Momentous Malice Writing & Stories

This is the first short story I ever got paid to write. I finalized the first draft in 2022, in the same week that my bathroom fan burst into flames, leading to a very challenging time in my life. This story isn’t really about that. It’s a fantastical journey into the minds of Roman soldiers of Late Antiquity, and the question of what war can do to the human soul.

In the rising heat of a late spring day, we stared up the shimmering length of the Tigris, hoping to see galleys crossing the horizon. None did.

“Fucking Arshak,” Canus spat, leaning back against his Steam Soldier: the hulking battle armor which towered behind him like a statue, grey metal showing through scuffed purple paint. The empty helmet seemed to glower like a mythical monster, sharing Canus’ ire.

“It’s war, hekatontarch,” I said. “You know as well as I how many ways a plan can go wrong. More, the more men are involved.”

“Even more when the word of a king is a factor, Sisenna.” Canus growled, his frustration evident. “Especially an Armenian king.” He chewed his lip. “You think they’re still alive, Procopius’ boys?”

“No way to know, I’m afraid,” I said. “Spinther’s wizards can do wonders, but I’ve not yet seen them put wings on the feet of a messenger. King Arshak and company will get here, or they won’t.”

“Can’t wait forever,” Canus said, and I nodded.

“I hope Julian knows,” I said.

We were camped across the Tigris from the capital of Persia: Ctesiphon, a city in her youth, a city with thick walls where people from across the world gathered. We had traveled far to behold her, following Emperor Julian on a quest for glory. Seen one way, the campaign had gone spectacularly well: we had seen little of the armies of the Shahanshah, and had taken a number of forts with few losses. But all knew that the Persian army was still out there—somewhere north of the capital now, burning fields and poisoning wells. If we could not take the city, we would soon have to retreat. Trying to forge a path across enemy territory with a fresh army nipping at one’s heels was a waking nightmare to any experienced soldier.

Gravel crunched nearby, and I turned to see who approached.

Flavius Jovianus walked toward us, simply clad, as we were, in tunic and trousers. He wore a spatha in a long, gold-adorned leather sheath. He also wore an amiable smile on his clean-shaven face. He greeted Canus’ scowl unflinchingly.

“What have you to smile about, Jovian?” Canus snarled. “I hear men talking about breaking camp. Do we march for Ctesiphon? Or Constantinopolis?” His dark fingers drummed on the armor’s thigh, making it ring quietly.

Jovian shrugged, smile unaltered. “It’s your job to be gloomy, hekatontarch,” he said, his voice deep, rich, and perpetually amused. “It’s my job to project confidence, I’m told. And to summon you to council with the emperor. We’ve decisions to make.”

Canus shifted his weight and pushed off the Steam Soldier’s steel leg. I stood, preparing to follow. He’d want me on hand, to hear what was said and help him make sense of it.

“What of the Legion?” Canus asked, gesturing down the hill toward the riverbank. Between us and the palisade at the water’s edge, there were almost a hundred suits of battle armor, purple-painted giants standing at attention in arrow-straight rows. Soldiers moved among them on the morning’s business. Wisps of smoke from cookfires hazed the morning air.

“Am I to tell them to prepare to move?” Canus continued, one bushy, gray eyebrow raised.

Jovian’s smile faltered just a little, but only for a moment. Then: “Yes.” He turned to leave, then paused. “And bring the wizard,” he said, then headed toward the command tent.

***

Emperor Flavius Claudius Julianus entered the war room with little of the pomp due his station. We’d all been on the march with him too long for all of that. As usual, his herald invoked Jupiter Most High as the emperor’s protector and father. This drew a mixed but muted reaction from those assembled, including an eyeroll from Jovian, who was nevertheless careful not to wear his cross openly in the emperor’s presence.

Emperor Julian surveyed his advisors, gathered there under the red and purple cloth of his royal tent. He had a strong face, browned by long days of Mesopotamian sun, framed by a thick but well-trimmed beard. His eyes met those of every man, and every man held his gaze. This was the warfront: there was no use for ceremonial distance here. Julian was beloved by his soldiers, both pagan and Christian. Soldiers who love their commander succeed in battle.

“We’re in a tight spot, brothers,” he began, and there was a murmur of assent. “Our Armenian allies have either betrayed us or found misfortune between here and the source of the Tigris. Either way, they have come too late to help us. Now we decide what to do.”

There was a long pause. Bad luck on campaign was the biggest catalyst for tension, a time when soldiers weighed what they valued most, be that duty and loyalty, the glory of the empire, their lives, or the loot they’d never claim. Generals and emperors aplenty had fallen afoul of soldiers in the throes of grief, anger, and fear at such times. Jovian’s smile was still in place, but he’d donned his chainmail since summoning Canus and I to council, his hand lightly on the pommel of his spatha.

Of course, imperial bodyguards were just as likely as rank-and-file soldiers to decide that misfortune in war was a ticket to promotion.

“Come off it, Augustus, with that sour face,” Canus barked into the uncomfortable silence. “You and I know we can take Ctesiphon without Arshak’s people. It may be a hard day or month, but the Steam Legion will get it done in the end. Isn’t that right, Spinther?”

There was commotion and a little laughter in the tent, and I could see the corners of Julian’s mouth quirk upward slightly, his eyes sparkling just a little.

Spinther, the Greek magician, stepped forward. His tunic and robes dangled loosely from his thin frame. Beads of sweat stood out on his balding pate. He picked up a fold of his robe and mopped at his brow.

“Great Basileus,” he said, speaking in his own language, “the, erm…elements needed for the fueling of the Steam Soldiers are running a little low, but I believe we have enough for another month’s operation. At present, the Soldiers are fearsome on the battlefield, and though it has to be said that they’ve never faced numbers like those the Persians have arrayed across the river, their armor is far too thick for any arrows to menace them. I believe that under Canus’ leadership, they should be able to win you the other bank. And with, erm, Jupiter’s favor, the city itself.”

Julian nodded slowly as the old wizard spoke. I didn’t know the details of how Spinther had come into Julian’s orbit, but the most credible rumors had the effusive man arranging to exhibit his wondrous creations on the floor of the Hippodrome in Constantinopolis. It was said, by many who claimed to have seen it, that Spinther put two men in his hulking armor and had them fight as gladiators. Apparently, Julian was so taken with the display that he gave Spinther title and treasure on the spot, then begged him to come east with the army.

Since that day, the two were often seen together, talking long into the night. Spinther was afforded whatever he needed to do his work: raw metals to repair the Steam Soldiers, elite troops to train in their use, extra rations to keep the Steam Legion happy, and an endless supply of slaves to work his forges, carry his supplies, and serve his person. The Steam Legionnaires—the men who, like myself and Canus, piloted the powered armor—thought of him as a sacred standard, a lucky charm. Posting in the Steam Legion was certainly one of the most comfortable jobs in the army. At least, when the army was at rest.

Battle was a slightly different matter.

Julian surveyed the assembled men once more, eyes probing.

“Is there any man here who will speak against attempting the river crossing and assaulting the walls of Ctesiphon?” he asked. “Even knowing that reinforcements will not come?”

A pregnant silence followed his words. The emperor nodded.

“Then make your preparations, and may all the gods be with us,” he said, and everyone in the tent started to move and talk.

***

The moon was full that night. The river crossing was dangerous, but not as dangerous as arrow fire from the north bank.

I was sweating, though the night was cold. My armor had protected me from clouds of arrows that would have shredded whole legions, from the lances and maces of Persian cataphracts in full charge, but I had no illusions about what would happen if I fell in that cloudy, gently murmuring water. The thought made me shiver.

The rest of the Steam Legion was gathered around me on two small galleys from our supply fleet. The only sounds were the muttering of the waters, the groaning of the rowers, the nervous conversation of the soldiers. I heard bravado, doomsaying, prayers to a number of different cults. But there was no panic. The ships were bubbling cauldrons of anxious whispers, and the sound made a blank cloud of background noise against which I was able to rest my mind. I was confident we would all support each other despite our worries. We would all give each other a fighting chance. And Spinther’s sorcerous wonders, these Steam Soldiers, would shield our flesh through the press, just as they always had.

I said nothing. I’m not a talkative man. I’m a farmer’s son from Illyria. I can’t quote heroic speeches or recite psalms. I learned long ago that a deep breath and a moment of silence work better to still my jitters than any amount of babble.

Canus, however, was not the same.

“Did you have second squad oil their joints?” he asked, flexing the fingers of his gauntlets. I couldn’t see his face, of course—the steel helmets are almost fully enclosed, resembling those of Greek warriors of bygone centuries. Canus was staring forward over the bow, rocking slightly from side to side, the joints of his armor hissing occasionally as it worked to match and amplify his movements. The deck creaked under him.

“Yes, hekatontarch,” I said.

“What about fourth squad?” he asked. “Did they draw replacement spathae? The amount of breakage in that squad—I don’t know what they’re doing. It’s like they think they’re carrying axes instead of swords.”

“Maybe we should just give them axes,” I suggested, then took another deep, slow breath.

“Maybe they should stop being a bunch of wild barbarians,” he snapped. Fourth squad was largely made up of men who’d grown up on the Rhein frontier: you had to know a fair amount of Germanic to play dice with them. They were good soldiers, though. Everyone in the Legion was.

“Would you like to pray, hekatontarch?” I asked mildly.

“To whom?” Canus said. “My father, he was a Christian, and I thought that was the way I’d always worship, you know? But now we march under Jupiter-blessed Julian Augustus, in armor forged by a man who prays to Hephaestus, and not once have we lost a battle. I’ve wondered many times what my father would say.”

“Not once have we lost a battle,” I repeated. “Why should that change tonight?”

“Careful,” Canus said. “Rome’s history is rife with the corpses of men who thought that way. Did we not pass Carrhae mere months ago? I’ve no wish for my head to serve as a theater prop for the Shahanshah.”

I smiled. “Nor I, hekatontarch.”

The shore was very close. Canus hissed to the nearby soldiers, and their conversation ceased, the silence spreading like a wave across the galleys.

There came a shout from the bank at the same moment a grinding, scratching sound vibrated up through the deck, through our boots, and then rattling around our helmets. The ships had hit the bank, and the enemy had seen us. It was time to get on the beach.

Steam Soldiers surged forward, joints hissing, boots clomping, huge silhouettes looming over the rails, glinting briefly in moonlight then disappearing over the side. Voices called. An arrow whistled past my head. Another skipped off of Canus’ breastplate.

“Don’t die, Sisenna,” Canus said, as he always did. Then he shouted, “Roma Invicta, you mangy rout! Bring me their guts!”

The answering calls of the Steam Legionnaires were quickly lost under the building rush of falling arrows.

***

Fighting in darkness is usually a terrible idea, except when all the soldiers on your side are metal titans twice the size of a man. Hard to mistake a friend for an enemy when all the enemies look like dolls.

The Persians who amassed before the gates of Ctesiphon were hampered by the darkness and by their fear of us. I can only imagine what they made of us: stomping up from the river, gleaming in the moonlight, drawing closer, towering higher. Thunder was in our steps.

To their credit, their rain of arrows was constant as we charged across the shadowy fields outside their walls, the legs of our powered armor churning the sand and allowing us a bounding gait to close the distance. Canus barked orders, reining us in, making sure our formation didn’t disintegrate. Arrows fell all around us and upon us. Not one was wounded. Then we were among the enemy.

After that, it wasn’t much of a battle. The only Persians unlucky enough to eat our steel were the stragglers, the older or crippled soldiers, the inexperienced who let the panic of battle overwhelm their common sense. They screamed and cried as they were mashed into the sand or diced into broken pieces by the moonlit arcs of sweeping spathae as long as a man is tall. A halting shower of arrows splintered and clinked against our armor like reluctant hailstones. The enemy fled, stopping every so often to turn and fire before retreating.

There was no cavalry here under the walls of Ctesiphon by the river. The cavalry, and the elephants, were miles away. The Persian army had been avoiding us for months. The brash among us chalked it up to fear of our wonderful Steam Soldiers, accusing the Shahanshah of simple cowardice. But even some who made these jeers knew in their hearts that the Persians were out of reach because they were leaving us to worse enemies: hunger and thirst. Everywhere we went we found empty villages, scarred fields, broken wells, and each new emptiness filled us with dread.

But Ctesiphon was a different matter. The Shahanshah couldn’t burn his capital. He had to fight for her. It was what we both hoped and feared.

The north bank of the Tigris was secure, shattered corpses and stained sand the only sign of the enemy. The regular Roman troops, the ground-pounders in boots and mail, were quickstepping off the ships, filling the beach with their ranks. The Steam Legion reformed, facing the walls of the city. The enemy were milling about in the shadows by the nearest gate. We could hear their shouts echoing off the bricks.

“Mission accomplished, hekatontarch,” I said. I could feel the sweat soaking into the cloth padding on my forehead. I could smell the blood coloring my sword and the boots of my armor.

Canus cleared his throat, a monstrous growl echoing from the depths of his helmet.

“Right now they’re swarming the gate, trampling each other to get in,” he said. “They haven’t tried to stand and fight us before. They’re broken. If they get inside the walls, they’ll have a chance to breathe and they’ll be braver, looking down on us from above, which is where they’ll be by morning if we let them.”

“What are your orders?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Advance in formation,” he said as the last of the Steam Legion joined the line, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, round shields facing forward.

I raised the signal horn with its long, thin mouthpiece designed to fit between the cheek-plates of my helmet. A long blast, which was met with a single word from the ranks: “Advance!”

We shuffled forward, fast enough to eat up ground but slow enough to stay in ranks. Our massive boots pounded the sand rhythmically, beating out a brutal cadence.

The shouting at the city gate rose in pitch, and by the time we hit the rear ranks of the terrified Persian infantry, there was nothing on the wind but screaming.

***

We took the gate by the river, quickstepping right over the ranks of archers swarming the doors. Those not directly in front of us fled to either side—the lucky ones eastward across the fields, the unlucky ones toward the river. Our armor appeared wet in the light of the lanterns in the gateway, bathed in the blood of the city’s defenders.

It was there that we met our first real resistance. Swift though our assault had been, the city’s vizier had been able to mobilize ranks of Daylamite swordsmen right at the mouth of the river gate, with archers behind them. Mail and shield would be no more proof against our giant swords and stomping boots than cloth and wicker had been, but we’d heard of the Daylamites. We knew they wouldn’t let us past them without a fight.

We waded into them, crushing and slashing, and they did their damndest to slow our assault. The archers behind them fired volley after volley into the fray, looking now on well-lit targets mired in heavy combat.

Still our armor held. The art of Spinther gave the Steam Soldiers seemingly boundless strength, strength to carry inches of steel plate upon their animated frames, and no arrow could pierce that. But without holes for vision and breathing, the armor would have been merely a tomb to men strapped inside. This was the opening for harm to come to the Legion.

I advanced with my eyes just above the rim of my shield, which covered me down to the tops of my armored boots. I could feel blows landing on its legs. A Steam Soldier is more than twice the height of a man, and it isn’t exactly like a coat of mail: it is at least partially like a walking vehicle, as if I were a puppet master hiding inside the marionette. Therefore, the lower legs and boots don’t actually have me inside them, just the wondrous sinews of the machine, which move using Spinther’s steam engineering. I could hear a scraping sound, and I wondered if the Daylamites were trying to work their swords into seams of the armor, trying to get at me. While they might not find my flesh, who knows what havoc they could wreak on the mechanism?

While I fretted and sweated and tried to stay upright, something struck the top of my shield. An arrow, perhaps? Whatever it was shattered with a little spark, and suddenly I could see nothing but red through my right eye. I resisted the urge to try and wipe it, a pointless gesture in plate helmet and steel gauntlets. There was no pain, but that was normal in the press of battle, filled with fear and discipline. Something had flown through the eyeholes in my helmet. I was still standing. For now, that was good enough.

I heard a scream behind me—someone crying for his mother in Greek—then silence.

We rarely lost men in the Steam Legion. I’d long known how lucky that was, how strange. But in that moment, towering over the Persian infantry and blessed with godlike strength, the scream of a dying comrade flooded my mind with something new. Not anger or fear; I had plenty of those. They were like old comrades themselves. No, it was a special kind of anger.

A mere mortal had the gall to strike down a god. Such an affront must be punished.

I crouched, then leaped. It was nothing I’d ever done before. A cold wrath filled my mind, and then I was flying. I sailed over the ranks of the Daylamites, air whistling in my helmet, and crashed down among the archers, anointing the pavements beneath them with fresh blood as I crushed life from two of them with my metallic bulk.

I roared wordlessly as I swung my spatha, the blade barely slowing as it parted wicker and cloth and flesh, driven through the air by the Steam Soldier’s hissing actuators. I made a swath of destruction around me—sounds of pain, shards of wicker, a mist of blood. Nearby archers, who had been firing into the press in sedate rhythms, dropped their weapons and ran.

The Persian lines broke, and it was the death of them. Within minutes, the street just within the river gate of Ctesiphon was ankle-deep in blood and mashed meat.

Within hours, Ctesiphon was in Roman hands.

***

“Great Augustus,” Jovian said, “surely it would be unwise to deny the men their pick of captives. Why does that Greek need so many slaves?”

We were all in the emperor’s presence again, this time in a large gallery within the sprawling palace of the Shahanshah himself. The walls arched upward, high over our heads, decorated with winged men painted in florid hues. Our voices echoed in the cavernous heights above us. The King of Kings wasn’t there. He and his army were still somewhere northward, among the farms and villages along the Tigris.

Heading this way, assuredly.

“That Greek, Jovianus,” the emperor stressed, “just gave us this city. He, and all the men of the Steam Legion. We owe everything to them. And Spinther has advised me that he needs as many captives as we can give him in order to prepare the Legion for what comes next.”

“Quite so,” said the little man. He now stood at Julian’s right hand, opposite Jovian on the emperor’s left. He had a nervous energy, shifting from foot to foot. He seemed to be avoiding Jovian’s gaze, but even so, he continued. “Some of the Steam Soldiers suffered catastrophic damage in the assault,” Spinther said. “Additionally, they expended more fuel than I expected, and those reserves will have to be replenished. That will take hard manual labor, pure and simple, and many hands make light work.”

“They do indeed,” Julian said.

“As you know, Augustus,” Jovian said, his voice less jovial than ever, “soldiers on campaign are happiest when given leave to reward themselves with gifts, and…vent their frustrations freely.” His hand was on his chest. I found myself wondering what his god would have to say about the rape and murder he was so coyly hinting at.

“And yet,” Julian said, “the matter is settled. Soldiers are also happy when they win battles. We still have not seen any sign of our Armenian allies coming down the Tigris, and so we need the Steam Legion in top fighting form if we’re to survive what’s coming. As to that…”

A hekatontarch of the Mobile Cavalry spoke up, a gray-haired man with the illustrious name of Marius. “Our scouts report that Shahanshah Shapur is making his way here swiftly, probably to try and attack the walls before we’re fully recovered from our assault,” Marius said. “He will likely be here within three days—possibly as little as two. His army will be tired, but if they can make that kind of time, it might not matter.”

“Take heart, Marius,” Julian said, “and tell us: what is the size of Shapur’s army?”

“Impossible to be sure,” Marius said, grimacing. “But the largest column we’ve seen had twenty elephants, a thousand cataphracts, fifteen hundred horse archers, and three thousand infantry, including archers and heavy infantry. There are at least a dozen such columns moving separately through the northern villages, making the force as large as our own—likely larger.”

There was grumbling in the vaulted space, whispers that echoed overhead as Julian pondered. “How soon can the Steam Legion be on the march?” Julian finally asked.

“My Basileus,” Spinther said, “there is much to do to prepare them. If I had a week, perhaps—”

“You have a day, Spinther,” Julian said. The Greek’s mouth hung open. “There’s no time to waste. While the Shahanshah is on the march, his forces are separated, and therefore vulnerable. The Steam Legion is our most powerful weapon, the Mobile Cavalry our swiftest. The infantry and siege equipment must stay secure behind the walls of Ctesiphon, but the other two forces will be more effective in the field, fighting the divided enemy on advantageous terms.”

I nodded. It was sound strategy—though it would make for long days marching and fighting, and my bones already ached. The cut above my right eye itched like fire.

***

The Steam Legion worked all day to aid Spinther’s technicians in repairing our armor and weapons.

We labored alongside the newly enslaved people of Ctesiphon. They were an eclectic lot—many were Greek-speaking people whose ancestors had lived in Seleucia going back to the time of Alexander. I saw men and women of Persian, Greek, and Armenian dress and speech, and others from lands I’d barely heard of, such as Indus. I’d been to Constantinopolis, and the people of Ctesiphon seemed not dissimilar to me. The two cities were young capitals of empires which spanned whole worlds. I wondered how long Rome could contain both.

The air carried the sounds of hammer blows as we tried to take dents out of armor plates or forged new ones as replacements. The Mesopotamian sun beat down mercilessly, making the areas around the forges like pure hellfire. Soldiers who should have been resting before the next day’s march collapsed and were dragged away to find water and shade. I saw slaves drop where they stood; every time, Spinther’s men would move them, taking them I knew not where. I hoped the poor wretches weren’t simply being dumped in the river.

The sun lowered and the hammering slowed, then ceased. Canus and I took up a dice game with one of the captives, an Indian man who spoke Greek. He said his name was Alexander, and it amused us so much we embraced it. He played into it, claiming that we Romans were usurpers of his rightful dominion, and soon he’d throw us off all our lands from here to the Aegean. We surmised he knew those lands well, and that he’d been a merchant before the emperor had delivered him into Spinther’s service.

Canus tossed the bones, then cursed. Alexander smiled as he gathered silver from the pot, sweeping it toward his crossed legs.

“Well, Great Alexander,” Canus growled, “what do you think of Persia these days? I thought you defeated her long ago, but she seems pretty strong to me.”

Alexander made a plosive sound of derision. “Let me tell you, my new Roman friends,” he said, his eyes rolling a little, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my very advanced years, it’s that no empire lasts forever. If you don’t like that, you can bring me to the headsman right now. Losing my head won’t make me any less right. You call this place Persia, but what truth is there in such a name? Do you Romans not also call it Parthia? The Shahanshah is but the tenth King of Kings of the House of Sassan, and his throne is little more than a century old, and my great-grandfather, if he had lived in these lands, would not have been its subject in his youth.”

“But Rome has ruled the world since the days of the first Augustus,” I objected.

“And what world is that?” Alexander asked, snorting. “Rome has never ruled my world, until now. You sit and play dice in the capital of the eastern end of the Roman world. Beyond it lie lands you could only dream of.”

“You sound pretty confident for a war captive dicing in a sacked city,” Canus said.

“Look, I like you two boys,” Alexander said. “You are unlucky, and flush with silver. So I have no qualms with giving you the very best advice, which is to run far away, now. Take me with you. If we can find a boat, perhaps among the villages downstream, then such a craft will carry us down the Tigris to the gulf. And then, my new friends, we will see if we can take a ship and explore the worlds far beyond. I have family far to the east I haven’t seen in years. What a homecoming, were I to bring two strapping, hard-faced Roman slaves home with me to my father’s house. Don’t worry, you’d be better treated in my house than I have been in yours!”

Eventually we lost enough money to lose interest in the game, and Alexander bid us good evening, leaving to find a bare spot of ground to sleep on among the other captives. Canus and I retired to the empty inn near the river gate where we had our gear. I bathed the cut above my eye, which was itching less and had no smell—a relief. Then we lay down on bedrolls next to each other.

“A world beyond Rome,” Canus mused. “We all know it’s out there. It’s easy not to think of it when you’re on the front lines.”

“What if that world is about to change, hekatontarch?” I asked. “Alexander—the real one—marched all the way to the Indus, and he didn’t have the Steam Soldiers. What if that’s where we’re going? To the lands where elephants come from, and silk is cheaper than wool?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sisenna,” Canus said, stroking my cheek, his calloused soldier’s hands always surprisingly gentle. “First, we have to survive the next two days.”

***

We marched out of the city’s northward gates while the sun was still no more than a red haze of promise on the borders of the eastern sky. We were all tired and sore, but our grumbling was lost beneath the rhythmic pounding of the Steam Soldiers’ massive boots.

The armor suits, by contrast, seemed to have an extra spring in their step. Spinther and his technicians had been working through the night, some said—as had the captives. Canus and I hadn’t been able to find Alexander in the morning. Perhaps the old merchant had been conscripted for fuel-hauling and was lying exhausted in a patch of shade. I hoped so.

I don’t know how “steam power” works. I know that the Steam Soldiers sometimes emit smoke or fog from their joints and make hissing sounds when they move, but I also know that to make either smoke or steam, you need fire. And there is a part of my armor suit, a sort of hump on its steel back, which gets hot—especially after being fueled by Spinther’s technicians. Not hot enough to burn flesh, and it doesn’t seep into the compartment where I strap in—that would make the suit unbearable. But I’ve noticed that the heat grows less as days pass since the last refueling. In any case, my armor doesn’t seem to have a furnace or oven or chimney of any kind, anything I might expect to be a source of heat. When Spinther’s servants refuel it, they never seem to be shoveling in wood or coal, just connecting a sort of shining jar or pot to the back, which makes a brief, high-pitched scream before it’s disconnected. Then the Soldier seems to stand straighter, ready for battle.

Maybe the “steam” is contained within that jar.

We made good time northward, first along paved Persian roads older than Alexander’s time, then along gravel and beaten dirt tracks that wound their way among the villages north and east of the Tigris. We had a few Mobile Cavalry soldiers to guide us; we hadn’t had the time to recruit local guides—none that we could trust. The sun was low and the air was cool when we reached a spot our guides told us was good for an ambush.

I looked around. We were right at the riverbank, at a place where an irrigation channel rejoined the stream. An orchard flourished on either side of the water, running in orderly lines up the bank to the northeast, clusters of little green apples adorning the boughs. A broad dirt track ran between the orchard and the river, the irrigation channel crossed by a stone bridge. It was peaceful, to be sure.

“This seems to be a market road used by the locals to bring harvests down toward the larger villages near Ctesiphon,” said one of the scouts, pulling his horse’s head away from the young apples. “It’s the only good road through this side of the Persians’ route southward. They’re sure to come through here.”

“Any idea how many of them?” asked Canus, staring down at the cavalryman, his face mostly invisible behind the great steel of his helmet.

“All we know is that there’s a column headed this way,” said the scout. “We’ve seen the dust. We could get closer, but then we risk them knowing we’re here.”

Canus knew we could be facing thousands. He also knew we had only a little more than two hundred Steam Soldiers remaining in the Legion. We had not yet tangled with the main force of Shapur’s imperial army since we’d started this campaign.

He spat. It arced to the ground and smacked into the dirt at the scout’s feet.

“Well,” Canus said, turning to me, “we’d better make the most of whatever time we have left. We know the emperor’s orders.”

Canus was a good soldier. I hoped that fact wouldn’t get him killed.

***

Rumor had it that Shahanshah Shapur the Second had been king his whole life. Indeed, rumor said he’d been king before birth, that the Persian crown had been placed upon his mother’s swollen abdomen. That was fifty-four years before the Steam Legion found itself crouching in an orchard by the Tigris, waiting for the army of the King of Kings. Fifty-four years of rule at the head of the Persian Empire ought to teach a man wisdom—and paranoia. Fifty-four years leading a nation in war ought to teach a man something of strategy and tactics. We soon learned that Shapur would not disappoint in these regards.

The bulk of the Steam Legion hid in the orchard, Scorpions at the ready. The light siege weapons, with their steel bows and iron cranks, were far too large for an ordinary legionnaire to carry, but the Steam Soldiers handled them easily. When the time came, Canus would give the order, and the Legion would rain down iron bolts longer than a man’s arm upon the enemy. If all went well, a volley or two would sow confusion, which would turn to panic and rout when the Legion charged in, spathae swinging. Rout was disaster for an army, a time when the most men died.

Canus was with the men in the orchard. He placed me in charge of a much smaller force: ten men crouched in the reeds just at the end of the stone bridge, practically sitting in the irrigation channel. It was musty and smelly. Men kept shifting and splashing, uncomfortable and nervous. The Steam Soldiers didn’t lend themselves well to situations involving water.

My squad’s job was to block the Persian advance, to stand at the Ctesiphon-end of the bridge and level spears at the enemy, discouraging them from fleeing that way. We’d spent over an hour making long pikes from felled apple trees. Some had argued for hardening them over a fire, but Canus worried that the smoke might give us away. Surprise was more important. I sat there in the muddy water, looking at the point of my pike, visualizing it shattering against the armored skirts of the steeds of the charging cataphracts. At least I had more steel than they did covering my body. At least I still had a spatha nearly as long as a cavalryman’s lance.

We could see the dust cloud the scouts had reported. In the stillness, we could hear the sound all soldiers have dreaded since our weapons were rocks and sticks: the tramping of thousands of marching feet, horse-hooves, and the cries of beasts. The imagination multiplied them into a horde unmatched by even the gods themselves. Then there was another sound: an echoing horn-call, repeated by other instruments throughout the oncoming force, and the thundering footfalls stopped.

We waited and waited. I tried to control my breathing, whispered to my men to do the same. I couldn’t see Canus’ group, which comforted me. They were well-hidden among the trees. The day was growing hot. Air shimmered above the Tigris to my left, dragonflies dancing through that strange region of bent light. It was all so foreign that part of me fancied I had died, that a Persian bolt or arrow had struck me down unaware, and I was making a crossing to whatever world awaits the dead.

Then the silence was broken. First by another horn-call, then by a great and distant clattering, and I knew what the Persians had been doing. Pale against the sky came a dozen hurtling balls of flame, each with a dark mass at its heart. They arced high, crested, dipped downward, and began to crash into the earth. One burst amid the trees about a hundred yards away. I heard a scream. Fire instantly caught in the orchard, black smoke billowing into the sky.

The Persians, whether through intelligence or simple caution, were using their damnable siege engines to hurl flaming pitch into the orchard, setting it alight in the dry afternoon. Surely they knew it was possible we might be there. I tasted sharp fear in the back of my mouth. The Steam Soldiers were no security against fire.

Another volley of fiery pitch pots sailed through the air, and as they crashed down into the orchard, I could hear Canus’ voice barking—thank the gods, he’s still alive—and legionnaires came dashing out of the orchard, some staggering and burning, making for the river and whatever relief lay there. It was chaos and shouting. Fire is as deadly to military discipline as it is to human flesh.

Canus’ helm was crowned with a red, transverse crest, his armor untouched by flames. His Scorpion was gone, his spatha was freed. He was gesturing with it, trying to rally the men. My legs burned. I wanted to charge to his side, do something to help him, but his barking voice stayed me. What good could I do? He knew I was there, and he would tell me what to do.

Then the cataphracts thundered into view, curving around the orchard, trotting down the road by the river.

There were hundreds in immediate view, though it was hard to count them. Man and horse were clad in thick armor of metal scales, which hung down so low it seemed as if the horses floated rather than walked, making the men look more like mythical centaurs than mere mortals. Their armor was burnished to a glorious sheen, throwing the noon sunlight in our faces. They spotted Canus and his men and began to pick up speed with a crescendo of pounding hooves. Their lances tipped, leveled, and reached out toward us, like a slow-moving volley of giant arrows with silver fletchings. A wall of metal surged toward the Steam Legion.

Canus was a good soldier. He swept his spatha. I could no longer hear him, but I could see the legionnaires near him forming a firing line, loading their Scorpions, taking aim—those in front kneeling, those in back standing. They spanned the strip of land between the river and the burning orchard, looking strangely pitiful in the face of the oncoming charge.

Canus’ sword swung down toward the enemy. I could hear the snap of all the Scorpions at once. My eyes couldn’t follow the swarm of bolts which sprang forward from our ranks, but I could see the effect on the enemy.

Horses toppled headlong, their hindquarters flipping over their heads as bolts punched through breastplates in sparks and sprays of blood. Men were crushed, spears snapped, and screams threaded through the stuttering, faltering thunder.

The Steam Legion fired again, and the charge began to break. Canus shouted into the silence, “Front rank, reload! Rear rank, fire!” and more cataphracts met their end. I saw one man’s head tear free from his shoulders. No amount of armor a man could wear was proof against a direct hit from a Scorpion.

The Steam Legion fired by ranks, and the Persians, confronted with a foe undaunted by their magnificent armor, turned and fled. Without room to maneuver, they couldn’t weave to avoid our fire, and more fell. Within moments, the road was a ruin of shattered corpses, their armor gleaming brightly beside the muddy water.

A cheer went up from the Legion, my voice among them. I waved to my men, and we stood up out of the reeds, bringing our pikes with us. The battlefield had changed, and we were needed on the front.

Then I heard the sound that Romans have dreaded since Hannibal’s day: the trumpeting of elephants.

They came around the burning orchard, the cataphracts dividing around them, recovering some discipline as they fled from the hail of Scorpion bolts. Tall as our Steam Soldiers were, the elephants were taller. Mail and steel plate glittered on their faces and flanks alongside cloth of vibrant red, purple, and gold. They were like walking palaces, the tread of their huge feet like falling boulders in the mountains. Their trumpeting was like dragon-roar from another world.

The Steam Legion stood before a surging tide of flesh and steel. Arrows swarmed through the intervening air, fired from the wooden towers that soared above the backs of the beasts. High above one of them, wavering back and forth in the rear ranks, I could see something that caused my breath to seize: a purple banner decorated with golden dots and flower petals, bordered in red.

It was the standard of the Shahanshah himself.

The noise drowned out my own thoughts. Canus swept his spatha again, the ranks of legionnaires raising their Scorpions to fire. I saw sparks as bolts ricocheted off the faceplates of the elephants. Suddenly, one of the animals screamed, an elemental explosion of sound. It tossed its head—had a bolt gone through its eye? The elephant collapsed, toppling to its knees, another beast crashing into it from behind. Men were flung from its back, their shrieks lost in the tumult and the stomping feet.

No cheer from the Legion this time. My pikemen and I were running, our armor hissing and clomping as we sprinted across the stone bridge, trying to make it to our comrades. We were still fifty yards away when the elephants hit the battleline.

Smoke from the burning orchard. Dust. Flying mud. Churning, gray-skinned limbs. Swinging swords. The howling and roaring of beasts and men. My comrades disappeared into a roiling chaos.

I had faced battle many times, but never like this.

I made myself charge on, and by the gods, so did my men. Flanks of elephants, which had broken through the press, wheeled to strike at the legion from the sides and rear. Somewhere in that armor, there had to be joints and gaps. I raised my pike and ran forward.

I could feel something welling up, like a heat crawling up the nape of my neck. It was like the battle at the river gate of Ctesiphon, a soaring feeling. Our cause—that of my comrades and mine—was divine. I could not let these demons challenge it. I had to strike with the might of a god. And so I did.

An elephant turned, its great black eye staring dully toward me, and I thrust the pike with all the might my armor could muster. The beast had no time to scream in pain as I skewered its skull from eye socket to eye socket. It sank to the ground, trembling as I pulled out the pike, now coated red along two-thirds of its length. A Persian soldier, mail-clad with bow in hand, toppled to the dust in front of me, and I stepped on him as a child steps on a snail in the garden, feeling the crunch more than hearing it. My teeth grated against each other. Was I smiling?

There was a crash of bodies as I staggered backward, and my men surged in around me. An elephant roared, its front feet high above the earth as it reared back, its driver yelling, two pikes thrust home into its exposed belly. I tried to warn the others as the beast came crashing down. One legionnaire leaped aside, landing heavily, the mighty armor like a child’s toy among the raging war-beasts. Another man was crushed beneath the falling mass. I had no way to tell if he was alive.

I heard a grating shout and turned my head. There was Canus, his feet off the ground, an elephant’s trunk wrapped around him. He’d lost his sword and was trying to pry the gray tentacle off him with the armor’s mighty gauntlets. The elephant roared in his face, then flung him. He tumbled, tumbled… The elephant charged forward…

I yelled his name as the tusks drove home, one splintering loudly as it struck Canus’ breastplate, the other piercing through the center of his helm, caving it in. Blood spurted onto white ivory, and Canus was dead. A purple, gold, and red banner waved back and forth above the tower on the elephant’s back.

Like I said, unlucky boys, I swore I heard someone think.

The heat crawling up the back of my skull intensified. I looked below the banner, spied a man in shining scales and gilded mail, clad in a red cloak. He stood in the tower on the beast’s back, gripping its sides for support. I couldn’t even see his face, yet his creatures, his army, had killed my hekatontarch. Such a thing could not be allowed. Who was the King of Kings in the face of a god?

I ran, then leaped, dropping my pike and reaching out with eager, steel hands. The beast staggered as I hit, clutching for purchase, grabbing fistfuls of the thick cloth over its jangling armor. The elephant bellowed as I climbed up its side, hand over hand. The whole world shook and rolled and plunged. Everything beyond me and the beast and the King of Kings faded into a nauseating blur. I focused on what was right in front of me: reach, grab, pull myself up…

I was face to face with the Shahanshah. All I could see of him were his eyes, shining from the depths of his mail-adorned helm. They were wide with fear. My heart soared to see the terror of an emperor.

With one gauntlet I clutched the tower, the wood splintering. With the other hand I drew my spatha. The King of Kings shook himself into action, drawing his own sword, shouting for his men. But neither his sword nor his bodyguards could help him now.

I thrust the spatha, and it pierced hauberk, flesh, and bone, the point bursting from his back, shining red. I lifted the ruined body of Shapur the Second high over my head, his limbs still flailing, blood running down my blade to stain my gauntlet and my steel hide. I shook him as his soldiers stared. I screeched, my voice echoing inhumanly in the steel chamber of my helm.

The elephant panicked, and something in its harness tore. The tower toppled from its back, taking me with it. I crashed to the ground, and an instant of searing pain was followed by darkness.

***

I awoke in the abandoned inn in Ctesiphon, where Canus and I had spent our last night together. As I healed slowly from my wounds, I learned what happened after I fell from the Shahanshah’s elephant. The surgeon, a big Germanian with surprisingly gentle hands, told me in halting Greek how the Persians had withdrawn from the battle by the river, and the Roman Mobile Cavalry had brought the wounded from the Steam Legion back to Ctesiphon. The Legion was still there, holding ground, their flank now protected by the still-burning orchard, but the Persians were gone.

Rumors trickled in along with wounded. It was said the Persians were fighting among themselves. All too common with imperial armies: in the wake of a ruler’s death, his relatives and his generals all began recruiting and planning civil war, which would continue until one man emerged as the next King of Kings. To say the Romans were not immune to this same phenomenon was to make an understated joke.

Julian had placed Shapur’s son, the defector Hormzid, on the throne in Ctesiphon, but it was said the man’s authority ended at the walls. With the Roman army resupplied and the enemy in disarray, that wasn’t likely to be an issue.

Everyone who was honest with themselves knew who controlled the capital of Persia now: Flavius Julianus Augustus, for the glory of Rome. It had happened before. Many said Julian’s only goal in marching east had been to prove his right to be called Augustus—to quiet discontent in Constantinopolis by laying her rival low.

But now that it was done, I began to see the signs that something more was happening. As my bruises and bones started mending and I could go for walks in the city streets, I saw Steam Soldiers being repaired, new recruits being drilled, materials being collected to make new suits. Spinther was collecting more captives, a new influx coming in with the wounded and news of victory against the Persians.

I never did see Alexander, the old merchant, again. I watched as Spinther’s new slaves were worked until they were insensible, then taken away by the old Greek’s technicians. Taken I knew not where, yet knew all too well. I could hear them in the brief wailing as the fuel canisters were plugged into the backs of the Steam Soldiers. I could hear them, more clearly than ever, when I strapped myself into my repaired armor for the first time since Canus’ death.

I could hear Alexander’s voice above all, whispering, like hot breath on the back of my neck as I marched once more with the Steam Legion northward along the old roads leading toward Bactria and Indus.

“War has devoured the man you loved,” he said, smug and wry. “War has devoured me. Your emperor’s war may devour the entire world, just as Alexander’s did. Yet where is Alexander?”

I pounded dust. I breathed deeply. I told my men to check their gear, to check each other. I savored the warmth flowing up my spine, the heady glow of ambrosia.