S. Turney - Ironroot

These houses, eight identical buildings standing facing one another along the near end of the four streets that cut the fort into quarters, were well-appointed as befitted a cohort’s commanding officer. Essentially a two-storey town house with a garden and stable at rear, they towered above the barracks and were, in turn, towered above by the headquarters and command area.

Fastening his horse in the compact stable he noted that Martis had run on ahead and filled the feed rack with hay. With a weary smile, he closed up and headed through the interior door into his house, already glowing with the light of small oil lanterns and slowly beginning to warm through with the crackle of fire from the hearth on the main room.

“Martis?”

The stocky manservant came sauntering slowly from the kitchen, a large knife in one hand and a fresh half-plucked game bird hanging from the other. “Sir?”

He shook his head.

“Never mind, Martis. You keep preparing dinner. Best prepare a good amount too. I’ll likely have Corda round for the evening. If anyone calls for me, I’ll be in the bathhouse for the next forty five minutes or so.”

Martis nodded. “I anticipated a larger gathering, sir. I’ve also placed another waterproof pad on the table by the door, along with your dress uniform. It will save time if you dress fully before returning from the baths.”

Varro laughed loud. “Martis, I need to give you an extra corona a week. Are you content with that?”

“Most assuredly, sir.” The servant bowed slightly and then spun and returned to the kitchen with his goods.

Varro, still smiling, collected the neat pile of green tunic and breeches, his cloak and other accoutrements, along with the waxed and treated leather pad, and made his way out of the house and along the busy street in the rapidly diminishing daylight. Even after a day of relative rest, twice on the short journey he had to stop at the side of the street and lean on the wall, clutching his painful side while he regained his breath and each time, concerned soldiers would ask him if he needed help. As he once more pushed himself away from the wall in the direction of the baths, waving aside offers of assistance, he made a mental note to ask Scortius later about the possibility of different medicine. Something that lasted longer but allowed him to think a little straighter. This felt like the time as a newly-commissioned captain he’d caught some Gods-awful fever in the swamps near the northwest coast.

Finally arriving at the baths some minutes later, he passed beneath the great arch and made his way to the changing room. Leaving his clothes in one of the alcoves under the watchful eye of the civilian attendant, he carefully removed the temporary dressing the field medic had applied on the cart. Wincing as the last of the pad came away where it had stuck to the blood, he slipped a robe over his shoulders, carefully pressed the treated leather patch to his side, and entered the central area of the bathhouse. Within minutes he had been oiled, scraped and rubbed down and was sinking gratefully into a small, private, warm bath. Fortunately, while most of the army would be desperate to get to the baths after the day’s travel, the majority of them would have innumerable tasks to perform before they had the chance; even the non-wounded officers, who would be required to settle their units and report in before going off-duty.

Leaning his head back on the tiled edge of the semi-circular bath, he allowed himself to doze lightly for a while.

A half hour later, cleaner if not refreshed, the captain walked out of the baths and into the dark street, the dying embers of the day casting an orange glow on the dark cerulean horizon and lending the shadowy street a strange glow. His head still hazy and his sight slightly blurred, presumably from the mixture of the dull pain, the after effects of the drug and the steam heat within the baths, he walked directly into the soldier before he saw him.

“You alright, captain?” the soldier asked with concern, grasping him by the upper arm and holding him.

Varro shook his head slightly, startled. The lower ranks didn’t treat their seniors like this. He squinted in the low light and the figure swam slowly into focus. The neat uniform and shiny armour, the black crest and cloak and the white baldric bearing the raven and the wolf; the uniform of the marshal’s personal guard. Even the lowest member of that honoured unit might argue seniority over a cohort captain. Varro steadied himself and nodded, as though to an equal.

“Just suffering a little after effect from the battle. Apologies.”

“No apology necessary, captain, as long as you’re alright”, the man replied sincerely.

Varro stepped back and straightened a little. The cooler night air was beginning to clear his head a little and his focus was sharpening. The man was not alone, but indeed part of a squad of six guards, all in the marshal’s guard dress uniform, and betwixt them stood a slighter, shorter figure wrapped tightly in a lustrous dark blue robe against the chill of the night air. Varro frowned as he caught sight of the pale, slender hand holding the robe closed, and the two white gold and amethyst rings on the hand.

“Catilina?”

The captain stepped back and straightened, a dozen emotions fighting for control of his face. He suddenly felt quite ill.

“Catilina…”

The lady let the hood of the robe fall back to reveal her delicate porcelain features. Her prefect brow and the tresses and curls of her ebony hair gave her an austere and otherworldly appearance in the strange, waning sunlight. Catilina had been renowned as a beauty from a very young age and many a courtier had been deceived by her looks into believing her to be flighty, weak or even vapid. Nothing could be farther from the truth and, given her parentage, there was no surprise in that. marshal Sabian had built the modern Imperial army back up from scratch, and the Lady Cassida had survived twenty years of civil war as mistress of her own estate, purely through nerve and insight, while many a powerful lord had fallen.

“Captain Varro, you should address me as Lady Sabianus.” The primness of her words caught Varro off guard and he stood dumb, weighing her words and trying to decide whether she was truly serious or playing some game with him. This was not a simple woman, even in simple conversation.

She waited a moment, watching the uncertainty on Varro’s face. “Has the constant drudgery of battle finally driven your Gods-born manners from you?” she enquired in a flat tone.

The captain remained still. When he opened his mouth to reply, all that came out was a choking, stuttering noise. He felt a slight flush rise in his cheeks and damned himself to more than one hell for showing such childish weakness in front of professional soldiers. He was a longstanding and decorated veteran and yet, faced with a dozen words from Catilina he fell apart like a fresh faced boy. A low growl of irritation or anger began to well up deep in his throat.

“Varro,” the woman laughed lightly, her eyes suddenly sparkling in the moonlight, matching the amethysts on her fingers almost perfectly. “I do believe you are blushing!”

Before he could react, for which he was truly grateful, Catilina’s smile warmed and she tilted her head slightly to one side.

“But I see you’ve been wounded again, my dear captain.”

Varro’s hand went to his aching side in an involuntary movement.

“Yes.”

The lady locked his eyes with her own for a moment and a look of concern passed briefly across her face before being replaced once more with a visage of good natured elegance. Her eyes bored into his.

“You’re not yourself, Varro” she stated as a matter of fact.

He shook his head and gave a weak smile, but Catilina tapped her cheek with a slender finger, her gaze never leaving his face.