Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  “Come, Romans. They join,” Halder told them as he pulled his dirk free and wiped it on the dead guard’s clothing.

  “What about him?” Scipio pointed to the pilot.

  Halder smiled. “He join too.”

  Julius looked at Scipio. “Just remember, legionnaire. We’re not in Rome anymore.”

  Chapter 20

  Constantine

  A splash of cold water hit Constantine in the face, waking him from a groggy, dreamless slumber. The icy liquid trickled down his face and hair, running into his eyes and mouth. Constantine could taste the saltiness and grime as the dirt and sweat from his body mingled with his evening shower. This was the second time he had been awakened in this manner.

  He tried to adjust his aching arms, numb fingers fiddling with his bonds to no avail, the ropes were as tight as ever. Constantine’s arms were tied around a large tent pole in the middle of the canvas shelter. The wooden pole was substantial, unmoving in the face of Constantine’s many attempts to dislodge it. He slumped on the floor, legs splayed open, back against the pole.

  His guards, evidently former street toughs by their actions, took glee in his discomfort. “Get up, get up!” one growled, prodding him with the butt of his spear. The iron was cooler than the water had been. Constantine struggled wearily to get to his feet. The other guard impatiently pulled on his arm, jerking him up. Constantine hissed in pain.

  The guard, whom Constantine had dubbed Scarface for the ugly crescent scar that creased his forehead from eye to eye, untied his restraints, while Turtle, the other guard, pointed the steel-tipped pilum at him. The spear rested just inches from Constantine’s unprotected chest.

  The primus imperio did his best to ignore the brutes, focusing on a point beyond Turtle while he concentrated on the feeling returning to his numb hands and toes. The pricks and pains of his body pulled him back into the real world.

  “Out you go, Your Highness.” Scarface chuckled, pushing Constantine ahead of him and past Turtle.

  They escorted him along the via principalis of the castrum. Legionnaires in the street stared at him as he walked along, ignoring the rough pushes from his guards. His breath caught as he thought he saw Gwendyrn, but it was just another large, bearded street tough playing at soldier. The winter sun threw long shadows on the ground as the sun set on his second day of capture.

  He noted something interesting as he ambled along. There seem to be a lot more “personal guards” and a lot fewer legionnaires. I wonder if Minnicus has convinced his men to switch sides, or if he’s been bringing them in somehow.

  A covered wagon rumbled past and pulled into an open supply lot. The back flap was lifted and a group of armored men hopped out. Wow. He’s simply shipping them in the supply wagons. So where are all the supplies? Constantine wondered. He must have spoken aloud, for he received another sharp jab in the back from Turtle.

  “Quit your yappin’.”

  Constantine sighed as they guided him toward the main tent. Once again, he would have a chat with the general. Just the thing to make my day, he thought as they entered.

  General Minnicus was seated at his campaign desk, licking the last bits of grease and juice from his midday meal off his fingers. Several aides were huddled over the command table, prodding the controls and whispering to each other. A servant handed Minnicus a towel.

  “Ah, welcome again, Commander Appius. I thought to offer you another opportunity to join in our mission,” the general said, dropping the used towel carelessly onto the ground.

  Constantine was silent as his guards manhandled him forward, depositing him in a wooden folding chair in the middle of the room.

  “Now Commander, I’m sure you can appreciate your situation. You’ve got no friends here, just me and the Nortlanders. And I can assure you, I’m far more accommodating than them!” Minnicus came around and perched on the edge of the desk, his double chins bulging as he looked down at his prisoner. He chuckled at his own joke. “Ha! Accommodating!” He frowned when it received no response, then shrugged.

  “You do look a fine mess. I do apologize. Maximus!” he called. The servant reappeared. “Clean him up.”

  The servant grabbed more towels and a bowl of water, then pulled up a chair for the water bowl and began to clean the grime and sweat from Constantine’s face and arms. The general turned and walked back around his desk. The servant moved around to clean his neck as well.

  Constantine felt his ropes loosen slightly. “They’re coming for you,” the man whispered fiercely, then stood and bowed as Minnicus shooed him away. Not even the guards behind him had noticed. Constantine flexed his hands and found the ropes substantially loosened. This he could work with.

  “Now, Constantine, we can talk like men.”

  “Actually, it’s primus imperio. That is my title,” Constantine said flatly. Minnicus stared at him. Good, get annoyed.

  “You haven’t really gotten out much recently, have you? Been in the streets? Because I can tell you, that attitude will get you nowhere. Especially not if you wish to inherit the throne, oh prince. That’s where I can help,” Minnicus said.

  “I sincerely doubt you actually want to offer me the throne. I’d order you executed first thing. For treason to the Empire.”

  Minnicus scoffed. “Oh please, what a pathetic attempt at bravado. This disastrous dynasty is at an end. Your father has forgotten where the real power lies. It does not lie in the hands of the Emperor, but in the coin chests of the bankers and the swords of the legions. I have both.”

  “The legions will never betray my father.”

  “Oh, son, they will. Especially when the men who are being taxed to death by your father side with us. I suppose we could just let nature take its course, what with you suffering such a glorious death in combat here in the north. Sagas and songs will be written! You might even get a tomb or province named after you. Especially after I crush the Nortlanders and annex this pathetic excuse for a nation into our empire.” Minnicus grinned savagely.

  “This will lead to a new age of Rome. We shall continue to expand our borders. The Khanates will fall. The Mongols will flee in terror and Axum will retreat to their mountains. And I will go and crush this fledgling revolution over in the Caesarias. Stupid colonials getting uppity. I’ll quash their little provincial senate.” Minnicus grumbled on, his voice too low for Constantine to hear.

  There was a momentary distraction as another person entered the room.

  “My Lord, you sent for me?”

  “Yes, yes.” Minnicus looked at Constantine. “I believe you are acquainted with Quintus Gravus.”

  The man’s familiar face entered Constantine’s range of vision. He moved to stand to one side, facing both the general and his prisoner. “All is prepared,” Gravus said, looking straight at Constantine.

  The general nodded excitedly. “Excellent! Gravus here has already pledged his allegiance to our cause, and I believe that Julius Caesar himself could not have designed a better plan. I wonder what would have happened, had you been more like him? I think you would have joined us. After all, the man did perform the greatest coup in history.”

  Constantine bared his teeth in a grimace.

  “What? Do you not like hearing about how your ancestor was a traitor to his own government? And he got that craven Brutus to go along with him. He betrayed the Republic in the name of absolute power. He crushed the Senate and ruled the plebeians ruthlessly. How am I doing anything different?” Minnicus asked.

  “He took charge because he had to. Rome was foundering!” Constantine argued.

  “Pah! Rome is foundering now! Your emperor does nothing about the Caesarian colonies and spends gobs of public money on technology and education. What a waste!” Minnicus exhorted.

  Of course, you benefited from both, hypocrite. Constantine held his tongue,
trying to egg the general on with his silence.

  The general came closer, examining him like a specimen under a microscope. “Silenced already? No wonder you were shipped off to the legions. Your brother would have been far more malleable. You’re just a mostly empty shell.”

  Constantine deliberately spit in Minnicus’ face. The general’s response was immediate; the backhanded slap sent him reeling to the floor, where he curled up, trying to avoid the guards’ boots as they kicked him in the stomach and back.

  “Stop,” Minnicus finally ordered.

  There was a rustling at the tent opening. Footsteps walked over behind Constantine, then paused.

  “General, a message for you from the front,” Gravus said.

  The tent was silent for a moment while Minnicus read the message. “You’re sure? That’s very interesting. Seems like our plan is going perfectly.”

  The guards hauled Constantine back up on his feet. Minnicus stared at him. “Well, boy, I’m afraid your story ends here.” He glanced beyond Constantine. “Put him back in his uniform.” He grinned wickedly back at Constantine. “You’re about to die heroically, taking the walls of Midgard. Too bad that conniving assassin was able to get to you, even when you were surrounded by your own men.”

  Constantine poured every ounce of hate and anger into his glare. Minnicus walked past him, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I hate you and your father. I wish you had both died like we planned it, last year. Your brother was kind enough to croak, why couldn’t you? Then this wouldn’t be necessary at all.”

  Constantine felt his jaw open in shock. He was behind that?

  “Ah! I see you hadn’t figured it out yet. No bother. Soon it won’t matter. Maximus! Time to leave! Get my things, please.”

  The general left the tent, taking the other officers with him. Constantine stood in a stupor for a few moments, trying to digest this new information.

  Gravus poured himself a glass of brandy from a glass decanter, then sat down behind the general’s desk. “Would you like a sip? It’s about the last one you’ll ever have, I expect.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “As you wish. You know, if you had just accepted my offer in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened. He was against killing you in the beginning. But . . . others . . . got his ear. I’m afraid he no longer listens to me much,” Gravus told him. Was there an edge of sorrow in his voice?

  Gravus pulled out his pocket watch. He glanced at it, then tucked it back into his jacket pocket. Gravus had chosen to deck himself in a heavy woolen overcoat, rather than the expensive furs “requisitioned” by the other members of the high command staff. Gravus stood, putting both hands in his pockets as he did.

  It seemed an odd gesture to Constantine. The movement looked both awkward and unnecessary. Why is he wearing his overcoat in here at all? It’s rather pleasant in here. I suppose that’s one of the perks of being a general.

  Alarm bells suddenly clanged around the castrum. Shouts and cries mingled with the clash of swords.

  “What in the name of—” one of the guards blurted, before his voice abruptly cut off.

  Constantine craned his head around, trying to see what was happening. He was just in time to see both men collapsing to the floor, short repeater bolts buried in their chests. He turned back to see Gravus quickly tucking two small hand repeaters back into his pockets.

  “What is going on?” Constantine asked, pulling at his bonds until his hands finally came free.

  “Oh no, you freed yourself and managed to get ahold of a repeater. Too bad those guards couldn’t stop you. Of course, in all the confusion caused by the Nortlander raid, I was preoccupied with defending the castrum from our enemies,” Gravus deadpanned, grinning.

  “I’m an Imperial agent, Your Eminence. Now, before I blow my cover, get out of here. Go out the back flap of the tent and you’ll find someone waiting for you,” Gravus ordered.

  Constantine looked at the older man. “I owe you my life. Whatever you need later, seek me out—it’s yours.”

  Gravus nodded his graying head as he went forward and slipped out of the tent.

  Constantine turned and raced toward the back, praying to the gods that someone friendly would be there. He was not disappointed.

  “Sir!”

  “Gwendyrn! By the gods, man, it’s good to see you!” Constantine cried. He was so happy to see the man that he enveloped him in a bear hug.

  The Gallic legionnaire’s eyes widened in surprise. “Good to see you too, sir. Now if ya don’t mind, I’d like to be gettin’ out of here, right quick. Them guards was none too bright, but someone’s going to wonder why the Nortlanders aren’t doing more than fire burning arrows at them pretty soon.”

  He was dressed in a brown tunic and darker brown trousers, with a dull iron chest piece replacing the segmented lorica of the legion. “Excellent camouflage. You look just like the guards,” Constantine commented as Gwendyrn threw a long brown cloak over him and handed him a bag full of dirty laundry.

  “We’re getting out through the servant’s entrance.”

  They walked through the streets, trying hard to hurry without looking like they were hurrying. At least, that’s what Gwendyrn told his commanding officer to do. It was a hard thing, to walk fast, but not walk fast.

  And sure enough, the prediction that someone would figure out that the “raid” was nothing more than a ruse came true, as well. A column of armored horsemen cantered past, no doubt to try to chase down the “raiders.” Constantine and Gwendyrn pressed their backs against a stack of boxes. The soldiers kept going.

  Constantine felt his heartbeat slow as he caught his breath. “That was close!” he whispered.

  Gwendyrn looked at him. “Not as close as the time I stole all the mead from my village inn. Now that, sir, was an adventure.”

  They continued on their way.

  “Now just stay calm, we’ll get out,” Gwendyrn said calmly as they approached the gatehouse. The guards were alert, but their attention seemed focused on events outside the fort.

  Constantine held his breath as he walked by, only releasing it when they too were several steps outside the fort. “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now we get you back to the legion. There are reports of fighting inside Midgard. You’re in charge, sir. You’ll need to decide what to do—take on the general, or take on the Nortlanders.” Gwendyrn pointed out a narrow forest trail.

  The two men hiked for about half an hour, eventually stepping into a small clearing where other men were waiting for them. Constantine experienced the second shock of the day.

  “Commander Murtes! I thought you were dead!” Constantine said, shaking the man’s hand furiously.

  “Not me, sir. One of my men, unfortunately. We switched uniforms and I don’t think their guards really looked at who they killed. I’m sorry he’s dead, though. We managed to get away, so here we are. I speak for Commander Paulos as well. We’re ready to pledge our legions to you.” Murtes stepped back, saluting Constantine.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  The older man nodded. He explained that the events of the other night had, quite obviously, made up their minds about the general and his loyalties. When Constantine shared the information he had overheard, Murtes sighed.

  “I’m not surprised, you know. I once thought he was a better man than this. I’m sure you know that. But these last few days . . . well, they could make anyone change his mind.”

  Constantine nodded, smiling grimly. At last, he could do something about the general’s betrayal. He had the forces to do it. “Let’s get going then, shall we? We have a lot to do.”

  They rode into camp an hour later. Dismounting, Constantine strode into the command tent, which was packed with officers from every legion pre
sent. Constantine was gratified by the palpable enthusiasm and energy within the canvas walls.

  “General arriving!” cried the guard detachment leader, and every legionnaire in the tent stood ramrod straight, fist over heart in salute.

  “At ease, men,” Constantine said as the crowd parted to allow him through to the command table in the middle of the tent. No fancy desks or chaise lounges here! Constantine chuckled to himself. “And please, I’m a commander until further decision. What’s the situation?” he asked.

  The next few hours passed quickly. The other commanders had already been working to unify their three legions. Constantine also learned that the forces loyal to General Minnicus had fallen back toward Sundsvall, taking most of the supply train with them.

  “Tell the men we’ll go on half rations immediately, and send out hunting patrols right away. We need to conserve what food we have until we can settle things with the Nortlanders,” Constantine ordered. He looked around. “Are there any other steps we could take?”

  “Fishing, sir. We’re near the rivers; if we can cut holes in the ice, we can probably get some fish out of them,” a subaltern said after a few moments of thoughtful silence.

  “Good. You’re in charge. Gather some former fishermen—I know that the Thirteenth has a few—and get to work right away.”

  He turned and leaned over the table to examine the locations of the three forces. General Minnicus’ forces were now a hastily painted black marker to the southeast of the red legionnaire markers representing “his” legions. The yellow barbarian figures representing the Nortland armies stood to their immediate north. “Yellow?” he asked quizzically.