Finally, Julius stood back to look at her. “What happened? How are you here? Why were you listening in on us?” The questions tumbled out.
Marciena looked confused, her answers halting.
Halder stepped forward. “No time for talk,” he urged, gesturing to another Nortlander who had just appeared in the doorway. “Enemy come.”
Julius turned back to look at Marciena. I have to get her out of here. He reached a heart-wrenching decision. “Marciena, do you know a way out of here?”
She nodded silently, eyes still wide at the rapidly unfolding events.
“Could you guide Scipio here to it?”
“No. I want you to come!” Her Latin was a bit rusty, and had acquired a new accent, but it was still her voice.
He sighed. “I can’t. I’m a soldier. I have to defend the senatora. But if you can take Scipio,” he gestured to the young soldier, who smiled and waved playfully at her, “out of the fortress, you can help us all. If you can lead my commander, Tribune Appius, into Midgard, we can save the senatora and go home.”
Marciena looked upset. Julius felt choked up himself. “You. . you have to get out. I won’t have you stuck here. Get Appius. Be safe, ’Ciena,” he whispered, using the nickname given to her when she was just a babe.
She hugged him fiercely, gave him a peck on the cheek, then took Scipio’s hand and led him into the dark opening of the servant’s passage behind the bookcase. She looked back at Julius once, then the door closed behind them.
And once again, Julius was all alone.
Chapter 23
Constantine
The pounding of hammers sounded like the beating of war drums. The Roman legions were about to wage war as Midgard had never seen it. Along the vast curtain wall of the fortress, Constantine could feel the hundreds of eyes watching their preparations.
In the midst of the Romans’ great encampment, a siege caterpillar was being constructed. It had taken them several days to put it together, but the final work was impressive. The long machine looked like its namesake, with large wheels for traction and articulated legs for climbing. Each of the dozens of legs was tipped with a steel alloy claw that was capable of breaking and grasping walls, mountains, or any vertical structure that it ran into.
Constantine walked along the rampart of their new castrum, less than two miles from the fortress walls. At first, his new subordinate commanders had cautioned against situating their camp so close to the enemy citadel. Let them see. They shall know fear, and it shall consume them, he’d reminded them. Rome was never stopped, only delayed.
And there would be no more delays. Not when Roman honor was at sake. Or my own personal honor, he thought wryly. Let’s see if they insist on hiding behind their big fancy walls while we parade around outside.
He pulled out his binoculars, spinning the ring on the side of the device to zoom in on the enemy fortifications. Defensive towers studded the entire mountainside, built into the rock. The curtain wall had been hewn out of the cliff face as well, centuries of work at the hands of slaves. But the result was nearly impregnable. The crenellated battlements were interspersed with Nortland catapults. Every now and then, one would fling its payload in their direction. The legionnaires would shout derisively as the shot fell harmlessly into the snow. But Constantine knew better. “They’re marking the range. They know we won’t be able to move fast.”
Murtes had moved up beside him. Constantine nodded a greeting to the man, who saluted briefly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt, sir, but the longer we wait, the tougher it will be to crack that nut.”
“Is the siege caterpillar ready?”
“It should be by this evening.”
“Very well, then. We’ll launch the assault tonight. The darkness will help us get closer to the walls. It’s not as if we’ll miss that target.” He lowered the binoculars.
Murtes looked at him for a moment, then turned and leaned on the battlement. “How are you holding up, sir?” he asked.
Constantine put on a brave face. “Ready to go.”
“Have you eaten today? Or gotten some sleep? I know things have been hectic, but if we’re about to go into battle, we need you at your best,” Murtes said.
Constantine placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You need not worry about me, Commander. Look to your men. I can look after myself.”
“Then do so, sir. Go see the cook and then rest. The men will take heart from your willingness to rest with the enemy so close. Besides, you will need your strength for tonight,” Murtes pressed.
Constantine thanked the commander for his concern, then climbed off the battlement. Perhaps I should get something to eat. I haven’t had anything since that porridge at breakfast. His stomach grumbled. Yes, definitely some food.
He negotiated his way through the camp. Here and there, a soldier would approach to ask him a question about the coming battle. Constantine knew that some generals believed it was best to hide things from their men, to keep them unaware of the challenges or dangers they were about to face. Yet others believed their men to be no more than supplies, things to be utilized to achieve an objective. Constantine felt otherwise. To be a good leader is to love your men. To be a good general, you must be willing to order the death of the thing you love. And so he talked with his men, listened to their fears and concerns, allaying them or strengthening their morale and fortitude. It had not been easy at first. He was not used to dealing with so many. . peasants. . and their problems.
He shook his head. How wrong I was. Their problems are more important than the problems of nobles and lords. Here we are worrying about this victory, and here they are worrying about what’s for dinner!
Not that he could blame them. Since the departure of General Minnicus and his lackeys, all supply caravans had ceased. They had been unable to raise any other Roman military unit on the wireless, and bad weather prevented them from sending up any of the few skimmers or observation balloons they had available.
He finally made his way into the mess hall, and stood in line with his men, as was his usual routine. Normally officers would receive better rations, and indeed his soup had a bit of meat in it, along with some rehydrated vegetables. Pretty pathetic when being an officer gets you a single piece of extra beef, he thought sarcastically as he ate quickly. He made a big show of thanking the cooks for their work and clapping his hand on a few backs before retiring to his tent.
After leaving orders that he should not be disturbed until dusk, Constantine pulled off his muddy boots, dropped his cloak from his shoulders, and laid his head on his pillow. Within moments, he had fallen into a deep sleep.
A loud commotion woke him. He glanced around, alarmed. His tent was burning! Stumbling from his cot, he grabbed his gear and rolled out of the blazing canvas.
All around him, the camp burned. He could see Nortlanders running here and there, pillaging, slaughtering camp followers, striking down legionnaires that tried to fight back.
Constantine made to move toward the largest host of Nortlanders, when one lumbered from between two tents and leapt at him. Constantine fumbled with his sword, barely managing to free it from his scabbard before the Nortlander crashed into him. They fell into the mud, wrestling. His opponent kicked him, hard, and Constantine cried out as he felt something pop in his right knee. He hit back with the pommel of his spatha, driving the weighted lead ball into the man’s face, breaking past the thin iron nose guard of his helmet and cracking open his nose. Blood poured out and the man recoiled in pain.