Free Ironroot by S. J. A. Turney Page A

head, which threatened to send his brain spinning once more. The queasiness came again in a sudden blast but was, fortunately, gone in a flash.
    “I’m going to see him later,” he replied flatly. “Right now, I’m going home for a while. I haven’t eaten for a year or so, my stomach tells me.”
    For a long moment the two held each others’ gaze, locked in a battle of wills, until Catilina looked away, folding her arms indignantly to indicate to all present that she had decided the captain’s decision was wrong but was willing to watch him fail to prove her point.
    Varro ground his teeth in frustration. No matter how he dealt with Catilina, in every argument, every conversation and even every minor exchange of greetings, he had always left feeling that he had lost the debate and she had let him go.
    “I’ll no doubt see you shortly, Lady Sabianus. I expect your father and the prefect will want to see me tomorrow.”
    Catilina regarded him with an unreadable expression.
    “In this world, Varro, all things are possible.”
    She gestured at the man Varro had bumped into.
    “Crinus, take two others and make sure the captain gets back to his house safely.”
    She looked at him and smiled mischievously.
    “If, that is, he can remember where he lives.”
    Varro continued to grind his teeth, unable to form a suitable reply. His mind was feeling surprisingly clouded, even here in the late evening breeze.
    “Come!” Catilina waved to her retinue and swept away past the captain toward the grand headquarters building at the centre of the fort.
    The captain watched her go with a curious mixture of desire and relief. The three remaining guards exchanged a look that Varro recognised in irritation: soldiers that had been assigned a duty they felt was beneath them. Baby-sitting. He grinned a wicked grin.
    “So, lads. Who’s for a jug of good wine?”
    The senior of the soldiers regarded Varro with something akin to disdain, as though he were some sort of carrion, and returned the captain’s smile with no warmth.
    “Home, Captain.”
    The other two guards reached for Varro’s elbows as if to support him, and he pulled away indignantly with as much pride as he could muster.
    “I’m quite capable of walking, even if the Lady feels I need an escort,” he narrowed his eyes at their leader. “So let’s just go.”
    The group of four walked purposefully along the street toward the officers’ quarters as the arteries of the fortress gradually filled with off-duty soldiers on their way to the baths, taverns, gambling pits, or to the other dens of pleasure that were to be found in the civilian settlement just beyond the fort’s massive walls. As he walked, Varro found he had to concentrate with every step to prevent himself staggering.
    As they rounded a corner, sergeant Corda strode into view, still in his armour and coated in the grime of travel. Varro nodded a professional greeting as he came to as steady a halt as he could manage.
    “Corda. Would you care to join me this evening? Martis is making something fowl.”
    The sergeant smiled a rare smile at the pun and nodded.
    “I’d be glad to, sir, but I must settle in and bathe first. I’ll join you shortly.”
    With a salute, he strode off toward his quarters while Varro made for the welcoming lights of his house. At the door, he thanked the marshal’s guards with mock extravagance and entered, closing the door behind him. He leaned on the door jamb for support for a moment, breathing heavily, and then turned and walked into his main room.
    “Good evening, captain Varro,” the marshal said from his seat beside the fire.
     
    Varro stopped in his tracks and swayed for a moment before recovering himself as best he could and coming to a surprisingly smart salute. The sudden movement certainly made his head swim a little, but he snapped his arm back down by his side and stood as straight and as still as he could, a gentle sweat beginning to glisten on his brow.
    Marshal