Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  The tribune shook his head quickly. “I’m not out to use my power to get ahead. My brother used his powers almost constantly, getting things done by ignoring everyone else’s wishes. I don’t operate that way. I will follow orders and do my best. I am a son of Rome.” He said the last part with conviction. “And I hope to see you with us as we march north. We’ll most likely need your solid medical care in the wilds of Nortland; I’ve already lost too many good men without it.”

  Octavia nodded as he made a bow goodbye. “I shall look forward to your company as we travel north,” she said as he walked away.

  The heir turned and gave her a boyish grin, still walking, and nearly backed into a wagon. She laughed at his foolishness, then turned to seek someplace where she could clean herself up.

  She hadn’t gone more than a few steps when she spotted Optio Centuriae Ronan approaching, waving an arm in greeting, lips parting to share whatever updates he had prepared for her. She interrupted him with the news of her departure. While surprised, the under-officer absorbed this new information and delivered his report. More surgeons were agreeing to follow Octavia’s guidelines. At the same time, fewer surgeons were reporting to work with injured arms, legs, and bruises. Ronan theorized that the surgeons had seen the importance of cleanliness in a legion facility that prided itself on uniformity and high standards.

  Octavia shook her head. Boys will be boys. Her brief encounter with the young tribune all but forgotten in the face of so much impending work, Octavia set about assigning some reliable men to oversee the medical facilities while she went north.

  Optio Centuriae Ronan was about to get a promotion even he had not seen coming.

  Chapter 10

  Alexandros

  The long column of soldiers and mechanical creations wove through the wilderness of central Nortland, following great mechaniphants whose spinning steel blades cut a broad swath through trees and underbrush.

  From his vantage point a thousand feet up, hands resting on the brass railing that circled the bridge deck, Captain Alexandros kept one eye on the column’s progress and one eye on the weather gauge. The barometer had been dipping steadily, and the thickening snow clouds worried him.

  “Isn’t it odd, Captain, that by the time we’re done here, we’ll have built Nortland’s first true road?” First Officer Travins mused next to him. Smudges of purple and blue under red-streaked eyes revealed his exhaustion, but he still found the energy to make a joke. “Perhaps we should send them the bill when we finish.”

  For the first time in many days, Alexandros laughed. “Thanks, Travins. Now go get some rest. I don’t like the look of those clouds much, so get some shut-eye while you can.”

  Travins nodded grudgingly, and pointed out, “Looks like you need some rest as well, sir.”

  “I’ll rest when I’m dead.” It was an old joke they’d shared for many years.

  Travins gave a weary salute and turned to go, then paused and leaned in close. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with learning that Second Officer Ciseto happens to be related to General Minnicus now, would it sir?” His whisper barely reached the captain’s ears.

  “Not at all, I just don’t trust the man to fly this beauty yet, that’s all.”

  “Of course sir, of course. Good evening, sir. Or morning—whatever time it is.”

  The ship’s bell rang ten in the morning as Travins left the bridge, the sound echoing clearly through the ship. Crewmen went about their assigned tasks, moving as fast as molasses, and Alexandros lost himself in the daily hum of activity. His mind wandered for a moment, thinking about his wife, Delia, dead the last four years now. It had been almost as long since he had seen his children. Perhaps it is time to start looking for another companion. He spent several more moments reliving the happier memories of his younger days before coming back to the present.

  “Sir,” a crewman murmured, trying to do his job and respect the captain’s privacy at the same time. Alexandros turned and the crewman handed him a note. “From the admiral via the wireless.”

  Alexandros bent to examine the note: All ships are to descend to 500 feet to avoid higher-level winds. Stop. Double topside crews to avoid snow weight overwhelming vessels. Stop. Reduce speed to half. Stop. Keep on the lookout for Nortland raiders. Stop Polentio out. Stop.

  “Reduce speed by half and double the topside lookouts,” Alexandros ordered, his voice carrying through the din of the airship’s command center.

  The pilot pulled back on a throttle, which ran to the engine room and told the engineers to reduce power. Another officer gave orders to several midshipmen as they buttoned up coats and donned fur caps, preparing to go aloft.

  “Under-officer Gansus, make sure they take extra repeater bolts with them. I want to make sure they have everything they need.”

  The officer nodded quickly, then resumed his instructions, his words flowing so fast that even the midshipmen were having trouble following him.

  The captain grabbed a pair of binoculars, tested the extra magnification lever on the side, and stepped over to the port side observation bubble. The cold glass was beginning to frost over on the inside. Alexandros could feel the drafts of cold air leaking around the poorly fitted windows. At his motion, a crewman came over and sprayed an anti-ice solution over the windowpane. The antifreeze was indeed nearly as magical as the peddler selling it in Copendrium had claimed. Glad I took that chance on him. And it was only a few denarii! Now we can fly longer and farther north because everything won’t be freezing up on us. Earlier, the captain had sent men outside to spray the solution over the outside of the windows. It only cleared the glass for a while, especially when traveling overnight and in high altitude, but it was better than nothing.

  Alexandros yawned to help pop his ears as the airship began to descend. Wisps of cloud flowed past the vessel, and Alexandros imagined how the airship, with the trireme-shaped hull and long ram, looked like from below. Like a vessel out of those ancient tales.

  He held the binoculars up to his eyes, then played with the magnification for a few moments. The lenses blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. Cursed things. He shook them for a moment or two, then tried again. Much better. The snow-covered mountains and thick pine forest stretched for miles, nearly filling his view. The cloud cover made the rest of the world a white blanket, and not a bit of blue penetrated the heavy snow clouds. The other airships in the small fleet stood out as black marks against the white, like spots of ink on clean bedlinens. His eyebrows furrowed as he noticed the snowfall increasing again, the flakes falling hard and fast.

  A bell chimed behind him. “Message from topside, sir. Would you like to take it? Or should I take a message?”

  Alexandros strode over to the captain’s chair, while another midshipman took his place at the observation port behind him.

  “This is the captain,” he said into the speaking tube.

  “Sir! This is Midshipman Decicus on the topside port. Snowfall is increasing. It appears to be falling at the rate of . . .” A blast of wind took away his words. Alexandros found himself shivering involuntarily at the thought of those poor men forced to remain topside while he remained here on the heated command deck. The wind died down and Alexandros could hear the midshipman again. “ . . . can’t shovel it off fast enough. Some of the canvas is beginning to show signs of freezing over too, and we’ll have to patch that as well.”

  If the canvas freezes over, then it can crack and release our buoyancy mixture. Alarm crept into the experienced captain’s heart at the thought of his ship plummeting to earth here at the far northern ends of the world. “Thank you, Decicus. Continue to work as long as you can. I’ll send a relief party up as well.” He caught the eye of Second Officer Ciseto and the man jotted a note and passed it to a runner. The man was out the door before Alexandros had even replaced the speaker tube.

&nb
sp; “Send a message to the admiral. We’ve got a problem, and I bet we’re not the only ship that does.”

  Several hours later, during a lull in the snowstorm that was blanketing the world around them, the aircrew captains were ferried down from their respective ships to the expedition’s base camp. While Air-Admiral Polentio was inside the command tent with General Minnicus, explaining that the fleet would no longer be able to provide support due to the weather, Alexandros took the opportunity to visit some friends.

  “Captain Alexandros! A truly magnificent surprise!” Tribune Constantine Appius rose to greet him as he ducked inside, and they clasped hands. The legion’s command tent smelled like musty laundry with a hint of sweat and urine. Appius wore only a standard issue tunic and boots. He had obviously been in the middle of cleaning his armor, Alexandros realized as the sharp tang of leather polish and oil assaulted his nose.

  “What can I do for you? I’ve got some just-caught rabbit and some warm wine, if you’d care for either. Supplies are a tad bit skimpy right now.” Constantine’s face darkened for a moment, then brightened. “Why are you here on the ground?”

  Smiling, Alexandros ran his hand through his graying hair. “Thanks for the warm gesture. I’ll have a cup of the wine to warm me up, if you can spare one. Supplies are getting low, you said?”

  The younger man walked over to a small brazier burning in the corner and pulled a flagon of wine from an attached pocket. The warm liquid left a thin trail of steam that billowed over the rim of the goblet that Constantine handed to him. “Take a seat.” The tribune deferentially offered his own campaign chair and perched carefully upon a rickety stool in the corner instead.

  “The supply caravans are getting inconsistent. I know that there have been problems with raids, but still. The tales of wars and grand campaigns are nothing like the reality,” he remarked.

  Alexandros snickered. “That’s very true, and old men always seem to make war out to be a grander thing than the reality. Don’t you ever wonder why the young fight the wars and their old leaders are the ones to send them off? It’s because the old men are too smart to actually fight in wars once they’ve really experienced it!” Alexandros didn’t have to feign laughter. And one of those “old men” is leading this column anyway! What does that tell you about him?

  “So otherwise, how are things? Have your men recovered from the last fight? I have to tell you, I don’t think my men have. I’m still not sure how you managed to take out that big Nortlander who was boarding us,” Alexandros said. “Your men saved my ship, and you will always have our, and my, gratitude.”

  The tribune put up his hands. “No, no, it really was both a duty and a pleasure to serve on your ship. I truly hope we will continue to work together in the future. I trust you, as do my men. We’ve already trusted you with our lives several times, if you’ve been keeping track.” He paused before continuing in a voice quieter and full of regret. “Not everyone made it, but they did their duty. Would you be able to attend a brief service today, for the honor of our dead?”

  Hearing that, Alexandros rose from the comfortable chair. His back ached but he ignored it. “To the dead,” he proclaimed solemnly, raising his glass in salute, then downing the warm wine in one swallow. “I would like nothing more than to be present. Who will be presiding, so I know what to wear?” he asked.

  “Most of the men were still followers of the old gods, so I’ve asked for several of the camp’s priests to do an offering ceremony. We were forced to do a quick cremation right after the battle, but obviously we would like the chance to send our dead an offering, since it was so rushed. I’d hate to not take the time to give them peace.” Constantine’s fingers absently rubbed the Imperial coin on the braid around his neck.

  Alexandros turned his head, considering. “I thought you weren’t very religious,” he said, thinking back to conversations they’d had in Copendrium.

  Constantine gave a slight shrug. “It can’t hurt, and can only help morale. When it comes to my dead men, they deserve the best, whether I believe in it or not.”

  I completely agree with him. Religion can help soothe a soul, especially when used to heal, not to ultimately hurt. “What did you get for the customary sacrifice?” Alexandros asked. It was traditional to offer an animal to appease the spirits, where the living ate for the dead who could no longer partake of mortal food.

  Constantine’s mouth quirked. “I pulled rank and grabbed an ox from requisitions. Our dead deserve the best we can give them, even if it is half cold and tough as my shoe.”

  The tribune began pulling on his gear, preparing to leave the tent. Alexandros replaced his warm woolen airman’s cap on his head and set the now-empty wine glass back on the small folding table.

  “I also commissioned the creation of a cenotaph for our dead. We’ll erect it before we leave this gods-forsaken country. Unfortunately, I’m sure we’ll have to add more names to that list. Few instead of many, I hope,” Constantine added, his voice muffled as he pulled on his segmented lorica armor, the shining strips of steel rippling down his chest and shoulders. He buckled on his belt pouches and adjusted several straps and armor pieces.

  Alexandros felt a tad underdressed as the infantryman continued to layer on gear and components. Finally the tribune adjusted his cloak and secured it around his neck. “Are you ready? We may be late to the ball,” Alexandros asked, unable to keep the mirth from his voice.

  Constantine gave him a haughty look and marched past; Alexandros followed him into the street. They walked along the cold but bustling avenues. What had been semi-solid permafrost was now riddled with puddles and wagon ruts, along with the occasional larger depression of a mechaniphants’ foot. When they arrived at the camp’s outer perimeter, Constantine showed his pin to the sentries. “We’ll be back in about an hour,” he told them.

  They walked toward the prearranged assembly area, where a large contingent of the 13th Cohort, XIII Germania waited around a hastily erected altar. “Everyone here?” Constantine asked. Gwendyrn nodded solemnly.

  The large, mustachioed under-officer had recently become the new cohort centurion. He wore a temporary badge in place of the more permanent centurion’s pin. The Gaul had claimed that he would not wear the permanent mark of authority until Centurion Caesar was confirmed dead. Alexandros had been very sorry to hear of the man’s death during the aerial combat earlier in the week.

  The priest approached the altar, followed by several attendants. One led the sacrificial ox while another carried a smoldering censer full of sweet-smelling incense. Bowing his head before the podium, the priest lifted his arms and began the funeral prayer in a clear, penetrating voice that cut through the still, cold winter air. He chanted in High Latin, and Alexandros closed his eyes and took comfort in the ancient prayers.

  When the ceremony was finished and the small feast from the dead ox had been shared out equally to legionnaire and officer alike, Alexandros discovered that Senatora Pelia had joined the ceremony sometime after it had started. He greeted her in the manner of the Roman courts, placing his heels sharply together and bowing from the waist. He was not surprised to see the tribune echo his motions. Pelia inclined her head graciously in response to their bows, as befit a senator of Rome.

  “Senetora Pelia, I had not expected to see you here.”

  The senetora looked tired, and her hair was slightly unkempt. Mud had stained the hem of the more formal stola she wore and probably added an additional five or ten pounds to the draped garment. She spread her arms. “It is the job of an Empire to celebrate, and at times mourn, the loss of its loyal and brave soldiers. I am here both because it is the right thing to do, and because it is the honorable thing to do.” She paused. “I did inquire whether General Minnicus would be joining us. He was . . . preoccupied at the time. Something about personal tutoring?” she finished rather wanly. “If you gentlemen will
excuse me, I would like to make the rounds to thank your men, Tribune Appius. That’s how my father would have done it, and that is how I would like to do this as well.”

  Constantine nodded. “As you wish, Domina.”

  Alexandros watched the tribune out of the corner of his eye as the young senatora moved away. He could distinctly see the young man’s eyes following the not-quite-concealed feminine curves of her body beneath the flowing stola. He nudged Constantine in the ribs when Pelia was far enough away. “Don’t get any ideas, young man. I’m fairly certain your father already has a match in mind for you.”

  Constantine stared at him, eyes wide. “What? How? When? Who?” he sputtered.

  Alexandros chuckled at the young man’s expense. “Relax, Appius! I’m kidding around. But seriously, don’t fall into this trap. She’s one of the only females out here, and don’t go thinking that fear and anxiety and the excitement of adventure are replacements for real affection and love. Besides, she’s not some serving maid from back home to be toyed with, she is a real senatora, whether that is proper or not.”

  “Love? Who said anything about love? Right now, I just like the view. Besides, Octavia is a great conversationalist. Did you know that she took over the medical tents back in Sundsvall and . . . What is wrong with you? Why are you laughing?”

  “Well since you know her as Octavia . . . did she happen to take care of your addled brain in those medical tents?”

  Constantine frowned at Alexandros, who quickly turned his laughter into a loud, hacking cough. The senatora had reappeared from the band of legionnaires and was approaching.