The tribune must have nerves of steel, Julius thought as he bent to massage his still trembling legs. He’s even smiling and walking around as if he’s on holiday in the Mediterranean. Only later would Julius learn that the tribune had puked his guts out immediately after landing.
A muffled shout from above drew Julius’s eyes upward. Gwendyrn was flailing and spinning on the rope above their heads.
“By Jupiter, the man’s gone and lost his head!” cried the deckhand holding the rope. “Quick, help me lower him before he breaks his carpteneo!” Following the tribune’s lead, Julius and his companions rushed to grab the rope. With the deckhand chanting the pace, they laboriously pulled the rope down. Men from the other landing ropes ran over to help.
The man above them seemed to float between ship and earth. Julius tilted his head up and released his grip on the rope long enough to undo the strap under his chin and gently toss his helmet behind him. A shiver ran through him as cool air flowed over his shaven scalp. This was taking forever. The men around him were all blinking sweat from their eyes.
Then he had an idea. “Hey, Gwendyrn, you big baby!” he shouted. “Stop throwing a temper tantrum and get your behind in motion! Relax your hands!”
The tribune looked at him, grinned, and cupped his hands around his mouth to add his call to Julius’s. “Legionnaire Gwendyrn, if you are not down here in one minute, I am confiscating your beer ration for the rest of the month! And I will give it to your squadmates!”
Gwendyrn seemed to pause in his frantic thrashing. Julius shielded his eyes with his hand. Yes! He seemed to be furiously working at the carpteneo in his hands. Finally, he began to slide down the rope again. The men on the ground cheered. When he eventually touched down, his face was tear-streaked and his arms were white with tension. “No one takes my beer from me,” he proclaimed.
A few men laughed, but otherwise they exchanged no words. They didn’t have to. They were simply glad Gwendyrn was alive and healthy on the ground. Tribune Appius gave the man a clap on the back, then they all moved away, watching the next man descend the thin, tenuous line between the floating warship and the safety of the ground.
The rest of the exercise went without incident. Each group had a few men who had a troublesome first descent, but that was to be expected. When everyone was down, Tribune Appius gathered them all around a convenient stump and stepped up onto it. Facing his men, he removed his red horsehair-crested helmet off his head and tucked it under one elbow.
“Great job with the first descent,” he told them. “Unfortunately, if this was a real combat descent, Mister Horatio over here informs me that half of us would be dead, leaving the other half probably fighting for our lives here on the ground, unable to get back up to the ship and safety. Therefore, we shall continue to practice until we can get down in less than five minutes. In addition, gentlemen, we will now practice ascending to the ship. This maneuver is a bit ... rougher ... than your descent was, I’m told.”
Julius sighed with several others. Mutters of protest ran through the assembled men.
“Come now, I’ve heard they’ve got hot drinks up on the ship as a pick-me-up for our first drop mission together! Of course, last one there may not get any. So line up at your respective wires, and let’s show those flyboys that we know our business.”
The men shuffled off to their lines. A few minutes later, Julius was being winched back onto the Scioparto at a brisk pace. A pair of deckhands waiting by the opening in the railing pulled him back onto the ship. Captain Alexandros himself was there to witness their performance, and Julius realized that this must be a learning experience for him and his men as well. Never before in the history of the Roman Empire had the legions and the air fleet worked so closely together. They were breaking new ground. Julius’s chest swelled with pride.
~ * * * ~
At last, Tribune Appius clambered aboard. Naturally, he had been the first man down and the last man off the ground. The captain nodded approvingly. Although he didn’t know the tribune that well, he appeared to be a decent sort. Of course, his heritage practically ensured that he would be capable in some way. It was better to be capable in leadership than capable in something less fortunate, such as basket weaving, Alexandros mused as his hand whipped up in a crisp salute. Tribune Appius returned it.
“Welcome back to the ship, Tribune. Glad to have you back safe and sound. If you have the time, I think we should meet on the bridge to discuss how we can modify and improve our deployment next time.”
The tribune quickly agreed. As he moved off to give instructions to his senior centurion, Alexandros wondered for the thousandth time that day what quirk of fate had entrusted him to work with a member of the royal family, given that his ancestors had been the ringleaders in an attempt to murder Constantine’s ancestor in 33 BC. Who at the Bureau of State messed this one up? It mattered naught, for his efforts with this man would give Alexandros and his family a glorious return to the annals of history.
Chapter 8
Gregias, valet to the emperor Hadrian Silenius Appius, tiptoed around him this morning, and His Royal Highness knew it was because he was in a foul mood. First, he was unable to spend time on his new dirigible, the Marelena, due to some technical problems. Second, those cursed reporters had run unflattering drawings and stories about him and his heir, Lucius, so Emperor Hadrian was, naturally, upset. Which meant, third, his household irritated him by tiptoeing around him. Hadrian hated those vicious, smelly, untruthful men.
He had considered sending another law to the Senate that made it legal to bring complaints against journalists who wrote untruths about a person. Every time he tried, though, the Senate protested that people had the right to free speech. Of course he could just institute it as a law himself, but that would bring him into conflict with not just the Senate, but the Plebeian Council. They currently happened to be some of his strongest supporters, acting as a useful counterweight to the temperate nature of the Senate.
“Gregias, my third best toga, please,” the emperor drawled. “We have decided to view the grounds. We wish to see the Marelena during its test flight.”
He allowed his valet to drape the heavy robe over his shoulders, securing it around his waist with a broad clockwork-patterned belt. Autumn in Rome is splendid, especially if you have access to such lovely gardens, he thought in anticipation. Hadrian suffered through most of the other seasons with the rest of his people who were unable to escape the city—except for winter, and possibly the worst days of summer, and the rainy days of spring. He was not too accepting of hardship.
Several servants, their eyes suitably downcast, proffered trays of delicacies and light snacks. Hadrian delicately selected one sweet almond morsel and popped it into his mouth. He chewed and nodded appreciatively, then snapped his hand out. Another servant waiting patiently on the sidelines stepped forward and deposited a wine glass in the outstretched hand. He took a long sip of heavy red wine to wash the nutty aftertaste from his mouth, smacked his lips, and let the empty goblet fall to the floor. The servant hurried to pick up the bejeweled vessel as Hadrian strode from the room, trailed by the usual cortege of servants, guards, and aides.
Several richly decorated hallways later, a set of double doors swung aside under the hands of two elite Praetorian Guardsmen, their scarlet cloaks spotless, steel breastplates gleaming. The emperor gave them a curt nod as he strode past, stepping into the welcome solitude of a perfectly manicured garden. A pathway took him past flowerbeds and topiaries to a raised pavilion fondly called the Tower, a simple balustraded marble block reached via a single staircase in the back. From here, the emperor could see most of the capital.
Careful to sweep the hem of his heavy toga aside, Hadrian climbed the stairs, paused to wipe a sheen of sweat from his brow, and resolved to visit the baths later. For now, a snap of his fingers brought two men forward to stir the air around him with large wooden paddles. They followed him to the marble railing, where he again held out his hand. The a
ir fleet officer standing behind him took a step forward and placed a pair of binoculars in his palm.
Resting the binoculars on the stone railing, he asked, “Kartinis, where should I be looking?”
Despite his youth, Air Fleet Captain Kartinis was both a veteran and a gifted advisor. Air Command had positioned him in the emperor’s service to give them a strong, steady voice in the emperor’s ear, and also to get him out of their hair. He was something of a maverick and had turned established Air Fleet doctrine on its head during several recent engagements. The emperor liked the young man because he reminded him of his younger son, Constantine. Who, Hadrian remembered, his smile darkening, had exchanged words with his father that they had later regretted. Of course, he sniffed, he should be the one apologizing to me.
Hadrian heard the clump of the officer’s boots as he moved forward. “If Your Highness will look to the southeast,” Kartinis said, pointing toward a large expanse of concrete just inside the city walls, “the Marelena is currently approaching the Aeroporto di Roma.”
Hadrian swung the binoculars in the appropriate direction, where several bulbous shapes currently occupied the busiest air docking station in the Empire, possibly the busiest in the world. A smaller, sleeker airship was descending toward the field, its purple canvas balloon tapered at each end, its long gondola barely visible.
“The crew reported some problems with the boiler to steam conversion engine,” Kartinis continued. The emperor appreciated the young officer’s no-frills approach, and his solid, if occasionally unpopular or unlooked for, counsel. “It also reported that these problems had not been evident before takeoff. Your security chief did not think it prudent that we tempt fate by placing you on board.” Several ground crew vehicles were now moving around on the concourse, as ropes dropped from the ship.
“I suppose there will always be anoth—”
A massive explosion lit up the field. The Marelena seemed to disintegrate in midair, the purple canvas blossoming into brilliant white-yellow light. Several seconds later, the pressure wave from the explosion reached the palace grounds.
“Get down, Majesty!” Kartinis pulled Hadrian to the ground. The explosion swept over them. Glass tinkled as windows in the palace were blown out.
Hadrian pushed Kartinis off of him while assuring the young man of his good health, and clambered to his feet. “Messenger!” he shouted. Several young men and women sprang forward. “You, get to the telegraph office. Find out what in Jupiter’s name has happened. And tell the rest of the Empire that I’m alive. Now!” The man took off at breakneck speed. “You, you, and you. I want you to go down there and observe events firsthand. Report back to me personally. I want details. I also want to know whether this was an accident or a foiled assassination attempt.”
“You could see if they need medical assistance,” Kartinis suggested in a low but distinctly clear voice.
“That too!” the emperor added, eyebrows furrowed. “Learn everything you can. Then get yourself back here. Move!” The small group moved rapidly to comply.
Hadrian turned to the last man. “And you—I want you to go to the Legate Praetorius office and tell that meddlesome man that, one, he was right, and two, now he’s got a massive problem to clean up.”
As the man scurried off, he turned back to the air captain. “I want your immediate, unbiased opinion right this second, Captain. What happened?” Kartinis’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. He cleared his throat to gain time to phrase his response. Feeling his simmering anger rising to the boiling point, Hadrian demanded, “Air Captain Kartinis, what in Hades’ name happened? Now!”
Kartinis took a deep breath. “Sire, as you have already stated, there are two possibilities. Either there was a major malfunction or it was a bomb or other explosive. Of the two, I personally believe it is more likely a contrived event. Although the crew did report having mechanical problems, the problems they mentioned would lead to a slow deflate, not an explosion of such immense proportions.” Falling back on his training, he stood at attention.
Hadrian turned to frown at the air field. “Why explode it over the field? I was nowhere near the concourse.”
“Majesty, we must look to your security. This place is too open. If indeed it was an assassination attempt, there may be a second attempt on your life. We need to move to the bunker, now.” Kartinis was referring to the security bunker under the palace; any attacker would have to fight through hordes of security personnel and numerous defensive positions before gaining access to the emperor there.
Mention of an assassination attempt had sent murmurs through the Praetorian Guards in attendance, and Hadrian saw squads already encircling the Tower. Several more squads were arriving as Imperial guardsmen began setting up heavy repeating ballistae and training them out in all directions. Others moved to establish a shield wall around the Tower.
His face suddenly went pale. “What about my sons? Where is their security? They might be targets too!” Fighting panic, he began pacing erratically. The security of the dynasty is threatened!
Kartinis’s steely, detached voice induced calm. “We still don’t know it was an assassination attempt. We’ll send a detachment to secure Primus Caesar Lucius and get him back here immediately. Other than that, we can send a message to Fort Tiberius, but Secondus Caesar Constantine is most likely safer there than we are here.”
“Do it. And Kartinis, you lead it. Bring Lucius back to me.”
Kartinis nodded, saluted, and turned. He strode away, giving instructions for several squads to meet him at the front gate as he left. Then, as if feeling Hadrian’s urgency, Kartinis began to jog, then run toward the gate.
~ * * * ~
Primus Caesar Lucius lounged in the calfskin-upholstered viewing chair in his private viewing box halfway up the side of the great Roma coliseum. Here he enjoyed the cool fall breeze that pushed away the heat radiating off the metal bleachers full of plebeians and patricians stretching to either side of him. Fight day brought everyone out to watch the massive humanoid automatons battling in the center of the dirt-paved arena below.
Pistons hissing, brass, steel, and iron glinting in the sunlight, the mecha-gladiators circled, occasionally venting small spurts of steam. The crowd cheered or booed the fortunes of either the one bearing a red flag on its head, or the blue.
“I desire another drink, Aura; bring me one,” he said to the scantily clad woman nestled next to him. Her full lips pouted as she slithered off him and moved behind him to tip the wine pitcher over his goblet. Condensation had formed on the glass from its cool contents. His two personal guards, standing at attention on either side of the box entrance, studiously avoided looking at her long, slender legs as she wiped her moist hands down her short skirt. Let them look, Lucius thought, already bored with his most recent companion. They never held his interest for more than a few weeks at a time, and this one was beginning to annoy him. Besides, if he kept her around too long, his father would press for Lucius to get married again. Always worried about “securing the dynasty.” Stupid old git.
Lucius sat up in his seat as the blue mecha-gladiator swung a ten foot-long sword down at the other one. The red-flagged mecha-gladiator rolled to the left, then hooked its trident behind the leg of the blue one, bringing it down with a massive crash and screech of metal. The crowd roared approval as the trident-armed construct knocked aside the sword and crushed the shield of the blue automaton now lying helpless on the ground. Lucius could see the operator inside the grounded machine working desperately at his controls, trying to get his creation moving again—to no avail. The crowd roared as the massive trident came down against the neck of the downed mecha-gladiator.
A monotone voice came from the speaker on the red ’bot. “Shall I remove him, Highness?”
Lucius held his hand out behind him and Aura placed his drink within his fleshy palm. He took a long sip while the crowd waited, anticipation building. He cleared his throat, then walked to the microphone. “Finish him.”
The crowd’s cheering surged as the trident lanced down, severing the head of the fallen mecha-gladiator. Steam shot into the air as the main control rods and boiler connection were severed. The body went limp, but the head rolled several times, finally coming to rest against the wall of the stadium. Several ground crewmembers rushed out to get the limp form of the defeated pilot out of his seat and hitch the parts of the now incapacitated construct to a steamtractor. As the tractor dragged the components from the arena floor, the triumphant mecha-gladiator marched around the arena, trident raised, striking poses to rile up the crowd.
I must get Father to let me buy one, or better yet, design and commission one, Lucius decided, riding the triumphant wave cresting around him.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooommmmmm.
A massive pressure wave washed over the coliseum on the heels of the deafening explosion, shocking the crowd and blowing dust, litter, and other debris into myriad dust devils. Many people fell; those who didn’t raced for the exits, oblivious with panic.
“What was that?” Lucius blurted as soon as he’d recovered.
His guardsmen both shrugged. “Shall we return to the palace, My Lord? Or would you rather remain at the games?” asked Aestius, the more veteran of the two and in charge of his security detachment. His long black hair marked him as a man of Hunnic-Roman descent.
Lucius turned back to the field. The mecha-gladiator stood frozen in place. The stands were quickly emptying of people. Several bodies littered the aisleways, and sirens could be heard in the distance as emergency crews moved to deal with whatever had happened. “Let’s get to the ostrichines. Whatever this calamitous event, it has undone the games. And I’m bored.”
Aestius nodded and checked the entrance. The other legionary, Flavius, had unsheathed his sword and brought his shield around onto his left arm. With a curt nod from Aestius, Flavius took the lead as they stepped into the corridor behind the box.
Brass Legionnaire (The Steam Empire Chronicles) Page 9