Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  Constantine felt, rather than saw, a change come over his men. He sensed their anticipation, like predators on the hunt. Men readied their plumbatae, the short throwing spears with heavily weighted ends. In this case, his men were using the nonexplosive ends to magnify the effect of the single igniciulum on the ambushers.

  “Remember! Don’t look at the explosion, wait until after it hits to look.” His men nodded at his whispered warning. The phosphorous would blind anyone who looked at it directly.

  Finally, Constantine pulled a packet of matches from his belt pouch and lit the wick. The small flame danced merrily as it greedily consumed the waxy twisted paper. Constantine quickly stood, aimed his body right where he wanted it to go, and threw the igniculum.

  The metal sphere flew through the air, miraculously missing several trees and sailing through branches. In most ways, it was a near perfect throw. The igniculum landed somewhere in the trench, and Constantine ducked back down behind the log, eyes squeezed shut.

  After what felt like an eternity, the ground rumbled and snow fell from the trees. A roar echoed through the forest. If the column had been unaware of the ambush earlier, it was certainly aware something was up now.

  Constantine pushed himself off the ground and climbed onto the log, brandishing his sword. “At them, men! For the Empire!”

  His men ran across the snow-dusted ground, releasing wordless howls. Constantine leapt from the log and joined them.

  The ditch had been only a hundred feet from their hiding place, and was now full of dazed and blinded Nortlanders. They fumbled around piteously. Several in the middle had been killed, and the snow was stained red with blood. In other places, steaming hunks of what had been the enemy smoked in the night air. Constantine nearly lost his dinner right there, but managed to choke back the bile in his mouth. Several other legionnaires were not as lucky.

  From farther away came the sounds of fighting. Obviously, those men had not been as exposed to the blast. He heard shouting from across the road as Gwendyrn’s demi-cohort came rushing to join them. They quickly wrapped up the last few fighters, Gwendyrn himself hacking down the last swordsman with a brutal cleave of his spatha, a motion the sword had not been designed for, but still excelled at.

  “Good job, Centurion Gwendyrn,” Constantine said as the Gaul approached, wiping blood from his face. Gwendyrn nodded wordlessly. “Let’s get these men back to the camp and see if they can’t tell us how they know when our convoys are coming in.” As if on cue, they heard the supply convoy approaching beyond the curve in the road.

  “This will be a fun story to tell . . .”

  General Minnicus rubbed his clean-shaven face with his fingers as he carefully considered his assault plan. His officers were in better shape than many, but the fatigue, cold, and inconsistent rations were beginning to take their toll.

  I wonder why he doesn’t appear to be on half rations, Constantine thought as he eyed the commanding general’s still impressive girth.

  Minnicus placed a pudgy finger on the map, tracing one of the many smaller rivers in the central Nortland region around their capital. “This will be perfect, gentlemen. Here is where we shall smash their resistance and take Midgard for our own.” He looked around at his officers. “We’ve already taken their main supply base at Ostersund, and now that we’ve pushed them back to the west, we can take them easily.

  “Our army is about forty-five miles west of Ostersund now, and we need to cross these rivers here. Our esteemed barbarian neighbors have gathered together a rather pathetic army in an attempt to prevent our crossing the rivers.” His smile seemed almost evil. “Too bad for them, we’ve already bridged and crossed these rivers here on our left and central fronts. The right front has also bridged their river, but I do not plan for them to cross.”

  He looked around at his gathered commanders, seeing the quizzical expressions on some faces. Everyone knew that the right flank traditionally launched the initial attack. It had been so since antiquity, and had led to many decisive Roman victories.

  “Instead, we’ll sweep our left flank wide around, supported by mechaniphants and ostrichine cavalry. The III Cimbrian shall lead that attack.”

  The commander of the III Cimbrian, a short, grizzled man with his gray hair cut in typical legionnaire fashion, placed his fist to his heart in a salute. Commander Graecus of the IV Britannia looked pained by the apparent dishonor of being denied leading the attack. Graecus can be a prickly one, Constantine thought.

  “The Black Boots will not fail. But won’t the snow slow us down?” Cimbrian Commander Paulos asked.

  The general seemed to be in a tolerant mood; he smiled warmly at the question. “I’m glad you asked that, Paulos. We’ll have the mechaniphants in front of you to do ‘street cleaner’ duty, so to speak. They’ll carve channels that you can use to move and attack. I know you’ll have to leave them eventually, but those paths should make the going easier.” He said this with confidence, apparently impressed that such a brilliant idea had been his all along.

  And let the enemy know exactly where to place their bow and artillery fire, Constantine thought grimly. Not that I see any other way to prevent the entire assault from foundering in the snow.

  The general was still speaking. “And the XIII Germania will take the center position. Their job is to hold until the III Cimbrian can sweep aside our barbarian opponents. Obviously, with Legatus Legionis Commander Sula seriously wounded in a nighttime raid a few days ago, I needed to replace him as commander of the Thirteenth. He requested just one of his officers.” This was news. There was a pregnant pause, as the tribunes of the XIII Germania eyed the general with extreme interest.

  “The commander recommended that Tribune Appius be given leadership of the Thirteenth. I shall abide by tradition in this case and allow input from our other commanders. Myself, I fully oppose this, as the tribune has limited experience in large-scale combat and no experience in full battles such as this one. But what say you?” The general eyed each legion commander with an appraising eye.

  I wonder what he’s trying to do. Constantine’s heart was in his throat, he was so excited. My first real promotion that comes as a recommendation from my commanding officer. And he’s probably dying so it’s not like he is looking to curry favor, he thought cynically.

  The legion commanders conferenced briefly amongst themselves, then turned back to the general. “We confirm his position. We believe that he should have the opportunity to prove his capabilities in this field of combat, and that his men will perform admirably.”

  The general bowed his head, but hate glittered in his eyes as he looked at the newly appointed commander. “Very well Commander . . . Appius. Please appoint a new tribune and secure your legion’s position in the center of our line.”

  With some effort, the general turned back to the map on the command table. He fiddled with some knobs and the mechanical aspect of the board sprang to life, as Midgard rose from the flat planning board. The commanders moved closer as 3D terrain augmented their view of the plan.

  “The IV Britannia will hold the right flank here, near this bridge crossing the river. It appears to have many cracks, and my scouts report that it is not sturdy enough to support substantial weight. Either way, The IV Britannia will remain anchored here to prevent any Nortland force from slipping around to our right. As long as we control that bridge, we control the right flank.” Minnicus produced a handkerchief to dab at the sheen of sweat on his forehead as he looked around at his officers. “Any questions?”

  There were the usual minor questions that were readily answered by Minnicus or one of his flunkies. The biggest question Constantine wanted to ask, but could not bring himself to raise, was about retreating. The entire right wing was isolated and could not be supported directly if the Nortlanders did cross the river. Support would have to cross two separate bridges in a
U-shaped marching path to assist the right flank.

  We’ll just have to hope the Britannians can hold their own.

  Shields locked, the legionnaires fought to hold the line. The thin snow layer and partially frozen ground beneath their feet had turned to mud, and their boots slid before finding purchase. Only the pressure of the men behind them kept the first rank on their feet.

  Riding a horse for the first time in a while, Constantine was temporarily enjoying his elevation to commander. A whole legion, over three thousand men at his command. An imposing force that could build forts and roads and control an entire countryside. This particular legion could even use airships to catch their opponents by surprise. But right now, Constantine could see that they were in a fight for the life of the legion, here on the battlefield.

  From his vantage point on his horse, safely (he hoped) behind ten ranks of legionnaires, Constantine pulled out his binoculars and scanned the battle lines. To his left, the III Cimbrian were continuing to make good progress as their line, formed perpendicular to his, fought its way forward. The light woods and small hills prevented Constantine from having a completely clear line of sight to the III Britannia on the right. He’d placed scouts on the hills to notify him of any attacks there. To his rear the VII Germania waited in reserve, currently doing little besides guarding the Roman camp and baggage train.

  Examining his own line, Constantine noticed small pockets beginning to bulge in places. In addition to the four cohorts he had kept in reserve, he also had his own personal bodyguard, fifty experienced cavalrymen deadly with blade both on horseback and on foot. Just how deadly they were, Constantine was determined to find out. A particularly strong push about two-thirds of the way down his left flank had buckled his line; there, normally ten ranks deep, it was only four deep. If the Nortlanders broke through anywhere, they could divide Constantine’s forces and mop them up quickly.

  “Janus! Grab a reserve cohort and follow me!” he called to his bodyguard commander. He spurred his horse and went galloping down the lines, heading toward the near-breakthrough. He arrived just in time to watch a particularly blood-crazed Nortland savage hack his way through the last line of legionnaires and face him head on. Constantine’s horse was going full speed, and the soldier swept his chain-axe at the horses’ legs.

  Constantine barely had time to utter a curse as he flew through the air, just barely managing to kick his feet out of the stirrups in time. I never seem to have much luck with horses, he observed as he sprawled painfully in the mud

  He struggled to his feet, cloak trapped beneath the spasming horse. His hand hit the clasp on his cloak, and instantly a load of pressure vanished from his body. A scream yanked his attention toward another barbarian charging at him. Ducking under the wild swing, Constantine delivered a solid punch to the barbarian’s kidney. The man crumpled, and Constantine clutched his hand in momentary pain before scrambling to draw his sword and activate his air legion shield, winding it into place in just a few clicks. The steel segments telescoped out from the central stack to form the solid, yet lightweight, shield.

  Constantine looked around. Most of those still in the fight wore red uniforms. His bodyguards had made a decisive impact in this particular conflict. Unfortunately, they were also beginning to take some serious casualties. Although his men were better armed and armored, their horses were still vulnerable to attacks, and crazed or not, the Nortlanders were not stupid opponents. Constantine was forced to signal his men to fall back as his reserve cohort came to the rescue.

  “Into the breach!” Constantine shouted at them. He recognized some of the faces.

  “Commander Appius, sir! It’s us!” called one of the legionnaires, smiling at him from the far end of the rank. Constantine, unsure of protocol, acknowledged with a half wave, half salute. Centurion Gwendyrn passed as well, instructing his rear ranks to hit the enemy with a flurry of plumbatae fire.

  “Do you happen to have any more of those igniculum, sir?” a nearby legionnaire asked.

  Sheathing his sword, Constantine smiled at the banter and played along for a while. “No, there didn’t seem to be much use! Evidently they already go blind here just looking at the snow all the time.” The men laughed. “Get to it, men! Send them all to Hades!”

  Their well-disciplined formation slammed into the gap in the line. Constantine saw men actually fly into the air as the wedge of shields plowed into the milling enemy. The shock of their arrival did more to break their opponents than the last few hours of combat had. Gwendyrn drove his men like a scythe, reaping men left and right with well-timed counter charges from his ranks, the legionnaires working together to isolate and kill Nortland berserkers.

  Constantine saw one man pin a chain-axe, teeth whirring, to the ground with his scutum. The serrated teeth of the chain-axe gnawed at the legionnaire’s shield, leaving deep grooves in the tough metal and wood until its wielder collapsed under two quick jabs to the gut from another legionnaire. Turning quickly, the legionnaire raised his shield to block another attack, and the battle continued.

  Constantine shouted encouragement at his men, until one of his bodyguards grabbed him, just a few ranks back from the front line. “Sir! You can’t be up this far; we can’t keep you safe!” Unsaid was the more obvious You can’t play soldier when your job is to be a commander.

  Constantine nodded wordlessly and let himself be pulled back out of the fight. He mounted a borrowed horse. From the bloodstains on the saddle, its owner was not going to be looking for it anytime soon.

  “Wow! Would you look at that!” shouted one of his men. Constantine looked across the battlefield.

  The mechaniphants were charging. It was an amazing sight. Fifteen of the constructs were moving in a single wave through the enemy army. The sunlight glittered off their steel armor and the projectiles being launched into the Nortlanders. Two of them must have been armed with Greek fire launchers, as clay spheres exploded in fiery fury, coating everything around them in sticky, burning residue. Constantine nearly yanked his binoculars off his neck, trying to get a better look at the situation.

  The Roman mechanical beasts were on a rampage. They spat fire and threw explosive bolts. Their heavy repeaters cut down waves of enemy infantry. The Roman line rallied, cheering the attack. The enemy panicked and ran, falling back while the Romans redressed their lines. Constantine told his men to hold back. Orders are to remain here, but I wonder how long before Minnicus orders a general chase.

  He stared through the binoculars again, watching as the Nortlanders tried everything to take down the mechaniphants. Ostrichines, the bipedal mechanical mounts that formed the fast, tireless cavalry of the Roman army, were riding outrigger for the mechaniphants, and the small teams of men and machines worked together to shut down any serious, concentrated attempt before it became a successful effort.

  A flash of light and an explosion pulled Constantine’s binoculars east. The front-most mechaniphant had been destroyed. “How’d they do that?” he murmured to himself. Something predatory and graceful climbed up on top of the destroyed machine and released a spine-chilling howl. Constantine could feel it in his gut, even from over an imperial mile away. Mecha-wolves!

  The wolf-like constructs raced into combat, their powerful jaws and claws ripping armor off the mechaniphants while nimbly dodging swinging tusks and articulated trunks. Constantine could see the life-and-death struggles between the mechaniphant’s crew and their attacker. Finally, another mecha-wolf climbed onto the back of the elephantine machine and swatted the crew out of their protected cupola before crushing the driver underfoot.

  Constantine lowered his binoculars. This was not good. If the mechaniphants couldn’t stop the Nortland mecha-wolves, then the entire left flank attack would stall, and the battle could be lost. Even the heavy ballistae and heavy repeaters on the hill to their left seemed to pause for a moment, unsure about what to t
arget.

  A thought suddenly hit him. He grabbed the arm of a passing legionnaire. “Get up to those artillery pieces, and tell them to blanket the area right in front of the mechaniphants. We have to give them covering fire, make it suicide for any of those mecha-wolves to run through the heavy fire! I don’t care if there’s nothing there, the advance must continue.” The legionnaire nodded frantically, repeated the message, and ran off. Hurry, hurry, hurry! Constantine urged mentally.

  A few minutes later, the artillery started up their fire again, this time doing just what their new commander wanted. With the first few mechaniphants destroyed, the remainder had paused to regroup. The artillery fire shot just short of them, trying to cover them as they prepared to resume the assault. The Nortlander infantry had fled before them, leaving the two sides’ war machines to duke it out.

  Hmm, this time they’re in pairs instead of being strung out, Constantine observed as the mecha-wolves resumed their attack upon their larger mechanical brethren.

  A raucous cheer rose from the Roman lines as an exceptionally lucky ballista shot speared a mecha-wolf in midair, hurling it sideways. The construct landed on its companion, crushing it. Decorum forgotten, Constantine cheered along with his men. The mechaniphants moved to attack again, this time targeting their lupine-esque opponents with almost unerring skill, pinning them between their larger frames or hitting them with heavy repeater fire from afar.

  A shout from his right caught Constantine’s attention. A messenger was approaching rapidly on horseback. The man gave a quick salute, fist over his heart, then handed him a scroll. Constantine unfurled it and quickly scanned the message. He felt his heart beginning to pound in his chest.