Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) Page 21

  “We don’t have copper paint. Sorry, sir.” An officer shrugged. Constantine nodded.

  “Commander Appius, sir. You may want to see this.” Another officer at the door held out a message scroll. Too many men I don’t know, Constantine thought as he moved to take it with a nod. I’m going to have to start remembering names!

  He read quickly, then looked up. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Very well. Here’s what we’re going to do . . .”

  Chapter 21

  Octavia

  Octavia pulled at the heavy chain and exclaimed softly in frustration. The chain, one end wound around the thick wooden bedpost, was secured firmly to her wrist. It gave her some movement about the room, but not much.

  Corbus had locked her up and promptly left. Octavia was trying to decide whether she was more worried about when he would return, or why the assassin would have a set of chains already attached to one of his bedposts, when the door creaked open. Her heart leapt into her throat and she scrambled to the other side of the bed to hide. When she didn’t hear his heavy footfalls, she peeked over the edge of the bed.

  Three servants stood in the doorway, holding brooms and dustpans. The oldest one gave curt directions in Latin to the other two, a younger woman and a girl of nine or ten. For the second time, Octavia felt her heart leap, this time in excitement. “You speak Latin?” she asked, standing slowly. “Are you Roman? Can you help?”

  The servants looked blankly at her, then turned and continued about their duties, sparing her not a second glance. The young woman shook her head sadly and began to clean the ashes out of the fireplace, sweeping them into a large canvas bag.

  Octavia tried again. “If you are Roman, I need your help. I’ve got friends outside that can help us escape!”

  The youngest girl walked around, collecting dirty dishes and leaving twice to deposit her collection just outside the door. Octavia could hear the rattle and clank of dishes as they probably tumbled into a container.

  Octavia was getting desperate now. They weren’t listening to her pleas and she knew that Corbus would probably return soon. Her eyes fell upon the youngest servant. “Please? Can you help?” she whispered to her as the girl mutely collected the discarded tunics and trousers spread around the room. She shook her chain in frustration.

  The girl looked at her, then peeked at the other two women before answering. One was building a fire in the now clean fireplace, the other was refilling the oil lanterns. “No.”

  “Please! You must help. I can get you out of here too.”

  The girl silently resumed her chores. Octavia followed her for as long as her chain would allow. The room was much larger than it appeared from the bed, she decided. “What is your name? Surely you can tell me your name.”

  “My name is Slave.”

  “That’s not a very original name,” Octavia said.

  “Stop talking! Master will beat all of us if he learns you have been talking to one of his women,” the eldest servant now interrupted, one arm on her hip and the other pointing to the clothing still on the floor.

  The girl left the room, her arms loaded with dirty laundry. Octavia slunk back to the bed in defeat. She curled into a ball in the middle of the bed, just as she had done when she was a little girl at home. But my father won’t be coming in to kiss me good night or chase away the scary monsters, she thought sadly. I may never see home again. I probably won’t even survive tonight.

  At that point she made up her mind. She would do everything in her power not to die tonight, but if she did, she was taking Corbus to Hades with her. Hearing the door close as the servants left, she began to cry silently, tears trickling down her cheeks to stain the light gray blanket.

  She heard the door open again, then the patter of feet across the tile floor. “Are you really a Roman senator?” a small voice asked.

  She came back! Octavia lifted her face, wiping away tears with her sleeves. “Yes, yes I am.”

  “I thought girls couldn’t be senators. My teacher said so. Do you represent Brittenburg?” The little girl’s eyes shone with curiosity.

  She must be from Brittenburg. “No, I don’t. But I know some people who are from Brittenburg.” Octavia had a sudden thought, and sat up. “They’re outside right now, trying to figure out how to help get me out.”

  The girl looked torn for a moment, then nodded to herself. A crash outside the door, a plate breaking, perhaps, made the girl’s head whip around. “I’ll be back.” She hopped off the bed and snatched a jacket that had been left on a high-backed chair near the fire—the excuse for her return, no doubt.

  She was almost at the door when Corbus entered. He glared at the child. “Get out,” he ordered, cuffing her on the back of the head.

  The girl practically ran from the room. Octavia couldn’t blame her. She wanted to run from the room as well. She slowly rose and moved to the far side of the bed.

  Corbus slowly undid his vest and let it drop to the floor. He then unbuckled his belt and scabbard, leaving it hanging on an armor rack in the corner. He walked slowly around the bed, eyes on Octavia, like a shark circling a wounded seal. “Good evening, Octavia. You’re looking rather ravishing this evening.”

  Octavia stared at the man, repulsed. Corbus continued his slow walk around the bed, and Octavia backed away. Corbus smiled wickedly as he pulled a lever next to the bed. The chain around her wrist retracted, pulling her toward the bed. She struggled, only to land facedown on the bed, arms splayed in front of her. She tugged futilely at the chain.

  “My dear, you’ll find I’m a good man in many ways. I’ll take care of you, feed you well, and make sure you’re protected from all the barbarian scum in this fortress. And soon we can return to Rome, even! I’m afraid you’ll be allowed to be senator only if you follow my every rule and instruction as your . . . hmm . . . we’ll say advisor. But you’ll enjoy it.” He poured two drinks from a decanter on the side table and lifted one, swirling around chunks of ice and golden brown brandy. “Here. Drink. It will keep you warm.”

  Octavia turned her back on him, sitting on the opposite side of the bed. She grabbed a comb that had been left on the nightstand, looking for anything she could use to defend herself from what was coming.

  Corbus knocked back his drink in one gulp. He made an appreciative sound, then looked expectantly at Octavia, holding out the other glass.

  Octavia looked at him, then at the glass. What if he drugged it? On impulse, she accepted the glass, then tossed the contents of the drink in Corbus’s face. Corbus stood there for a moment, the alcohol trickling down his face and dripping from his hair. She could feel the anger radiating from him as she stood rooted to the spot in growing fear. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.

  In a blur of motion, Corbus was over her, pressing her down into the bed. He slapped her, his calloused hand leaving a streak of pain on her face. Octavia struggled as Corbus tore the clothes off of her.

  “I was trying to be nice, but now you’ve made me angry,” he snarled. Octavia tried to scream but he forced a wad of material into her mouth, hissing through gritted teeth, “Haven’t you learned silence is golden?”

  Octavia got her knee up and slammed it into his groin. With an expansive groan, he fell back off her for a moment. Sobbing, Octavia pulled the bedsheets around her.

  He rose slowly. “You’re a spirited one, eh? But I can tell you’ll make an excellent plaything once I break you.” He walked gingerly over to the side table and pulled open a drawer. When he turned, he had a large syringe in his hand. “This won’t hurt one bit.”

  He leapt at Octavia, pinning her down and jabbing the syringe into her arm. Octavia flailed uselessly, then watched as Corbus took off his soaked and stained undershirt, letting it fall to the floor. He turned to Octavia, his insincere smile on h
is face again. “No one will be coming to help you.”

  Octavia felt calm . . . happy . . . at peace. Her vision swam briefly as she fought to remain conscious. I have to stay awake! She blinked slowly.

  “Are you feeling tired?” Corbus crooned. “Maybe you’d like a quick nap.”

  There was a sudden commotion at the door. A soldier barged in. “Sir! The king needs you.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “He insisted, sir.”

  Octavia strained to listen as Corbus briefly conversed with the man, but her ears just didn’t seem to be working properly. She felt her head hit the pillow. It really is very comfortable.

  Corbus’s head suddenly loomed over her. His calloused hand cradled her head. “Now there, my plaything. Sleep. I shall return to continue our . . . play . . . later.” His face blurred, the edges going fuzzy as her head lolled on the pillow.

  Darkness washed over her, as she fell back into her memories.

  It was a cool summer night in central Europe. She had just turned nineteen. The whole estate had turned out to celebrate. Hired hands and old family friends had mingled freely among the stately columns and statues of the manse’s gardens and buildings. Her father had spent many years with the army, and won victory after victory for Rome. Emperors had heaped praise upon him. The Senate had thrown medals and commendations and titles at him, eventually raising him to senatorship. But the general had always said that he had already earned his favorite title, the one he cherished the most: father.

  Octavia was the oldest of three children born to Horatio and Justine Pelia. Her father had been out on campaign when she was born, and Octavia didn’t meet her father until the age of three. But he’d made up for lost time in the sheer amount of love and dedication he displayed to his children.

  Octavia’s mother was a stern woman, a match in strength for her father, more at home in the ballroom than the family room, and more concerned with the gossip of the other powerful families in the province. Her family had an estate near the bustling city of Treviri, right on the border between Gaul and Germania. Her father owned many miles of sprawling vineyards, which grew well near the sandstone hills along the Rhine.

  Octavia had spent hours preparing for tonight’s gala, while her mother went over this detail or that, sewing her into a dress that made it hard to breathe, even managing to corral her younger brother, Macer, into a new tunic and sandals.

  The party began with light music played by the orchestra hired for the evening, and guests sampling the first of the many treats the kitchen staff had spent days preparing. Octavia was too nervous to eat. Plus she didn’t want to see what actually eating would do to her tight dress.

  She walked around on her father’s arm, greeting guests and engaging in small talk. That was the thing she missed most about her father. She could have been talking about the grass growing or the sun moving overhead and he still gave her his full attention.

  As they reached the garden, he turned to her and clasped both her hands. “Tavi, I have to tell you something.” They sat. Her father had looked pained, as though what he was about to say was difficult. “You mother thinks it is time we found you a husband. She has already begun to look. She has several possible suitors lined up.”

  Shell-shocked, Octavia recoiled, pulling her hands away from her father’s. He spoke quickly, trying to placate her. “Now, listen, I know we talked about you finding your own partner, but your mother thinks it’s best . . .” He faltered at her expression.

  Octavia fought to contain her anger at this betrayal of her opinions. She had told her family that she was going to do something with her life before finding a husband. Her father had smiled and nodded. She had assumed he would support her.

  And now this.

  Tears in her eyes, she lifted her head. Part of her screamed that she should just run away; the other half that she should listen and obey, like a good daughter would.

  “Is there any way you can talk Mother out of this?” she begged, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

  Other people in the garden were beginning to look at them, whispering about what they perceived to be happening. She stood, hands smoothing the front of her dress as she gathered her wits. “I’ll be in my room.” she stated curtly, her eyes daring her father to argue.

  “You can’t hide here forever, Tavi. It had to happen at some point. Your family loves you. I love you. The world isn’t ready for you to decide yet.”

  She faced him, hands at her side, balled into fists. “And when, Father, will the world be ready?” she asked. “It will never be ready, until someone makes it ready. Someone with the courage to make it happen.” She stomped away, tears trickling down her cheeks.

  She fled through the party, sticking to side corridors and narrow paths to avoid most of the guests. The servants she ignored, lost in her own sadness and shattered dreams. She wiped her nose and eyes with the back of her hand. Her mother would be furious at such unladylike behavior. Good; that evil woman deserves it.

  Her anger cooling, Octavia found a bench and plopped down upon it. You are a lady of good breeding, you must act like it! She could practically hear her mother’s voice in her head, berating her to smooth her skirts and not damage such a costly dress.

  The clatter of hooves distracted her from her sulking. She looked up as a messenger in full legion armor rode into the courtyard. He pulled the reins up sharply as the horse reared. Octavia could tell by the sheen of sweat on the horse that the messenger must have galloped at full speed all the way from Treviri. A servant was racing out to take the horse’s reins.

  The soldier looked down at her. “I’ve an urgent message for General Pelia. I must see him at once!”

  Mutely, Octavia assigned another servant to take the messenger to her father. She still had no desire to see him tonight. Dress swishing, she marched off to her room, leaving the now crowded courtyard behind her.

  Once safe in the sanctuary of her bedchamber, Octavia allowed the tears to come full blow. Her maid found her half an hour later, lying on the bed in tears, just wishing she could have had this night to enjoy her birthday, and not dread the future. Her maid helped her undress, cutting the stitches with scissors when they wouldn’t open fast enough. Octavia crawled into bed, dismissed her maid, and pulled the covers up over her head to cry herself to sleep.

  What felt like just a moment, but was probably several hours later, her door creaked open. “Tavi? Are you awake?” He always came when she was angry. He couldn’t stand seeing his little girl upset.

  It was always a tough decision. Should I be asleep or should I be awake?

  “Tavi, there’s been an invasion. I have to go. The Empire needs me.”

  Octavia sat up at this news. “I need you, here,” she said plaintively. She saw her father smile in the darkness, felt the weight of his body as he sat on the bed next to her.

  He placed his hand on her shoulder and gave her a kiss on her forehead. “I’m always here with you, beautiful, and you are always with me.” He stood and kissed her once more. She could feel the warmth of his breath. The tenderness in his voice soothed her feelings. “We’ll talk about this marriage thing after I get back.”

  He strode to the door, blocking the light from the hallway as he turned in the doorway. “I love you, daughter. Be safe.” He shut the door behind him.

  It was the last time Octavia saw her father alive.

  Blackness welled up and claimed her once more.

  Chapter 22

  Julius

  Julius slid his spatha out of the Nortland militiaman. Blood welled gurgling from the man’s mouth and he collapsed against the wall. Gripping his sword with both hands, Julius turned in time to parry another blow by a Nortlander wearing servant livery. Deflecting the blow to his left, he punched the older man in the face. The man crumpled to the floor, his we
apon clattering against the flagstones.

  Julius turned to survey the melee in the hallway. It was nearly impossible to tell friend from foe. Nortlander fought Nortlander, servant fought militiaman. Julius spotted Halder and Scipio fighting back to back in the intersection. “For Rome!” he screamed as he fought his way over to them, his spatha weaving a deadly dance through the chaos.

  Halder looked approvingly at him. “We make you Nortlander soon,” he said gruffly as the trio backed into an alcove.

  “Thanks, but then I’d have to lose my desire to live,” Julius quipped. Halder laughed. “What do we do now?” He lashed out, disarming a man wielding a shovel with the flat of his blade. The man cried out and turned to flee. Halder hacked him down mercilessly.

  “We move that way.” He gestured with his bloodied axe toward a larger tunnel. “We must get to . . . lord homes?” The man looked frustrated at his lack of Latin.

  “Lord’s homes? Chambers? Like, royalty?”

  Halder nodded, the movement shaking sweat from his beard.

  “Very well, lead on. We’ll watch your back,” Julius said.

  Scipio bent and liberated a buckler from a downed soldier. He handed it to Julius. “You’ll need it. He moves as fast as one of those mecha-wolves.”

  Julius strapped it on and the two Romans formed up behind the larger Nortlander. Halder flicked a switch on his chain-axe and the machine hummed to life, increasing in volume until the whir flattened out into a loud purr of death. “For Nortland!” challenged Halder in Norse. The Romans echoed him with battle cries of “Rome!”