Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  Constantine drew an involuntary breath. This was much more detailed than the last command table he’d seen in action, back in basic training so long ago.

  “Is this a newer version of the Mark II Command Table?” someone asked.

  Minnicus smiled. “Yes, this is a Mark III. I just got it in our last supply shipment. Took three sets of wagons just to cart it up from the port! It continues to provide excellent in-depth terrain analysis using the same card system as before, but this time we can also modify the terrain. For instance, I’d like to have a closer view of section D4.” His aide fiddled with a series of dials, then pulled out a small lever. The effect was impressive. The outer edges of the table seemed to melt away as the mountains flowed into one peak, and the forests engulfed an entire portion of the map now. The Viken also dominated the entire southern border of the table, whereas before it had simply been a thin line running through wilderness.

  Minnicus tapped the table. “Here is where we stand.” He placed five small Roman Eagles on the map. “The III Cimbrian, XIII Germania, and VII Germania.” He indicated each legion with a tap of a meaty finger. “Back here, our command section and the IV Britannia complete our formation.” The three forward legions were placed in a slightly concave formation, with the flanking legions being gently angled toward the center, slightly to the rear.

  “Facing us is the Nortland army, mostly peasant drafts but also toughened by their raiders and mechanical units. Our recent attack by the III Cimbrian, in support of our own mechanical units, can be deemed a rousing success. We could have trapped the entire Nortland army outside the walls of Midgard if our right flank had not been overwhelmed.” Minnicus sounded . . . disappointed in the loss of his potential glory.

  Or loot, Constantine thought cynically.

  “My scouts reliably estimate that we have killed or captured at least six thousand men. Most, I’m afraid, will not survive the night. But such a victory should be announced to all of Rome! I congratulate you. We have won a smashing victory over the barbarians!” Minnicus proclaimed.

  Polite clapping was the only response to his short speech. Constantine glanced around at the other commanders and their juniors. Murtes was clapping the loudest. Paulos, commander of the III Cimbrian, seemed to have a half-sour smile etched permanently on his face. Or maybe it was a frown. The juniors seemed to mirror their commanding officers pretty completely. One face stood out to Constantine, though.

  “Quintus Gravus,” Constantine whispered as he recognized the mysterious man from the strange meeting in the officers’ mess. It felt as though years had passed since that meeting, when it fact it had been mere weeks. The man seemed to have heard him, although not even the aide closest to Constantine turned at his whisper. Gravus stared levelly at him, then tipped his head slightly to the right and tapped the chronometer on his thin wrist. Meet outside, after this ends. Constantine nodded slightly to show he understood. I know he is familiar, where else have I seen him before?

  As the clapping died down, Constantine finally spoke. “General, sir, what is our next move? Now is the time to push back at them. If we can pin them against the walls, we can decimate them with our artillery. Or should we prepare to besiege them? In which case we will probably need more men, but once we break their walls there will be nothing they can do.” Constantine saw other officers nodding at his appraisal of their options.

  “It’s funny you say that, Commander. Now granted, you don’t have as much experience as the rest of us do in the field, but I like your ideas. Nevertheless, it is for me to decide when our primary objectives have been met. Our primary objective was to decisively punish the Nortlanders by bringing them to battle. We’ve also razed a large chunk of the countryside, and taken both an island and a major port from them. I believe our mission here is done, and it is time for us to withdraw.”

  The room was silent except for the crackle of the braziers and the slight whistle from the caldornax. Obviously no one had expected this.

  “Uh . . . um . . . sir, in regards to our main objective, we still have not overwhelmingly defeated the Nortland army, and they remain a dangerous force. Trying to withdraw in winter in the face of opposition could result in heavy casualties.” Commander Paulos was trying to be diplomatic, but Constantine could hear the worry in his voice.

  Minnicus waved a dismissive hand. “That will not be a problem. Our boys have already taken the fight to those fur-wearing idiots, and they are so cowed, they hide in the shadows of their capital’s walls. They will not be coming after us,” Minnicus sneered.

  “Sir, but what about Senatora Pelia?” Constantine said. “Surely we need to enter negotiations to repatriate a member of our government.”

  Minnicus’ beady eyes stared at Constantine. “That is a matter for our government leaders to decide, not the military. And since the only officially appointed member of our government is currently not here,” he paused as if in irony, “we cannot enter negotiations in good faith. We must make the best of this situation and assume we cannot possibly get her back.”

  Constantine refrained from protest. This was like a chess game. Each move gave him other options. “I’m a member of the government. As the primus imperio of the Roman Empire I am a leading member,” he said quietly.

  Commander Paulos was quick to offer support. “He can enter into negotiations and create binding agreements. He certainly has both credibility and the right to do so.”

  Minnicus frowned at him, then harrumphed. “No, Commander, you may not enter into negotiations because you are not here as a member of the government, only as the commander of the XIII Germania.”

  “General, as the heir to the throne—”

  Minnicus cut him off. “You have no power here. The Imperial government has no power here. The only power here is my legions and my commands, and the enemy. And you, Commander, are coming perilously close to violating your oath of leadership that you took to the legions. I am the commanding officer, and I will be OBEYED!” His voice climbed to a high-pitched yell.

  It took all of Constantine’s willpower not to laugh at the man. He squared his shoulders, looking at Paulos, who nodded uncertainly at him, then at Murtes, who had settled on a stool off to the side, his mouth twisted down in a frown. I have to win him over somehow! “General, I’m not sure if your orders are worth obeying,” he said. “Hadrius, bring it in.”

  His aide ducked out of the tent, then returned followed by two of his men bearing a package. Constantine gestured toward a convenient trunk. “Place it here. Gentlemen, I would like to reveal to you the method by which the Nortlanders so surprised our men this afternoon.” He pulled back the cloth. “This is a piece of ice hacked from the river. If you look at how thick it is, you will see it is very substantial. However, if you look at the top . . .” He paused as the other commanders gathered around. General Minnicus was whispering quietly to a staff officer, and seemed to be ignoring the event playing out under his own roof.

  “By the gods, it looks chipped and cracked!” Paulos exclaimed.

  Murtes nodded, eyes widening in sudden understanding. “You took this from the middle of the river?” the commander asked, his fawning demeanor replaced by a no-nonsense tone.

  Constantine nodded. Looks like all he needed was solid proof of our general’s stupidity. He motioned to his men to back off. They stood behind their commander, ramrod straight at parade attention. Their motion underscored the mood of the room. Now all three legion commanders were looking at General Minnicus.

  “General, did your scouts mention any of this?” Paulos asked.

  “Whatever happened, there will be an investigation, I assure you. But it will be done when we have returned to Sundsvall, after we have time to reorganize after our victory here,” Minnicus said smoothly, with no hesitation in calling the destruction of an entire legion a “victory.” Constantine felt his hand graspi
ng the hilt of his spatha. “And so, we shall make preparations to leave. Tonight. We will return to Sundsvall in triumph,” Minnicus finished rather lamely.

  Constantine turned to look again at the assembled leadership staff around the table. It was obvious that the other men in the room who were not members of the general’s staff were not in support of this idea. “This farce has gone on long enough. We will not retreat or fall back. We will enter into negotiations with the Nortlanders to have the senatora returned to us. Alive. And in the meantime we shall lay siege to Midgard. That is my plan. What say you?” The primus imperio was in full swing now, his enthusiasm infectious and his plan, for the moment, the best one they had.

  The general slammed his fist down on the command table. The 3D terrain wobbled, some parts shifting as the machine’s engine was thrown off beat. “No. There will be no negotiation. Guards! Seize these men! They are traitors to the Roman Empire,” he shouted. His bodyguards drew their swords, while Constantine’s men responded in kind, backing up their commanding officer. Murtes and Paulos backed away, their guards outside and unable to assist.

  Constantine did a quick assessment of the situation. He slashed a hole in the tent wall. “Quick, get to your men and stand firm. And get someone to the Thirteenth if I don’t get out. We have numbers, we’ll hold while you escape,” Constantine said without a moment’s hesitation.

  Both Murtes and Paulos looked gratefully his way. “We won’t forget this. Minnicus will pay,” Paulos told him flatly.

  Murtes simply nodded, pulling a lethal-looking pair of mini-crossbows from his belt pouch. He handed them to Constantine. “I expect them back,” Murtes stated with a grin.

  Constantine nodded, then turned back to the tent as they clambered through the canvas. The front of the tent was slowly filling with legionnaires, his guards slowing them as best they could. Outside, shouts and screams punctuated the sounds of swordplay.

  Tucking the mini-crossbows into his belt, Constantine pulled his spatha. “Who dares raise their sword against the heir to the throne?” he challenged in his most regal voice. The men before him quailed. His guards moved back to form a wedge with Constantine at the tip.

  “What are you waiting for?” General Minnicus growled. “Attack them! Seize the traitors to the throne! There’s only six of them and thirty of you! Get them!”

  The first few legionnaires seemed unwilling to to attack, until one of Minnicus’ bodyguards shouldered his way to the front and swung his spatha ham-handedly at the prince. Constantine dodged easily, and his return slice sent blood spraying onto the delicately polished silverware and over the blue carpet. “I have no wish to spill any Roman blood. Goodness knows there’s been enough lost today,” he called. “Put down your weapons and let us leave in peace.”

  The men in the tent continued to waver, until finally a gap opened between the ranks of legionnaires. Constantine nodded at the men in thanks, and with his guards making a tight circle around their charge, they strode to the doorway and out of the tent.

  Before him lay a scene of slaughter. It was obvious that the escorts of all three commanders had put up a bloody fight against Minnicus’ enforcers. From the shadows beyond the torchlight, hard-bitten men emerged, weapons and armor covered in blood and gore. They pulled several shambling prisoners with them, tied by rough ropes to the halters of horses. They wore the uniforms of both Murtes’ and Paulos’ commands. Minnicus appeared beside them

  “Did you think I hadn’t planned for this, primus imperio? You have much to learn in the ways of politics. First rule of politics: never try to usurp the enemy in their own fort.” Minnicus cackled as the prisoners were pushed to the mud before him and his men. “Put your weapons down. You’re surrounded and there is no hope of surviving. Your little speech might have worked well back in the tent, but these men are mine. They’re not some conscripts from the countryside.”

  Constantine spat in Minnicus’ direction. Minnicus smiled evilly. “Kill the guards.” Before Constantine could move, crossbow bolts shot out, striking each of his bodyguards.

  Constantine stood in shock, watching as they collapsed as if in slow motion into the churned mud and snow around him. Sinking to his knees, he cradled the head of Hadrius. Blood leaked from the man’s mouth as he tried to say something. Constantine placed his ear to the man’s mouth.

  “My . . . wife . . . please . . .”

  Constantine’s eyes filled with tears as he met his aide’s eyes and whispered an affirmative. The light in Hadrius’ eyes went out and his eyelids closed.

  Constantine looked up in time to see a vaguely familiar face approaching. “You . . . you were at Brittenburg. You’re one of the traitors at the landing pad. I remember you,” Constantine managed to say. His mind was unfocused, shifting from grief and sorrow to anger and frustration.

  “Very good, boy prince. Good to know I’m somewhat famous. I am Corbus. Lay down your weapon.” Constantine hadn’t realized he was still holding his spatha. “You’d be dead before you could even get off your knees, pathetic man that you are. But just think about how heroic your ballads could be!” Corbus’s voice practically oozed sarcasm.

  Seeing no other choice, Constantine sheathed his sword and stood, undoing the sheath from his belt and tossing it to a nearby guard; his steely demeanor barely held against the waves of anger and grief that tried to overwhelm him.

  “Very wise. Not what I was hoping for, but then again, you can only kill a future emperor once, I hear. That is, if you live to become emperor.”

  Rough hands grabbed his arms and slammed manacles onto them as Corbus turned, laughing. I will see your head on a pike, Minnicus, I swear. But the sinking feeling in Constantine’s stomach told him that the oath might never be fulfilled.

  Chapter 17

  Corbus

  As Corbus made the long ride back to Midgard, he basked in the glow of his accomplishment at the Roman camp. One royal down, another to go. Sure, the primus imperio was merely captured, but after meeting with his so-called allies in the legion, Corbus was fairly certain that the sole remaining heir to the throne would become a glorious martyr of this brief, but intense, war.

  Leaving my Roman allies open to pick up the pieces and myself to collect on both a massive payday and find a magnificently large territory to govern here, Corbus thought, savoring that for a moment or two. First I’ll have to make sure they don’t try to double cross me.

  He gave the password to the nervous gate guard, the gatekeeper not used to strange, solitary figures showing up in the middle of the night. Lighting his torch, he rode down the long, cavernous entryway. The torchlight threw dancing shadows on the walls, and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoed along the empty passageway. In the darkness, Corbus could just make out the gaps of murder holes in the ceiling, placed every few feet, and the occasional arrow slit in the wall. This place was about as solid a fortress as you could make it. I don’t think even a Roman siege caterpillar could take this place. No wonder a common Norse saying for a tough man is as solid as Midgard.

  Several more minutes of silent riding and he arrived at the last portcullis. The barrier was winched upwards, and he finally arrived in the massive central cavern of Midgard. As busy as any city center, the plaza bustled even at this late hour, with taverns, restaurants, and shops still open. Drinking songs and cheery lights beckoned from many an alehouse, but Corbus turned away from them. He dismounted and led his horse to a stable hand, who gave him a small token in return. Pocketing the token, he strode off in search of the prince. The longer I’m here, the more concerned I get about what he is up to when I’m not around.

  Queries after the whereabouts of the prince and king told him that the king was hosting a small feast for the Roman senator. This concerned Corbus. What in Jupiter’s name are they doing?

  He climbed another set of stairs, his legs burning when he finally reached
the long hallway that led to the throne room. Other hallways branched off from this main passage, down which the royal red carpet had been rolled, indicating the king was on his throne. He walked down the carpet, passing walls hung with tapestries depicting scenes of battle, with brave and impossibly huge Nortlanders killing, crushing, and generally conquering all manner of puny looking “civilized” people. Those few tapestries that did not show the glorious victories of the Nortland people instead showed the drama of the hunt, men killing wolves with their bare hands, hunting whales from small boats, and even one showing a man taking on a snarling feline the size of a horse. Could it be one of those tigers or leopards I’ve heard about? Corbus wondered as he passed.

  He was coming up to the throne room from the rear when the door before him was thrown open. Prince Lokus stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  “I’m going to kill that man,” he proclaimed loudly, his face red with anger. He glowered as Corbus approached. “We’re doing it today. Right now.”

  “Right now, Your Lordship?” Corbus asked. I don’t think we’re ready for it yet. “It would be better to wait a few days, when he will be unsuspecting. We have not yet figured out how to eliminate Laufas and Therodi, both of whom could challenge us. Patience, my liege,” Corbus advised, trying his best to calm the angry man who now paced back and forth.