Brass Legionnaire (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  Minnicus adjusted his white gloves as he stepped up to the podium. “Friends, Romans, countrymen, my future soldiers and comrades-in-arms. I will keep my remarks brief, as we have training to begin and a war to prepare. I’m sure many of you are here with the idea of gaining glory and honor as a member of the XIII Germania. That is true! Under my leadership, we will add our names and banner to the halls of the Basilica Maximus in Rome.

  “Look around! We are but small humans beside giants in the form of our mighty land, sea, and air creations. But it is we who give them strength and power, for without us, they are merely heaps of metal. You all know your country has need of you. A true Roman is selfless, and rises to defend his nation in a time of great need. I promise you today, that when you have grown old and have retired from the legion, you will be able to look back and say, ‘We were true Romans.’”

  As the crowd exploded in cheers and shouts, centurions and other officers moved through the crowd in the plaza, rounding up various groups of men to move them out of the city. Julius waved goodbye as he caught one last glimpse of his parents and little sister. In a small way, he already missed them. But it was time to move beyond this city. Now that he’d committed himself to the army, he almost felt driven by a desire to be doing something bigger with his life. He wouldn’t be like the rest of the hapless, toiling, lower class, wasting his life working sunrise to sunset in a mechaniphant factory.

  A centurion gestured at him, and Julius pushed his way over to the man. Several other men were already there.

  “You, you, you, and all of you men there, put these on your shoulder,” the centurion said, handing out double handfuls of tin Aquila pins with green slashes painted over the emblems.

  Julius accepted the stack from the man next to him, passed the rest on to the man on his other side, then pinned his badge to his shoulder as the soldier continued his speech, his voice carrying through the crowd.

  “I am Senior Centurion Vibius. Welcome to the green cohort. If you pass training, you will become members of the 13th Cohort, XIII Legion. We are the luckiest of the lucky, my boys. Keep up with me as we leave the city. You’ll meet your commanding officer later. If you can’t keep up, I’ll just assume you dropped out and were too wimpy to become a real Roman.”

  Almost an hour passed before the recruits actually moved out. By then the entire city lined the Via Germanica to see off the future soldiers. It was both heartwarming and heartbreaking in a way. Never before had Julius experienced such an outpouring of enthusiasm from all levels of society. Certainly, as lovers and brothers and fathers left, there was an undertone of sadness and regret, but through it all ran a note of hope, the hope of a young man marching to war, plunder, and riches.

  Streamers floated on the air and stirring, patriotic music played from every street corner, pub, restaurant, and public loudspeaker. Although the sights and smells kept tugging at Julius, he knew he would never have been able to work his way back onto the parade route to catch up with the rest of his training cohort if he left the column.

  The Eastern Wall Gate loomed before them, festooned with all manner of defensive armaments, ropes, pulleys, chains, cranes, and open-frame elevators. Large flags bearing the gold Laurel Crown on a field of red hung down the wall on either side of the gate. Julius could see the tiny faces of lookouts high up on the wall, peeking between crenellations topping the battlements.

  They marched into the dark tunnel through the curtain wall, the way illuminated by several sputtering gas lanterns hung temporarily on the tunnel walls and supplemented by the warm glow of crackling torches. They didn’t provide much light, but Julius figured that there was only one direction to go. His eyes gradually adjusted as they shuffled along, spurred on by the voices of their officers. He looked up and saw murder holes and portcullis lines, darker areas in the dark ceiling, then stumbled and focused on placing his feet to avoid the metal train tracks that ran through the tunnel. Why aren’t we taking a train or steam hauler? He wondered. Is this part of the training? Or is it simply a way to wean out all the lazybones who can’t even walk a few leagues?

  “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’d like coming back through this tunnel as an attacker,” the man walking next to him said. In the dimly lit tunnel, he was a black outline with few identifying features to distinguish him from the multitude of other men moving through the tunnel.

  “No way, not without a half-dozen walkers and maybe an assault caterpillar,” Julius agreed.

  The man clapped him on the back. “Ha! I’m still not sure I’d even want to try it with a full legion at my back!” His gruff, barking laugh echoed down the shaft, mingling with the voices of hundreds of other recruits. “I’m in yellow cohort,” he added. “Name’s Silenius. Used to be a carpenter by trade, but then got in trouble with some debt collectors. Joining the army is my way out. What training cohort did you get placed in?”

  “Green.”

  “Oh. Well, good luck, then. You’re the 13th of the 13th—it can’t get any unluckier than that!” Again Silenius clapped him on the back. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. After all, they make us fight each other to earn our place in the legion.”

  As the man moved off into the bright light at the end of the tunnel, for the first time, Julius wondered what exactly he had gotten himself into.

  Chapter 3

  Cold rain splattered on Julius’s face. It trickled down his cheeks, dripped off his sodden clothing, and slid down his arms to fall from his numb fingertips. Each quiet breath of air he drew released a puff of mist in front of him as he exhaled, a condition repeated a multitude of times around him. Julius could hear the teeth of Recruit Adueinus chattering next to him. He was surprised he could hear them over his own chattering teeth.

  The legion recruits stood at attention on the massive drill ground, their feet covered in mud, their shoulders struggling to remain squared under the weight of heavy cloaks donned to ward off the unseasonably cool weather and the rain. Instead they seemed to absorb the cold along with the moisture as drill centurions marched the recruits around in the weather. Julius let his eyes stray wistfully in the direction of his barracks in the perfectly partitioned Roman military camp surrounding the drill ground.

  Although the camp’s layout followed one that had remained unchanged for the last three hundred years, Fort Tiberius was a more permanent fortification, so black-painted, prefabricated buildings had been erected in place of the canvas tents used on campaigns. The wall that surrounded it all was temporary, built from expandable wall segments carried by the men and wagon trains. The collapsible segments could be erected in half the time and were ten times as strong as a wooden palisade.

  Julius realized his mind was wandering when Drill Centurion Haradan, one of the toughest, most grizzled, and intense instructors at Fort Tiberius appeared in front of him.

  “RECRUIT! HOW-LONG-SHOULD-IT-TAKE-FOR-A-SINGLE-COHORT-TO-BUILD-A-STANDARD-LEGION-CAMP?” Haradan shouted rapid-fire in Julius’s face.

  Julius’s stomach squished up into his throat and he felt his knees shake. “CENTURION,” he bellowed, “a single cohort should be able to build a standard camp in three hours, SIR!” He snapped his mouth shut, hoping the centurion would find no fault with his answer.

  “Should? SHOULD? ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT SOME OF MY LEGIONARIES WILL NOT BE ABLE TO FINISH IN THREE HOURS? THAT YOU ARE TOO LAZY TO BUILD SOMETHING THAT COULD SAVE YOUR LIVES IN UNDER THREE HOURS? RECRUIT, IF I TELL YOU TO BUILD SOMETHING IN THREE HOURS, BY THE GODS, IT WILL BE DONE IN JUST ONE HOUR. THIS IS NOT SUMMER CAMP!”

  The sheer volume of Haradan’s response was overpowering. Beside Julius, Recruit Adueinus released a small whimper that drew Haradan’s attention, and Julius slowly released his pent breath. As Haradan started bellowing at Adueinus, Julius wondered if this part of training was meant to teach recruits to recognize and hear orders over the din of battle. In this case, though, the “battle” was fifteen or so drill instructors yelling, questioning, verbally abusing,
and insulting the 13th Recruit Cohort, each one fighting to be louder than the others. And the “battle” was viciously one-sided.

  With an inner smile, Julius noted that even Tribune Appius, 13th Cohort’s commanding officer, was receiving a similar heckling on the status of his cohort. Constantine seemed to be holding up pretty well. He even wore the blank-eyed stare that the recruits had quickly learned to adopt, his eyes straight ahead, apparently completely ignoring the red-faced drillmaster shouting in his ear. He was facing the legion, Senior Centurion Vibius at his side. Julius had originally been unaware that new cohorts and their leaders were required to train together, to better foster a sense of camaraderie and trust. Of course, it also led to a sharing of skills, knowledge, and, in this case, blame. Julius allowed the inner smile to creep over his face.

  In the blink of an eye, Drill Centurion Haradan was back in front of him. “DO YOU THINK STANDING OUT HERE IS FUNNY, HONEY BUN? WHY ARE YOU SMILING? GET DOWN IN THE MUD AND GIVE ME FIFTY.”

  Julius sighed inwardly as he knelt in the mud and dropped forward onto his hands for push-ups. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a hot bath, or slept, or even eaten, for that matter. He lowered his body into the mud, and then straightened his arms. His body ached from the weight of the segmented body armor he’d been wearing day in and day out.

  “YOU BRAINLESS WIMP! I DIDN’T HEAR ANY COUNTING. START OVER!”

  Julius groaned inwardly and started bellowing off a count.

  ~ * * * ~

  “Never, in all my years as a drill centurion, have I ever had such an incompetent, worthless, idiotic cohort to deal with. I doubt you could find your bootlaces if you had a manual and a guide! I trust you aren’t hoping that being related to our most glorious emperor is going to get you out of this one.” The instructor’s voice was raw, and it seemed to compound the misery of the day.

  Constantine was glad that the rain continued to fall. That way, no one could see the single tear sneaking down his cheek. He was embarrassed by the whole operation. Deep down, he knew he had failed in his responsibility. Just where had today’s operation gone so completely and horribly wrong?

  The ten squads of 13th Cohort, XIII Germania Legion, had marshaled and left their quarters around six on a bright, cool morning and waited in column formation for the day’s exercise, this one relatively simple: march to a location, build a temporary fort, take down the fort, then march back to their quarters. The raw light of a new day shone over them, though the gray clouds promised rain later.

  The men were carrying all the necessary gear. The Roman army had replaced the traditional wooden crossframe with an expandable haversack, each haversack containing three days worth of rations, an axe, a wrench, several extra nuts and bolts, and that man’s fort component. In total, the pack weighed about fifty pounds. Added to this weight were mock double-weight wooden plumbata (the real ones had not yet been distributed), the full complement of steel and ceramic armor plating for his shoulders and chest, his helmet, a full-size scuta shield, and his utility belt. Now the average recruit was carrying upwards of ninety pounds worth of material.

  Accompanied by a single drill instructor, the 13th marched in a line three abreast, with Tribune Appius in the front rank. He could already feel the impact the program of constant conditioning was having on his body. His arms had gained muscle mass, and his frame had slimmed down. Long marches had improved his endurance and fortitude. Today’s march was no exception. He appreciated that his fitness level meant he no longer focused on his body’s struggles and complaints; it freed him to turn his thoughts and observations outward.

  Those may have industrialized agriculture and increased food production across the empire, but they’re awkward-looking contraptions, Constantine thought as they marched past massive wheat-harvesting machines working the field next to the road. He watched a massive scythe on the nearest machine sweep left to right through the stalks before it, then followed the cut wheat with his eyes as it was carried up a conveyor belt that rotated it up almost like a waterwheel into a container in the back part of the thresher machine. The farmer sitting in the driver’s seat waved down at them, and he lifted a hand, then jumped with several other soldiers when a loud hiss of steam erupted from the machine. He smiled at the brief fit of laughter around him.

  A few miles into the march, Constantine listened to the low conversation of the men directly behind him, arguing the merits of the mechaniphant versus the combat tortoise. Both machines were cornerstones of Imperial Rome’s military successes. That, plus its air squadrons of dirigibles and powered gliders, had allowed Rome to dominate Europe, the Mediterranean, the Balkans, North Africa, and the Near East for hundreds of years. Several of his legionnaires seemed to have come from the great factories of Brittenburg that churned out these metal behemoths, or had assembled the heavy ballistae and steam catapults that armed them. The discussion was lively, and it helped Constantine, like the men behind him, to pass the time and make the miles unnoticed.

  “Only the gods would dare try to attack something like that on foot,” rumbled fifth squad’s leader, Sergeant Decimus. “I’d rather sit a mile away and hit it with a repeating ballista armed with explosive bolts. That’d take it down, no problem.”

  “The mechaniphant would just crush the attackers flat,” someone stated with an air of finality, and the resulting discussion involved whether or not such an event could occur.

  The 13th Cohort rounded a bend in the road, and Constantine heard the soft, soothing burble of water over rocks. He pulled off his helmet with one hand and wiped his brow with the other, smudging the dirt the dusty air had left on his forehead. With the sweat out of his eyes, he could better see the condition of the stone bridge crossing the small stream just ahead of him. It was about five feet high, obviously one of the original Roman military construction projects in this part of the countryside, though it had aged well, with only a few stones loose or damaged. He looked around. He could see a fair distance in the flat countryside, spying some small windmills and smokestacks far off. The chuff-chuff-chuff of a steamtractor came from somewhere off to the east.

  “What are you thinking, sir?” Centurion Vibius asked. He checked his chronometer. “We’re supposed to be at the junction by one o’clock.”

  Constantine winced inwardly. He hated it when the man acted like his nursemaid. The man’s propensity to be right—about everything—annoyed him. Just remember, he wanted to say, I am the one in command. “We’ll take a ten minute break. Ninth squad will be on lookout, rotated out with 10th squad,” he told Vibius. So there; I’m the one in charge!

  “Yes, sir,” Vibius responded, his face a blank. He moved off make the arrangements.

  Drill Instructor Vespasinus flipped open his brass-covered observation notebook and Constantine watched the dark-skinned Cretan scribble in it as he circled their position, noting the placements of the guards and the time. Constantine swallowed. The man had spent twenty years as a legionnaire, and so was considered an excellent judge of a man’s worth. His report would weigh heavily on the future prospects of Tribune Constantine Tiberius Appius.

  Now sweaty from the half-day march, many of the men sank to the ground, some pulling off their nova caligae to massage their feet. Though standard issue was no longer the sandal-like shoe design of yore, the shin-high leather boots reinforced with flexible strips of metal and an iron toe were still just that—new shoes to be broken in. Others wobbled over to the river to fill their helmets with water and pour it over their heads.

  A few began splashing water playfully at each other, water droplets glistening in the bright sunlight. Jostling escalated to shoving between a pair of hot-heads, and more and more recruits got dragged into the burgeoning brawl. Eventually, Recruit Dapelicus swung a beautiful left hook that rocked Recruit Horatio most of the way out of the water and onto the pebble-strewn shore. The situation deteriorated from there.

  Constantine was quietly conferring with Vespasinus over the finer points of
guard posts and regulations when a legionnaire scrambled up the slight rise, hastily saluted, and made his report on the situation.

  “Very well. Go get 9th and 10th squads. Tell them to be here on the double. Then find the drill instructor.”

  “Yes, sir!” The recruit took off at full speed, no small feat for a man not yet accustomed to wearing the full legionary kit.

  Constantine and Vespasinus turned and booted it toward the small stream, where Constantine waded into the thick of the fight, trying to separate the combatants. His yells did nothing to quash the melee. A fist swung out of nowhere and hit him full in the gut.

  It felt like all the air had gone out of his body. His vision swam and he tasted the sharp, acidic tang of bile in his mouth. His knees wanted to give out. Instead, his combat senses kicked in, honed from many a fight with both his older brother and drill instructors back at the palace.

  Constantine grabbed the hand of the man who had swung at him and yanked him back, left hand pulling hard on the legionary’s wrist. His right hand pulled out his flare launcher, a newer piece of equipment loaded with a one-time shot of bright red firework. He used the launcher as a club, bringing it down on the man’s head. Blood spurted as the man’s nose shattered. The man’s hands went to his face and he sank to the ground beside the stream, water lapping around his ankles.

  Constantine heard his name called as he stood looking down at the recruit and turned, wiping some of the man’s blood off his cheek. Ducking out of the way of a flying helmet, he saw Centurion Vibius using his sword, still in the scabbard, to bludgeon his way through to Constantine. Both turned when they heard a shout from the top of the nearby hill.

  Ninth and 10th squads were assembled at the top of the rise, their weapons at the ready; at the order to charge from the instructor beside them, their armored lines now advanced on the melee in the stream.