Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (9 page)

Chapter 7

Julius

T
he brief air battle had
taken only two minutes, but it felt like a year to Julius. The young centurion had his men standing in battle formation all up and down the exposed decking, creating a shield wall to protect them from the brief exchange of projectiles between the ships.

Junior Centurion Gwendyrn marched along with his commander, and the two had cheered with the destruction of the Nortland vessel just aft of their airship. From his vantage point, Julius had seen the destruction of another vessel in the Nortlanders’ unorganized assault, as well.

“They may have airships, sir, but they can’t seem to figure out how to use them correctly!” Legionnaire Hespinus called out to the centurion.

“Right you are, Legionnaire. Maybe we’ll have to stay here a while and teach them how to fight like real civilized people,” Gwendyrn replied, chuckling heartily.

Hespinus nodded at his officers, and threw out a salute. “Hail Rome!” he shouted, the men to either side echoing him.

“Hail Rome, indeed,” Julius said, giving a crisp salute in return.

A piercing squawk came over the loudspeaker, followed by a voice that Julius recognized. “All hands, this is the captain. Lookouts report another enemy force west of us. I know we just beat off one group, but it appears they need a second lesson. Let’s give it to them: don’t tangle with the Roman Airfleet. For the Emperor and Rome! Alexandros out.”

“Looks like we may have a job to do after all,” Gwendyrn stated quietly. They had pretty much stood around during the first battle, observers whose lives hung in the balance, and now were fast on track for a second one within an hour.

The gradual approach of the fleets was mind-numbingly slow. Julius found himself raising and lowering his binoculars again. And again. And again. Until finally Gwendyrn muttered that he’d put his eyes out if he kept doing it. Feeling slightly sheepish, Julius carefully dropped the binoculars back into his belt pouch.

A brief appearance by Tribune Appius, coming up to check on his cohort, broke the monotony. “How’d it go up here?” he asked, clapping a hand on his centurion’s shoulder. “Not much action for us yet, but I have a feeling we’ll be fighting steel to steel soon enough. At the very least, we’re getting rid of their pirate ships. You can’t rob, rape, and pillage without a way to get there.”

“Maybe they’ll just stick to doing it to each other, sir?” Julius said hesitantly.

Tribune Appius looked surprised. “Why Centurion, I thought you would be full of vim and vigor, ready to crush our northerly neighbors!”

“Of course, sir. I want vengeance. I’m just looking to enact it upon the right people now. Especially for my sister,” Julius said, lips tightening.

Nodding, the tribune lowered his voice. “I know how you’re feeling, Caesar. Remember, those fanatics killed my brother, too. Now I’m stuck with this heir to the throne thing.” He was grim, all the bravado removed from his voice. “But I promise you, Centurion. Your sister’s name will be the last words they hear.”

The blare of the loudspeaker interrupted the tribune. “All hands, battle is imminent. Battle stations. All hands to battle stations. All legionnaires to their stations.”

Julius grabbed at Tribune Appius before he left. “Sir, are you sure you don’t want to take control of the cohort up here on A Deck? You’re our leader and you’ll make the better decisions.” Julius was nervous; he’d never been in charge of a boarding action before.

Appius shook his head. “You’ll do fine, lad. It probably won’t even come to it. Alexandros is too wily to let these barbarians force a boarding action. Just stay sharp. I’m taking charge of the men on B Deck—those replacements need me more than your veterans do. Send a message if there’s trouble. You got that, Centurion Caesar?”

“Yes, sir!”

“May the gods watch over you.” And with that, Julius’s commanding officer left the exposed deck, stepping into the airship proper.

“One would think that he’s afraid of a boarding action,” Gwendyrn whispered to Julius.

“I don’t think we can question his bravery, Sub-Centurion. Nor can we question his decision-making. After all, he left me in charge up here.”

“That’s exactly what I’m questioning,” Gwendyrn said slyly. Julius smacked him on the head.

Airman Souzetio approached, brows dipping in concern at the apparent disrespect between the two officers. “Centurion, get your soldiers into position. The Nortlanders appear to be trying to double up on our airships. There’s more than we thought,” he shouted over the humming of the engines. The tempo of the large propellers had increased and Julius felt the ship move faster under his booted feet.

He nodded and turned to pass on the orders from the briefing earlier. “Check your gear, lads. If you’ve got the grappler, remember to aim for the deck or something that can hold our weight as we cross on those ropes. Everyone else, clear the deck with your repeaters before you cross. Let’s not bring any extra things across. We go in fast, and either capture the ship or set the flares, then get off fast. The flares should do the work for us, but we have to get off before the fire spreads to the
Scioparto
. I don’t think the captain would like that!” The confidence in his voice sounded false to his ears, but the speech seemed to rally his men.

The enemy airships closed in tighter, from what Julius could tell. The large bulk of the
Scioparto’s
gasbag and the airship proper blocked his view to his left. Straight ahead, several enemy airships were closing fast on the line of Roman fliers headed straight at them. To Julius’s inexperienced eye, the enemy airships seemed to vary little in design or shape, except that they had two airships that were as big as the Roman flagship. One was bearing down on the left flank of the Roman formation, and the
Scioparto
.

The flagship began firing, joined by the ships flanking it to either side as the two lines clashed in midair. The rolling line of explosions and the cacophony of battle, soft at first, grew louder and more immediate as the enemy airships closed in, engulfing the formation. Julius counted twelve enemy warships, equaling their number. And those were just the ones he could see.

Below, metal and wood screeched as the ship’s artillery ports opened. Julius and the men of the XIII Germania watched, anticipating the first salvo from the
Scioparto
with glee. A larger vessel appeared to be sliding toward them, closing the space until it was just parallel to the smaller
Scioparto
.

Fire, already!

All at once, the artillery on the Roman ship fired, launching a barrage of explosive missiles at the Nortland vessel. This time, the artillery crews fired as fast as possible, joined by the smaller pieces on the exposed deck. Legionnaires tried to shield the exposed aircrews as they fired their lightweight weaponry, large shields covering the men as they reloaded. When the breeze blew away the smoke of war that obscured their damage, Julius’s eyes went wide in surprise and he cried out in alarm.

The enemy vessel was mostly unharmed.

“Why aren’t our weapons doing any damage?” Julius shouted at Souzetio, who was commanding the nearest scorpion team. Souzetio was helping wind the arms of the scorpion back, while another airman carefully placed a rack of heavy bolts into the firing chamber.

“They must be armored! Our explosive-tipped ballistae should be dealing damage, though. Armor plating can’t be tough enough to withstand our weaponry
and
light enough to fly.” The airman grunted as he heaved the last part of the weapon into position. He moved around to take the controls.

At that moment, the enemy ship—Julius could see the name
Hamdar
whitewashed onto the hull of the vessel—fired back. The
Scioparto
rocked from side to side as explosions buffeted the ship.

“Fire! Fire on deck!” someone shouted as thick smoke billowed from several locations. The ship, still reeling from the bombardment that had just hit it, continued to fight back, but the artillery deck’s weapons must have been heavily damaged—only a few bolts or canisters flew at the enemy ship, denting and notching the sides, but doing little damage otherwise.

Julius cursed as he picked himself up off the deck. Several of his men were missing, and others sprawled on the deck; blood spattered the sides of the ship. His effective fighting force had been hit hard.

“Medico! Medico!” The shouts seemed to come from all corners. Corpsmen from the infirmary were already up on deck, dragging the wounded to makeshift triage centers.

“Alert! This is the captain. Enemy airship is closing to board. All hands to repel boarders. All hands to repel—” The loudspeaker cut off with a shriek as another wave of enemy fire struck the ship.

Julius felt part of the deck buckle as several large rocks sheared through railings, war machines, and men. Windows blew out and heavy pieces of machinery were tossed across the deck like children’s playthings. Julius went head over heels to slam onto the deck. Several airmen and legionnaires were tossed overboard, toward a fate Julius didn’t want to comprehend.

When the ship had finally stopped jolting, Julius and his men began to pick themselves up. “Men, form battle lines!” Julius shouted out, suppressing a hacking cough as he struggled to his feet, lungs and eyes burning from the sulfur and smoke.

“Gwendyrn! Go secure the other end of the line!” Julius ordered as he grasped the hand of a downed legionnaire and hauled him to his feet. Hearing no response, he craned his head around looking for his subordinate. A medico eased the concussed soldier from Julius’s shoulder, freeing him to look around for his subordinate.

“Gwendyrn?” he called again, hesitantly. He heard something over the sounds of the battle engulfing the airships. Supporting himself on the torn railing, Julius walked toward the ragged edge of the hole in the
Scioparto’s
hull. He shouted Gwendyrn’s name again, his voice cracking.

“Down here!” Gwendyrn’s voice shouted back. The under-officer was clinging to a long piece of piping that swung precariously out into space and then back toward the hull as the airship struggled for its life. He was only about ten feet down, but the pipe’s supports could give way at any moment.

“Stay right there! I’ll grab you a rope!” Julius called down.

“Could ya hurry up? I have a date with solid ground that I’d like to skip,” Gwendyrn yelled back, his sarcasm tinged with fear.

Julius searched frantically for a rope in the confusion on deck, ever conscious of the passage
of time.
Come on, come on . . . !

He finally came back with a reasonable substitute, snagging a few other legionnaires to help him get the larger man up on deck. “Grab the hose!” he shouted, dropping one end into the hole.

One of the pipe supports had broken, sending Gwendyrn slipping lower down the contorted pipe. The hose flailed in the wind, tossing this way and back, at one point striking the centurion and knocking his steel
galea
off his head. The plumed helmet dropped through the clouds and disappeared. Curses floated up to the legionnaires’ ears. Finally, Gwendyrn grabbed hold of the fire hose and clutched it for dear life as the men hauled him up toward the deck.

The hose was slippery and the men’s arms shook as they pulled, inch over inch. Remembering how his father and other workers had formed a rigging crew to free a metalworker trapped under a load of boxes at the factory, Julius got the men chanting a pattern and, now moving in unison, they lifted their own heavy load, safely and quickly.

With Gwendyrn back on deck, Julius turned to survey the situation. His men were in loose battle lines, their special air legionnaire
scuta
shields cranked open and locked into place. The first row of legionnaires had drawn their
spathas
; behind them, other legionnaires stood with their
plumbata
ready to throw. Along the railing, legionnaires crouched in pairs, one holding their
scuta
while the other aimed his repeater crossbow from under their cover. Despite the casualties from the initial bombardment and subsequent artillery barrages, his lines looked steady. Julius shouted encouragement here, a quick order there, as he took his place in the first rank, preparing himself mentally for close combat.

Julius tried to block out all emotion, to strip all care from his voice. He envisioned himself becoming like the steel in his sword and shield, as his drill instructors had taught him. He wanted to lead his men with honor, dignity, power, and skill. But mostly, he didn’t want to screw up like the last time he had been given command.
That
incident had ended with the loss of most of his men to a half-crazed barbarian chieftess.

It was only at that moment that Julius’s brain finally made several critical connections. Casualties were consistently very high in Rome’s first rapid response force aerial deployment cohort. So it was now more, not less, likely that he would be dead soon, at the rate they were going.

Opposite them, the enemy airship’s artillery continued to duel with the smaller Roman warship’s weaponry. But the Nortland vessel had already closed in, and grappling hooks shot out from shielded enemy positions. Some bounced off the smooth sides of the ship, while others struck shields, knocking gaps in the Roman lines. More than a few dug into the wooden deck planking, and at a shout from their centurion, legionnaires leapt upon the hooks and long, trailing wires. They hacked away at the tough ropes, crying in dismay at the iron wrapping that protected the first five feet of the hooks.

Those Nortlanders are no idiots, and they’ve got years of pirate boarding experience to draw on
. Julius fought panic as the enemy ship winched itself closer.

Suddenly, Julius saw Nortlander soldiers on the railing opposite his men. “Repeaters! Target and fire!” he ordered. The pairs of legionnaires went to work, one man plastering the enemy troops with short, wicked repeater bolts about as long as a man’s forearm while the shield man swung his shield up to cover his partner when he switched weapons, then reloaded the spent repeater, readying it for the shooter. The ships were less than twenty paces away from each other now, and the bolts’ barbed tips struck home amongst the enemy.

“’Ware, boarders!” called out one of the few remaining airmen on deck, drawing Julius’s attention to several figures moving along the grappling hook cables at breakneck speed. The remaining airmen had pulled off to one side, and were busy arming themselves from the ship’s arms locker.

“Looks like we aren’t the only ones with sliders,” Gwendyrn shouted down at his commanding officer. Julius nodded back, filing that fact away for future use. He ordered the men trying to cut the ropes back, realizing that they would be out of position and vulnerable to the larger, more aggressive lone wolves who were rapidly narrowing the gap between them and the
Scioparto
deck.

“Here they come!”

The boarders slid onto the deck, simply releasing their sliders instead of unbuckling them in the Roman fashion. Lightly armored, they rolled into combat against the thin, armored line of legionnaires, their shorter and heavier axes clashing with the Roman swords as the Nortlanders chopped at exposed arms and legs. At first, the legionnaires used their weapons’ reach to their advantage, striking down boarders before they could close with the battle line, the tough steel of their
spatha
facing little resistance from hide bucklers and leather shoulder pads.

Julius found himself facing one of the larger boarders wielding two of their wicked-looking knives at once. He sparred with Julius for a few moments, trying to break the Roman shield wall that was holding tight against the individual rushes of the boarders. Then the man charged, yelling, feinting high with his weapons then slashing low, attempting to kneecap the centurion. Julius saw the man’s feint and deflected it with his
scutum
, throwing the man off balance. His
spatha
stabbed out, biting deep into the Nortlander’s bowels as he was trying to recover. Blood sprayed, and the man collapsed.

All along the Roman line, the well-organized defenders were easily dismissing the first wave of Nortlanders. “Seems like it’ll be an easy day for us,” Legionnaire Janus quipped.

Then the
Scioparto
and
Hamdar
crashed together, the winches on the enemy ship having finally reeled in their smaller prey.

“All repeater teams back to the line!” bellowed Julius. The rapidly firing crossbow teams had taken few casualties, but Julius wanted to save their firepower and manpower for the slugfest that he knew was coming.

Although only a few paces away, his legionnaires moved carefully, as the deck was awash with blood and guts, debris from the continual bombardment, and dead men from the skirmish. The first few teams were back within the safety of his shield wall when the boarding bridges crashed down. Large, heavy planks had been nailed together to form thick bridges wide enough for two or three men at a time to cross. To Julius, they looked like roadways that delivered death instead of goods.

For a brief moment after the bridges slammed down, there was one of those pauses in combat where the contestants of battle found themselves temporarily off balance, awaiting
something
.
It’s just like what Tribune Appius talks about when he tells us about those ancient battles of Carthage, and at Delphi; like Emperor Caesar in Gaul or Emperor Hadrian facing down the Picts.
Julius found it somewhat humorous that his brain was choosing to think about that, rather than the obviously bloody situation about to occur.
At least I get to kill some Nortland scum. Especially Nortland pirate scum. It’s always open season on them.

With a wordless cry, the main Nortland force charged across their bridges and onto the Roman vessel.

“For my sister! For the Emperor!
For Rome!
” Julius yelled over their animal cries as he led his men against the boarders. The two lines crashed together, bodies flying and shields shattering. This force of Nortlanders seemed to be equipped with more two-handed weapons, including those dangerous mechanical axes that Julius remembered from the battle atop the Brittenburg curtain wall. These men were the largest and most dangerous. Their weapons could chew through even the specially designed
scuta
and break the shield wall by literally destroying the shields.

His men worked methodically, attempting to strike at the Nortlanders from afar with their
plumbata
, or hold them off with the short spear, pinning them until a fellow legionnaire with a
spatha
could end their threat. The two lines flexed, their seemingly unstoppable momentum first giving the barbarians the upper hand.

“Hold them! Hold them, boys! Remember your drill,” Julius encouraged, using his shield to trap an axe against the deck and surgically stabbing out with his sword, leaving a nasty cut through the meat of a thigh. The man fell, only to be replaced by another barbarian, who swung his sword at Julius’s head. Ducking, Julius could feel the wind of its passage on his neck, and then a soft rain of dyed red hair began to sprinkle his face and eyes.
Bastard cut my officer’s plume
. Julius was distracted, trying to get the itchy red hair out of his eyes.

The Nortlander didn’t give him the chance to recover. He reversed his stroke and Julius caught the sword on the side of his helmet, just as his shield partner severed his attacker’s arm at the elbow. The blow clanged off of Julius’s head, and his vision swam. He dropped back, allowing a filler to take his place on the line so he could recover.

A harried medico was pulling another man out of the line, blood streaming from several large cuts and abrasions, when he noticed the centurion stagger backwards. He grabbed Julius and placed him on an overturned barrel. “I’ll be back for you, sir. Don’t close your eyes. You probably have a concussion.” Julius nodded weakly, feeling a wave of exhaustion sweeping aside his adrenaline. He sat on the barrel for what could have been minutes or seconds, for all Julius knew. He watched the press of men before him, his legionnaires holding off a force twice their size.

It was only a matter of time until they broke somewhere.

I’ve got to get a message to the tribune. We need help.
Gathering his wits, he looked around for a speaking tube. Spying one only a few paces away he stood, pausing as the world swayed, then staggered over to the tube and uncorked it.

“This is Centurion Caesar of the XIII Germania on top deck. We’re being pushed back and need reserves.” He closed his eyes, praying that someone was listening on the other end. He heard a brief, but maddeningly unintelligible comment from the other end.

Finally, someone responded: “Centurion, your men are on their own. The ship interior has been penetrated on B Deck and our forces are pinned down in hall-to-hall fighting. You’ll have to find a way to destroy their boarding equipment or force them back.”

“I don’t have the manpower—”

“Just do it, Centurion. Or die trying. We don’t have time to dawdle. Get those barbarians off this ship. That’s an order.”

Julius didn’t bother to respond. Leaving the speaking tube uncorked, he returned to his men. Although exhaustion and confusion had overwhelmed his earlier enthusiasm, Julius now saw what was about to happen. Grimly, he tightened his helmet and shield, drew his sword, and waded back into the fight, steely determination and anger growing in his chest.

“Push them, lads—all together!” Gwendyrn shouted from his position on the left flank. Julius could hear his deep bellow cutting through the sounds of battle. He watched the left flank began methodically pushing the boarders back, each step condensing the enemy troops, hampering their abilities to strike unencumbered. “Come on, lads, you’re going soft on me. We don’t want to take them on a date. We’re not inviting them over for wine.
Push them off the gods-damned ship!
” Gwendyrn exhorted his men.

Julius hurriedly gave similar orders to his men, as the Roman line began to stretch thin between the left and center. The left was advancing so quickly that the center would soon be unable to support it. Already the trapped men were sliding to their left, around the edge of the advancing shield wall, hammering at the thin line of legionnaires protecting the vulnerable side of the wall. If they gave way, Gwendyrn’s entire flank could dissolve.
Jupiter damn him, if only he had told me what he was doing, we could help.
Although Julius trusted his subordinates, Gwendyrn was far more willing to take the initiative than his other subordinate, Sub-Centurion Hespinus, currently commanding the squads on the right flank.

Julius grabbed a wounded legionnaire, who gave a half salute with a bandaged arm seeping blood. “Find Hespinus. Tell him we need to push them back over the edge. Use the railing as a weapon. He has two minutes to prepare before we go.” The man repeated the message quickly and raced aft, navigating the press of bodies to find the officer.

Julius turned and gave the order to his boys. He brought up all his reserve men, and even threw a few wounded warriors who could still hold shields back into the mix.

It was all or nothing.

He checked the pouches on his belt, finding the phosphorus flares right where they should be.
Destroy the enemy ship, or die trying
. Gripping them tightly in his hands, he mentally counted down the two minutes.

“Alright, men of Rome, are you going to let the Gaul’s men do all the work? Are they the only real soldiers on this airship? Let’s show them how well real Romans can fight!” he bellowed. “Shield wall, push them on my mark.”

His men moved closer together, filling gaps between the shields and interlocking their arms. Behind them, legionnaires packed together tightly, using their
plumbata
to stab out at any Nortlander who rushed the line. Now the legionnaires would not move from the wall, only stab their swords low to hamstring and kneecap their Nortland attackers. The lightning-quick attacks left little room for retaliatory strikes. Howling, the blonde enemy battered his line as they rhythmically pushed their shields forward, driving their weight into the enemy press.

One, two, three—“PUSH!”

The men on his line drove forward in a focused, precise movement. Even exhausted from the intensity of shipboard combat, the well-trained legionnaires understood one simple fact: this would succeed here and now, or they would die slowly, piece by piece, later.

Occasionally, a legionnaire would fall. Julius cringed as he watched Ulysses’ head cave in after a blow from a chain-axe, the weapon spraying blood spatter over his neighbors. The shield men to either side quickly and mutely dealt with the threat, swords penetrating the killer’s armor in multiple places, granting the second line a brief moment to fill the gap. Julius watched Faestes fill the hole, and the push continued.

They were close to the enemy bridge now. Julius could see a few of the attackers beginning to flee over the bridge, back to the safety of their own vessel. “We’ve got them, lads. Keep going!”

With a roar, his men fought on, swinging with renewed vigor, almost swaggering in their lockstep. Inside the press of bodies, Julius had neither the time nor sightline to check on the progress of his flanks. Extricating himself from the press of bodies, Julius stepped back a few paces to check his forward and aft ranks.

Although Gwendyrn’s men had started first, Julius’s forces had caught up to them, and they now presented a strong, united front. Looking south, Julius’s gray eyes widened as he saw his right flank pushing forward unevenly, their coordination seemingly off.
Damn it, just when we were so close to throwing them all off this vessel!
Julius thought, briefly torn. Should he forge ahead and risk losing his flank? Or should he stop his push right when he had them on the run?
If we don’t get to the enemy vessel, we won’t have another chance, the men are too tired
.

Julius chose to send a runner down to find out what the problem was. The man returned with troubling news. Hespinus was injured, and command of the flank had fallen to a new squad leader. Analyzing this new information, Julius quickly formatted a plan. He ordered the push again, and his men moved forward. They were almost to the bridge. At the same time, he detached two of the six squads at his command to shore up the weak right flank. As his men pushed the enemy off the ship and back onto their own vessel, the frontage would become narrower, and he wouldn’t need as many bodies to hold the line.

He had taken his
galea
off briefly to examine the helmet. After he had gotten his head rung, he wanted to make sure it was still intact. Although battered and shorn of most of its red officer’s plume, his
galea
was still solid. As he placed the leather-lined helmet back onto his closely shaved head, his eyes fell upon a familiar face.

Airman Souzetio lay on deck, hands covering a nasty gut wound. Blood soaked his shirt, and blank eyes stared out of his pale face. Julius felt anger stirring within him. He would grieve later. Right now, he had a job to do.