Iron Tribune

By Daniel Ottalini

Vengeance was delivered, and Rome was triumphant. At least, that's what the men of the XIII Germania believe. But their commanding officer knows better. Constantine Tiberius Appius defeated the Nortlanders in their capital, but now faces a greater challenge: the overwhelming power of the Mongol Empire. While his allies in Rome struggle to gather support for the weakened Roman army, his enemies plot. In a surprise assault, the Mongols push through the eastern provinces, leaving death and destruction in their wake. Outnumbered and outmaneuvered, Constantine and his men forge new partnerships and undertake a risky gambit. Can they turn back the unending waves of Mongol men? Or will the east be lost? Find out in IRON TRIBUNE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Ottalini
• Release date: Nov 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311236456

Daniel Ottalini

Daniel Ottalini is a teacher, writer, and amateur historian. His interests include reading everything from nonfiction to sci-fi and amazing others with his knowledge of random facts. When not working, he is most likely writing some more or catching much needed rest. He lives in Maryland.

Book preview

Chapter One: Corbus

Rome

December, 1853

Sweat beaded his forehead, plastering dark hair to his skin. It dripped down his back and trickled through the thickly padded practice tunic. Corbus relaxed his stance, feeling the blood pumping through his heart and arms, down to his hands. In his right hand he held a blunted spatha; in his left, a pugio , the small dagger pommel up, blade down. Two guardsmen stood opposite, green-painted scuta raised and spatha at the ready. Guardsmen, Corbus sneered mentally as he faced them; might as well call them mercenaries. No real legionnaire would attack that far apart from his partner . The first man circled slowly to his left, boots squelching in the mud as he repositioned.

Nor, for that matter, would any real guardsman serve such a poor general, if given another choice.

Corbus remained still, eyes half closed, reducing his world to the mud and stone practice atrium of the general’s villa as he pushed out all other thoughts. He could hear the second man pushing his boots into the mud, preparing to charge. Corbus tensed his muscles, knowing better than to rely on a solid footing in these conditions. The first man had reached his extreme left; he charged, shield held chest high, sword high and ready for a plunging stab. Corbus’s second opponent moved in also, slipping slightly in the mud and struggling to find solid footing. Corbus waited.

When they were barely three steps away, he ducked and rolled to the left, surprising the first guardsman, who tumbled to the side as Corbus crashed into his shield. The man flew overhead, knocking his partner off his feet and into the mud. In a flash, Corbus was back on his feet. He carefully tapped each man with his spatha. Dead. And dead.

Light clapping echoed over the courtyard as Corbus tossed his blunt weapons at the downed guardsmen. Very impressive, as always, Corbus.

"This is a pathetic excuse for ‘impressive,’ only because you insist on testing me against these mercenaries in straight fights. Have I sufficiently demonstrated my skills at beating your men yet, General?"

General Kruscus Minnicus calmly adjusted his impeccable uniform as he pondered the question. We are simply awaiting the orders of someone in a better place to give them, my son. The Nortland Triumph is today, and I will not allow you out into the city on the off chance some legionnaire recognizes you.

I am not your son, Kruscus. You would do well to remember that, Corbus stated, his voice calm and cold.

No, but I am your benefactor. I am not the only one who knows of your existence. You’re part of a conspiracy that’s killed the heir to the Empire, attempted to murder the new heir not once, but twice, and nearly assassinated a Roman senator while she was a prisoner. Not to mention half a dozen accusations involving leading a rebellion, instigating treason, and causing sabotage. You would do well to remember that it was I who granted you shelter after the disaster in Nortland, the man replied haughtily. His mechanical arm wheezed slightly as it moved down to clasp the pommel of his spatha. Kruscus’ gaze shifted to the two mud-splattered guardsmen as they helped each other back to their barracks. He shook his head, an annoyed expression on his face, and turned his attention back to Corbus. Our patron will make his wishes known soon. Within a year, I believe. This triumph will make things clear to many people.

Corbus wondered just how deep this conspiracy went. I thought it was only the general, but now, I’m not so sure.

In the meantime, Corbus, stay here and practice. Oh, and there are visitors for you. They profess friendship. I sincerely doubted that, but they insisted on seeing you. He inclined his head toward a servant ushering a small group into the atrium. I have business to which I must attend. Please ensure that no bodies remain after you’ve eliminated your so-called friends, Minnicus called over his shoulder as he left.

Sighing, Corbus turned to study the visitors. A rare smile came to his face. Chalbys! Fustus! My friends! He shook their hands warmly. It is truly excellent to see you. I assumed you were dead when I did not hear from you in Nortland.

Chalbys laughed, then adjusted his monocle. Well, my lord, communication was attempted, but the Nortlanders are particularly distrusting of outsiders. In fact, I would like to hear the story of how you managed to get yourself into their court successfully after you dropped us off in Cimbria. The rest of our story is simple. After all, your orders were to get to Rome, build a web of sympathizers, and wait for you. He paused to rub his hand through his sparse hair, and Fustus spoke up.

There are many in Rome interested in secession. Or at least, they are interested in dissolving the Senate and eliminating the emperor in favor of themselves. Considering the number of ambitious bureaucrats and junior overseers, we could easily drown the Praetorian Guard in bodies before they knew what hit them.

Corbus gave him a level look. Are you certain, Fustus? That seems a bit…impossible. Everyone knows bureaucrats are not willing to shed their blood, just the blood of others. How many real followers have you gathered?

The young ganger stared at the floor for a moment, then glanced at Chalbys. Well, my lord, we’ve got at least fifty men who can be counted on. I could gather more with some more money. Or more time. I’ve got feelers out toward the gangs here in Rome, but half have official sanction, which leads to the possibility of them informing someone of our operations. He shrugged. Secrecy is our priority, correct?

Corbus nodded slowly, then began stripping off his chain mail and padded tunic. Steam rose from his body as he wiped the sweat off with a towel. So what you’re telling me is that we are nowhere near being able to overthrow the government. He pulled on a clean tunic, muffling the last few words.

"No, my lord. But we think we have an opening, something that might help you gain access in the future. Provided that man is who we think he is." He nodded toward the retreating general.

That man is Lord Clumsy of the North, his great foolishness Kruscus Minnicus, Corbus said, mouth curled into a sneer. He is an idiot, a posturing fool still relying on past successes to bolster his pathetic current standing. And I plan on using him to infiltrate the Imperial Palace. Where I will have my vengeance. Vengeance for my mother.

And your people? Chalbys asked after a moment of silence.

We don’t need to pretend, Chalbys. My mother was an idealist. A Pan-Germania revolution! he shouted, waving his arms expansively. He dropped his arms and continued somberly, "I loved my mother, and will not forgive those Roman bastards for killing her, but her dream has been dead for years. There is no popular momentum behind us, no bands of rebels in the countryside. The movement is dead. All I want is vengeance. Do you understand?"

Yes, my lord.

And stop calling me that. I am not a lord. I am not a chieftain. In all honesty, the tribe hasn’t existed in at least two hundred years, Corbus growled. The Romans took that from us, and nothing I do will get it back. Just imagine: a free Germania! With people who speak Latin, follow Roman customs, and worship Roman or Christian gods. I imagine my mother would roll in her grave.

Nevertheless, Corbus, we need your support. We also have two people we’d like you to meet."

Well, Fustus, for one so concerned with secrecy, you’re doubling the size of our operation. Who are they?

They’re your mother’s agents, but I ran them back during the Brittenburg revolt. One of them has gotten deep inside the government and claims to have critical news about Minnicus and his patron.

Very well. Set up the meeting.

They’re waiting now.

Corbus paused in buckling on his sword belt and scabbard, eyebrow raised. A bit presumptuous of them, isn’t it? No matter. Let’s go meet these…agents of yours, Chalbys. I could use a break from staring at these walls.

"Does Minnicus expect you to remain here, si—Corbus?" Fustus asked.

Corbus snorted. He might, but considering I’ve spent three weeks beating the living gods out of every ‘guard’ he has, I doubt anyone will attempt to enforce the order.

Chalbys tilted his head and thought. It may be smart to disguise yourself, anyway. The first of the legions from the Nortland Expedition have now made it into Rome. Someone may recognize you. A heavy cloak with the hood pulled up is my recommendation.

Corbus contemplated his choices. He could ignore the advice and go out as normal, regardless of the small chance of someone noticing him. But then he would be discounting the advice of one of the few people he trusted. I hate hiding, but I shall wear the cloak. Besides, it is beginning to rain.

A short time later, face shadowed by the hood of a dark green cloak, Corbus accompanied his companions from Minnicus’s compound, maneuvering along raised sidewalks and through the midday traffic of Rome’s streets via crossing stones that allowed them to avoid the worst of the rainwater and the garbage that had collected near the city’s drains. They hopped onto a motortrolley, Chalbys paid the half-denarii fee, and they found quiet seats toward the rear of the car. The trolley’s motor revved and the car lurched into motion, wheels squealing along the steel tracks until drowned out by the cacophony of voices, industry, and general city noise.

So where are we getting off? Corbus asked impatiently. My first trip out of the compound in a month, and we have to stop at every damnable intersection in the city.

We are not stopping, Chalbys replied with a half smile.

Corbus went quiet, observing the people in the car. His advisor’s monocle drew interested stares from two well-dressed young ladies, one of whom whispered to the other. Her comments drew giggles, the young lady’s curly hair bouncing as she laughed. Eventually they stood and moved to exit the train. She steadied herself on the handrail for a moment, her hand brushing Chalbys’s. She apologized and, giggling, stepped out into the drizzle.

Ignoring the brief exchange, Corbus leaned his head against the window, until two stops later, Chalbys tapped Corbus on the shoulder.

This is our stop.

Corbus lifted his head. I thought we weren’t.

Don’t worry about that now. Chalbys rose, Corbus and Fustus following.

They hopped off the train and followed Chalbys as he entered a small café and slid into a booth in the back. The hard wooden bench had been worn smooth by generations of customers, and the scarred table spoke of similar age. A waitress took their order, and left.

A short time later, Corbus saw the woman from the trolley enter the café, accompanied by a tall man with a shock of white hair. They walked to the back and slipped into the booth. Corbus chuckled. That ‘bump’ on the train was not an accident. He started the conversation by sharing that observation.

Oh yes, one of the easiest ways to do it. My companion spotted you getting on earlier, and I was happy to play the role of messenger, the woman replied. Aura Tilenas at your service. The white-haired giant introduced himself as Janus Lomartio before Aura piped up again. He doesn’t talk much, so I’ll be doing most of the talking. She tugged playfully at one of her curls. I’m sure you’re interested in what we know.

Yes. I am, Corbus said. That, plus why you would help us and what the information will cost.

Aura gave a low laugh, richer this time. She lowered her voice when she again spoke. I’ve watched some Romans rule over others, me included, for many years. Did you know that they now have orphanages where the overseers offer the children to the highest bidder from different factories? Many of those children don’t come back. And the government looks the other way—they often get a cut. Her voice grew very quiet. And if you don’t want to work? Well, perhaps you’ll disappear one night. No one will come looking for you.

Moments later, Aura broke the awkward silence with, "I think that suffices for the why. I have firsthand…experience with this. And as for what it will cost you, the answer is: only that you let us join you. We’re familiar with Mr. Chalbys, here. We worked together in the past, and let’s just say the royal family felt the results…personally. Or at least, the former primus caesar did."

Wait—you were involved in the assassination of Lucius Appius? Fustus interjected, barely managing to keep his voice down.

Aura nodded. Janus drove the automaton gladiator, but I delivered the killing blow. It was personal. And I plan on keeping it that way, she finished defiantly.

I see no reason why you should not join us, especially after all the help you’ve provided, Corbus said, then leaned forward. I would like more information about your earlier…actions. They sound particularly interesting. I would like to know how you got so close to such a carefully protected person.

I would be delighted. She flashed a smile.

I can’t decide if that’s a ruse, or real, Corbus observed. Either way, she is very dangerous. He glanced at Janus, who sat unsmiling beside her. But I still think he is a bigger threat.

The waitress chose that moment to bring their drinks and food. The table fell quiet as beverages were quaffed. Janus picked at his food while Fustus inhaled his with all the gusto of a man used to hunger and deprivation.

Ignoring his food, Corbus pushed on. So I don’t suppose you’d tell us what this information is that you’re dangling about like a lure on a fishing rod?

Oh yes, it’s about the patron of your General Minnicus, Aura replied, then paused to chew a small bite of food. The man despises you, and is only prevented from killing you by this patron. Or so he expresses loudly to his many mistresses.

The patron is… Corbus coaxed.

Janus spoke for only the second time. The other three men looked at each other, eyes wide with surprise.

Fustus spoke for them all. Well, that certainly changes things, doesn’t it?

Chapter Two: Julius

Oenipons, South Raetia Province

January, 1854

Flames sprang up around him, molten tongues of death blocking the exits. They swirled enticingly, tempting him into their fiery embrace. Streamers of smoke wafted from his armor, smoldering in the searing heat. Sweat ran in rivers down his body.

Beyond the flames, a hooded man rode atop a massive black mechawolf, leering at him.

Corbus! You bastard! I will kill you!

Harsh laughter came back, gripping his heart in a cold fist. You may try, Tribune, but you will die. So will your precious cohort.

Corbus turned his mount and disappeared, while the flames grew, swallowing him.

No! Julius Brutus Caesar started awake.

The train car had stopped. Steam billowed outside the glass windows, swirling and flowing like river currents. Another legionnaire reached past him, cracking the window to allow fresh winter air into the cabin.

After a quick rap, the compartment door slid open to allow a bespectacled man in a starched gray uniform to poke his head inside. Oenipons Central Station! Oenipons Central Station! Train will depart in two hours, he announced.

The young tribune shuffled to his feet, shaking the sleep from his system. The cold air smelled of oil and grease, but felt wondrous after hours in the stuffy train car. He reached down and shook his friend. It took several hard prods to wake him.

Shoulda opened th’ darned window earlier, Senior Centurion Gwendyrn grumbled as he slowly woke. He frowned and scratched his beard. How much longer to Roma?

Julius shrugged. Probably a day or so. We’ve been making good time. He smirked at Gwendyrn’s preoccupation with his facial hair. When are you going to follow regulations and shave that thing?

When the commander himself orders me.

Julius laughed at the thought of their commanding officer, His Royal Highness Constantine Tiberius Appius, primus imperio, Crown Prince of the Imperial Roman Empire, ordering the tough-as-nails former Gallic farmer to shave his beard. He was still laughing as he pulled his cloak from the overhead compartment and secured it about his shoulders.

The outer passageway was full of legionnaires, anxious for a brief stint in town. The competition for seats at the nearest tratorias and inns would be fierce. There were almost a thousand legionnaires on this requisitioned military train alone. The usual hubbub of voices switched to disgruntled complaints, pulling Julius’s attention back toward the open cabin door.

Sir, Tribune Caesar, sir? The junior tribune saluted briskly, unaware of the annoyed stares leveled at him as he blocked the hallway, and introduced himself as Nicephorus Theophilus, the XIII Germania’s newest officer.

Still feeling half awake, Julius sighed inwardly as he eyed the youngest son of the Governor of Noricum. Damn headquarters and their desire to foster young nobles in the army. They should be at university, not in the legions. A moment’s thought. At least, not my legion.

Yes, Nice-for-us? Gwendyrn interjected, drawing out the syllables in a mocking tone. Julius carefully hid his snigger at the mispronunciation.

It’s…it’s Nik-eh-phor-us, the lad stammered, unwilling to meet the centurion’s eyes.

What do you need, Tribune Theophilus? Julius asked calmly, wresting control of the conversation from Gwendyrn before he could get himself into trouble.

Sir, do you have any orders for the men?

No drinking, no rioting, no women, get some food and stay in the plaza. Be back at least half an hour before departure. They should know the routine.

No doubt feeling useful now, Theophilus saluted again before practically running down the passageway, barreling aside legionnaires with his exuberance.

The boy needs to reduce his ’nthusiasm by several levels, Gwendyrn stated, his accent gruff amongst the singsong lilt of the city-raised legionnaires. He secured the double holster of hand-repeaters about his waist before he donned his heavy winter cloak.

I think you need to give him a chance, Centurion, Julius replied, adjusting his cloak over the standard issue red-dyed woolen jacket one last time. He looked at the weapons. Are those necessary?

You never know when your enemies might attack, sir. I plan to take a handful down before they get to me, Gwendyrn replied, deadpan.

Shaking his head in grudging acceptance, Julius dropped the matter. Besides, Gwendyrn was probably correct. Internal security in the Empire had not been the tightest, the last few years.

They left their compartment and walked past the endless row of cabins before exiting the car. The rush to exit had subsided, and only a few legionnaires remained in the cabins, most still asleep.

"I bet your sister doesn’t have to leave the train to eat. She gets to hang around with the senatora all day, Gwendyrn grumbled. You city folk and your po-lit-ic-al connections," he drawled.

I’m sure it’s very easy, sitting next to a hospital bed on a moving train, following a million different protocols and attending to the needs of a half-crippled woman who is in pain the entire time, Julius replied. I’m just thankful the senatora approved, much less agreed to taking on Marciena as a page. I’ll be able to safely leave her in Rome, under one of the sharpest female minds I know.

Oh, really? And what other sharp ladies do you know?

Your mother. She figured out how to get rid of you before you ate her out of house and home.

Gwendyrn’s mouth opened and closed without a sound, and Julius grinned. Then the Gaul cuffed his commanding officer on the arm, and the two men, pushing and shoving playfully, climbed the short set of stairs to the main station.

The steel columns of Oenipons’s Central Station were bare and utilitarian. Spoiled by the grandeur of Brittenburg’s railway terminal, Julius felt disappointed. No marble floors, arched ceilings, or hanging chandeliers? Even Gwendyrn seemed unimpressed. They passed a handful of small shops and tratorias, already full of legionnaires from the train looking for food. Stepping out into the starlit plaza, they shivered involuntarily at the blast of crisp air that greeted them. Oenipons was a small city in the southern province of Raetia, just north of Italia proper. The province’s towns clung to life in the vital valleys that provided the few routes over the Alps.

Reminds me of those nights in Midgard, Gwendyrn observed, pulling his cloak tighter around himself against the chill mountain air. Julius nodded, soaking in the tranquil twinkle of stars in the dark night sky.

Fancy a drink? the centurion asked after a while, gesturing to one set of exceptionally bright windows on the far side of the plaza. The train station behind them made up the western side of the plaza, with shops and restaurants occupying the north and east sides. Flowing calmly along the south side, the Pons River was mostly covered in ice at this time of year, with only a thin sliver of dark black water surviving in the center.

In a moment, Julius said, wandering toward the river. In summertime, this must be a wondrous view, he surmised, noticing the steps leading to the riverbank. He turned to find Gwendyrn had joined him, arms crossed as he looked out over the silent river to the homes and mountains beyond.

Beautiful sight, the senior centurion said. Reminds me of nights at home, ’round Solstice time.

Julius smiled. His family too would gather together in the darkest days of winter to eat the best of his mother’s cooking and exchange small gifts of clothing. Especially for Marciena, who, being the youngest, was often spoiled with new socks, mittens, and the occasional warm overcoat or cloak. "What doesn’t tonight remind you of?" Julius said, rolling his eyes.

Ignoring him, Gwendyrn forged ahead. Of course, you would not want to be out in the cold during one of th’ blizzards.

Why Gwendyrn, I thought a strapping young farm lad would scoff at such wimpy snowfalls, Julius retorted.

No, ’tis the pansy snowfall of yon city folk I laugh at. Now, a proper blizzard would have you turn blue before the first hour is out, and then they would be lucky to find your body months later. If the wolves did no’ get to ye first. He paused. Then again, I do have to grant that the Nortland winter might be a tad bit colder. But ’tis only because of those damnable mountains.

Julius shivered again. Then he tilted his head as a thought crossed his mind. How likely do you think it is it that the snow will delay our travel?

The burly man paused for a moment, examining the mountain with a critical eye. Probably a good chance, sir. I shall go and see if the station manager has sent ahead a line inspector yet.

Good; have someone accompany them to ensure they take no half-steps in this weather.

Of course, sir. I have just the man for the job.

Tribune Theophilus? I would think you have it out for the man, Centurion. He only wants to be your friend.

Aye, sir, of course, sir. But if he tries to be a friend with a Nortlander, he will end up spitted on the man’s axe. Better ta beat the kindness out of him early.

Julius sighed and waved the man away, then added, Oh, and Centurion, be on the lookout for anything suspicious. I’ve had a bad feeling that something will happen since we crossed the Rhone.

Gwendyrn saluted crisply before turning back to the welcoming lights of the train station. Julius stood in the cold, enjoying the solitude and relative quiet. He closed his eyes for a moment.

Flash.

He ducked the swing of an enraged Nortland berserker, the breeze of the man’s passing chain-axe cool