Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  Alexandros could pick out details on the enemy airships now. They were about the same size as the Scioparto. None of them appeared to be as large as the Seguro, which gave Alexandros a feeling of confidence. Roman tactics almost always proved a deciding factor against the more undisciplined opponents that Rome faced, and this time they also had size and firepower on their side.

  His first officer appeared at his side. “Looks like we’ll be able to deal with this batch, then knock out the other ones before they can come into range,” he said, appearing to read Alexandros’ thoughts.

  “Just remember that old adage, Mr. Travins: no plan survives contact with the enemy.”

  “Entering target range . . . now,” called a crewmember.

  Alexandros spouted off a series of orders as the ship bore down on her opponent, a smaller vessel with a heavily patched gasbag. He could see the airships in formation ahead of him firing off their ballistae and scorpion bolts, and the sounds of explosions and streaks of fire began to fill the sky. The enemy ships fired back wildly, evidently eschewing accurate fire to close with their more organized adversaries.

  Quickly identifying the enemy airship, his intelligence officer shouted instructions to the chaotic gun deck below through the brass speaking tube. “Enemy vessel is a Falk-class airship. Mounts roughly twenty bolt or rock throwers. Recommend we target the engines and the exposed rudders.” Alexandros had given orders to wait for his order to fire the first volley—he wanted the enemy vessel rocked back on its heels.

  “Topside lookouts report possible gasbag puncture. They are attempting to patch it,” called the communications officer.

  Alexandros’ eyebrows furrowed. He’d spent his time as the topside watch officer more than once back in the day, and trying to find and patch a hole on the side of an airship in the middle of battle was an insane risk, but one that had to be taken. “Send additional airmen topside; I want them overstaffed for any additional problems.” The order was acknowledged and passed on.

  Alexandros turned back to eye the Falk-class airship as it closed to within roughly half a mile. It looked to be sliding between the Scioparto and the rest of the fleet, sheltering its already damaged port side from his ship’s fresh weaponry. “Mr. Travins, you may give the order to fire.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” Travins cried with relish and shouted the command down the artillery deck tube.

  Alexandros closed his eyes for a moment and imagined the carefully slotted doors being slid open all along the bottom deck. He could see his gun crews deploying their weapons and triggering the release of the tension pent up in their heavy ballistae and scorpion throwers. He opened his eyes to watch the flight of the gunpowder-filled bolts, then the flash as they exploded against the side of the enemy ship almost in unison. A few missiles went awry, and Alexandros could almost hear the gunnery officers screaming at the unlucky artillery crews of the misaimed weapons.

  The brisk wind pushed the smoke from the explosions away quickly as the ships surged past each other. Alexandros could see great rents in the wooden hull of his opponent, and pieces of debris, the detritus of war, raining groundward. “Pound them!” he snarled, watching as the Nortland vessel began to move beyond range of his weapons.

  The enemy’s shots were hitting home too, and distant alarm claxons began to wail again as the Scioparto shook under the assault. “Mr. Travins, take charge of the damage repair teams,” Alexandros ordered. “I want us ready again immediately.” The bridge door banged behind the first officer as he raced off to comply.

  As much as Alexandros would have loved to turn his ship about and chase down the wounded warship, he knew the necessity of staying in formation to support the rest of the fleet. A formation is only as strong as the weakest member, Alexandros remembered his former instructors warning at the Air Fleet Academy. That was over thirty years ago, he realized. The advice had stuck, and he’d seen it proven time and time again.

  “Rear batteries are free to engage,” he ordered. Although he doubted the trio of rear pieces could blow his opponent from the sky, there was always a chance of a lucky strike.

  “Sir, the Hasta has begun firing upon the Nortlanders,” his watch officer called, ear jammed into the speaking tube linked to the lookout post.

  “Where are the other enemy vessels?”

  “Three enemy airships are out of action. Wait—four. Hasta and lookouts report the Falk-class airship has been shot down.” A loud cheer erupted on the bridge as another airship before them caught fire under the combined bombardment from the flagship Seguro and the mid-weight Marcum. It cartwheeled out of the sky as its gasbag ruptured in multiple locations, leaving a trail of dirty black smoke behind it.

  “I seem to be mistaken,” the watch officer stated glibly. “Five enemy vessels down. The rest are fleeing. “ The men cheered again at the lopsided victory.

  After a second, Alexandros ended their excitement with the stern, “Keep an eye on the other three; I don’t want us to be surprised by another trick. These barbarians have already pulled a fast one on us. And order all main batteries to reload and refit as necessary,” he added. The watch officer affirmed and shouted along his orders, refocusing the deckhands on their assigned duties.

  The captain slumped into his leather command chair, its indentations familiar with his body after years of use. He felt the adrenaline seeping out of his body as if he were an old wine bag.

  The message bell rang again. “Sir, new orders from the admiral. We’re to identify the location of the second fleet of enemy ships and set course for them in formation Beta.”

  Alexandros leaned forward in his chair at this news. “Well boys, looks like we’ve still got work to do.”

  Chapter 7

  Julius

  The brief air battle had taken only two minutes, but it felt like a year to Julius. The young centurion had his men standing in battle formation all up and down the exposed decking, creating a shield wall to protect them from the brief exchange of projectiles between the ships.

  Junior Centurion Gwendyrn marched along with his commander, and the two had cheered with the destruction of the Nortland vessel just aft of their airship. From his vantage point, Julius had seen the destruction of another vessel in the Nortlanders’ unorganized assault, as well.

  “They may have airships, sir, but they can’t seem to figure out how to use them correctly!” Legionnaire Hespinus called out to the centurion.

  “Right you are, Legionnaire. Maybe we’ll have to stay here a while and teach them how to fight like real civilized people,” Gwendyrn replied, chuckling heartily.

  Hespinus nodded at his officers, and threw out a salute. “Hail Rome!” he shouted, the men to either side echoing him.

  “Hail Rome, indeed,” Julius said, giving a crisp salute in return.

  A piercing squawk came over the loudspeaker, followed by a voice that Julius recognized. “All hands, this is the captain. Lookouts report another enemy force west of us. I know we just beat off one group, but it appears they need a second lesson. Let’s give it to them: don’t tangle with the Roman Airfleet. For the Emperor and Rome! Alexandros out.”

  “Looks like we may have a job to do after all,” Gwendyrn stated quietly. They had pretty much stood around during the first battle, observers whose lives hung in the balance, and now were fast on track for a second one within an hour.

  The gradual approach of the fleets was mind-numbingly slow. Julius found himself raising and lowering his binoculars again. And again. And again. Until finally Gwendyrn muttered that he’d put his eyes out if he kept doing it. Feeling slightly sheepish, Julius carefully dropped the binoculars back into his belt pouch.

  A brief appearance by Tribune Appius, coming up to check on his cohort, broke the monotony. “How’d it go up here?” he asked, clapping a hand on his centurion’s shoulder. “Not much action for us yet, bu
t I have a feeling we’ll be fighting steel to steel soon enough. At the very least, we’re getting rid of their pirate ships. You can’t rob, rape, and pillage without a way to get there.”

  “Maybe they’ll just stick to doing it to each other, sir?” Julius said hesitantly.

  Tribune Appius looked surprised. “Why Centurion, I thought you would be full of vim and vigor, ready to crush our northerly neighbors!”

  “Of course, sir. I want vengeance. I’m just looking to enact it upon the right people now. Especially for my sister,” Julius said, lips tightening.

  Nodding, the tribune lowered his voice. “I know how you’re feeling, Caesar. Remember, those fanatics killed my brother, too. Now I’m stuck with this heir to the throne thing.” He was grim, all the bravado removed from his voice. “But I promise you, Centurion. Your sister’s name will be the last words they hear.”

  The blare of the loudspeaker interrupted the tribune. “All hands, battle is imminent. Battle stations. All hands to battle stations. All legionnaires to their stations.”

  Julius grabbed at Tribune Appius before he left. “Sir, are you sure you don’t want to take control of the cohort up here on A Deck? You’re our leader and you’ll make the better decisions.” Julius was nervous; he’d never been in charge of a boarding action before.

  Appius shook his head. “You’ll do fine, lad. It probably won’t even come to it. Alexandros is too wily to let these barbarians force a boarding action. Just stay sharp. I’m taking charge of the men on B Deck—those replacements need me more than your veterans do. Send a message if there’s trouble. You got that, Centurion Caesar?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “May the gods watch over you.” And with that, Julius’s commanding officer left the exposed deck, stepping into the airship proper.

  “One would think that he’s afraid of a boarding action,” Gwendyrn whispered to Julius.

  “I don’t think we can question his bravery, Sub-Centurion. Nor can we question his decision-making. After all, he left me in charge up here.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m questioning,” Gwendyrn said slyly. Julius smacked him on the head.

  Airman Souzetio approached, brows dipping in concern at the apparent disrespect between the two officers. “Centurion, get your soldiers into position. The Nortlanders appear to be trying to double up on our airships. There’s more than we thought,” he shouted over the humming of the engines. The tempo of the large propellers had increased and Julius felt the ship move faster under his booted feet.

  He nodded and turned to pass on the orders from the briefing earlier. “Check your gear, lads. If you’ve got the grappler, remember to aim for the deck or something that can hold our weight as we cross on those ropes. Everyone else, clear the deck with your repeaters before you cross. Let’s not bring any extra things across. We go in fast, and either capture the ship or set the flares, then get off fast. The flares should do the work for us, but we have to get off before the fire spreads to the Scioparto. I don’t think the captain would like that!” The confidence in his voice sounded false to his ears, but the speech seemed to rally his men.

  The enemy airships closed in tighter, from what Julius could tell. The large bulk of the Scioparto’s gasbag and the airship proper blocked his view to his left. Straight ahead, several enemy airships were closing fast on the line of Roman fliers headed straight at them. To Julius’s inexperienced eye, the enemy airships seemed to vary little in design or shape, except that they had two airships that were as big as the Roman flagship. One was bearing down on the left flank of the Roman formation, and the Scioparto.

  The flagship began firing, joined by the ships flanking it to either side as the two lines clashed in midair. The rolling line of explosions and the cacophony of battle, soft at first, grew louder and more immediate as the enemy airships closed in, engulfing the formation. Julius counted twelve enemy warships, equaling their number. And those were just the ones he could see.

  Below, metal and wood screeched as the ship’s artillery ports opened. Julius and the men of the XIII Germania watched, anticipating the first salvo from the Scioparto with glee. A larger vessel appeared to be sliding toward them, closing the space until it was just parallel to the smaller Scioparto.

  Fire, already!

  All at once, the artillery on the Roman ship fired, launching a barrage of explosive missiles at the Nortland vessel. This time, the artillery crews fired as fast as possible, joined by the smaller pieces on the exposed deck. Legionnaires tried to shield the exposed aircrews as they fired their lightweight weaponry, large shields covering the men as they reloaded. When the breeze blew away the smoke of war that obscured their damage, Julius’s eyes went wide in surprise and he cried out in alarm.

  The enemy vessel was mostly unharmed.

  “Why aren’t our weapons doing any damage?” Julius shouted at Souzetio, who was commanding the nearest scorpion team. Souzetio was helping wind the arms of the scorpion back, while another airman carefully placed a rack of heavy bolts into the firing chamber.

  “They must be armored! Our explosive-tipped ballistae should be dealing damage, though. Armor plating can’t be tough enough to withstand our weaponry and light enough to fly.” The airman grunted as he heaved the last part of the weapon into position. He moved around to take the controls.

  At that moment, the enemy ship—Julius could see the name Hamdar whitewashed onto the hull of the vessel—fired back. The Scioparto rocked from side to side as explosions buffeted the ship.

  “Fire! Fire on deck!” someone shouted as thick smoke billowed from several locations. The ship, still reeling from the bombardment that had just hit it, continued to fight back, but the artillery deck’s weapons must have been heavily damaged—only a few bolts or canisters flew at the enemy ship, denting and notching the sides, but doing little damage otherwise.

  Julius cursed as he picked himself up off the deck. Several of his men were missing, and others sprawled on the deck; blood spattered the sides of the ship. His effective fighting force had been hit hard.

  “Medico! Medico!” The shouts seemed to come from all corners. Corpsmen from the infirmary were already up on deck, dragging the wounded to makeshift triage centers.

  “Alert! This is the captain. Enemy airship is closing to board. All hands to repel boarders. All hands to repel—” The loudspeaker cut off with a shriek as another wave of enemy fire struck the ship.

  Julius felt part of the deck buckle as several large rocks sheared through railings, war machines, and men. Windows blew out and heavy pieces of machinery were tossed across the deck like children’s playthings. Julius went head over heels to slam onto the deck. Several airmen and legionnaires were tossed overboard, toward a fate Julius didn’t want to comprehend.

  When the ship had finally stopped jolting, Julius and his men began to pick themselves up. “Men, form battle lines!” Julius shouted out, suppressing a hacking cough as he struggled to his feet, lungs and eyes burning from the sulfur and smoke.

  “Gwendyrn! Go secure the other end of the line!” Julius ordered as he grasped the hand of a downed legionnaire and hauled him to his feet. Hearing no response, he craned his head around looking for his subordinate. A medico eased the concussed soldier from Julius’s shoulder, freeing him to look around for his subordinate.

  “Gwendyrn?” he called again, hesitantly. He heard something over the sounds of the battle engulfing the airships. Supporting himself on the torn railing, Julius walked toward the ragged edge of the hole in the Scioparto’s hull. He shouted Gwendyrn’s name again, his voice cracking.

  “Down here!” Gwendyrn’s voice shouted back. The under-officer was clinging to a long piece of piping that swung precariously out into space and then back toward the hull as the airship struggled for its life. He was only about ten feet down, but the pipe’s supports could give way
at any moment.

  “Stay right there! I’ll grab you a rope!” Julius called down.

  “Could ya hurry up? I have a date with solid ground that I’d like to skip,” Gwendyrn yelled back, his sarcasm tinged with fear.

  Julius searched frantically for a rope in the confusion on deck, ever conscious of the passage of time. Come on, come on . . . !

  He finally came back with a reasonable substitute, snagging a few other legionnaires to help him get the larger man up on deck. “Grab the hose!” he shouted, dropping one end into the hole.

  One of the pipe supports had broken, sending Gwendyrn slipping lower down the contorted pipe. The hose flailed in the wind, tossing this way and back, at one point striking the centurion and knocking his steel galea off his head. The plumed helmet dropped through the clouds and disappeared. Curses floated up to the legionnaires’ ears. Finally, Gwendyrn grabbed hold of the fire hose and clutched it for dear life as the men hauled him up toward the deck.

  The hose was slippery and the men’s arms shook as they pulled, inch over inch. Remembering how his father and other workers had formed a rigging crew to free a metalworker trapped under a load of boxes at the factory, Julius got the men chanting a pattern and, now moving in unison, they lifted their own heavy load, safely and quickly.

  With Gwendyrn back on deck, Julius turned to survey the situation. His men were in loose battle lines, their special air legionnaire scuta shields cranked open and locked into place. The first row of legionnaires had drawn their spathas; behind them, other legionnaires stood with their plumbata ready to throw. Along the railing, legionnaires crouched in pairs, one holding their scuta while the other aimed his repeater crossbow from under their cover. Despite the casualties from the initial bombardment and subsequent artillery barrages, his lines looked steady. Julius shouted encouragement here, a quick order there, as he took his place in the first rank, preparing himself mentally for close combat.