Constantine waited ten minutes for Buldrix and Vespansis toget back. Several messengers from the front gate had been back and forth,speaking of a situation getting ever so desperate. The noise and smoke comingfrom that area supported their assertion that the garrison was beinghard-pressed by the rioters.
Finally, the two legionaries returned, herding about twentyolder men and boys before them. They really are scraping the bottom of thebarrel now, aren’t they? Constantine thought. He ordered them equipped, andquickly returned to the wireless room.
“Any news?” he inquired.
The wireless operators looked frazzled. “We’re sendingmessages out constantly, sir, but no one is responding. Not even the Scioparto.We could be jammed and not even know it.”
Constantine nodded. “Well, that’s a risk we’ll just have totake. Get yourselves equipped. If the main gate falls we’re coming here, andyou’ll have to be ready to fight.”
One operator’s face went as white as a bed linen; theother’s hands started to shake. “We … we have to fight, sir?”
Constantine grimaced. Are these men soldiers, or justboys in soldier’s clothing? “Not what you signed up for?” he snapped. “Lasttime I checked, you were both soldiers. Now get out there and act like it.” Heturned and marched back to the courtyard, both operators scrambling after him.
“Attention!” Constantine’s voice rang from the graystucco walls. Men around the yard came to attention, several dropping boxes andweapons in their haste to obey. “Form ranks, prepare to march,” he ordered.
About thirty men assembled in a haphazard fashion.Constantine was instantly able to pick out the actual legionary members fromtheir drafted counterparts. He sighed. They would have to do. They look likemy men did only a few weeks ago, he reminded himself.
Leaving behind the wireless operators and a skeleton crewmade up of the doctor and Infirmary cases, Constantine moved his ramshackledemi-cohort toward the front gate.
Gray smoke rose ominously over the tall perimeter walls. Afitful breeze brought the smell of burnt wood and metallic char from burningbuildings. Gritting his teeth, Constantine pushed his men harder, trying toignore the draftees who lost their equipment as they struggled to keep up.Finally, panting from the effort, the straggling group reached the front gate.
The governor’s mansion had not been built as a fortress. Itswall was simple and narrow, meant to ensure privacy and prevent trespass. Therewas no room to stand upon it, no parapet. Two towers flanked the largelyornamental front gate. They were twice as high as the wall, or about fifteenfeet high. Several soldiers stood atop each, huddled behind shields as theyfired crossbows into the crowd storming the gate, which was barely holdingtogether. The defenders had scrambled to reinforce it with anything available;Constantine identified the bronze heads and stone pedestals of priceless gardenstatuary wedged amidst a tipped produce cart and several bodies.
Spying the approaching reinforcements from his position atthe gate, a harried-looking under-officer called to Constantine, relief etchedon his face, “Thank the gods you’ve arrived. Where are the rest of you? Wecan’t hold out much longer!” Beside him, soldiers strained to keep the gateshut, shoulders to their shields, pushing back against the unseen crowdshouting its displeasure on the other side.
“I’m Tribune Constantine Tiberius Appius, ranking officerand dinner guest,” he said as he joined the under-officer. “We’re all that’s tobe had. Where do you need us the most?”
The officer’s shoulders sagged. “You’re all that we’ve got?”he asked hoarsely. “Where is the auxilia, the constabulary?”
Constantine looked around at the ragged remnants of the gateguard and the previous reinforcements. He knew something was needed. “Probablyout there somewhere. In the meantime, we’ll take as many of them with us as wecan. That’s all the emperor expects of you.” He jerked his chin toward thegate. “Those men are beyond the emperor’s pardon now.”
Exhausted men came down from the towers as fresh new mentook their place. The under-officer, a sub-centurion named Halix, gladlysurrendered command to Constantine, and brought him up to speed.
The rioters had appeared early that morning, but at firstthey were peaceful, simply a large crowd milling around. They had not hassledthose leaving or entering the grounds, even when the rich and mighty hadgathered to honor the now Primus Caesar Constantine. “And then, when those two cargoairships started bombing the city,” Halix pointed at the cargo airship visiblefrom their location, now busy eliminating city garrison positions along thewall, “the crowd suddenly got violent, and-well, you see where we are now. Theyjust tried to use a battering ram, but they’ve pulled back for a moment.” Hepointed to the smoke and haze slowly building over the rioters. “They’relighting trash and rubble fires.”
“Sir! You need to come and see this!” a legionnaireshouted from one of the towers.
What could it be now? Constantine asked himself. Thingscan’t get any worse, can they? He climbed the ladder up to the crowdedplatform. His hands slipped on blood as he tried to find purchase on a bloodyrung. A strong hand reached down and Constantine accepted it gratefully.
“Not a problem, sir,” the legionary said as he hauled thetribune up onto the platform. The iron tang of blood and the stale scent offear assaulted Constantine’s nostrils, driving out the smell of smoke andbelying the legionary’s comment. “But you’ll want to take a look at this.”
Constantine fiddled with his binocular case. “See the smokeand fog over there?” the legionary said when he’d finally extracted the opticaltool. “We saw something moving in it earlier, but now it’s coming closer.”
Across Brittenburg’s large central plaza, the mob wasgathering again. Constantine lifted the binoculars to his eyes. In the smoke,he could just make out several large, segmented legs and a brick-like body. CentralWaste Collection was painted on its side. Was that the mechanicalmonstrosity he had seen earlier? “Why would they have a garbage collectionvehicle here? Are they planning to burn it?” he wondered aloud. He swept hisbinoculars along the distant rioters.
“Get down, Tribune, sir!” several men shouted at once. Ahand grabbed his cloak and yanked him back and down; he landed on the platform,his arms and legs splaying every which way. A long shape flickered overhead anddisappeared behind them.
Constantine brushed himself off and knelt next to theparapet. An explosion shook the tower. “Where did that come from?” he asked.Another soldier pointed to the trash hauler. Constantine sighed. He worked hisway over to the side facing the mansion grounds. A fresh crater was stillsmoking in the lawn, about fifty yards behind the gate. He turned back to thefront line. Things had just gone from bad to worse. “Who on terra turns a trashhauler into a war machine?”
Chapter 11
“The Fates will be busy today,” Captain Alexandros said.
Acting Tribune Vibius, temporarily commanding the 13th RapidAssault and Response Cohort of the XIII Germania Legion, nodded in agreement.“The men are ready, you just have to get us into position, as close as youpossibly can,” he said. “Remember, my men are still essentially unblooded. Ascrap with another cohort does not make them into a veteran unit.”
Alexandros turned to the acting tribune. “No need to worry,Vibius; this is not my first ball. I’ll make sure your lads get into battlewith nary a scratch nor a blemish on ’em. But we have to get them there first,and that involves my full attention. Now, if you will see to your men, I willsee to my ship.”
Vibius saluted and removed himself from the bridge, bootsclomping on the metal deck. Alexandros turned. “Bring us up to combat speed,”he ordered. “I want us to take out at least one of those fat cargo flyersbefore they have a chance to double-team us.”