Constantine looked around him. All these idiots—how can I become a hero if I can’t get these blithering numbskulls to finish a gods-damned training mission! Fed up, he aimed the launcher at the sky and pulled the trigger.
A bright red streak shot upward. The flare then exploded, leaving a blast of red as an afterimage on the inside of Constantine’s eyelids. He blinked in time to see the puff of red smoke that floated gracefully on the light wind.
The brawling stopped as combatants froze, then hastily stepped away from each other with guilty looks. Constantine glared at them. “What, in Pluto’s name, do you think you are doing?” he shouted. “Form up—immediately! Centurion Vibius, sound roll call. Any man not able to stand at attention will be assigned to punishment detail.”
The roll call left eight men down on the ground, some unconscious, others actually injured. One of those was the man Constantine had clubbed with his flare gun.
Constantine raked his eyes over the shambles of his cohort, many dripping wet and sporting fresh bruises, their clothing torn. “I have only one simple question. Who started this mess?” A flurry of blame, finger pointing, and general whining ensued. Constantine sighed. Did I sign up to play babysitter to a bunch of school children?
“If you insist on tattling, I will have to put you all in a time-out,” Vibius said. The off-hand statement hit the men like a freight train. The assembled recruits stared at the older centurion, hatred fighting with fear in their eyes.
The leader of 9th squad, a large, rotund man with a red handlebar mustache, laughed heartily at the centurion’s comment. His laugh carried over the field. “Good one, sir! Those ninnies need a sit-down ’fore they can play at real soldiers!”
Constantine ignored the comments. He had lost their attention, and was not sure what to do to regain it. Instructor Vespasinus was furiously writing notes in his notebook. Distressed, Constantine fumbled for something to say. Ancestors, give me an inspirational, but firm, speech!
Fortunately (or, as it seemed later, unfortunately), his thoughts were interrupted by a large, oblong shadow moving across the ground. He, along with his entire unit, looked up to see a small airship blocking the weak sun as it clawed its way through the clouds. A woman stood out front on a catwalk, with a curious object held up to her face.
Centurion Vibius immediately moved in front of the tribune, perhaps sensing that the ship was up to no good. Constantine motioned at his two equipped squads, trying to get them to stand down. Finally they understood his gestures, and the 9th and 10th squads tried hastily to look as unassuming as possible.
The airship circled the cohort and descended. When Constantine could see the red letters painted on over three-fourths of the airship’s side, he nearly cried out in frustration. Ravenna Chronicle. Damn.
“Who is that?” one of the men assembled on the banks of the stream asked.
“The most ignorant, yellow-tongued, filthy, lowly men in the world,” Centurion Vibius responded. Vespasinus paused in his writing and looked up, wearing a confused expression.
“Nortlanders?” someone asked.
“No” Constantine responded, almost in a whisper, “reporters.”
Later that afternoon, the 13th Cohort, XIII Germania Legion, staggered into Fort Tiberius, carrying their eight injured men back from their exercise on improvised stretchers they had lashed together. They had been unable to complete the training mission due to their injuries, lost time, and the arrival of the Ravenna Chronicle airship, Headline. The ship had buzzed around them for about an hour, the people on board obviously taking pictures and enjoying the discomfort of the men on the ground.
Instructor Vespasinus informed the tribune that he was to make a full report on the situation. Which was how the company now found itself standing in the cold rain facing the wrath of a dozen or so instructors. Although the iron discipline that had built the Roman army into a formidable force still existed, the punishment methods had been modified. The men had to stand at attention for the remainder of the day, officers included.
Several hours later, the exhausted members of the 13th Cohort stumbled into their barracks hall to collapse upon their beds, only a few managing to shed their wet armor and clothes before falling down.
Constantine entered the barracks after them. “Men, I have something to tell you,” he said in a voice that carried to the end of the hall. “I know it’s late, but this is critical information that is important for you know tonight.
“I understand how you are feeling right now. You are angry and upset, but most of all, you are tired. The biggest deal today was not the fight, nor was it that our instructor watched us act like bulls fighting it out over a cow. Rather, it was that the newspaper got photographs of us in a poor situation. Not only does it reflect badly upon the army, but it also reflects poorly upon my family.”
He took a breath. This was his most tightly held secret, and he wasn’t completely sure he had made the right decision in trusting these men.
The hall was silent, his men staring at him, undisguised discontent on their faces. “Why should we care how that reflects upon your family, sir?” one of them asked, his tone angry and resentful. “If they are rich enough to purchase your position, they’re rich enough to get through a bad broadsheet story. Sorry, sir, but your family will just have to deal with it, like the rest of us commoners.”
Murmurs swept through the unit. “Let the man speak. Then you judge,” Centurion Vibius spoke up from the corner; Constantine hadn’t noticed him enter.
Constantine nodded his thanks. He took a deep breath. “You may have noticed that my name is similar to some very famous Romans”
“That’s not uncommon, sir; all of my names were taken from famous Romans, as well. It’s a bit annoying, honestly,” the same man interjected.
Constantine inclined his head toward the recruit. “Recruit Julius Caesar, correct? I remember you from earlier today. And yes, that may be true, but in my case, I’m actually a living descendent of those famous Romans. My full name and title is Constantine Tiberius Appius, Secundus Imperio, or second in line for the Laurel Crown and the throne of the Roman Empire, and all dependent vassals, tributaries, and colonies. As you can see, I’m not walking around with bodyguards, nor do I have a train of servants a mile long. If you’re looking for that, I think my older brother is back in Rome.” He flashed a quick smile as he looked around the room, getting lukewarm chuckles in return.
“I’m here to ask your help—your help in continuing a battle long waged between the forces of order and the forces opposed. It began with my ancestor, the first emperor, Julius Caesar himself, as he ravaged the Gauls and crushed their resistance in battle after battle. Order prevailed over chaos. This is our heritage. Cornelia, Caesar’s wife, bore him two sons, long after our priests said she was infertile. Once again, order prevailed, and created a dynasty. Those sons established the seeds that began our efforts to harness nature to our engine of empire. We discovered anthracite coal and its powers, learned the secrets of the Persians, the Egpytians, the Indians, and the Chinese. We crafted mechanical monstrosities and graceful airships. Our mechaniphants decimated the United German tribes in the Teutonburg under Emperor Titus Octavian, and once again, the order of Rome was triumphant.” He paused for a moment, looking at his men.
They were tired, but they seemed to understand the importance of this situation. Their officer was asking them to help continue the strength that was Rome through their efforts, while following a scion of the dynasty that had founded the empire they had sworn to serve.
“That victory over the Germans is only one instance of the industrial might of Rome, and its legions, succeeding where others had failed. We forced those Nortland barbarians across the Vistula, planted multiple colonia in the new world, and have established the most technologically superior air and sea fleet ever seen.” His voice echoed through the barracks, the men being drawn into his speech, his words, his utmost belief in the ideas he was talking about. Constantine wa
s crafting a living, breathing empire that was as much theirs as it was his creation.
“But should we stand complacent? Rest on our laurels? We cannot!” Constantine roared. “Nortland pecks at us like that raven god they worship—a raid here, a raid there. They would love to get their hands on some of our fair cities. Will you allow that?”
“No!” the men cheered and catcalled in response.
“Will you allow those chaotic forces to wrest from us these fertile fields and forests we’ve worked to make our own? And what of our eastern borders? The Mongolian Crimearate has long burned and pillaged their way toward us. The Chinese could not stop them. The Indians, the Persians—they all failed! But not us, not we Romans! My great-uncle, General Augustus Belisarius, held the Mongols off for weeks, using the holy river Jordan as his battle line. Their horse archers were no match for our airships. Greek fire cares little for sand or water, and even less for the antics of those nomadic barbarians.”
He dropped his voice, drawing in every man in the room. “But they have learned from us, learned some of our technology, some of our skills. Will we give them an opening? A chance to rob and pillage and burn and destroy? We’ve stopped them once, but I doubt that will be the last we see of them.”
He turned back toward the door. “Will you give them the chance? The chance to tear down all that we’ve built? Take millennia of blood, sweat, and tears and simply let it go? Or will you help me fight for it, help us to keep alive the belief, the idea, the power that is Rome?” His rhetorical question had only one answer, and his men all knew it. To give up would be tantamount to surrender.
Legions don’t surrender.
“I only ask that you try your hardest, give it your all, demonstrate your loyalty and strength in every way. When those reporters were here today, that blew part of my cover. They will try to get spies in here to try and embarrass the royal family. I’m sure by now they are already cranking out insane leaflets about the horrors and abuses I’m subjecting you to here during training—or better yet, my lack of skill as an officer. But to be honest, I couldn’t care less about my family name. I would feel ashamed if my actions dishonored this legion.”
Constantine stopped in the doorway, and looked out onto the rain-drenched training fields. “It’s time to decide. What will you choose—order and prosperity, or chaos and destruction?”
One of his recruits—Julius, Constantine recalled—looked around. “Sir, I don’t speak for all of us” he stated, “but I know what I think. I’m loyal to the Empire and to you, sir.” He ended abruptly, but that was all that needed to be said.
For a moment, blue eyes met brown. An unspoken message of support passed between the two men.
“Thank you,” Constantine said. “Now get some sleep, men; we’ve got weapons drills in the morning.” His back straight, Constantine turned and marched out of the room. Vibius saluted him as he exited, then turned smartly on his heels and marched out as well. In his heart, Constantine knew he had made the right, and the only, decision possible. Outside, the moonbeams finally pushed through the retreating storm clouds, bringing light to the darkness.
~ * * * ~
Back inside the barracks, quiet conversations sprang up almost immediately after the tribune’s departure.
“Anyone actually believe that swine slop?” Recruit Traxion sneered to the bunkmates gathered conspiratorially around him.
“Seems like the others bought it,” another recruit observed, looking around the barracks.
Green eyes flashing anger, Traxion swatted him across the head, rocking him back onto the squeaky bunk. “They’re just mindless drones, blinded by their subservience to the Empire,” he said, his sarcastic voice mildly singsong, as if mouthing political dogma. Color flushed his pale cheeks, making him appear almost embarrassed at the vehemence of his own statement.
His comrades looked at each other uncertainly, and remained silent. “Don’t worry, I’ll have a few friends take care of this problem,” Traxion continued smugly. Taking the cue, his men began to chuckle, and a slow smile stretched his lips. “Oh yes, I think they’ll be overjoyed to hear of our tribune’s parentage.”
Chapter 4
It was often said that even the fog feared to tread in the depths of Sludge Bottom. Only the brave, the foolhardy, the desperate, or the conniving dared to venture into that economically stagnant and most run-down sector of Brittenburg, where seedy gambling halls, dank, smoke-filled bars, and automaton-fighting pits in abandoned warehouses were the chief attractions. The operators of these businesses, always tight-fisted and tight-lipped, had tightened their vigilance as well, with the auxilia more active recently. Anyone who seemed a bit out of place or a tad too eager to learn more about their companions at the gambling table was “taken care of,” right along with anyone who happened to develop an exceptionally strong winning streak at the dice tables or during a rigged card game.
Here, Domino Grex ran the notorious Atrium, five stories of every kind of disreputable entertainment imaginable. The building stank of desperation and ill-gotten gains. The fact that it was neither as well-lit nor as well-ventilated as its name implied appealed to the con artists, runaway peasants, prostitutes, loan sharks, and the city’s assorted riff-raff who frequented the establishment. And no one crossed Grex. The survival rate for those who did was zero. Even the auxilia dared not raid the place. Domino Grex had so many illicit connections that his complex was untouchable; any officer who tried to impose the law soon found himself transferred to the city’s Sanitary Division.
Though the private rooms on the fifth floor could provide for any vice or perversion, they seemed to exude the evil, hatred, anger, and violence they’d witnessed over the years. No member of Grex’s staff was assigned up there for any length of time. Too many seemed to disappear, go mad, or simply see things that ... shouldn’t ... be there.
One of the largest of these rooms had been booked for the evening. Two muscular street toughs stood on either side of a dented copper door, the verdigris of age belying its well-oiled mechanisms. The men leaned on heavy clubs, and short swords and daggers were sheathed at their belts. The toughs stepped together in front of the door as three cloaked figures approached, blocking their passage.
The cloaked figures each withdrew necklaces from within their cowls to display small medallions with intricately geared moving components. Newly alert eyes lighting up their dull expressions, the thugs nodded to one another and moved aside to let the strangers pass. The leader inserted his medallion into an opening in the wall as if it were a key; after an audible hum, the door hissed open, sliding slowly into the wall. The figures passed between the two toughs, who ignored them—their job was to guard the door; what happened inside was not their business.
With another hiss, the door squealed shut behind the last cloaked figure to enter, and the gaslights blazed in their wall sconces, casting a yellowish haze throughout the room. Two of the figures moved to the last remaining high-backed chairs surrounding a massive brass table, designed in the shape of a gear, in the center of the room. The third figure stood between and slightly behind the two chairs, keeping his face in shadow. Anticipation weighted the air, seeming to make movement a challenge.
One of the cloaked figures already at the table pulled a dagger from within the depths of his cloak and rapped its pommel three times on the tabletop, making the ruby liquid jump in the wine pitcher surrounded by glasses in the center of the table. “Let this meeting come to order. Deus Ex Mortalitas! From the gods comes death,” he intoned. “We are the hand of that death—the death of the abomination that is the Roman Empire. So has it been decreed by our gods. Let us hear the words of our leader, Brimmas Amalia.” He sheathed his dagger as all heads turned toward the newcomers.
The voice that emerged from the folds of that black cloak was feminine, cold, and precise. “Let us reveal ourselves, for all of us here are friends in a cause that is just and right and worthy of each other’s trust.” She lifted pale hands to push ba
ck her hood, revealing a narrow face with thin lips set in a perpetual expression of disapproval, and piercing blue eyes. Only crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and lines framing her mouth suggested her age. Her colorless face appeared to float within the shadowy blackness of her curly hair.
The others revealed themselves as well—several dignified-looking older men, a woman with several chins, an average-looking man with ink-stained hands, and a gentleman with a brass monocle clenched over his eye. Several young men, barely out of their teens, completed the assembled group. Amalia’s seated companion lowered his hood as well, and the yellow gaslight gleamed on his clean-shaven head. Between the bald pate and a full, coarse brown beard, level brown eyes drank in every detail and aspect of the room.
“The Romans are corrupting this land,” Amalia hissed. “They abuse good citizens. They tax us until we cannot support our own families. These are facts; they are not new to us. Nor are they new to any citizen of the Roman Empire. Yet the people dare not fight back against the iron heel of the Empire and its monolithic bureaucracy. They have forgotten how to resist, how to strike back at the corruptors and defilers of our lands and our heritage.” She paused and swept the gathering with her eyes. “The rabble has forgotten, but we have not. We shall strike, and we shall be victorious. This city will make the perfect example of our new power. For when we have torn her from the grasp of the Romans, no one will doubt our resolve, and the masses will flock to us in droves, eager to turn against their corrupt leaders and elitist masters.”
The others at the table nodded as she spoke.
“Independently, we control several different, but unorganized, branches of this city that could benefit from the elimination of Imperial controls. Together, working simultaneously toward the same goals, we are unstoppable. The industrialists,” she nodded toward the three men in expensive-looking tunics and cloaks. “have provided us with the walkers and weapons we need to take on the auxilia and the governor’s lackeys face to face.”
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