Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (29 page)

Constantine turned to his men. “Good news! We now have a guide.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” grumbled someone.

Constantine detailed a squad to escort her to the front of the column, then pulled their commanding officer aside. “Keep an eye on her. She doesn’t seem the type to lead us astray, but I’m taking no chances. Grab another prisoner as soon as possible.”

The centurion saluted and gathered the rest of his men. With 1st and 3rd Cohorts leading the way, the XIII Germania began their assault on the Midgard fortress.

Ducking low to remain in cover behind the shield line, Constantine advanced to find Centurion Orestius. The arrival of the XIII Germania was completely unforeseen by the northerners. Working in concentrated and well-practiced teams, the Romans had quickly swamped any areas of resistance. Runners connecting the leading edge of the legion with the base camp told of the outside assault gaining momentum.

I’d love to have some way to communicate with them here at the front.
The rock had proven too thick to allow wireless transmissions, so traditional wired messages had to do
.
“What’s the situation, Centurion?” Constantine asked.

“Sir! The Nortlanders seem to have established some type of barricade. The guide says that through those large doors is the throne room. They’ve got those rapid firing rock throwers of theirs. Those things are able to shatter our
scuta
,” Orestius informed him.

Constantine looked around. The 1st Cohort had taken some casualties on the way down, and many men were tired and wounded. “I just passed Centurion Gwendyrn and his men. We’ll pull them up and they’ll take the main thrust, with you supporting. In the meantime, keep their heads down with your repeaters.”

“Yes,
sir!
” Orestius smiled.

Constantine backed away, ducking as the whine of the lead shot zipped overhead. Occasionally, the balls would slam into the shield wall. Even rarer still, one found its mark. He passed a legionnaire’s crumpled body, placed against the wall by his companions. His helmet was missing and part of his skull was shattered. Constantine grimaced and ducked lower.

He found Centurion Gwendyrn just around the corner, his men taking a moment to munch on hard biscuits and gulp water. The centurion greeted his former tribune warmly.

“I hope you’ll still like me in a minute,” Constantine joked, then informed the one-time Gallic farmer of his plan.

Gwendyrn saluted sharply. “We’ll get you that doorway, sir, and get you into that throne room.”

“As I’d expected.”

“You’ll be joining us, sir?”

“There’s no place I’d rather be.”

Gwendyrn organized his men while Constantine checked the standoff in the corridors. The Romans were exchanging fire with the Nortlanders, but nothing but a quick rush right at the defenders would end it.

There was no other way.

“All right sir, we’re ready.”

Constantine caught Orestius’ eye and gestured. Whistling, he pulled his cohort back around the convenient corner, his front ranks backing away slowly to provide cover for their legionmates. Once there, they reassembled behind 13th Cohort. Farther back, other cohorts were arriving.
Good,
Constantine thought.
We’ll need as many men as possible when we storm that throne room
.

The last few men walked backward around the corner, a few shots from stone throwers coming after them. Constantine heard cheering from the Nortlanders, as well as some off-tune singing.
So typical.

“We’ll give them something to sing about,” Gwendyrn boasted to his men. They beat their swords on their shields as they waited for the order to advance.

Constantine counted to ten.
Relax your guard, relax your guard
. He prayed to Minerva and Nike briefly, then gripped his
spatha
tightly. “Charge!”

The cohort pounded around the corner, feet sounding like a thousand drums as they raced the three hundred feet or so toward the Nortland lines. Howling in surprise, the Nortlanders fired hurriedly at these new opponents, their aim wild. The Romans closed the gap. Shields before them, the Romans took the first concentrated fire well; only a few legionnaires went down.

And then the barricade was right before them. Legionnaires tried to push the upturned benches and food carts out of the way while engaged in hand to hand combat. It was not a fight to their advantage.

Constantine saw one barbarian use his axe to pull a legionnaire toward him, then strike down the off-balance Roman with a vicious slash to the face. Another used a long boar spear to pin legionnaires while his countrymen fell upon the trapped men.

“Use your
plumbatae!
” Constantine heard someone shout. The lethal metal darts flew overhead, and a quick series of explosions threw stone, wood, and worse over the combatants.

Constantine leapt into the fight. Using his shield as an umbrella to stop the rain of axe blows, he stabbed with his spatha at the unprotected legs and feet of his opponents. Several men fell into formation beside him, covering him on his left and his right from vicious Nortlander counterattacks.
They must be targeting my white plume,
Constantine thought briefly as he crunched a man’s arm with his
scutum,
the tough metal rim breaking the man’s arm with a crack. The man’s face went ashen and another legionnaire quickly dispatched him.

Constantine checked his surroundings. They were inside the barricade’s perimeter. All along the barricade, legionnaires were clambering over dead or wounded defenders. Even so, the wounded Nortlanders fought on.

No quarter was offered, nor was any given.

The remaining Nortlanders rallied near the large metal door.
Please, call for help,
Constantine mentally urged, hoping they would turn coward and seek the safety of the throne room, thus allowing the Romans entry.

Instead, the Nortlanders charged, one brute of a man carving his way through legionnaires and tossing them up into the air. His double chain-axes chewed through shields, armor, helmets, and appendages.

Constantine looked at his formation mates. “Follow me!” he yelled as he charged in, his men forming a wedge behind him. With the battle joined, the remaining northerners fought desperately, taking down two or three legionnaires for every barbarian lost.

Leaping dead bodies, Constantine saw Gwendyrn engage the hulking brute from the other side. The large legionnaire swatted one axe out of the barbarian’s meaty hand, the weapon clattering to the floor where it spun in circles, its razor-sharp teeth trying to gain purchase on air. Roaring, the barbarian punched Gwendyrn in the face. The Gallic legionnaire flew backward, his men rushing forward to shield him from the renewed onslaught of the last Nortland berserker.

We’re losing time!
Constantine’s brain cried as the berserker wielded his remaining axe two-handed now, cleaving through those careless enough to get too close to him.

Sheathing his sword, Constantine pulled out his hand repeater, firing the miniature bolts into the man from just a few feet away. Bellowing, the man turned, his eyes tinged red and his mouth frothing in battle madness.
Holy Hera
.

The man bore down on him like an enraged bull. Constantine’s bolts seemed to do nothing against the man, until there was a small explosion and a blast of heat and smoke.

Constantine had ducked down behind his shield, bracing for an impact that never came. He peeked over its edge to find the man on the ground before him, blown nearly in two, guts scattered. The commander looked up to see his savior.

Gwendyrn wiped his hand across his bloody face. “Dat stupid git bwoke my nose. So I bwoke his back wit dis,” he said angrily, pinching the bridge of his crooked nose with his thumb and forefinger. In his other hand he held a
plumbata
.

“Well, Centurion, you certainly have the best aim I know of. Perfect hit,” Constantine commended. “Now, does anyone know how we can open these doors?”

Chapter 26

Julius

T
he slamming door, followed by
heavy footfalls, announced the return of the king and his cronies. Julius heard cruel laughter and grunting. Finally, Julius was hauled to his feet. His boots scrabbled for purchase on the stone floor, and he leaned heavily on his captor. The scene that greeted him made his stomach sink.

On his knees within a circle of the king’s henchmen, Duke Laufas huddled under the pummeling of their fists, grunting in pain with each meaty blow.

“Enough!” The king held up his hand and his men stepped back. Looking exceptionally pleased with himself, he spouted a guttural stream of Norse.

I hate not knowing what’s going on,
Julius thought. As if he’d heard, Corbus appeared next to him. “The king is telling the rebel leader that he must order his men to submit. Assuming there are any left willing to fight for him,” Corbus sneered. Julius remained silent.

“By the way, did you know that your Roman brothers appear to be fighting amongst themselves? There used to be four legions out there, now there are just two.” Julius looked up at that information.

A haggard-looking militiaman ran into the hall. Julius had learned to distinguish them from their better-equipped professional allies. The leather helmet and simple armored jerkin stood in stark contrast to the steel helm and chainmail-reinforced tunic of the king’s soldiers and raiders. The man blurted something in Norse that seemed to alarm everyone in the hall. Julius caught the flicker of a smile on Laufas’ blood-streaked face. The king stood and began shouting orders at various lords. Soldiers raced in all directions, some even blundering into each other in their haste.

Corbus’s hand grabbed Julius’s hair, yanking him around. “Roman! Your compatriots must wish for death, as they assault our walls directly. But worry not that your time with us will be short, for we intend to deny them. Even now, our men are mustering to the wall to crush your pitiful war machine and your puny countrymen.”

Julius laughed in his face at the end of this tirade. “Very typical of you, Corbus. Why aren’t you out there fighting?” he jeered.

Corbus hit him in the stomach and marched away in a fury. The door slammed shut behind him.

“That’s one bad man to anger,” Laufas said quietly through gritted teeth.

“We’re already prisoners and probably going to die anyway; what’s the worst that could happen?”

A short while later, Julius watched another militiaman rush into the throne room.
I hope it’s more bad news for this so-called king.

“Seems your fellow Romans have discovered the tunnels and have invaded the residential quarter. Excellent timing, I might add,” Laufas translated.

“Well, I hope they get here soon. I’m awfully tired of being tied up.”

Another file of soldiers marched through the room. Just outside the large iron door they began to build a barricade. Chairs, tables, even the benches from the throne room went into its construction. “Seems your Romans are closer than they thought,” Laufas noted as they watched.

Another one of the king’s cronies slammed the door shut with a resounding boom. Julius felt the vibrations through the floor as the man slid a long metal brace into position across the door.
Things are probably about to get interesting
. He began working surreptitiously at returning feeling to his bound hands, rubbing his palms together and wriggling cramped fingers until he felt the sharp tingle of pins and needles. Trying hard to maintain a look of calm nonchalance, he flexed and relaxed his arms, hoping to loosen the bonds.

“Use this,” the duke whispered. He tapped his boot hard on the floor. The sound went unnoticed by the king and his cronies, who were having a heated discussion around a command table at the back of the room. A short blade shot up out of the back of his boot.

One eye on the few remaining guards who huddled together, apparently gossiping about the Roman attacks, Julius inched closer to the duke then crouched, carefully shifting to position himself over the blade to slice the tough leather cords, and not his hands and fingers.
I’m sure we look absurd. A five-year-old should be able to catch us,
Julius thought, waiting for a guard to glance their way and cry the alarm. But it must have been his lucky day, for his bonds were shredded almost to the breaking point when the duke hissed, “Stop.

“You don’t want them to know you’re untied, and with the bonds still on, it looks more convincing,” the duke explained. Nodding, Julius wiggled a pace or two away from the captured general who, looking back over his shoulder at an awkward angle, went to work on his own bonds.

With his task complete, the duke tapped his toe hard again, and the heel blade slid back into his boot.

“Nice contraption,” Julius said.

“It definitely has its uses.”

Tearful cries and the sobs of women and children alerted Julius. He craned his head around, trying to find the source of the sound. Corbus came around the edge of the dais, smiling triumphantly as he led a roped line of women and children. Julius felt the duke stiffen next to him as he, too, saw the prisoners.
Not prisoners, hostages,
Julius thought as he saw the senatora in the group as well.
At least she’s awake now
.

Swaggering, Corbus brought them before the king. The line bunched together, women and children drawing close for comfort. Bowing low, Corbus cleared his throat to get the man’s attention. Scowling, the king returned to the dais and settled on the throne to listen to the assassin.

Unable to understand Corbus’s Norse, Julius focused his attention on the duke. He saw the duke’s eyes narrow, then his brows came down in a frown. “Sir? What is going to happen?” Julius whispered.

“They want us to give an oath of loyalty. If we don’t, those hostages will die. I cannot swear; it violates my blood oath to the rightful king, sacred above all others.”

Julius looked back to the dais, where the king appeared to be considering Corbus’s idea. “What about your wife?” Julius asked quietly, turning to the duke. Tears were rolling down the duke’s face as he stared at the floor.

There must be another way out of this!
“Can you stall him?” Julius asked urgently. “Delay him as much as possible? The legions will be here, I know it. We just have to give them more time.”

Laufas turned to look at the centurion. “That is our only hope. A drowning man grasps at any branch, no matter how thin.” He wiped his face on his shoulder, his face hardening with a look of steely determination. “We shall stall, Centurion Caesar, we shall stall.”

There came a pause in the conversation. In fact, the entire throne room seemed to have gone silent. Julius slowly scanned the room, looking for the disturbance. Then he heard it—the sound of fighting!
Yes! Here comes our rescue team!
Julius thought excitedly, cracking a smile that he quickly tried to cover by dropping his head.