Gritting her teeth, the senatora gingerly walked about her cabin, watching the wake behind the Tiber. She could see the sails and wakes of the multitude of ships in the expedition to each side, shadowed by the oblong bulbs of the air fleet above.
As a senatora, she had the privilege of retaining the captain’s personal cabin. Normally, she was fairly demure about the powers of her position, but in this case, she was glad her staff had insisted. She had just about settled down onto a fairly comfortable chair, hoping to stomach the first morsels of food for the day, when a knock came at the door. She quickly shoved a bit of bread into her mouth, only to discover it was slightly stale when she struggled to chew it quickly. The knock came again. Clearing her throat, she called, “Come in!”
A sailor entered and performed a sketchy bow. “The captain would like to see you as soon as you are available.” Half bowing again, he backed up, turned at the door, and left the cabin.
When she had agreed to take her official position, the one thing she hadn’t been expecting was how much bowing and scraping she would get from the common folk. Yet she knew that this deference had been drilled into the heads of the working class from the time they were born until they breathed their last breath.
Leaving those thoughts behind, she brushed the few crumbs off the heavy woolen jacket she wore over a thinner tunic and long trousers. The pants might be a bit risqué, but she couldn’t care less about the impression she made on the lackluster crew of the Tiber. Even the captain would probably fail to notice her bold choice. Besides, they were comfortable—and more suitable for the awkward climb through tight spaces and up narrow stairs to reach the upper deck.
A stiff breeze greeted her, driving cold sea spray that made her pull on her coat. She joined the captain on the stern quarterdeck. He doffed his cap, revealing a bald head that he bobbed at her in greeting. It’s probably an honor for him to have me ride aboard his vessel, since all he usually transports is grain and other supplies, she thought dismissively. “Captain Wendrix,” she said evenly.
Wendrix flashed a jack-o-lantern grin at her. Octavia recoiled internally at the missing teeth, but kept her face an emotionless mask. Cool, calm, collected: the three Cs of being a senator, just as Ignatios taught me.
“I thought you might want to see this.” He pointed westward toward the smudge on the horizon. “That’s what the Nortlanders call Vulcan’s Island. It controls the center of the sea here, and pirates like to use it as a base from which to attack shipping.” His accent was cutting the a’s out of most of the words, forcing Octavia to focus hard to understand his explanation.
“I see.”
“Well, we just learned that the expedition launched a raid there and is burning out the pirates as we speak.”
“How did you learn this? Did a message come from the flagship?”
Flashing another broken-toothed grin, the captain shrugged nonchalantly. “There isn’t much wood on the island anymore—the natives have cut most of it down. But somehow half the island is on fire. No attack—no fire.”
The man may sound like a bowl full of mush, but he’s pretty smart. I wouldn’t be able to tell the gray haze of the sky from the black smoke of fires at this distance.
She borrowed the captain’s spyglass and tried to steady it along the horizon. After a few floundering moments, Octavia was inwardly cursing her unsteadiness.
By this time, Raestes had appeared on deck, bringing a metal thermos of warm mulled wine up to the quarterdeck. He poured Octavia a cup, then screwed the top on tightly. Juggling the spyglass and cup, she managed to take a sip. The warmth soaking into her bones from the steaming liquid made her whole body relax.
The wind continued to snatch at the hair she’d pulled tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck. A loose strand fluttered about until she caught it and tucked it behind her ear, the awkward movement nearly poking out her eyeball with the spyglass. She continued to observe the smoke billowing into the air, although she couldn’t tell much from this distance, even after she was able to zero in on the gray streamers. “Is there any ‘official’ word?” she asked.
Wendrix shrugged. “Nothing over the semaphore system. Sending the request via flags would take too long. We’re not big enough to have a wireless. But we’ll paddle over to the Pyrenne and ask her to send a message to the flagship.” Turning, the captain barked orders at one of the seamen hurrying about the deck.
To Octavia’s untrained eye, they seemed very much like ants scurrying to and fro on a small piece of wood. The large paddlewheel on the right side of the ship began to churn faster, throwing foam up onto the deck as the ship’s course curved and the deck tilted slightly.
“Starboard. Not right side. You’re on a ship; don’t act like the landlubber that you are,” the captain muttered, appearing from nowhere to stand beside her.
Octavia was flabbergasted. “What . . . how?”
Wendrix studied her. “You talked out loud. I was merely correcting you.” He reached out and placed his hands around the mug clasped in her fingers. The last wisps of steam rose from between them. “You might want to go below, Senatora. We’ll be crossing the waves and it will likely get choppy.”
He left her there, standing at the railing. For a few moments she let the sounds of the ocean wash over her.
Finally coming out of her reverie, Octavia picked up the spyglass and resumed watching the battle from the pitching deck of the ship. The tiny movements of airships and the constantly billowing smoke were the only clues of the life-and-death struggle in the distance.
Chapter 4
Constantine
High above the battlefield, Constantine gripped the railing of the H.M.A.S. Scioparto. Though temporarily blinded by ash and smoke, Constantine could hear the sounds of war. He walked through the haze, keeping one hand tight on the warm metal rail. He could feel the ship turning below him, and suddenly they were out of the smoke and into the bright morning sunshine.
Below him lay a tapestry of fire and explosions. The air fleet had received orders to secure the airspace above so-called Vulcan’s Island. There had been no opposition as the squadron dropped into optimum targeting range, low over the settlements and forts. The ash and smoke from the burning villages around the island was proving more challenging than the island’s defenders.
Constantine turned at the tung of a ballista ejecting its missile from the ship. The large crossbow-like contraption vibrated with the release of the pent-up torsion from springs tightly wound to launch the big explosive-laden dart. The tribune watched it strike a stone and timber tower in the fortress overlooking the harbor. With a muffled explosion and a shower of dust and debris, the tower collapsed in on itself.
“Nice shot!” Constantine cheered at the men servicing the weapon. They echoed his cheer as they set to work carefully reloading the ballista. Turning, Constantine surveyed the island burning beneath him. I know that this is war, but up here it seems so . . . neat and clean. The weapons crew had reloaded and taken aim. This time the bolt just missed the fort’s gatehouse. Cursing, the ballista crew set to work again.
Below them, antlike figures scurried this way and that under the barrage from the half-dozen airships hanging above the island. How helpless it must feel to be down there.
“I wonder how my family felt when Brittenburg was flooding. They were pretty helpless there too, sir.” Turning, Constantine met the gaze of the young Centurion Julius Caesar as the man walked angrily toward him.
“I was unaware that I had spoken aloud,” Constantine said. He eyed the younger man. “How are things with the men, Centurion?”
“They want to be down there, sir, not stuck up here like it’s Emperor’s Day.” He was referring to the firework-studded holiday near the summer solstice, when the Empire celebrated the current and past emperors.
“I understand, Centurion, but order
s are orders. Besides, nothing down there is worth fighting.” He pointed at the burning city. “I doubt they could scrape together more than a handful of defenders now. Let the regular legionnaires do it the hard way.”
Julius stood at the railing next to the tribune. They were quiet as they watched the airships bombarding the town. Julius turned his head to look at Constantine, seemingly about to say something, when the ship rocked under them. “What was that?” they both said at the same time.
A brace of crewmen bolted past them, one lugging a portable fire extinguisher. “They’ve released fire balloons!” a midshipman cried out.
Leaning out over the railing, Constantine could just barely see small balls of orange light floating up toward the ship.
“We’ve got to evade them. If one catches, we could blow!” Constantine heard panic in the midshipman’s voice.
A loudspeaker squawked. “All hands, this is the captain. Prepare for emergency lift. Secure all stations.”
Remembering the earlier drill aboard the Scioparto, the passengers joined the crew in locking their carabiner straps to nearby clamps and the railing. Less than ten seconds later, the ship shot upward, throwing men, materials, and equipment to the deck. A few seconds later the ship settled, but the powerful hum of the engines revealed the continuous threat of the seemingly simple fire balloons.
Gripping the railing, Constantine dragged himself back to his feet. The wind at this altitude was stronger, and his cloak billowed around him. He gave the centurion a hand up.
“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Julius grumbled as he adjusted his armor.
“Those balloons are coated with sticky tar that’s set on fire. If they attach to the hull, they’ll burn a hole right through our armor,” a crewman told him.
“Who’d have thought those barbarians would come up with something like that?” Constantine wondered aloud, then thought grimly, Perhaps they had some help.
The crewman shrugged. “It’s an old trick; goes back to the days where every legion would have a group of men equipped with small balloons. It’s a good way to get an annoying airship off your back. Although now we can actually get out of the way.”
They were now looking out over the ocean, the ship having turned 180 degrees during its escape. The shimmering reflections bouncing off the waves blinded Constantine, and he lifted his hand to shade his eyes. He beckoned to the centurion, then opened a side door and crossed through a narrow passageway to the other side of the airship. It was faster than walking all the way around. The gasbag rippled overhead slightly as the officers stepped out onto the deck. They were greeted with the panorama of the destruction of Vulcan’s Island.
“Do you think the general is planning on holding onto the island?” the centurion asked.
Constantine thought for a moment. The wind brought the faint smell of burnt wood and the salt of sea spray. “Probably. That’s why he’s going to land some ground forces and engineers—take the island and build a base or fort or whatnot. That way we won’t have to burn out the pirates again.”
Julius nodded. “We just need to burn out all of those northern scum and then it will be a perfect place for a fort. No savages left for us to worry about.”
Hearing the bitterness in his voice, Constantine worried about his under-officer. The young man had seemed bright and resourceful and carefree when he first met him less than a year ago, but now he was bitter and cynical, not at all the same person. I suppose your entire family going missing can really change a person. He hasn’t been able to cope with the anger of it. I’ve got to keep an eye on him or he’ll get us into trouble.
“Hey, Julius, have you slept any recently?” he asked casually. Julius shook his head. “Well, don’t spend too long out here, Centurion. Go inside and take a break.” The tribune placed a hand on Julius’s shoulder.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” Julius mumbled.
Unsure of what else to do, Constantine patted him awkwardly, then walked away. He felt as though he should be doing something else, yet also felt that he had done enough. For now. He slid open the recessed door and stepped into the dark interior of the airship, leaving Julius and his troubles behind.
“Steady . . . steady . . . wait for the green signal!” came the hushed order on the drop deck. The men of the XIII Germania’s 13th Cohort stood patiently in lines on the deck of the Scioparto and the five other airships floating through the moonless night as half of the Thirteenth prepared to combat drop into the harbor town of Sundsvall in eastern Nortland.
Long and twisting, the line of legionnaires meandered around support columns and small knots of crewmembers as they awaited the go signal. Constantine stood at the front of the line, carpteneo clamped onto the wire that was waiting to be dropped over the side of the airship. The metal contraption weighed a few pounds and would hold his life in its iron jaws as he slid down the rope into the night.
The legionnaires and crew waited with bated breath, staring at a dim red signal light attached to the side of the airship’s aft portal. Constantine knew that the wait, though seemingly interminable, was a good thing—Captain Alexandros was positioning his airship as perfectly as possible to help his passengers with their landing.
Briefly closing his eyes, Constantine reviewed the mission parameters in his mind. The cohorts from each airship had been tasked with taking a specific objective in the city. The 13th Cohort’s objective was the anchorage itself, two long piers with a host of warehouses and dry docks for ship construction. I’ve spent a lot of time talking about exactly where I want us to be set down. Let’s hope Captain Alexandros can deliver on his promises.
“Tribune Appius, sir. The go signal.” A crewmember shook the tribune’s shoulder as he nodded toward the light casting a green glow over the deck and the faces of those waiting. Constantine noticed Centurion Caesar and Junior Centurion Gwendyrn watching him hesitantly. Are they green with nerves or green with light? Only one way to find out!
Nodding, Constantine turned to face his men. “Good luck. Don’t split up. Stay with your officer. And if you do get lost, for the gods’ sake, don’t run around shouting. Move quietly and quickly. I’ll see you on the docks.” With that, Constantine turned back to the open section of the railing and waited while a crewman patted down his harness and gear in the final check.
“Got your slider in the right way?” the crewman asked as he fiddled with the carpteneo. Constantine nodded.
“Flares are being launched now!” the deck officer whispered from behind him, where other crewmen were checking legionnaires. Bright spears of red light shot forth, then hung over the unsuspecting city.
Constantine leapt off the side of the ship.
He slid backward through the cool night air, the lights of the town rushing up below him. He slowed his descent as the light from the flares showed him the landing zone far below. Even so, the descent was over quicker than he could have imagined, and he set down in a plaza of damp cobblestones. Light and sounds of merriment spilled from one of the buildings across the way—a tavern. Constantine looked around for any signs of a night watch or town guard. Nothing. Good. It’s easier when there isn’t anyone waiting to spear you, he thought as he got his bearings. Other legionnaires were landing behind him.
He fiddled with the heavy gadget strapped to his back. It was a new type of shield designed especially for the drop troops. Strapping the large steel box to his arm, Constantine found the winding gear and rotated it a few times. Segments rotated outward, each sliding into place like a piece of pie around the central boss. When he finished, he had a perfectly functional shield that weighed less than a standard one and allowed him free movement while descending the rope.
He craned his neck, trying to see where the other units had landed. The ropes were invisible against the night sky, and the tall buildings on either side kept him from judging how
far away the rest of his men were. He hoped they would maintain discipline and not do anything stupid, particularly Centurion Caesar. Hopefully Gwendyrn will be able to keep him out of trouble.
Constantine formed up his demi-cohort and opened up the small folder map he kept in his arm guard, trying to orient himself by the dim light of the flares and streetlights. Finally deciding on a direction, he led his force east toward the narrow, sheltered harbor.
They clomped through the streets, their boots ringing against the cobblestones, until they reached a crossroads. Timber buildings three and four stories tall rose on either side of them. Constantine could smell the salt of the ocean air. A shutter opened above them and there was a splash in the street. Another, more earthy smell joined the salt breeze. Nose wrinkling, Constantine looked up at the window in disgust. A few of his men snickered behind him.
Just then, a city watch of sorts rounded the street corner. Of course it would happen like this, Constantine thought, studying the motley crew before him. He couldn’t decide whether they were actually a city watch or simply a group of barbarians on the way to or from a tavern.
The biggest of the men called out to them: “Vem går där?”
The language sounded harsh to Constantine’s ears. Knowing that none of his men could make a credible reply, Constantine drew his sword and charged at the surprised men. Even taken unawares, they still put up a fight with bare knuckles and brutally punishing hits. The legionnaires surrounded them like wolves, hacking and slashing without a moment’s reprieve. Constantine ducked a particularly hefty blow that rang off his shield, numbing his arm. He slashed back, severing the arm and then stabbing into the hairy body beyond.
Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) Page 4