The Fires of Vulcan - Chapter 14

Devnum

Sorantius stepped off the carriage into the busy streets of Devnum, gazing around at the transformed city. Every time he came back to the city, he was amazed. A year and a half ago, Devnum had been a modest settlement, struggling under constant Carthaginian threat. Now it was the capital of a growing Empire and the center of technological innovation. The change was so much that a year ago Sorantius would never consider his particular interest in natural philosophy ‘chemistry’ and wouldn’t have dreamed of a chemical industry, let alone heading one.

The city was a flurry of activity, with merchants hawking their wares, while labor crews worked diligently on expanding the infrastructure. What amazed Sorantius more than the city was its people with its blending of Romans, Britons, Gauls, and Germans. Such unity would have been unimaginable not long ago.

Reaching the imposing iron gates of the palace, he was waved through by the guards into the meticulously maintained palace grounds. While not as regular a visitor as Hortensius, the chemist had spent a fair amount of time here, either consulting with the Empress and the Consul or haggling with the tight-fisted Lurio. Today, however, he was here to see the Empress. Having been assigned the bulk of the responsibility for getting the telegraph project she’d described to them up and running, he’d run into some problems that he hadn’t been able to sort out. Normally, he brought those troubles to Hortensius, since he’d had a longer track record working with the Consul and Empress to sort out issues such as this, but the manufacturer was running into issues with his own projects at the moment.

Instead of a normal audience chamber, he was ushered, by a servant, into a room that he hadn’t been in before, passing Ramirus as he entered. Aside from the large table, his eyes were immediately drawn to a large map of the Empire tacked to the far wall. The Empress stood next to it, studying the marked positions of legions and settlements, ignoring him for a moment as he imagined she worked through whatever her previous meeting had involved. He waited patiently and was rewarded with a warm smile when she finally did turn away from the map to acknowledge him.

“Empress,” he said with a respectful bow of his head.

Lucilla gestured to the chairs around the central table. “Please, have a seat Sorantius. I wasn’t aware you were in town. What brings you to see me, today?”

He settled into a chair, hands fidgeting with a scrap of parchment.

“I hadn’t planned on being here, but every time I tried to put my message into words I couldn’t quite seem to explain the issue thoroughly, so I thought it best if I just come as the messenger myself.”

“A reasonable solution,” she said.

“It’s the prototype for the battery for the telegraph you described to us. I built it as your instructions specified, but I can’t seem to get them to maintain a consistent output as noted in your instructions. You described what happens when they provide too much … I think the word you used was power, and that is what sometimes happens, although sometimes we get the opposite of that effect, where the containers might as well be filled with simple water for all of the reaction that happens.”

“Do you have thoughts on why that is?” she asked.

Sometimes Sorantius couldn’t tell if she was actually asking for more information or if she was simply employing the Greek method of teaching, where they asked questions rather than simply giving the answers being sought.

“I’ve done a fair amount of testing, and as far as I can tell the problem lies with the salt-soaked fabric connecting the two cells, although that’s just a guess. I have tried both lowering and raising the levels of salt saturation in the fabric, but neither produced the desired consistent output. Too little salt, and the cells barely react at all, as if they are disconnected. Too much, and the reaction becomes volatile and uncontrolled. While I know this is outside your instructions, it did give me some insight into how this process you described works and is what led me to believe the salt bridge, as you called it, is the problem.”

Lucilla tapped her chin thoughtfully, “What materials have you tried for the salt bridge aside from fabric?”

“Just the fabric, as per your original instructions. I thought any deviations might lead me astray.”

“Of course, of course,” Lucilla nodded. “I’m just trying to understand what you have tried so far to determine where the trouble might lie. And the salt, what type are you using?”

“Both mined and evaporated and both applied directly as well as putting it in water and then soaking the cloth in the water.”

“I see,” she said, and then fell silent.

He waited while she considered everything he’d said. As with the other times he’s talked over matters like this with her, Sorantius was impressed with how quickly the Empress seemed to grasp the concepts, since this was all at the edge of his scientific understanding. He had been training as a natural philosopher since childhood, which at least gave him a basis to begin to understand these matters. She, on the other hand, had grown up learning how to lead, with a focus on politics and diplomacy. He doubted any other politicians he might meet would be nearly as adept at understanding these types of subjects.

“It does sound like the salt bridge is deteriorating too rapidly as the salt evaporates, which would lead to fluctuations in transmission power,” she said when she finally spoke.

Lucilla fell silent again, her eyes going unfocused in that familiar way that signaled she was having one of her long pauses where it seemed like she was listening to some unheard voice. Although Hortensius had dismissed the thought when Sorantius privately brought it up, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was actually listening to guidance from the gods. It would explain how she was able to come up with such wild leaps in logic and ingenious solutions that he would have never conceived of on his own. She always had some excuse ready, claiming she had seen a mention of something in the Consul’s notes, but Sorantius had never found evidence to back up her claims. He suspected Hortensius knew more than he let on as well, based on the way the man denied Sorantius’ suspicions a little too forcefully.

Sorantius shifted in his seat. He was always unsure of what to do when she got like this. He didn’t want to stare or draw attention to it, but he also didn’t want to interrupt her, either to break her concentration before she thought of a solution … or on the off chance that she really was communing with the gods.

“I believe adding ammonium nitrate to the salt solution may help sustain the salt saturation within the fabric,” Lucilla suggested suddenly, as her eyes refocused on him.

Sorantius furrowed his brow skeptically. Ammonium nitrate was not a compound he had considered for this application. While intriguing, he was unsure of the merits in this situation.

“Why would that help?” he asked, as usual, forgetting the pleasantries as he became more focused on an issue.

“Ammonium nitrate has unique properties that allow it to readily absorb water while also retaining soluble salts. When added to the salt solution, it should act as a sort of sponge within the fabric, holding the salt in place longer before it evaporates. This should allow for more sustained conductivity between the battery cells.”

“I see. I’ve only ever seen nitrate used in the gunpowder process or making the new fertilizer the Consul described, and have been hesitant to experiment further with it, considering what it does when combined with the other components of gunpowder. If what you say about it slowing evaporation is true, I can think of a few other uses I’d like to test. However, that brings us to a new issue. We are currently struggling to get enough nitrate to produce gunpowder, let alone anything else. I’ve had to put producing fertilizer on hold until the military needs decline. How am I going to get enough to support making the batteries if we can’t get enough for anything else?”

“I’ll take care of that end. We should have more coming in by the end of summer when the first Ulaid pits begin producing, which will reduce our shortages. Until then, we’ll figure it out. It’ll be a small shipment, at first, for you to test out the quantities you need, and once you have a … uhh, benchmark, I’ll get you the rest.”

“A what?” Sorantius asked, unsure if she used a word he didn’t know, or if he misunderstood what she had said, since she had half-mumbled over the word.

“Benchmark,” she said, almost distantly. “It means a standard point of reference.”

“Ohh. I will let you know as soon as I have the … benchmark, your Majesty,” he said, bowing.

***

Ramirus exited the planning room, wondering for the hundredth time how exactly the Empress and the Consul’s ability to communicate worked. The two had never addressed it to him directly, but he’d figured out a long time ago they had some kind of ability to pass information regardless of distance, since any report he gave her ended up with the Consul.

Right now, with the legions so far away, that ability was probably their greatest weapon, since he could instantly get reports from his sources scattered across Carthaginian territory directly to the armies, faster than maybe even Mercury himself. He’d heard about this telegraph Hortensius and Sorantius were working on, which would apparently be able to provide approximating that same power to the rest of them, but for now, it was just theory. An idea that had yet to be realized.

In one of those moments of coincidence, he almost ran into the chemist, who was being led by a servant to the room he just exited, as he cleared the large door. The man’s attention was, as usual, not on the world around him, as he barely acknowledged Ramirus’s nod in greeting as they passed. In a way, he envied Sorantius his straightforward work, distant from the web of secrets Ramirus was enmeshed in, although he knew the chemist had his own difficulties he had to deal with that Ramirus could blissfully ignore. So maybe switching places wouldn’t be that easy after all.

Making his way across the plaza, Ramirus hurried up the steps to the Imperial Forum where he’d been told Llassar and Cormac were spending the day. Sure enough, the old warrior stood in the back, leaning on a column with his arms crossed as a senator droned on below, in the well of the Forum. Ramirus knew Llassar found politics as tedious as he did, though few would be able to tell from the stoic mask the man always maintained.

Less impassive was young Cormac, who lounged on the steps nearby, not even trying to stifle a yawn. The headstrong prince had regularly made his dislike of the endless legal minutiae known, and almost went out of his way to ensure everyone around him knew how unhappy he was to be here.

Catching Llassar’s eye briefly, he jerked his head to the side, indicating his desire to speak privately. Llassar raised a bushy eyebrow but peeled himself from the pillar, following Ramirus to an empty alcove some distance away from Cormac’s lounging form.

“I’ve heard concerning rumors swirling around the barracks and training yards. It seems our young princeling has been making the rounds, subtly inquiring about the troops’ thoughts on our current military leadership,” Ramirus said, dropping his voice to almost a whisper.

Llassar’s expression remained neutral, though Ramirus noted the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Apparently, he’s been engaging the men in hypothetical discussions about changes he would make, were he in charge,” Ramirus continued. “Specifically questioning the decisions the Consul, Empress, and legates have made.”

Llassar said, after a moment’s thought, “He’s made no secret of how much he chafes at what he sees as a ceremonial posting in the capital while real warriors fight elsewhere. Since that isn’t possible, he likes to at least discuss military matters.”

“I think it goes beyond that, however. He isn’t just talking about the strategies and having hypothetical conversations about them. He’s suggesting our military is being poorly led and that men’s lives are being wasted, and asking not-so-subtle questions about support for a ‘change of leadership.’”

A rare frown appeared on Llassar’s face as he said, “If the prince has truly been making such inquiries among the men, it is concerning. Whispers that our leaders are incompetent or might be mismanaging the war effort is not good for these men who are soon to be fighting. This kind of thing can spread through the ranks quickly.”

“My thoughts exactly, especially with some of the recent losses in Germania.”

“Do you believe Cormac intends treason?” Llassar asked bluntly. “Or is he simply frustrated at his lack of authority and seeking to prove himself through hypothetical boasting?”

“I don’t know,” Ramirus said, considering his words carefully. “It’s possible he’s simply venting and doesn’t mean to undermine the Empress’s authority. I’m just concerned about the effect his words could have, especially if they reach soldiers whose morale is already shaken. They could see him as sympathetic to their hardships, a prince who understands their plight, even if that’s not his intent.”

“Soldiers gossip worse than fishwives,” Llassar grunted in agreement. “They’ll embellish a tale to make it more dramatic with each retelling. Before long, Cormac’s hypothetical musings could morph into promises to relieve incompetent generals when he takes power.”

“Exactly,” Ramirus said.

The two men fell silent for a long moment, the distant chatter of the Forum drifting faintly to them.

“So the question becomes, what do we do about it?” Ramirus finally asked. “The last thing we want is to antagonize Cormac needlessly. His father is behind the alliance, but his house is still new and a lot of the nobles, some of whom were very recently in support of the Carthaginians, don’t support it. We have to handle this delicately.”

Llassar was quiet for a long stretch. Enough that Ramirus wasn’t sure he was going to respond. Ramirus had dealt with many reticent men before, but none who could stonewall as well as Llassar. In this instance, he needed the Caledonian’s input. Ramirus only had a few men installed in Ulaid and none yet inside the king’s inner circle, which gave him a limited view of how they thought or might react. Llassar had both a past history with the Ulaid and Conchobar specifically, and recent dealings with them. Conchobar hadn’t picked him to lead his son’s education in politics and military matters lightly, which meant he had the king’s ear. It also meant Ramirus needed Llassar’s ear to deal with this problem and didn’t have time for the warrior’s normal stoic response.

Finally, though, the Caledonian crossed his arms and said, “If we’re going to his father or confronting him directly, we need to be sure that your suspicions are correct, or at least have a foundation in fact. I suggest you discretely task some of your agents to interview the troops, to gauge how far the prince’s influence has spread. We need to know if this is idle gossip or something more dangerous taking root.”

“I’ve done some of that already, and so far it’s only been a handful of the men he’s talked to. We can go back and interview more, and perhaps slip a few men in as new recruits or returning veterans to train them, and see if they can get the prince to address them specifically.”

“He’s not a fool. He won’t talk to anyone he hasn’t developed a relationship with during his training, and he’s smart enough to smell something if I start pushing him toward newly arrived men. Still, it’s worth the attempt. In the meantime, I also suggest you keep a close eye on him. Track his movements, learn his patterns. I know you have men watching him, but you need to know every person he talks to, and perhaps put someone on those men as well. If he’s covertly trying to find allies, there will be a web for you to discover.”

“That’s clever. You sound more like a spy than a warrior.”

“Keep your curses to yourself,” Llassar said, in a tone that could be taken as either joking or serious.

“Right. Sorry,” Ramirus said, looking back toward the main part of the Forum, considering.

The crowds had thinned out some as a new speaker took the rostrum, though Cormac still lounged on the steps and was now chatting with a young man Ramirus recognized as the son of one of the Roman senators.

“Perhaps you should speak with some of the Caledonian troops here in the capital, either in the Praetorian barracks or those training outside the walls,” Ramirus suggested, turning back to Llassar. “He’s mostly been speaking to Ulaid and Caledonians, I guess seeing them as less likely to have a knee-jerk response supporting the Empress than a Roman would. Since they’re new, they’d also be more willing to question decisions and probably assume someone as highly placed as a prince knows something they don’t. But use discretion. We don’t want word getting back to the prince prematurely.”

“Fine,” Llassar said, following Ramirus’s gaze to Cormac.

When it became clear the Caledonian wasn’t going to add anything else, Ramirus said, “I have things to attend to. Send word if you learn anything.”

Llassar just nodded, not looking away from his young charge.

***

Germanica, Belgica, North of the Rhine

The distant rumble of thunder woke Matho from his light slumber. He sat up on the bedroll he’d thrown under an old tree, where he’d laid down for a short nap while scouts went looking for the raiders that had been pestering his column for a week now.

The sound came again, a low boom that rolled across the countryside. Matho’s brow furrowed. The sky had been clear when he laid down to rest. Picking himself up, he moved to look over the camp, where most of his soldiers had done the same as he had, knowing enough to get rest when they could, since battle was always just around the corner.

Beyond his temporary camp, all he could see were trees and rolling hills, although he knew a series of rivers lay a half day’s ride to the east.

“Rouse the men,” he said to one of his aides, who’d made his way over when Matho had gotten up. “Get them formed up.”

The officer departed as more booms sounded. As Matho watched, a ripple of movement passed across his army as the resting soldiers readied themselves for combat. Matho listened closely, judging the thunder’s direction. A probe, he suspected, but its intent still unclear. After the initial fight just before winter, the Romans had avoided a straight-up fight, choosing instead to pick at his supply lines and harass him rather than attack directly, which suggested their army wasn’t as large as the previous commander in this area had reported, before his execution for his failures.

He stood there, on a small rise near the center of their sprawling encampment, looking northeast, as the distant thunder slowed and then fell silent. It wasn’t a surprise when, ten minutes later, a group of scouts came riding through the tree line and into the camp.

Matho’s commanders gathered around as the scouts rode through the army and up to the command group, where they slowed their horses and dismounted, the lead scout removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm. He was weathered from years in the saddle and had a jagged scar across his left cheek marking him as a veteran.

“Report,” Matho said, interrupting the aide who moved to intercept the scout.

“We encountered the Romans, sir. We found their army about six stadia northeast, near the convergence of two streams. They number no more than a thousand by our estimate, although they kept in tight formation and their thunder weapons kept us from getting closer. As soon as they saw us, they began to pull back, through the narrow strip of land between the two smaller streams, toward the Visurgis.”

“How many troopers did you lose?”

“Only four. They only used the large tube weapons. None of their soldiers used the thunder weapons they carry, although they held them at the ready, I guess in case we decided to risk a frontal attack. Although most of their weapons missed, one impacted near a group of my riders, which is how we lost the four men. They were busy trying to fire and then roll their weapons back as they retreated, which probably accounts for their poor aim.”

“They’re frightened and outnumbered,” Sabnius, one of Matho’s commanders said.

“Could it have been a scouting element for a larger force?” another commander asked. “We’ve seen they prefer to stand behind their defensive works, trying to slow our men down while they use their new weapons. Catching them in the open like that, this could have been a forward unit.”

“They don’t scout with legionaries, and a thousand is a sizable chunk of their overall force here. Our sources all say they have, at most, twenty thousand men in all of Germania, not counting the barbarians. If they were pulling back to the Visurgis, that is probably where their army is camped, in between it and the two smaller rivers. They’ve trapped themselves. All we have to do is march in and crush them. They can’t run away from us this time.”

Matho remained silent, contemplating as he visualized the terrain from the scout’s description. A thousand men was far fewer than anticipated. The previous commander had reported the Romans amassing a force of nearly ten thousand before his … removal.

“What about their barbarian allies?” Matho asked. “Any sign of them?”

“No, general. Only the Romans.”

“Because they’ve abandoned the invaders,” a third officer said. “After we showed them that the Romans, even with all of their magical weapons, couldn’t stop us from raiding and burning their villages, the tribesmen have abandoned them.”

“Exactly,” Sabnius said again. “They’re weakened and trapped in a valley with rivers on all sides. We should march in now and crush them.”

“Did they turn and run, or was it a slow withdrawal?” Matho asked.

“A slow withdrawal. They would pull back, fire once or twice, and then hold until we edged closer, at which point they’d pull back a little further and fire again.”

“Because they didn’t want to be trapped, but they didn’t know if you were scouts or a forward unit, so they couldn’t just push out of the valley,” Sabnius said. “We should attack now! We outnumber them ten to one. There won’t be another chance to destroy them like this.”

Around him, most of the commanders nodded as Sabnius spoke, murmuring their agreement. Matho remained silent as his commanders clamored for an immediate attack. He recalled General Tabnit’s warning: “Do not underestimate these Romans and their magical weapons.” Matho suspected this retreat was too convenient, too enticing. They had used a similar tactic before.

“A bottleneck,” Matho mused aloud, interrupting Sabnius’s impassioned call for battle. “While it does trap the Romans in a confined area, with little room for retreat, it would trap us as well.”

Sabnius scoffed. “With respect, General, they are outnumbered and cowed. We will crush them between our forces like grain between millstones.”

Matho shook his head, a grim smile creasing his weathered features. “And they’ll funnel us into their weapons’ maws, Commander. In tight quarters, our numbers advantage disappears, and we don’t know where their barbarian allies are. They’ve shown us time and again that they know this land well enough that our scouts could walk right past them, and never know it. If we move into the valley between the rivers, I think we’ll find the rest of the Roman forces, ready for us to charge headlong into their thunder weapons. When we try to retreat, we’ll find all of those Germanics blocking our escape. We’ll be the ones caught on an anvil.”

Murmurs rose from the other commanders, some in agreement with him, some still thinking they should attack. Matho raised a hand for silence.

“Their withdrawal was slow, sounding almost methodical. Meant to be seen, to entice attack. Why show themselves at all if retreat was their goal?” he said, beginning to pace. “We hit another village two days ago. Why would they wait until now, if they were here in force, to at least make their presence known? Why keep a thousand men just hiding out here, waiting.”

“The emperor’s decree was clear,” Sabnius said, the man barely suppressing a scowl. “We are to pursue and destroy the Romans aggressively. This retreat is surely a sign of their weakness. We cannot ignore his command!”

Matho’s expression hardened as he turned to face the impetuous commander, “Mind your tone, Sabnius. I am well aware of the emperor’s orders. I also recall the punishments meted out when those orders are not achieved. Look at what happened to General Bomilcar. His entire family was executed after his defeat in Britannia. His wife, his young children, even his elderly parents … all put to the sword.”

The executions, following the loss of Britannia, had gone on for days and had not been limited to the leaders of the defeated army. Punishment went down as far as the families of men who commanded individual units, with wives, children, cousins, and grandparents being put to death for their failure. Matho went on, keeping his gaze fixed on Sabnius.

“So believe me when I say none wish to destroy these Romans more than I. But I have no intention of letting zeal turn to folly. We’ve seen what comes of generals who become overeager and have their commands destroyed in the process. Entire armies lost, tens of thousands dead. Tell me, will the emperor be understanding if we gain a momentary victory only to be annihilated afterward? Will the shame be wiped away if you can say you obeyed his commands, yet failed utterly?”

Sabnius’ face reddened but he held his tongue under Matho’s withering stare. Other commanders shuffled uncomfortably, properly cowed.

Matho stepped back, “No. Recklessness and blind obedience help no one. We will press the Romans, harry them, and if the opportunity arises, destroy them. But we will not fall into one of their traps. We hold the advantage in manpower. The longer we force them to hide behind their walls and weapons, the more their barbarian allies will doubt their resolve, and the weaker they will become. No, we will not be baited. Instead, we will spring their trap against them.”

Pointing at the three senior commanders, he said, “Have the army pull back and dig into separate camps, each spaced apart by an hour’s ride. Sabnius, your men can take the one facing where the two smaller rivers come together, but further west. Ortho, your men will take a position northeast of Sabnius and Nabalsa, position your men to the southeast. This will allow two sections to swing around and hit the flanks and rear of any Romans attacking the third section. Send our mounted forces west with orders to continue burning villages.”

If the Romans wanted to battle, they’d have to come to him. If they wanted to continue to wait, they’d have to live with more burned villages and dead allies. Eventually, they would have to give him a stand-up fight or lose all of their support here on the continent. Either way would give Matho the victory he needed.