Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  That man must eat paper, Constantine thought as he escaped the office and walked down the winding cobblestone street toward the harbor. The shipyard office lay at the top of a low rise, providing an excellent view of the shipbuilding and repair facilities of the main naval base for the Empire here on the Mare Balticum. Look at the might of our fleet. Look at the technology at our fingertips. A staunch pride in his nation, his people, briefly overcame the hunger beginning to gnaw at his stomach. Those northern brutes still eat meat raw, from what I hear. Especially during the winter. At least we live in something better than huts to ward off these Baltic winters.

  Yet that hadn’t stopped them from thoroughly demolishing Brittenburg, a major industrial powerhouse, just a few months ago.

  Phah, they had help. Romans fighting Romans, with the Nortlanders acting like buzzards circling a dying animal.

  Chuckling, he waved a hand at the sentries he passed at the security gate, recognizing them as men from the IV Britannia, their red hair giving away their ethnic heritage. He walked out of the compound and onto streets now crowded with lunchtime traffic, reveling in the freedom he felt as an officer rather than as a royal. If I tried this in Rome, Father would have so many guards around me I wouldn’t even be able to walk!

  Suddenly, however, he felt as if someone were staring at him, and nearly missed a step as he thought about what to do. Rounding a corner, he unobtrusively paused by the side of a restaurant and knelt, fumbling with his bootlaces while he looked around. Sure enough, two men walked quickly around the corner, trying hard not to look at anyone in particular.

  Constantine rose, pulling his knife from his utility belt. “So, gentlemen, what is your interest in me?” he said as he studied them. His eyes narrowed in recognition and flew from the familiar tunic and trousers to their faces. “Alair? Paulus? What are you doing following me? Did the centurion put you up to this?” Anger crept into his voice.

  The men looked flustered, embarrassment coloring their cheeks. Paulus’s freckles darkened as well, and he bit down on his lip.

  Alair, the taller of the men, spoke. “We’re sorry, sir. The centurion stated that you were not to be left on your own in the city. He also said to say the following if you did catch us.” He screwed up his face, trying hard to remember. “Something about your father . . . ?” he mumbled sheepishly.

  “It was ‘His father would kill the entire regiment if something happened to the tribune, so that snobby aristocrat will just have to deal with an escort,’” Paulus interjected, the joy at remembering the words suddenly shattered by the realization that he had just referred to the heir to the Imperial throne, the second most important person in the Empire, as a snob. “Er . . .”

  Constantine assumed his coldest glare, and directed it at the two soldiers. They cringed, expecting a full chewing-out. “Well, I hope you gentlemen enjoy standing outside all day long.” He turned abruptly and left the legionnaires staring after him, mouths sagging.

  Constantine was almost to the next block before the legionnaires recovered and scrambled to catch up to their commanding officer. Constantine ignored them. I understand why they are here, but I don’t need them. These are my people; I haven’t seen any glares recently. An older man passed by, saw the uniform, and gave him a nasty look. Scratch that.

  As he wandered the streets, his mind turned to Senatora Pelia. As a member of the royal family, Constantine had been in the Senate or at official functions with senators, but had only briefly met the senatora once before their meeting the other night. I remember that war. It almost got so bad at one point that we were about to be sent away. Father at least knew he wasn’t a great general, but some of those “soldiers” from the war ministry should never have been given command. Father simply owed too many favors to too many powerful families to keep them all out of battle. I wonder what she thinks about our family? I suppose . . . we could be the ones to blame for her father’s death.

  He grimaced at the thought as he stopped at a street corner for a motortrolley to roll by, then a small knot of cavalry officers on their mechanical ostrichines, ungainly-looking metal birds that nonetheless could outrace a trained stallion. He crossed the road, eyes on the overcast sky, with his sheep-herders (as he liked to think of them) following at a respectful distance.

  They arrived at the administration building just as a light drizzle began to fall. Adjusting the segmented steel plates of his lorica over his shoulders, Constantine turned to the men following him. “You’ll have to stay outside, men. Officers only in the administration building.” He grinned evilly. They all knew this wasn’t true, but the tribune knew they would follow the direct order.

  Sighing, the men looked around for somewhere to huddle and ward off the cool fall rain. They looked enviously at the governor’s palace guards across the plaza, hunkered down under the small gatehouse roof.

  Leaving them behind, Constantine pushed open the double doors and walked inside, his boots echoing on the large entry hall’s marble floor. Gray light filtered through lofty skylights to wash over gilded ceilings and finely carved columns. The administration building was the beating heart of the Imperial presence here in Copendrium, and the opulence of the building contrasted with its utilitarian purpose. Clerks pushed carts loaded with packages and paperwork. Servants studiously cleaned busts of famous figures as some of the most powerful men in the city strolled down the hallways, their assistants scurrying in their wake.

  Constantine hesitated as delicious smells coming from the room to the right teased at his nose. Like a magnet to a lodestone, his body followed the smell of roast beef, grilled onions, and other delicious things into the cafeteria. Faced by the realization that they needed to offer food to their workers or they would lose hours of productivity, the bureaucracy had caved and begun installing cafeterias to feed their masses of workers. Of course, some cafeterias were nicer than others.

  A doorman greeted him as he walked through the glass-paneled wooden doors, taking his cloak and proffering a small metal tag in exchange. Tucking the check tag into his pocket, Constantine took a few steps into the room and paused, examining the occupants with a critical eye.

  By the window sat a pair of men in perfectly starched legionnaire uniforms and gleaming black boots. Officers, probably attached to the III Cimbrian; I don’t think a local guardsman would dare wear those boots. According to ancient tradition, the Cimbrians wore black leather boots instead of the standard-issue brown. Only they remembered the reasons why.

  His arrival had not gone unnoticed. Constantine heard the whispers cross the room like ripples on a pond at his entrance. He registered this while his gaze continued around the room. Closest, a small knot of sea captains, resplendent in their tunics and jackets, engulfed a large platter of vegetables and grilled chicken. Beyond them, several toga-clad senators lounged on traditional chaises as they sampled bowls of delicacies brought out by servants in dark uniforms. Sixty years ago, it would have been slaves, not paid servants, Constantine thought. His grandfather had put an end to that. A brilliant political action: curb the power of the senators and the might of their lobby while enshrining himself as a hero of the newly expanded plebeian class. Anything is possible when you outnumber and outvoice the competition.

  Suddenly a hand clapped him on the back. “Tribune Appius! How wonderful to see you!”

  A smile came to Constantine’s face as he turned toward the familiar voice. His eyes met a pair of green eyes regarding him from under bushy eyebrows. They belonged to Captain Rufius Tiveri Alexandros, commanding officer of His Majesty’s Airship Scioparto, who must have come from the buffet door. He threw his hand up in a half salute, and Constantine, grinning, gave the captain his sloppiest salute in return. Chuckling, the men shook hands.

  “Great to see you, Captain. How fortunate that we’re here at the same time!” Constantine whispered excitedly.

  Rufius Alexa
ndros looked around at the faces of the many gentlemen in the room. “Indeed, it is fortunate, Tribune. Have you seen the way these people look at you? It seems they’d rather be feasting on you!” Alexandros was right; many of the room’s occupants had a decidedly hungry look on their faces that Constantine found all too familiar.

  He followed Alexandros to a seat near one of the multi-paned picture windows that gave a view of the plaza. The single panes didn’t do much to keep out the cold, but they did afford a beautiful view of Arminius’ Column, which dominated the center of the plaza. Alexandros ordered for the both of them as Constantine kept his gaze firmly locked on the world outside. He could feel eyes boring into him, and his ears warming. I thought that old wive’s tale about your ears heating when people are talking about you was make-believe, he thought.

  Finally, Alexandros asked, “So, how are things, Constantine?”

  Constantine shrugged, then described to Alexandros the aftermath of the Brittenburg Incident—his month-long recovery in a sick ward, the desperate search for survivors after the explosion that had torn open the sea wall and flooded half the city, the eventual realization that the rebellion and assassination of the Primus Caesar, the heir to the throne, in Rome, were connected. And the growing anger that had begun to seep into his men. Constantine had never really felt close to any particular person before, never been willing to share his secrets. When you grow up in a family like mine, secrets keep you alive longer than the truth will. But he trusted Alexandros with those secrets. Alexandros was a sympathetic ear. He didn’t interrupt and didn’t look away as Constantine told the tale of the last few months.

  “. . . and after we got our marching orders, we took the train here. I know we’re headed north. Hades, the entire city, half the countryside, and most likely every possible spy here in the entire province of Cimbria knows we’re heading north. No way to disguise it. Only thing of consequence is when.” Alexandros was nodding.

  A waiter refilled their glasses with wine and water, and informed them that their food would be arriving soon. “What did you order for me? I was trying to become invisible,” Constantine quipped, nervous fingers straightening his silverware.

  Alexandros gave a low laugh and replied, his strong baritone quiet in the low hum of the dining room, “There’re still a few eyes on you, but most people seem put off by your decision not to join the political table.” He nodded toward the men relaxing on the chaises. One of them gave a slight wave as he saw Constantine looking in his direction. Others gave him decidedly cool glances.

  “That’s the governor and a few of his Senate cronies. After those air battles above Brittenburg, we got tasked to retrofit up here at Northern Airbase Hadrian. One of those senators owns the company that got tasked with the retrofit, as though our own engineers and mechanics weren’t good enough!” Alexandros grumbled. “Thing is, they did such shoddy work on so many things that my guys ended up going back through and doing the whole thing over again from top to bottom. It threw that denarii-pincher into a tizzy when I tossed his so-called mechanics off the ship with a few of our large ballistae pointing at them. They didn’t seem eager to come back on. When he came down to demand I let his workers back aboard, I said I would only if he agreed to ride on the ship after they were done.”

  Constantine smiled. “I’m sure he didn’t want to risk it.”

  “Exactly,” Alexandros said. “By the way, have you met our new political overseer? All the way from Rome—Senatora Octavia Pelia!”

  “I have met her, actually; she seems fairly competent to me. She gave a speech last month on the Brittenburg Incident.”

  “Why Tribune, I didn’t know you had been keeping tabs on her.”

  Constantine felt his cheeks heat. “Who says I’ve been keeping tabs on her?” At Alexandros’ level look he added, “Fine, maybe I just like knowing who the politicians around me are.”

  “Especially the good-looking ones.” Alexandros joked. “Am I the only one who sees this?”

  “Evidently, Your Air-captainness.”

  Chuckling, Alexandros held up his hand. “Before we continue, here’s the feast!” He sat back and they watched the arrival at their table of a steaming hot turkey, surrounded by all the trimmings and glistening with drippings. Two waiters placed it slowly on the table while another stood by sharpening a large carving knife.

  Eyes wide, Constantine scooted back from the bird. “I sincerely hope you didn’t order anything else, Rufius! They’ll have to roll us out of here as it is!

  About an hour later, tribune and captain lounged back in their dining chairs; the remnants of the meal strewn on the plates and platters before them. Constantine pulled out a small coin purse and deposited a few large golden denarii on the table. “That ought to be sufficient, don’t you think?” he asked. Alexandros examined the coinage and nodded.

  They both stood, adjusting the straps of their belts. “You sure you don’t want them to put it in a box for you so you can eat it later?” the older man asked, alluding to the perpetual hunger of young men.

  Grinning, Constantine shook his head. “I don’t want to be eating turkey for a month!”

  They moved to the door to leave, only to encounter a party headed in the opposite direction. The two groups neatly intersected and, engulfed by the large and loud entourage, Constantine found himself face to face with his superior officer, General Kruscus Minnicus. The tribune raised a hand in salute, holding it while the general returned a half salute.

  “Tribune Appius! I’m so very glad to see you here. It’s great to know we’ll have the ‘Victors of Brittenburg’ along for our trip to the far north,” the general said slyly.

  Constantine was confused. As far as he knew, Admiral Tritonus was in charge of the expedition.

  Minnicus smiled as if perceiving the junior officer’s thoughts. “The admiral is still in charge of the expedition, but Roma HQ wanted someone more . . . experienced with ground combat leading the way into the interior.”

  Constantine could only nod dumbly, his brain working overtime to figure out what strings the general could have pulled to get this assignment. Minnicus’ bland smile began to edge downward as he waited for Constantine to respond.

  Seeing his friend falter, Alexandros stepped in. “Please excuse us, General; we just had a large meal and are still feeling the effects. We’re actually on a very tight schedule, so we must be off.”

  Waving his hand dismissively, Minnicus bade them farewell as he walked over to a long table overcrowded with his lackeys. As he sat, Constantine noticed him conspiratorially talking into the ear of one of his comrades at the table, the only one still wearing his hat and cloak.

  As Alexandros pulled him free of the situation, Constantine’s mind continued to race. What is he up to? he wondered as he slowly extracted the check tag from his pocket.

  Alexandros snatched it from his fingers and retrieved his cloak from the wardroom for him, tossing a small copper coin to the servant in return. He pushed the cloak into the tribune’s arms. “I hope you aren’t planning on asking me to buckle it up for you. I finished my parental duties long ago!” Alexandros told him.

  Finally snapping out of his reverie, Constantine unfurled his cloak around his shoulders and prepared to exit the warmth of the building. Alexandros paused, throwing up a hand. “Hold up; I think I forgot something up in the admiralty office. I won’t be but a minute.” He took the stairs two at a time, leaving Constantine to wait in the lobby.

  Constantine sat down on a bench, staring absently at the veins of black and dark blue on the marble floor, tracing the shapes with his mind.

  “Did you know that they carted this marble all the way from the Aegean?” a voice asked at his shoulder.

  Constantine jumped, startled by the soft, yet firm timbre of the man’s voice. He turned his head to see a man sitting next to him, clad in the
nondescript beige tunic and red belt that rendered him indistinguishable from the innumerable functionaries that populated the administration center.

  “The government taxed the locals to pay for it, regardless of whether they wanted it or not. It depressed the economy for about thirty years,” the man rumbled on, ignoring the wide-eyed stare of the younger tribune. “That money could have been spent back in Rome, could have been put to good use. By my calculations, the amount spent on marble here could have fed the populace of Rome for a year. Not well, mind you, but amply, for an entire year. And instead we get . . . this grandiose building in one of our northernmost provincial capitals that’s never had an emperor visit.” The man’s voice never changed tone, only the slight inflection at the end decrying the point he was making.

  Constantine spoke. “It reminds the locals that they are part of something bigger, something that keeps them safe and protected from our enemies.”

  The man turned and offered his hand. “Quintus Gravus,” he stated simply, shaking Constantine’s hand. “You make a valid point, but I still don’t think making a political statement is the same as feeding a metropolis for a year. Especially when all you do is walk on it.”

  Constantine thought for a moment. “You’re probably right,” he replied. “But what’s done is done. I don’t think tearing up the floors now would be the best idea. ‘The government over the people for the good of the people.’” In reciting the old Imperial adage, Constantine earned a critical look from Gravus.

  “I figured you’d say that. I’m actually here with an offer for you.” Constantine’s eyebrows rose. “I’m attached to General Minnicus’ staff as the civilian liaison, and he’d like to offer you a position on his general staff as tactical officer. You’d receive a pay bump commiserate to your new position, and also have access to a staff of your own choosing.”