“With adequate compensation and ... destruction of our rivals’ workshops during the uprising,” one industrialist responded, languorously waving his hand.
Amalia nodded, then inclined her head toward the portly woman. “Domina Aurelia has provided us with ample ... insight into the actions and anticipated procedures of the auxilia and other security forces.”
The woman’s double chins jiggled as she bobbed her head up and down. “Boys can never keep their mouths shut when they are occupied elsewhere.” She giggled.
“We even have friends in Rome who are ready to act on our behalf.” Amalia pointed at the monocled man without identifying him. He was a stranger to the others. “Do you have any updates?”
“I believe we can successfully eliminate both the emperor and the primus imperio, his heir apparent. We can also destroy their long-range communications equipment, as well as cut the telegraph lines.”
“What about the other heir? I would think security around him would be less challenging to penetrate.” The industrialist rubbed a bejeweled hand over his balding head. “Why not just eliminate every male family member while we’re at it?”
“Because we aren’t sure where he is,” the monocled man replied, his voice condescending. “We know he came through Brittenburg, and we know that he is working with the XIII Germania Legion up at Fort Tiberius. We do not have sufficient contacts in place there, and communication in and out is strictly regulated. I’ve been waiting for a source to report in for a while. He has not been on liberty, as my men would have reported it.”
“I’m fairly certain that the only reason you know he’s there for sure is because that newspaper managed to photograph him,” an industrialist said with a sneer. “Not very good espionage, if you ask me.”
The monocled man stood, the optical glass dropping the length of its golden chain as his eyes widened. His fists pounded the table and he glared, red-faced, at the man.
Before he could unleash a barrage of insults at the factory owner, Amalia interrupted. “Gentlemen, please stop your incessant arguing. It does none of us any good.” She turned her hawk-like gaze on the monocled man. “Now Chalbys, you’ve done an excellent job. There will be plenty of opportunities to get at the second son. And frankly, if we play our cards right here and in Rome, we will be able to eliminate his ability to take charge. The squabbling among the Senate and the plebeians will cause chaos in the streets. It might even overwhelm the Praetorian Guard and the Urban Cohort. At the very least, the High Command will be forced into a tricky situation: hold out for the second son, hoping he can take charge in time to prevent far-flung parts of the Empire from collapsing, or mount a coup. Either way, Rome will truly be at the mercy of the mob.”
Her attempt to soothe the angry Chalbys worked; the man sat back down. She turned to the young men fidgeting at the end of the table. “We are very close to dealing the first of many blows for the people. We have yet to hear from our youngest team members. How goes recruitment?”
The response came in mostly slang Latin, barely understandable to some of those higher up the social ladder. “We gotsa ’bout ’undred ’ore Sludgeheads. Deyre meane and nastay, but we be ready for day victory of da workers. Mayb’ we hunt dem auxilia, ’stead of dey huntin’ us.”
When several of those around the table snorted at his speech, the gang chieftain scowled and pulled out a gleaming chain knife. The miniature battery sparked to life and the steel teeth began to whir around. “Whose be laufen at meh?” he growled. His companions also began to reach for hidden weapons.
“Stop. Now,” Amalia commanded. Her voice froze those at the table. “Sit, and let us discuss ways to harm the Romans, instead of each other.”
“It is past time for Operation Teutonburg to move beyond the planning stage. I want all operations in motion. I want gang recruitment doubled within two weeks. Everyone will await word of the assassination. Whether it has happened or not, we move on this date.” She pointed to a date circled in red on a small calendar she had removed from her belt pouch. She passed it around the table. “Keep this date in your memory. On this date you will receive a message reminding you of your commitments and requirements. If you shirk or if you renege, you will be removed. However, if you stand with us, as you have promised, you will receive a place in the new order. You will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.” Her voice edged higher. The committee members glanced at one another.
“And the Imperials?” an industrialist asked, almost in a whisper.
“They will be fractured. A Rome turned upon itself is unable to rule. With no central government and no live heir, the governors will at first be unsure what to do. Some may be convinced to come to our side. Others can be eliminated. Others may discover they like ruling as a king or emperor, rather than paying tribute to Rome. Rome will falter, and the weak provinces will wither on the vine, denied the ability to suckle on the largesse of Rome.” Amalia’s words rang from the stone walls that wept condensation around them.
“But how can we face the legions?” the ink-stained man asked. He was a scribe working in the governor’s office, well placed to hear and redirect anything of note. “We don’t have their training, their equipment, or, to be perfectly honest, their experience.”
Murmurs rose around the table. The gang chieftains leapt up, protesting the implication that they were weak and untrained. One brandished his chain knife. Noting the spirals of dragons chasing each other heavily tattooed on his scarred arm, Amalia recognized the intricate, gem-flecked mark of the Extraxi street gang, the most powerful, debauched, and ruthless of the gangs in the city. Glaring a warning at them, she lifted her hand off the table, crooking one finger. “Corbus, please remove our friends’ weaponry from this meeting; they have no need of it.”
The man in the shadows behind her moved. In barely the blink of an eye, he appeared behind the three gangers. A clatter of weaponry and several shouts and thumps later, two of the three gang chieftains lay in a heap on the floor, moaning and cursing at the hooded man. The last man sat holding his bleeding nose. Their weapons were nowhere in sight.
“As you can see, my son is a fine warrior,” Amalia said. “He will help lead us. As the descendent of the great Germanic freedom fighter Arminius, he has the blood of heroes and warriors in his veins. He will not let us down. Nor, I think, will our Nortland allies. I have arranged for assistance from them on the date we have set. Thus, everything must be prepared appropriately.” She stared around at her fellow conspirators. “What say you?”
They slid back their chairs and rose to bow deeply toward the seated Amalia. She released a mental sigh. She had feared that she would have to coerce them into accepting her plan, but now she could save those tactics for later, when the truly squeamish balked at the idea of suborning, distracting, or murdering Imperial officials and soldiers. That will be the time for force, she thought. To bind them to us, by making us the only alternative to death or destruction. Only then will we have their full loyalty.
As the other seditionists filed out of the Atrium’s private chamber, a few cast covert glances back at Amalia and Corbus, but she revealed nothing in her body language or facial expression that would give anything away, and Corbus waited stone-faced beside her.
When the last of them had left the room, Corbus turned to Amalia. She already had her hand raised, anticipating his question. “For the last time, child, they will follow us. I have no doubt in your ability to lead our men to victory. But you must continue to train them, every moment you have available. I have no expectation that you improve our fellow rebels to legionary status; your days as an auxilia constable are done. All I expect is that they can take on the city guard in a straight-up fight. You provide the tip of the assault, the ganger boys will provide the body.”
Corbus nodded, then said in a deep voice that did not match his youthful appearance, “It is my duty, Mother. I understand our history. It’s past time we took our revenge. We will make the streets slippery with blood and han
g those corrupt dogs by their togas, as our ancestors would have demanded,” he snarled.
“That’s my boy, my Germanic champion,” Amalia crooned. His eyes closed and he shivered. “Now, let’s leave, and continue our preparations in a more suitable environment.”
Again swathing themselves in their cloaks, they exited the room, slipped out of the Atrium, and faded into the anonymity of the Brittenburg night.
Chapter 5
“Gather ’round, gather ’round, you men.” Drill Instructor Vespasinus held a length of steel and iron up in front of him. “Anyone know what this is?” He looked expectantly at the legionaries assembled around him.
“A plumbata,” one of them answered, and several others nodded.
“Yes. And what is that?” the instructor prodded.
Julius spoke up. “It’s a short javelin that can explode on contact. Or it can penetrate an enemy shield to slow their attack.”
“Good, good! Excellent answer, Recruit Caesar . That’s exactly what I was looking for. Each man in a legion is armed with two of these weapons. But—” he looked around at the green legionnaires “—the smart soldier always carries a few more. There are two variations of plumbatae: the first tipped with an explosive canister, the second topped with the standard soft iron shank.”
He moved over to the shooting range, where several straw dummies awaited destruction. Grasping a plumbata in one calloused hand, he said, “This shaft has a single-use explosive component attached at the top. Our artificers and engineers designed it so that it will explode upon direct, forceful contact with a hard surface, most likely an enemy’s armor, or his shield. Upon impact, the blast is funneled toward the enemy. It’s strong enough to in all likelihood kill anyone within an eight-foot area, with a fragmentation radius twice that. It’s reliable 95% of the time and, when used in combination with others, can sweep even an armored front line clear in a single volley.”
Hefting the plumbata, he took a few quick steps and hurled it downrange. It struck one of the straw dummies in the torso. Bang! The dummy exploded into thousands of pieces. Bits of straw and canvas floated about in the air as pieces of jagged metal tinkled to the ground. The gathered legionaries cheered.
Vespasinus gave a half-bow and quipped, “Thank you, thank you, encore performance at seven for those interested. Now men, pick up a plumbata shaft. Each shaft has a screw attachment at the top.” He gestured to several crates full of plumbatae that other instructors had opened with crowbars.
Julius walked over to the nearest crate and helped pass out several of the weapon shafts. Finally, he took one for himself and walked over to the rough line that the men had formed along the near end of the range.
“What I am showing you now are the two varieties of spearheads that can be placed on the plumbata,” the instructor said, holding up a foot-long, finger-thick iron shank emerging from a cylindrical tub. He demonstrated screwing the shank onto the pole, then he unscrewed it. “That is the simple plumbata shaft. It will bend upon hitting an enemy shield, making the shield unwieldy and throwing the bearer off balance. Smart warriors will drop their shields. Dumb ones will carry the awkward weight along. Either way, you will have an advantage over them.” He displayed a wolfish grin, and then tossed the plain plumbata shank to another instructor, who deftly snagged it out of midair.
Vespasinus began screwing a heavier diamond-shaped explosive tip onto the plumbata, saying, “Each component will attach to the shaft by way of the screw. This is a black gunpowder fragmentation warhead.”
Other helpers walked along the line, passing out similar spearheads; Julius listened as he carefully screwed on the dangerous warhead he was given.
“The shafts are designed to withstand the pressure of the explosion. Realistically, they tend to take some damage, but about half of them can be reused. Remember, the trigger requires a straight hit; glancing ones won’t do the trick.” Turning, Drill Instructor Vespasinus stepped to one side and bellowed, “On my order! Ready plumbatae.”
Julius and the others balanced their plumbatae on open palms next to their ears. Instructors scurried down the line, helping to adjust the position of each plumbata. Several men nearly dropped them, snatching them up at the last second. The instructor waited until they were all prepared before belting out his next words.
“A volley is far more devastating than a single hit, remember that! Now—ready, THROW!”
The missiles arced raggedly from their line, followed seconds later by a rolling series of explosions. Julius instinctively threw his hand up before his face as dust, dirt, and straw flew everywhere. When the explosions stopped, the instructor pulled a lever on the wall. A mechanical alarm sounded. Several large fans slowly blew the smoke and floating debris away so that the soldiers could see the results.
Julius gaped with the others. Wisps of smoke still rose gently from the craters where the straw dummies once stood. Vespasinus motioned, and the recruits followed him forward over the fragmented ground. Squatting, he scooped up a small piece of jagged metal, tossing it from hand to hand to cool it down. “This is what happens when the warhead on the plumbata explodes. The black powder is triggered by the impact. The outer casing shatters, sending hot pieces of iron into bodies and armor and shields. A single well-placed plumbata can even take down an airship. A volley of plumbatae will stagger an advancing enemy, wound their men, disorganize them, hurt their morale, and deal them a psychological blow.” He delivered the speech in the cold, hard manner of a man who has seen it happen before.
He pointed to one of his students. “You, Recruit Gven ... Gwyen—What in Jupiter’s beard is your name?” he finally snapped.
“Sir, it’s pronounced Ven-durn; it’s from my great-uncle.”
Vespasinus tossed the piece of iron to Recruit Gwendyrn. “Sorry ’bout the horrible name. Now, if you please, imagine that going through your shin, Gwendyrn. At this instant, you’re wounded, thrashing about, possibly even injuring other men with your movements. You’re bleeding out and your comrades are worried about you, so they want to take you back to the medico.” He looked around at the others, pointing to Gwendyrn. “How many men do you think it will take to get him back to a first aid station?”
Julius shrugged with the others, his leather tunic shifting on his shoulders.
“Get on the ground and let’s see how people react to the situation,” he told Gwendyrn. “Thrash around so it looks like you’re injured.”
Gwendyrn lay down and began feebly moving his legs. “Ouch, ouch!” he said with limited enthusiasm.
Instructor Vespasinus walked over to him. As the remaining recruits stood watching uncertainly, his leg swung back, then he kicked Gwendyrn right in the knee with his iron-toed nova caligae. Julius grimaced; that would leave a brutal bruise. Gwendyrn screamed and grabbed his knee, now writhing around in pain. Vespasinus stepped to one side and looked around. “What are you waiting for? Get him behind the line!”
Julius and several other recruits quickly reached down to lift the struggling man. An explosion suddenly erupted to their right.
“What was that?” Julius shouted, ducking over Gwendyrn’s moaning, still writhing form. The other recruits had either crouched or dropped flat to the ground, below the trajectory of any shrapnel. The injured man was completely forgotten. Julius looked wildly at the instructor. “Was that an accident?”
“This is not some pansy walk in the forum, recruit!” Vespasinus yelled from the safety of the wall. “Get your armor-clad bodies in gear! Move, move, MOVE!”
Julius grabbed Gwendyrn’s arm. Several other recruits grabbed the downed man and lifted him, then began dragging him toward the low wooden wall that separated the free fire part of the range from the safe part of the range. A plumbata went sailing over their heads, followed by another explosion. This time, Julius heard the whine of shrapnel behind him. “Go faster!” he cried out.
The men began to move together, more efficiently this time. The wall was twenty feet away. Then just fifteen
feet. Then ten feet. Then they were moving Gwendyrn over the wall. The men gave a ragged cheer as he was lifted over.
“By Jupiter’s beard, why’d you have to go and kick me, sir?” Gwendyrn groaned as he was helped to his feet.
“You didn’t do a good enough job pretending to be wounded. When I tell you to play injured, you play injured. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It may save your life someday. You never know when you might need to play dead. Did anyone get the lesson I was trying to teach you?” The veteran looked around at the shaken men, most still recovering from their recent ordeal. “Anyone?”
Julius stared at his still trembling hands. The instructor looked at him. “Not even you, Caesar?” Julius shook his head.
“It took five of you to carry back one wounded man. I just took six men out of the fight with only one weapon. That, my friends, is effective.” He paused, looking at the disheveled men. “Alright, everyone—even you, Recruit Gwendyrn—back on the line. We will practice until you can hit a human target at fifty feet! I’d rather you be on the delivery end of the plumbata, rather than the receiving end.”
~ * * * ~
Just a few minutes before lights out, Julius sat on the edge of his bunk, rubbing the new calluses on his hands. His arms ached. His back ached. There was not one part of his body that did not ache. He had lost track of the days of the week and even what month it was. He held up the letter from his little sister, a very detailed letter for a seven-year-old that included a picture she had drawn of their family. Marciena wore a dress and held a book; their mom was busy weaving; their father was rebuilding the autodryer. The cartoon Julius, clad in armor and carrying a shield, fought off some nameless, many-armed monster. His sister appeared to have a future as an artist. Laughing, he turned the paper to see it more clearly in the weak light from the gas lantern above his bunk.
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