“Well, Legionnaire Trelmus, I say we have not finished our objective. In my opinion, winning a battle is not the same as destroying a city. In any case, if simply winning a battle was sufficient to force these raiders to cease their destructive ways, then why didn’t the battle of Vilnus, where the Nortlanders lost twenty thousand men to General Pelia’s trap, stop them?”
The legionnaire looked confused for a moment, but Constantine pressed on, slamming his fist with a thwack into the palm of his leather gauntlet for effect. “No! That is not enough. It is not enough to just win one battle, then return home. I care not about glory or fame; I already have plenty. I’m the primus imperio! Together, we can avenge Brittenburg the right way, through a victory that they will remember. We may not be able to conquer them, and quite frankly I’m perfectly happy to leave this gods-forsaken land of ice and snow to them.” The legionnaires around him chuckled. Constantine felt the mood change from one of resignation to one of determination.
“So we press on to give these barbarians the lashing they deserve. And if we happen to save the senatora, why, I think that would simply be the icing on the cake.”
“Especially for you, sir.” The man said slyly.
“Of course, Trelmus, of course.”
The legionnaire saluted as Constantine took his leave, pressing farther up the column beneath vaulted stonework and smooth stone arches looking hundreds of years old. He passed cohort after cohort as he moved to the front of the column, giving the occasional greeting here, an encouraging word there, never breaking stride.
They climbed ever higher, the path winding upward, doubling back on itself and passing along deep trenches and over rickety bridges. Finally they entered an area showing more habitation. Torches and lanterns lit the hallways. After a hasty conference with his leading cohort centurion, Constantine ordered out scouts and flankers to catch or kill any witnesses.
Finally Legionnaire Scipio halted in front of a nondescript wooden door. “This is it, sir. This is the doorway Marciena and I escaped through. I will tell you though, sir, it may be smart to block this doorway and keep it open. It cannot be opened from the inside.”
Scipio stepped to the side as the entry party gathered at the door, repeaters drawn. Constantine wanted to intervene and give last minute instructions, but he didn’t want to be seen as interfering with his subordinate’s command. Finally, he simply nodded at the 1st Cohort’s fresh-faced centurion. Everyone in this legion seems so young, yet it seems like an age since we mustered last year.
Scipio yanked down on a lever at the side of the door. Gears and chains whirred, and the door swung open on silent hinges.
The first legionnaires entered the room and spread out. Behind them, more legionnaires in full formation entered, blocking the doorway with their large scuta shields
“Clear, sir!” came the directive.
Constantine entered the room, hand repeater drawn. He stepped carefully over several bodies that bore evidence of extreme and recent trauma. Two of them appeared to have been executed or hacked down from behind. All were wearing Nortland gear. The smell of death was nearly overwhelming.
“File leader, was this our doing?” he asked, just to be sure.
“No sir, the room was as it appears when we entered. It’s worse in the main room.”
Constantine realized they were in a bedchamber. The massive four-post bed and lavishly appointed furniture and rugs spoke of wealth. Not that the occupant’s money is worth much now. It will be impossible to get the blood out of these carpets.
While his men checked several other rooms that opened off the bedchamber, he walked into the main room, and a much more grisly scene.
“Nortlanders fighting Nortlanders. Seems the girl was right,” The 1st Cohort’s centurion, a weedy, perennially happy man named Claudius Orestius, commented. He pointed to blue ribbons tied around some of the Nortlanders’ arms. “Loyalists or rebels perhaps? The situation is probably too fluid, but it looks like the blue guys took a lot more casualties here. The non-blues seem to have taken most of their wounded as well. He pointed to trails of blood where wounded men had been dragged or carried away.
“Very well, let’s fan out,” Constantine ordered. “Scout the hallway outside while I bring up the rest of the legion. We’ve got to try to figure out exactly how to get to the throne room.” He gratefully stepped into the hallway, leaving behind some of the overwhelming stench of death. “And get those bodies out of those rooms. We have to walk through them, for Jupiter’s sake!”
While the 2nd Cohort began to purge the rooms of their dead occupants, Constantine followed Orestius and the First into the hall. They set up a perimeter as 3rd Cohort began to move in.
They brought a guest over to their commander. “Sir, we found this one skulking about in the tunnels. She claims they are servants’ tunnels and that she was simply trying to do her chores.”
Constantine looked at the woman, then said in Norse, “Where is your king?”
The woman’s jaw dropped at hearing him speak in her tongue. She garbled her response, and Constantine waited patiently, staring stolidly into her blue eyes. Finally she became coherent. “I know the way.”
Constantine turned to his men. “Good news! We now have a guide.”
“Best news I’ve heard all day,” grumbled someone.
Constantine detailed a squad to escort her to the front of the column, then pulled their commanding officer aside. “Keep an eye on her. She doesn’t seem the type to lead us astray, but I’m taking no chances. Grab another prisoner as soon as possible.”
The centurion saluted and gathered the rest of his men. With 1st and 3rd Cohorts leading the way, the XIII Germania began their assault on the Midgard fortress.
Ducking low to remain in cover behind the shield line, Constantine advanced to find Centurion Orestius. The arrival of the XIII Germania was completely unforeseen by the northerners. Working in concentrated and well-practiced teams, the Romans had quickly swamped any areas of resistance. Runners connecting the leading edge of the legion with the base camp told of the outside assault gaining momentum.
I’d love to have some way to communicate with them here at the front. The rock had proven too thick to allow wireless transmissions, so traditional wired messages had to do. “What’s the situation, Centurion?” Constantine asked.
“Sir! The Nortlanders seem to have established some type of barricade. The guide says that through those large doors is the throne room. They’ve got those rapid firing rock throwers of theirs. Those things are able to shatter our scuta,” Orestius informed him.
Constantine looked around. The 1st Cohort had taken some casualties on the way down, and many men were tired and wounded. “I just passed Centurion Gwendyrn and his men. We’ll pull them up and they’ll take the main thrust, with you supporting. In the meantime, keep their heads down with your repeaters.”
“Yes, sir!” Orestius smiled.
Constantine backed away, ducking as the whine of the lead shot zipped overhead. Occasionally, the balls would slam into the shield wall. Even rarer still, one found its mark. He passed a legionnaire’s crumpled body, placed against the wall by his companions. His helmet was missing and part of his skull was shattered. Constantine grimaced and ducked lower.
He found Centurion Gwendyrn just around the corner, his men taking a moment to munch on hard biscuits and gulp water. The centurion greeted his former tribune warmly.
“I hope you’ll still like me in a minute,” Constantine joked, then informed the one-time Gallic farmer of his plan.
Gwendyrn saluted sharply. “We’ll get you that doorway, sir, and get you into that throne room.”
“As I’d expected.”