The Plains of Pluto - Chapter 20

Camp Banwīhraz, Central Germania

Medb settled onto the rough wooden bench in the watchtower just as the sun started to make its way over the horizon. She’d been watching these people for weeks now and she found she’d gotten the most useful information in the morning, before the sun was all the way up and the temperatures started to really rise. It was when they were the busiest, which meant she got to see more interactions between prisoners, which is where she found the most interesting observations.

The guards had quickly learned not to disturb her. Her reputation had preceded her arrival at Camp Banwīhraz, and a few well-chosen words to those who initially tried to be helpful, or simply just curious, had ensured her solitude.

She opened her small leather-bound journal, its pages filled with meticulous notes and drawings. She’d developed her own system of sorts to track individual prisoners and their movements, creating a detailed map of the camp’s social structure, which had quickly expanded into something even she was having trouble following as it got more complex.

She looked at the small book for a moment, appreciating it. A gift from Cormac before she left Carthage, the leather cover bore the marks of constant use, worn at the edges from being carried everywhere, stained with ink where her pen had leaked during a sudden summer downpour three days prior. The fact that it was worn actually made her like it more, even though it was a gift.

Things were meant to be used. To box them up and save them was to deny them their purpose, and remove the meaning behind the gift. The worn edges, the stain, the filled pages, these were the signs of a gift truly appreciated.

She pulled herself out of her reverie as the first prisoners emerged from the rows of tents lined, one after along across the huge square field enclosed by wire fences topped with barbed wire dotted with guard towers. One of dozens at Camp Banwīhraz, each more or less alike, able to hold a thousand prisoners. The camp overall had passed thirty thousand prisoners. It was not the largest of the prison camps in Germania. There were three medical camps that held seriously injured prisoners who made up the bulk of those they’d captured, only being moved here when it was safe for them to maintain themselves on their own.

She found this one the most enlightening of all the sections she’d observed because it was built on a slight hill, the center point of which was more or less in the center of the square. Although it was a square, the inmates had arranged themselves into what she’d started to think of as a set of concentric circles, with the most privileged prisoners occupying the central area situated on slightly higher ground. This elevated position, drier and more comfortable, had not been designated by the Britannian guards and she wasn’t even sure the designers had noticed the gradations, or counted them as serious enough to account for. The prisoners, however, had noticed and, from what she was told, established this arrangement within days of this section being opened. And they’d maintained the structure with remarkable consistency.

She’d noticed the pattern early on and had even tested it to a degree, to get a sense of the camp hierarchy. Three separate times she’d instructed the guards to relocate prisoners randomly throughout the camp. Each time, the original order had reasserted itself within hours, the privileged returning to the center, the lowest ranked banished once again to the periphery. There had been no riots or fights and yet the pattern remained unbroken.

Most revealing was how new prisoners were integrated into this system. Medb had witnessed the arrival of thirty fresh captives the day before yesterday and, within hours, each had been assessed and assigned his place within the concentric rings.

Breakfast had begun and the guards had set up a station for men to come through and get rations. Each man got a bowl of whatever was being served that morning, each the same amount, regardless of how they classified themselves. And yet it did not stay that way.

Certain middle-tier prisoners collected food as men came through the line, pouring some into an extra bowl or giving additional food from the extra bowl, depending on their place in the hierarchy, apparently. The central elites consistently received the largest portions, sometimes significantly larger, while those in the outer rings survived on much less. Often half of what they’d been given.

The guards had been trying to put a stop to this, although without a huge influx of praetorians, it was impossible to stop altogether. She’d put a hold on that when she’d started observing this section, however, so she could see how it would naturally work for them.

What made this arrangement remarkable was its persistence without overt enforcement. Medb had witnessed few attempts by the lower-ranked prisoners to secure more food for themselves.

She’d divided the camp into five distinct zones, marking the territories claimed by different groups within the prisoner population.

Zone One, the central area, housed what Medb had classified as the administrative elite. There were very few of these, only about thirty men, mostly captured in the early days before the trenches gone in and the front lines had become static. A few had been recovered from Valdar’s actions in Africa.

These men did not seem to be the type that purposefully put themselves in harm’s way. Here, they rarely engaged in physical labor and were deferred to by every other group in the section.

Zone Two contained what appeared to be higher-ranked military officers. Unlike the central elite, these men participated in work details, although usually in a supervisory way. They also seemed to serve as intermediaries between the central figures and the broader population.

Zone Three seemed to be made up of lower-ranked officers, men who led small groups into battle similar to a Britannian Decanus or Optio. Here, they worked mostly as go-betweens for the first two zones and zone four.

Zone Four housed the bulk of the prisoners, common soldiers, Medb presumed. Even among them, there was an internal hierarchy that was too complex for her to have worked out yet beyond there being two distinct groups.

Zone Five, the outermost ring, presented a puzzle Medb hadn’t yet solved. Everyone in the entire section was an easterner, with the soldiers from their proxies held in their own sections. And yet, the easterners themselves seemed to see a difference between the people in Zone Five and those in the other zones. Its inhabitants showed signs of severe malnourishment despite receiving the same initial rations as others. They occupied the lowest, dampest ground, falling ill more frequently than their counterparts. Yet they made no visible attempt to improve their circumstances, accepting their position with a resignation that suggested permanence.

Medb tapped her pen against the journal thoughtfully. There also seemed to be no way to move from one zone to another. When beds became available in better positions due to prisoner transfers or deaths, lower-ranked captives never attempted to claim them. The system operated as if governed by immutable laws rather than convenience or comfort.

The entire camp operated as a miniature replica of a larger social system that probably existed in their homeland. While it did tell her something about the TianYou, that they were a rigid hierarchical society, more than even the Romans or the Carthaginians were, it did not tell her the kinds she actually needed to know.

Not that she hadn’t found a way to get what she needed. Among the outer ring prisoners, mostly in Zone Four, she had identified several men who didn’t fully conform to the established patterns. These individuals, while positioned in the lower ranks, maintained a certain independence from the hierarchy.

They were standoffish. Separate.

They interested Medb. She had tracked five of the men for the past two weeks, noting their interactions. They operated under the same social rules as everyone else but kept to themselves.

They were loners, which was exactly what she was looking for.

One in particular, a lean, younger-aged man with a distinctive scar across his jaw, had particularly captured Medb’s attention. He was from Zone Four, and at first glance, he was quiet but abided by all of the unwritten rules the easterners had put in place.

But the more she watched him, the more she realized he was watching them. During the downtime, and there was a lot of downtime in a prison camp, most would occupy themselves with games among their own group, with conversation, or just sleeping.

He watched. Not just watched. He studied them.

And there was not a good reason for someone in their ranks to do that. Which intrigued Medb even more.

Medb snapped her journal shut. She had seen enough. Now it was time to move on to the next stage of her plan.

Descending from the watchtower, she sought out the office of the camp commander, a burly Britannian officer named Tiburtius.

“Lady Medb,” he said with a short bow. “Have your observations been productive this morning?”

“I have seen enough. I have a list of fourteen prisoners I would like segregated for questioning. I will provide you with their descriptions and which tents they sleep in.”

“As you wish,” he said, clearly intrigued, but smart enough to not ask questions.

She waited as he dispatched guards to retrieve the prisoners. While she was actually interested in the scar-faced man, for what she needed, she thought pulling him alone would draw too much attention for what she was hoping to achieve. The others were merely camouflage, some high-ranked, some mid-level, deliberately selected to obscure her true interest.

Within the hour, all fourteen prisoners had been segregated into individual holding cells. Medb did not start with the man she wanted. In fact, she started with a man from Zone five followed by one from Zone One. The interrogations were, of course, brief due to the language barrier. She would speak, they would stare at her, time would be wasted.

She did just enough that, if they started comparing notes, the men would have enough to guess what she wanted them to think she was doing.

Then she got to her real target.

The cell was sparse, since these cells were for holding problematic prisoners, and not actually meant for interrogation, only containing a chair and a mattress on the floor. The man sat on one chair, his hands resting in his lap. She took the chair and small table one of the guards had been carrying for her and set it facing the man, a few steps away, as the guards took up positions against the door, on the inside of the cell with them.

Medb sat down in the chair and said nothing. Not a word. She simply watched him as he watched her.

Minutes passed in silent evaluation. Most prisoners she had interrogated grew nervous in such silence, fidgeting or attempting to speak first. This one did not. His breathing remained steady, his gaze direct but not confrontational. The scar along his jaw gave his otherwise youthful face a hardened quality.

She estimated him to be in his mid-twenties, old enough to have seen combat but still a young man with a life ahead of him.

After fifteen minutes of silence, Medb reached into her pocket and removed a small cloth bundle. She unwrapped it on the table, revealing bread, dried meat, and a small apple, far better fare than he had been getting.

She pushed the bundle toward him without a word.

The prisoner glanced at the food, then back at her. His expression revealed nothing, but she caught the brief flicker in his eyes. Hunger. Not desperation, he was not starving, but definite want.

Still, he made no move toward the offering.

“Take it,” Medb said, knowing he would not understand the words but making her intent clear with a gesture toward the food.

The prisoner remained motionless for another moment before reaching for the apple. He bit into it without taking his eyes off her, the crunch unnaturally loud in the silent room.

Medb waited until he had finished the fruit before beginning her real work. She pointed to the table.

“Table,” she said clearly.

The prisoner stared at her.

She repeated the word, tapping the wooden surface. “Table.”

No response.

She pointed to herself. “Medb.”

Then she waited, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Nothing.

Medb tried again with the chair, with the same result. The prisoner watched her with those calculating eyes but made no attempt to repeat her words or offer his own.

After twenty minutes of this one-sided language lesson, Medb felt her patience wearing thin. The man was clearly intelligent; his reluctance was not from a lack of comprehension but willful resistance.

Well, she had not expected it to be easy.

There would always be tomorrow.

She stood abruptly, giving him a curt nod, the barest acknowledgment, and turned toward the door. The guards, seeing her approach, moved to open it.

As she reached the threshold, a single word sounded behind her.

“Liu.”

Medb paused, then slowly turned back. The prisoner sat exactly as before. She raised an eyebrow at him again.

“Liu,” he repeated, tapping his chest.

A small victory, but significant. Medb returned to the table and sat down.

“Liu,” she repeated, pointing at him then to herself. “Medb.”

The man, Liu, nodded once.

Medb pointed to the table again. “Table.”

“àn,” Liu said.

“Chair.” She pointed.

“Jī.”

Medb’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. “Good.”

The next hour passed in a basic exchange of words. Medb would point to an object, name it, and Liu would tell her what, she assumed, was his word for it.

She kept the session deliberately simple, focusing on objects in the room and basic body parts, hand, eye, head. When she sensed his attention beginning to flag, she stood.

“Tomorrow,” she said, making a gesture for him to stay and eat.

Liu watched her for a moment, then nodded.

“They are all to spend the night in these cells. Have someone occasionally question them with the exception of this one. It does not matter what they say or if they understand it. Feed this one the same ration the guards get on the same schedule. He is to remain comfortable but locked in.”

This was going to be a long process, she knew. But she finally made progress toward actually learning about these people, at long last.

The rest would follow.

***

Mouth of the Nile River

“Signal the fleet to form attack columns,” Valdar ordered as the fleet approached the Egyptian coast, one of the mouths of the mighty Nile River opening up in front of them. “Two columns.”

“Aye, Admiral,” his flag lieutenant responded, turning to dispatch the necessary pennants up the mast.

Sixteen vessels spread out behind the Bellona, twelve caravels and five of the faster schooners, each ready to get some payback for the Egyptians’ treachery. After weeks of hunting Egyptian vessels throughout the Middle Sea, it was time to teach the Ptolemies what happened when they betrayed their allies, and Valdar was happy he was the one who got to teach them that lesson.

“Fortifications ahead, sir,” reported the lookout from his position in the crow’s nest. “Stone walls at both sides of the channel entrance.”

Valdar raised his telescope again, focusing on the entry into the river. Sure enough, a pair of large fortifications sat guarding the entry into the river, although not exactly at its mouth. They were maybe a quarter mile in, which was clever. To engage with them, ships would have to be in the river itself, limiting maneuverability. This was new. He’d sailed along this path several times in his life, and these had not been there before.

Worse, he recognized the construction. These were built off the Britannian fortress designs Valdar had started at Port Vikhavn. Clearly, they’d heard how effective those were and, taking advantage of being an ally at the time, had someone study them up close so they could replicate the work.

As with Port Vikhavn’s forts, each positioned to provide covering fire for its neighbors with what looked like heavy cannon emplacements crowning the elevated positions. The size of their barrels suggested weapons of significant caliber.

Valdar nodded, considering their options. Taking Alexandria and cutting the Egyptians off from the Middle Sea was critical to keep supplies flowing and the armies on the continent in the fight. But he’d seen how hard it was to break through a position like this firsthand, and did not relish being on the other side of it.

“Signal the fleet to maintain maximum velocity and follow close in line with the flagship until within effective firing range,” Valdar decided. “And have gunners prepare timed fuses rather than impact detonations. We’ll need plunging fire to reach behind those walls.”

Going into a river at full sail was usually not a good idea. Even with local pilots, which they did not have, it was best to slow down enough to avoid the shoals and sandbars that could be found on most rivers. At speed, the risk of grounding a ship was very high.

It was also a risk Valdar was going to have to take.

The morning conditions provided optimal visibility, with moderate winds from the northwest, theoretically perfect firing conditions once they reached effective range. Of course, it was also perfect firing conditions for the enemy as well.

“Channel narrows ahead,” the navigator, one of the few men in the fleet who’d sailed this stretch in the last year. “We’ll need to maintain course within thirty passus on either side.”

Valdar nodded. “Helmsman, steady as she goes. Maintain speed.”

The minutes ticked down as the fleet sailed toward the landmass, charging for the mouth of the river.

“They haven’t opened fire yet,” his first officer observed.

“Waiting until we’re committed to the channel,” Valdar replied. “Once we’re boxed in…”

As if to answer the man’s question, a massive column of water erupted from the sea ahead of them. The sound reached them a moment later, a deep boom that carried across the water.

His first officer was surprised, but Valdar had expected this. They’d done the same thing at Port Vikhavn, installing larger guns with longer range than what they could aboard ships.

A second explosion followed, then a third, the shells falling in a pattern that bracketed the lead column. The Egyptian gunners were finding their range with alarming speed.

Finally, a fourth shell found its mark. The lead caravel in the starboard column took a direct hit amidships, the explosive shell tearing through its hull just above the waterline. The vessel shuddered, wood splinters flying in all directions as smoke billowed from the wound. Within minutes, it began to fall out of formation, listing heavily to port, taking on water.

“Maintain course,” Valdar ordered. “Signal Pennant Seven for evasive maneuvers within channel constraints.”

As they entered the channel, two caravels attempted to break formation, but the narrow channel and surrounding shoals limited their options. One veered too close to the shallows, its keel scraping against hidden sandbanks, slowing its progress dangerously.

The Egyptian barrage intensified as the Britannian fleet pushed deeper fully into the channel. Shells rained down on them. Another caravel took a devastating hit to its stern and a schooner following close behind was forced to veer sharply to avoid collision, nearly running aground.

They were in range for their own cannons, but the river was fairly straight at this point, which is why the forts had been placed here. Ships would have to get parallel for broadsides, which they couldn’t do easily, giving the Egyptian gunners free rein for a long time before an enemy could answer.

“How long until we clear the broadsides?” Valdar demanded.

“At current speed, three minutes, sir,” the master gunner replied.

“Not acceptable. Signal the schooners to increase speed and break formation. They’re to come around us and put those forts under fire as soon as they can.”

The faster, more maneuverable schooners surged forward, spreading out to present more difficult targets. In response, the Egyptian gunners shifted their attention, dividing their fire between the advancing schooners and the main caravel formation.

A tremendous impact rocked the Bellona, sending Valdar staggering against the railing. An Egyptian shell had struck the starboard bow, exploding on contact and tearing a jagged hole in the hull. Shouts and screams rose from below decks.

“Damage report!” Valdar called out, steadying himself.

“Hull breach above the waterline,” came the response from below. “Fire in the forward hold!”

“Get it under control,” Valdar ordered. “Shift men from the port battery if needed.”

The schooners he’d sent ahead were faring even worse. One was already listing badly after taking a direct hit amidships, starting to fall behind the others, and another was on fire.

Finally, though, they were at the forts, their broadsides able to take aim.

Valdar watched through the haze of powder smoke as their shells struck the Egyptian fortifications. His hopes faltered as the smoke cleared, revealing minimal damage to the thick stone walls. The Egyptian cannons continued their devastating fire without interruption.

The shells bursting above the fort, at least, seemed to be having an effect with their rate of fire dropping sharply as shrapnel rained down on the defenders.

It, however, didn’t seem to be stopping them entirely.

Another caravel took a critical hit on its mainmast, which splintered and collapsed, crushing several crewmen beneath its weight. Fires broke out across its deck, the flames spreading rapidly through pools of spilled tar and cordage.

Smoke began to obscure visibility across the battlefield as guns from both sides continued firing and ships burned in the channel.

Valdar assessed the situation rapidly. The right column was taking the heaviest fire, with one caravel clearly sinking and another struggling to maintain headway with its sails in tatters.

“Sir,” an officer said, coming up from the hold. “We’re taking on water in compartments three and four. Carpenter’s mate says the pumps are keeping pace for now, but another hit in the same area would be problematic.”

Valdar nodded grimly. “Tell the carpenter to prepare collision mats and bracing timbers.”

Finally, his ships had reached the forts and were able to fire, sending shells crashing into and above the Egyptian forts. Unfortunately, he could see two more forts in the distance that had just started to open fire on the schooners he’d sent forward.

‘This wasn’t going to work,’ he thought as another caravel erupted in flames as an Egyptian shell ignited its powder magazine.

The resulting explosion tore the vessel in half, sending debris and bodies tumbling into the water. The ships following were forced to veer sharply to avoid the floating wreckage.

Three more ships damaged or sinking, at least one lost completely, with two more forts ahead. The Egyptians built not merely a defensive position but a gauntlet.

“Signal the fleet and order a withdrawal.”

Colored banners climbed the Bellona’s masts, whipping in smoke-laden wind. It was at least done in good order, with the strongest vessels on flanks, damaged ships center, staggered withdrawal maintaining covering fire.

The Bellona’s hull creaked in its turn, the deck tilting beneath Valdar’s feet as it made the tight turn to get around and head back the way they came. The Egyptians saw the retreat for what it was and intensified their fire, apparently determined to exact maximum punishment.

The withdrawal proceeded with agonizing slowness. Ships that had been sailing with prevailing winds now fought against them, giving the enemy more time to hit them.

The enemy was going to have clear shots at them all the way out, and he was going to lose even more ships, and that didn’t count the schooners behind him which were trying to catch up to the fleeing column.

If he was going to have any ships left following this debacle, he was going to have to do something.

“Bring us about and reef sail. Hold us parallel to the western fort. Rapid fire on all cannon.”

“Admiral…” his shocked first officer said, but Valdar cut him off.

“Do it.”

The man swallowed hard and nodded. He knew as well as Valdar did that he’d just signed their death warrants.

The Bellona swung across the channel, shielding the rescue operation, blocking much of the ships from direct fire and posing a threat to the western fort. Egyptian did as Valdar had wanted them to, their fire shifting to the flagship. Shells splashed into surrounding water, one striking the bow tearing out the admiral’s quarters and half the deck.

Another explosion, while not direct, ripped out a good part of their top sails, which would make it harder to sail out of this channel and back out to sea, except Valdar did not expect that to happen.

At least his barrage on the western fort was having an effect. Several of its gun emplacements blown off the wall and the air bursts were killing large numbers of the enemy inside the fort.

It wouldn’t save them, but it would prolong the confrontation and give his men more time to escape. The Bellona’s cannons roared, shells arcing toward the fort. The barrage forced gunners to seek cover, disrupting their fire long enough for the schooner to complete its rescue.

For several minutes, the Bellona maintained position, trading fire with Egyptian forts as rescued men moved to safety.

“Water rising in forward compartments. Pumps struggling to keep pace.”

“Shift ballast aft. Get more men on those pumps.”

The Bellona wallowed deeper as water flooded forward sections, responding sluggishly to the helm. Another hit would doom them.

Then, unexpectedly, Egyptian fire from the eastern fort, which was pounding them the hardest, slackened. Valdar turned around trying to figure out why they’d gotten the sudden reprieve. The reason was one of the schooners that had been catching up had done the unthinkable. It had apparently sailed right at the fort and then turned hard, driving itself onto the shore, with its broadside still facing the fort, its guns firing continuously at point-blank range. That close, even the thickest walls were not standing up to the fire the schooner was putting down.

The schooner itself was taking a massive beating and fire had engulfed its deck. It managed to fire off one final devastating broadside before flames reached its powder magazine. The ship may be smaller than a caravel, but it still carried significant amounts of powder and shells, and the resultant explosion sent a wall of fire and destruction over the fort, taking part of its western wall with the doomed ship, silencing many gun positions.

“Brave souls,” Valdar murmured, adding the schooner’s sacrifice to his mental tally.

The reduced fire gave him an opportunity. His ship was barely afloat and wouldn’t have made it out at all, but the remaining two schooners threw tow lines as it passed, helping to pull the damaged flagship out after the fleet.

It helped that the enemy forts had slowed their fire. Between the pounding he’d given the western fort and the damage done by the exploding schooner to the eastern, both were in bad shape.

The cost, however, had not been worth that tiny victory. In return for severely damaging two of the enemy forts, he had lost six caravels and three schooners, more than half his fleet, and the ships he had left were all damaged to some degree. The Bellona alone would need weeks in a dock to be truly seaworthy again.

They needed a new strategy if they were going to take Egypt