Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  Julius felt his blood go cold.

  At that moment, a messenger burst into the throne room, his boots ringing on the flagstone floor. A waterfall of Norse tumbled out of his mouth, and the king rose immediately from his seat, shouting orders. Armed men hastily assembled. Corbus, flashing a predatory smile, placed his northern-style helm upon his head and grabbed a large round shield.

  Julius felt himself being grabbed from behind and pulled backward. The war party marched out double quick as Julius was swung about. Tumbling sideways, the centurion bounced hard onto the flagstone floor in the corner of the throne room where he lay, his world spinning.

  Julius waited a few minutes after the footsteps faded from the room. When he realized he could no longer hear the sounds of anyone in the area, he cautiously tried to roll over. He succeeded, but could see nothing beyond table legs and hard stone floor.

  Sighing, Julius set to work trying to loosen his bonds.

  Chapter 25

  Constantine

  The torchlight flickered along the walls as the long file of legionnaires hiked through the secret entrance to Midgard. Their commanding officer marched alongside, then closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, bringing to mind the layout on the command table.

  Midgard was so massive that the table could only accommodate half the fortress at one time. What Constantine did understand was that the fortress was divided into four equal quadrants, each one serving a different purpose. The secret passageway ran under the curtain wall on the southwest side of the fortress, winding its way through the residential quadrant before arriving somewhere on the uppermost floors of the zone. The other three zones—comercia, forge, and temple districts—radiated from the small central citadel district where the palace was. Although not necessarily a different district, the smallest zone was the goal of this attack, as the Roman plan assumed the king would be present in his throne room at the heart of the palace quarter.

  To make matters even more complicated, they had to hope that their assault coincided with the one launched outside the walls by the III Cimbrian and the VII Germania. At this moment, men were laying down wire as they progressed through the depths, in the hope that there could be communication with the outside. If we can’t communicate, it will simply come down to both parties following the timetables set at the meeting. But who knows what could go wrong on either end? Without the other, either assault is doomed on its own.

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  Constantine opened his eyes. “Yes, legionnaire. Thanks for your concern.” He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. The man glanced at his fellow soldiers with the look of a man trying to get out of an obligation. Constantine recognized the signs. “Speak your mind, man; I’ll answer whatever question you’d like.”

  Light from the torches made shadows on the man’s unshaven, hollow-cheeked face. Hesitantly, the man spoke. “If I may, sir, why are we still storming the fortress? Is it true what they say about you just wanting to rescue the senatora?” He looked pained as he said it, but Constantine could tell that it was something many of his men had been thinking about. Other legionnaires had paused in their ascent, clogging the passageway.

  “You there, men! Keep it moving!” an under-officer shouted up from behind them.

  “Walk with me, trooper. It wouldn’t do to have our attack gummed up.” Constantine walked side by side with the legionnaire as the column resumed its progress. They moved at double speed as Constantine tried to catch up to the first portion of his command.

  “I know many men have been asking why we continue to fight.” He made sure his voice carried so that others would hear him. “The simple truth is, we have not done what we were ordered to do. Our orders were to punish the Nortlanders for their raid and destruction of Brittenburg. I know many of you may have felt that our victory on the plains outside this fortress should account for that.”

  He paused to swing around a large obstruction jutting into the passage, gripping the cold, rough rock to do so. He used the pause in his explanation to gather his thoughts.

  “I think the men would agree, sir,” the legionnaire prompted behind him.

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Legionnaire First Class Jarl Trelmus.”

  “Well, Legionnaire Trelmus, I say we have not finished our objective. In my opinion, winning a battle is not the same as destroying a city. In any case, if simply winning a battle was sufficient to force these raiders to cease their destructive ways, then why didn’t the battle of Vilnus, where the Nortlanders lost twenty thousand men to General Pelia’s trap, stop them?”

  The legionnaire looked confused for a moment, but Constantine pressed on, slamming his fist with a thwack into the palm of his leather gauntlet for effect. “No! That is not enough. It is not enough to just win one battle, then return home. I care not about glory or fame; I already have plenty. I’m the primus imperio! Together, we can avenge Brittenburg the right way, through a victory that they will remember. We may not be able to conquer them, and quite frankly I’m perfectly happy to leave this gods-forsaken land of ice and snow to them.” The legionnaires around him chuckled. Constantine felt the mood change from one of resignation to one of determination.

  “So we press on to give these barbarians the lashing they deserve. And if we happen to save the senatora, why, I think that would simply be the icing on the cake.”

  “Especially for you, sir.” The man said slyly.

  “Of course, Trelmus, of course.”

  The legionnaire saluted as Constantine took his leave, pressing farther up the column beneath vaulted stonework and smooth stone arches looking hundreds of years old. He passed cohort after cohort as he moved to the front of the column, giving the occasional greeting here, an encouraging word there, never breaking stride.

  They climbed ever higher, the path winding upward, doubling back on itself and passing along deep trenches and over rickety bridges. Finally they entered an area showing more habitation. Torches and lanterns lit the hallways. After a hasty conference with his leading cohort centurion, Constantine ordered out scouts and flankers to catch or kill any witnesses.

  Finally Legionnaire Scipio halted in front of a nondescript wooden door. “This is it, sir. This is the doorway Marciena and I escaped through. I will tell you though, sir, it may be smart to block this doorway and keep it open. It cannot be opened from the inside.”

  Scipio stepped to the side as the entry party gathered at the door, repeaters drawn. Constantine wanted to intervene and give last minute instructions, but he didn’t want to be seen as interfering with his subordinate’s command. Finally, he simply nodded at the 1st Cohort’s fresh-faced centurion. Everyone in this legion seems so young, yet it seems like an age since we mustered last year.

  Scipio yanked down on a lever at the side of the door. Gears and chains whirred, and the door swung open on silent hinges.

  The first legionnaires entered the room and spread out. Behind them, more legionnaires in full formation entered, blocking the doorway with their large scuta shields

  “Clear, sir!” came the directive.

  Constantine entered the room, hand repeater drawn. He stepped carefully over several bodies that bore evidence of extreme and recent trauma. Two of them appeared to have been executed or hacked down from behind. All were wearing Nortland gear. The smell of death was nearly overwhelming.

  “File leader, was this our doing?” he asked, just to be sure.

  “No sir, the room was as it appears when we entered. It’s worse in the main room.”

  Constantine realized they were in a bedchamber. The massive four-post bed and lavishly appointed furniture and rugs spoke of wealth. Not that the occupant’s money is worth much now. It will be impossible to get the blood out of these carpets.

  While his men checked several other rooms that opened of
f the bedchamber, he walked into the main room, and a much more grisly scene.

  “Nortlanders fighting Nortlanders. Seems the girl was right,” The 1st Cohort’s centurion, a weedy, perennially happy man named Claudius Orestius, commented. He pointed to blue ribbons tied around some of the Nortlanders’ arms. “Loyalists or rebels perhaps? The situation is probably too fluid, but it looks like the blue guys took a lot more casualties here. The non-blues seem to have taken most of their wounded as well. He pointed to trails of blood where wounded men had been dragged or carried away.

  “Very well, let’s fan out,” Constantine ordered. “Scout the hallway outside while I bring up the rest of the legion. We’ve got to try to figure out exactly how to get to the throne room.” He gratefully stepped into the hallway, leaving behind some of the overwhelming stench of death. “And get those bodies out of those rooms. We have to walk through them, for Jupiter’s sake!”

  While the 2nd Cohort began to purge the rooms of their dead occupants, Constantine followed Orestius and the First into the hall. They set up a perimeter as 3rd Cohort began to move in.

  They brought a guest over to their commander. “Sir, we found this one skulking about in the tunnels. She claims they are servants’ tunnels and that she was simply trying to do her chores.”

  Constantine looked at the woman, then said in Norse, “Where is your king?”

  The woman’s jaw dropped at hearing him speak in her tongue. She garbled her response, and Constantine waited patiently, staring stolidly into her blue eyes. Finally she became coherent. “I know the way.”

  Constantine turned to his men. “Good news! We now have a guide.”

  “Best news I’ve heard all day,” grumbled someone.

  Constantine detailed a squad to escort her to the front of the column, then pulled their commanding officer aside. “Keep an eye on her. She doesn’t seem the type to lead us astray, but I’m taking no chances. Grab another prisoner as soon as possible.”

  The centurion saluted and gathered the rest of his men. With 1st and 3rd Cohorts leading the way, the XIII Germania began their assault on the Midgard fortress.

  Ducking low to remain in cover behind the shield line, Constantine advanced to find Centurion Orestius. The arrival of the XIII Germania was completely unforeseen by the northerners. Working in concentrated and well-practiced teams, the Romans had quickly swamped any areas of resistance. Runners connecting the leading edge of the legion with the base camp told of the outside assault gaining momentum.

  I’d love to have some way to communicate with them here at the front. The rock had proven too thick to allow wireless transmissions, so traditional wired messages had to do. “What’s the situation, Centurion?” Constantine asked.

  “Sir! The Nortlanders seem to have established some type of barricade. The guide says that through those large doors is the throne room. They’ve got those rapid firing rock throwers of theirs. Those things are able to shatter our scuta,” Orestius informed him.

  Constantine looked around. The 1st Cohort had taken some casualties on the way down, and many men were tired and wounded. “I just passed Centurion Gwendyrn and his men. We’ll pull them up and they’ll take the main thrust, with you supporting. In the meantime, keep their heads down with your repeaters.”

  “Yes, sir!” Orestius smiled.

  Constantine backed away, ducking as the whine of the lead shot zipped overhead. Occasionally, the balls would slam into the shield wall. Even rarer still, one found its mark. He passed a legionnaire’s crumpled body, placed against the wall by his companions. His helmet was missing and part of his skull was shattered. Constantine grimaced and ducked lower.

  He found Centurion Gwendyrn just around the corner, his men taking a moment to munch on hard biscuits and gulp water. The centurion greeted his former tribune warmly.

  “I hope you’ll still like me in a minute,” Constantine joked, then informed the one-time Gallic farmer of his plan.

  Gwendyrn saluted sharply. “We’ll get you that doorway, sir, and get you into that throne room.”

  “As I’d expected.”

  “You’ll be joining us, sir?”

  “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

  Gwendyrn organized his men while Constantine checked the standoff in the corridors. The Romans were exchanging fire with the Nortlanders, but nothing but a quick rush right at the defenders would end it.

  There was no other way.

  “All right sir, we’re ready.”

  Constantine caught Orestius’ eye and gestured. Whistling, he pulled his cohort back around the convenient corner, his front ranks backing away slowly to provide cover for their legionmates. Once there, they reassembled behind 13th Cohort. Farther back, other cohorts were arriving. Good, Constantine thought. We’ll need as many men as possible when we storm that throne room.

  The last few men walked backward around the corner, a few shots from stone throwers coming after them. Constantine heard cheering from the Nortlanders, as well as some off-tune singing. So typical.

  “We’ll give them something to sing about,” Gwendyrn boasted to his men. They beat their swords on their shields as they waited for the order to advance.

  Constantine counted to ten. Relax your guard, relax your guard. He prayed to Minerva and Nike briefly, then gripped his spatha tightly. “Charge!”

  The cohort pounded around the corner, feet sounding like a thousand drums as they raced the three hundred feet or so toward the Nortland lines. Howling in surprise, the Nortlanders fired hurriedly at these new opponents, their aim wild. The Romans closed the gap. Shields before them, the Romans took the first concentrated fire well; only a few legionnaires went down.

  And then the barricade was right before them. Legionnaires tried to push the upturned benches and food carts out of the way while engaged in hand to hand combat. It was not a fight to their advantage.

  Constantine saw one barbarian use his axe to pull a legionnaire toward him, then strike down the off-balance Roman with a vicious slash to the face. Another used a long boar spear to pin legionnaires while his countrymen fell upon the trapped men.

  “Use your plumbatae!” Constantine heard someone shout. The lethal metal darts flew overhead, and a quick series of explosions threw stone, wood, and worse over the combatants.

  Constantine leapt into the fight. Using his shield as an umbrella to stop the rain of axe blows, he stabbed with his spatha at the unprotected legs and feet of his opponents. Several men fell into formation beside him, covering him on his left and his right from vicious Nortlander counterattacks. They must be targeting my white plume, Constantine thought briefly as he crunched a man’s arm with his scutum, the tough metal rim breaking the man’s arm with a crack. The man’s face went ashen and another legionnaire quickly dispatched him.

  Constantine checked his surroundings. They were inside the barricade’s perimeter. All along the barricade, legionnaires were clambering over dead or wounded defenders. Even so, the wounded Nortlanders fought on.

  No quarter was offered, nor was any given.

  The remaining Nortlanders rallied near the large metal door. Please, call for help, Constantine mentally urged, hoping they would turn coward and seek the safety of the throne room, thus allowing the Romans entry.

  Instead, the Nortlanders charged, one brute of a man carving his way through legionnaires and tossing them up into the air. His double chain-axes chewed through shields, armor, helmets, and appendages.

  Constantine looked at his formation mates. “Follow me!” he yelled as he charged in, his men forming a wedge behind him. With the battle joined, the remaining northerners fought desperately, taking down two or three legionnaires for every barbarian lost.

  Leaping dead bodies, Constantine saw Gwendyrn engage the hulking brute from the other side. The large legionnaire swatted one a
xe out of the barbarian’s meaty hand, the weapon clattering to the floor where it spun in circles, its razor-sharp teeth trying to gain purchase on air. Roaring, the barbarian punched Gwendyrn in the face. The Gallic legionnaire flew backward, his men rushing forward to shield him from the renewed onslaught of the last Nortland berserker.

  We’re losing time! Constantine’s brain cried as the berserker wielded his remaining axe two-handed now, cleaving through those careless enough to get too close to him.

  Sheathing his sword, Constantine pulled out his hand repeater, firing the miniature bolts into the man from just a few feet away. Bellowing, the man turned, his eyes tinged red and his mouth frothing in battle madness. Holy Hera.

  The man bore down on him like an enraged bull. Constantine’s bolts seemed to do nothing against the man, until there was a small explosion and a blast of heat and smoke.

  Constantine had ducked down behind his shield, bracing for an impact that never came. He peeked over its edge to find the man on the ground before him, blown nearly in two, guts scattered. The commander looked up to see his savior.

  Gwendyrn wiped his hand across his bloody face. “Dat stupid git bwoke my nose. So I bwoke his back wit dis,” he said angrily, pinching the bridge of his crooked nose with his thumb and forefinger. In his other hand he held a plumbata.

  “Well, Centurion, you certainly have the best aim I know of. Perfect hit,” Constantine commended. “Now, does anyone know how we can open these doors?”

  Chapter 26

  Julius

  The slamming door, followed by heavy footfalls, announced the return of the king and his cronies. Julius heard cruel laughter and grunting. Finally, Julius was hauled to his feet. His boots scrabbled for purchase on the stone floor, and he leaned heavily on his captor. The scene that greeted him made his stomach sink.