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

Sabian, tall and imposing with his iron grey hair and his handsome, yet lined and careworn face, sat with his legs crossed and his black-plumed helmet on his lap. The fact that the marshal already held a crystal glass of what was clearly Varro’s best wine and a small platter or cold meats lay on the table beside him made it plain that Martis had been as diligent and efficient as ever in dealing with the man who was, after all, the second most powerful man in the Empire.
    The captain smiled weakly.
    “Marshal, you honour my house.”
    Sabian waved his hand, brushing aside the compliment.
    “Gods, Varro, I have more than enough obsequious sycophants hanging around me at Vengen; I don’t need the same here. Sit down before you fall down. I sent your servant out for a short while. I don’t want us to be disturbed.” He reached and took a neat slice of chicken from the plate, rolling it and dipping it in the accompanying pickle before popping it into his mouth. His eyes swept the room, taking in its austere appearance, almost entirely lacking in decoration, and that which could be seen was clearly of military origin: a worn pennon here, a scabbard with a telling dent there. Clearly the home of a career soldier.
    Without a word, and quietly grateful, the captain made his way to a seat close by; close enough for low conversation, but not close enough to seem discourteous.
    “It’s been a long time, marshal,” he replied, being careful to keep his tone slightly familiar and yet thoroughly respectful.
    “Long indeed,” Sabian replied quietly, his gaze slowly wandering down to rest on his boots. “Always knew you’d be commissioned, Varro. Even in the old days, I mean. I suspect if I hadn’t given command of the Fourth to Cristus, it would have wound up with you, sooner or later.”
    Varro blinked a few times, gently shaking his head. Likely it was the fault of the drugs and the drowsiness, but his mind seemed to be refusing to work correctly. He was suddenly entirely unsure of the situation around him and the scene felt increasingly unreal to him.
    Here was the second most powerful man in the Empire, a close friend of the Emperor himself, speaking to him as though they were campfire companions on campaign in the wilderness; suggesting that he could be a staff officer in the right circumstances. Oh, not that he hadn’t considered that himself from time to time, but had never thought to hear it from above. And perhaps he hadn’t done. It wouldn’t entirely surprise him to find his mind was playing tricks on him. He focused once more on Sabian, aware that the marshal had continued to talk, long after he’d stopped listening.
    “…and so you might still get that chance, Varro; probably will in fact.”
    The marshal raised those insightful eyes, ‘a window onto genius’ as some poet had once written of him, and rested them on Varro.
    “But for that to happen,” he said with surprising force, ”I need you to do something.”
    Varro blinked in alarm. He’d missed something. Trying not to sound panicked, he settled slightly in the seat and gave a reassuring smile.
    “Can you just repeat that, sir?”
    Sabian gave him an odd look; disturbingly reminiscent of the one Catilina had given him in the street outside the bathhouse.
    “Prefect Cristus will, tomorrow, be formally announcing his decision to step down from command.”
    Again Varro blinked and Sabian’s eyes narrowed.
    “You are taking all this in, aren’t you Varro? If I didn’t know better I’d say you were topped up on Mare’s Mead.” His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in his seat.
    The captain shook his head.
    “Sorry sir. Strong medicine our cohort doctor put me on. Took a stab wound in the side yesterday and it pinches a bit.”
    Sabian smiled.
    “I expect it does, Varro; I expect it does. Still, it’ll be towards the end of the year before Cristus can actually fully step down. He’s plenty to do before then, but he’ll be looking at a