Swords & Steam Short Stories

by S. T. Joshi

  “But sir,” Varus said. “Shouldn’t we call them forward?”

  The centurion shook his head. “We’re within the barbarians’ javelin range. The river would be clogged with their corpses before they reached us.”

  As Quintonius watched, more Celts emerged from the trees. Whatever tactical advantage he’d gained by showing the war-walker was rapidly disappearing. The barbarians were losing their initial fear of the iron monster. Twenty warriors became forty. Forty became a hundred. A hundred became two.

  The Celts issued a thundering war cry, a rising scream more animal than human.

  “Sir!” Titus grabbed his commander by the shoulder, pointing south.

  Quintonius cursed. “What is that damned idiot doing?”

  Galvinius had ordered a charge. The forty legionnaires were all in the river, wading towards the immobilized walker. Already knee deep in the water, they were rapidly pushing forward.

  “Sound a retreat!” Quintonius ordered. “Get them back on that bank!”

  Titus blew two short blasts. When the men didn’t listen, he blew the signal again. Quintonius snatched a javelin from the walker’s weapon rack and threw it, striking the river a few steps from Galvinius. The charging legionnaire drew up short.

  “Get those men back!” Quintonius shouted. For emphasis, Titus sounded retreat a third time. In a tangled jumble of men, shields, and spears, the legionnaires reversed their charge, climbing out of the river and re-forming on the southern bank.

  Stupid, Quintonius thought. Stringing the legionnaires across the river would only nullify their fighting strength. The Celts would have picked them off easily. Galvinius should have seen that. More importantly, he should have obeyed orders. Like Titus’ insubordination, it was a breach of discipline that would have to be addressed.

  If we survive.

  A Celt’s javelin struck the hull of the walker with a sharp, metallic ring. Quintonius spun. While his attention was focused on his own men, a dozen of the barbarians had made their way to the edge of the water. They took turns posturing for their comrades, raising their weapons overhead and shouting. Each time, they were met with a thunderous cheer. Their armored chieftain stood by the trees, looking on.

  Quintonius unfastened his shield from its stowage hook on the gunwale. He passed it to Titus. “Cover Varus while he works. Quickly!”

  No sooner had he spoken than another javelin streaked overhead. It clattered off the rear quarter of the walker. Titus took position, holding his shield up and at an angle over himself and the engineer. On the riverbank, the Celts jeered and taunted. Quintonius ducked low, reaching for another shield. He brought it up barely in time.

  Javelins rained on them, striking shield, deck, and hull. The Celts cheered wildly every time one of the missiles hit home. Dozens of them struck, their metal tips clanging against the walker’s iron hull. At last, after what seemed like minutes, the barrage tapered off. Quintonius lifted his head to peek at the shore.

  Three of the Celts had gotten brave. They were in the river, wading towards the walker while their comrades took up the rhythm of a savage battle song. Quintonius dropped his shield. He seized the remaining pair of javelins from the weapon rack. He took aim at the Celt in the lead, a man still twenty yards distant and waist-deep in water. He waited for the natural swing of the man’s arms to carry his shield just a hand’s-breadth to the left. Then he made his throw.

  It was an expert cast, and the javelin stuck the warrior’s painted chest just beside the sternum. The force of the impact knocked him down, and he floundered in the river attempting to get his feet back under him. Then he went still, the water around him turning red before gently carrying him away.

  Quintonius didn’t waste a moment. He lined up his shot at the next man. Again, he timed it to the natural swing of the warrior’s arms. But the Celt brought his shield back up, catching the javelin on its face. The warriors on the riverbank cheered. The Celt brought the shaft of his spear down across his shield, neatly snapping Quintonius’ javelin off at the head. The useless shaft swirled in the river for a second, seeming to pause in place. Then it followed the dead barbarian downstream.

  Quintonius glanced at the weapons rack. There were still three of the heavy pila spears, the legionnaire’s famous primary weapon, but they were only suitable for fighting in close formation. They were next to useless for throwing.

  Titus lowered his shield and looked to his commander. “Sir?”

  “Keep protecting Varus,” Quintonius ordered. “If he falls we’re dead for sure.” He took up one of the pila and prepared to repel boarders.

  The lead warrior was much closer now, less than five yards away. The water was up to his upper chest. He held the spear and the shield overhead, keeping them dry. At last he reached the left front leg of the walker. Quintonius leaned against the gunwale, the pilum resting easy in his right hand.

  The Celt worked his shield over one forearm to free his hand. He gripped the walker’s leg. Quintonius waited for him to begin hauling himself upward. Then he drove the pilum into the warrior’s face. The tip erupted out the back of the man’s neck, and he spasmed and jerked before falling sideways. As his body sagged the pilum was ripped from Quintonius’ grip.

  Shit, he thought. The way things were going they’d be unarmed soon. And then …

  And then you’ll go down in history alongside your father. Quintonius, son of Simonius. The second generation of his family to lose a standard in battle.

  Once again, he glanced at the banner flapping on the walker’s bow. He’d nearly left it at the rear, with the men who’d remained as part Caesar’s main body. But a desire to escape the stigma of his father’s dishonor had compelled him to bring it, the only one of the scouting detachments to do so. If a Roman force was going to cross the Tamesis today, he’d thought, then let it be his century’s colors planted in the barbarians’ soil. Let the history books remember his name.

  Stupid, he thought. It was nothing but stupid pride and a hunger to prove he wasn’t his father. Now that stupidity had all but guaranteed he’d be forced to fall on his sword, sealing his legacy as Simonius’ son forever.

  He reached for another pilum.

  The last Celt to reach the walker was smarter. He attempted to stab upward with his spear rather than immediately dropping his shield. But the barbarian was still fighting from an inferior position, on unsure footing and struggling with the river’s current. Quintonius sparred back and forth with the man, easily faking, thrusting, and blocking with the shaft of his pilum.

  At last, he saw his opening. He delivered a solid thrust that pierced the man’s shoulder at an angle. The pilum grated against bone, a satisfying shudder travelling up the shaft into Quintonius’ hands. The Celt screamed and clutched at the weapon, his own spear drifting away on the river’s current. The centurion leaned over the gunwale, driving his weight downward and pushing the pilum deeper into the man’s body.

  The warrior’s scream abruptly cut off. Quintonius released the pilum, and the dead barbarian floated downstream after his friends.

  “Varus, status report.”

  The engineer threw a mangled section of pipe over the side. “It’s still not looking good, sir.”

  “It’s going to look worse when they’re bearing our heads back to their hill-forts. Get this machine working.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Quintonius watched the barbarians. They were still chanting war cries, still cheering the few that postured in front of the main line. He had seen similar displays in Gaul. The Celts had certain war rituals, intended to prove individual courage and prowess. They would send champions forward to engage in single combat before the battle. That was why the javelin barrage had stopped. It gave the three warriors a chance to approach alone, to test themselves before their peers. It was a game. The next step – once they tired of this display – would be a wave of screami
ng barbarians, one that would swallow the walker’s crew before crushing Galvinius’ men on the south bank. He envisioned the Celts then marching south to Caesar’s line, carrying the torn and soiled battle standard with them.

  He needed more time. He needed a way to delay the enemy’s charge as long as possible.

  Quintonius had a mad thought, then. To forestall the charge, one could always prolong the game.

  “Engineer Varus,” he said. “If you get this machine working again, reverse course and bring our colors back to Galvinius’ line. Do not let it fall into enemy hands. Am I understood?”

  It was Titus who spoke. “What are you going to do, sir?”

  “I’m going to try the barbarians’ style of warfare.”

  Quintonius doffed his helmet. He shrugged out of his mail armor and tunic, leaving only a pair of linen breeches. He reached into the space Varus was working, gathering some machine grease on his fingers. He used it to draw rough symbols on his chest. They were completely meaningless, but the intent wasn’t to gain mystical protection, or courage, or whatever else these barbarians believed the woad-symbols did.

  It was to issue a challenge. One that would easily cross the language barrier.

  Quintonius stood on the bow of the war-walker. He drew his gladius and held it high, and did his best to mimic the wild-animal war cry of the Celts.

  Several of the warriors on shore laughed. A few threw javelins. Quintonius stood firm, forcing himself not to flinch as they whistled close. One nicked the side of his face, white-hot pain searing its way up his cheek.

  Quintonius pointed his gladius at the armored chieftain. Once again, he issued the war cry. Then he jumped into the river.

  The cold water hit him like a wall. Quintonius gasped at the sudden shock, and as soon as his feet found purchase he began to work towards the shore. The flow of the Tamesis threatened to carry him away, to sweep his legs out from under him and deposit him downstream among the dead. He forged on, fighting the current, planting his feet, and pulling himself ever closer to the northern bank.

  In Gaul, Quintonius had been present for the torture of a druid. He learned the Celts had no fear of death. They believed it was always nearby, that the veil between the Earth and the otherworld was thin. He dismissed it as barbarian superstition at the time. But now, charging the enemy alone and unarmored, he saw why they believed it. For the barbarians it was true. This was battle as they knew it. Not shield walls and formations, but the mad rush to the enemy’s spear points.

  Quintonius embraced it wholly.

  The water was below his waist now, the river’s current a gentle tug at his legs. Another of the Celts had waded into the shallows to meet him. Not the chieftain, but another of the woad-painted champions. The Celt drove forward, thrusting with his spear.

  Quintonius knocked the strike aside with his gladius. He closed, grabbing the top rim of the barbarian’s shield and pulling it downward. The Celt tried to hit him with the shaft of his spear, but Quintonius was too close for the blow to have any power. He drove his gladius into the man’s unprotected breast, angling the blade so it slipped between the ribs just above the heart.

  The Celt was dead before Quintonius pulled his sword free.

  The warriors on the shore fell silent. Whether from shock or respect for the dead man, Quintonius couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. He pointed at the chieftain, seizing the opportunity to be heard.

  “You!” he shouted. Quintonius’ command of the barbarian tongue was awful. But like any soldier, he’d learned a handful of the more colorful phrases. “Sugh mo bhod! Soith!” He uttered a few more, throwing out half-remembered words for ‘mother’, ‘whore’, and ‘goat’.

  Like his approximation of the woad-paint and the mimicking of their war cries, he knew the meaning would transcend his butchery of the language.

  It was only a moment before he saw the effect he was hoping for. Several of the warriors looked away from him, and instead looked to their chieftain.

  The armored man stood silently for a moment. Then he handed off his shield. He walked down from the break in the trees. As he came he removed his helmet and his mail shirt, tossing them aside for retainers to pick up. All around him, the barbarians beat their shields, howled their war cries, and cheered. The warriors at the water’s edged parted for him, and he waded into the river.

  As the chieftain stood before him, Quintonius finally got the full measure of the man. He stood nearly a head taller than the centurion. The Celt was strawberry-haired and heavily built, with streaks of gray beginning to show in his hair and moustache. Old and new scars crisscrossed his body. Like the other warriors before him, the man’s torso and face were covered in woad paint. His long sword rested in his right hand, the blade nearly a forearm’s length longer than Quintonius’ gladius.

  Quintonius studied that blade. It was an advantage for the Celt. One he needed to negate if he were going to buy Varus more time.

  He had a flash of inspiration then. It was a long shot. But if it worked …

  He waited until the Celt got within a few paces of him. Then he tossed his gladius away. He kept his eyes on the barbarian, not bothering to look where his weapon landed. He spread his arms and smiled.

  The Celt stopped. His eyes narrowed as he studied Quintonius, and they burned with a barely contained rage.

  Quintonius’ grin widened. From what he knew of the barbarians’ social rules, cutting down an unarmed man wouldn’t prove the chieftain’s courage or recover his honor. Even in death, Quintonius would have unmanned him in front of his people. If the chieftain wanted to save face, he only had one choice left to make.

  The Celt, to his credit, managed to insult Quintonius in the civilized tongue. “Roman dog.” Then he drove the point of his sword into the river muck.

  The centurion’s satisfaction was short lived. With a sudden violence the Celt exploded forward, battering Quintonius with both his massive forearms. He swung them like clubs, landing powerful blows on Quintonius’ head and shoulders. The centurion staggered under their force, maneuvering and covering. He tried to find an opening to counterattack, but it was all he could do to cover and roll with the strikes.

  He disengaged just long enough to risk a glance at the stranded walker. Varus still worked feverishly. Titus still protected him. The battle standard still waved.

  Come on, damn it!

  The next time the Celt landed a blow, his hands snaked around Quintonius’ head. Quintonius drove two hard punches into the man’s midsection, but it was no more effective than hitting a stone wall. The barbarian heaved, jerking Quintonius off his feet and plunging him beneath the waist-deep water. Massive hands found his throat. They closed in an iron grip and began to squeeze. Quintonius tried to kick, to claw, but nothing had any effect. The barbarian drove a knee into his chest, forcing the air from his lungs in an eruption of murky bubbles.

  Then Quintonius heard a rumbling, churning sound in the water. The Celt’s grip slackened. Quintonius took advantage, slipping free and biting the first section of flesh his mouth touched. He wrenched back and forth, tearing skin and tasting blood.

  When the centurion broke the surface he saw two things. The first was the war-walker, with Varus at the helm, plodding towards the Celtic line. The second was that the Celt no longer stood between Quintonius and the sword he’d driven into the river muck.

  With a desperate cry, Quintonius dove for the weapon. The chieftain saw what he was doing and followed, but a split-second too late. Quintonius reached the sword first. He drew the weapon and spun, aiming a slash at the barbarian’s neck. Iron connected with flesh, then bone. The Celt staggered and fell, his head rolling from his shoulders.

  Quintonius did not pause. He spun to meet the next opponent from the barbarian side. But there was none. Once again, the sight of Rome’s steam-powered monster had set them running. Woad-painted men fled into the trees
, shouting oaths and curses in their Gaelic tongue.

  Titus blew a single long blast from the walker’s trumpet, the signal to charge. On the south bank Galvinius led the men into the river. It was another breach of discipline. But one the centurion just might decide to overlook, under the circumstances.

  With an exhausted sigh, Quintonius fished the chieftain’s head from the water. Caesar would no doubt see it as a useful tool for quelling further resistance. He’d present it to the General personally when the main force arrived. But first, he had to get to that break in the fir trees.

  It would be the perfect place for the son of Simonius to plant his battle standard.

  Fire to Set the Blood

  Jennifer Dornan-Fish

  Brodie, CA 1853

  Naja pushed aside the greasy blanket that hung over the doorway. The dim hall reeked of piss and sawdust. She tried not to let her medical bag brush against the peeling red wallpaper.

  “This way, ma’am.” The young man eyed Naja with clear suspicion. He led her through the old mine offices now taken over by his family of squatters. He held up his oil lamp to make sure she was keeping up as he ducked into a cramped room.

  Naja gasped.

  The girl on the cot was worse than she expected, nothing but bird bones held together by parchment flesh.

  With practiced efficiency she set down her bag and pulled out what she would need – stethoscope, lancets, thermometer.

  The man hovered, confused. “Thought you was a witch.”

  “I am, but I’m also a doctor. I need to make sure she isn’t just sick.”

  “She fell feverish the same time as all the other kids. Hasn’t moved since.”

  “Hum,” Naja acknowledged softly. She’d just come from Linton Manor where both of the Linton girls were similarly ill. Far as Naja could tell, every single child in the town of Brodie, rich as the Lintons or poor as this girl, had fallen to the fever at the exact same moment.