Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (19 page)

Julius thought for a moment. “Allies, or distraction?”

“How far do you trust them?” Scipio asked.

“Hey, Romans! Stop speaking southern language, you sound like dumb birds!” came the garbled mish-mash of Latin words from the Nortlanders across the passageway. Julius, who had been required to learn a few words of the Norse language, shouted back a curse. A thrown bucket full of feces was the only response. Fortunately it clattered to the floor outside the cell.

“What did you call them?” Scipio asked.

“I told them something about unnatural things their moms did to themselves.” He gave a snarky smile. Scipio laughed.

“So I suppose we can’t really count on their help?”

“I would be shocked if it was offered. Plus they’ve been so nice to me that it probably would hurt us to actually release them. Maybe we’ll simply let them fight the Nortlanders after we leave!”

Julius fell quiet for a few minutes. “Well . . . I know I want to escape, but I don’t want to leave behind all those slaves. It’s our duty to rescue them. Especially the Roman ones.”

Scipio shook his head. “We’ll travel faster with just the two of us. We can avoid patrols and slip out quietly. If we can get ahold of some uniforms, we can probably bluff our way out to the wall. Once we’re out there, anything can be done. But with hundreds of slaves?” again Scipio shook his head. “It’s simply not possible. You don’t know how many there are, or even where they are! Sir, I think we need to go alone.”

“I’ll think about it, legionnaire. But if I’m going to escape, I’ll do it as a Roman, on my terms.”

Scipio spoke passionately. “Sir, it’s all about this chance we’re taking. The odds are so much better when it’s just us. Listen to reason! Would you rather be a dead Roman or a live Roman? If you want to stay alive, you’ll have to do it my way.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but this is about me—I have to help these people. And that is my final order. Can you follow it, soldier?” Julius stared the man down.

Scipio’s eyes sparked with defiance for a moment, but then the fire went out, and he sighed heavily. “I’m fairly certain I’m going to regret it, but we’ll do it your way, sir.”

“Alright, here’s my plan . . .”

Chapter 16

Constantine

“W
hat the Hades do you
mean, missing?” Constantine yelled at the assembled scouts. “Find the senatora. NOW!” He felt his blood boiling over with anger, frustration, madness, and perhaps, fear.
Where is she?
He stood in the ad hoc command post that he’d established here on the right flank of the expeditionary force. The tattered banners of the IV Britannia fluttered in the wind, and many of his soldiers were busy burying the remains of the decimated legion.

Another scout approached. Constantine felt a vague flicker of hope as he watched the messenger pick his way through the carnage.
I will not be disappointed, like last time.
Every scout and message had conjured the same flicker, only to be dashed with more bad news.

The magnitude of destruction inflicted upon the IV Britannia was probably going to shake the expedition to the core. Nearly six thousand men, dead or wounded or missing, in the span of one afternoon.
All because of some completely idiotic scouting and horrible positioning and maneuvering
. That somewhere around twelve to thirteen thousand Nortland barbarians had died as well did nothing to assuage the loss of an entire legion. Constantine clenched his fist.
As primus imperio, I will have vengeance on the person responsible for this disaster, I swear it.

And I know exactly where to start.

His aide, Hadrius Regis, intercepted the messenger and accepted a package. He opened it and his face paled. Constantine watched this, feeling the familiar sinking feeling in his heart.

“What news, Hadrius?”

The man turned and walked slowly to his commander. “I’m so sorry, sir.” He knelt and proffered the purple sash of a senator of Rome.

Constantine lifted it with shaking hands.
It’s the cold, not my anger,
he told himself over and over again. He gently folded the purple silk and tucked it into one of his many belt pouches—one he made sure was clean and empty. “Did you find a body?” he asked the messenger.

“No sir, but you’ll want to come and get a look at this.”

Constantine and his escort rode south, passing mounds of corpses, the red- and brown-garbed victims of the series of running battles that had consumed the entire right side of the army. The stillness of the forest had returned with the retreat of the Nortlanders. After their pyrrhic victory over the IV Britannia, the barbarians had been unprepared for the pincer assaults of the Germania legions. Struck from two different directions, the Nortland attackers had fled back to their own lines; those who were unable to escape had been slaughtered.

No one had felt the need to offer mercy.

The scout pulled up at a point only a mile or so from the main Viken River and the original reserve position. “We found it in these woods. But before we go there, look here.” The scout pointed to the remains of a small battle in the midst of a field.

“Why would the centurion fight here? This is horrible ground to defend. Too open,” Hadrius Regis stated.

“We think he was trying to protect the senatora. You see the tracks?” The scout dismounted and squatted next to a series of large footprints partially melted in the snow. “These look like the tracks of a
mecha-wolf
, and you can see here how they go right through the escort.” He walked around, pointing out further evidence of the mechanical war machines of the north. Here, a man with his entire head crushed by the swipe of a metal paw. There, a mangled piece of armor, probably from a lucky
pilum
or
igniculum
strike.

“Now sir, I think the
mecha-wolves
brought riders, because a lot of these wounds are typical of ones we’ve seen this far north. Plus, there are some Nortland casualties among the dead.” The man remounted his horse. “Follow me, sir,” he said again as he adjusted the reins and galloped forward, tossing up snow in his wake.

Constantine and his party followed the man into the woods. At first, Constantine could see little evidence of battle.

“You’ll want to dismount, sir, and see this yourself,” the scout said.

As he dismounted, Constantine asked the scout’s name.

“Legionnaire Auxilius Lucianus, sir. From Copendrium. Well, actually, from the farms outside.” The man smiled at his commander’s interest.

“Well, Legionnaire Auxilius, I feel the day you drop that ‘auxilius’ title and become a Roman citizen cannot be too far off. You’ve already demonstrated remarkable skill. Lead on.”

The man nodded. “I found this, here. It looks like somebody really put up a good fight.”

Constantine’s escort exclaimed loudly and several swore at the massive, leering head of a
mecha-wolf
looming above them in the forest gloom. It was caught between two branches, staring downward with its mouth half open. The rest of the body was behind it, legs splayed and chest driven open. Scorch marks and burnt wood gave testament to the power that had killed the war beast.

Lucianus gestured to his commander. “We found him here. He’s got the markings of a bodyguard. Looks like he took out the
mecha-wolf
singlehandedly.”

The dead bodyguard was missing most of his left side, but his trappings and medals identified him as a member of the Praetorian Guard, one of only a few assigned to the expedition. Of the handful assigned, they had been divided among the leading officers, General Minnicus, Air-Admiral Polentio, and the senatora. As he’d been a regular tribune at the outset of the expedition, Constantine had not been granted any.

You did your job. Thank you for giving your life for the senatora,
Constantine thought to the dead man, then whispered a brief prayer to the gods on his behalf.
Be at peace, we shall finish your job
.

The scout’s voice broke his reverie. “Sir, here’s where we found the sash.”

Constantine followed the voice, his bodyguards loosely pacing him at a distance. The scout stood in a blood-splashed clearing. The remains of two other bodyguards sprawled in gruesome positions.

“Do you think she survived?” Constantine asked at once.

“Well, they didn’t leave her body. I would bet they captured her, only because they would have probably been more eager to display her death to us than just the death of her guards.”

Constantine nodded. He heard someone retching nosily behind him at the grisly scene. “We need to get their identifiers and bury them. Their families should know they died defending a senator of Rome.”

The scout used a stick to sort through the remains of the bodyguards’ naked, decapitated bodies, finally locating the metal rings used to identify name and hometown. “Got them, sir.”

“Then get me a shovel.”

Some time later, Constantine and his party returned to camp. He gave terse orders, then retired to his command post for a while. As his under-officers organized the withdrawal of the XIII Germania detachment, Constantine read through the dispatches that had come in during his absence. Most came from General Minnicus, at times demanding his return to his legion, at others ordering him to charge forth to “hunt the bastards down.“ Constantine tossed them aside.
We’ll return to our posts and let Murtes and the VII Germania stay here among the dead and lost
.

Within the hour, the XIII Germania had pulled out, and watched as the green and fresh troops of the VII filed in behind them. Just before he left, another messenger threaded his way into Constantine’s command section. “Sir, you asked us to look into the ice? About how it was not supposed to be frozen?” Constantine nodded gruffly. “Well, sir, it’s been painted.”

“What?” Constantine said in disbelief.

“Someone painted a ton of cracks on the ice. They look good from a distance, but if you actually go and put your weight out on one, it’s as solid as rock.”

“So . . . in your assessment, could an army cross that river without harm?” Constantine asked.

“I think we already have the answer to that question, sir. Yes. And if I may say so, sir, somebody screwed up. Big time.”

Constantine dismissed the soldier and turned to leave, then paused with a sudden idea. “Wait, legionnaire. Come here.” He gave a brief flurry of instructions to the bewildered legionnaire, who nodded dumbly and walked away.

Hadrius Regis, who stood off to one side, asked, “Are you planning something, sir?”

Constantine lifted an eyebrow. “I’m always planning something. Now let’s get going.”

The short northern day was drawing to a close as the long shadows of Constantine and his command party approached the temporary headquarters of General Minnicus. The short ride from the XIII Germania’s fort to the smaller headquarters had only taken a quarter-hour, but Constantine could feel the chill through his thick layers of clothing and armor padding. The poor under-officer who waved him into the entry gate looked half frozen in his resplendent armor, and Constantine felt sorry for him.

The command section
castrum
, or camp, was about half the size of a standard legionnaire fort and was defended by a double palisade rather than the single palisade that guarded the standard
castrum
. The short ride along the slushy streets ended in the central open forum, which was full of horses tethered to hitching posts, and various groups of bodyguards and messengers.

We must be the last ones here
. Constantine thought as he dismounted. His
nova caligae
slid slightly on the muddy ground as he made his way into the large command tent. It dwarfed the standard-size canvas structures on either side, requiring two large center posts to support its grand shape.

Constantine was immediately grateful for the many braziers warming the tent’s interior. In the middle of the tent a small, chugging steam engine seemed to be heating a vast bowl of liquid.

“Ah, Commander Appius, welcome, welcome. Please, come join us here.” The general stood at the rear of the command tent with the other commanders, all clustered around a command table. “Grab a drink from the
caldornax.
” He gestured to the strange-looking machine. “It guarantees a piping hot drink or food whenever you want!” the general exclaimed.

Must be a recent invention. I didn’t even know these things existed. But “hot oven” is a great name for it.
Constantine poured himself a cup of hot spiced wine and walked over to the table, appreciating the heat that seeped from the drink-warmed cup through his gauntlets to his hands. The first sip scalded his tongue, and also jolted him awake.

“Gentlemen, please apprise yourselves of the situation. As you can see, I have withdrawn the remnants of the IV Britannia to our reserve area. As of this moment, I have rated them non-combat ready. I have placed one of my officers in temporary command until I can sort out which of the remaining centurions has enough experience to lead the legion,” the general said in his gravelly voice, like a millstone churning away. It belied the quick political mind behind the voice.
Probably lulls some people into distraction, too,
Constantine thought.

Commander Murtes of the VII Germania piped up. “Sir, would it be more prudent to place one of your officers in command, rather than promote from within? Obviously, we need a steady hand at the helm.”

The general turned and smiled at him as though the idea had never crossed his mind.
That’s an odd move for Murtes to make,
Constantine thought as Minnicus “acquiesced” to the idea of leaving one of his flunkies in command.
Of course, the command comprises about half a dozen banged-up, cobbled together cohorts. Nothing threatening.

“Now that this has been taken care of, I’d like to move on to our latest tactical assessment.” Minnicus nodded to one of his aides, and the man placed a map card into the terrain machine and wound a crank. The machine hummed slightly with each crank, and the flat table surface began to move. Large chunks of the map shot up, the thin cylinders of aluminum forming a tall mountain range that ran almost the entire length of the “northern” side of the board. The Viken River ran from the western side of the map and exited out to the southeast. Blobs of forests, lakes, and smaller rivers completed the shining metallic terrain.