“Only the gods would dare try to attack something like thaton foot,” rumbled fifth squad’s leader, Sergeant Decimus. “I’d rather sit amile away and hit it with a repeating ballista armed with explosive bolts.That’d take it down, no problem.”
“The mechaniphant would just crush the attackers flat,”someone stated with an air of finality, and the resulting discussion involvedwhether or not such an event could occur.
The 13th Cohort rounded a bend in the road, and Constantineheard the soft, soothing burble of water over rocks. He pulled off his helmetwith one hand and wiped his brow with the other, smudging the dirt the dustyair had left on his forehead. With the sweat out of his eyes, he could bettersee the condition of the stone bridge crossing the small stream just ahead ofhim. It was about five feet high, obviously one of the original Roman militaryconstruction projects in this part of the countryside, though it had aged well,with only a few stones loose or damaged. He looked around. He could see a fairdistance in the flat countryside, spying some small windmills and smokestacksfar off. The chuff-chuff-chuff of a steamtractor came from somewhere offto the east.
“What are you thinking, sir?” Centurion Vibius asked. Hechecked his chronometer. “We’re supposed to be at the junction by one o’clock.”
Constantine winced inwardly. He hated it when the man actedlike his nursemaid. The man’s propensity to be right-about everything-annoyedhim. Just remember, he wanted to say, I am the one in command.“We’ll take a ten minute break. Ninth squad will be on lookout, rotated outwith 10th squad,” he told Vibius. So there; I’m the one in charge!
“Yes, sir,” Vibius responded, his face a blank. He moved offmake the arrangements.
Drill Instructor Vespasinus flipped open his brass-coveredobservation notebook and Constantine watched the dark-skinned Cretan scribblein it as he circled their position, noting the placements of the guards and thetime. Constantine swallowed. The man had spent twenty years as a legionnaire,and so was considered an excellent judge of a man’s worth. His report wouldweigh heavily on the future prospects of Tribune Constantine Tiberius Appius.
Now sweaty from the half-day march, many of the men sank tothe ground, some pulling off their nova caligae to massage their feet. Thoughstandard issue was no longer the sandal-like shoe design of yore, the shin-highleather boots reinforced with flexible strips of metal and an iron toe werestill just that-new shoes to be broken in. Others wobbled over to the river tofill their helmets with water and pour it over their heads.
A few began splashing water playfully at each other, waterdroplets glistening in the bright sunlight. Jostling escalated to shovingbetween a pair of hot-heads, and more and more recruits got dragged into the burgeoningbrawl. Eventually, Recruit Dapelicus swung a beautiful left hook that rockedRecruit Horatio most of the way out of the water and onto the pebble-strewnshore. The situation deteriorated from there.
Constantine was quietly conferring with Vespasinus over thefiner points of guard posts and regulations when a legionnaire scrambled up theslight rise, hastily saluted, and made his report on the situation.
“Very well. Go get 9th and 10th squads. Tell them to be hereon the double. Then find the drill instructor.”
“Yes, sir!” The recruit took off at full speed, no smallfeat for a man not yet accustomed to wearing the full legionary kit.
Constantine and Vespasinus turned and booted it toward thesmall stream, where Constantine waded into the thick of the fight, trying toseparate the combatants. His yells did nothing to quash the melee. A fist swungout of nowhere and hit him full in the gut.
It felt like all the air had gone out of his body. Hisvision swam and he tasted the sharp, acidic tang of bile in his mouth. Hisknees wanted to give out. Instead, his combat senses kicked in, honed from manya fight with both his older brother and drill instructors back at the palace.
Constantine grabbed the hand of the man who had swung at himand yanked him back, left hand pulling hard on the legionary’s wrist. His righthand pulled out his flare launcher, a newer piece of equipment loaded with aone-time shot of bright red firework. He used the launcher as a club, bringingit down on the man’s head. Blood spurted as the man’s nose shattered. The man’shands went to his face and he sank to the ground beside the stream, waterlapping around his ankles.
Constantine heard his name called as he stood looking downat the recruit and turned, wiping some of the man’s blood off his cheek.Ducking out of the way of a flying helmet, he saw Centurion Vibius using hissword, still in the scabbard, to bludgeon his way through to Constantine. Bothturned when they heard a shout from the top of the nearby hill.
Ninth and 10th squads were assembled at the top of the rise,their weapons at the ready; at the order to charge from the instructor besidethem, their armored lines now advanced on the melee in the stream.
Constantine looked around him. All these idiots-how can Ibecome a hero if I can’t get these blithering numbskulls to finish agods-damned training mission! Fed up, he aimed the launcher at the sky andpulled the trigger.
A bright red streak shot upward. The flare then exploded,leaving a blast of red as an afterimage on the inside of Constantine’s eyelids.He blinked in time to see the puff of red smoke that floated gracefully on thelight wind.
The brawling stopped as combatants froze, then hastilystepped away from each other with guilty looks. Constantine glared at them.“What, in Pluto’s name, do you think you are doing?” he shouted. “Form up-immediately!Centurion Vibius, sound roll call. Any man not able to stand at attention willbe assigned to punishment detail.”
The roll call left eight men down on the ground, someunconscious, others actually injured. One of those was the man Constantine hadclubbed with his flare gun.
Constantine raked his eyes over the shambles of his cohort,many dripping wet and sporting fresh bruises, their clothing torn. “I have onlyone simple question. Who started this mess?” A flurry of blame, fingerpointing, and general whining ensued. Constantine sighed. Did I sign up toplay babysitter to a bunch of school children?
“If you insist on tattling, I will have to put you all in atime-out,” Vibius said. The off-hand statement hit the men like a freighttrain. The assembled recruits stared at the older centurion, hatred fightingwith fear in their eyes.
The leader of 9th squad, a large, rotund man with a redhandlebar mustache, laughed heartily at the centurion’s comment. His laughcarried over the field. “Good one, sir! Those ninnies need a sit-down ’forethey can play at real soldiers!”
Constantine ignored the comments. He had lost theirattention, and was not sure what to do to regain it. Instructor Vespasinus wasfuriously writing notes in his notebook. Distressed, Constantine fumbled forsomething to say. Ancestors, give me an inspirational, but firm, speech!
Fortunately (or, as it seemed later, unfortunately), histhoughts were interrupted by a large, oblong shadow moving across the ground.He, along with his entire unit, looked up to see a small airship blocking theweak sun as it clawed its way through the clouds. A woman stood out front on acatwalk, with a curious object held up to her face.
Centurion Vibius immediately moved in front of the tribune,perhaps sensing that the ship was up to no good. Constantine motioned at histwo equipped squads, trying to get them to stand down. Finally they understoodhis gestures, and the 9th and 10th squads tried hastily to look as unassumingas possible.