“Alright, men of Rome, are you going to let the Gaul’s men do all the work? Are they the only real soldiers on this airship? Let’s show them how well real Romans can fight!” he bellowed. “Shield wall, push them on my mark.”
His men moved closer together, filling gaps between the shields and interlocking their arms. Behind them, legionnaires packed together tightly, using their plumbata to stab out at any Nortlander who rushed the line. Now the legionnaires would not move from the wall, only stab their swords low to hamstring and kneecap their Nortland attackers. The lightning-quick attacks left little room for retaliatory strikes. Howling, the blonde enemy battered his line as they rhythmically pushed their shields forward, driving their weight into the enemy press.
One, two, three-“PUSH!”
The men on his line drove forward in a focused, precise movement. Even exhausted from the intensity of shipboard combat, the well-trained legionnaires understood one simple fact: this would succeed here and now, or they would die slowly, piece by piece, later.
Occasionally, a legionnaire would fall. Julius cringed as he watched Ulysses’ head cave in after a blow from a chain-axe, the weapon spraying blood spatter over his neighbors. The shield men to either side quickly and mutely dealt with the threat, swords penetrating the killer’s armor in multiple places, granting the second line a brief moment to fill the gap. Julius watched Faestes fill the hole, and the push continued.
They were close to the enemy bridge now. Julius could see a few of the attackers beginning to flee over the bridge, back to the safety of their own vessel. “We’ve got them, lads. Keep going!”
With a roar, his men fought on, swinging with renewed vigor, almost swaggering in their lockstep. Inside the press of bodies, Julius had neither the time nor sightline to check on the progress of his flanks. Extricating himself from the press of bodies, Julius stepped back a few paces to check his forward and aft ranks.
Although Gwendyrn’s men had started first, Julius’s forces had caught up to them, and they now presented a strong, united front. Looking south, Julius’s gray eyes widened as he saw his right flank pushing forward unevenly, their coordination seemingly off. Damn it, just when we were so close to throwing them all off this vessel! Julius thought, briefly torn. Should he forge ahead and risk losing his flank? Or should he stop his push right when he had them on the run? If we don’t get to the enemy vessel, we won’t have another chance, the men are too tired.
Julius chose to send a runner down to find out what the problem was. The man returned with troubling news. Hespinus was injured, and command of the flank had fallen to a new squad leader. Analyzing this new information, Julius quickly formatted a plan. He ordered the push again, and his men moved forward. They were almost to the bridge. At the same time, he detached two of the six squads at his command to shore up the weak right flank. As his men pushed the enemy off the ship and back onto their own vessel, the frontage would become narrower, and he wouldn’t need as many bodies to hold the line.
He had taken his galea off briefly to examine the helmet. After he had gotten his head rung, he wanted to make sure it was still intact. Although battered and shorn of most of its red officer’s plume, his galea was still solid. As he placed the leather-lined helmet back onto his closely shaved head, his eyes fell upon a familiar face.
Airman Souzetio lay on deck, hands covering a nasty gut wound. Blood soaked his shirt, and blank eyes stared out of his pale face. Julius felt anger stirring within him. He would grieve later. Right now, he had a job to do.
Securing his galea, he marched back toward his men. “We’ll take that ramp and hold it until I can destroy that vessel. Squads three and four, with me. One and two will hold the ramp.”
The panting men nodded their understanding as they continued to face off against the last few Nortlanders. Several had already fallen between the ships, their fates best left unknown. Others had leapt the gap, showing impressive athleticism. The press at the boarding ramp was heavy, and the Romans were beginning to slaughter the Nortlanders now as they panicked. Incredibly tough, but also undisciplined and unorganized. A good commander can always use that against them.
Finally, the Romans gained the ramp. Julius led the way, hacking down Nortlanders as they tried to flee. Another legionnaire began to say something but died as a repeater bolt entered his eye. He dropped like a stone. Julius screamed orders for his shield wall to reassemble. Enemy airmen were now involved in defending their ship, and their weapons were just as deadly as their Roman counterparts’.
“Repeaters! To the edge and suppress them!” Julius ordered. Only a few members of the repeater teams raced forward now, as most had been absorbed back into their parent squads. Julius sent another runner to tell the bridge that the A Deck boarding attempt had been repulsed and they were mopping up the survivors.
“Remember to tell them that we’re counter-boarding!” he shouted at the messenger. As the man raced off, Julius continued the assault. They overwhelmed the last few Nortland attackers, dispatching them in a flurry of sword strokes. The immediate area clear, the Romans pressed on.
Julius’s boots thudded over the wooden planks of the bridge, and he jumped onto the enemy vessel. The design startled him at first, since he had never had a good chance to closely examine enemy mechanical vessels. Whereas the Romans built up to the gasbag, the Nortlanders had an entirely open top deck, like the top of a sailing vessel. Many thick cables stretched down at intervals, connected to large rings around the gasbag. Some sort of exposed frame? Julius wondered for half a second, then ducked as several repeater bolts tore past him, eliciting screams behind him. Get your head into the battle! Julius berated himself.
He located a hatch on deck and had his men form a line in front of it. “Hold here while I set their ship aflame!”
The senior squad leader looked beyond him, at a new group advancing on the two squads that had invaded the deck. A Nortland noble must finally have located some more men, or steeled the spines of the fleeing barbarians. “We’ll hold them as long as we can, sir.”
Back on the Scioparto, seeing what his commander was up to, Gwendyrn shouted, “Sir, we’re cutting the boarding ramps behind you. We’ll hold as long as we can, but hurry up with your errand!”
“I’ll bring you a souvenir, you insubordinate farmer!” Julius called back. “Just make sure I can get home after this!”
He lifted the hatch and peered into the gloom within. He could hear the enemy charging the thin line of legionnaires behind him. Taking a deep breath, he descended the ladder, poised to meet whatever or whoever was waiting in the depths of the enemy airship.
After pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dark interior, he began wandering the maze of corridors, lit only by a few unevenly spaced lanterns, several of which had gone out. Julius wondered if the interiors of all Nortland vessels were this depressing. He crept past several weapons galleries, noting that the weapons they used were nearly identical to his Roman artillery pieces: large and small bolt throwers, large and small explosive throwers-although most of the Nortland pieces appeared to hurl rocks rather than the gunpowder-filled canisters that his countrymen used.
At one point, Julius overheard orders being given in Latin, and the sounds of heavy fighting. There was little time to spare. He pushed onward and, finding a small closet, ripped the cords on two of his phosphorus flares, then tossed them inside, onto a pile of spare gasbag canvas. The phosphorus ignited in a harsh white light, illuminating the hallway. The canvas quickly caught fire. Julius left the door open just enough so that the fire could escape the confines of the narrow room.