Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) Read online

  Julius looked incredulously at him. “If you seriously think I’m going to tell you that, then you’re most certainly not fit for command, even in the Nortland army.” Corbus frowned as the prisoner looked around at his ragtag scouting party. “Not that I’d call this an army.”

  Corbus struck, his arm dealing a harsh blow across the man’s jaw. “Have it your way, Brittenburgian.” Julius’s eyebrows rose. “Oh yes, see? I placed your accent. I have a special place in my heart for that corrupt, disgusting, pestilent city.” Sneering, Corbus socked the legionnaire again, and the man collapsed back to the ground.

  “Send a message to the duke,” he ordered. “We’ve got a prisoner.”

  Laufas rode in about an hour later. He reined in his laboring horse, his various adjutants, assistants, and bodyguards forming a loose semicircle behind him. Corbus walked over and gave the duke a half bow. Laufas’s head may have nodded slightly in response, or it could have been the movement of his horse. Corbus wasn’t sure.

  “What have you learned?”

  “My Lord, the prisoner says that the Romans have indeed encamped at Sundsvall, but that their general seems to be moving cautiously. He refused to name those legions present, but I was able to piece together that there are between four and six legions in the invasion force.” Corbus felt pleased with himself. He had worked the hapless Roman over rather hard, but the man refused to be broken. Which delighted Corbus.

  “Did he say anything about war machines? Dispositions? Airship strengths?” Corbus shook his head. Laufas sighed. “And I suppose you’ve already beaten him senseless?”

  Corbus felt his face burn as he fought to hold back an angry retort. Laufas chuckled and said something in Norse to his retainers; Corbus just barely caught “southern” and “barbarian” in the Nortland language

  “No need to worry, Corbus. I’ll be taking that prisoner off your hands so that you won’t need to ‘extract’ any more information from him.”

  His Latin is almost as smooth and natural as mine, Corbus thought. I wonder how much he had to pay to get a tutor up this far.

  Laufas signaled and two of his men dismounted and walked to the tent where Corbus had been interrogating his prisoner. They emerged a few moments later, dragging the unconscious man between them.

  Scowling at the Roman legionary, Laufas asked a question in Norse. One of his men placed his fingers in front of the prisoner’s mouth, then nodded and spat out a flurry of rough words, too fast for Corbus to grasp. I’ve got to learn more of this stupid language.

  Laufas sighed and addressed him in Latin. “Couldn’t you have left him at least able to ride a horse?”

  “I figured you could claim the credit for disabling him singlehandedly when you bring him before the king. If one of the other generals doesn’t take credit first,” Corbus retorted, knowing full-well the duke refused to play the court games that preoccupied so many other petty nobles in this frozen land.

  The duke’s men hefted the prisoner onto a horse borrowed from Corbus’s scouting party.

  “We need you back with the main column. We’ll attack later tonight.”

  And with that, Laufas was gone, only the clattering of hooves and small flashes of light reflected from his entourage’s armor belying the speed of their passage.

  He is far too competent to leave in a position of authority. But how to remove him?

  “Gather up the men,” Corbus called to his subordinate. “We’re moving out.”

  Chapter 9

  Octavia

  For the second time in the last few weeks, Sundsvall was burning. From her vantage point aboard the ocean transport Tiber, Octavia had a panoramic view of the harborfront, which was once again being steadily destroyed by a wave of fire.

  The night attack had at first merited little response from the fortified Roman legions, who had assumed it to be a probing raid. But as fireballs dropped into the Roman camp and multiple constructs that had quickly earned the nickname mecha-wolves had leapt the temporary palisade wall surrounding the sprawling camp, the legions were forced to scramble to defensive positions.

  Those poor men, Octavia thought as she watched groups of legionnaires using simple pumps and hoses to try to bring the fire under control. There were even groups forming bucket brigades closer to the water. Their labor was compounded by the fact that there were still a few northerners hiding in the smoke and flames, which meant that the work crews had to be guarded. The Nortlanders were not giving up their country without a fight.

  The senetora had just returned from a meeting with General Minnicus and his staff. The general had been . . . apoplectic, alternating between screaming at his staff officers to attack and cursing them for not mounting an effective enough defense. He had practically threatened every single officer there, and it was only with the arrival of the airfleet and Air-Admiral Polentio that the situation had calmed somewhat.

  The appearance of the battle-damaged but still dangerous looking warships overhead had been the final blow to the Nortlanders’ counterattack. Spitting warheads directly onto the enemy positions inside and outside the walls, the fleet had quickly ended the last attack.

  With the threat negated, most of the airships had descended farther to the west, dropping off hordes of injured and dead crew and legionnaires from their own hard-fought encounters with the Nortland fleet. The Roman medical camps were swamped with wounded from both attacks, and every person with medical training had been pressed into service. Octavia herself had watched the ship’s doctor and a few other “able” crewmen leave the ship to assist.

  Closing her eyes, she recalled the scene in the command center. The general had been grilling several under-officers from various legions, including one with an arm in a sling and another with nasty burns across his face. And then he walked in . . . Octavia smiled at the thought of Tribune Constantine Appius, now acting commanding officer of the XIII Germania. He was so calm and collected, deflecting the general’s tirade and returning the room to sanity.

  Stop! Octavia scolded herself, viciously squashing any happy fantasies. You’re not a giggling schoolgirl with her first crush. She drove her happiness mercilessly from her heart, then turned an imaginary key and locked it up. For the Emperor and Empire, she told herself sternly.

  Although a Roman senator, Octavia had little experience with situations like this. She had never had a province in need of disaster relief, never been on the front lines of a battle or dealt with so many casualties, both injured and dead. She wrung her hands together; the desire to do something fighting with the nascent need to look, act, and carry herself as a senator.

  Finally, she could wait no longer. “Captain, I require a boat. And I’ll need a crewman to row it.”

  The captain looked at her in disbelief. Octavia could almost read his thoughts as he tried to figure out why she would want to leave the safety of the ship for the uncertainty and danger of the shore. After sputtering a flurry of unintelligible things she believed could be considered “salty language,” he got her a boat and crewperson.

  On the short journey to the shore, Octavia struggled between her desire to order the ponytailed crewman to turn back to the ship, and her need to help. Only when the rowboat knocked against the stone pier did Octavia abandon that battle. “Ma’am? Here’s tha shore, if yar interst’d in gettin’ out,” the crewman said, offering her a leering, toothless smile. “Or it be back to the ship with yar.”

  She stood carefully, aware of every dip and bump of the rowboat. The crewman offered her a hand, but Octavia haughtily ignored it. That’s for your leer. She carefully grasped the rusted iron ladder that clung precariously to the harbor wall. Now or never. She boosted herself up it.

  Her haste caused a misstep, and with a gasp she grabbed for the rusty rungs as she slipped. Below her, the crewman cackled his amusement and put his hand on her behind, push
ing her up until her feet finally found purchase. She scrambled the rest of the way up and hauled herself onto the quay, panting.

  She briskly brushed her hands off, then rearranged her tunic to cover her embarrassment. When she finally turned to give the crewman a well-deserved tongue lashing, she found that he, and the rowboat, were already halfway across the harbor, virtually flying toward the Tiber.

  Sighing, she looked around at the noisy chaos. Men ran to and fro; others simply sat, looking stunned, while others lay on the ground or around tents, somehow sleeping despite the noise. She walked through the canvas forest, soaking in the situation. Her clean tunic and face made men pause and stare at her as she walked past. More than one officer or legionnaire offered to escort her one way or another, warning her of the dangers of being alone in the city.

  “How can I be alone with four legions of men here to protect me?” she replied, congratulating herself for such a forward comment. The soldiers looked flustered, then smiled at her warmly. Should I risk it? “I was hoping you might tell me the situation. No one appears to be in command at this moment,” she ventured.

  The under-officer looked at his men, then back at her. He rubbed at the grime on his face with an equally grimy hand, only succeeding in smearing around what was there. “Well, Domina, we’re not really sure what to do. Some of our officers are telling us to fight the fires, while others are telling us to hunt down the Nortlanders. Every officer I meet tells me something different. Plus the men are exhausted and dropping like flies . . . I just don’t know what to do.” Finished, he pursed his lips and cast his eyes downward.

  Octavia gave the weary soldier her most expressionless, senatoresque face. “Soldier, that is no way to be talking. We have work to do. I am taking personal command of your detachment as the ranking civilian overseer of this expedition. What is your name?” The words came out in a rush, but they spurred the under-officer into action.

  “But, ah, Domina, no disrespect, but our commanding officers—”

  “Are not here,” Octavia finished forcefully. “And I am. Someone must take charge of this situation. And I mean to be that person, Under-officer . . .”

  “Optio Centuriae, actually; Optio Centuriae Leviticus Ronan of the IV Britania, at your service.” Noting her blank look, he elaborated on his title. “I manage the reinforcements during battle. Except now there seems to be no reinforcements at all, as the battle seems to be everywhere.”

  She nodded to show her understanding and spread her arms. “Can you lead me to the legion hospital?”

  Trailed by her gaggle of bodyguards-cum-escorts, she marched straight toward the main medical posting, a harried Ronan leading the way. A gruesome scene of death and dismemberment greeted her. Wounded lay on stretchers, on the floor, sat leaning against barrels of body parts that she could no longer identify. Battered armor and broken weapons lay in great heaps, much of it covered in blood. Two men bearing a stretcher cut her off, racing a screaming legionnaire between them into the large open tent where the surgeons worked with their crude gear.

  Octavia watched in morbid fascination as the surgeon wiped his bloody hands on a dirty towel and lifted his large metal spectacles to his eyes. He pulled down on a small lever on the side and the lenses telescoped out, presumably magnifying his vision. Even her upbringing on the equivalent of a massive, sprawling farm did not prepare her for the casualness of the man’s hygiene. Even father rinsed his hands in water when coming in from the fields. This man doesn’t even take that step! When the surgeon pulled a small, humming drill saw from below the table, Octavia nearly puked. The thing was covered in dark blood, and he hadn’t even begun to work on the now-unconscious soldier.

  She whirled about and glared at the leader of her little band. “What is this, Optio Centuriae Ronan? Where are the nurses? The clean tools? The standards of medicine that should be in place?”

  Confused, the soldier looked blank-faced at the sheer amount of death around them. “This is how it is. I don’t know how it is in hospitals back in the civilized areas, but out here, on expedition, this is the best there is.”

  Octavia scowled, then had a thought. “Get me some wood. I want to start some fires.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Start fires? What for?”

  “Well we need to boil some water and wash those tools. You clean dirty plates with boiling water and soap. We can at least do the same with our medical equipment,” she ordered.

  Startled, her escort hopped to. In no time at all, the flames of a fire burned merrily outside the tent. Two men lugged over a large cauldron found in the ruins of one of the buildings. Claiming it was still whole, despite its dented and scarred appearance, they set up some metal railings for support and began dumping buckets of water into it.

  While the cauldron was being filled, Octavia turned to the surgeons hard at work over their helpless patients. “This is your last surgery. Then, we clean.”

  The surgeon looked up at her, his magnifying glasses making him appear bug-eyed. “A lot of these boys won’t last long enough to clean off these tools. We’re doing the best we can.” With a tired shrug, he went back to his work.

  Incensed, Octavia blurted, “I am a senator of Rome. I am taking command of all the medical tents and facilities here. This is my subordinate.” She pointed at the optio centuriae, who had been edging away from this fireball of a woman. “He will ensure that you have cleaned each set of tools in this,” she flung her arm back toward the fire, “or another boiling cauldron. And they will stay in the boiling water, and soap, when we find some, for at least an hour.” By the end of her speech, she was shouting at the shocked surgeon, and the medical tents had fallen quiet around her.

  She pressed her palms together for a moment and took a deep breath to calm herself. “Oh, and find some of the female camp followers. Chances are, they can help nurse these men back to health.”

  The head surgeon finally appeared. “What is this woman doing in my hospital?” he growled.

  By the time Octavia was done with him, he knew exactly why she was in the hospital. He made an abrupt about-face and nearly ran from the tent.

  Octavia turned to her new subaltern. “Okay now, Ronan, what we need is . . .”

  Octavia had worked through the next day and night, organizing, cleaning, and generally setting the hospital and medical facilities up in a more sanitary and streamlined way. The head surgeon had gone to the general, and for once, General Minnicus had actually backed her up. Or at least had not cared enough to appease the angered head surgeon. Even better, she was now his boss, and he jumped when she said to.

  Now, after about thirty-six hours on her feet, she finally crashed. It had come at the most inopportune of times. She had simply sat down to examine one of the many blisters on her feet, and found herself awakened by a slight shake of her shoulders.

  “Uh, Senatora? Are you able to stand?” Concern laced the hesitant voice. Octavia rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up, finding herself on a cot under a blanket. “You have a message from the general. He wants you to get packed.”

  Octavia squinted up at the man. “Tribune Appius! I—um, excuse my appearance . . .” she almost stammered, suddenly shy. Gah, stop it, she commanded her fluttering heart. Her hands nervously smoothed her clothes, brushing away bits of dirt and debris.

  The tribune was crouched beside her cot, one knee pressed into the soft, sooty soil. He rose and offered her a hand as she tried to push the brown hair spilling over her face back into the tight bun she had been favoring, the last day or so. She slipped her hand into his and she felt the thick calluses on his palm, especially those between his thumb and forefinger, as he hauled her up.

  “Your hands feel like my father’s,” she blurted, then felt her face heat.

  The tribune smiled at her, then stepped back to allow her free movement around the cot. It lay wit
hin rows of injured men, some quietly moaning, but most sleeping the deep sleep of the exhausted. “Senatora, you may call me Constantine, if you like,” he said in a quiet, reserved voice, walking her through the rows of cots and out of the tent.

  Outside, the sunlight of a bright dawn reflected harshly off the ruins of Sundsvall all around them. The fire had been extinguished and order had once again been reintroduced. “I’ve come to tell you that we’re about to move out,” he continued. “The general wants you with us.”

  Octavia felt her face fall. “But . . . there’s so much work for me to continue here. We haven’t even done much to clean up the situation . . .” Another thought struck her. “Why do I even need to come with the army?”

  The tribune didn’t answer for a moment. He appeared to be struggling with an internal decision. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve found that the general . . . tends to hold grudges.”

  Octavia smiled at this. She remembered back during the very first meeting in that tavern, how excited this young man had been to work under the direction of someone other than General Minnicus. “Let me guess, somehow he still holds grudges from the Brittenburg Incident?”

  “If that’s what they’re calling it in Rome. My men and I, we call it the Brittenburg Rebellion, or disaster, depending on whom you talk to. I just find myself wishing we could be under the leadership of anyone else. By the gods, even a navy admiral would be a better leader than that waste of space.” Tribune Appius—no, Constantine—was obviously airing some of his long withheld complaints about the commanding general.

  “Do you think you could do better?” Octavia asked. “After all, you are the son of the emperor, heir to the throne, and, by all accounts, a war hero in the making. It would only be a quick waving of the Imperial decree and . . .” She could see several problems disappearing with the almost infinite power of Imperial decree.