The Fires of Vulcan - Chapter 13

Gaul, North of the Pyrenees

Velius stood on the edge of the bustling encampment, taking in the organized chaos of the construction site. All around him, the legionaries and auxiliaries were hard at work, digging with pickaxes and shovels, excavating trenches, and digging out foundations for the walls and towers of the half-finished fort. In the distance, beyond the tree line, came the sound of axes and falling trees as men worked to clear sightlines for the soon-to-be extension of their line of protective stations between Port Invictus and the Middle Sea.

Wagons loaded down with quarried stone and sand trundled past, destined for the mortar pits where the binding agent for the mighty walls was being mixed. By now, working on the third fort in the chain, they were making progress in developing a system to quickly build a fort, man it, and move on to the next, with his small force carrying all the tools and tradesmen necessary to make everything on-site as quickly as possible.

In spite of the swift progress, Velius was anxious. Partly, that concern was the same one he had every time he started building fortifications in enemy territory. Relying on mounted scouts, his information about the whereabouts of the various Carthaginian detachments was sketchy at best. They’d all but blundered into two groups of enemy scouts. Although the Carthaginians had quickly turned and run, the fact that they hadn’t even known the enemy was that close bothered Velius.

So did the fact that they were running into scouts at all. Before, it had mostly been raiding parties, groups of a hundred or so men, nipping at his heels. These, however, had been actual scouts, detached from some larger force and not part of a small band of raiders. It meant the Carthaginians knew where he was, and the presence of a larger force needing its own scouts indicated an attack was likely imminent, which was why he was so eager to get this fort completed. Once the tree lines were cleared and the men were behind solid walls with cannon mounted in the casemates, they’d be difficult for all but the largest Carthaginian force to dislodge.

The location was good; a small hilltop with steady slopes up three sides and a sharp drop-off on the fourth that would help foil any attacker, slow any assault on the fort, and allow its defenders to fire down into the men climbing up it, increasing the chances of hitting someone during an attack.

Right now, though, it was barely a frame of a fort, with only the beginnings of a wall in place, surrounded by obscuring forest. They were vulnerable. He’d done his best to set his legionnaires up to have some defensive works to allow his men to fight if it came to it and give the workers a perimeter to run to safety. The biggest problem was he had to be prepared for an attack from any direction and he had to be ready on very short notice, because if things held to form, he wouldn’t have a lot of time to react. Even with that, he’d still given up his biggest advantage … range. Until the tree line was cleared farther back, they wouldn’t be able to properly engage until the enemy was practically on top of them, which was going to make any fight harder.

The Consul had foreseen some of this in their training. Maybe not this exact scenario, but they’d worked on tactics for dealing with a massed enemy when they were within arrow range or closer. What made Velius so anxious was how many casualties they’d incurred during one of those simulated battles.

Turning, Velius looked to Crito, the chief engineer for the forts, as the man directed the workers, and fought the urge to go ask the man for yet another update. He’d already asked too many times that day, and the answer had always been the same. Velius knew he’d mostly be asking to try and assuage his own nerves, and that it’d be a futile gesture.

As if he’d willed it into existence, Velius’s worst fears came true as his scouts and logging crews came barreling out of the forest, shouting alarms that a Carthaginian force was hot on their heels. To prove the point, a moment later, the first lines of Carthaginians marched out of the trees, weapons and armor glinting in the sunlight. He’d hoped they would have heard the army barreling down on them, but the sound had been broken up by the trees and covered by the sounds of construction all around him.

“Form ranks and fix bayonets! Prepare to fire! Front rank, lock shields,” Velius commanded.

Legionaries scrambled into formation, rank upon rank arrayed in long neat lines, rifles ready at the shoulder behind the hastily arrayed defensive works which would slow, but definitely not stop, the horde of spear-armed men pouring out of the trees. Arrows whistled overhead as the Carthaginian archers let fly, the trajectory much flatter than he’d experienced before, almost coming up the slope instead of dropping down onto his men. This would be the first test of his forces in hand-to-hand combat armed with rifles instead of shields and gladii. Thankfully, the Consul had foreseen some of this and kept at least one row of shieldmen for the front of every unit. He’d hinted that, eventually, they’d transition to just lines of riflemen, which would have changed the calculus of the clash significantly.

“Artillery, fire at will!” Velius shouted.

The cannon along the line unleashed a thundering barrage in response, cannonballs tearing bloody gaps in the Carthaginian lines. It wasn’t going to be enough. There were fewer than seventy yards between the tree line and his men. By the time they reloaded, the Carthaginians would be on top of them.

His men, however, performed admirably, breaking ranks slightly to allow the logging crews to flow through their mass and then reforming almost as quickly. It looked as though the entire mass of Carthaginians were only coming from one side, which would play in their favor, although he couldn’t assume this was the only group of Carthaginians in the trees.

“Order the seventy-fifth cohort to send half their centuries around to support us.”

He had to leave the units on his left and right intact, since there looked to be enough Carthaginians to flow around either side, but he could afford to peel some off the rear units which, hopefully, looked like they might go unengaged through the coming fight. His men formed a tight circle around the fort construction, which meant he wasn’t going to be outflanked, at least not if he kept the line from breaking.

The Carthaginians had learned their lessons against cannon, and didn’t flee as chunks of their force melted away. Instead, soldiers flowed in to fill the gaps created by the round shot tearing through them and continued to press forward.

“First rank, fire!” he shouted, followed by a clattering of muskets and thick smoke.

Unless the Carthaginians broke, he was only going to get one cycle of this use of the muskets, Velius thought as he yelled, “Second rank, fire.”

More Carthaginians fell, but their line continued moving forward. With the added two centuries, Velius had seven hundred or so riflemen on this side of the circle, with the rest spread around the sides and rear. If he had to guess from the rows of men coming out of the trees, he was facing five or maybe even ten thousand Carthaginians. Even if every bullet hit true, and each hit a different man, he’d need fifteen or twenty volleys. Instead, he was going to get maybe three, which meant they were about to find out how these new bayonets fared against the long phalanx spears.

“Third rank, fire!” He shouted. “First row, brace for contact. Third row, reload and fire at will.”

They’d trained for this. The first row dropped their rifles and held their shields tight, pulling gladii to fight in the old way. The second row changed the grip on their rifles, set to use them to deflect spears and stab over the shoulders of their comrades, while the third row reloaded, preparing to fire as they were able. They would also fill in for the second row as men fell. It had played out well in practice, but that had been with blunted poles and wooden rifles.

Through the lingering cannon and rifle smoke, Velius finally noticed why the Carthaginian arrows seemed to be coming in at an unexpected angle. Many of the archers in the rear weren’t using traditional bows and arrows but were holding something that looked suspiciously like the arcuballista that the Consul had introduced before the Britannians had switched to rifles. It explained why the arrows were tearing through his men’s armor, causing more casualties than they normally experienced in ranged attacks.

Highlighting the point was the interrupted cry of one of his aides as a bolt from one of the weapons slammed into his chest, knocking the man over backward. A part of Velius’s mind wondered if they were some of the weapons the Empire had been selling off as a source of revenue or if they’d simply copied the design. Not that it mattered. At this range, they were almost as effective as his rifles and just as fast to fire.

The barrage intensified, raining death on the outnumbered defenders. All around Velius, men cried out as bolts punched through armor and burrowed into vulnerable flesh. The ranks wavered, recoiling under the brutal impacts.

Another bolt caught a legionary in the neck, dropping him instantly. The man next to him rushed to fill the gap, only to take a bolt to the shoulder, the force spinning him around before he collapsed. Velius watched helplessly as holes opened along the line. The losses were mounting at an alarming rate.

“Shields up!” Velius called to the first row.

The legionaries quickly overlapped their shields, forming a wall of wood and iron. It offered some protection from the deadly missiles, but the Consul’s design had increased the efficacy of the weapons, and many bolts still punched through, hitting the man behind the shield.

Although it was doubtful they were going to break his line by using arrows alone, their phalanx still moved forward, and it was possible he’d lose enough men to give their spears the edge they needed.

“Target the skirmishers! Take out those arcuballista,” Velius said, waving at the battery of cannon closest to him.

The crews swung their weapons around to point in the direction he indicated and let fly. Thunderous blasts echoed across the hillside and dirt fountained into the air amidst the Carthaginian ranks as shells smashed into the earth, obliterating men and weapons.

The arcuballista fire lessened slightly as shells tore through their ranks. It didn’t stop their fire entirely, but it was enough to slow his losses. Once the phalanx reached his position, they’d have to stop firing anyway, to keep from hitting their own men.

All of the activity seemed to energize the Carthaginian spearmen, who picked up speed as they surged up the hill toward the Britannians. They crashed into the lines with frightening force, a tidal wave of flesh and sharpened steel. Shields splintered under the impacts. Spears thrust through gaps, impaling men where they stood. The Britannian line buckled and bowed under the overwhelming assault. Velius could hear the screams of the injured and dying over the din of battle, barely audible above the clamor of metal on metal.

The slope hindered the Carthaginians’ progress, the wooden obstacles and defenses slowing their advance, breaking up their lines somewhat, and lessening the impact against his line. It didn’t stop them, however, as the Carthaginians clawed over the impediments using tenacity and numbers alone.

Legionaries cried out as spears punctured armor and ripped into flesh. Boots skidded in the bloody mud as they were pushed back under the tide. Bodies began to pile up as men fell by the dozen. Chaos reigned. He caught glimpses of the slaughter through the press, legionaries being borne down and butchered beneath the tide, screams cut horribly short.

“Hold the line!” he called out, voice rising above the noise.

Around him, legionaries braced against the tide, bayonets flashing as they stabbed and parried. The rows behind them fired methodically into the mass, muzzle flashes reflecting off armor and shield.

In spite of their bravery and training, his men began to falter. This close, however, finally gave Velius a new option that he’d held off using until the right moment, waiting for the Carthaginian line to smash into his own, the soldiers behind beginning their normal tactic of pushing tight together, adding their weight to the steady press forward.

“Canister shot,” he called out to his artillerymen. “Aim for their center.”

The crews leaped into action, hands steady despite the chaos. They packed the cannons with metal cans stuffed full of lead balls and lit the fuses. Thunderous explosions resounded again from the hillside. Enormous sprays of metal shot ripped gaping holes in the Carthaginian formation, scything down hundreds of men in an instant. Firing down into the densely packed mass, nearly every projectile found flesh.

The Carthaginians reeled under the devastating impacts. Though they had grown accustomed to shells and rifles, they had never experienced canister shot like this before. It was as if the finger of an angry god had swept through their ranks, killing everything it touched.

All along the line, Carthaginian soldiers screamed as the metal shot shredded through them. Bodies piled up in mangled heaps. The phalanx formation wavered and threatened to break as men recoiled in terror. Velius saw his opportunity.

“Advance,” he commanded.

The order caught his beleaguered men by surprise. Exhausted and outnumbered, they had been clinging to their defenses, struggling to hold against the endless tide crashing against them. But they were veterans, disciplined and battle-hardened. They did not hesitate for long. A guttural yell rose from their ranks as the legionnaires surged forward, the prospect of vengeance overcoming fatigue.

Shields slammed into the dazed Carthaginians, pushing them back and forcing them off balance. Bayonets followed, stabbing ruthlessly into any man who resisted. The charge gained momentum as triumphant yells mixed with screams of the dying.

The artillery crews reloaded feverishly and another ear-splitting volley of canister shot ripped through the Carthaginian ranks. The formation was coming apart now, order dissolving into panicked chaos under the withering blasts.

The Carthaginians fell back under the ferocious assault, cohesion evaporating. The advance turned into a panicked rout as men fled in terror before the vengeful legionaries. Cannon fire hounded them as they ran, shells tearing bloody swathes through their ranks.

Velius finally relaxed as the Carthaginian lines disintegrated, the organized phalanx reduced to a rabble fleeing for the tree line. Legionaries churned after the retreating Carthaginians, their disciplined bayonet line shattering the last vestiges of cohesion from the enemy ranks.

The din of battle faded, replaced by the moans of the wounded and dying. Britannian and Carthaginian bodies covered the torn earth.

“The enemy is in full retreat,” Dexippus, tribune of the seventy-sixth cohort reported. “Orders, sir?”

“Send what horsemen we have after them. They are to harry the survivors, keep them from regrouping, but are to retreat at the first sign of organized resistance or if they get as far as the river. I doubt we’ll be attacked again today, but pull the wounded back and have grave teams begin clearing the bodies, in case our men have to fight again.”

Dexippus saluted and walked off, already barking orders. That done, Velius could turn his mind to the attack itself. It had happened so fast, he’d hardly had a chance to think, his focus being fully on stopping the surprise attack. It was a substantial force, to be sure. One that could have overwhelmed his defenses through the sheer weight of bodies alone.

But it was also a lot closer to his own number than they normally faced when the Carthaginians were the ones determining the time and place for an attack. The disparity in numbers was far short of the enemy’s usual five or ten-to-one advantage.

Considering the skill the Carthaginian general had displayed so far, deftly foiling his plan to push through the winter, Velius doubted the reduced numbers were an oversight. If he had to guess, the goal hadn’t been to seize or destroy the fort itself, although they probably would have taken it, if they’d been able to achieve that kind of victory. More likely, the enemy sought only to harass and delay construction. He knew their scouts had come across the first two, so they knew what he was up to by now.

Possibly, they were trying to allow time to muster far greater forces elsewhere before pressing the attack for real. Velius expected his men to be outnumbered, but considering how his plan required his men to be spread out along the line of forts, he couldn’t afford to allow the enemy to mass its forces before his defenses were ready. Once all of his cannon and rifles were behind solid walls, they could counter much larger forces, or at least cause enough casualties to keep the Carthaginians from effectively crushing the whole line. Until all of the forts were up, however, he was vulnerable, which meant he needed to accelerate the construction of the rest of the forts.

With the sounds of battle fading behind the retreating Carthaginians, Velius turned back toward the half-finished fort, barking orders to the still-cowering workers as he went. There could be no pause, no respite. Not until the last of the forts were completed and manned.