“Centurion, see to it,” the tribune barked.
Hand on sword, Julius turned and moved to open the door. He saw two large men with the look of street toughs who were tussling with a smaller, weasel-like man as Domina Krystina looked on. The toughs appeared to have it under control, when the man slammed his skull back, breaking the nose of one of the enforcers. Dazed, the man lifted one hand to try to staunch the blood pouring from his nose.
Twisting from his grasp, the small man spun around and slid out of the arms of the other enforcer. He pushed past the innkeeper, knocking her down. An eavesdropper, Julius realized as he leapt forward, but he only succeed in catching the innkeeper, rather than his quarry. Cloak flying, the man raced through the busy common room, nimbly dodging tables and patrons. Julius managed to extricate himself from the weight of the innkeeper in time to see a flash of dark cloak as the man escaped from the common room, leaving chaos in his wake. Realizing there was no way he could catch up, Julius dusted himself off in disgust and returned to the private room.
“I disagreed with this location to begin with, Verlus,” the senatora was saying to one of the other men in the room. “We are too exposed here, and now whomever that man reports to has a good idea of our capabilities.”
Julius dismissed her. Typical politician. I wonder why she is really joining our expedition.
“Don’t be such a worry wart, Octavia,” grumbled Admiral Verlus Tritonus. “He couldn’t have heard much with that racket out there, and even if he did, he could have gathered the same information by simply standing in a church steeple with a spyglass near the airfield and having a good sense of numbers.”
Rising, he walked over to the refreshments table with a slight rolling gait that spoke of a hidden leg prosthesis. Julius remembered watching his father walk much the same way, less than a year ago. “Besides, they now obviously think we’ll all be traveling by air. As though we could move four legions by airpower alone!” He took a long drink of red wine from his glass. “Those airships just aren’t designed for it-yet. In the meantime, we’ll have to use my good old-fashioned sailing ships.” He smiled at the other officers. “You ever ridden on an actual sailing ship?”
Julius shook his head, while the tribune nodded, looking confident and calm.
“Well then, you’re in for a surprise, lad,” Verlus assured Julius. “I’ve kept my North Sea fleet just out of visual range from the shore. They’ll move in at night, sometime later this week, load up with the bulk of our forces, and ship out toward Sundsvall. With luck, we’ll be there within a week or so. Your air legion will travel with the air fleet, and take the port at Sundsvall. This harbor will be the cornerstone of our supply line.”
Julius raised an eyebrow. Taking a port by air in the middle of a Nortland winter? He shivered with anticipation. Or was it anticipation of the cold?
“I won’t bore you with the trivialities now,” Admiral Tritonus continued. “Details will be forthcoming at the official briefing.” He poured more of the dark red liquid into another goblet and offered it to Julius. “To victory.”
Julius accepted the glass, and the other men in the room moved in. The senatora remained to one side. Cool dark eyes surveyed the men as they lifted their goblets in a toast.
“No,” Julius said. The others looked at him. “Our goal isn’t victory. Victory isn’t good enough for my family, my neighbors, and the city of Brittenburg.” His knuckles whitened as he clenched the goblet and raised it high. “To retribution.”
The other men in the room, all officers who had seen their share of war and bloodshed, nodded solemnly.
“Retribution!”
Chapter 2
Constantine
Rubbing his temples, Constantine grimaced at another pounding headache. This is the third time this week. I’ve got to lay off the wine. The clamor and noise of the dockyard were not helping any, nor was the lack of sleep. He paused and pulled his helmet back onto his head, leaving the clasp unhooked. He looked around at the large forecastles crowding his view; there were at least thirty galleons filling the harbor. Farther out, like ghosts hovering in the light fog that seemed to blanket the northern sea, more naval ships awaited their turn at the docks. Looking down at the sheaf of notes and requisition orders in front of him, Constantine felt his headache throb. Can’t being the heir to the throne get me out of supply duty?
It was quite a lot for a twenty-two-year-old, heir to Imperial Rome or not, to handle. He could feel the exaggerated patience of his scribe, Ulysus Hadrix, next to him. The man was both a godsend and possibly the cursed spawn of whichever god governed the realm of paperwork.
“Headache again, sir?” Hadrix asked. Nodding, the tribune numbly thrust his papers at the scribe. The sandy-haired man found a clip in one of his many pockets and snapped the orders together. He gingerly placed them into one of many open files, careful not to smudge the cheap ink on the documents. “That looks to be the last one for the moment, sir.”
“Excellent.” Constantine rose from his chair and stretched. His muscles were tense from hunching over the desk for the last few hours. He yawned and looked at the clock. “Noon already? I’m starved. I’ll be at the officers’ mess, if you need me.” Hadrix nodded.
That man must eat paper, Constantine thought as he escaped the office and walked down the winding cobblestone street toward the harbor. The shipyard office lay at the top of a low rise, providing an excellent view of the shipbuilding and repair facilities of the main naval base for the Empire here on the Mare Balticum. Look at the might of our fleet. Look at the technology at our fingertips. A staunch pride in his nation, his people, briefly overcame the hunger beginning to gnaw at his stomach. Those northern brutes still eat meat raw, from what I hear. Especially during the winter. At least we live in something better than huts to ward off these Baltic winters.
Yet that hadn’t stopped them from thoroughly demolishing Brittenburg, a major industrial powerhouse, just a few months ago.
Phah, they had help. Romans fighting Romans, with the Nortlanders acting like buzzards circling a dying animal.
Chuckling, he waved a hand at the sentries he passed at the security gate, recognizing them as men from the IV Britannia, their red hair giving away their ethnic heritage. He walked out of the compound and onto streets now crowded with lunchtime traffic, reveling in the freedom he felt as an officer rather than as a royal. If I tried this in Rome, Father would have so many guards around me I wouldn’t even be able to walk!
Suddenly, however, he felt as if someone were staring at him, and nearly missed a step as he thought about what to do. Rounding a corner, he unobtrusively paused by the side of a restaurant and knelt, fumbling with his bootlaces while he looked around. Sure enough, two men walked quickly around the corner, trying hard not to look at anyone in particular.
Constantine rose, pulling his knife from his utility belt. “So, gentlemen, what is your interest in me?” he said as he studied them. His eyes narrowed in recognition and flew from the familiar tunic and trousers to their faces. “Alair? Paulus? What are you doing following me? Did the centurion put you up to this?” Anger crept into his voice.
The men looked flustered, embarrassment coloring their cheeks. Paulus’s freckles darkened as well, and he bit down on his lip.
Alair, the taller of the men, spoke. “We’re sorry, sir. The centurion stated that you were not to be left on your own in the city. He also said to say the following if you did catch us.” He screwed up his face, trying hard to remember. “Something about your father. .?” he mumbled sheepishly.