Julius tried to block out all emotion, to strip all care from his voice. He envisioned himself becoming like the steel in his sword and shield, as his drill instructors had taught him. He wanted to lead his men with honor, dignity, power, and skill. But mostly, he didn’t want to screw up like the last time he had been given command. That incident had ended with the loss of most of his men to a half-crazed barbarian chieftess.
It was only at that moment that Julius’s brain finally made several critical connections. Casualties were consistently very high in Rome’s first rapid response force aerial deployment cohort. So it was now more, not less, likely that he would be dead soon, at the rate they were going.
Opposite them, the enemy airship’s artillery continued to duel with the smaller Roman warship’s weaponry. But the Nortland vessel had already closed in, and grappling hooks shot out from shielded enemy positions. Some bounced off the smooth sides of the ship, while others struck shields, knocking gaps in the Roman lines. More than a few dug into the wooden deck planking, and at a shout from their centurion, legionnaires leapt upon the hooks and long, trailing wires. They hacked away at the tough ropes, crying in dismay at the iron wrapping that protected the first five feet of the hooks.
Those Nortlanders are no idiots, and they’ve got years of pirate boarding experience to draw on. Julius fought panic as the enemy ship winched itself closer.
Suddenly, Julius saw Nortlander soldiers on the railing opposite his men. “Repeaters! Target and fire!” he ordered. The pairs of legionnaires went to work, one man plastering the enemy troops with short, wicked repeater bolts about as long as a man’s forearm while the shield man swung his shield up to cover his partner when he switched weapons, then reloaded the spent repeater, readying it for the shooter. The ships were less than twenty paces away from each other now, and the bolts’ barbed tips struck home amongst the enemy.
“’Ware, boarders!” called out one of the few remaining airmen on deck, drawing Julius’s attention to several figures moving along the grappling hook cables at breakneck speed. The remaining airmen had pulled off to one side, and were busy arming themselves from the ship’s arms locker.
“Looks like we aren’t the only ones with sliders,” Gwendyrn shouted down at his commanding officer. Julius nodded back, filing that fact away for future use. He ordered the men trying to cut the ropes back, realizing that they would be out of position and vulnerable to the larger, more aggressive lone wolves who were rapidly narrowing the gap between them and the Scioparto deck.
“Here they come!”
The boarders slid onto the deck, simply releasing their sliders instead of unbuckling them in the Roman fashion. Lightly armored, they rolled into combat against the thin, armored line of legionnaires, their shorter and heavier axes clashing with the Roman swords as the Nortlanders chopped at exposed arms and legs. At first, the legionnaires used their weapons’ reach to their advantage, striking down boarders before they could close with the battle line, the tough steel of their spatha facing little resistance from hide bucklers and leather shoulder pads.
Julius found himself facing one of the larger boarders wielding two of their wicked-looking knives at once. He sparred with Julius for a few moments, trying to break the Roman shield wall that was holding tight against the individual rushes of the boarders. Then the man charged, yelling, feinting high with his weapons then slashing low, attempting to kneecap the centurion. Julius saw the man’s feint and deflected it with his scutum, throwing the man off balance. His spatha stabbed out, biting deep into the Nortlander’s bowels as he was trying to recover. Blood sprayed, and the man collapsed.
All along the Roman line, the well-organized defenders were easily dismissing the first wave of Nortlanders. “Seems like it’ll be an easy day for us,” Legionnaire Janus quipped.
Then the Scioparto and Hamdar crashed together, the winches on the enemy ship having finally reeled in their smaller prey.
“All repeater teams back to the line!” bellowed Julius. The rapidly firing crossbow teams had taken few casualties, but Julius wanted to save their firepower and manpower for the slugfest that he knew was coming.
Although only a few paces away, his legionnaires moved carefully, as the deck was awash with blood and guts, debris from the continual bombardment, and dead men from the skirmish. The first few teams were back within the safety of his shield wall when the boarding bridges crashed down. Large, heavy planks had been nailed together to form thick bridges wide enough for two or three men at a time to cross. To Julius, they looked like roadways that delivered death instead of goods.
For a brief moment after the bridges slammed down, there was one of those pauses in combat where the contestants of battle found themselves temporarily off balance, awaiting something. It’s just like what Tribune Appius talks about when he tells us about those ancient battles of Carthage, and at Delphi; like Emperor Caesar in Gaul or Emperor Hadrian facing down the Picts. Julius found it somewhat humorous that his brain was choosing to think about that, rather than the obviously bloody situation about to occur. At least I get to kill some Nortland scum. Especially Nortland pirate scum. It’s always open season on them.
With a wordless cry, the main Nortland force charged across their bridges and onto the Roman vessel.
“For my sister! For the Emperor! For Rome!” Julius yelled over their animal cries as he led his men against the boarders. The two lines crashed together, bodies flying and shields shattering. This force of Nortlanders seemed to be equipped with more two-handed weapons, including those dangerous mechanical axes that Julius remembered from the battle atop the Brittenburg curtain wall. These men were the largest and most dangerous. Their weapons could chew through even the specially designed scuta and break the shield wall by literally destroying the shields.
His men worked methodically, attempting to strike at the Nortlanders from afar with their plumbata, or hold them off with the short spear, pinning them until a fellow legionnaire with a spatha could end their threat. The two lines flexed, their seemingly unstoppable momentum first giving the barbarians the upper hand.
“Hold them! Hold them, boys! Remember your drill,” Julius encouraged, using his shield to trap an axe against the deck and surgically stabbing out with his sword, leaving a nasty cut through the meat of a thigh. The man fell, only to be replaced by another barbarian, who swung his sword at Julius’s head. Ducking, Julius could feel the wind of its passage on his neck, and then a soft rain of dyed red hair began to sprinkle his face and eyes. Bastard cut my officer’s plume. Julius was distracted, trying to get the itchy red hair out of his eyes.
The Nortlander didn’t give him the chance to recover. He reversed his stroke and Julius caught the sword on the side of his helmet, just as his shield partner severed his attacker’s arm at the elbow. The blow clanged off of Julius’s head, and his vision swam. He dropped back, allowing a filler to take his place on the line so he could recover.
A harried medico was pulling another man out of the line, blood streaming from several large cuts and abrasions, when he noticed the centurion stagger backwards. He grabbed Julius and placed him on an overturned barrel. “I’ll be back for you, sir. Don’t close your eyes. You probably have a concussion.” Julius nodded weakly, feeling a wave of exhaustion sweeping aside his adrenaline. He sat on the barrel for what could have been minutes or seconds, for all Julius knew. He watched the press of men before him, his legionnaires holding off a force twice their size.
It was only a matter of time until they broke somewhere.
I’ve got to get a message to the tribune. We need help. Gathering his wits, he looked around for a speaking tube. Spying one only a few paces away he stood, pausing as the world swayed, then staggered over to the tube and uncorked it.
“This is Centurion Caesar of the XIII Germania on top deck. We’re being pushed back and need reserves.” He closed his eyes, pr
aying that someone was listening on the other end. He heard a brief, but maddeningly unintelligible comment from the other end.
Finally, someone responded: “Centurion, your men are on their own. The ship interior has been penetrated on B Deck and our forces are pinned down in hall-to-hall fighting. You’ll have to find a way to destroy their boarding equipment or force them back.”
“I don’t have the manpower—”
“Just do it, Centurion. Or die trying. We don’t have time to dawdle. Get those barbarians off this ship. That’s an order.”
Julius didn’t bother to respond. Leaving the speaking tube uncorked, he returned to his men. Although exhaustion and confusion had overwhelmed his earlier enthusiasm, Julius now saw what was about to happen. Grimly, he tightened his helmet and shield, drew his sword, and waded back into the fight, steely determination and anger growing in his chest.
“Push them, lads—all together!” Gwendyrn shouted from his position on the left flank. Julius could hear his deep bellow cutting through the sounds of battle. He watched the left flank began methodically pushing the boarders back, each step condensing the enemy troops, hampering their abilities to strike unencumbered. “Come on, lads, you’re going soft on me. We don’t want to take them on a date. We’re not inviting them over for wine. Push them off the gods-damned ship!” Gwendyrn exhorted his men.
Julius hurriedly gave similar orders to his men, as the Roman line began to stretch thin between the left and center. The left was advancing so quickly that the center would soon be unable to support it. Already the trapped men were sliding to their left, around the edge of the advancing shield wall, hammering at the thin line of legionnaires protecting the vulnerable side of the wall. If they gave way, Gwendyrn’s entire flank could dissolve. Jupiter damn him, if only he had told me what he was doing, we could help. Although Julius trusted his subordinates, Gwendyrn was far more willing to take the initiative than his other subordinate, Sub-Centurion Hespinus, currently commanding the squads on the right flank.
Julius grabbed a wounded legionnaire, who gave a half salute with a bandaged arm seeping blood. “Find Hespinus. Tell him we need to push them back over the edge. Use the railing as a weapon. He has two minutes to prepare before we go.” The man repeated the message quickly and raced aft, navigating the press of bodies to find the officer.
Julius turned and gave the order to his boys. He brought up all his reserve men, and even threw a few wounded warriors who could still hold shields back into the mix.
It was all or nothing.
He checked the pouches on his belt, finding the phosphorus flares right where they should be. Destroy the enemy ship, or die trying. Gripping them tightly in his hands, he mentally counted down the two minutes.
“Alright, men of Rome, are you going to let the Gaul’s men do all the work? Are they the only real soldiers on this airship? Let’s show them how well real Romans can fight!” he bellowed. “Shield wall, push them on my mark.”
His men moved closer together, filling gaps between the shields and interlocking their arms. Behind them, legionnaires packed together tightly, using their plumbata to stab out at any Nortlander who rushed the line. Now the legionnaires would not move from the wall, only stab their swords low to hamstring and kneecap their Nortland attackers. The lightning-quick attacks left little room for retaliatory strikes. Howling, the blonde enemy battered his line as they rhythmically pushed their shields forward, driving their weight into the enemy press.
One, two, three—“PUSH!”
The men on his line drove forward in a focused, precise movement. Even exhausted from the intensity of shipboard combat, the well-trained legionnaires understood one simple fact: this would succeed here and now, or they would die slowly, piece by piece, later.
Occasionally, a legionnaire would fall. Julius cringed as he watched Ulysses’ head cave in after a blow from a chain-axe, the weapon spraying blood spatter over his neighbors. The shield men to either side quickly and mutely dealt with the threat, swords penetrating the killer’s armor in multiple places, granting the second line a brief moment to fill the gap. Julius watched Faestes fill the hole, and the push continued.
They were close to the enemy bridge now. Julius could see a few of the attackers beginning to flee over the bridge, back to the safety of their own vessel. “We’ve got them, lads. Keep going!”
With a roar, his men fought on, swinging with renewed vigor, almost swaggering in their lockstep. Inside the press of bodies, Julius had neither the time nor sightline to check on the progress of his flanks. Extricating himself from the press of bodies, Julius stepped back a few paces to check his forward and aft ranks.
Although Gwendyrn’s men had started first, Julius’s forces had caught up to them, and they now presented a strong, united front. Looking south, Julius’s gray eyes widened as he saw his right flank pushing forward unevenly, their coordination seemingly off. Damn it, just when we were so close to throwing them all off this vessel! Julius thought, briefly torn. Should he forge ahead and risk losing his flank? Or should he stop his push right when he had them on the run? If we don’t get to the enemy vessel, we won’t have another chance, the men are too tired.
Julius chose to send a runner down to find out what the problem was. The man returned with troubling news. Hespinus was injured, and command of the flank had fallen to a new squad leader. Analyzing this new information, Julius quickly formatted a plan. He ordered the push again, and his men moved forward. They were almost to the bridge. At the same time, he detached two of the six squads at his command to shore up the weak right flank. As his men pushed the enemy off the ship and back onto their own vessel, the frontage would become narrower, and he wouldn’t need as many bodies to hold the line.
He had taken his galea off briefly to examine the helmet. After he had gotten his head rung, he wanted to make sure it was still intact. Although battered and shorn of most of its red officer’s plume, his galea was still solid. As he placed the leather-lined helmet back onto his closely shaved head, his eyes fell upon a familiar face.
Airman Souzetio lay on deck, hands covering a nasty gut wound. Blood soaked his shirt, and blank eyes stared out of his pale face. Julius felt anger stirring within him. He would grieve later. Right now, he had a job to do.
Securing his galea, he marched back toward his men. “We’ll take that ramp and hold it until I can destroy that vessel. Squads three and four, with me. One and two will hold the ramp.”
The panting men nodded their understanding as they continued to face off against the last few Nortlanders. Several had already fallen between the ships, their fates best left unknown. Others had leapt the gap, showing impressive athleticism. The press at the boarding ramp was heavy, and the Romans were beginning to slaughter the Nortlanders now as they panicked. Incredibly tough, but also undisciplined and unorganized. A good commander can always use that against them.
Finally, the Romans gained the ramp. Julius led the way, hacking down Nortlanders as they tried to flee. Another legionnaire began to say something but died as a repeater bolt entered his eye. He dropped like a stone. Julius screamed orders for his shield wall to reassemble. Enemy airmen were now involved in defending their ship, and their weapons were just as deadly as their Roman counterparts’.
“Repeaters! To the edge and suppress them!” Julius ordered. Only a few members of the repeater teams raced forward now, as most had been absorbed back into their parent squads. Julius sent another runner to tell the bridge that the A Deck boarding attempt had been repulsed and they were mopping up the survivors.
“Remember to tell them that we’re counter-boarding!” he shouted at the messenger. As the man raced off, Julius continued the assault. They overwhelmed the last few Nortland attackers, dispatching them in a flurry of sword strokes. The immediate area clear, the Romans pressed on.
Julius’s boots thudded ove
r the wooden planks of the bridge, and he jumped onto the enemy vessel. The design startled him at first, since he had never had a good chance to closely examine enemy mechanical vessels. Whereas the Romans built up to the gasbag, the Nortlanders had an entirely open top deck, like the top of a sailing vessel. Many thick cables stretched down at intervals, connected to large rings around the gasbag. Some sort of exposed frame? Julius wondered for half a second, then ducked as several repeater bolts tore past him, eliciting screams behind him. Get your head into the battle! Julius berated himself.
He located a hatch on deck and had his men form a line in front of it. “Hold here while I set their ship aflame!”
The senior squad leader looked beyond him, at a new group advancing on the two squads that had invaded the deck. A Nortland noble must finally have located some more men, or steeled the spines of the fleeing barbarians. “We’ll hold them as long as we can, sir.”
Back on the Scioparto, seeing what his commander was up to, Gwendyrn shouted, “Sir, we’re cutting the boarding ramps behind you. We’ll hold as long as we can, but hurry up with your errand!”
“I’ll bring you a souvenir, you insubordinate farmer!” Julius called back. “Just make sure I can get home after this!”
He lifted the hatch and peered into the gloom within. He could hear the enemy charging the thin line of legionnaires behind him. Taking a deep breath, he descended the ladder, poised to meet whatever or whoever was waiting in the depths of the enemy airship.
After pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dark interior, he began wandering the maze of corridors, lit only by a few unevenly spaced lanterns, several of which had gone out. Julius wondered if the interiors of all Nortland vessels were this depressing. He crept past several weapons galleries, noting that the weapons they used were nearly identical to his Roman artillery pieces: large and small bolt throwers, large and small explosive throwers—although most of the Nortland pieces appeared to hurl rocks rather than the gunpowder-filled canisters that his countrymen used.
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