Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (16 page)

Constantine looked around. Most of those still in the fight wore red uniforms. His bodyguards had made a decisive impact in this particular conflict. Unfortunately, they were also beginning to take some serious casualties. Although his men were better armed and armored, their horses were still vulnerable to attacks, and crazed or not, the Nortlanders were not stupid opponents. Constantine was forced to signal his men to fall back as his reserve cohort came to the rescue.

“Into the breach!” Constantine shouted at them. He recognized some of the faces.

“Commander Appius, sir! It’s us!” called one of the legionnaires, smiling at him from the far end of the rank. Constantine, unsure of protocol, acknowledged with a half wave, half salute. Centurion Gwendyrn passed as well, instructing his rear ranks to hit the enemy with a flurry of
plumbatae
fire.

“Do you happen to have any more of those
igniculum,
sir?” a nearby legionnaire asked.

Sheathing his sword, Constantine smiled at the banter and played along for a while. “No, there didn’t seem to be much use! Evidently they already go blind here just looking at the snow all the time.” The men laughed. “Get to it, men! Send them all to Hades!”

Their well-disciplined formation slammed into the gap in the line. Constantine saw men actually fly into the air as the wedge of shields plowed into the milling enemy. The shock of their arrival did more to break their opponents than the last few hours of combat had. Gwendyrn drove his men like a scythe, reaping men left and right with well-timed counter charges from his ranks, the legionnaires working together to isolate and kill Nortland berserkers.

Constantine saw one man pin a chain-axe, teeth whirring, to the ground with his
scutum
. The serrated teeth of the chain-axe gnawed at the legionnaire’s shield, leaving deep grooves in the tough metal and wood until its wielder collapsed under two quick jabs to the gut from another legionnaire. Turning quickly, the legionnaire raised his shield to block another attack, and the battle continued.

Constantine shouted encouragement at his men, until one of his bodyguards grabbed him, just a few ranks back from the front line. “Sir! You can’t be up this far; we can’t keep you safe!” Unsaid was the more obvious
You can’t play soldier when your job is to be a commander
.

Constantine nodded wordlessly and let himself be pulled back out of the fight. He mounted a borrowed horse. From the bloodstains on the saddle, its owner was not going to be looking for it anytime soon.

“Wow! Would you look at that!” shouted one of his men. Constantine looked across the battlefield.

The
mechaniphants
were charging. It was an amazing sight. Fifteen of the constructs were moving in a single wave through the enemy army. The sunlight glittered off their steel armor and the projectiles being launched into the Nortlanders. Two of them must have been armed with Greek fire launchers, as clay spheres exploded in fiery fury, coating everything around them in sticky, burning residue. Constantine nearly yanked his binoculars off his neck, trying to get a better look at the situation.

The Roman mechanical beasts were on a rampage. They spat fire and threw explosive bolts. Their heavy repeaters cut down waves of enemy infantry. The Roman line rallied, cheering the attack. The enemy panicked and ran, falling back while the Romans redressed their lines. Constantine told his men to hold back.
Orders are to remain here, but I wonder how long before Minnicus orders a general chase
.

He stared through the binoculars again, watching as the Nortlanders tried everything to take down the
mechaniphants
. Ostrichines, the bipedal mechanical mounts that formed the fast, tireless cavalry of the Roman army, were riding outrigger for the
mechaniphants,
and the small teams of men and machines worked together to shut down any serious, concentrated attempt before it became a successful effort.

A flash of light and an explosion pulled Constantine’s binoculars east. The front-most
mechaniphant
had been destroyed. “How’d they do that?” he murmured to himself. Something predatory and graceful climbed up on top of the destroyed machine and released a spine-chilling howl. Constantine could feel it in his gut, even from over an imperial mile away.
Mecha-wolves!

The wolf-like constructs raced into combat, their powerful jaws and claws ripping armor off the
mechaniphants
while nimbly dodging swinging tusks and articulated trunks. Constantine could see the life-and-death struggles between the
mechaniphant
’s crew and their attacker. Finally, another
mecha-wolf
climbed onto the back of the elephantine machine and swatted the crew out of their protected cupola before crushing the driver underfoot.

Constantine lowered his binoculars. This was not good. If the
mechaniphants
couldn’t stop the Nortland
mecha-wolves
, then the entire left flank attack would stall, and the battle could be lost. Even the heavy ballistae and heavy repeaters on the hill to their left seemed to pause for a moment, unsure about what to target.

A thought suddenly hit him. He grabbed the arm of a passing legionnaire. “Get up to those artillery pieces, and tell them to blanket the area right in front of the
mechaniphants
. We have to give them covering fire, make it suicide for any of those mecha-wolves to run through the heavy fire! I don’t care if there’s nothing there, the advance must continue.” The legionnaire nodded frantically, repeated the message, and ran off.
Hurry, hurry, hurry!
Constantine urged mentally.

A few minutes later, the artillery started up their fire again, this time doing just what their new commander wanted. With the first few
mechaniphants
destroyed, the remainder had paused to regroup. The artillery fire shot just short of them, trying to cover them as they prepared to resume the assault. The Nortlander infantry had fled before them, leaving the two sides’ war machines to duke it out.

Hmm, this time they’re in pairs instead of being strung out,
Constantine observed as the mecha-wolves resumed their attack upon their larger mechanical brethren.

A raucous cheer rose from the Roman lines as an exceptionally lucky ballista shot speared a
mecha-wolf
in midair, hurling it sideways. The construct landed on its companion, crushing it. Decorum forgotten, Constantine cheered along with his men. The
mechaniphants
moved to attack again, this time targeting their lupine-esque opponents with almost unerring skill, pinning them between their larger frames or hitting them with heavy repeater fire from afar.

A shout from his right caught Constantine’s attention. A messenger was approaching rapidly on horseback. The man gave a quick salute, fist over his heart, then handed him a scroll. Constantine unfurled it and quickly scanned the message. He felt his heart beginning to pound in his chest.

He turned to his subordinate. “Mobilize all our reserves and take five cohorts from the line. Tell the rest of the men to hold firm and spread out to fill the gaps. We’ll pick up the men as we march east,” he ordered. If the instructions confused the man, he gave no evidence as he quickly turned to send out runners to the correct cohorts.

Constantine turned back to the messenger. “You’re sure about this?” The man nodded, out of breath. “Very well, take this message to the VII Germania. They’ll need to assist us immediately. Beg, plead, whatever you need to do. Understand? Go!” The messenger galloped off again, mud and snow flying from his mount’s hooves.

“Why are we mobilizing a quarter of our remaining strength and pulling out of line, sir?” his subordinate, Hadrius, asked.

“It appears our general’s scouts didn’t test the ice on the right flank as well as we thought. The Nortlanders are coming across in droves and have attacked the IV Britannia. They were caught completely by surprise. We’ve got to help.”

“Isn’t that the job of the reserves?” Hadrius asked.

Constantine fixed him with an icy stare. “Hadrius, if I thought the reserve could get there in time, I wouldn’t be pulling out a quarter of our strength now, would I? But they won’t because they’re the slowest marchers, and I know that Commander Murtes will take the road instead of marching cross-country. And that will take just too damn long.” His tone permitted no further queries. Constantine looked to the right, where at the copse of trees and low hillocks hid the battle now developing off to the east. “Now get the men moving.”

Chapter 13

Graecus

C
ommander Lianus Graecus had lost
his helmet somewhere in the fighting. He leaned heavily on his shield, trying to gather his strength. In his heart, he knew what was about to happen.

The IV Britannia was about to die.

The Nortlanders had crossed the “thinly” iced river that Graecus had assumed would shield their position. His cohorts, strung out in an effort to monitor the enemy, had been attacked piecemeal, and great gaps had opened in his once solid line of soldiery.

He uttered several vehement curses at “
General”
Minnicus and his so-called scouts.
Curse that man. If I live long enough to get my hands on him . . . That imbecile probably doesn’t even know what’s happening. I wonder if his scouts even
looked
at this river.

The river, if it could be called that, had been nicknamed Little Viken because of its connection to the Viken River, a major west-east river that ran from the mountains of central Nortland to the sea.

“And he assured us it was frozen!” Graecus spat. His spittle was tinged red with blood. He could already feel the makings of a powerful bruise on his cheek, the result of a head butt some inventive Nortlander had tried to deliver. Graecus closed his eyes for a moment and saw in his mind’s eye the waves of barbarian tribesmen and berserkers crossing the river. He knew they were still down there, surging over its uncontested banks to overwhelm the entire right flank of the Roman army.

Although taken by surprise along both its flanks during the initial assault, the IV Britannia had held stubbornly, forcing the Nortlanders to overpower them with sheer numbers. Originally, the line of legionnaires had been assembled along the semi-frozen banks of the Little Viken, with the greatest concentration around the recently assembled bridge spanning the thin-iced river. The wooden bridge was wide enough to allow eight men to march abreast across the river, and represented both a possible attack route and a considerable death trap. Commander Graecus knew his business, and had positioned heavy repeaters and ballistae all along the river, even going so far as chopping down trees to build stable platforms and expand his firing lanes. The rest of the legion spread out from this strong central position.

Graecus had not anticipated needing to cover his flanks with a large force, and so his cohorts had been strung out along the river for about a mile and a half, which wound from southwest to northeast. His westernmost cohorts could communicate with the scout forces of the XIII Germania that occupied the ridge just over the river, while his easternmost ones were nearly into the great forestlands of Nortland.

The first indication that something was wrong came when a standard patrol failed to report in from the right flank. Graecus sent out a second, more heavily equipped patrol. Within an hour, they were back in camp, along with the remnants of five of his right flank cohorts. By then, it was already too late to counter the enemy incursions. The Nortlanders had already gained the southern bank of the Little Viken and were right on the heels of his heavily damaged cohorts.

The first half-hour of battle had been close, but surprise and numbers were on the Nortlanders’ side. They had pushed the Romans back all the way to the bridge, and his western flank was now under heavy attack, with the Nortlanders gaining the southern bank in half a dozen places.

Graecus had formed his line at a right angle. The cornerpiece of his defense was the recently dubbed “Fort Graecus”—a hastily built stronghold that blocked both the bridge and the riverbank. From this position his cohorts spread southward, trying to cover the length of the road that supplied them with reinforcements and supplies. His remaining cohorts were spread along the river to the west, trying to stop the mass of barbarians from surrounding his beleaguered legion.

Graecus stood on the dirt parapet of the fort that bore his name. His aide-de-camp and temporary standard-bearer, Kurlis Tritonis, stood next to him, his armor dented and bloodied, but still in one piece.
Damned teenager still has energy, and here I am feeling every one of my forty-six years.

“Kurlis, do you think any of our messages have gotten through?”

“I’d say there’s a good chance, sir. We did send most of them while we were sure of the road.”

“And you took care of the senatora?” Regardless of the outcome here, Graecus did not want to be responsible for the death of a Roman senator.
Female or not, she’s still one of the sharpest politicians I’ve ever met. And I’ve met many.

“Yes, sir, I sent her south about an hour ago with her bodyguards and an entire cohort. They’re under orders to get her to safety no matter what. I’m sure they’ll make it, sir.”

“You’re forever optimistic,
Signifer
. Now, if you please, raise our Eagle high so that the enemy may know where to spend their lives.” His aide hoisted the gilded golden eagle, sign of the legions of Rome for nearly two thousand years, up into the air. His legionnaires cheered as the howl of the Nortlanders rang again from the snow-covered forests, and their enemy charged into battle.