“Bring his body,” Amalia ordered. “We don’t want anyone to know who we are, or even that there was more than one of us. Get the men busy loading up all the supplies we can carry. Also, take those uniforms off the dead men. We can clean off some of the blood. They may be useful.”
At that moment, a series of piercing squeals and explosions shook the building as several trains crashed into each other, and the flames from one ignited the cargo of another. Several of her followers gave a cheer. “Shush! We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves!” Amalia snapped, and got them focused on the task of liberating as much as possible from the supply depot. Inwardly, she smiled—Corbus must have been successful. But where was he? He should have been here a while ago to rendezvous for the return to their safe houses.
“Domina! A strange man is running toward us from the terminal!” a gang lookout hissed as he aimed his repeating crossbow at the running figure. “Should I take him down?”
Amalia trained her binoculars on the running man. Although he was cloaked and a bandana covered half his face, Amalia would recognize that lope anywhere. She waved off the lookout. “Don’t shoot; it’s Corbus, making his late entrance, as usual,” she said with an unrestrained grin. She had spent years training him in all the deadly arts that she knew, and one day, he would take over her position and lead their people to independence and victory.
Behind her, men were gathering as many boxes of armor, rations, explosive warheads, artillery components, and other supplies as their vehicle could handle. A man with a can of black paint quickly brushed over the black eagle icons on the side of each box to help disguise the origin. Corbus ran up just as they were loading the last of the boxes onto the six-legged transport hauler, one of hundreds in the city. The rest of her party scrambled inside, two men carrying the ganger’s body. The nondescript vehicle would attract no notice as long as her crew appeared calm.
Seeing the bloodied cloth on his arm, Amalia frowned as she looked her son up and down. “What happened? Someone get lucky with a crossbow bolt?”
“No, someone got close with a belt knife. Don’t worry, I repaid the favor with a five-story drop,” Corbus quipped. His tight smile never reached his eyes, but still Amalia laughed. The cold, manic laughter floated through the cavernous warehouse.
Fustus beckoned to them from the walker’s control shack, and Corbus and Amalia walked toward the hauler. Amalia pulled an explosive plumbata warhead from her belt. She turned and threw it into a nearby stack of military gear. The explosion was impressive, and several boxes caught fire. “That will keep their attention for a while,” she said as she turned and entered the hauler. With a whine, the hauler’s steam boiler powered up and the six legs moved it steadily away from the scene. They didn’t want to be anywhere near the warehouse when forty tons of military grade supplies, including black powder, erupted.
It was one of the last vehicles to pass through an auxilia cordon before it closed, a few blocks away. Behind them, the auxiliary were searching vehicles and checking permits. It was too little, too late.
Amalia and Corbus both stayed belowdecks to avoid attention as a cool Fustus guided the hauler through the streets, monitoring their movement carefully to prevent any of the material in the hold from shifting and crushing his friends and leaders. A gut-wrenching hour later, he steered the vehicle carefully into the loading dock of an abandoned warehouse in Sludge Bottom, locked the legs in place, removed the key, and powered down the boilers to prevent damage to the pipes that fed the steam to the power turbine. He climbed down the access ladder into the hold and helped supervise the unloading process.
Amalia and Corbus met him at outside. “Excellent job, storming the quartermaster’s office, Fustus,” Amalia said, impressed by the man’s quick thinking in the warehouse and his professional actions and responses to her questions. “I’ve been discussing with Corbus a brainstorm I had—a way to wreak more havoc upon those poor, incompetent overlords of ours. We both thought you would be the best man for the job.”
Nearby, Corbus idly picked at his fingernails with his knife. “I still think he’ll be in over his head,” he said. “He’s barely begun to shave.”
Fustus’s face turned red, but he held his tongue. Amalia smiled. It wasn’t smart to insult arguably the best assassin and death-dealer in the rebel ranks, and Fustus had kept his wits about him, maintaining his casual stance. Fustus’s eyes did bore into Corbus’s, though. Eventually her son blinked, shrugged nonchalantly, and turned away.
Amalia watched as Fustus, now pale, let out a slow breath. “See, dear, I told you he could handle the pressure,” she cooed. “Now Fustus, I was thinking about something big involving those new uniforms we ... procured ... today.” Turning, she gestured for Fustus to walk with her and they moved off, he nodding agreement to her plans.
Chapter 7
Constantine turned aside the incoming blow with a teeth-clenching screech and a shower of sparks as the two swords’ electrical charges connected. He stood face to face with his opponent, one of the biggest men in 7th Cohort. Weary now, they did little more than jostle, and Constantine took the moment to look around. His men had fallen back into a rough circle, the “uninjured” men creating a wall with their shields facing outward. “Injured” men lay on the ground, many stunned from the low electrical shocks of the practice swords.
A high tweet sounded and Constantine’s opponent backed toward his men, the two sides resting as the 7th Cohort reformed. Constantine checked his equipment and looked at his men. Recruits Caesar , Hespinus, Gwendyrn, and four others stood in a tight knot. Vibius stood next to him, panting.
“We’ve fought well, sir, but they’re just bigger and have longer reach. They broke our formation with that flying wedge, and we couldn’t reform. As they say, sir, it’s all but over.”
Constantine looked around again. His men were haggard and tired, but they still held onto their weapons. He raised his voice. “I don’t think I’ve said this much, men, but it’s truly been an honor to lead you. We have come a long way together. Remember, this fight determines our assignment in this legion. So I have one last question for you.” He paused, and his men looked at him quizzically. “Do. You. Want. To. Be. Cooks?” He shouted the last word from a hoarse throat.
Grinning wolfishly, they shouted in unison, “No, SIR!”
Constantine smiled.
“I don’t know about you, sir, but my ma always said my garum was fit to kill a man. Or a beast,” Gwendyrn added. “I don’t think I’d like being brought up for treason on account I poisoned the entire legion.” The fermented fish sauce was considered a Roman staple. It was perhaps the only industry not allowed back inside the city limits even after several hundred years.
“Then we’d better not subject them to your cooking, Gwendyrn. Men, if we are going to go down, then at least let’s give them a beating they won’t soon forget!” The men gave a ragged cheer. A few checked their shield straps. “We’ll give them everything we’ve got,” Constantine said, watching the remnants of 7th Cohort advancing toward them. “Ready, men, on my mark.”
Seventh’s dented blue shields formed a moving wall. “Ready,” Constantine whispered, only slight movements and tensing legs betraying his soldiers’ preparations. “Charge!”
As one, the 13th Cohort ran forward, swords raised, screaming at the top of their lungs. Constantine formed the point of their flying wedge. The clash was tremendous. Gwendyrn used his shield like a battering ram to crush an opposing soldier, then whirled with his sword, zapping one, two, then three soldiers, pushing aside their weapons with brute strength.
Julius raced to cover his furious assault, blocking sword swings from other 7th Cohort members. A thwack on the back of his legs made his body convulse. His eyes rolled back and he dropped. Seconds later, Gwendyrn’s limp body fell atop his as he succumbed to the blows of five other men.
Vibius and Constantine were fighting back to back, fending off blows and striking back as best they could. The l
ast of the 13th Cohort legionnaires fell to their left, outnumbered three to one. Vibius barely managed to raise his shield in time as a sword whipped over the top and hit him on the side of his helmet. Rattled, his defense wavered and he went down a split second later. Constantine, desperate now, went on a furious charge, knocking down three opposing legionnaires with well-timed sword strokes, but even his training by the elite Emperor’s Praetorian Guard couldn’t help him when outnumbered ten to one. His muscles burned and his vision swam as, at last, he was brought to his knees under a flurry of shocks and blunt sword strikes.
In the background, another whistle blew. The 7th Cohort men stood panting, as medics and orderlies rushed onto the field to take the injured men off and return them to their quarters. Constantine looked at the state of each cohort and saw how close it had been. Seventh Cohort had barely ten men left standing, all with minor injuries and a few shaking off close hits from the specially-made shock training swords.
An orderly helped Constantine stand. His legs felt like jelly and he fought down the sharp taste of bile in his mouth. He would not throw up in front of his men. He would not embarrass them in that manner.
General Minnicus was approaching. Constantine tried to stand at attention, but his legs would not support him. He counted himself lucky that he was still able to salute.
Minnicus returned his salute. “May I congratulate you, Tribune? That was a fine showing indeed. Your men fought to the last, and that was admirable. Well led and well controlled. Shame you couldn’t pull it out in the end, but quantity has a quality all its own.” Minnicus smiled a knowing smile.
“Thank you, sir, but I believe you should be congratulating 7th Cohort; they won fair and square. They broke our formation and split us in two.” Constantine’s brain was still fuzzy, but he could sense there was something else Minnicus was getting at.
“Yes, and even though they were separated, your men fought well and managed to get back to you. Your sub-units were capable and motivated even in your absence. Even down to the last, bitter moments.” Minnicus looked at a drill instructor over on the reviewing stand. The man nodded and Minnicus’s eyebrow rose. “It seems we are in a bit of a quandary here. You see, Tribune, we already have enough front line cohorts, as well as reserve cohorts. We also have an excellent engineering cohort, quartermaster cohort, several skirmish and artillery cohorts, and frankly, we don’t need another Mess cohort. So we weren’t sure what to do with you.” Minnicus looked at his notebook, and gestured to an aide. They held a low conversation, the aide nodding and writing furiously.
Constantine’s heart sank. His father’s last words before he left were, Don’t mess this up. He felt as though he had failed his men. They would now be relegated to fort building duty or maybe even baggage and logistics. It was unfathomable. He had failed.
Minnicus turned back around. “But I have an idea. One that I think will revolutionize this army and force those petulant, pudgy, idiots in top hats and senatorial capes south of the Tiber to pay attention. I’m stealing an idea from the Nortlanders and assigning your cohort the position of vis volatilis incursio, or Rapid Assault Force. I’ll figure out your job specifics later, but in the meantime, it looks like you’ll be able to avoid latrine-digging duty.”
Minnicus leaned closer so that only Constantine could hear. “Besides, no one would dare try to remove you from a position, with your family connections.” He winked at the startled tribune, then straightened. “Take the rest of the day off, Tribune. You and your men get some rest. We’ll have a meeting tomorrow morning. I’ll send a messenger to confirm the time.” Minnicus saluted.
Wearily, Constantine returned the salute. In the blink of an eye, the fortunes of his cohort had been reversed. Now they were the first of their kind in the Roman army, a rapid assault force, whatever that meant. Constantine was sure that, after today, nothing would faze him or his men. It looked like lucky Cohort 13 was still at the top of their game.
~ * * * ~
In retrospect, Constantine thought, he should never have tempted the Fates in that manner. This was definitely the most terrifying experience of his life. Yes, he had ridden in a dirigible before, even the sleek, rakish-looking military versions. But why would he want to jump out of a perfectly good airship? It made absolutely no sense.
“So the idea is, sir, we use the ship to get behind the enemy, then drop you guys off with the idea of making mischief or setting up a position that forces them to divert a maximum amount of soldiers, thus allowing the rest of the legion to be victorious. We support you with heavier weaponry from above, and you hold the line, build a quick fort, and hold out for backup,” a junior aviator was explaining. The Rapid Assault Force would quickly strike behind enemy lines, causing as much damage as possible by disrupting operations, stalling reinforcements, and interrupting communications before withdrawing with only a few minutes’ notice.
“I have no problem with all of that,” Constantine said. “But I do have two concerns. First, how will we be evacuated, or are we expected to simply stand around, be surrounded, and die? Second, why in Jupiter’s name do we have to jump out of a perfectly good airship? Couldn’t it simply land and let us out? I’d much prefer that option.”
The airman smiled and let out a shallow laugh. “You may prefer that, sir, but I guarantee you, we aviators would not enjoy it. Our gasbag is a pretty nice, inviting target. Also, do you plan on giving the enemy a chance to reinforce an area before you have a chance to do something about it? We won’t be sitting ducks.”
He motioned to a small planning table in the middle of the vessel. The men and officers crowded around it. He activated a switch underneath. A low hum permeated the air and the table seemed to come to life, its surface rippling into contours and small hills, valleys, and other miniature geographical features.
“This is a Mark II command table. It uses magnets and steam power to create a physical map of the terrain, input from that standard topographical map.” The aviator’s gloved hand pointed to a palm-sized map being fed into the machine’s control panel, bumps and grooves indicating map features. “This will give us visual knowledge of the terrain that would be the best to screen our movements for hit-and-run tactics. Instead of landing, your men will perform a slide-drop onto an objective, or as near to it as we can manage. The ropes will be used to lift your men up as well as lower them. You’ll be using lockable carpteneo mechanisms to slow and stop your descent individually. They are the best version to date, and have a success rate of 98%. I’ve used them myself many times. It’s how we would evacuate this beauty, should the need ever arise. Any other questions?”
Constantine looked up from the command table. His men all wore expressions of nervous apprehension. Even the steadfast Centurion Vibius was looking green. “Well, men,” he said, “are you ready to see if a legionnaire can learn to fly as well as he can learn to fight?”
“Sir, yes sir!” the men answered.
“Any man who wishes to back out now will not suffer any repudiation or punishment. I’ll gladly transfer you to another cohort in the legion. This is your chance—once we’re up in the air, you’re coming down the hard way with the rest of us.”
For a moment no one moved. There was a slight shuffle as heads turned to stare at their neighbors.
“Alright then, Airman Souzetio, what next?”
The aviator pulled the plug out of a speaking tube and shouted an order into it. Almost immediately, Constantine felt a rumble toward the back of the ship. The men crowded to the windows. For many of them, this was their first time aboard an airship. The slight jostle and the increasing angle of the floor indicated that the dirigible was indeed airborne.
On the catwalk surrounding the oblong gondola, several crewmembers were throwing off lines. A brief, shouted command brought several together at a nearby winch. Together, the men began rotating the winch faster and faster. A telescoping spindle shot out from below the deck. One of the men, watching a small gauge, held up a hand. The other
men stopped the winch. They secured it and dispersed. The senior deckhand adjusted a series of brass levers until large white sails slid from the side-mast.
“They help with adjusting altitude.” Souzetio had appeared at Constantine’s side. “We can adjust the ballast or helium amount for large altitude adjustments, but it’s easier to simply use sails and the rudder to make minute changes to our course.”
Constantine nodded, impressed by the technological know-how behind the side sails. He discussed the technology with Souzetio for a bit, getting a feel for the man who would be their primary contact person with the air fleet.
“Is there any way I can visit the bridge? I’d like to meet the captain and introduce myself.”
The airman nodded. “Certainly, sir. Right this way.” The man led him to a hatch in the bulkhead and slid the door aside. They continued through several other compartments, each one holding different systems critical to their continued ability to stay in the air. Constantine saw the engine room, a storage room, a weapons bay, small crew bunkroom, and a tiny galley. Finally they approached a wood-paneled door that appeared elegant compared to the exposed steel beams and bolts around it.
“This is the bridge, Tribune Appius. Please give me a moment to ensure that this is an acceptable time to observe.” Airman Souzetio knocked on the door and entered, clicking the door quietly shut behind him.
Constantine took a moment to examine the map of the ship that was bolted to the wall, tracing his finger along the central corridor that ran like a spine down the middle of the gondola. The gondola’s upper level held the living quarters, engineering rooms, and storage areas, while most of the weapons bays were on the bottom level. That makes sense, Constantine thought. Obviously, if they couldn’t see the targets below, they couldn’t shoot at them.
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