Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (2 page)

“I disagreed with this location to begin with, Verlus,” the senatora was saying to one of the other men in the room. “We are too exposed here, and now whomever that man reports to has a good idea of our capabilities.”

Julius dismissed her.
Typical politician
.
I wonder why she is really joining our expedition.

“Don’t be such a worry wart, Octavia,” grumbled Admiral Verlus Tritonus. “He couldn’t have heard much with that racket out there, and even if he did, he could have gathered the same information by simply standing in a church steeple with a spyglass near the airfield and having a good sense of numbers.”

Rising, he walked over to the refreshments table with a slight rolling gait that spoke of a hidden leg prosthesis. Julius remembered watching his father walk much the same way, less than a year ago. “Besides, they now obviously think we’ll all be traveling by air. As though we could move four legions by airpower alone!” He took a long drink of red wine from his glass. “Those airships just aren’t designed for it—yet. In the meantime, we’ll have to use my good old-fashioned sailing ships.” He smiled at the other officers. “You ever ridden on an actual sailing ship?”

Julius shook his head, while the tribune nodded, looking confident and calm.

“Well then, you’re in for a surprise, lad,” Verlus assured Julius. “I’ve kept my North Sea fleet just out of visual range from the shore. They’ll move in at night, sometime later this week, load up with the bulk of our forces, and ship out toward Sundsvall. With luck, we’ll be there within a week or so. Your air legion will travel with the air fleet, and take the port at Sundsvall. This harbor will be the cornerstone of our supply line.”

Julius raised an eyebrow. Taking a port by air in the middle of a Nortland winter? He shivered with anticipation. Or was it anticipation of the cold?

“I won’t bore you with the trivialities now,” Admiral Tritonus continued. “Details will be forthcoming at the official briefing.” He poured more of the dark red liquid into another goblet and offered it to Julius. “To victory.”

Julius accepted the glass, and the other men in the room moved in. The senatora remained to one side. Cool dark eyes surveyed the men as they lifted their goblets in a toast.

“No,” Julius said. The others looked at him. “Our goal isn’t victory. Victory isn’t good enough for my family, my neighbors, and the city of Brittenburg.” His knuckles whitened as he clenched the goblet and raised it high. “To retribution.”

The other men in the room, all officers who had seen their share of war and bloodshed, nodded solemnly.

“Retribution!”

Chapter 2

Constantine

R
ubbing his temples, Constantine grimaced
at another pounding headache.
This is the third time this week. I’ve got to lay off the wine.
The clamor and noise of the dockyard were not helping any, nor was the lack of sleep. He paused and pulled his helmet back onto his head, leaving the clasp unhooked. He looked around at the large forecastles crowding his view; there were at least thirty galleons filling the harbor. Farther out, like ghosts hovering in the light fog that seemed to blanket the northern sea, more naval ships awaited their turn at the docks. Looking down at the sheaf of notes and requisition orders in front of him, Constantine felt his headache throb.
Can’t being the heir to the throne get me out of supply duty?

It was quite a lot for a twenty-two-year-old, heir to Imperial Rome or not, to handle. He could feel the exaggerated patience of his scribe, Ulysus Hadrix, next to him. The man was both a godsend and possibly the cursed spawn of whichever god governed the realm of paperwork.

“Headache again, sir?” Hadrix asked. Nodding, the tribune numbly thrust his papers at the scribe. The sandy-haired man found a clip in one of his many pockets and snapped the orders together. He gingerly placed them into one of many open files, careful not to smudge the cheap ink on the documents. “That looks to be the last one for the moment, sir.”

“Excellent.” Constantine rose from his chair and stretched. His muscles were tense from hunching over the desk for the last few hours. He yawned and looked at the clock. “Noon already? I’m starved. I’ll be at the officers’ mess, if you need me.” Hadrix nodded.

That man must eat paper,
Constantine thought as he escaped the office and walked down the winding cobblestone street toward the harbor. The shipyard office lay at the top of a low rise, providing an excellent view of the shipbuilding and repair facilities of the main naval base for the Empire here on the Mare Balticum.
Look at the might of our fleet. Look at the technology at our fingertips.
A staunch pride in his nation, his people, briefly overcame the hunger beginning to gnaw at his stomach.
Those northern brutes still eat meat raw, from what I hear. Especially during the winter. At least we live in something better than huts to ward off these Baltic winters.

Yet that hadn’t stopped them from thoroughly demolishing Brittenburg, a major industrial powerhouse, just a few months ago.

Phah, they had help. Romans fighting Romans, with the Nortlanders acting like buzzards circling a dying animal.

Chuckling, he waved a hand at the sentries he passed at the security gate, recognizing them as men from the IV Britannia, their red hair giving away their ethnic heritage. He walked out of the compound and onto streets now crowded with lunchtime traffic, reveling in the freedom he felt as an officer rather than as a royal.
If I tried this in Rome, Father would have so many guards around me I wouldn’t even be able to walk!

Suddenly, however, he felt as if someone were staring at him, and nearly missed a step as he thought about what to do. Rounding a corner, he unobtrusively paused by the side of a restaurant and knelt, fumbling with his bootlaces while he looked around. Sure enough, two men walked quickly around the corner, trying hard not to look at anyone in particular.

Constantine rose, pulling his knife from his utility belt. “So, gentlemen, what is your interest in me?” he said as he studied them. His eyes narrowed in recognition and flew from the familiar tunic and trousers to their faces. “Alair? Paulus? What are you doing following me? Did the centurion put you up to this?” Anger crept into his voice.

The men looked flustered, embarrassment coloring their cheeks. Paulus’s freckles darkened as well, and he bit down on his lip.

Alair, the taller of the men, spoke. “We’re sorry, sir. The centurion stated that you were not to be left on your own in the city. He also said to say the following if you did catch us.” He screwed up his face, trying hard to remember. “Something about your father . . . ?” he mumbled sheepishly.

“It was ‘His father would kill the entire regiment if something happened to the tribune, so that snobby aristocrat will just have to deal with an escort,’” Paulus interjected, the joy at remembering the words suddenly shattered by the realization that he had just referred to the heir to the Imperial throne, the second most important person in the Empire, as a snob. “Er . . .”

Constantine assumed his coldest glare, and directed it at the two soldiers. They cringed, expecting a full chewing-out. “Well, I hope you gentlemen enjoy standing outside all day long.” He turned abruptly and left the legionnaires staring after him, mouths sagging.

Constantine was almost to the next block before the legionnaires recovered and scrambled to catch up to their commanding officer. Constantine ignored them.
I understand why they are here, but I don’t need them. These are my people; I haven’t seen any glares recently.
An older man passed by, saw the uniform, and gave him a nasty look.
Scratch that.

As he wandered the streets, his mind turned to Senatora Pelia. As a member of the royal family, Constantine had been in the Senate or at official functions with senators, but had only briefly met the senatora once before their meeting the other night.
I remember that war. It almost got so bad at one point that we were about to be sent away. Father at least knew he wasn’t a great general, but some of those “soldiers” from the war ministry should never have been given command. Father simply owed too many favors to too many powerful families to keep them all out of battle. I wonder what she thinks about our family? I suppose . . . we could be the ones to blame for her father’s death.

He grimaced at the thought as he stopped at a street corner for a motortrolley to roll by, then a small knot of cavalry officers on their mechanical ostrichines, ungainly-looking metal birds that nonetheless could outrace a trained stallion. He crossed the road, eyes on the overcast sky, with his sheep-herders (as he liked to think of them) following at a respectful distance.

They arrived at the administration building just as a light drizzle began to fall. Adjusting the segmented steel plates of his
lorica
over his shoulders, Constantine turned to the men following him. “You’ll have to stay outside, men. Officers only in the administration building.” He grinned evilly. They all knew this wasn’t true, but the tribune knew they would follow the direct order.

Sighing, the men looked around for somewhere to huddle and ward off the cool fall rain. They looked enviously at the governor’s palace guards across the plaza, hunkered down under the small gatehouse roof.

Leaving them behind, Constantine pushed open the double doors and walked inside, his boots echoing on the large entry hall’s marble floor. Gray light filtered through lofty skylights to wash over gilded ceilings and finely carved columns. The administration building was the beating heart of the Imperial presence here in Copendrium, and the opulence of the building contrasted with its utilitarian purpose. Clerks pushed carts loaded with packages and paperwork. Servants studiously cleaned busts of famous figures as some of the most powerful men in the city strolled down the hallways, their assistants scurrying in their wake.

Constantine hesitated as delicious smells coming from the room to the right teased at his nose. Like a magnet to a lodestone, his body followed the smell of roast beef, grilled onions, and other delicious things into the cafeteria. Faced by the realization that they needed to offer food to their workers or they would lose hours of productivity, the bureaucracy had caved and begun installing cafeterias to feed their masses of workers. Of course, some cafeterias were nicer than others.

A doorman greeted him as he walked through the glass-paneled wooden doors, taking his cloak and proffering a small metal tag in exchange. Tucking the check tag into his pocket, Constantine took a few steps into the room and paused, examining the occupants with a critical eye.

By the window sat a pair of men in perfectly starched legionnaire uniforms and gleaming black boots.
Officers, probably attached to the III Cimbrian; I don’t think a local guardsman would dare wear those boots.
According to ancient tradition, the Cimbrians wore black leather boots instead of the standard-issue brown. Only they remembered the reasons why.

His arrival had not gone unnoticed. Constantine heard the whispers cross the room like ripples on a pond at his entrance. He registered this while his gaze continued around the room. Closest, a small knot of sea captains, resplendent in their tunics and jackets, engulfed a large platter of vegetables and grilled chicken. Beyond them, several toga-clad senators lounged on traditional chaises as they sampled bowls of delicacies brought out by servants in dark uniforms.
Sixty years ago, it would have been slaves, not paid servants,
Constantine thought. His grandfather had put an end to that.
A brilliant political action: curb the power of the senators and the might of their lobby while enshrining himself as a hero of the newly expanded plebeian class.
Anything
is possible when you outnumber and outvoice the competition.

Suddenly a hand clapped him on the back. “Tribune Appius! How wonderful to see you!”

A smile came to Constantine’s face as he turned toward the familiar voice. His eyes met a pair of green eyes regarding him from under bushy eyebrows. They belonged to Captain Rufius Tiveri Alexandros, commanding officer of His Majesty’s Airship
Scioparto
, who must have come from the buffet door. He threw his hand up in a half salute, and Constantine, grinning, gave the captain his sloppiest salute in return. Chuckling, the men shook hands.

“Great to see you, Captain. How fortunate that we’re here at the same time!” Constantine whispered excitedly.

Rufius Alexandros looked around at the faces of the many gentlemen in the room. “Indeed, it is fortunate, Tribune. Have you seen the way these people look at you? It seems they’d rather be feasting on you!” Alexandros was right; many of the room’s occupants had a decidedly hungry look on their faces that Constantine found all too familiar.

He followed Alexandros to a seat near one of the multi-paned picture windows that gave a view of the plaza. The single panes didn’t do much to keep out the cold, but they did afford a beautiful view of Arminius’ Column, which dominated the center of the plaza. Alexandros ordered for the both of them as Constantine kept his gaze firmly locked on the world outside. He could feel eyes boring into him, and his ears warming.
I thought that old wive’s tale about your ears heating when people are talking about you was make-believe,
he thought.