Ironroot (26 page)

He looked up and, as he saw the look on the older man’s face, lowered his own head and voice, though continued to encourage under his breath.

He turned to watch the slow progress of the felled tree across the bridge. With one rope cut, the tree was slowly turning. Trying desperately to ignore the sound of dozens of drumming hooves that were now disturbingly close, he watched with a satisfaction that only an engineer would understand, as the severed beech trunk slid neatly into the hole left by the missing stone in the bridge wall.

“Pull it ‘til it’s too tight to move.”

Petrus glared at him again, but said nothing as he urged his horse forward amid the tremendous straining noises of rope and wood. Finally, with a crunch and a shower of mortar, the tree wedged in the bridge. The figures of horsemen were visible at the far end of the village square beyond the wavering, willowy treetop branches. Salonius grinned at them and then turned the grin on Petrus, who reached around and cut the rope, his horse sidestepping freely, grateful to have the anchor removed.

Petrus sighed and returned the smile.

“Let’s just get out of here”

Salonius nodded and, turning his horse, they trotted off to join Varro and Catilina, leaving the soldiers on the far side of the river milling uncertainly and shouting conflicting orders at one another.

“Well done!” Varro commended him as they reined in. “That should give us a few hours’ grace.”

“Go!” shouted Petrus.

Varro turned in surprise and recognised the telltale hiss just in time to duck. The arrow whizzed through the space where his chest had been a moment before. Petrus had already kicked his horse into action and raced ahead. Salonius and Catilina joined Varro as they rode swiftly to escape the range of the enemy archers.

As they thundered past the barn, Salonius glanced across, remembering the assault they’d made when they first entered the valley. As he realised what they’d managed to get through, he smiled to himself. His eyes wandered across to Catilina, hunched over the horse’s neck, riding like the wind.

His smile slowly turned sour as he saw the shaft of the arrow protruding from her back and the red stain running down her cloak. She slipped sideways slightly and her arm dropped and swung freely.

“Oh Gods, no!”

Desperately, he pulled his horse alongside her and grasped her reins, slowing both beasts to a walk and then a complete halt. The quiet thud of arrows some way back indicated that they must now be out of range and safe. He turned his full attention to the lady beside him.

Reaching up, he placed his fingers on her neck below her ear and the jaw line. He almost collapsed in relief. She had a pulse. A little erratic as far as he could tell, but strong enough. The most his medical knowledge could tell him was that she was alive. With a sigh, he craned to look at her back. The arrow was deeply embedded, and had punched through her shoulder blade. Racking his brains, he pictured the charts he’d seen in Salonius’ room. Thank Gods he took an interest in things like this. The blow would be too high to have gone near her heart, but might have got her lung.

Heaving her across as gently as he could with his huge, muscular arms, he settled her in front of him, turned slightly so that the arrow couldn’t be jogged by anything. He suddenly became aware of Petrus and Varro hovering over him, a looked of horror pasted across the latter’s face.

“We have to go, Varro,” said Petrus, tugging at his sleeve. “It’s no good buying extra time and then wasting it feeling miserable. The lad’s solid and clever and he’s got her.”

Startled out of his shock, Varro turned and rode off, picking up speed. Petrus turned and locked Salonius with a commanding glare from that one frightening eye.

“Take good care of her and make sure she’s alive when we get to Vengen. Varro likes you, so he’ll just mope, but I don’t know you well enough yet not to break your nose.”

Salonius glared back at him. So many retorts flittered around the edge of his consciousness, but his head was filled to bursting point with thoughts of Catilina, some of which he wasn’t prepared to admit even to himself. Swallowing hard, he nodded and settled the delicate wounded lady in front of him and set his horse off to a trot so they could catch up with Varro, who had reached the crest of the next undulation in the valley floor.

As he and Petrus rode up to meet Varro, the great, wide scene of the lower valley opened up before them, gently sloping down in the morning sunshine and opening out to become the northern plains. Somewhere in the distant haze, among vineyards and private estates, would be Vengen, fortress of the Northern marshal, home of Sabian, and safety.

But between it and them almost a thousand men filled the valley floor from side to side, green tunics bright in the sun and laminated armour flashing brilliant white, all marching with imperial precision.

Chapter Ten

Varro and Petrus shared a quick glance and a determined look fell across their faces.

“Salonius?” Varro shouted. “Get Catilina away from here. I don’t care how or where. Just get her away and to a doctor somewhere.”

Salonius nodded and wheeled his horse, holding the unconscious Catilina as delicately as he could. How he would escape an army carrying a wounded lady was beyond him, but he would have to try.

“I’m almost tempted to let those bastards from Saravis Fork catch up with us now. I’d love to see their faces as the came over this hill!” He sighed and glanced behind him at the limp woman leaning against Salonius’ chest. “Still, there’s more important things to worry about!”

The riders had obviously come to the attention of the cohort’s scouts, as orders were shouted and the tramping feet fell silent in unison. After a minute or so, Corda, accompanied by the black-clad guards, rode out from the front of the army and up the slope towards them. As the small group of soldiers approached the knot of riders on the hill crest, Varro frowned. Though well-hidden by that bushy, black beard, Varro could plainly see the effect that Corda’s new command was having on him. His eyes appeared hollowed and dark, speaking volumes on his sleep pattern these last few days. He was pale and drawn and clearly overworked, and yet the smile on his face was genuine and warm.

“I think she’ll be alright, sergeant. She’s out from the pain but the arrow seems to have missed anything important and the wound is well sealed. Do you have a doctor with you?”

Corda frowned.

“I’ve got field medics.” He swallowed nervously. “Her father’s beside himself with worry.”

Petrus cleared his throat, and the acting commander quickly turned to the last rider. “I didn’t honestly believe it was really you, Petrus. We must talk as soon as we have time.”

Reaching out, the scarred man grasped Corda’s hand and shook it. Their eyes met for a long, delayed, moment and Corda looked away to Varro.

“Never been a right time yet, Corda. We’ve been a little busy.” He growled. “And this is not the time! Half the garrison of Saravis Fork are only about an hour behind us and Catilina needs to get to a medic as soon as possible.

Corda nodded and they began to wheel their horses.

“So what happened?” Varro enquired of the acting captain as the black-clad guardsmen assembled in a protective group around them.

“Your messenger arrived at the fort a couple of days ago, demanding to see Sabian and asking for money. It so happens that the gate guards at the time were drawn from our cohort, so they sent for me. I took him to see the marshal and since then it’s all moved damn fast. Sabian and his men have returned to Vengen but he sent us to find you. We’re to bring all of you to Vengen, so he can speak to Petrus himself.”

“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.

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.