S. Turney - Ironroot

“Send word to the sergeant of engineers that I’m seconding one of his men. Salonius is being reassigned. And get him a white crest and pass the details along to my clerk.”

“Sir!” barked the guard as he snapped a salute and jogged off toward the engineers’ compound, visible above the lines of tents as a collection of tall, oak-beamed siege engines and plumes of smoke, accompanied by the sound of smiths hammering iron. Varro glanced round at his newest guard.

“Go and get your personal gear. Ignore the tent or any shared equipment and report back to here in an hour to help take the headquarters tent down. We’ll be moving out just after lunch.”

Salonius was still blinking in shock, but pulled himself together sharply, saluted his captain and ran off toward the lines of tents that lay outside the engineers’ compound.

As the young man left, a thought occurred to Varro, and he called after him.

“Salonius! Go by the hospital on the way back and pick up my armour.”

The soldier spun on his heel, almost losing his footing and saluted before turning once more and disappearing among the tents.

Varro watched him run out of sight and then turned to the other guard, standing at attention beside the tent flap.

“Break him in, but gently. I might need him.”

“Aye sir,” the guard saluted.

Varro retreated inside the tent and let the leather flap fall. For a moment, he staggered, and then sank onto the edge of the bunk once more, letting his unlaced boots fall away. One of his woollen socks was crusty and dark red from where his lifeblood had pooled in his boot. That was going to take some cleaning. He briefly scanned his breeches and tunic and realised the job wouldn’t stop at his ankle. He felt unpleasant. Sleeping in his sub-armour had given him aches and pains that only added to his general discomfort, and the clothes soaked with sweat and blood had given him a smell that, he was sure, would be noticeable from a considerable distance.

Slowly and with care, he removed the leather vest and let it fall to the floor with a thud, tiny droplets of sweat bouncing as it landed. Gently he lifted the shreds of his tunic to one side and tugged at the dressing. The sudden pain and the smell from the wound almost made him vomit and he gently toppled backward onto the bunk.

This was no good. He couldn’t disturb the wound, but he was going to have to clean himself up and get rid of this mind-rotting smell. He began to force himself slowly upright again, when he noticed the figure standing just within the tent flap: Martis, his body servant. Relief swept across the captain.

“Oh good. Martis, I’m very much going to need help cleaning up. I need to wash down properly without touching my dressing and wound. And I might need a bit of help getting down to the wash tent too.”

Martis, a short and stocky bald easterner, frowned and shook his head. He was a man of few words, but as efficient and careful as they came. He’d been the most expensive servant available at the Vengen markets five years ago, but had been worth every corona over those years, and probably more. Soon Varro was going to have to raise his wage, or he’d leave for a position more sedentary and considerably less dangerous. Yes, a raise was definitely due.

The servant pointed to the rear of the tent and, turning gingerly, Varro noticed for the first time a low steel bathtub, wisps of steam rising gently from it.

“Prepared it while you were sleeping sir.”

Reaching out, he gently took his master’s arm, helped him across the tent to the tub and began to remove the grimy and bloodied clothes. Varro moved as much as he dare, but in the end resigned himself to luxury and allowed Martis to finish undressing him and help him step into the tub.

“I have to be careful not to soak my wound.”

Martis nodded and produced a square of leather, smeared around the edge with a dark shiny substance. He slowly and carefully removed the captain’s dressing and placed the patch over the freshly sealed wound, very lightly but firmly pressing down at the edges to form a water-tight seal.

“Propolis and waxed leather; watertight as long as we’re careful, sir”, he said quietly.

Varro smiled and nodded. Where had Martis found bees’ glue in a temporary camp? The man really was a marvel. With gratitude, he sank slowly into the warm water and allowed himself finally, properly, to relax. He was dozing gently as Martis took away his bloodied clothes and left a fresh set on the stool nearby before retiring to the corner where he began the laborious job of repairing the three leather strops on the armoured skirt as seamlessly as possible.

For a moment Varro panicked and splashed, and then suddenly two stocky arms were around him, gently hauling him upwards. The panic quickly receded as the captain remembered where he was and allowed himself to be helped out of the now lukewarm tub. Though he’d fallen asleep before he could scrub himself clean, the difference the hot water had made to him was tangible. He felt fresher, cleaner and considerably more relaxed.

“Thank you, Martis. I’m actually going to attempt to dress myself, if you could just unstick this pad and put my dressing back on.”

The body servant nodded curtly and very carefully and slowly peeled the edges of the patch away from Varro’s wound. As the skin pulled slightly taught with each gently tug, the captain clenched his teeth and grunted. He looked down at the wound as the last of the bees’ glue came away. The mark was now a straight line of purple and grey with some ancillary bruising. It looked so innocent and belied the intense pain and complication it was causing. And then it was covered with a fresh pad and linen. Somehow, Martis had also found fresh dressing material too.

As the linen was tied off, Martis went back to his leatherwork as the captain slowly dressed, keeping every movement as slight and gentle as possible.

As he finally settled his tunic into place and shuffled round to the bunk to take a seat and lace his boots, there was another knock on the tent frame.

“Enter,” he called.

Salonius, the young engineer, pushed the heavy leather flap aside and entered in full kit, sporting a white horsehair crest and his dress cloak. In his arms he carried the captain’s plated armour, recently polished. Varro smiled and reached out to his body servant for the leather under-vest. Martis stood with it, but Salonius cleared his throat and stepped between them.

“Doctor’s orders, Sir,” he said quietly. “The chief medic gave me strict instructions that you were to travel today on one of the carts, rather than horseback, and on no account are you allowed to wear body armour.”

Varro growled.

“I’m an officer, boy. I need my armour to keep this rabble in line.”

Salonius nodded slowly. “I understand that, sir, but the sergeants can get us de-camped and on the move, and you need to put as little strain on your side as possible. Doctor’s orders, sir: tunic and cloak only.”

Varro glared at his newest guard for a moment and then seemed to arrive at a decision.

“Very well. Let’s go out and tour the cohort while they decamp; make sure they know I’m still alive. Leave the armour. It can be packed away with the rest of my things now we’re heading back to the fort.”

Salonius placed the armour gently on the bunk, and turned to escort his commander from the tent. As they exited into the crisp morning air, the young soldier thought he saw, just for a moment, a flicker of emotion pass across the face of the guard beside the door. Dislike, he thought; or possibly even hatred. Have to be careful around that man, he noted, memorising the guard’s face with its flinty eyes and lantern jaw.

Taking a deep breath, Varro strode out with as normal a gait as he could manage, and began the walk down the slight incline to the tents. Salonius stayed to one side and slightly to his rear, enough to display the respect due a senior officer, yet close enough to grasp the captain should he suddenly falter.