Moving quickly now, the first demi-cohort charged up the tower stairs. Foot by foot, the 13th Cohort fought its way up the tower. Each floor became a miniature battlefield as they went toe to toe with the remaining rebels. Several of the legionnaires began using plumbatae warheads to help clear the rooms by unscrewing the warhead, quickly opening a door and chucking the warhead as hard as possible inside, and ducking back, hoping that the warhead would detonate.
The last bastion of resistance succumbed after a desperate sword fight, with new centurion Julius leading the way. Although not a sword master, Julius at least had the rudiments down. His opponent, apparently the leader of the rebels, was a thin man who handled a broadsword like he’d never used one before; in fact, he looked almost incapable of hefting the large weapon. Julius advanced on him as his companions spread out, taking the fight to the enemy.
Surprising Julius, the leader ducked behind a ballista, heaving it around toward the oncoming men. Tunnngg! The machine bucked, but the untrained rebels had forgotten to load the weapon. Abandoning the artillery piece, the man advanced, swinging his sword at Julius, who took the blow on his raised shield. The sword sank several inches into the wood and steel, the force of it nearly wrenching the safeguard out of his hands. Arm numb, Julius backpedaled, avoiding another swing.
The man flailed away at him, taking large, predictable swings that were quickly tiring him. A glance around confirmed for Julius that the rebels were all but eliminated. A moment later, the last vestiges of resistance crumbled as the few men left fled onto the battlements.
“Give over, man, it’s done,” Julius called to the leader.
The rebel grunted and wiped sweat off his brow before hefting his massive sword once more. “I’m dead either way,” he growled, and charged.
Julius parried, ducked another blow, then stabbed with his sword as he had been taught in basic training. Short, chopping strokes drove the man back one more time, until Julius got right in his face with his shield, pressed forward, and sliced. The sword slid across the man’s chest. Dark red blood welling from the deep gash, he collapsed, sword clanging onto the metal grating beside him.
Trembling, Julius took a deep breath. He cleaned his sword on the dying man’s tunic, whispering a hasty apology. Sheathing his sword, he looked up to see Gwendyrn’s squads arriving.
“Didn’t leave any for us?” Gwendyrn asked, looking around.
“There are plenty left, if those other gate towers are held by the rebels. Take your men along the wall. I’m going to try to get in touch with headquarters. It seems the rebels were using the wireless set here in the tower,” Julius replied. “My tech man was killed; do you have someone who can work it?”
“First sending my men out to do the dirty work, now stealing my techie. Instead of senior centurion, perhaps your title should be senior delegator?”
Gwendyrn had stepped over the line. The mood in the room cooled, as men turned to watch the confrontation between their officers. Sensing the mood shift, both Julius and Gwendyrn stared at one another. Julius held the panic inside his heart in a tight grip, refusing to let it show on his face. Finally, the junior centurion twitched as a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. Gwendyrn blinked.
“Well, if you’re too lazy to go over and figure out what’s happening at the gate, I suppose I can find one of my men to lead your squads for you, Junior Centurion,” Julius said. “Perhaps you will be one of those men, if you cannot find the courage necessary to lead your men.” The challenge hung in the air, with only the sounds of distant fighting providing a soundtrack to the tension in the room.
Gwendyrn finally spoke, the words sounding as though they were dragged from the pit of his stomach. “No need to get all testy, sir, I’ll lead them.” He jerked a thumb back at one of his men. “Klautus here will help you contact the tribune.” He gave a sloppy salute. “By your leave, sir, I’ll be taking my men out.”
Julius calmly saluted with perfect precision, and watched Gwendyrn’s face color slightly. “Good luck, Centurion Gwendyrn.”
As Gwendyrn turned and ordered his men out of the room onto the battlements, Julius turned to the rest of his men. “Secure the tower, round up any weapons, dispose of the dead, and place a guard on the ground floor. I want to initiate contact with the remnants of the garrison up here. And get some men on these weapons!” He pointed to the heavy artillery pieces.
Men scrambled to follow his orders. He turned to Legionnaire Klautus. “Follow me. I want to get this wireless set up and running.”
The room was chaotic for the next few minutes as men tramped up and down the stairs, carrying bodies down and fresh supplies up. One man found the red and green flag of the Empire and raised it on the flagpole.
Julius found himself lightheaded for a moment as the entirety of the situation crashed down upon him. He had led men, ordered the deaths of an entire group of enemy fighters, including citizens of his own city, and now he felt proud? How could he feel this?
He climbed the ladder up to the observation deck and took several shaky steps over to the city side, looking out across the panorama of the city. His city. Pulling out his expensive “borrowed” binoculars—the owner of the fine optics shop had deserted his building and even forgot to lock up—he aimed them at Sludge Bottom. He fiddled with the dials, even finding a setting that let him see possible heat signatures in some buildings—That’s useful—but it was no help. A heavy pall of dark smoke and fog lay over the entire western portion of the city. The Nortland airship was bobbing in and out of the smoke, engaging in a cat and mouse game with the smaller Scioparto.
Sighing, he tucked the binoculars back into their padded case and secured it carefully to his belt. From a small pouch he withdrew a pocket watch and flipped it open to regard his sister’s picture, on the inside lid. He closed his eyes for a moment.
A short cough pulled him from his thoughts. Legionnaire Klautus stood behind him. “Sir, I’ve got the wireless working. But before you contact base, you may want to hear this.”
Julius nodded that he should continue.
“Centurion Gwendyrn reports that the gate garrison has opened their doors and acknowledge your authority over them. The main gates have been opened as per your instructions.”
Julius leapt for joy, the bristles of his helmet scraping the ceiling. “Yes! Alright, get that message off quick to the tribune. He will definitely be happy to hear that.”
“Sir, look!” called a lookout. Julius turned to see him pointing at the gate towers. From each one a long, flowing Imperial flag had been dropped to hang against the dark walls. Julius extracted his binoculars again and trained them across to the other towers. All along the wall, the formerly neutral tower wardens were flying imperial flags.
Julius beamed. All of a sudden, those long odds didn’t appear to be quite so impossible as before.
~ * * * ~
The long red line wound through the eastern gate into the contested city. Julius watched from above the main gatehouse, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. His men had held the gatehouse and neighboring towers for the last two days against several enemy assaults. They had been left without air cover the first day, as the Scioparto had departed to meet up with the train bringing the rest of the legion. Only the absence of fire from the enemy airship indicated that they had run out of bombs to use against the defenders. The Scioparto had returned on day two, bringing enough men to secure the governor’s mansion and expand the grasp of the loyalist forces.
The reinforcements had joined in several pitched street battles fought around and along the route from the gate to the mansion until a corridor had been cleared and secured. A newfound respect and a growing sense of brotherhood was forming between the city garrison, the remaining constabulary forces, and the strengthened 13th Cohort. The effective strength of the 13th was rapidly doubling, even with the heavy casualties sustained during the street fighting.
Julius watched the XIII Germania continue at a measured pace into the city, p
assing the shells of burned out buildings, shattered war machines, and the aluminum skeleton of the Nortland airship as they moved up to the mansion. A young centurion walked out into the sunshine behind Julius. He put up a hand to shade his eyes from the bright noonday sun warming the stone and steel surface of the battlements.
An orderly squeezed around and brushed past him, murmuring a hasty “Excuse me, sir” as he approached Julius. “Centurion Caesar , sir, we’ve been ordered back to the mansion for refit and recovery time.” Julius nodded without turning around. “Who is the gentleman with you, Latius?”
The other officer stepped up and cleared his throat. “Ahem. I’m Centurion Hortatus of the 4th Cohort, here to replace you at the eastern gate.”
Julius nodded. “It’s all yours, Centurion. Take good care of it. Loyal men fought and died for this gate,” he said solemnly, turning to look at the new officer.
Hortatus blanched. “You look as though you’ve aged fifteen years,” he blurted, then colored at the indiscretion.
Julius brought a hand up to the mass of congealed blood concealing a gash on his cheek, a souvenir from a close encounter with an enemy sword. He had no idea what he looked like, but if his face were any mirror of his fatigue, he imagined he looked like hell. Wordlessly, Julius turned and walked out of the sunshine into the dark interior of the tower, his orderly following behind him.
“Gather the men; we’re leaving here,” he ordered. The aide scurried off. Julius took a deep breath and leaned on a borrowed plumbata. Weariness had soaked into every bone in his body. He brushed away an imaginary speck of dust on his shoulder. His nose wrinkled as he smelled himself. Ugh, I need a bath. That would feel absolutely amazing right now. Looking around, Julius sighed. Guess there’s no chance of a bath or even a hot shower anywhere around here.
The thud of boots on the cobblestones behind him piqued his interest. Earlier, he would have drawn his sword in a flash, challenging any would-be intruder or rebel. Now he merely turned slightly, hand going to his belt but not even reaching the hilt of his sword.
The survivors of his demi-cohort were arriving. Julius formed them up, getting them into a ... partial ... formation. The young centurion knew better than to try to force these men into neat, orderly rows. Besides, he just didn’t care.
“Good job, men, you have surpassed all expectations. You are true Romans,” he said in a quiet voice. The men nodded, some attempting to salute with tired arms. Julius jerked his head, and his men moved out.
~ * * * ~
A short time later, the 13th Cohort was reunited in the main hall of the governor’s mansion. Tribune Appius stood waiting for his men, having been informed of their impending arrival by an eager messenger boy who had sprinted all the way to the great hall from the main gate. Outside, the bones of a new legion fort were going up in the estate gardens. The sound of hammers slowly stilled and, like the men who drifted over to silently watch the battle-weary legionaries, Constantine moved to a window to witness their arrival. He was shocked at the ragged look of his men. They did not look like the green demi-cohort that had been deployed less than seventy-two hours prior. They were a battle-hardened, veteran detachment.
When they were only a couple of meters away, Constantine heard Centurion Caesar order, “Company, salute.” Ignoring their weariness, the survivors crisply saluted their commanding officer.
For the first time in his life, the tribune felt a stirring in his breast, an extra pounding of his heart. Without thought, his hand came up in a smart salute. All around him, the men in the hall snapped to attention, regardless of uniform or connection. The young heir lowered his hand, overwhelmed by events.
“Dismissed!” cried his new centurion. The men fell out, moving off in pairs and trios, many helped by combat medics toward the hospital wing. The centurion strode across the beautiful marble floors inlaid with intricate metal spirals and mosaics made of different metals and gears until he stood next to his commanding officer.
“Good job, Centurion Caesar . Your mission was a success. Would you say your men are ready for another mission?” the tribune asked. Julius nodded hesitantly. “We’ve been busy while you were gone. The general wants to see us. Seems he has an even grander plan for our newfound talents.”
Seeing Julius’s lips tighten and his eyes narrow, Constantine offered a wan smile. “No worries, that’s tomorrow. Today, go get some hot grub and some sleep.” He sniffed. “And definitely find a new uniform somewhere. I think you’ll have to burn that one.”
Chapter 13
General Minnicus slammed his pointer down near the miniature representation of the seaward curtain wall. “You will take the fight to them, Tribune, and we will take this city back from those imbeciles who dare rebel against our Imperial authority!”
Through his contacts in the capital, Constantine had heard that his father had given Minnicus permission to torture and execute any rebel he came across. In addition, Minnicus was also given the rights to any capture rebel’s property. Which, Constantine thought, might lead to a conflict of interest. He resolved to keep a closer eye on the newly ambitious general.
The large man leaned over the table, his automatic arm coming to rest with a hiss and slight whine next to him. He moved several small figures amongst the shining copper buildings and avenues. “You will lead your cohort, with the 7th, 9th, and 11th in support, up the western Via Germania, through the slums here.” The telescoping pointer tapped the darker mass of buildings representing Sludge Bottom. He looked around at Constantine and the cohort commanders’ faces. The men all looked pointedly at the three-dimensional map, waiting for the general to continue.
Finally the thin baton tapped another point in the miniature city. “You will then ascend the curtain wall here, against the seaward side. Scouts report that there is considerable scaffolding there due to wall maintenance. You will use this scaffolding to gain access to the battlements, bypassing the towers. From there, you will take these towers.” Minnicus shifted slightly, and his arm whined as a piston gradually compacted. “The 7th and 9th will take the southern tower, while the 11th and 13th take the northern tower.” Finished, he leaned back on his three-legged stool.
Centurion Dryx of 7th Cohort raised a hand. Minnicus nodded. “Sir, what is the goal of this mission?”
Several other officers visibly tensed, noting the unspoken reasons for this question. On the surface, it looked like a suicide mission. Send five hundred men deep into a hostile city to scale walls and take defended positions?
Minnicus glowered at the freckle-faced centurion. “The goal is to take those towers. They have air defense mounted ballista and heavy scorpions that were reportedly undamaged in the initial assault. The troops manning those towers deserted or turned to the enemy. By taking those defenses, we eliminate the rebels’ ability to get supplies from the Nortlanders. In addition, the last remaining air pad controlled by the rebels is right between those two towers. Once you take those defenses, I want you to knock out the last airship. Bad winds have slowed our air fleet coming from Britannia, so we’re on our own.”
The general held out his hand and a silent servant placed a glass of wine into it. He heavily, then smacked his lips and looked around. “Any more questions?” Seeing no response, he stood. “Tribune Appius of the 13th will take the lead on this one. His cohort is the most blooded of ours.”
The officers stood at attention while the general left the command room, flunkies dogging his heels. As the tent flap fell shut behind him, blocking out the sun, someone muttered, “By the gods, I suppose we should get our wills up to date.”
Constantine moved closer to the table. He leaned over, tracing their route with his finger. “Not yet. I have a few ideas. We’ll complete our objectives, but we’ll do it my way. No need to lose our arms over it.” The other men couldn’t help but smile at the underhanded jab at the departed general. “This is what I need us to get ahold of first ...”
~ * * * ~
The men of the 11th a
nd 13th Cohorts moved in two single files on either side of the cobblestone street. Looming buildings crowded out the morning sun, and the streets were dark and murky. Every small noise or slight movement ratcheted up the level of anxiety in the column.
They had been awakened before daybreak, and wrapped their boots with rags to muffle the noise of their passing. They had gathered their things and departed in the inky pre-dawn, separating into two divisions. The 11th and 13th Cohorts were making their way toward the northern tower #23 on the western wall, while the 7th and 9th Cohorts targeted the southern tower, #22.
Almost immediately the southern cohorts ran into trouble. A small group of rebel saboteurs were lucky (or perhaps, unlucky) enough to be preparing an ambush in several buildings when the first legionnaires emerged from the mists right before them. Both parties hesitated a few moments, shocked at the appearance of the other. Then the first few legionnaires recovered and pulled out their swords to charge their surprised foes. A few more competent members of the ragtag militia responded in kind. Steel met steel, the sound echoing down the empty streets, though the dense fog dampened most of the reverberations of combat. Blood joined dew on the cold streets, pooling to run slowly in channels toward the sewers.
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