“I’m looking for the centurion,” the messenger saidhesitantly.
The single remaining legionnaire looked up at him, his facestreaked with smoke and blood. “I’m the highest ranking officer left. ActingCenturion Julius Caesar.”
“He’s alive only by luck,” the medico added curtly, notstopping his examination to look at the messenger. “When the explosiveprojectile hit, he was behind several bunk beds, getting a drink of water. Itsaved his life.”
And in that moment, the acting squad leader was promoted toacting centurion, the messenger realized; not a move for the faint of heart.
The messenger recoiled as the young man turned and pukedinto a bucket. A moment later he straightened, wiping his mouth with the backof his hand. The messenger looked away, his eyes falling on the bodies. Amedical corpsman was now covering the last one with a tarp, shaking his head.The sight of the dead man’s charred clothing combined with the smell of burntflesh made him queasy, and he nearly needed the bucket as well.
Desperate to get out of there, he turned back to thelegionary and asked, anxiety making his voice sound impatient, “So are you thecommanding officer, or not?”
Julius squared his shoulders and picked up his fallenhelmet. He placed it firmly on his head and buckled the strap. “Yes, I’m actingcenturion. What are our orders?”
“Captain Alexandros offers his compliments, sir, and begsleave to inform you that your men are to be ready to drop in five minutes.” Hepaused to check his timepiece. “That order was given three minutes ago, sir.The ship cannot remain on station for too long, as there is still another enemyairship out there.”
Julius’s mouth sagged open.
“Can you do it?” the messenger asked, the question almost asqueak.
Looking down at his dead comrades, Julius murmured, “There’sno one else to lead. We’ll be ready.”
After the messenger left, Julius listened to the hammeringof the crewmen patching the hole, too numb to move.
As he walked by, the medico paused to put a hand on Julius’sshoulder for a moment and say a quiet prayer. “I’ll send someone to collect thebodies,” he said, dropping his hand. Julius thanked him, and the medico leftthe room.
Julius wasn’t ready to leave yet. Kneeling, he pulled backthe shroud covering Vibius and tenderly detached the brass centurion pin. Hesaid a silent prayer of his own, then rose and attached the pin to his shoulderas he strode from the room.
Grabbing the first legionnaire he saw, he mustered hisstrongest command voice. “Assemble the men on the jump decks. It’s past time weleave this flying tub.”
He looked around. Word had spread rapidly about the deaths.The loss of most of their officers was a hard pill to swallow, and several menlooked mutinous. Julius knew how they felt; he’d be unwilling to dropinto a war zone without the right leadership. Now, though, he had no choice. Hethought for a second, then raised his voice. “You know, the tribune is downthere, waiting for us to hurry up and save his high and mighty behind. Let’s geta move on, people!” He punctuated the last word by slamming his gauntleted fistinto his open palm.
The men began grabbing gear and moving toward the droplines. The crewmembers were already out there, and wires descended from theship like spider silk. As Julius stepped out onto the top deck, a midshipmanreported to the bridge that they were ready. The recently promoted Julius wasnow left with figuring out what to do on the ground.
He began marshaling the men into line. “Adueinus, make aspace over there! Dapelicus, check those men’s gear-one of them appears to havehis carpteneo on backwards. We can’t have that. Gwendyrn! Get your lazybackside over to this line. You’ll be leading it down!”
Julius leaned in close as Gwendyrn scurried forward. “I needsomeone I can trust on the ground. Standard deployment, secure the area. If itlooks clear, take half the first team and secure that gate,” he ordered in alow voice. Then he said louder, “I’m giving you a battlefield commission to 1stJunior Centurion, 13th Cohort. I need a competent man to be my second. No goingcrazy now, you hear?”
Nearby men chuckled, but it did little to erase the tensionin the air. Julius felt like a fraud. Public speaking was not his thing. Hestrained to sound like the tribune had during their first airdrop, back intraining. “You are the assault team. This is a historic moment; we are thefirst rapid response unit to ever drop into combat. Are you going to insult ourforefathers? Shame your parents? Disgrace your families?”
A resounding “No!” came back to him.
“Good! Junior Centurion Gwendyrn will lead the first team.Follow his orders as if they came from …” Julius knew he did not carry muchsway with his men yet, so he improvised “ … like they came from out TribuneAppius himself! He is down there, fighting his way through hordes of traitorsand foreigners. They have given up any right to be called Romans. I say we goget him, and show him what real Romans can do!”
Cheering, the men of the 13th Cohort attached themselves tothe drop lines. Airmen held tight to the railings as they fought to keep thelines from swaying in the wind.
A green light illuminated on deck. It cast an eerie greenglow over the assembled men. “Go! Go! Go!” shouted the airmen, and the menattached their carpteneos to the lines and leapt off. Looking like beads on athread, they slid down toward the open gardens of the mansion.
Centurion Caesar borrowed a pair of binoculars from anairman and swept them along the wall toward the gate, where the mob had recoveredfrom the impact of the Thorolf and again pressed forward, using abattering ram against the barrier. No doubt seeing the arrival of their allies,small figures ran to and fro, redoubling their efforts to hold off the mob,although the defensive fire had slackened in the last few minutes.
“Hurry up, Gwendyrn, get those men in position,” Juliusmuttered. The bottom deck of the gondola blocked his view so he couldn’t seethe men right below the ship, but he knew they were all grounded by now. Heswung the binoculars back to the gate and watched anxiously as the rioterssucceeded in cracking an opening between the two panels. The defenders werethrown back from the gate; enemies trickled through the opening, leaping overseveral injured men sprawled in the dust.
Hold them! he cried silently. Just a bit longer!A pitiful handful of men rushed to the gate, repeater crossbows laying down ahail of fire. For a brief moment or two, the press at the gates slowed asrioters went down, arrows slicing through linen tunics and canvas overalls. Thewounded screamed in pain as they were trampled beneath the crowd surgingforward. Their ammunition out, the defenders dropped their crossbows andcharged, spathae and shields against bricks and clubs.
A tap on his shoulder made Julius whirl away from the dramaunfolding at the palace gates. A senior enlisted airman stood waiting, holdinga carpteneo. “Sir, the first batch is down,” the airman told him. “Wecan’t stay on station much longer. The crosswinds are beginning to affect ourability to remain stationary.”
Now that his attention had returned to the airship, Juliusdid notice that the engines were louder, working harder than before. He nodded,then quickly pulled the goggles down over his eyes and buckled his chinstrap.The airman patted his equipment down, making sure there was nothing loose orunsecured. With a return nod, the airman led him over to the drop point andhanded over the carpteneo, saying, “Don’t forget your slider, sir.”