In a flash, Constantine swept his sword down across his body, the stroke slashing across the raider’s face. He thrashed backward, tumbling off of Constantine into the mud, blood pouring from him. Constantine lay there for a moment, recovering his wits before he tried to regain his footing. Using a discarded pila as a crutch, he lunged to his feet, losing his sword in the process.
He hobbled forward, tottering around bodies and abandoned possessions. He found himself approaching the command tent. The Nortlanders ignored him, intent on their unhindered pillage. Shrieks and screams told of horrendous acts behind tent walls, as shadows armed with axes struck down cowering victims.
Why is this happening? What went wrong?
He finally arrived at the central plaza. Roman bodies were being dumped into a bonfire roaring in the middle of the cleared ground. He watched as familiar faces-Murtes, Paulos, Caesar, Gwendyrn-were tossed unceremoniously into the roaring flames. The wounded were not being spared, either. Constantine cried out as he saw a man, still moving, thrown into the flames by two laughing barbarians. He hobbled toward them, intent on revenge.
A shadow moved to intercept him. In the firelight, he could just make out the man’s face. It’s the man from Brittenburg. The one who escaped into the airship, Constantine recalled, recognizing the man’s deadly grace.
“Come to join our party? We’d love to have you, primus imperio.” Corbus snickered, his sword rasping from its sheath.
Constantine felt at his waist for a weapon, and found nothing.
“No weapons? I’m not the chivalrous type.” Corbus smiled, then attacked.
Constantine managed to block the first two swipes with his pila, then fell as the shaft splintered. He spun, landing on his knees, facing the long, muddy road that led toward Midgard.
“A fitting end, if I do say so myself. After all, it was your failure to lead that brought us this victory,” Corbus said. Constantine saw the burning skeleton of the siege caterpillar in the distance, leaning against the wall like some drunken buffoon. “Goodbye, prince.”
Constantine woke with a start. His tunic was drenched in cold sweat, his sword halfway out of its scabbard.
“Sir?” A guard peeked through the flap.
Constantine hastily hid his drawn weapon. “Yes?”
“A messenger’s here to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
“Very well. I’ll be out in a minute.”
The guard saluted and withdrew. Constantine quickly doffed his tunic, opening his travel trunk for a new one. His hands rummaged through the debris of the last year of legion service. Amazing how much stuff you accumulate in such a short time. Finally, he pulled a clean tunic from the recesses of the trunk and dressed again. He buckled his lorica on and wrapped his utility belt and scabbard around his waist before stepping through the tent flap and out into the evening air.
Dusk had fallen, the last lines of sunlight highlighting the tops of the castrum walls and the Laurel flag fluttering on its pole. A small party of legionnaires stood to one side, and Constantine walked over. The men saluted him.
“Sir, file leader Krull, eastern perimeter patrol. We came across these two walking into our territory. The man claims he’s a legionnaire from the Fourth. He does bear a legion tattoo. The girl claims they have a message from Centurion Caesar, along with a secret way into the fortress.”
“Thank you, file leader. You may return to your post with your men. Excellent job.”
The pug-nosed sub-officer saluted, then withdrew. Constantine was left alone with a single guard, the oddly geared legionnaire, and the young girl. “What am I to do with you?” he mused aloud.
“Believe us, sir,” the legionnaire said.
“Tell me your story.”
And so the man told his whole story from beginning to end-how he had come north with the IV Britannia. The last minutes of desperate fighting. His incarceration with Centurion Caesar. The proposition to fight for the enemy against a common enemy. Their journey through the depths of the mountain into the luxurious chambers of the nation’s most powerful men. The discovery of the hidden passage thanks to Caesar’s sister, Marciena. Finally, their exit from the tunnel into the middle of a perimeter patrol.
Constantine laughed. “You must have given them quite a fright. I’m surprised you weren’t killed on sight!”
The legionnaire, one Felix Scipio, shrugged at the comment. “I think we were just very lucky, sir. That, and at least I look like a legionnaire, even if I do have some borrowed Nortland gear. I had to kill a guard or two on the way down. My sword broke, so I took this instead.” He hefted a single-handed war axe. A smaller weapon than its cousin, the chain-axe, it nevertheless had a razor-sharp blade and crushing mallet counterweight.
Constantine considered the situation for a moment. “Very well, Legionnaire Scipio. Welcome back to the legions. The IV Britannia no longer exists, I’m afraid. I’d be glad to enroll you in one of the other legions here, or you can remain with the girl on a temporary basis. Your choice.”
Scipio considered his options for a moment, looking down at his gangly charge. “I think I’ll stay with her, sir, if you’ll allow it.”
Constantine lifted a brow at Marciena. She shrugged and nodded, shivering in the cold winter air. Abruptly, Constantine realized how ill-equipped she was for the cold weather. Her thin servant’s uniform was no defense against the cold. “Please, come into my tent. You can warm up and relax.” He beckoned them inside, pausing to ask the guard to get some hot food and drink.
When he entered, the girl had curled up on his bed, while Scipio looked on, an amused smile on his face.
“Sorry, sir, she just seemed to need to rest.”
“No worries, legionnaire. Now, what can you tell me about the events inside?”
Several hours later, Constantine had the basis of a plan. Considering the dream a warning against trying a frontal assault, he gathered his legion commanders in the headquarters tent, to map out his assault plan.
Constantine himself would lead the XIII Germania into the secret passage and find a way to open the gates from the inside. Meanwhile, the III Cimbrian and VII Germania would assault the walls using the siege caterpillar. They were under orders to not press the assault, instead reserving the bulk of their strength for when the gates were finally breached from the inside.
“We’ll use the confusion inside to our advantage. With the Nortlanders fighting each other, we have a chance to take the walls. Once that happens, they won’t stand a chance, divided as they are,” Constantine stated.
Paulos looked up at him from across the table. “What if they take our invasion as a sign to unify and fight off the invaders? It’s happened before when we’ve tried to take advantage of internal strife during war.”
Constantine paused. It was a good question. “We just have to hope that Centurion Caesar figures out our plan as soon as we enact it. If we can link up with some loyalists. . or rebels, whichever ones support the duke, we can participate in an ‘allied’ attack. So try to figure out who is whom before you go killing every Nortlander you see. And no looting or distractions. We’re here to win, save the senatora, and get home.” The officers around the table nodded.
“Any more questions?”
None were voiced. The assembled officer corps saluted their leader solemnly, lamplight glinting off their well-polished armor. Constantine shook the hand of each as they left the tent.