Brass Legionnaire (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  “They never saw it coming!”

  Alexandros allowed a tight-lipped smile as their enthusiasm bubbled over. Then, “Simmer down now, gentlemen; we’ve only won half the battle,” he reminded them, and they returned to their seats.

  “Sir, bottom-side lookouts report the mob is trying to enter the governor’s mansion,” an officer reported. “It appears to be held by guardsmen, but they are having a rough time of it. If we shift course to heading seven two point four eight, we can support them with our lower deck weaponry.”

  Alexandros thought for a moment. “Let’s be even more bold. Bring us about right over that main structure down there. It’s open enough for us to drop the 13th, and we can support the loyalist forces. Pass the word for the 13th to drop, full combat rig. Topside lookouts are to keep an eye on that second ship. I don’t want it to even look our way without us knowing about it.”

  Men jumped to their jobs. The bulk of the ship turned and assumed position over the mansion.

  ~ * * * ~

  A messenger moved through the crowded hallways, the cargo holds and crew rooms, looking for Centurion Vibius. The men he passed were silent, struggling to deal with nerves and stress. Most could only shake their head when he queried the centurion’s whereabouts.

  “He gathered his squad leaders and took them to his bunkroom to plan the combat drop,” one of the legionnaires finally told him.

  When the messenger found the room where the centurion was supposed to be, he stopped, aghast. The compartment had been hit by one of the last desperate shots from the Thorolf. The cabin was a chaos of blood and shattered glass. Two crewmen were quickly hammering plywood sheets over a large hole where half the outer wall had been. Six figures lay on the deck. Someone had found small laurel branches to place on the bodies. A medico from the ship’s Infirmary was quickly checking the lone survivor standing on the far side of the room.

  “I’m looking for the centurion,” the messenger said hesitantly.

  The single remaining legionnaire looked up at him, his face streaked with smoke and blood. “I’m the highest ranking officer left. Acting Centurion Julius Caesar.”

  “He’s alive only by luck,” the medico added curtly, not stopping his examination to look at the messenger. “When the explosive projectile hit, he was behind several bunk beds, getting a drink of water. It saved his life.”

  And in that moment, the acting squad leader was promoted to acting centurion, the messenger realized; not a move for the faint of heart.

  The messenger recoiled as the young man turned and puked into a bucket. A moment later he straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The messenger looked away, his eyes falling on the bodies. A medical corpsman was now covering the last one with a tarp, shaking his head. The sight of the dead man’s charred clothing combined with the smell of burnt flesh made him queasy, and he nearly needed the bucket as well.

  Desperate to get out of there, he turned back to the legionary and asked, anxiety making his voice sound impatient, “So are you the commanding officer, or not?”

  Julius squared his shoulders and picked up his fallen helmet. He placed it firmly on his head and buckled the strap. “Yes, I’m acting centurion. What are our orders?”

  “Captain Alexandros offers his compliments, sir, and begs leave to inform you that your men are to be ready to drop in five minutes.” He paused to check his timepiece. “That order was given three minutes ago, sir. The ship cannot remain on station for too long, as there is still another enemy airship out there.”

  Julius’s mouth sagged open.

  “Can you do it?” the messenger asked, the question almost a squeak.

  Looking down at his dead comrades, Julius murmured, “There’s no one else to lead. We’ll be ready.”

  ~ * * * ~

  After the messenger left, Julius listened to the hammering of the crewmen patching the hole, too numb to move.

  As he walked by, the medico paused to put a hand on Julius’s shoulder for a moment and say a quiet prayer. “I’ll send someone to collect the bodies,” he said, dropping his hand. Julius thanked him, and the medico left the room.

  Julius wasn’t ready to leave yet. Kneeling, he pulled back the shroud covering Vibius and tenderly detached the brass centurion pin. He said a silent prayer of his own, then rose and attached the pin to his shoulder as he strode from the room.

  Grabbing the first legionnaire he saw, he mustered his strongest command voice. “Assemble the men on the jump decks. It’s past time we leave this flying tub.”

  He looked around. Word had spread rapidly about the deaths. The loss of most of their officers was a hard pill to swallow, and several men looked mutinous. Julius knew how they felt; he’d be unwilling to drop into a war zone without the right leadership. Now, though, he had no choice. He thought for a second, then raised his voice. “You know, the tribune is down there, waiting for us to hurry up and save his high and mighty behind. Let’s get a move on, people!” He punctuated the last word by slamming his gauntleted fist into his open palm.

  The men began grabbing gear and moving toward the drop lines. The crewmembers were already out there, and wires descended from the ship like spider silk. As Julius stepped out onto the top deck, a midshipman reported to the bridge that they were ready. The recently promoted Julius was now left with figuring out what to do on the ground.

  He began marshaling the men into line. “Adueinus, make a space over there! Dapelicus, check those men’s gear—one of them appears to have his carpteneo on backwards. We can’t have that. Gwendyrn! Get your lazy backside over to this line. You’ll be leading it down!”

  Julius leaned in close as Gwendyrn scurried forward. “I need someone I can trust on the ground. Standard deployment, secure the area. If it looks clear, take half the first team and secure that gate,” he ordered in a low voice. Then he said louder, “I’m giving you a battlefield commission to 1st Junior Centurion, 13th Cohort. I need a competent man to be my second. No going crazy now, you hear?”

  Nearby men chuckled, but it did little to erase the tension in the air. Julius felt like a fraud. Public speaking was not his thing. He strained to sound like the tribune had during their first airdrop, back in training. “You are the assault team. This is a historic moment; we are the first rapid response unit to ever drop into combat. Are you going to insult our forefathers? Shame your parents? Disgrace your families?”

  A resounding “No!” came back to him.

  “Good! Junior Centurion Gwendyrn will lead the first team. Follow his orders as if they came from ...” Julius knew he did not carry much sway with his men yet, so he improvised “ ... like they came from out Tribune Appius himself! He is down there, fighting his way through hordes of traitors and foreigners. They have given up any right to be called Romans. I say we go get him, and show him what real Romans can do!”

  Cheering, the men of the 13th Cohort attached themselves to the drop lines. Airmen held tight to the railings as they fought to keep the lines from swaying in the wind.

  A green light illuminated on deck. It cast an eerie green glow over the assembled men. “Go! Go! Go!” shouted the airmen, and the men attached their carpteneos to the lines and leapt off. Looking like beads on a thread, they slid down toward the open gardens of the mansion.

  Centurion Caesar borrowed a pair of binoculars from an airman and swept them along the wall toward the gate, where the mob had recovered from the impact of the Thorolf and again pressed forward, using a battering ram against the barrier. No doubt seeing the arrival of their allies, small figures ran to and fro, redoubling their efforts to hold off the mob, although the defensive fire had slackened in the last few minutes.

  “Hurry up, Gwendyrn, get those men in position,” Julius muttered. The bottom deck of the gondola blocked his view so he couldn’t see the men right below the ship, but he knew they were all grounded by now. He swung the binoculars back to the gate and watched anxiously as the rioters succeeded in cracking an opening between
the two panels. The defenders were thrown back from the gate; enemies trickled through the opening, leaping over several injured men sprawled in the dust.

  Hold them! he cried silently. Just a bit longer! A pitiful handful of men rushed to the gate, repeater crossbows laying down a hail of fire. For a brief moment or two, the press at the gates slowed as rioters went down, arrows slicing through linen tunics and canvas overalls. The wounded screamed in pain as they were trampled beneath the crowd surging forward. Their ammunition out, the defenders dropped their crossbows and charged, spathae and shields against bricks and clubs.

  A tap on his shoulder made Julius whirl away from the drama unfolding at the palace gates. A senior enlisted airman stood waiting, holding a carpteneo. “Sir, the first batch is down,” the airman told him. “We can’t stay on station much longer. The crosswinds are beginning to affect our ability to remain stationary.”

  Now that his attention had returned to the airship, Julius did notice that the engines were louder, working harder than before. He nodded, then quickly pulled the goggles down over his eyes and buckled his chinstrap. The airman patted his equipment down, making sure there was nothing loose or unsecured. With a return nod, the airman led him over to the drop point and handed over the carpteneo, saying, “Don’t forget your slider, sir.”

  Julius allowed a small chuckle. The things had been in use for less than a month, and already they had a new nickname. He turned back to look at the second wave of legionaries, all geared up and awaiting his orders. “What are you waiting for, an invitation?” he quipped as he reached out and clapped his carpteneo onto the thick cable. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped out into space.

  Without the support of the deck, he could feel the same crosswinds buffeting him that were beginning to pummel the Scioparto, the second he cleared the ship. He looked up at the ship, rapidly dwindling above him, the coppery tint of the glasses casting it and the rest of the world in sepia tones. He made out the damage the dirigible had suffered in its battle, then turned to survey his hometown. What he saw made him cry out in anguish.

  Brittenburg was burning. Debris from the fallen Nortland airship had created a trail of devastation that served as the spark. Flames glowed in stone alleyways, moved along awnings, and licked through elaborately decorated mansions. A warehouse went up in a fiery ball of gas and vapor, the flames blue against the dark smoke covering the city.

  Julius checked his height on his wrist altimeter. He was approaching the red zone, or stop zone, where you were supposed to slow your descent to a reasonable speed. A tight squeeze on his slider (he liked that term better), and he felt his momentum slow. A few final spurts deposited him roughly on the ground.

  A legionnaire was there to meet him. “Sir, Junior Centurion Gwendyrn’s compliments. He begs leave to tell you—and this is a direct quote sir, so please excuse the language—‘If you are done lollygagging, get your slothful soldiers here, or we’ll have done all the work for you.’” The soldier stopped and looked sheepishly at Julius, anticipating an angry outburst.

  Instead Julius gave a grim smile. “He never learns. We only sent him ahead so he could get some much needed practice. We’ll be along as soon as possible. Tell him that I want his men ready to push out against the mob. If we push them hard, we’ll break them, I think.”

  He thought that would be the best idea. Theoretically, if he could push them out of the narrow confines of the gate, he could bring the greater skills and training of the Roman legionnaires to bear on the dangerous, but untrained, rioters.

  As a new recruit, Julius had been given only rudimentary tactical training with his peers, as it was assumed officers with advanced training would be available to lead and give orders. Unless a new man proved exceptionally gifted, it was rare that further training would be provided. Julius had not been one of those exceptionally gifted men; he’d just been considered above average when it came time to choose squad leaders.

  Gathering his men, he ordered repeater crossbows unslung and loaded. The men quickly assembled their weapons.

  Julius felt a twinge of pride. In less than ten minutes, an entire Roman cohort had performed an airdrop into a combat zone, and prepared for battle. In a more peaceful time, there would have been an extravagant ceremony with a day off for the men. Now, a single comment would suffice. “That was good, but next time I want it under eight minutes.”

  They were close to the gate, so they quick-marched closer, their iron-toed boots pounding over the cobblestone pathways and thudding across grass lawns. They assembled behind the thin line of steel-armored legionaries holding the entrance. The crowd had backed off somewhat at the appearance of this new threat, allowing the ragtag group of palace defenders to pull back to rest under a makeshift tent while the 13th Cohort took their places and their medics saw to the injured.

  A man in a dress uniform stood and walked over to Julius, pulling off his oversized helmet as he got close. Julius recognized that brown hair and the even more familiar nose. “Sir?” Julius choked out, forgetting to salute.

  “Good to see you too, Legionnaire Caesar ,” Tribune Appius replied. “But where is Centurion Vibius? Forgive me for asking, but did the cleaners mix up your uniforms?”

  Julius was then forced to relive his moment of shock and pain in the crew cabin— the explosion, the blood, the desperate attempts to save lives—for the tribune’s sake.

  Tribune Appius sadly shook his head. “They were good men. We will mourn them and pay our respects to them later. The least they would want now is for us to do our duty. Every son of Brittenburg must now be willing to defend it to the utmost.” His voice seemed to ring from the guard towers. Then he dropped it to a more intimate level to add, “Especially you, our newest centurion.”

  He must have learned that trick from his father, Julius thought. The emperor is a great orator. Does he feel phony when he does that? He realized the tribune was waiting for him to say something, and fumbled for words before he managed to say, “Sir, I turn the cohort over to you.” He executed an awkward salute that involved shifting his crossbow from one hand to the other.

  The tribune saluted stiffly, then quickly got down to business. “I want every man available up on those towers. Does anyone have a speaking trumpet?” His query raised eyebrows. Several men were dispatched to locate a speaking trumpet and a few minutes later a legionary handed one to Constantine that he’d dug out of the tower storeroom.

  “Sir, what are you doing?” Julius asked, alarmed, as Constantine checked to see if it worked. I’m now the one responsible for the life of the heir to the Roman Empire. How on earth did I end up with that job!?

  “Why Julius, my lad, I’m going to go demonstrate the triumph of reason over anger and violence,” Constantine stated in a haughty voice.

  Julius didn’t try to keep the doubt from showing on his face. “Really, sir?” His voice was dead monotone.

  Constantine lifted his eyebrows at him. “No need to take that tone with me, Centurion,” he said as a subtle reminder of who was in charge, although Julius thought he saw a sparkle of humor in those ice-gray eyes.

  Julius watched the tribune climb up the western tower. A piercing squuuuueeeeeeaaaaaaaaallllllllllll indicated that he had turned on the trumpet’s speaker. Men instinctively slapped their hands over their ears, even though most were wearing helmets. Several glared up at the tribune.

  Oblivious to the distress he had just caused his own men, Constantine turned the speaker toward the crowd. “Now hear this. All people in the plaza are to disperse and return home immediately. Brittenburg is under martial law, and anyone caught out on the streets will be subject to deadly force.” The trumpet made his words sound hollow and distorted.

  Murmurs rose from the crowd. Several on the periphery tried to slip away, but men in gang paraphernalia grabbed them and pushed them back into line. Several of the ruffians waved weapons or anti-Imperial banners.

  Constantine tried again. “If you return home now, no one will be punished.
”

  Someone in the crowd shouted back at him. That voice was joined by several others, as the more vocal protestors hurled insults back at the Imperial officer. Vegetables and fruits flew threw the air, then cobblestones and bricks.

  Gwendyrn ducked behind his shield. He turned back to face Julius, disgust puckering his face. “At least they haven’t tried to storm the gate again. What’s left of it, that is,” he remarked wryly to Julius.

  A clattering sound drew Julius’s attention back to the tower in time to see the tribune hastening down the metal ladder. He waited for Constantine to join them before asking nonchalantly, “So, Tribune, sir, how did reason fare over violence and anger?”

  The tribune grimaced. “We’ll just have to reinforce the lesson with a bit of old-fashioned corporal punishment.” A thousand-throat scream of fury and belligerence interrupted him.

  He ran back to grab the discarded speaking trumpet. This time he addressed the defenders. “Ready, boys—remember your training! Keep your thrusts short and cover your brothers. Repeaters, I want as much fire as you can place on those rebels. Aim for the leaders if you can!”

  The guttural screams rose in pitch. “Here they come!”

  Chapter 12

  The new day dawned muddy with gloom over Brittenburg. The pall of smoke from the burning buildings and factories lay heavily upon the once glittering jewel of the Roman Empire.

  Centurion Julius Brutus Caesar shook off the fatigue that threatened to engulf him. He was one of a line of tired men who stood facing the square. The rioters had thrown themselves against the cohort again and again. Just when the Imperials thought they had the upper hand, a new threat appeared. A small force of Nortland raiders and well-armed and equipped rebels had stormed the posterior gate, and succeeded in breaching it.

  The messenger from legionnaire Manus had barely managed to get away, but he’d informed the rest of the cohort in time; they’d met this new danger head-on in the gardens, and a nighttime running battle ensued. The 13th Cohort had lost its formation and been battered by the individualistic Nortland savages, but numbers finally began to tell—the lines had stabilized and the legionnaires had cut down the attackers. The battle had ended just now.