Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (28 page)

The heavy crack as an axe penetrated the shield numbed Julius’s left arm. But the axe was stuck in the shield, for as the man hauled his weapon up, Julius was pulled back to his feet. He took advantage of the man’s surprise to deliver several quick jabs, crippling, then mortally wounding the man with a gut strike. With his foe dispatched, Julius hastily tried to free his arm from the now ruined shield with blood-slippery fingers.

He had just managed to free his arm when two more barbarians advanced upon Julius faced them one-handed and without a shield, finally grabbing his dagger with still tingling fingers, forcing them to operate. He killed one with a lucky slash to the back as he careened out of control on a wild swipe. His other opponent nicked Julius’s sword arm with his own short sword, then his leg. Julius could feel his strength leaving him as the wounds began to take a toll. Mustering his last bit of energy, Julius feinted high, then stabbed low. The man must have underestimated him, as he let down his guard entirely. Julius’s sword entered his thigh, severing an artery. Blood gushed and shrieking, the man went down, his voice only adding to the din of battle.

Julius looked around, chest heaving. Halder was down, five men standing over him with long, vicious-looking spears poised as another tied his arms. Most of the other loyalists were dead, and the wounded were being dispatched brutally and mercilessly. Julius watched as the last two loyalists surrendered, only to be hacked down. Sensing his defeat, Julius lowered his sword as the rebels surrounded him.

“My, my, if it isn’t my old Roman friend, Julius Caesar.”

Julius turned to see Corbus enter the room. The man looked around at the dead piled two and three high. “You’ve been awfully busy, haven’t you?” he said snidely. “But your time is up, and this little rebellion is over. You never actually thought this would succeed, did you? After all, no one likes to fight a king with a master assassin as his ally.”

The man flashed his daggers, spinning them in two hands. “Now, drop your weapon and you get to live to see the end of this revolution.”

Disgusted with himself for surrendering to this man for the second time, Julius spat and tossed down his
spatha
.

“Bind him,” Corbus ordered. “I don’t want him escaping before I can finally kill him.”

A short time later he and Halder were on their knees before the great Copper Throne. The man wearing the crown looked . . .
Impatient
, thought Julius. He squirmed every few seconds, as though trying to get comfortable in the hulking mass of pure copper.
This must be the new king
.

Halder spat to one side. “Thief; murderer,” he muttered.

The king stirred and rose, fiddling with his odd-looking gauntlets as he descended the dais steps. He looked the prisoners over carefully, his startlingly purple eyes examining every detail. “Roman? In Midgard?” He looked exceptionally concerned.

Corbus stepped up, saying something in Norse that made the king laugh and relax. The assassin turned back to Julius, and spoke in Latin. “I was just telling the king that you were only a prisoner the loyalists let out. They must have been desperate for soldiers, to have actually freed prisoners.”

The king spoke again in Norse, and Julius caught no more than one word out of ten. Beside him, Halder looked angry. Shaking his head, he declared, “No!”

Now Julius could see just what was on those gauntlets.
This isn’t good
.

Long, slender needle daggers extended from one gauntlet, while a single, flat blade extended from the other.
Wicked, deadly, and concealed
.
Where did he get those weapons?
one part of Julius’s mind pondered while the rest froze in terror as the king advanced.

He stopped before Halder, grabbing the man’s coarse black hair with one hand and staring into his eyes. The king repeated his demand in Norse, and Halder spit in his face. In response, the king slammed his blade hand into Halder’s throat, decapitating him. Julius cried out as Halder’s body hit the floor. The king tossed the head down as well, and laughing, marched back up to his throne. He thrust out his hand, beckoning.

A nervous-looking servant handed him a towel and he fastidiously cleaned his blade attachment. That done, he dropped the cloth on the floor, staring at Julius. The king made a comment to Corbus, and the assassin replied sharply. After a long pause in their conversation, Corbus spoke an affirmative and the king waved his hand dismissively.

Corbus turned his head to look at Julius, who was still recovering from the shock of seeing Halder decapitated before him. “You’re very lucky, Roman. The king wishes you to be a bargaining chip. I would rather kill you.” Hand caressing his sword hilt, he walked past Julius, then stopped right behind him and whispered in his ear, “You will not leave here alive.”

Julius felt his blood go cold.

At that moment, a messenger burst into the throne room, his boots ringing on the flagstone floor. A waterfall of Norse tumbled out of his mouth, and the king rose immediately from his seat, shouting orders. Armed men hastily assembled. Corbus, flashing a predatory smile, placed his northern-style helm upon his head and grabbed a large round shield.

Julius felt himself being grabbed from behind and pulled backward. The war party marched out double quick as Julius was swung about. Tumbling sideways, the centurion bounced hard onto the flagstone floor in the corner of the throne room where he lay, his world spinning.

Julius waited a few minutes after the footsteps faded from the room. When he realized he could no longer hear the sounds of anyone in the area, he cautiously tried to roll over. He succeeded, but could see nothing beyond table legs and hard stone floor.

Sighing, Julius set to work trying to loosen his bonds.

Chapter 25

Constantine

T
he torchlight flickered along the
walls as the long file of legionnaires hiked through the secret entrance to Midgard. Their commanding officer marched alongside, then closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, bringing to mind the layout on the command table.

Midgard was so massive that the table could only accommodate half the fortress at one time. What Constantine did understand was that the fortress was divided into four equal quadrants, each one serving a different purpose. The secret passageway ran under the curtain wall on the southwest side of the fortress, winding its way through the residential quadrant before arriving somewhere on the uppermost floors of the zone. The other three zones—comercia, forge, and temple districts—radiated from the small central citadel district where the palace was. Although not necessarily a different district, the smallest zone was the goal of this attack, as the Roman plan assumed the king would be present in his throne room at the heart of the palace quarter.

To make matters even more complicated, they had to hope that their assault coincided with the one launched outside the walls by the III Cimbrian and the VII Germania. At this moment, men were laying down wire as they progressed through the depths, in the hope that there could be communication with the outside.
If we can’t communicate, it will simply come down to both parties following the timetables set at the meeting. But who knows what could go wrong on either end? Without the other, either assault is doomed on its own.

“Sir, are you okay?”

Constantine opened his eyes. “Yes, legionnaire. Thanks for your concern.” He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. The man glanced at his fellow soldiers with the look of a man trying to get out of an obligation. Constantine recognized the signs. “Speak your mind, man; I’ll answer whatever question you’d like.”

Light from the torches made shadows on the man’s unshaven, hollow-cheeked face. Hesitantly, the man spoke. “If I may, sir, why are we still storming the fortress? Is it true what they say about you just wanting to rescue the senatora?” He looked pained as he said it, but Constantine could tell that it was something many of his men had been thinking about. Other legionnaires had paused in their ascent, clogging the passageway.

“You there, men! Keep it moving!” an under-officer shouted up from behind them.

“Walk with me, trooper. It wouldn’t do to have our attack gummed up.” Constantine walked side by side with the legionnaire as the column resumed its progress. They moved at double speed as Constantine tried to catch up to the first portion of his command.

“I know many men have been asking why we continue to fight.” He made sure his voice carried so that others would hear him. “The simple truth is, we have not done what we were ordered to do. Our orders were to punish the Nortlanders for their raid and destruction of Brittenburg. I know many of you may have felt that our victory on the plains outside this fortress should account for that.”

He paused to swing around a large obstruction jutting into the passage, gripping the cold, rough rock to do so. He used the pause in his explanation to gather his thoughts.

“I think the men would agree, sir,” the legionnaire prompted behind him.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Legionnaire First Class Jarl Trelmus.”

“Well, Legionnaire Trelmus, I say we have not finished our objective. In my opinion, winning a battle is not the same as destroying a city. In any case, if simply winning a battle was sufficient to force these raiders to cease their destructive ways, then why didn’t the battle of Vilnus, where the Nortlanders lost twenty thousand men to General Pelia’s trap, stop them?”

The legionnaire looked confused for a moment, but Constantine pressed on, slamming his fist with a thwack into the palm of his leather gauntlet for effect. “No! That is not enough. It is not enough to just win one battle, then return home. I care not about glory or fame; I already have plenty. I’m the
primus imperio!
Together, we can avenge Brittenburg the right way, through a victory that they will remember. We may not be able to conquer them, and quite frankly I’m perfectly happy to leave this gods-forsaken land of ice and snow to them.” The legionnaires around him chuckled. Constantine felt the mood change from one of resignation to one of determination.

“So we press on to give these barbarians the lashing they deserve. And if we happen to save the senatora, why, I think that would simply be the icing on the cake.”

“Especially for you, sir.” The man said slyly.

“Of course, Trelmus, of course.”

The legionnaire saluted as Constantine took his leave, pressing farther up the column beneath vaulted stonework and smooth stone arches looking hundreds of years old. He passed cohort after cohort as he moved to the front of the column, giving the occasional greeting here, an encouraging word there, never breaking stride.

They climbed ever higher, the path winding upward, doubling back on itself and passing along deep trenches and over rickety bridges. Finally they entered an area showing more habitation. Torches and lanterns lit the hallways. After a hasty conference with his leading cohort centurion, Constantine ordered out scouts and flankers to catch or kill any witnesses.

Finally Legionnaire Scipio halted in front of a nondescript wooden door. “This is it, sir. This is the doorway Marciena and I escaped through. I will tell you though, sir, it may be smart to block this doorway and keep it open. It cannot be opened from the inside.”

Scipio stepped to the side as the entry party gathered at the door, repeaters drawn. Constantine wanted to intervene and give last minute instructions, but he didn’t want to be seen as interfering with his subordinate’s command. Finally, he simply nodded at the 1st Cohort’s fresh-faced centurion.
Everyone in this legion seems so young, yet it seems like an age since we mustered last year.

Scipio yanked down on a lever at the side of the door. Gears and chains whirred, and the door swung open on silent hinges.

The first legionnaires entered the room and spread out. Behind them, more legionnaires in full formation entered, blocking the doorway with their large
scuta
shields

“Clear, sir!” came the directive.

Constantine entered the room, hand repeater drawn. He stepped carefully over several bodies that bore evidence of extreme and recent trauma. Two of them appeared to have been executed or hacked down from behind. All were wearing Nortland gear. The smell of death was nearly overwhelming.

“File leader, was this our doing?” he asked, just to be sure.

“No sir, the room was as it appears when we entered. It’s worse in the main room.”

Constantine realized they were in a bedchamber. The massive four-post bed and lavishly appointed furniture and rugs spoke of wealth.
Not that the occupant’s money is worth much now. It will be impossible to get the blood out of these carpets.

While his men checked several other rooms that opened off the bedchamber, he walked into the main room, and a much more grisly scene.

“Nortlanders fighting Nortlanders. Seems the girl was right,” The 1st Cohort’s centurion, a weedy, perennially happy man named Claudius Orestius, commented. He pointed to blue ribbons tied around some of the Nortlanders’ arms. “Loyalists or rebels perhaps? The situation is probably too fluid, but it looks like the blue guys took a lot more casualties here. The non-blues seem to have taken most of their wounded as well. He pointed to trails of blood where wounded men had been dragged or carried away.

“Very well, let’s fan out,” Constantine ordered. “Scout the hallway outside while I bring up the rest of the legion. We’ve got to try to figure out exactly how to get to the throne room.” He gratefully stepped into the hallway, leaving behind some of the overwhelming stench of death. “And get those bodies out of those rooms. We have to walk through them, for Jupiter’s sake!”

While the 2nd Cohort began to purge the rooms of their dead occupants, Constantine followed Orestius and the First into the hall. They set up a perimeter as 3rd Cohort began to move in.

They brought a guest over to their commander. “Sir, we found this one skulking about in the tunnels. She claims they are servants’ tunnels and that she was simply trying to do her chores.”

Constantine looked at the woman, then said in Norse, “Where is your king?”

The woman’s jaw dropped at hearing him speak in her tongue. She garbled her response, and Constantine waited patiently, staring stolidly into her blue eyes. Finally she became coherent. “I know the way.”