. My father and I were there at the time. What does he mean ‘fatality’? You’d better explain this, Varro!”

“He’s not reckoned with your tenacity, Varro. You’re always getting wounded, but it doesn’t take you long to heal” she grumbled at him and then stopped and frowned.

“It’s not the wound, is it? I hadn’t thought of that. What’s happened, then?”

Varro gestured at the seat again.

“Catilina, it’s not good. And I can’t have the details going round the fort like a brush fire, so I need you to keep this very much to yourself at the moment.”

The captain tapped his fingers idly on his knee as he weighed her mood. There was no denying Catilina was an intelligent and resourceful woman, yet her fiery temper sometimes overwhelmed her sense of priority. She would need to be very objective about all this unless the news was to be leaked around the army.

“Catilina, I’m dying. There’s no cure and we can’t even locate the sword that was used. Scortius is giving me medication to keep me up and about and largely out of pain, but there’s nothing he can do in the long run.”

Varro caught her eyes and noticed them beginning to well up. She became aware of his gaze and blinked back the emotion, her face hardening.

“It has to have been. The man came looking for me on the battlefield and he had an imperial blade; a very expensive one. Someone from within this fort has had me poisoned. I’m going to die, but I’m going to find out who did this first and why. And I’m going to make them suffer. But you see that’s why I can’t let you go out and tell people about this. If word gets out that I’m looking into this the culprit will go to ground and I’ll never find him.”

Varro shook his head sadly. “Scortius is a very thorough man, Catilina. You know that. And he’s done everything that can be done. I wish you hadn’t come with your father. I’d have spared you this if I could.”

“I’ll just step out, sir” Salonius said quietly, turning and making for the door.

“Stay here, Salonius.” Varro shook his head again. “We’re about done. I want you to escort Catilina back to her quarters. I’m fairly sure the marshal will be here soon to see me. And I need to organise a few things with him.” He turned to the young woman, who was no longer holding her emotion in check, a single tear snaking down her cheek. “And Catilina: this is going to be hard enough for your father and I without you here.”

“You can say what you like Varro, but I’m staying. You need people you can trust around you right now. That’s me and father and you know that. We need to work out what we’re doing next, and preferably before father gets here. He’s going to want to do everything by the book and that’s clearly not going to work in this case. You’re going to need me to persuade him to our way of thinking. No one else can do that. You know that.”

“Alright,” the captain replied with a resigned nod. “Salonius, sit down and let’s work out what we need to do.”

The young man stepped away from the window toward the chair and, as he did, there was a heavy knock at the door. He turned to the captain and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Varro nodded at him.

“Best get it. The marshal wasted no time, eh?”

Salonius walked across to the door and opened it, the morning breeze cutting its way into the heady, spiced atmosphere of the front room. He stepped back, startled momentarily. In the street outside the door stood three of the fort provosts, the army’s police unit, their black and white striped crests flicking around in the wind and their black cloaks snapping back and forth.

“Show me to captain Varro.”

The provost sergeant stepped to the threshold while his two companions took up positions on guard to either side of the door. Blinking in surprise, Salonius stepped back, allowing the soldier into the room.

The provost reached into the recesses of his cloak and whipped out a parcel. A leather wallet bound with a thong, the corner of a piece of paper poking out at the edge. He reached out and proffered the object to the captain. Varro frowned.

“What is this?”

Slowly, the sergeant turned the parcel over. In a neat script, someone had simply inscribed the front ‘Varro IV-II’. Varro reached out to grasp it.

Chapter Five

Varro pulled his cloak tighter against the biting breeze that whistled across the common near the fortress as he kicked the lazy mare forward again. He’d only had time to throw on a cloak and some boots while the impatient provost sergeant had stood in his doorway, tapping irritably. He felt grateful for the presence of Salonius, fully armoured in his cohort guard uniform. While he had no reason to distrust the provost, these were highly unusual circumstances and he’d thought deeply about the wisdom of this course of action before grabbing his cloak in resignation and stepping forward.

He’d not even reached the door when he realised Catilina was by his side. He’d tried to deter her, unsuccessfully, as he’d expected, and the pair of them had joined the three provosts as soon as Salonius returned with three horses from the stables of the second.

The journey through the town was uneventful. It was now mid to late morning and the locals were going about their own business while the majority of soldiers were on duty within the fort. The growing civilian settlement would liven up considerably as the bulk of the troops were dismissed at sundown.

And almost a mile beyond the township, over wind-blasted heaths on a surprisingly chilly and blustery morning for so late in the season, the small party approached a knot of people clustering beneath a tree in the shelter of a hedgerow.

A gulley ran from near the crest of the hill down alongside the hedgerow and to the stream in the shallow valley. A seasonal stream, the ditch was currently dry and rocky. Beneath the beech tree, two more of the fort provosts stood with three locals, a boy and a girl of perhaps seven years and a man; presumably their father.

As they approached and reined in, the children huddled to their father’s knees, partially for warmth, as much for fear of the now seven soldiers around them. As the six riders dismounted, Varro stepped toward the ditch, scrunching up his eyes and peering into the shade of the tree.

A body lay curled up in the bottom of the ditch, his tunic covered in mud but, more disturbingly, blotted with dried blood. Dried rivulets meandered down the slope in the gulley. The provost sergeant stepped up beside him, clutching the bound leather parcel, as yet still unopened. Varro glared at him in irritation, but the man ignored him and pointed into the ditch.

“My first question, captain, is whether you know this man.”

Varro examined the body from the top of the bank, taking in as much detail as he could. The body was dressed in a plain and basic military tunic and breeches, with no armour or insignia. A cloak of plain grey wool lay several yards away up the gully, shredded and stained with mud and blood. Though the face was hidden from view by the body’s position, lying where it had either fallen or been thrown, the ruffled brown hair and skin colour were decidedly nondescript.

The cause of death was plain, though. Six holes in the man’s tunic spoke eloquently of the vicious stab wounds the man had suffered. In Varro’s professional opinion just two of those wounds were fatal alone, so the attacker had been unnecessarily violent. It was one thing for a soldier to die in the height of battle with an enemy spear through his middle, but ambushed and viciously murdered and left in a ditch for the crows was a bad end for any man.

“Can I see his face?”

The sergeant gestured to one of his provosts and the man clambered down into the ditch, along to where the body lay and carefully turned the torso so that the face was visible. His cheek and forehead were marked and cut from the stones in the ditch, but he was a young man, perhaps twenty years old, clean shaven and moon faced. Varro shook his head.

“I don’t recognise him, sergeant. But then I see an awful lot of recruits as I’m sure you’ll understand. Are these the people who found him?”

The provost nodded.

“They came to the fort to inform us. The man had done a search of the body when they found it and discovered this pouch tucked away beneath his tunic. They should have left well alone, but I’m satisfied their motives were good and they came straight to us, so I see no real reason to detain them. They told us everything they know and they live in the civilian settlement anyway.”

Varro nodded.

“And so the next question is ‘what was he doing here’?”

“Indeed,” the sergeant nodded, withdrawing the leather package from his bag and proffering it to Varro. “Out of deference to your rank, captain, I’ll let you read this first, but I will have to have it back and examine the evidence myself.”

Varro grumbled and untied the thong around the outside. He carefully unfolded the case and straightened the paper within as Salonius and Catilina made their way across to him. His eyes flicked across the writing as he scanned down the short and obviously hastily written note.

Varro stared at the paper a moment longer and then let his arm fall by his side as he rubbed his temple and forehead with the other hand. He looked across at her, a somewhat bewildered look upon his face.

“An impossible letter…”

“What?” Catilina stepped towards him again. Reaching down toward the paper she was momentarily taken aback as Varro’s hand twitched away, moving the letter out of reach. Wordlessly she gave him an appraising glance and decided not to push him.