Travis Starnes
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The Fires of Vulcan - Chapter 7
🕑 Added 2023-08-16 19:14:00 +0000 UTCNorth of the Pyrenees Mountains
Optio Quintus Tullus Hortalus pulled his woolen cloak tighter, though it provided scant protection against the biting cold. The icy wind howled and rolled down the mountain and across the rolling foothills, whipping powdery snow into swirling eddies. His leathers creaked as he trudged through the knee-deep drifts, one weary step after another.
Around him, the fifty legionnaires under his command slogged along in silence, heads bowed against the storm, walking as close to the wagons as possible in an attempt to block the wind. He knew they were miserable. It had been two days since they had slept in a proper camp or enjoyed a hot meal, and it would be at least two more full days before they reached the Seventh Legion’s current camp. At least he hoped it was only two more days.
With the peaks of the Pyrenees to his right, he knew he was going in the right direction, but it was hard to tell distance in the thick drifts of snow, and it wouldn’t be that hard to walk through their camp and not realize they’d passed their countrymen. He’d sent out riders, but only two of the four had returned, and those reported that they had been able to see little with the snow falling as hard as it was, and that they’d barely found their way back to his small unit.
He knew his supplies were vital for the legion, but his faith in the leaders who’d ordered this insane expedition had started to fail. If he was having this kind of trouble, how badly could the main body of the Seventh be faring, and would anyone be in a state to fight if they ever actually reached the Middle Sea?
“Come on lads, pick up the pace!” Quintus called out, injecting false enthusiasm into his voice. “I know you bastards are too tough to let a little snow slow you down.”
There was a chuckle or two, that were almost lost in the wind, but they continued to slog forward hopelessly. Quintus clenched his jaw. He knew it was a long shot at this point, but his only other option was the heel of his boot, and their morale was already bad enough.
“I know you’re all weary,” he continued loudly. “But if we don’t push on, a whole legion will be going hungry. The entire southern advance is relying on us, and I’m not going to let the gods-be-damned Carthaginians win this thing because of some weather.”
That elicited a few mumbled responses, although some included choice words of exactly what the boys in the legion could feast on which seemed like … poor nutrition. They did pick up the pace a little bit though.
“Just imagine,” Quintus went on, “a roaring fire in camp tonight when we arrive. Hot venison stew, freshly baked bread …”
At this, one of the legionnaires, Rufus, Quintus thought, lifted his head.
“With spiced wine?” he asked hoarsely.
“Spiced wine for all!” Quintus proclaimed, smiling beneath his frozen beard.
“I would kill for a slice of …” another legionnaire started to say when a javelin seemed to appear out of nowhere, striking the man square in the chest, taking him off his feet.
“Form square! Rifles ready!” Quintus yelled, reacting on instinct.
In spite of the cold and exhaustion, his men performed admirably, responding with speed and precision. Smoothly, they shifted into a box formation around the central wagons, two men deep on each line. Three more men fell as they formed up, javelins in their backs. A crack of gunfire rang out as the line solidified, the puff of smoke wisping into the blizzard’s fury.
“Hold your fire,” he called out, staring into the swirling snow. “Hold. First rank, fire!”
The first rank fired as one, a wall of lead smashing into the attackers, mostly men on foot, carrying swords and javelins. A swath of men fell, pitched backward as the lead, cone-shaped mini-balls struck them, and sometimes the man behind them fell as well. The enemy kept coming.
“Second rank, fire!” he yelled, even as the first rank reloaded.
A second wave of metal slashed into his forces, sweeping more men off their feet. Still, more enemy fighters continued to come into view. If he had enough men for a third rank, he could have held this rate of fire until the enemy broke and ran, but he didn’t. At two ranks, he only had enough for six men on a side and two at each corner, which was a very small square. Taking that down to four on a side, he wouldn’t have had the firepower on any side to push the enemy back.
The first rank finished reloading just as the Carthaginians got within sword range.
“Fire! Fire!” Quintus called out.
Their attackers fell, but the Carthaginian forces were on top of them.
“Prepare to receive charge!” Quintus commanded. “Hold formation!”
With a resounding crash, the skirmishers smashed into the square on all sides. Quintus fired his rifle once and then stabbed over the fighting men, catching an axe-wielding man in the chest, the sharp steel blade cutting through the weaker Carthaginian iron.
Some men in the second rank reloaded, but most were forced to lift their rifles to defend themselves as the Carthaginians pressed their attack. Here and there, a rifle fired, but for the most part, it was down to hand-to-hand combat, removing Britannia’s greatest advantage.
“Push them back!” Quintus roared, even as he grunted, stabbing another man.
His men were falling in twos and threes, beginning to be pressed backward under the force of the assault. The numbers were finally too much. The Carthaginians overwhelmed the disciplined ranks, breaking the square. More of his men fell as they were pushed back toward the wagon.
Losing his sword, the Optio pulled his gladius, the last line of defense. He stabbed and slashed with controlled fury, dispatching two more enemies before they could close on him. All around him, the legionnaires fought for their lives as the Carthaginian tide crashed over them in a frenzy of violence.
Rufus clubbed a shrieking man with the stock of his rifle before his throat was sliced open. Another legionnaire was tackled from behind, disappearing beneath three enemies who hacked and stabbed with abandon.
“To me, form on me!” Quintus bellowed, seeing the end rapidly approaching.
No more than fifteen legionnaires remained standing, the rest dead or crippled in the blood-churned snow. With their backs to the wagons, the tattered remnants of Quintus’s century formed a final desperate line. Men screamed as sword and spear points sought enemy flesh. A bearded axe man broke through, splitting a legionnaire’s shield in two before burying the sharpened axe head in the man’s face.
“For Britannia,” Quintus screamed, ramming his gladius through the axe man’s ribs before kicking the body back into the seething mass.
Though hemmed in on all sides by the Carthaginian horde, the legionnaires fought with exceptional bravery. Quintus felt a glimmer of pride in his men, even as he accepted that these were their final moments.
A hurled spear glanced off Quintus’s shoulder, staggering him. Before he could recover, a burly swordsman hacked viciously at his head. Quintus barely managed to deflect the blow with his shield, the impact jarring his arm. With a burst of desperation, Quintus lunged and impaled his assailant under the sternum. Savagely ripping the gladius free in a spray of gore, he prepared to meet the next foe.
The remaining legionnaires were now down to five men, all sporting grievous wounds. They formed a tight circle, making the Carthaginians pay dearly every time they got too close. It wasn’t enough. One legionnaire fell, then another.
‘Three now,’ Quintus thought, parrying a sword thrust from the left even as he kicked out at a spearman trying to flank them. The last two men fell, and Quintus stepped back again, bumping against the supply wagon. Still, he refused to yield, roaring in defiance as he fought on stubbornly. A hurled axe caught him in the thigh, but he barely staggered, fueled by rage and duty. With his free hand, he snatched up a fallen spear, wielding it alongside his gladius in a whirlwind of steel. Two more of the enemy fell beneath his blades before a blade smashed through his sword arm, nearly severing it.
Dropping his bloody sword, Quintus stabbed out with the acquired spear, weaker with each thrust as blood loss and fatigue slowed him. Finally, a spear caught him high in the chest. He coughed, feeling wetness choking him. With his final struggling breath, Quintus impaled one more foe before dropping to his knees and falling flat.
He could feel his life draining out into the snow. All around him, he could see the feet and legs of Carthaginians as they gathered up fallen rifles. His men had done so well. He wondered if anyone would find their bodies before the snow thawed. ‘What an odd thing to wonder,’ Quintus thought, and then the world faded away.
***
Devnum
Lucilla sank down onto the plush couch in her private quarters, exhausted. Dealing with the Senate was beyond tiring. She’d never met any men more pleased with hearing the sound of their own voices than those men. It wasn’t just the Romans. The Caledonians and Ulaid senators were just as bad. Since they were from such different societies, she had to conclude it was just their being men that made them so narcissistic.
That wasn’t fair, she thought after a second. She knew of one man who wasn’t like that, and she could really stand to hear his voice.
“Ky, are you available to talk?” she spoke into the empty air around her.
A moment later, his deep, soothing tone came floating back to her, “For you, always.”
She smiled wearily to herself, saying, “How are things progressing with the tribes?”
“We’re making progress. After seeing how well the weapons worked in the first raid, they’ve really taken to it. Our biggest problem right now is getting them to slow the tempo down. They’re burning through our gunpowder supplies, and a few have gotten overaggressive, taking on forces too large to handle, even with their guns. Still, the Carthaginians are in disarray, and they’ve started pulling back to shorten their supply lines, so our plan is working as intended. How was the Senate? Are Roti and Bredei still being pains in everyone’s asses?”
“Gods, yes,” she groaned. “But that’s not the main thing I needed to talk to you about. I received a message from Hortensius and Sorantius about the balloon project. The wool fabric is proving too porous and heavy, and they wanted me to give them an alternative material they can use.”
Ky made a thoughtful noise and said, “Hmm, I was worried about that. The fabric seemed to have too loose of a weave, but I’d hoped the new steam-powered looms would make things better.”
“Apparently, it isn’t enough, or at least not yet,” Lucilla said.
“We could look at upgrading their processes to produce a more modern and durable wool fiber. It might not help with the weight, but it would allow a much tighter weave. The downside is that it’s going to take some time because it requires a change from almost the ground up in their production chain.”
“If it doesn’t help with the weight, then what’s the point of the upgrade?”
“Well, we’d have to also look at the rest of the design and figure out why the weight is such a problem.”
“I believe that may be my doing,” Sophus said. “My initial assessments for building the balloon were based on fabric quality and technologies from the mid-nineteenth century and not the materials being produced in this time. Rerunning my model now, it is evident that there are major issues with the design and assumptions made about substituting wool and linen for cotton, and that the current fabric is inadequate for our needs.”
“So our only option is to rework the entire textile industry from the ground up to make a more modern weave of wool fabric?” Ky asked. “Or is there something contemporary we could use instead?”
“Silk was used during the nineteenth century in many balloon designs, due to it being both strong and lightweight. However, it was ruled out during my initial designs due to the difficulty in obtaining the material in any significant quantity, as it is only produced in large quantities in Asia. The same is true of cotton, as the industry in North Africa is not capable of producing the required quantities or quality, and it is not easily accessible. Records indicate that India would be a viable source, but accessing it is limited by the same factors that limit access to silk.”
“Yes,” Ky said. “Silk and cotton are good. So all we can do is stop this project until the textile industry catches up to nineteenth-century quality, correct?”
“That assumption is not correct. There is a synthetic option available that can be produced with currently available raw materials and chemicals already developed and being produced, called viscose rayon. It was discounted in my initial calculations because it is less durable than wool or cotton, which is a concern for a system that requires a cohesive structural integrity. Even if we achieve a wool/viscose rayon blend, the percentages of mixed fibers would be difficult to control, and the end result would not achieve the same durability levels of locally developed wool. Given the new factors introduced, however, a viscose rayon/wool blend would be the most balanced option between speed of production and quality of the resulting fabric.”
“When you say it’s weaker, how much weaker?”
“It is difficult to quantify due to the non-uniform makeup of the threads after they are blended together. Without more modern blending techniques, which are well outside the capabilities of our current technological base, every batch of fabric will have a different ratio of synthetic to wool fiber. To ensure the weight remains low, the mixture has to ensure that the low end is no lower than a sixty percent synthetic-to-wool ratio. Although it’s impossible to predict the top-end ratio, modeling indicates it could be as high as eighty percent synthetic to wool.”
“If it’s so weak, can we chance it?” Lucilla asked.
She didn’t follow everything they discussed, but she was able to keep up with the gist of the conversation, at least enough to understand the central problem facing them.
“I believe there is little other choice. It could take more than a year to overhaul the textiles industry with no guarantees that the new fabric will be any more efficient. In addition, the viscose rayon will hold the ammonium phosphate solution we plan to use for flame resistance longer than pure wool fabric would. As a note, this process will be more labor-intensive, but should not delay the overall timeframe of production.”
“I guess there we have it,” Ky said.
“Alright, I’ll get it written up and sent over to them. Now, tell me about what you’ve been doing, and I don’t want to hear about you going on any more assaults with only a handful of tribesmen to back you up,” she said in a stern voice.
***
North of the Pyrenees Mountains
Velius paced back and forth within the confines of his command tent, the walls seeming to close in with each frustrated turn. Outside, the camp bustled with activity as the Seventh Legion prepared to break camp once more and continue their march east. A march that had been agonizingly slow to start with and was losing momentum with each passing day.
“Four weeks since we left Port Invictus,” he muttered, more to himself than to Gordianus, who stood stoically near the tent entrance, hands clasped behind his back as he observed his commander. “Three weeks slogging through mud and snow, and we’ve barely made it halfway.”
Velius paused in his pacing and met Gordianus’ stoic gaze, “The supply trains can barely keep up in this terrain. Half our time is spent scouting paths wide enough for the ox carts. At this rate, we’ll be lucky to reach the Middle Sea by summer.”
Of course, he knew that wasn’t fair. The only reason they were moving so slowly was because of the weather. As soon as the snows melted, they’d start making better headway. Knowing that didn’t make him any less frustrated. He slammed a fist against the heavy wooden table that served as his desk, making the neatly arranged maps and scrolls jump.
“We need to pick up the pace.”
“Unfortunately the harsh winter conditions continue to take a heavy toll, sir. We’ve lost over a hundred men to frostbite and exposure, and twice as many are too sick and weakened to fight,” Gordianus replied. “The supply convoys also report repeated raids by Carthaginians. Three convoys have failed to report in entirely. We’ve lost a large percentage of our resupply, including food and replacement winter equipment. At this rate, the legion’s combat effectiveness will be severely diminished well before we reach the Mediterranean, even if the weather does let up.”
Velius cursed under his breath again, before saying out loud, “Very well. Dispatch riders to Port Invictus at once. We need additional reinforcements and supplies. Ensure they send enough forces to escort the supply trains. A century isn’t enough.”
Gordianus considered Velius’ order for a moment before cautiously speaking up. “With respect, sir, I would urge caution before sending out additional forces as escorts. Our manpower is already stretched thin as it is.”
Velius crossed his arms, his brow furrowing, “I’m aware of that, but clearly we can’t leave our supplies unguarded. It’s how we ended up in this situation.”
“Again, with respect, we ended up in this situation because we decided to try and press across the neck of Hispania, in the shadow of the Pyrenees in the dead of winter, in express contradiction to what traditional strategy would suggest. Dispatching soldiers to escort each supply train would require stripping Port Invictus of a large percentage of the remaining forces and would probably still not be enough to follow your orders. We will almost certainly have to send a portion of the main body back to supplement the guards for our supply lines. We will be diminishing our fighting strength even further and make Port Invictus, our sole source of supply, vulnerable in return.”
He gestured to the maps spread across the table, its markers askew from Velius’s earlier tirade.
“Due to the weather, our forces are already dangerously strung out,” Gordianus continued. “Unit cohesion is becoming a concern and the columns are dispersed and vulnerable because of it. Removing more men would leave us open to being picked apart piecemeal.”
Pacing to the tent entrance, Velius gazed out at the bustling camp, mulling his options. The men were huddled in small clumps, sheltering from the cold as best they could. Behind the façade of military discipline, he could see the weariness in their eyes, the sag to their shoulders as they went about their tasks.
Turning back to Gordianus, Velius nodded reluctantly.
“You make a fair point,” he said, returning to the planning table and bracing his hands on the edge.
Gordianus had never been one for hysterics or shirking from his duties, and the map was no help, since it only confirmed what his subordinate had been saying. His forces were spread out, starving, and bleeding. Even in a perfect campaign, manpower was his biggest concern. They couldn’t afford to throw it away now, especially as it became clear there was no chance they’d reach their objective before the Carthaginians brought in reinforcements. All he would achieve would be to meet them at their strongest when he was at his weakest.
“Give the order to withdraw west to Port Invictus,” he said wearily over his shoulder.
It had seemed like a good idea, a month ago back at their finished base. A quick dash across the neck of Hispania, a surprise attack, and victory. A plan which had turned to ash almost as soon as they began executing it.
“Do we then wait until the spring, and try again?” Gordianus asked.
The man always pressed for more information. He was a planner at heart, which is one of the reasons why Velius valued him so highly. Velius was spontaneous by nature, and he found Gordianus a good foil to hold his impulses in check. In hindsight, he should have listened to his subordinate when he’d argued against the entire expedition, but there was no taking that error back now.
“No. We can’t just sit idly and wait for the Carthaginians to build up more strength before we go at them. We’ll have to figure out a way to continue progress east to hold the corridor between us and the Middle Sea open for our invasion of Africa.”
Gordianus saluted and left the tent to begin preparing the men for their withdrawal. Velius dropped back onto a stool, elbows on his knees, placing his head in his hands. He was a good enough general to admit when he was wrong, but this failure was going to cost lives. Instead of cutting off the continent while the Carthaginians were weak, they would have to face yet another massive army, outnumbered and alone.
Comments
Phil
Unfortunately, having no failures is unrealistic
Thomas Corbin
Disappointing set backs
