Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (12 page)

“How can I be alone with four legions of men here to protect me?” she replied, congratulating herself for such a forward comment. The soldiers looked flustered, then smiled at her warmly.
Should I risk it?
“I was hoping you might tell me the situation. No one appears to be in command at this moment,” she ventured.

The under-officer looked at his men, then back at her. He rubbed at the grime on his face with an equally grimy hand, only succeeding in smearing around what was there. “Well, Domina, we’re not really sure what to do. Some of our officers are telling us to fight the fires, while others are telling us to hunt down the Nortlanders. Every officer I meet tells me something different. Plus the men are exhausted and dropping like flies . . . I just don’t know what to do.” Finished, he pursed his lips and cast his eyes downward.

Octavia gave the weary soldier her most expressionless, senatoresque face. “Soldier, that is no way to be talking. We have work to do. I am taking personal command of your detachment as the ranking civilian overseer of this expedition. What is your name?” The words came out in a rush, but they spurred the under-officer into action.

“But, ah, Domina, no disrespect, but our commanding officers—”

“Are not here,” Octavia finished forcefully. “And I am. Someone must take charge of this situation. And I mean to be that person, Under-officer . . .”

“
Optio Centuriae
, actually; Optio Centuriae Leviticus Ronan of the IV Britania, at your service.” Noting her blank look, he elaborated on his title. “I manage the reinforcements during battle. Except now there seems to be no reinforcements at all, as the battle seems to be everywhere.”

She nodded to show her understanding and spread her arms. “Can you lead me to the legion hospital?”

Trailed by her gaggle of bodyguards-cum-escorts, she marched straight toward the main medical posting, a harried Ronan leading the way. A gruesome scene of death and dismemberment greeted her. Wounded lay on stretchers, on the floor, sat leaning against barrels of body parts that she could no longer identify. Battered armor and broken weapons lay in great heaps, much of it covered in blood. Two men bearing a stretcher cut her off, racing a screaming legionnaire between them into the large open tent where the surgeons worked with their crude gear.

Octavia watched in morbid fascination as the surgeon wiped his bloody hands on a dirty towel and lifted his large metal spectacles to his eyes. He pulled down on a small lever on the side and the lenses telescoped out, presumably magnifying his vision. Even her upbringing on the equivalent of a massive, sprawling farm did not prepare her for the casualness of the man’s hygiene.
Even father rinsed his hands in water when coming in from the fields. This man doesn’t even take
that
step!
When the surgeon pulled a small, humming drill saw from below the table, Octavia nearly puked. The thing was covered in dark blood, and he hadn’t even begun to work on the now-unconscious soldier.

She whirled about and glared at the leader of her little band. “What is this, Optio Centuriae Ronan? Where are the nurses? The clean tools? The standards of medicine that should be in place?”

Confused, the soldier looked blank-faced at the sheer amount of death around them. “This is how it is. I don’t know how it is in hospitals back in the civilized areas, but out here, on expedition, this is the best there is.”

Octavia scowled, then had a thought. “Get me some wood. I want to start some fires.”

The man’s eyes widened. “
Start
fires? What for?”

“Well we need to boil some water and wash those tools. You clean dirty plates with boiling water and soap. We can at least do the same with our medical equipment,” she ordered.

Startled, her escort hopped to. In no time at all, the flames of a fire burned merrily outside the tent. Two men lugged over a large cauldron found in the ruins of one of the buildings. Claiming it was still whole, despite its dented and scarred appearance, they set up some metal railings for support and began dumping buckets of water into it.

While the cauldron was being filled, Octavia turned to the surgeons hard at work over their helpless patients. “This is your last surgery. Then, we clean.”

The surgeon looked up at her, his magnifying glasses making him appear bug-eyed. “A lot of these boys won’t last long enough to clean off these tools. We’re doing the best we can.” With a tired shrug, he went back to his work.

Incensed, Octavia blurted, “I am a senator of Rome. I am taking command of all the medical tents and facilities here. This is my subordinate.” She pointed at the optio centuriae, who had been edging away from this fireball of a woman. “He will ensure that you have cleaned each set of tools in this,” she flung her arm back toward the fire, “or another boiling cauldron. And they will stay in the boiling water, and soap, when we find some, for at least an hour.” By the end of her speech, she was shouting at the shocked surgeon, and the medical tents had fallen quiet around her.

She pressed her palms together for a moment and took a deep breath to calm herself. “Oh, and find some of the female camp followers. Chances are, they can help nurse these men back to health.”

The head surgeon finally appeared. “What is this woman doing in my hospital?” he growled.

By the time Octavia was done with him, he knew
exactly
why she was in the hospital. He made an abrupt about-face and nearly ran from the tent.

Octavia turned to her new subaltern. “Okay now, Ronan, what we need is . . .”

Octavia had worked through the next day and night, organizing, cleaning, and generally setting the hospital and medical facilities up in a more sanitary and streamlined way. The head surgeon had gone to the general, and for once, General Minnicus had actually backed her up. Or at least had not cared enough to appease the angered head surgeon. Even better, she was now his boss, and he jumped when she said to.

Now, after about thirty-six hours on her feet, she finally crashed. It had come at the most inopportune of times. She had simply sat down to examine one of the many blisters on her feet, and found herself awakened by a slight shake of her shoulders.

“Uh, Senatora? Are you able to stand?” Concern laced the hesitant voice. Octavia rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up, finding herself on a cot under a blanket. “You have a message from the general. He wants you to get packed.”

Octavia squinted up at the man. “Tribune Appius! I—um, excuse my appearance . . .” she almost stammered, suddenly shy.
Gah, stop it,
she commanded her fluttering heart. Her hands nervously smoothed her clothes, brushing away bits of dirt and debris.

The tribune was crouched beside her cot, one knee pressed into the soft, sooty soil. He rose and offered her a hand as she tried to push the brown hair spilling over her face back into the tight bun she had been favoring, the last day or so. She slipped her hand into his and she felt the thick calluses on his palm, especially those between his thumb and forefinger, as he hauled her up.

“Your hands feel like my father’s,” she blurted, then felt her face heat.

The tribune smiled at her, then stepped back to allow her free movement around the cot. It lay within rows of injured men, some quietly moaning, but most sleeping the deep sleep of the exhausted. “Senatora, you may call me Constantine, if you like,” he said in a quiet, reserved voice, walking her through the rows of cots and out of the tent.

Outside, the sunlight of a bright dawn reflected harshly off the ruins of Sundsvall all around them. The fire had been extinguished and order had once again been reintroduced. “I’ve come to tell you that we’re about to move out,” he continued. “The general wants you with us.”

Octavia felt her face fall. “But . . . there’s so much work for me to continue here. We haven’t even done much to clean up the situation . . .” Another thought struck her. “Why do I even need to come with the army?”

The tribune didn’t answer for a moment. He appeared to be struggling with an internal decision. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve found that the general . . . tends to hold grudges.”

Octavia smiled at this. She remembered back during the very first meeting in that tavern, how excited this young man had been to work under the direction of someone other than General Minnicus. “Let me guess, somehow he still holds grudges from the Brittenburg Incident?”

“If that’s what they’re calling it in Rome. My men and I, we call it the Brittenburg Rebellion, or disaster, depending on whom you talk to. I just find myself wishing we could be under the leadership of anyone else. By the gods, even a
navy
admiral would be a better leader than that waste of space.” Tribune Appius—
no, Constantine
—was obviously airing some of his long withheld complaints about the commanding general.

“Do you think you could do better?” Octavia asked. “After all, you are the son of the emperor, heir to the throne, and, by all accounts, a war hero in the making. It would only be a quick waving of the Imperial decree and . . .” She could see several problems disappearing with the almost infinite power of Imperial decree.

The tribune shook his head quickly. “I’m not out to use my power to get ahead. My brother used his powers almost constantly, getting things done by ignoring everyone else’s wishes. I don’t operate that way. I will follow orders and do my best. I am a son of Rome.” He said the last part with conviction. “And I hope to see you with us as we march north. We’ll most likely need your solid medical care in the wilds of Nortland; I’ve already lost too many good men without it.”

Octavia nodded as he made a bow goodbye. “I shall look forward to your company as we travel north,” she said as he walked away.

The heir turned and gave her a boyish grin, still walking, and nearly backed into a wagon. She laughed at his foolishness, then turned to seek someplace where she could clean herself up.

She hadn’t gone more than a few steps when she spotted Optio Centuriae Ronan approaching, waving an arm in greeting, lips parting to share whatever updates he had prepared for her. She interrupted him with the news of her departure. While surprised, the under-officer absorbed this new information and delivered his report. More surgeons were agreeing to follow Octavia’s guidelines. At the same time, fewer surgeons were reporting to work with injured arms, legs, and bruises. Ronan theorized that the surgeons had seen the importance of cleanliness in a legion facility that prided itself on uniformity and high standards.

Octavia shook her head.
Boys will be boys
. Her brief encounter with the young tribune all but forgotten in the face of so much impending work, Octavia set about assigning some reliable men to oversee the medical facilities while she went north.

Optio Centuriae Ronan was about to get a promotion even he had not seen coming.

Chapter 10

Alexandros

T
he long column of soldiers
and mechanical creations wove through the wilderness of central Nortland, following great
mechaniphants
whose spinning steel blades cut a broad swath through trees and underbrush.

From his vantage point a thousand feet up, hands resting on the brass railing that circled the bridge deck, Captain Alexandros kept one eye on the column’s progress and one eye on the weather gauge. The barometer had been dipping steadily, and the thickening snow clouds worried him.

“Isn’t it odd, Captain, that by the time we’re done here, we’ll have built Nortland’s first true road?” First Officer Travins mused next to him. Smudges of purple and blue under red-streaked eyes revealed his exhaustion, but he still found the energy to make a joke. “Perhaps we should send them the bill when we finish.”

For the first time in many days, Alexandros laughed. “Thanks, Travins. Now go get some rest. I don’t like the look of those clouds much, so get some shut-eye while you can.”

Travins nodded grudgingly, and pointed out, “Looks like you need some rest as well, sir.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” It was an old joke they’d shared for many years.

Travins gave a weary salute and turned to go, then paused and leaned in close. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with learning that Second Officer Ciseto happens to be related to General Minnicus now, would it sir?” His whisper barely reached the captain’s ears.

“Not at all, I just don’t trust the man to fly this beauty yet, that’s all.”

“Of course sir, of course. Good evening, sir. Or morning—whatever time it is.”

The ship’s bell rang ten in the morning as Travins left the bridge, the sound echoing clearly through the ship. Crewmen went about their assigned tasks, moving as fast as molasses, and Alexandros lost himself in the daily hum of activity. His mind wandered for a moment, thinking about his wife, Delia, dead the last four years now. It had been almost as long since he had seen his children.
Perhaps it is time to start looking for another companion
. He spent several more moments reliving the happier memories of his younger days before coming back to the present.

“Sir,” a crewman murmured, trying to do his job and respect the captain’s privacy at the same time. Alexandros turned and the crewman handed him a note. “From the admiral via the wireless.”

Alexandros bent to examine the note:
All ships are to descend to 500 feet to avoid higher-level winds. Stop. Double topside crews to avoid snow weight overwhelming vessels. Stop. Reduce speed to half. Stop. Keep on the lookout for Nortland raiders. Stop Polentio out. Stop.

“Reduce speed by half and double the topside lookouts,” Alexandros ordered, his voice carrying through the din of the airship’s command center.

The pilot pulled back on a throttle, which ran to the engine room and told the engineers to reduce power. Another officer gave orders to several midshipmen as they buttoned up coats and donned fur caps, preparing to go aloft.