With a lurch, the raft moved. Julius made a grab at the rope barrier as his stomach dropped slightly. Scipio grabbed his collar and pulled him back.
“Thanks,” Julius said breathlessly.
“Least I could do, sir. You’re getting us out of here.” Scipio replied.
Halder laughed from behind them, shaking his head at the two Romans. He took off his helmet, revealing a disheveled mass of reddish-brown hair that fell below his ears.
“Can I see that?” Julius asked, pointing to the helmet. Halder tossed it over. The helmet was round like the Roman helm, but it was an assemblage of multiple pieces of metal banded together with rivets. The semicircular eye and nose guard was a thin strip of iron hammered nearly flat. It must limit their peripheral vision. No wonder their berserkers go without helmets! “Thanks,” he grunted in Norse. Halder chuckled at the Roman’s use of his native tongue.
The man at the control panel asked a question or two in Norse. When Halder’s answers obviously didn’t provide a satisfactory answer, the man got very agitated.
“Uh-oh,” Scipio said nervously. The fløte stopped in midair, sending Julius to one knee and Scipio into a box.
Julius hauled himself up. “This can’t be good.”
Halder strode over and casually picked the pilot up by his neck, lifting him several inches off the ground. The smaller man struggled for a minute, then nodded, crying out. Halder dropped him, then buffeted him about the head for good measure.
“What was that about?” Scipio asked quietly.
“Dunno, but hopefully we’ll get to our destination alive and in one piece.”
The shaken man retook the controls, and the vessel continued on its way without problem. They arrived at another set of iron doors. Halder strode up and pulled them open. He then turned and gestured to the pilot. The man walked nervously forward, one eye on the warrior. Halder gestured at the Romans, who flanked the pilot as he walked off the fløte onto the landing platform. The small party had arrived at their destination.
Almost immediately, they ran into resistance. A small knot of soldiers stood in the hallway, obviously arguing. Halder strode forward, unsheathing his large dirk. The guards split apart. Halder issued an obvious challenge. One man went beet red, and swung his spear at Halder in anger. Halder stopped the spear cold with one hand, stabbing his dirk into the man’s eye with the other. As the man flopped to the floor, his companions split up, one group fleeing from Halder, the other group chattering excitedly.
“Come, Romans. They join,” Halder told them as he pulled his dirk free and wiped it on the dead guard’s clothing.
“What about him?” Scipio pointed to the pilot.
Halder smiled. “He join too.”
Julius looked at Scipio. “Just remember, legionnaire. We’re not in Rome anymore.”
Chapter 20
Constantine
A splash of cold water hit Constantine in the face, waking him from a groggy, dreamless slumber. The icy liquid trickled down his face and hair, running into his eyes and mouth. Constantine could taste the saltiness and grime as the dirt and sweat from his body mingled with his evening shower. This was the second time he had been awakened in this manner.
He tried to adjust his aching arms, numb fingers fiddling with his bonds to no avail, the ropes were as tight as ever. Constantine’s arms were tied around a large tent pole in the middle of the canvas shelter. The wooden pole was substantial, unmoving in the face of Constantine’s many attempts to dislodge it. He slumped on the floor, legs splayed open, back against the pole.
His guards, evidently former street toughs by their actions, took glee in his discomfort. “Get up, get up!” one growled, prodding him with the butt of his spear. The iron was cooler than the water had been. Constantine struggled wearily to get to his feet. The other guard impatiently pulled on his arm, jerking him up. Constantine hissed in pain.
The guard, whom Constantine had dubbed Scarface for the ugly crescent scar that creased his forehead from eye to eye, untied his restraints, while Turtle, the other guard, pointed the steel-tipped pilum at him. The spear rested just inches from Constantine’s unprotected chest.
The primus imperio did his best to ignore the brutes, focusing on a point beyond Turtle while he concentrated on the feeling returning to his numb hands and toes. The pricks and pains of his body pulled him back into the real world.
“Out you go, Your Highness.” Scarface chuckled, pushing Constantine ahead of him and past Turtle.
They escorted him along the via principalis of the castrum. Legionnaires in the street stared at him as he walked along, ignoring the rough pushes from his guards. His breath caught as he thought he saw Gwendyrn, but it was just another large, bearded street tough playing at soldier. The winter sun threw long shadows on the ground as the sun set on his second day of capture.
He noted something interesting as he ambled along. There seem to be a lot more “personal guards” and a lot fewer legionnaires. I wonder if Minnicus has convinced his men to switch sides, or if he’s been bringing them in somehow.
A covered wagon rumbled past and pulled into an open supply lot. The back flap was lifted and a group of armored men hopped out. Wow. He’s simply shipping them in the supply wagons. So where are all the supplies? Constantine wondered. He must have spoken aloud, for he received another sharp jab in the back from Turtle.
“Quit your yappin’.”
Constantine sighed as they guided him toward the main tent. Once again, he would have a chat with the general. Just the thing to make my day, he thought as they entered.
General Minnicus was seated at his campaign desk, licking the last bits of grease and juice from his midday meal off his fingers. Several aides were huddled over the command table, prodding the controls and whispering to each other. A servant handed Minnicus a towel.
“Ah, welcome again, Commander Appius. I thought to offer you another opportunity to join in our mission,” the general said, dropping the used towel carelessly onto the ground.
Constantine was silent as his guards manhandled him forward, depositing him in a wooden folding chair in the middle of the room.
“Now Commander, I’m sure you can appreciate your situation. You’ve got no friends here, just me and the Nortlanders. And I can assure you, I’m far more accommodating than them!” Minnicus came around and perched on the edge of the desk, his double chins bulging as he looked down at his prisoner. He chuckled at his own joke. “Ha! Accommodating!” He frowned when it received no response, then shrugged.
“You do look a fine mess. I do apologize. Maximus!” he called. The servant reappeared. “Clean him up.”
The servant grabbed more towels and a bowl of water, then pulled up a chair for the water bowl and began to clean the grime and sweat from Constantine’s face and arms. The general turned and walked back around his desk. The servant moved around to clean his neck as well.
Constantine felt his ropes loosen slightly. “They’re coming for you,” the man whispered fiercely, then stood and bowed as Minnicus shooed him away. Not even the guards behind him had noticed. Constantine flexed his hands and found the ropes substantially loosened. This he could work with.
“Now, Constantine, we can talk like men.”
“Actually, it’s primus imperio. That is my title,” Constantine said flatly. Minnicus stared at him. Good, get annoyed.