Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  The trio raced through the general melee, only striking out when combat directly impacted their advancement. In only a few short minutes they reach the far end of the corridor. Halder slammed into an iron door. “We must . . . go up,” he panted. “Stairway through here.”

  Scipio leapt to assist Halder in turning the massive wheel that would open the door. The rusted metal squealed, resisting the efforts of the two straining men. Julius turned to survey the hallway. Their run through the fighting had turned the tide in favor of the rebels . . . or was it the loyalists? Either way, the faction that backed them appeared to have gained the upper hand. Cheering and chants of “For Nortland and the Duke!” rolled down the hallway as their enemy fled—all but a cluster of rebels who spotted Julius and his friends, and sprinted down the hallway toward them.

  Julius hefted his sword. “Hurry up, we’ve got company.”

  Scipio paused in helping Halder, drew his repeater from its holster on his back, and aimed it down the hallway. Snick-snick. The repeater launched its black quarrels into the charging Nortlanders. Two, three, four Nortlanders went down as quickly as Scipio could pull back the lever to load another quarrel. “This is my last clip,” he shouted as the screaming Nortlanders closed the distance.

  The clip ran dry just as the last Nortlander leapt at Julius. Julius swept his spatha up and across the man’s exposed chest, using his buckler to hit the man in the face and take his weight. The Nortlander crashed into Julius, scrabbling and punching at the Roman. He had one hand around Julius’s neck when he suddenly went limp.

  Julius pushed the dead man off. Scipio pulled his dagger from the man’s neck.

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  A loud squeal announced the access door finally giving way. Halder tossed the bent wheel onto the floor. “Let’s go,” he ordered, grabbing a lantern from the hallway and turning up the wick. Julius and Scipio followed him into a dark, cavernous space. They stood on a landing. A flight of stairs wound up and down, disappearing into inky blackness.

  “Long way down,” Scipio observed as he leaned over the wooden guardrail.

  Halder reached out and grabbed his tunic, pulling him back. “Rotten.” He pushed the wood with his fist and pieces popped off, falling down, down, down into the seemingly endless abyss. Scipio’s eyes widened as he gulped.

  Julius peered upward. “How far up are we going?”

  The Nortlander shrugged. “Until we stop.”

  It seemed like an eternity as they wound up the many flights of stairs, the length of their passage marked by occasional doors set into the wall. Climb, climb, climb, turn. Repeat.

  After what seemed like hours, Julius finally stumbled into Scipio as the man staggered to a halt. They collapsed upon the steps, panting, Julius fumbling for his canteen. He savored the flat, metallic taste of the water as though it was the nectar of the gods. Scipio eyed him jealously. Julius thought briefly about hoarding the remaining drops to himself before relenting and handing over the canteen. Scipio drained the remaining water and handed it back wordlessly. Julius turned to see why they had paused their ascent.

  Halder had stopped before a nondescript steel door, no different from every other doorway they had passed. It must have been marked in some unobtrusive way, to get their guide’s attention. Halder tapped on it lightly, once, twice, three times.

  The door swung soundlessly open, spilling light and the sound of soothing music onto the long staircase. Voices beckoned them inside. Scipio hauled Julius to his feet, and they followed Halder inside. Scipio cursed loudly.

  A large war party awaited them, men with finely crafted armor and weapons, their retainers no less finely equipped. The men greeted Halder graciously, or so it appeared, and a customary shot of dark liquor was shared among the men. The Romans were first eyed suspiciously, then welcomed warmly. Julius and Scipio quickly downed their shots of the smooth liquor, no doubt from some special aged stock.

  Julius looked around. The walls were decorated with tasteful tapestries and pieces of native art. Small fountains in recessed niches pattered soothingly between wood-paneled doors below carved lintels. The luxury stood in stark contrast to the spartan accommodations they had seen elsewhere in the mountain fortress.

  “You can tell that some of those rich and mighty types live here,” Scipio whispered to Julius as the men followed Halder through the well-lit hallways.

  “This looks like I’d expect of a rich apartment complex in Rome,” Julius replied.

  Halder turned and smiled at him. “We capture Roman builder. Make him build us these rooms. We like Roman things. Just no like Romans.” His grin turned predatory for a moment. “But it okay. I like you.” Chuckling, he pointed to a doorway. “This is the one. Your woman is inside.”

  Julius looked at him blankly. “My woman? You mean the senatora?”

  Halder nodded, eyes twinkling.

  The centurion tried the door handle, cursing when he discovered that it was locked. Guess we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. He took a few steps back, then charged the door at full speed, impacting the door with his armored shoulder. He rebounded from the solid panel and sprawled on the floor, cursing in pain as stars swam before his eyes.

  Scipio helped him up, laughing. “You should have seen yourself, sir! It was like the door really didn’t like you!”

  Julius ignored him, rubbing his shoulder and arm. He looked at Halder, who had doubled over with laughter; the men behind him were laughing as well. Great, I just nixed our chances of being taken seriously. “I’d like to see you try it,” he said defensively.

  Halder, still laughing, stepped up to the door and hacked away at it with his chain-axe. The powerful weapon splintered away great hunks of wood. Pausing, he pushed in the center with one large hand, and the door collapsed in on itself. Bowing low, Halder swept his arm out in a sarcastic invitation.

  “Nortlanders,” Julius muttered as he stepped past the man.

  He entered a lushly decorated suite, the sheer amount of fur, gold trimmings, and delicately carved wood practically screaming wealth. Scipio, who had followed, looked around with gleaming eyes. “Could I . . . borrow some things, sir?” he asked. Julius told him to ask Halder. I wonder how that will go.

  He looked about the room, then checked the smaller side rooms, discovering two bathrooms, a separate dining room, storage rooms, and one eerily empty room with just a single chair. Confused, and losing hope, Julius opened the last door to find a bedroom. The room was cozy, warmed by a fireplace in which a fire crackled, warding off the stony chill of the walls. But the crackling fire reminded Julius of the events in Sundsvall, and he bleakly recalled his argument with Gwendyrn, the renewal of their friendship, and the battle that had torn them apart. I haven’t seen him, or any other Roman but Scipio, in . . . weeks? Months? Who knows how long I’ve been captive. He mentally pushed his thoughts away.

  “Senatora? Senatora Pelia? Are you in here?” Julius walked over to the bed, pushing aside the lightweight curtains around it. He gave a quick cheer. “I’ve got her, Scipio! Bring Halder!”

  The other men bounded into the room. “I told you. Here she is,” Halder reminded Julius as he sauntered into the bedroom with Scipio close on his heels.

  “How will we get her out of here, sir? She looks dead. Is she breathing?” Scipio asked.

  Pulling his gauntlet off, Julius placed his hand in front of her mouth. He felt the warmth and faint passage of her breath on the back of his hand. “She’s alive. I don’t think we can move her much while she’s asleep. But we have to get her out of here before we continue the battle.”

  Halder shrugged. “You carry. I fight.”

  Julius shook his head. “I don’t think we can carry her out of this fortress without someone knowing it. And I don’t think they’re likely to let us escape eas
ily. Plus, it’s hard to fight or run when you’re carrying a person.”

  Halder was about to reply when he froze, eyes darting around the room. Scipio opened his mouth to say something, but Halder reached out and silenced him with one meaty hand. Julius stood silent as well, straining his senses for a hint of what had alerted Halder.

  Then he heard it: a faint creak coming from a well-stocked bookshelf in the corner. Halder strode over and gripped both sides of the bookshelf, pulling it toward him. To Julius’s surprise, the bookcase opened like a door, revealing a small girl in servant’s clothing. She sputtered before turning to flee. Halder grabbed her and held her up by her arm, spouting a stream of Norse at her. She quailed, tears rolling down her face. Something about her seemed very familiar to Julius. She finally spoke, haltingly, in Norse.

  Halder lowered her to the ground and looked at Julius. “She one of yours, Roman.”

  She turned, and for the first time Julius got a good look at her face as she looked up at him, her eyes red from crying. She looked so familiar, Julius was sure he must know her. He moved hesitantly toward her.

  And then it all clicked.

  “Marciena?”

  “Julius? Julius!” She practically screamed at him as she ran into his arms. She flung her thin arms around his neck and held tight. Julius cupped her head with his hand and held her against him, blinking tears. For what seemed like an eternity, Julius held his little sister, all else forgotten in his reunion with the last member of his family.

  Finally, Julius stood back to look at her. “What happened? How are you here? Why were you listening in on us?” The questions tumbled out.

  Marciena looked confused, her answers halting.

  Halder stepped forward. “No time for talk,” he urged, gesturing to another Nortlander who had just appeared in the doorway. “Enemy come.”

  Julius turned back to look at Marciena. I have to get her out of here. He reached a heart-wrenching decision. “Marciena, do you know a way out of here?”

  She nodded silently, eyes still wide at the rapidly unfolding events.

  “Could you guide Scipio here to it?”

  “No. I want you to come!” Her Latin was a bit rusty, and had acquired a new accent, but it was still her voice.

  He sighed. “I can’t. I’m a soldier. I have to defend the senatora. But if you can take Scipio,” he gestured to the young soldier, who smiled and waved playfully at her, “out of the fortress, you can help us all. If you can lead my commander, Tribune Appius, into Midgard, we can save the senatora and go home.”

  Marciena looked upset. Julius felt choked up himself. “You . . . you have to get out. I won’t have you stuck here. Get Appius. Be safe, ’Ciena,” he whispered, using the nickname given to her when she was just a babe.

  She hugged him fiercely, gave him a peck on the cheek, then took Scipio’s hand and led him into the dark opening of the servant’s passage behind the bookcase. She looked back at Julius once, then the door closed behind them.

  And once again, Julius was all alone.

  Chapter 23

  Constantine

  The pounding of hammers sounded like the beating of war drums. The Roman legions were about to wage war as Midgard had never seen it. Along the vast curtain wall of the fortress, Constantine could feel the hundreds of eyes watching their preparations.

  In the midst of the Romans’ great encampment, a siege caterpillar was being constructed. It had taken them several days to put it together, but the final work was impressive. The long machine looked like its namesake, with large wheels for traction and articulated legs for climbing. Each of the dozens of legs was tipped with a steel alloy claw that was capable of breaking and grasping walls, mountains, or any vertical structure that it ran into.

  Constantine walked along the rampart of their new castrum, less than two miles from the fortress walls. At first, his new subordinate commanders had cautioned against situating their camp so close to the enemy citadel. Let them see. They shall know fear, and it shall consume them, he’d reminded them. Rome was never stopped, only delayed.

  And there would be no more delays. Not when Roman honor was at sake. Or my own personal honor, he thought wryly. Let’s see if they insist on hiding behind their big fancy walls while we parade around outside.

  He pulled out his binoculars, spinning the ring on the side of the device to zoom in on the enemy fortifications. Defensive towers studded the entire mountainside, built into the rock. The curtain wall had been hewn out of the cliff face as well, centuries of work at the hands of slaves. But the result was nearly impregnable. The crenellated battlements were interspersed with Nortland catapults. Every now and then, one would fling its payload in their direction. The legionnaires would shout derisively as the shot fell harmlessly into the snow. But Constantine knew better. “They’re marking the range. They know we won’t be able to move fast.”

  Murtes had moved up beside him. Constantine nodded a greeting to the man, who saluted briefly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt, sir, but the longer we wait, the tougher it will be to crack that nut.”

  “Is the siege caterpillar ready?”

  “It should be by this evening.”

  “Very well, then. We’ll launch the assault tonight. The darkness will help us get closer to the walls. It’s not as if we’ll miss that target.” He lowered the binoculars.

  Murtes looked at him for a moment, then turned and leaned on the battlement. “How are you holding up, sir?” he asked.

  Constantine put on a brave face. “Ready to go.”

  “Have you eaten today? Or gotten some sleep? I know things have been hectic, but if we’re about to go into battle, we need you at your best,” Murtes said.

  Constantine placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You need not worry about me, Commander. Look to your men. I can look after myself.”

  “Then do so, sir. Go see the cook and then rest. The men will take heart from your willingness to rest with the enemy so close. Besides, you will need your strength for tonight,” Murtes pressed.

  Constantine thanked the commander for his concern, then climbed off the battlement. Perhaps I should get something to eat. I haven’t had anything since that porridge at breakfast. His stomach grumbled. Yes, definitely some food.

  He negotiated his way through the camp. Here and there, a soldier would approach to ask him a question about the coming battle. Constantine knew that some generals believed it was best to hide things from their men, to keep them unaware of the challenges or dangers they were about to face. Yet others believed their men to be no more than supplies, things to be utilized to achieve an objective. Constantine felt otherwise. To be a good leader is to love your men. To be a good general, you must be willing to order the death of the thing you love. And so he talked with his men, listened to their fears and concerns, allaying them or strengthening their morale and fortitude. It had not been easy at first. He was not used to dealing with so many . . . peasants . . . and their problems.

  He shook his head. How wrong I was. Their problems are more important than the problems of nobles and lords. Here we are worrying about this victory, and here they are worrying about what’s for dinner!

  Not that he could blame them. Since the departure of General Minnicus and his lackeys, all supply caravans had ceased. They had been unable to raise any other Roman military unit on the wireless, and bad weather prevented them from sending up any of the few skimmers or observation balloons they had available.

  He finally made his way into the mess hall, and stood in line with his men, as was his usual routine. Normally officers would receive better rations, and indeed his soup had a bit of meat in it, along with some rehydrated vegetables. Pretty pathetic when being an officer gets you a single piece of extra beef, he thought sarcastically as he ate quickly. He made a big show of thanking the cooks for th
eir work and clapping his hand on a few backs before retiring to his tent.

  After leaving orders that he should not be disturbed until dusk, Constantine pulled off his muddy boots, dropped his cloak from his shoulders, and laid his head on his pillow. Within moments, he had fallen into a deep sleep.

  A loud commotion woke him. He glanced around, alarmed. His tent was burning! Stumbling from his cot, he grabbed his gear and rolled out of the blazing canvas.

  All around him, the camp burned. He could see Nortlanders running here and there, pillaging, slaughtering camp followers, striking down legionnaires that tried to fight back.

  Constantine made to move toward the largest host of Nortlanders, when one lumbered from between two tents and leapt at him. Constantine fumbled with his sword, barely managing to free it from his scabbard before the Nortlander crashed into him. They fell into the mud, wrestling. His opponent kicked him, hard, and Constantine cried out as he felt something pop in his right knee. He hit back with the pommel of his spatha, driving the weighted lead ball into the man’s face, breaking past the thin iron nose guard of his helmet and cracking open his nose. Blood poured out and the man recoiled in pain.

  In a flash, Constantine swept his sword down across his body, the stroke slashing across the raider’s face. He thrashed backward, tumbling off of Constantine into the mud, blood pouring from him. Constantine lay there for a moment, recovering his wits before he tried to regain his footing. Using a discarded pila as a crutch, he lunged to his feet, losing his sword in the process.

  He hobbled forward, tottering around bodies and abandoned possessions. He found himself approaching the command tent. The Nortlanders ignored him, intent on their unhindered pillage. Shrieks and screams told of horrendous acts behind tent walls, as shadows armed with axes struck down cowering victims.