The Wings of Mercury - Chapter 9

Outside Factorium

Hortensius scrutinized the percussion cap and fuse assembly inside the cone of the shell. His calloused hands, stained with grease and gunpowder, made minute adjustments as he muttered under his breath. Around him, his team of assistants peered over his shoulder as he finished examining their work.

“The wire seems to be under a lot of tension,” Hortensius said, pointing at the device inside the nose of the shell.

The setup was actually quite simple. A percussion cap with a wire above it, holding a striker. The theory, according to the Consul’s notes, was that on impact the wire would bend enough to allow the striker to hit the percussion cap, which would in turn detonate the gunpowder in the body of the shell. A wooden dowel extended from the side to a grooved, circular piece of the shell body. When turned in one direction, it held the striker in place, so it didn’t get jostled and hit the percussion cap while in transport.

To Hortensius’s eye, however, it looked as if the wire was very taut and did not have a lot of give to it.

“The ranges in the Consul’s notes were imprecise, or at least were very large,” one of his aides said. “There were notes that said we would have to adjust with testing, as the quality of the gunpowder made it impossible to estimate the exact tension needed. We were concerned that the initial kick of the round being fired would be enough to cause it to strike prematurely, so we opted for the high end of his range.”

“But it should be enough to go off when impacting, yes?”

“We believe so,” the aide said.

Hortensius did not find his tone convincing, but that was what this test was for, after all.

“Well, I guess there’s one way to find out,” he said, stepping back.

His men quickly reassembled the shell and carried it to the waiting howitzer, which had been designed to fire remotely using a pull cord and fuse assembly of its own, with his men in a trench quite a distance away for safety. Carrying the round to the weapon, they turned the safety wedge at the front, which would allow the striker to hang free, and slid it into the artillery tube before running back to join him and the rest of the observers in the observation trench.

“Now’s the moment of truth,” he said as another assistant gathered up the pull cord and looked to him for approval.

There was a brief moment of silence after the assistant tugged the rope, and then the cannon boomed and the round sailed downrange. Hortensius watched the landing area through one of the newest spyglasses, watching as it smashed into the ground, sending up a geyser of dirt and debris.

And then did nothing.

They all waited, watching the round sit there, half buried in the dirt, doing nothing. Hortensius lowered his spyglass and turned to his assistants, the rare frown on his face.

“I don’t know what happened,” the aide said, looking past him nervously at where the test shell sat, unexploded.

“Someone’s got to go retrieve it so we can examine what happened,” Hortensius said.

The men all looked at each other. They knew he was right, but none of them wanted to be the one to actually go out and retrieve the weapon. The safety was removed and it had impacted. There was no telling how unstable the round was.

After a long stretch of everyone trying to avoid his gaze, Hortensius said, “Fine, I’ll do it myself.”

Instantly, his team erupted in protest.

“No, you can’t. It’s too risky and you’re too important,” one of his assistants said.

“I appreciate that, but someone has to check on the round and if no one else agrees, it’s my project, so I am responsible,” he said, turning to walk the ramp out of the trench.

“I’ll do it,” one of the younger men on the team said, pushing past him.

Hortensius couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. They were all good men and he knew he was pushing them so that one would put himself in danger.

But it had to be done.

The lad made his way through the testing field, past craters and divots of past tests, cautious as he approached the unexploded shell. The men around Hortensius all seemed to hold their breath, waiting to see their young friend ripped to pieces as the shell finally exploded.

But it didn’t. He reached the shell and knelt beside it. Hortensius hadn’t been specific, but he was a good lad and began disassembling it there, instead of trying to haul the entire shell, and the danger it represented, back with him. They watched as he handed over the shell, removing its cap carefully before finally standing up and lugging the heavy metal nose of the projectile back with him.

The boy was covered in sweat when he made his way back, and Hortensius was sure it wasn’t just from the exertion.

“Let’s have a look,” he said as they sat the artillery cap in front of him.

The wire had bowed slowly, but not enough for the striker to hit, dangling just above the primer cap.

“Well, that doesn’t work, does it? It looks like we went a little too far on how much tension we put on the wire.”

“No, Master Hortensius,” an aide said. “We can adjust it now and try again.”

“You don’t have any of the precision tools for that,” Hortensius pointed out.

“I think I can get it to the correct balance,” the man said.

Hortensius considered it. There was a risk there, for sure, but the setup was specifically because testing any new shells was dangerous. And taking it back and retooling the test shells and trying to test them internally would add more days. If they could get it right now, they could move to production faster, and get the new shells out to the Consul in time to be useful.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

The young man pulled out tools and began working on the shell cap, removing the striker and wire and putting in a new one and carefully adjusting the tension, testing it with his finger and adjusting several times. It was slow, careful work, and the man stayed amazingly focused, considering his boss plus many of his peers were watching him closely.

“Done,” he said, stepping back.

“Good. Attach it to a new shell and let’s test it.”

The men all sprang into action, reattaching the shell cap and securing it, making sure the safety screw was in place and set. Hortensius stayed where he was, letting his men work, carrying the shell back over to the howitzer, unlocking the safety, and sliding it into place.

The Consul had said that there were better methods of both detonation and better, more stable gunpowder that would make something like the safety mechanism unnecessary, but as it is, there was real worry about a strong jostle bending the wire and setting off the primer. Which could be catastrophic if it was stored with other rounds.

So for now, they would have to work with this safety mechanism and look forward to days of more reliable munitions.

His men reattached the firing cord and scurried back to the trench, jumping into it and getting into position. Seeing that everyone was ready, his assistant pulled the cord again.

It was as if the world exploded as the howitzer literally ripped itself to pieces, the concussive wave knocking some of them back, even standing in the trench. Thankfully, everyone had ducked down, looking downrange, and no one was injured aside from a few bumps and bruises, but Hortensius was sure his ears would be ringing for several days as the sound around him muted somewhat following the terrific explosion.

“Is everyone alright?” the manufacturer asked, helping some of his men to their feet.

When it was clear everyone was, they hurried out of the trench to examine the gun. The barrel had ripped open like a peeled fruit. It didn’t require much to figure out what had happened, all eyes turning to the aide who’d wired the fuse assembly.

“I’m sorry, it must have been too light,” he said, almost sheepishly.

“It’s fine, son,” Hortensius said, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder. “It might not have been possible to get it exact. I hate to say it, but we are not going to be able to wing our way to a solution, as the Consul likes to say. Let’s gather all of this up and take it back to the factory to examine. I believe we’re going to have to do a lot more small-scale studies before we attempt to take it to the test phase again.”

The men didn’t have to be told twice, hopping to their jobs as they began to collect debris so they could, hopefully, reassemble everything and determine at what point the explosion happened, and if the shell had traveled down the tube at all or blown the instant of contact. They knew how much powder was in the weapon, which meant they should be able to determine how close they had been to getting the projectile out before it exploded, which might give them an idea of the baseline of how far off they were.

What was certain, though, was that the Consul wasn’t getting his projectiles anytime soon.

***

Carthage

It was dark but not yet that late, and yet the streets of Carthage were almost completely deserted, a sign of the chilling effect of Eoghan’s curfews. No one dared stop her, although that was most likely due more to Claudius’s presence than her own. While she liked the mystique that her position gave her, and the extra fear it put behind her name, it did make cowing the average Praetorian harder.

She didn’t bring Claudius for the ease of passage, however. She’d sent him on an errand the day after they arrived in Carthage, and he’d finally come through. Or so she hoped.

“Are you certain this contact of yours is reliable?” she asked.

Claudius didn’t look at her directly, instead keeping an eye on the patrols marching past. While she suspected part of that was just his professionalism, wanting to make sure his men were living up to the standards he set for them, she was also sure part of it was concern over their activity at all.

Since arriving in Carthage, it had become clear just how upset Claudius was about the whole thing, and how little Eoghan valued his position. The governor seemed to think himself not only a bureaucratic genius, but some kind of petty despot, where every aspect of the domain he’d been given to manage was in fact just a plaything of his to do as he wished.

“As certain as one can be in these times, my lady,” he said as he watched his men. “He has reasons to hate the old regime, reasons that align with our interests.”

She made a small skeptical noise, but otherwise didn’t say anything. She knew Claudius to be a competent soldier and guardsman, but he wasn’t used to the kind of work she needed, or the traits required to do that. Until he proved to her that he understood something more than marching and stabbing, she would remain doubtful of his judgment.

They stopped in front of one of the many shuttered storefronts, Claudius looking up and down the streets before he pushed open the door that should have been otherwise locked. Inside the shop, which looked to have belonged to some sort of tailor before its owner fell under Eoghan’s bad graces, the air was stale and heavy.

A small noise came from the darkened back room and Claudius’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, only to relax when a thin young man emerged from the shadows. While it was obvious this was who Claudius was looking for, it was not what Medb had been expecting.

For one, the boy was much younger than she thought, maybe in his late teens and at the very least several years younger than Cormac. His eyes, however, were those of a much older man. Even in the dim light, she could see how haunted they were, weighed down by a life she could probably never imagine. Although the massive scar down the left side of his face traveling from chin to temple did give some ideas as to what he had suffered.

“This is Geral. He’s well known with a lot of people in this section of the city and is sympathetic to our goals,” Claudius said.

She knew he was being diplomatic. By saying ‘this section of the city,’ he meant the poor section of the city furthest from the center of government and the wealthy sections that were next to it. Parts of this area weren’t even homes, just open areas filled with tents and hovels. Those homes that were here were filled with five or even six families, each of which had multiple generations of family members in them. It was cramped, noisy, and dirty.

And exactly where a lot of the unrest seemed to be originating from.

“I would rather hear about his sympathies from him,” Medb said, keeping her entire focus on the boy.

She needed to find someone soon, but it was critical they met the standards of what she was looking for. What she needed required not only motivation, but brains and ruthlessness.

Not an easy combination to find.

“What Claudius means is I hate the former emperor and anyone who ever worked for him. They killed my parents. They killed my brothers and sisters. All because of some imagined slight against the emperor in one of their many purges of the city.”

“If they were so ruthless in killing everyone in your family, how is it that you still live?” Medb asked.

“Luck. I’d been sent on an errand by my mother when they came for them, and was away from the house. A neighbor stopped me and hid me when I came back home. I spent the next several years running and hiding, living like a rat, one step ahead of the emperor’s thugs.”

“Which explains why you hate the former ruler, but not why you are interested in helping us.”

“My hatred for them is why I’m here. There are people who’d like nothing more than to see the old empire return, bring it back from the ash heap where it belongs. You people maybe have gotten rid of most of the regime’s leaders, but there were many people who benefited from it and want to see it return. They lived in luxury and have no idea who I am, but I know who they are. Or were. I’ve met some of them and heard the whispers. Whispers about bringing it all back. I will never let that happen,” he said, spitting onto the dusty floorboards. “Not while I still draw breath.”

Med didn’t say anything for a moment, just staring at him, her eyes tracing the scar down his face. He’d been through a lot, no doubt.

“You understand what I’m asking will put you in a significant amount of danger.”

Geral’s lips curled into a bitter smile.

“Danger? I’ve been living on borrowed time since I was a child. How do you think I got this?” he said, gesturing to the scar.

Other men would have blustered and preened, continuing to try and defend their manhood. Surprisingly, Geral didn’t. He glared at her, his annoyance clear, but said nothing else.

A rare quality in a man, especially a young man.

“Very well. I’m interested in these groups you mentioned. The ones with remnants of the old regime and their sympathizers. I want you to join them and gain their trust.”

“You want me to join the very people I despise?”

“That’s exactly what I want you to do. I need eyes and ears in their ranks, telling me who they are and what they are doing.”

“So I’m just supposed to pretend to be one of them?”

“Yes. In fact, that’s all I want you to do. You are to strictly observe and do nothing else to expose yourself. If you’re discovered, they’ll become more paranoid and getting a second agent in their ranks will become impossible, so I don’t want you attempting to disrupt their activities in any way or do anything else that would reveal yourself. Your sole purpose is to gather information.”

“What kind of information?”

“Everything you can find. Who their leaders are, what their plans are, who their members are, what their structure is. Most importantly, though, is that I need to know if there is any indication of connection to the provincial government now in place or any kind of outside influences working with the leaders. Those two are critical.”

“What if they ask me to do something... extreme? Hurt someone, maybe even a Praetorian?”

Claudius opened his mouth to respond, but Medb cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“You do it,” she said, her voice firm, and eyes locked on his.

Claudius made an almost strangling sound. Medb turned and glared at him, daring the Praetorian to speak, before turning back to the boy.

“I want you to listen carefully. I don’t care what you have to do to maintain your cover. Hurting or even killing a Praetorian would be terrible, make no mistake. But if this rebellion is allowed to grow unchecked, many more will die. Not just Praetorians but your neighbors, your friends, everybody in this city.”

Geral looked to Claudius, who reluctantly nodded after a moment’s hesitation.

“Good. Claudius will arrange a secure location for you to leave messages and how to use ciphers so that your communications can’t be read. He’ll show you how to signal that there’s a message to be picked up or if you need an urgent meeting, although that needs to be extremely rare. Every time you meet with us in the open, you could be seen, and we can’t risk that.”

She’d have to explain that to Claudius, but there was time for that. Ramirus had taught her the tradecraft, and she knew it well enough now to teach it to him. Besides, she had things at the government buildings to deal with; she didn’t need to be watching for dead drops in the outskirts of the city as well.

The boy was quiet for a minute, seemingly weighing if he was ready for what she was asking. She didn’t push him. In situations like this, she needed him to buy in, or he’d fail.

“I understand,” he said, finally coming to his decision.

“Good. Don’t be too overeager. You know these people, but they clearly know of your history too. Slowly ingratiate into their midst. Listen to them and their complaints. They’ll be biased to believe everybody believes like they do, so just accept it, reluctantly, piece by piece, and they will not question your conversation. If you do it slow enough, they will even convince themselves that they converted you to the cause, earning your loyalty. Which you can use. Now go. Claudius will meet you here in two days to give you instructions on how to pass information. I don’t expect regular updates, but I do expect updates, at least once a week. Sooner if you discover something. Until then, just move closer to the group, listening to them. Don’t say or offer anything yet.”

“I will.”

“Good,” Medb said. “Now, go.”

The boy looked to Claudius once more and then went into the back room area, presumably which had an exit he’d used to get into the building.

“My lady, perhaps we should discuss…” Claudius started to say.

“There’s nothing to discuss, Claudius,” she said, predicting what he was going to say. “This isn’t war, where everything is noble and right. This is about results, and you can’t fight your way out of this problem. Or would you prefer to see Carthage descend into chaos?”

The Praetorian didn’t say anything.

“Good. Now, let’s get back. I have a lot to teach you if you’re going to manage Geral.”