The Wings of Mercury - Chapter 12

Carthage

Claudius ran as fast as his legs could carry him, which was at least easier now that the guard had gotten rid of the heavy armor, which would have severely weighed him down. What he really wished for, however, was more men.

He just happened to be at the guard post, checking on the rotation, when the messenger had arrived with a warning of a disturbance nearby. Claudius had grabbed every man he could find, stripping the guard post to just one man and every man he came across as he ran through the winding streets, his men drafting behind him.

As they rounded the final corner, they found the market in chaos. A seething mass of bodies surged around two of his men who stood above one of Eoghan’s tax collectors slumped on the ground.

“Form around them. Move!”

His men responded well, creating a circle around the fallen bureaucrat, using their bayonet-tipped rifles to keep the crowd back as it yelled curses.

“Run to the main garrison,” Claudius said to one of the two guards who had been standing over the tax collector. “We need reinforcements, now!”

The man darted away, pushing through the crowd, which thankfully didn’t try too hard to stop him, more focused on the tax collector.

“Pick him up,” he said to the other guard. “At the group step, back toward those shops. Keep together.”

With the number of men he had, he needed a thicker line, which meant to limit the size of his front. They worked back several steps until his men were able to shift into a semicircle. The tax collector had a serious cut on one leg, his clothing soaked through with blood, leaning against the guard. Claudius looked to the entrance of the market, trying to gauge if they could march out and back toward the barracks, but the crowd had continued to grow and was pressing hard against them. It was impossible to move out of the market at all.

Suddenly, a rock flew out of the crowd, whacking into the shoulder of one of his men. The man stumbled but held his position.

“Citizens!” Claudius yelled, making his voice project. “This riot ends now. Disperse and return to your homes, or we will be forced to take action!”

“What about the actions taken against us every day?” A woman yelled.

“These vultures bleed us dry while our children starve!” A man shouted.

The allegations were all true. Claudius knew that. But he also needed to keep the peace, and crowds like this tended to get out of control very easily, which he hoped to prevent.

“I hear your grievances, and the empress has sent her personal representative, who is now already looking into what is happening to you. Please, just be patient and we can give you justice. This will achieve nothing but more pain and loss.”

“Britannian promises are worth less than donkey shit!”

The crowd responded to the statement, surging forward, pushing against his men, who shoved back, keeping their files parallel to the ground and using them more as clubs than firearms, as they had been trained. Here or there a butt was turned, striking out when someone became too aggressive, thudding into chest and shoulder, but avoiding smashing any skulls.

“You can’t protect that leech forever!” a man with a scraggly beard shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.

More rocks sailed through the air, pelting the guards. One struck Claudius in the chest, eliciting a grunt of pain. He gritted his teeth, maintaining his composure.

Suddenly, a bottle arced over the heads of the crowd. It took Claudius a moment to realize what it was. A bottle of pressed oil with a rag stuffed into the spout, the tip of which was burning.

It sailed past the guards and shattered against a nearby market stall. Flames erupted instantly, as the splashed oil caught light.

“Fire!” someone screamed, and panic spread through the crowd like wildfire.

“Put that out,” Claudius yelled.

Two of his men broke from the line, which shrunk as the rest of his men closed up from the space they had once occupied. Using their waterskins and digging up dirt, they managed to get the flames under control before they spread beyond just the burning oil.

Thankfully, no one else followed that person’s example. The pushing and shoving continued, but the fire bomb seemed to have shocked even the crowd, which lessened their resolve slightly. There was still no way out of the square, but at least his men didn’t seem to be in danger of being overrun at that moment.

The standstill wouldn’t last, however. Tensions built again as the crowd riled themselves up once more.

“Last warning!” Claudius bellowed. “Disperse now, or we will be forced to take harsher measures!”

Claudius’s warning fell on deaf ears. The crowd’s fervor intensified, their shouts growing more hostile with each passing moment as the number of objects thrown from the crowd began to increase again with stones, rotten fruit, and makeshift projectiles raining down on them.

Several men from the crowd surged forward, attempting to breach the guard formation. They grappled with the soldiers, trying to wrest their weapons away.

“Decanus, warning shot!” Claudius ordered.

A sharp crack split the air as one of his men fired skyward. For a heartbeat, the crowd hesitated, but their fury quickly overcame their fear. They were too angry. Beyond reason. The mob pressed harder and Claudius felt his men’s resolve wavering under the relentless assault.

“Sir, we can’t hold much longer,” one of his men said, struggling against the tide of bodies.

Claudius scowled. He’d tried so hard to keep this from getting out of hand. And he’d failed. He’d exhausted every option, every plea for reason.

“Weapons front!” Claudius commanded.

Rifles swung around, from butts pushing against people to sharpened bayonets. People tried to push back, away from the sharpened blades, but the people behind them pushed them forward, shoving them into the sharpened blades.

People screamed and blood spilled, and it still wasn’t enough. The crowd continued to push and shout, oblivious to what was happening ahead of them. Claudius cursed silently to himself. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to worse measures.

“Fire at will! Aim low!”

The guards hesitated for a split second before rifles cracked, sending a wave of acrid smoke over the crowd. That had done what the bayonets had not as screams of pain and terror replaced the angry shouts. The crowd’s momentum shattered as those in front fell or scrambled backward. Panic spread like wildfire. The mob that had seemed so unified moments ago dissolved into a chaotic mass of individuals, each scrambling for safety.

Just as they began to run, his reinforcements finally arrived, forming up along the outskirts of the market.

“Let them out,” Claudius yelled. “Form a double line here.”

He didn’t want to box the people in. It might net him the ring leaders of the small riot, but it might not. There was a chance this had been a spontaneous event pushed by the tax collector and not some kind of plotting by whoever was inciting the unrest in the city, since Eoghan had been doing as much as possible to inflame tensions as whoever the mystery party was.

Many had already made it out of the market, so they could already be gone. Trying to box the remaining in would just lead to more panic and death. Besides, he had the real problem with him still.

“Push forward!” Claudius ordered, seizing the initiative. “Clear the square! Rifle butts only.”

The combined force of guards advanced, driving the remaining rioters out of the square and running. The riot had broken and was over.

As the square emptied, Claudius turned to the tax collector. “Secure him. He’s got questions to answer. Take him to the palace and hold him, only I or Prince Cormac, or his representatives, are allowed to release him. That includes any of the governor’s men.”

He knew word would reach the governor, who’d want to see one of his lackeys released. Claudius knew taking this kind of forward stand would put him in jeopardy, especially if the prince or his wife were to depart with Eoghan still in place. However, the longer this went on, the more unlikely Claudius thought that was going to happen.

And he wasn’t willing to let this one go. Dozens of bodies littered the ground and dozens more were wounded, including more minor injuries among his own men. Among some parts of Carthage, this was going to be known as a massacre, and was going to take tensions even higher. The only solution, he could see, was having someone to blame. Since he wasn’t planning on volunteering, it meant the real instigator needed to be publicly tried and dealt with.

Or at least, he hoped Medb saw it that way. Because he knew there would be calls for his head as well.

***

Factorium

Hortensius could never understand how Sorantius stood being inside his workspaces. The heat and noise were, of course, familiar, but the smell was something he’d never adjust to. Acrid, almost burning the nostrils, and thick, it felt like it made his skin crawl.

If he had his choice, he’d stick with the smell of metal and oil that permeated his spaces instead.

He could, however, admire the chemist’s work ethic. The man made Hortensius feel slow, never seeming to slow or stop.

“How goes the work?” Hortensius said, coming up behind the chemist, who stood up and turned around, confused.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Did we have a meeting?”

“Can’t one inventor simply pay a visit to another?”

“Not unless he wants something,” Sorantius said.

“Fair enough. I did want something, that is, if you have a few minutes to spare.”

“I don’t, but I assume this is important if you walked all the way from your factories to here. You three try that out and see what happens. And by the gods, go slow. Any sign of reaction, dunk it.”

The last part was directed at the three men he’d been talking to, who nodded nervously and hurried off. Hortensius was happy to see the man finally delegating. He’d always had a bad habit of trying to do everything himself, and it really slowed down the work.

He followed Sorantius back to his office and settled into the seat opposite him.

“So what can I do for you?”

“Well, I’m sure you heard about the disaster with the fuses and our exploding cannon.”

“I did. I’m glad no one was hurt.”

Hortensius could see the slightly haunted look in the chemist’s eye. During the war, he’d had an accident with some of his acid production, which had created a toxic gas that had killed over a dozen of his workers. While he hadn’t been at fault, and this kind of experimental work was dangerous, Sorantius had taken it personally, seeing each of the dead men as his fault.

“Yes, the gods were certainly watching over us that day. Since then, we’ve taken the entire platform back to the design stage and have reworked it completely. Instead of a simple system of just having a primer cap at the front, which had a habit of going off when fired and had to be stabilized in transit, we opted for an inertia block system. Basically, we have a large block that is held in place with a wire, suspended over a primer cap, all in a self-contained, stabilized system, meaning if I dropped the round or even hit it as hard as possible with a hammer on the end, it wouldn’t go off. When fired, the block is forced backward by the speed of the acceleration, snapping the safety wire. When it hits the ground, however, the sudden change in speed slams the block forward, into the primer cap like the hammer of a musket, setting it off. So in effect, firing the round out of a cannon is what activates the fuse system.”

“That’s... an interesting concept, Hortensius. But I’m not entirely sure how it relates to my work here.”

“I’m getting there, I promise,” Hortensius said. “My biggest problem with the new system is the ignition of the payload itself. The design puts a whole series of elements between the powder in the body of the shell and the exploding primer cap in the tip, and it is unreliable in setting off the powder itself, even if the primer goes off nearly every single time. Sometimes they explode, sometimes they don’t. I’ve tried putting a trail of black powder in the small gap, but it shifts in flight and isn’t always close enough to the primer to ignite.”

“That is a problem,” Sorantius said, clearly still waiting to find out how he fit in.

“While working on this, I’ve been reading some of the reports you’ve sent to the Empress. Based on how the tests on your stabilized nitrocellulose are going, I think it might be the answer.”

“Except, it isn’t stabilized yet. We’ve gotten the nitrocellulose production working and started, but it’s been our main focus so far, so we haven’t gotten to working out distilling the hydrochloride to make a chemical we can mix with the nitrocellulose to stabilize it.”

“Damn. How bad is it without that?”

“Let’s just say we are very careful with every bit we produce.”

“How soon until you can start to stabilize it, because using it in between the primer and the main charge would solve my problem, but not if it’s too volatile.”

“I honestly can’t say. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a few months. I won’t know until we get into it and find out what kind of complications we run into for it.”

“Is it at all possible to expedite the project? Because I can’t find anything else that would work as effectively. Anything that might be poured inside the chamber with the impact fuse has the possibility of softening it, and keeping it from hitting the primer, but sealing it away or putting only a small amount near the primer won’t set it off.”

“I can only say we’ll start working on it and see what we can accomplish. It was already my next priority anyway, since the Consul is eager for this new type of gunpowder he keeps mentioning, and says this is the first step to that.”

“Good. If there’s anything I can do to help you along, please let me know.”

“I will.”

“Good. While I am here,” Hortensius said, “there’s something else I’ve been thinking over that I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Okay?”

“It’s about the balloon project,” Hortensius explained. “While we met our original balloons for the observational balloon, the Consul had said that was just the beginning and that the end goal was a larger balloon capable of carrying messages and even equipment, as well as being used for tactical purposes. He also told me that while we’re using hot air to lift the balloons now, there was a gas that could be used that was lighter than air and capable of carrying larger weights than simple heated air. At the time, I hadn’t heard of hydrogen, but now that we’re building the tanks for them, I realize that’s probably what he meant.”

“I seem to remember that, and I think you’re probably right.”

“I am. And putting all that together, and knowing that he only introduces things as steps toward a larger plan, I deduced that he’d eventually ask us to build this higher efficiency balloon and decided to beat him to the punch.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for his instructions?”

“No. I mean, if we run into trouble, we can send requests through the empress, but I believe we have enough with what we know about both the hydrogen and the previous balloon project to work out how this is done. At least for a prototype. I’m sure once he sees it, he will have corrections, but we were never men who waited on others to tell us what to design and build. We’ve been spoiled by the Consul and his endless wealth of knowledge, but we shouldn’t use that as a crutch.”

He could see in Sorantius’s eyes that he had him. The man wasn’t a narcissist, but he had the vanity in him that all men who dream to create something new had.

“I assume you’ve given thought to how much trouble we had sealing those damn tanks to keep the gas from escaping?”

“I have. Clearly we’d have to change our methods, as the metal tanks we have now would be too heavy, but the basic principles we used, with the double envelopment and pressure-expanding seals, should work here using the viscose rayon we created for the current balloons.”

“Until there’s a breach, which if it enters combat, there will be.”

“This is the concern,” Hortensius said. “I would counter that anyone who goes into combat is in danger, so this is no different, but I think there are steps we can take to help mitigate danger. For one, I’m experimenting with a compartmentalization system, basically smaller bags inside a larger container bag, so that if one is punctured, it doesn’t affect the next and doesn’t let the entire hydrogen supply out. Secondly, we’d need to look at additional fire retardant steps. Which is where you come in. While the rayon is mostly fire-resistant now, I’d like some kind of chemical coating, maybe, that would reduce the chance of flame or spark from the built-up lightning the Consul told us about.”

Sorantius was quiet for a long moment, clearly thinking it all through. Finally, he said, “I’ve never discussed anything like that with the Consul, but I have no doubt something like that is possible, just looking at the building blocks we have now. I’ll send word to the Empress and see what she has to say. It’s an interesting problem.”

“Thank you, Sorantius. I appreciate it. To be clear, this is a side project. The stabilized nitrocellulose is still our priority.”

“That I understand, if from nothing else the weekly messages the empress sends me over the telegraph.”

“Good,” Hortensius said, standing. “Then I look forward to your success in making it happen.”

***

Port Vikhavn

The proud fleet that stopped for supplies just a few weeks previously limped into the West African port, much different than the one that had left it. Battered and missing several of the ships that had come before it.

Valdar was aware of how low the morale of his men was, and felt it acutely himself every time he looked for Tyrfing, its absence pushing home the loss of his friends once again. It was a comfort to see the two stone forts, built and reinforced over the last several years, that sat at the mouth of the estuary. While not indestructible, they had large rifled cannons, bigger than those available on most ships, with stable mounts to fire from, making them more accurate and longer-ranged than what the enemy could deploy.

Should they come for them here, they would take a beating doing so. It brought him at least a measure of comfort, and he hoped his people felt a little of the same.

The fleet sailed deep into the inlet to the small port built in its center, land granted to them by the locals and used as a bustling trading port both for Britannian trade and between local tribes themselves. The small garrison worked almost as mediators between several of the tribes in the area.

They’d had some issues with local unrest, but for the most part, they’d managed to get along well with the natives, keeping to their small coastal enclave and even assisting their allies in several small skirmishes from outside tribes that tried to push their way in.

It made for a safe port with a steady supply of fresh food sold by the locals and even contract labor as needed.

As happened every time they sailed into port, the small fishing boats that worked the harbor and coastal waters began to coalesce toward the larger vessels, looking for trade.

Valdar signaled his first mate.

“Tell those fishermen we have no trade today, and warn them to be careful leaving the estuary. Try and let them know of the hostiles that are on their way. Then signal the fleet. All captains are to repair aboard for a captain’s conference in the hour, along with the commander of the port garrison.”

They had managed to break down some of the language barrier in the last five years, with some locals learning Latin, the base language of Britannia, and some of his people learning their dialect. Most, however, communicated in hand signals and gestures, which limited the amount of information that could easily pass between them.

“Aye, sir,” the first mate replied, moving toward the railing to flag down one of the ships.

It took some time, as nearly every ship had sustained damage in the battle and they hadn’t been able to weigh anchor until now, forcing everyone to repair under full sail, in hopes of beating the enemy to Port Vikhavn. It had been a struggle, with several ships nearly sinking on the return voyage. Truthfully, Valdar was surprised he’d managed to not lose any more ships.

Now that they were here, they could at least anchor and access fresh supplies, but this was one of their most far-flung ports and had no drydock facilities. For some repairs, that was fine, but many of the shots had impacted very near the waterline, and the ships had to pump out their holds almost constantly to keep afloat.

After over an hour, the last captain got his men working on necessary repairs and made his way over.

“Gentlemen,” Valdar began as they all crammed into the captain’s quarters. “We’ve suffered heavy losses and I know you all have a lot of work to do getting your ships back in fighting condition. For most of you, that is going to be our priority. Word from the Ghaoth Álainn is that the enemy is still two days south, which doesn’t give us much time to prepare for their arrival. Tribune, we will need to borrow as many of your craftsmen as you have available, to speed things along.”

The last part was directed to the Praetorian who had been assigned to command of the small garrison at the port.

“My men are, of course, at your disposal.”

“While repairs are going on, I want all of the remaining schooners to unload their cannon. Once that’s done, I want the Marinus to set sail for Port Kalb, and I would like you to leave before nightfall. You are to warn them of the battle, the enemy’s capabilities, including the similarities with our caravel design and the near comparable cannon they seem to possess. Give them the known position and course of the enemy fleet and that they are clearly headed north, toward the homeland. I want the fleet elements currently in the middle sea and the sea of serpents to collect at Port Kalb and begin patrolling the approaches north aggressively. The assembled fleet is to remain in combat readiness and is authorized to pull in every possible navy asset to contest their approach, should the enemy fleet get past us. They will also send word to the capital and our intention to use Port Vikhavn as our base and block the enemy fleet’s passage north. Go now. Get your cannon unloaded and your ship underway. I want you sailing north before nightfall.”

The man looked like he wanted to ask questions, but it took one look at Valdar’s face to realize the Admiral did not plan on answering any. Valdar had chosen the Marinus because it didn’t need much in the way of repairs, suffering the least damage of any of the smaller schooners.

“Why are we giving up our cannon?” one of the other schooner captains asked when their compatriot had left.

“Yes. For our current plan, speed and maneuverability are not an issue, and I want to use your cannon and powder stores to reinforce the forts at the mouth of the estuary. At the same time, I would like you to scour the port for as much thick chain as you can manage. I want it strung across the mouth of the estuary using the forts as anchor points, so that it sits just below the waterline. Secure it well enough to tear out their rudders and damage the hulls of any ships that try to force their way in. If possible and if we can find the supplies, I’d like hooks attached to the chain to better grab the ships.

“Why wouldn’t the enemy just push past and avoid us entirely?” Nectan, the Caledonian captain of the Aventinus asked, correctly understanding the precautions Valdar laid out were to prevent the enemy fleet from sailing into the estuary directly.

“From our escape, I’m fairly certain now that the easterners lack the navigational tools to venture far from the coasts, at least not without scattering their fleets,” Valdar explained. “Considering the wide arc we took to the west and back to shake off pursuit, they should have been well past us by now, not slowly crawling up the coastline two days south of here. Best guess, they have to slow or even stop for repairs, which have to be coming from the other side of the continent, since they can’t sail clear of the mainland. If they were to pass us by, they’d leave a fleet at their back and astride their supply line. The enemy may have bloodied our nose, but we still have enough ships to cause them major problems should they try to bypass us.”

Several of the captains nodded, following his train of thought.

“No, I believe they will try to dig us out, which is precisely what we want,” Valdar continued. “We have forts and supplies here, and time to devise a plan. However, if the enemy does attempt to bypass us, we’ll make them pay dearly for that mistake.”

Valdar waited for other questions. When none came, he said, “Gentlemen, you have your orders. Get to work and prepare for the attack we know is coming. I want damage assessments and repair estimates by nightfall. Tribune, I’d like all of the cannon installed in the forts by the end of day tomorrow.”

As they all filed out, Valdar spent a moment looking out the large rear window of his cabin, toward the mouth of the harbor. It was a good position to fight in, with supplies, solid defensive fortifications, and even a trained land fighting force. All of that combined, however, was still significantly smaller than the force the enemy had at their disposal.

It was going to be a close thing, even if he made all of the right decisions.