Why is this happening? What went wrong?
He finally arrived at the central plaza. Roman bodies were being dumped into a bonfire roaring in the middle of the cleared ground. He watched as familiar faces—Murtes, Paulos, Caesar, Gwendyrn—were tossed unceremoniously into the roaring flames. The wounded were not being spared, either. Constantine cried out as he saw a man, still moving, thrown into the flames by two laughing barbarians. He hobbled toward them, intent on revenge.
A shadow moved to intercept him. In the firelight, he could just make out the man’s face. It’s the man from Brittenburg. The one who escaped into the airship, Constantine recalled, recognizing the man’s deadly grace.
“Come to join our party? We’d love to have you, primus imperio.” Corbus snickered, his sword rasping from its sheath.
Constantine felt at his waist for a weapon, and found nothing.
“No weapons? I’m not the chivalrous type.” Corbus smiled, then attacked.
Constantine managed to block the first two swipes with his pila, then fell as the shaft splintered. He spun, landing on his knees, facing the long, muddy road that led toward Midgard.
“A fitting end, if I do say so myself. After all, it was your failure to lead that brought us this victory,” Corbus said. Constantine saw the burning skeleton of the siege caterpillar in the distance, leaning against the wall like some drunken buffoon. “Goodbye, prince.”
Constantine woke with a start. His tunic was drenched in cold sweat, his sword halfway out of its scabbard.
“Sir?” A guard peeked through the flap.
Constantine hastily hid his drawn weapon. “Yes?”
“A messenger’s here to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
“Very well. I’ll be out in a minute.”
The guard saluted and withdrew. Constantine quickly doffed his tunic, opening his travel trunk for a new one. His hands rummaged through the debris of the last year of legion service. Amazing how much stuff you accumulate in such a short time. Finally, he pulled a clean tunic from the recesses of the trunk and dressed again. He buckled his lorica on and wrapped his utility belt and scabbard around his waist before stepping through the tent flap and out into the evening air.
Dusk had fallen, the last lines of sunlight highlighting the tops of the castrum walls and the Laurel flag fluttering on its pole. A small party of legionnaires stood to one side, and Constantine walked over. The men saluted him.
“Sir, file leader Krull, eastern perimeter patrol. We came across these two walking into our territory. The man claims he’s a legionnaire from the Fourth. He does bear a legion tattoo. The girl claims they have a message from Centurion Caesar, along with a secret way into the fortress.”
“Thank you, file leader. You may return to your post with your men. Excellent job.”
The pug-nosed sub-officer saluted, then withdrew. Constantine was left alone with a single guard, the oddly geared legionnaire, and the young girl. “What am I to do with you?” he mused aloud.
“Believe us, sir,” the legionnaire said.
“Tell me your story.”
And so the man told his whole story from beginning to end—how he had come north with the IV Britannia. The last minutes of desperate fighting. His incarceration with Centurion Caesar. The proposition to fight for the enemy against a common enemy. Their journey through the depths of the mountain into the luxurious chambers of the nation’s most powerful men. The discovery of the hidden passage thanks to Caesar’s sister, Marciena. Finally, their exit from the tunnel into the middle of a perimeter patrol.
Constantine laughed. “You must have given them quite a fright. I’m surprised you weren’t killed on sight!”
The legionnaire, one Felix Scipio, shrugged at the comment. “I think we were just very lucky, sir. That, and at least I look like a legionnaire, even if I do have some borrowed Nortland gear. I had to kill a guard or two on the way down. My sword broke, so I took this instead.” He hefted a single-handed war axe. A smaller weapon than its cousin, the chain-axe, it nevertheless had a razor-sharp blade and crushing mallet counterweight.
Constantine considered the situation for a moment. “Very well, Legionnaire Scipio. Welcome back to the legions. The IV Britannia no longer exists, I’m afraid. I’d be glad to enroll you in one of the other legions here, or you can remain with the girl on a temporary basis. Your choice.”
Scipio considered his options for a moment, looking down at his gangly charge. “I think I’ll stay with her, sir, if you’ll allow it.”
Constantine lifted a brow at Marciena. She shrugged and nodded, shivering in the cold winter air. Abruptly, Constantine realized how ill-equipped she was for the cold weather. Her thin servant’s uniform was no defense against the cold. “Please, come into my tent. You can warm up and relax.” He beckoned them inside, pausing to ask the guard to get some hot food and drink.
When he entered, the girl had curled up on his bed, while Scipio looked on, an amused smile on his face.
“Sorry, sir, she just seemed to need to rest.”
“No worries, legionnaire. Now, what can you tell me about the events inside?”
Several hours later, Constantine had the basis of a plan. Considering the dream a warning against trying a frontal assault, he gathered his legion commanders in the headquarters tent, to map out his assault plan.
Constantine himself would lead the XIII Germania into the secret passage and find a way to open the gates from the inside. Meanwhile, the III Cimbrian and VII Germania would assault the walls using the siege caterpillar. They were under orders to not press the assault, instead reserving the bulk of their strength for when the gates were finally breached from the inside.
“We’ll use the confusion inside to our advantage. With the Nortlanders fighting each other, we have a chance to take the walls. Once that happens, they won’t stand a chance, divided as they are,” Constantine stated.
Paulos looked up at him from across the table. “What if they take our invasion as a sign to unify and fight off the invaders? It’s happened before when we’ve tried to take advantage of internal strife during war.”
Constantine paused. It was a good question. “We just have to hope that Centurion Caesar figures out our plan as soon as we enact it. If we can link up with some loyalists . . . or rebels, whichever ones support the duke, we can participate in an ‘allied’ attack. So try to figure out who is whom before you go killing every Nortlander you see. And no looting or distractions. We’re here to win, save the senatora, and get home.” The officers around the table nodded.
“Any more questions?”
None were voiced. The assembled officer corps saluted their leader solemnly, lamplight glinting off their well-polished armor. Constantine shook the hand of each as they left the tent.
“Gods be with you, sir,” Paulos said.
“And also with you. I’ll see you on the other side.”
“Don’t make me send someone to rescue you. Again.”
The plan decided upon, it was only a matter of quietly waking the men and having them assemble in their cohorts and divisions. Shorter-ranged ballistae and protective mantlets were brought up and assembled before being moved into position.
“Commander, the XIII Germania is ready and awaiting your orders.” A familiar face appeared at his side.
“Very well, Centurion Gwendyrn. Silence is the order of the day.” Gwendyrn nodded, then turned abruptly and faded back into the darkness.
The march began, the legion’s goal, the secret entrance revealed by Scipio and Marciena. Scipio was at the head of the column, leading his legionnaire brothers. He would be joining them on their assault through the fortress.
Constantine checked his heavier standard-issue shield, which had replaced his thinner air legion equipment. I’d rather have the heavier stuff
in the tunnels, he conceded; it’s more able to withstand a beating. He knew he was taking a gamble, sending his less experienced air legion on an underground mission into the depths of an enemy fortress, their hopes riding on the memory of a single man who had been through the tunnels exactly once before. I suppose I’d better pray.
Chapter 24
Julius
Julius parried an axe swing with his sword, letting the blow fall off to his side. Shield high, he stepped forward, smashing the man’s face, then his exposed foot. Howling, the Nortlander spun around, and Julius delivered a quick stab with his spatha.
His foe dispatched, Julius took the opportunity to glance around. The Roman-Nortland allied force was being pushed back into the apartments. To make matters worse, some enterprising adversary had made use of the stair system as well. Even now, more rebel supporters were forcing their way through the loyalists holding the apartments.
Overall, the news was not good. They had last heard from Duke Laufas over an hour ago, as his men fought to access the great armories below the citadel. Since then they had been cut off, as the rebel forces seemed to gain ground over the self-proclaimed loyalists.
The ker-chung of stone throwers filled the hallway, bringing screams of pain and death. Beyond the skirmish, someone had taken charge and organized the various rebel forces into a coherent unit. They were firing indiscriminately into the mass of fighting soldiers. Friend and foe alike fell under the heavy lead slugs.
Taking cover in a convenient alcove, Julius looked frantically for Halder. Spotting him, he waved his sword to get his attention. “Halder! We need to fall back into one of the chambers!”
Halder nodded, used the butt end of his chain-axe to kill a militiaman, then shouted at his men. Grudgingly, the loyalists fell back toward the apartments. The rebels paused in their assault, as some leader must have been trying to reorganize them before executing his final attack.
Halder and Julius pulled the last of their men around the corner of the corridor.
“Not good.” Halder said stoically.
“They’ve got us outnumbered. We should be able to slow them in the hallways, but numbers will eventually overwhelm us. Can we use the back way out?”
Halder shook his head, gesturing to the new ranks of loyalists who were joining them. Julius recognized a few faces from the rearguard they had put in place to guard the staircase. “Sealed the door,” Halder explained.
That must have been the large explosion I heard earlier. “Can we use the secret passageway in the senatora’s room?”
Halder evidently hadn’t thought of that. They raced into the room, finding Senatora Pelia sitting up and groggily looking around. Julius quickly explained the situation as Halder pulled at the bookshelf, trying to open the secret passage. Julius joined him, their muscles straining; the furniture piece refused to move.
“Perhaps there is a trigger?”
“Trig-her?”
“Like, something that makes it open?” Julius wiggled his forefinger as if flicking a switch.
They set about seeking a trigger. Julius pulled books off the shelf while Halder went around pulling and twisting on the candleholders. Hearing the clash and clang of renewed fighting out in the hallway, they doubled their efforts.
“There must be something here,” Julius cried out in desperation.
“Maybe it only opens from the inside?” the senatora said wearily.
Julius resorted to hitting bricks on the fireplace with the poker, hoping against hope that something, anything, would work.
A hand on his shoulder stopped him. “No more. It is time to fight,” Halder said. His tone was gruff, but also perhaps a bit sad.
Julius nodded, dropping the poker with a clang. He drew his spatha again. The fighting had now spilled into the outer rooms of the apartments. Julius turned to look at the senatora. “Domina, please hide under the bed. Perhaps they won’t even remember you’re here.” The young woman nodded slowly, still trying to shake the effects of whatever had happened to her. “Halder, could you take care of that chain?”
With a single stroke, the chain parted like soft butter, and Octavia rolled under the bed. May the gods see her safe, Julius prayed. And may the gods see my sister safe, as well. He turned to follow Halder into the outer chambers.
The scrimmage had overturned divans and scattered broken pieces of fine pottery. In the ruins of the once well-appointed room, Nortlander fought Nortlander. Following Halder’s lead, Julius sidled along the right wall, his scutum guarding his left side.
From there, Julius hamstrung a Nortlander guard about to finish off a wounded loyalist. The man flashed him a look of gratitude that crumpled under a deathblow from another attacker’s war hammer. Howling, Julius drew a long gash across the man’s throat with his spatha. As blood arced into the air, Julius turned just in time to be tossed against the wall by a charging attacker. Pinned to the wall, Julius struggled to keep his shield between him and his opponent. The Nortlander’s scarred faced and huge biceps spoke of a seasoned warrior. Sure enough, the man fought dirty like one, head-butting Julius then kicking him in the side on his way down. Instinctively, Julius turned and fell with his scutum atop him. The wood and steel shield saved his life.
The heavy crack as an axe penetrated the shield numbed Julius’s left arm. But the axe was stuck in the shield, for as the man hauled his weapon up, Julius was pulled back to his feet. He took advantage of the man’s surprise to deliver several quick jabs, crippling, then mortally wounding the man with a gut strike. With his foe dispatched, Julius hastily tried to free his arm from the now ruined shield with blood-slippery fingers.
He had just managed to free his arm when two more barbarians advanced upon Julius faced them one-handed and without a shield, finally grabbing his dagger with still tingling fingers, forcing them to operate. He killed one with a lucky slash to the back as he careened out of control on a wild swipe. His other opponent nicked Julius’s sword arm with his own short sword, then his leg. Julius could feel his strength leaving him as the wounds began to take a toll. Mustering his last bit of energy, Julius feinted high, then stabbed low. The man must have underestimated him, as he let down his guard entirely. Julius’s sword entered his thigh, severing an artery. Blood gushed and shrieking, the man went down, his voice only adding to the din of battle.
Julius looked around, chest heaving. Halder was down, five men standing over him with long, vicious-looking spears poised as another tied his arms. Most of the other loyalists were dead, and the wounded were being dispatched brutally and mercilessly. Julius watched as the last two loyalists surrendered, only to be hacked down. Sensing his defeat, Julius lowered his sword as the rebels surrounded him.
“My, my, if it isn’t my old Roman friend, Julius Caesar.”
Julius turned to see Corbus enter the room. The man looked around at the dead piled two and three high. “You’ve been awfully busy, haven’t you?” he said snidely. “But your time is up, and this little rebellion is over. You never actually thought this would succeed, did you? After all, no one likes to fight a king with a master assassin as his ally.”
The man flashed his daggers, spinning them in two hands. “Now, drop your weapon and you get to live to see the end of this revolution.”
Disgusted with himself for surrendering to this man for the second time, Julius spat and tossed down his spatha.
“Bind him,” Corbus ordered. “I don’t want him escaping before I can finally kill him.”
A short time later he and Halder were on their knees before the great Copper Throne. The man wearing the crown looked . . . Impatient, thought Julius. He squirmed every few seconds, as though trying to get comfortable in the hulking mass of pure copper. This must be the new king.
Halder spat to one side. “Thief; murderer,” he muttered.
The king stirred and rose, fi
ddling with his odd-looking gauntlets as he descended the dais steps. He looked the prisoners over carefully, his startlingly purple eyes examining every detail. “Roman? In Midgard?” He looked exceptionally concerned.
Corbus stepped up, saying something in Norse that made the king laugh and relax. The assassin turned back to Julius, and spoke in Latin. “I was just telling the king that you were only a prisoner the loyalists let out. They must have been desperate for soldiers, to have actually freed prisoners.”
The king spoke again in Norse, and Julius caught no more than one word out of ten. Beside him, Halder looked angry. Shaking his head, he declared, “No!”
Now Julius could see just what was on those gauntlets. This isn’t good.
Long, slender needle daggers extended from one gauntlet, while a single, flat blade extended from the other. Wicked, deadly, and concealed. Where did he get those weapons? one part of Julius’s mind pondered while the rest froze in terror as the king advanced.
He stopped before Halder, grabbing the man’s coarse black hair with one hand and staring into his eyes. The king repeated his demand in Norse, and Halder spit in his face. In response, the king slammed his blade hand into Halder’s throat, decapitating him. Julius cried out as Halder’s body hit the floor. The king tossed the head down as well, and laughing, marched back up to his throne. He thrust out his hand, beckoning.
A nervous-looking servant handed him a towel and he fastidiously cleaned his blade attachment. That done, he dropped the cloth on the floor, staring at Julius. The king made a comment to Corbus, and the assassin replied sharply. After a long pause in their conversation, Corbus spoke an affirmative and the king waved his hand dismissively.
Corbus turned his head to look at Julius, who was still recovering from the shock of seeing Halder decapitated before him. “You’re very lucky, Roman. The king wishes you to be a bargaining chip. I would rather kill you.” Hand caressing his sword hilt, he walked past Julius, then stopped right behind him and whispered in his ear, “You will not leave here alive.”
Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) Page 23
