Ironroot (27 page)

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.

The Empire was known for its arches. There were glorious arches in the Imperial capital, or so he’d read, and quite a few out to the east, all celebrating the greatest victories of generals and Emperors, but he’d never seen one outside a sketched drawing. There was only one great triumphal arch in the northern lands, but it was reckoned by those in the know to be one of the best ever constructed.

Cassius had been the great conquering Emperor who, over two centuries ago, had almost doubled the size of the Empire in his short, twelve-year reign. He it was who brought the northern lands into the Empire and who had taken Vengen from the barbarian and made it an Imperial fortress. And to mark the conquest of the north, he had an arch built at Vengen to rival those back in Imperial Velutio. The second plateau of the fort had been retained for the military, but the arch stood at the entrance of what was to be the civilian settlement on the first plateau.

The triumphal arch was constructed of tufa, encased in shining white marble brought almost three hundred miles from the coastal ports solely for this monument. Rows of niches peppered the façade in neat lines. Not enough to destroy the simple elegance of the double-arched gate, but enough to house twenty statues, alternating between the great officers and generals of Cassius’ army, and the figures of the barbarian leaders, proud and noble even in defeat. A work of beauty and genius, and one that, while promoting the ideal of the Imperial army, still managed to remind the viewer that the barbarians were an enemy worthy of extreme respect.

And then, atop the arch stood the great bronze statue of Cassius in his chariot, four shining metal horses snorting and stamping in their proud frenzy. The sun gleamed off the bronze that was kept polished at all times.

And the final addition to the arch, through which it had acquired its name: the great doors. Solid wood, two feet thick, reinforced in later years with iron, but faced with solid gold, attached to the wood with gold-plated bolts. The doors dazzled and flashed in the sunlight, a blazing, blinding reminder of the glory of the Empire.

Salonius realised he was holding his breath.

In later years, the arch had been incorporated into the walls of the outer bailey of Vengen when the civilian settlement had received its defensive walls. Few concessions had been made to the defensiveness of the glorious structure. The top had been crenellated, massive ‘D’ shaped towers had been added to either side, and one of the huge golden doors had been sealed permanently shut to restrict access. None of this had detracted from the arch. Indeed, in a curious way, it added to the beauty.

He was almost sad as they passed within the inner gate and entered the town proper of Vengen. The civilian settlement was quite small by Imperial standards, limited as it was by the dimensions of the plateau, but every inch of space on that hill top had been used to the greatest advantage. The buildings were generally three storeys tall and packed in with little or no yard or garden space and, by edict, all buildings in Vengen were of stone rather than wood, bearing in mind the danger posed by fire within the crowded press of the town.

Salonius was surprised, as they rode through the busy streets as to the makeup of the population. He wasn’t sure what he expected; probably a mix between the more civilised northern tribesmen and Imperial settlers from the centre of the Empire. He wasn’t expecting the cosmopolitan atmosphere Vengen apparently had.

The moment they entered the main street that ran across the town from the Golden Gate to the bridge across the gorge, a small, dark-skinned Pelasian man stepped out from a side street and started shouting something about a restaurant at him. Two crippled veterans of eastern extraction sat on a doorstep playing dice. The ebony skin of a southern tribesman grabbed his attention before he disappeared into the crowd.

The presence of the black-clad marshal’s Guard kept people at bay, though. The beggars stared at them in abject misery from alleyways; street hawkers with their stalls of random goods tried one half-hearted shout and then turned their attention to more likely targets. Five minutes of riding at a slow pace brought them to the other end of Vengen’s main street.

A small, yet heavily defensible, gate in the town walls stood open, guarded by four men. Beyond, a bridge arched out over the deep ditch between the two plateaus, wide enough to allow a cart or carriage or, in this case, three riders abreast. Salonius was impressed to note that every defensive effort had been taken even with the bridge. The parapet was smoothly rounded with no lip to allow a grapple hook. The other walls of the bridge sloped inwards as they rose such that, in the unlikely event of an attacker managing to create a stable ladder tall enough to reach, it would not settle comfortably against the stone. Even the stones themselves had been fitted flush and the cement between the blocks smooth and regularly repointed. Not a single handhold was visible anywhere on the bridge.

As they rode across the bridge, some ten yards long, he took in the walls and gate of the military sector of Vengen. Constructed earlier than the walls of the civil town, the military defences of Vengen were no less defensive or inventive. The buttresses of the towers spaced evenly around the plateau’s circumference had been cleverly embedded in the rock that formed the bulk of the plateau, carved out to allow a fusion of solid rock and stonework. War machines stood atop each tower, as they had around the town, though the towers were more tightly spaced here.

The gate to the military plateau was the first they’d reached that stood closed. The column reined in on the bridge and the commander of the guard unit accompanying them rode out to the front and announced himself. Moments later the perfectly oiled and balanced gates swung ponderously open and the commander geed his horse and led them forward into the military sector.

Despite the limits imposed by the shape and size of the rocky plateau, the military fortress of Vengen had been very carefully and efficiently organised. Salonius picked out the different sections with an eye for their construction. To the left and right of the road by the bridge stood barrack blocks in neat rows; presumably the accommodation of the standing garrison. Beyond that, two large buildings to the right held the telltale signs of a bathhouse and a hospital. The presence of fountains and water troughs, presumably fed by natural springs, bore out that opinion. Opposite stood a plethora of smaller, more utilitarian buildings: granaries, store houses, workshops and the like.

Beyond them came more barracks. These, however, were set apart from each other in organised clusters with one small office-like building fronting on to the main road. Momentarily Salonius was confused by this, until he noticed the flags and standards proudly displayed outside the small office. The ram and lightening of the Fourth Army; the scorpion and crossed swords of the Fifth; the bull and crown of the Eleventh; the Goat and Star of the First. Of course, it was standard practice for one cohort of each army to be assigned to the marshal at Vengen. The Fourth had been excused for the last few months due to being on active campaign punishing border tribes for incursions and looting. Presumably Corda and the second cohort had now taken on the assignment at Vengen.

Ahead stood the huge complex of the marshal’s palace; a mix of civilian comfort, civic government and military austerity. As he focused on it, the column once more came to a halt. Salonius and Catilina caught up with the others as Corda turned in his saddle.

“This is as far as I go for now. I’ve got to get things prepared for the second cohort when they arrive to take up residence. I expect I’ll see you all in the morning.”

Varro nodded.

“Don’t know whether the marshal’s going to want to see us tonight but I, for one, could seriously use a rest.”

A chorus of nods answered him and he even raised a small grin from the commander of the marshal’s guard. Corda gave them a brief salute, smiled a weary smile and, dismounting, led his horse between the buildings assigned to the Fourth Army.

Salonius watched him go and sighed. It would be good to sleep in a comfortable bed. With a chortle he remembered a conversation only a couple of weeks ago with one of his fellow engineers in which they had complained vociferously about the quality of the bunks in the barracks at Crow Hill. Thinking back, he realised how naïve he’d been. An engineer’s bunk would have been immeasurably more comfortable than almost any of the recent places he’d spent the night wrapped in a blanket against the cold and welcoming the smell of the horses, because it meant that the beasts were close and radiating a tiny amount of heat. Bed.

“Salonius!”

He allowed his mind to focus once more and realised he’d almost drifted off wearily in the saddle and the column had begun to walk once more toward the marshal’s palace. Looking around guiltily at the waiting guardsmen and with a faint colour rising in his cheek, he walked his horse on and caught up with the others.

The great doors of the palace were only a little less defensive than the entrance to the military compound had been. Guardsmen clad in black stood above the parapet and by the doorway. They saluted as the guard commander approached and dismounted. As his heavy boots hit the ground, he adjusted his armour with the clink of chainmail and handed his reins to his second in command. Turning back to the column, he gestured to the four remaining riders.

“I realise that, Captain,” the guardsman replied with a stony face, “but I have orders that you are to have guard protection at all times, and I am not about to exceed my authority just because we are within the palace.”