The Fires of Vulcan (Imperium #5) - Chapter 1

North-Western Germania

Anyone who looked at Ky, Consul of Britannia and commander of the Britannic forces in Northern Europe, could tell he was an outsider. Even dressed in the traditional Roman garb, worn by most of the Legionnaires, Ky stood out as a man out of place. Everything about him from the almost bronze color of his skin and almond-shaped eyes, to the way he sat on a horse, said he didn’t belong here … mostly, because he didn’t. He’d been born thousands of years from this now, as part of a society that had homogenized into more or less a single phenotype, with genetic engineering doing the rest. He’d spent his life training to fly fighters in the depths of space, strapped into a chair built to offset high acceleration, not sitting atop a horse, rebalancing every time the animal moved.

And yet, all of his men followed him as if he was sent by the gods. Of course, that was because many of them still thought he had been, no matter how often Ky tried to dissuade them of the notion.

A narrow valley stretched before him, thick with frost, hemmed in on both sides by steep, snow-capped peaks. They’d picked this area specifically because of its inhospitable terrain. While they’d dealt a major blow to the Carthaginians, there were still units out there, and he wasn’t ready to put his out-manned legions and ragtag allies to the test until they had the training to operate well together.

They’d gotten the drop on the Carthaginians in the fall, mostly because the Carthaginians didn’t realize Bomilcar had managed to turn so many of their previously conquered vassals against them. That secret was out now, however, which meant the next battle would be a stand-up fight.

Hopefully, by then he would have more rifles, enough to arm more than a century or two, but even with that, Ky wanted his local allies trained up as much as possible. That’s why they were hiding in the mountains for the time being.

Each of the five tribes, or four tribes and one confederation of tribes, had set up camps at one end of the valley while Ky had established his legions at the other. There had been some early dustups between the locals and the Britannians, mostly over misunderstandings in customs, that would take time to clear up. Until then, Ky planned on keeping the two groups as separate as possible, except during training, which was what was happening today.

Ky looked across the rocky outcropping, surveying the scene below with a critical eye. The Anglii, whose lands were closest to the Carthaginians and whose men had been drafted into their armies the longest, were by far the most organized, drilling in tight formations with crisp, disciplined movements that gave Ky hope. While they were following the standard of the Phalanxes and not his legions, it was close enough that it wouldn’t take long to train them to the point where he could incorporate them directly into his forces, giving him an additional almost half a legion without much effort.

Sadly, they were by far the best of his new allies, by a wide margin. By way of contrast, Ky looked to the Vandili, the second most organized and disciplined of the tribes, and saw warriors in a disorganized mass. Even when lined up, their formations would quickly go from ragged and sporadic, which was as good as they ever got, to a clump of warriors, each trying to see who could attack the enemy line first. Their tactics began and ended with throwing themselves headlong into the enemy lines, trusting in their superior prowess as warriors to win the day. While Ky would never doubt each man’s abilities and knew that each was probably a skilled fighter, that made little difference when facing trained soldiers.

It only got more chaotic from there. At this rate, even if he could keep the tribes united and all fighting in the same direction, he’d lose four-fifths of his new allies after the first contact with the enemy.

Bomilcar grumbled from the horse next to Ky. He was as out of place as Ky was, although in a completely different way. Born and raised as part of one of the oldest families in Carthage, his adoption of Roman dress didn’t make him fit in any more than Ky did. He could change his clothes, but nothing could change the hawkish features and bearing common to the ruling elite of the African nation that currently controlled most of the known world. They made an interesting pair.

The old general’s face was twisted in a tight frown as he assessed the maneuvers below.

“An absolute mess,” he muttered. “I talked to them over and over, but Aliverko was the only one who’d sit still long enough to listen. The rest are too impatient and take any kind of organized movement as the ‘Carthaginian way.’ They think, now that they’ve broken from their old masters, they can just go back to the way they used to do things. Never mind that they lost doing things that way the first time.”

“You were the one who told me this was going to take time,” Ky pointed out.

“I know, but I hoped that once they saw what we could do, they might … I don’t know, come to their senses.”

“They didn’t see much. Sure, they were impressed by the rifles, but other than that, they mostly watched us run from the Carthaginian army for days while we tried to find a suitable place to fight. And then, when we did fight, they can take credit for the win because of their sudden attack from the Carthaginian rear. They won’t be believers until they see us fight for real.”

“Which won’t happen until the snows thaw and we start operations. We should focus our efforts on the Anglii for now. Get them integrated into the legions and ready to fight. We can put the other tribes in the rear as support, watching our flanks and supply lines until they’re ready to train for real.”

“You know that won’t work. You’ve been in the same parleys I have. They all want to show they’re the biggest, badest bunch there is, ready to take on Carthage by themselves. If we elevate one of the groups above the rest, the other four will go home, or worse, decide we’re a lost cause and rejoin the Carthaginians. And the Anglii aren’t even close to being the largest of the tribes. Hell, the Alamanni confederation has nearly as many men ready to go under arms as we brought with us.”

“Then what do we do? Because we can’t go into battle like this,” Bomilcar said, waving a hand at the valley where the Alamanni smashed into a line made up of Anarti and Istvaeones in their mock battle simulations. Men were going in every which direction and all semblance of battle lines disappeared completely.

Glancing sidelong at Bomilcar, Ky said, “Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way.”

“That’s what I was just saying,” the Carthaginian said, a little frustrated.

“What I mean is, maybe we shouldn’t be trying to fit them into the mold of the legions at all. Like you said, we should focus on only teaching the Anglii to fight as part of our legions. The rest we don’t try to make them legionnaires at all, instead we try to play to their strengths.”

“Which are?” Bomilcar asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“Their knowledge of the land, superb ability as individual warriors, their courage and, you have to admit, impressive stamina, and their overall raw enthusiasm.”

“And how, exactly, would we use those traits?”

“By employing them as partisan fighters.”

“Most of these tribes have already been doing that for a while, which is why they have so few men to offer to the cause as it is. They’ve suffered horrible losses trying to pick off even the smallest groups of Carthaginians.”

“I didn’t mean doing it the way they have been doing it or even in the way you’ve seen it done before. I mean we train them in real, hit-and-run tactics,” Ky said, and then held up a hand, stopping Bomilcar from protesting again. “I know you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about our new tactics, the line of battle, battle squares, and the like, but you haven’t extended that to other, less direct modes of warfare. Consider what hit-and-run attacks will look like with muskets. Normally that kind of thing is a melee-specific form of combat, since arrows work best when massed, especially at smaller or more spread-out groups of soldiers like you find in a supply column. But muskets, even with their smaller range, will be deadly if fired from the trees. They are easier to train on, significantly more deadly than any arrow, and fast-firing. Imagine a group of even a couple of dozen warriors firing from the trees at a collection of soldiers in camp or marching along carrying supplies. They can cause all sorts of chaos and disruption in the Carthaginian ranks before disappearing back into the wilderness. This is the perfect terrain for that tactic.”

“It’s risky. They’d be spread pretty thin and at a massive numerical disadvantage at every step. And for what payoff? A few dozen dead soldiers here or there aren’t going to impact the effectiveness of any single Carthaginian force.”

“They’re never going to come into contact with the Carthaginians directly, so numerical differences aren’t going to matter. Small raiding bands will move much faster than any Carthaginian security detachment left behind to guard their supply lines, and if we coordinate the attacks, hitting the column again after their guards chase after the first force, they’ll have to start absorbing the smaller losses to keep from getting torn to pieces.”

Ky said and then paused, watching the men below gathering for another attempt at something like an organized charge.

“That’s going to slow them down,” he said, continuing once the groups started marching again. “If they bulk up one supply column, we hit any detachments or switch to picking at the flanks of their main column. The key is to keep eating away at their edges, forcing them to chase our allies into the wilderness here or there. That’s actually going to be the hardest part. When the Carthaginians start focusing their forces, that’s when our people will have to resist the urge to charge in. It’s important they fade away. Not just to keep our losses down, but to ensure the Carthaginians chase them. Once a force either stops somewhere advantageous or gets whittled down enough by detaching security forces, we hit it with the better-trained part of our army.”

“Even if that doesn’t happen, the Germanic corpse, as their emperor likes to call it, has been picked pretty dry,” Bomilcar said. “It’s why we’ve been getting so many refugees. Food supplies are scarce, and it was already getting difficult to have armies operating in this region living off the land. Starvation is going to start being a problem for them.”

“You said most of the forces sent to this area were levies from further south. Iberia, Greece, Persia, and the like, right?”

“Mostly. Any large army will have a core unit of real soldiers trained in Carthage proper, more as a security force to push their less voluntary comrades forward than anything else, but they also make up the best part of the fighting forces as well.”

“Which probably also means they’ll be fed the best, better than the men pulled from conquered lands and sent here. What are the chances that, if they’re starved enough, they turn on their officers?”

“Not good. It’s why the emperor pulls them from so far away,” Bomilcar said. “If they revolt, they can’t turn around and run to friendly villagers or go defend their families, and they know the emperor would have their entire village, not just their families, put to the sword if they raise a hand against him. He does it often enough, for even the smallest infractions, that they’re regularly reminded of what could happen if they revolt. So no, I don’t think they’ll turn on their leaders.”

“It doesn’t matter. Food is going to be scarce and they won’t be able to forage much, especially during the winter, so they’re going to be forced to spread their men out to protect their supply lines. We’ll be fighting smaller groups and it will sow confusion and doubt among their officers, which will make it easier to hit the larger groups. The more I think about it, the more I think this plan will work.”

“Then I guess we need to change their training. Like you said, this will work better while snow is on the ground.”

“Yep,” Ky said and turned his horse to head back down the trail and into the valley.

***

“Ky?” Lucilla said softly into the darkness. “Are you there?”

Even though they’d done this hundreds of times, at first it always felt a little strange to speak into the empty air, talking to herself as much as trying to contact Ky. Maybe it was because she had to wait until she was alone to speak to him, which usually meant waiting until she was alone in her quarters, in the dark. That had been even truer lately. As the daughter of the Emperor, she’d been able to steal moments here or there away from servants, guards, and petitioners to have quick conversations with her husband, who was usually days or even weeks ride away.

That was less true now that she was Empress of Britannia. Now there seemed to always be someone around. Men wanting to ‘advise’ her on whatever topic they had a personal interest in, hoping to sway her opinion. Servants trying to tend to her every need, even when she didn’t need anything. Guards insistent that she was in constant danger of assassination, even at night, when she was locked in her rooms at the palace. It had given her a newfound appreciation of her father and how he’d managed to keep his sanity dealing with this over the years.

Thoughts of her father brought her attention back to the sorrow that had hung over her all evening, threatening to crush her, and the reason she’d been so anxious for time to speak to Ky.

She was about to repeat herself when his deep, soothing voice came through the small device he’d given her to put in her ear, allowing them to speak, no matter how far apart they were.

“I’m here,” he said. “Is everything alright?”

Even at this distance, he could hear the pain in her voice. She liked a lot of things about her husband, from his exotic appearance to his warrior’s heart, but most of all she loved how he listened to her. Not just her words, but everything underneath them too. She’d never found anyone, through all of the suitors her father had thrown at her over the years, that had matched her so completely.

“No, it’s not. My father died tonight,” she said.

“Ohh,” Ky said. “Sophus didn’t say anything.”

“I was asked not to. She said she wanted to tell you,” the flat voice of the artificial lifeform that lived in Ky’s head said to him.

“I … I just needed some time to deal with it before you asked about him or how I was doing. I know you’d mean well, but I’ve had a barrage of mourners offering me their condolences all night, and I just can’t deal with any more right now.”

Ky wanted to tell her he understood, but he didn’t. Not really. He’d only been close with a handful of people in his life, and she was the only one he loved. Because of how children were raised in his former life, in genetic batches rather than with families, he never really knew his parents and certainly didn’t think he’d feel anything if either of them died. And while he liked and admired the Emperor, he wouldn’t go so far as to say he loved the man, let alone like his daughter must have.

“Then I won’t say it. This was a matter of time, though. We both knew how sick he really was.”

“I know, but it doesn’t really help. I’ll be fine. I know we have a lot to do, and the stakes are too high for me to fall apart.”

“It’s fine to mourn, I think. Take a few days maybe. It won’t be the end of the war.”

“If I was his son, maybe, but I’m my father’s daughter,” she said, her voice hardening. “There are already men looking at me with skepticism, sure that I’m not up to the job. They’re convinced I’m weak, and too emotional to do what must be done as Empress. There’s a reason I’m the first one in our history. I can’t afford to show weakness, even now.”

“That’s … awful.”

“It’s the way it is,” she said, but then her tone softened again. “But tonight, I just need to talk. I have so much … it feels like I’m going to burst.”

“So much what?” Ky asked.

“Doubt, fear, sorrow, grief, anguish. All of it. I miss my father. Yes, he was the Emperor, but he was also the man on whose knees I played as a little girl. I miss my family. It wasn’t that long ago I had a family. A father and a brother. And now they’re both gone, or effectively dead. Caesius might not be dead, but he’s dead to me, which for right now, is close enough.”

“You’re not alone,” Ky said. “I’m here.”

“I know. I think that’s the only thing helping me to keep it together. But you’re so far away. I know I’m luckier than any woman back here while so many of our men are out there, on the continent, but I still wish you were here, holding me.”

“I know. I wish the same thing.”

“I’m also feeling doubt. Yes, I was already named Empress, but there was always the knowledge that he was still here. I could go to him, consult with him, get his wisdom. Now that he’s gone, we’re on our own. We have to figure this out by ourselves. I know I’m up to the task in my head, but in my heart, I’m afraid I won’t live up to this moment. We are still balanced on the edge of a knife. This whole Empire of ours could fall apart at any time. Already, the Romans bicker with the Caledonians, who bicker with the Ulaid, who both bicker with the Romans. No one can agree on anything, and I’m just there, playing … Sophus, what was that word you told me?”

“Referee.”

“Yes. I’m refereeing. And now that I hear myself say all this out loud, I think maybe they’re right. Maybe I am too emotional to deal with the realities of leadership.”

“That’s bullshit,” Ky said. “First, everyone has these kinds of fears. Anyone who’s ever led men into combat or made decisions about the fates of others has second-guessed themselves. Those that don’t are narcissists who believe they are always right, and they tend to have fairly dramatic downfalls. No one is perfect. The key is to manage those fears. Use them. Are they baseless or is there a lesson in there your mind is trying to direct you toward? If yes, fix it; if no, then know you gave it reasonable consideration and move on.”

“I guess,” she said, not sounding convinced.

“It isn’t a guess. Do you know who never second-guessed themselves? Your brother. Silo. Decius. They all thought they could do no wrong. Now one of them is in exile and two are dead. Which shows you what unquestioning faith in yourself gets you. As for the rest, it’s normal to feel anguish. Caring about people is what makes you a great leader. Your people are willing to trust you with their lives because they know you would never throw them away needlessly. They know you’ve thought about the repercussions and made the best decision you could. Are you under pressure? Yes. Do you have big shoes to fill? Also, yes; but you can do it. Hell, you held yourself together today, even after the news of your father’s passing, until you were alone and free to let your guard down. That’s real control that others, lesser men, would kill to have.”

She made a small noise he recognized as her thinking noise. It was how she indicated that she was listening to him, but she was also thinking about what he said and her brain was too distracted to give him an immediate answer. It’s one of the things he liked about her. She had a focus about her that he’d never seen the equal of. She would go quiet, synthesize a massive amount of data he’d have to give over to Sophus to consider, and then come up with an answer he’d never thought of.

Ky waited peacefully for a minute while she thought, almost picturing her face in his mind, scrunched up, brows furrowed, as she concentrated. The image made him smile and made him think of something.

“Just before I left, after your coronation, I sat and talked to your father for a while. He’d been drifting in and out, and the pain was starting to be a real problem, but all of a sudden he put his hand on my arm and told me a story. You were about seven. Your brother was ten, and he was trying to get the servants to be his legion. He was going to have them attack the pantry. What he didn’t know was that you had convinced one of the steward’s daughters to bring all of the chickens out of their pen to the side entrance of the courtyard. Apparently, you were upset that he’d yelled at the cooks the day before, because he didn’t like his meal, and it upset you, because you liked them all. Your father added that the reason you liked the kitchen staff so much was because they snuck you treats when you came in while no one was looking, but he didn’t want you to know he knew because you were worried he would punish them. He was kind of fading at that point, so it wasn’t clear if he thought you were still seven at that point or if he meant he didn’t want you to know that he knew back then because of your worry.”

Ky took a breath, thinking back to the frail old man and how much joy he’d had in telling that story. It had made Ky realize that maybe he was missing more than just the intimate side of relationships, seeing how happy he was just thinking about his daughter. Lucilla didn’t say anything while he paused, and Ky could tell she was completely wrapped up in what else her father had said.

“Anyway, you didn’t want Caesius to harass them while they were working, so you decided to stand in front of the doorway, wooden sword in hand, telling him to back down. Caesius laughed at you and said he was going to have the servants attack you. Before he could give the order, though, you yelled a command and dozens of chickens came tearing in, wings flapping, your young accomplice behind them swinging a broom and yelling. The servants all ran, and he started getting pecked all over until he finally ran too. Your father had to punish you for injuring your brother, but, secretly, he was proud of you. Not only had you stood up to your brother and protected people who otherwise weren’t allowed to protect themselves from him, but you’d created a distraction and outflanked him. He said he knew then that you were incredibly clever and had the makings of a great leader. He then went a little fuzzy and said he was sad your brother was going to be Emperor just because he was a boy and firstborn, and that you’d make a great Empress if you were allowed to take the throne. He really did have incredible faith in you.”

“I’d forgotten all about that,” Lucilla said, going a bit fuzzy herself as her voice drifted off while she remembered it. “Caesius was so angry. He tried to get my friend punished, but he never spent time with any servants except the ones who cared for us directly, so he couldn’t be sure who she was, and weirdly, none of the other servants remembered seeing her, so they couldn’t help. Even then, he never understood that you don’t have authority just because you are proclaimed to be in charge. To really wield it, people have to want to obey you, not just have to. Otherwise, you never get their active participation or best work.”

“See, that’s what I mean. You’re worried that you’re not up to the task, and then you say something like that. You’re a great leader, Lucilla, and the person who thought so the most was your father. He had no doubts when he passed the mantle to you.”

“Thanks,” she said after a minute, choking up a little on the word. “That really helps.”

“Good,” Ky said. “Now it’s your turn. You tell me some stories about your father.”

***

Carthage

The dying sunlight had begun to drop low, bathing the emperor’s palace in a warm orange light. The torches lit along its perimeter added a flickering effect that made everything seem as if it was on fire. The hour wasn’t chosen by mistake. To the Carthaginians, the underworld existed far to the east, beyond the rising sun, and was made up of two lands: one close to the sun, bathed in its light, a place of harmony and warmth, and one far from the sun, where darkness, cold, and hunger resided.

The noble and virtuous, who honored the Carthaginian gods and their avatar on Earth, would go to this closer place, ruled by Tanit, while those who dishonored the gods and their avatar, or those who were defeated by the Carthaginians in their gods’ name, would go to the far place, ruled by Mot. The time between day and night was as close as humans could get to their gods’ realm, existing in both warmth and cold.

On this day, the gods’ avatar in the world, Imilcar Azor, the Emperor of Carthage, glared down from his dais at the pathetic creature kneeling in the center of the courtyard. Caesius Germanicus, traitorous son of the Roman Emperor, defector to Carthage, and sworn to serve the true emperor, was clothed in tattered rags, his feet bare and torn. He had promised to deliver his father’s people to the emperor. Instead, due to his incompetence and arrogance, he had failed at every turn, with the new Britannic Empire in control of all of the British Isles and armies victorious in Barbaria itself, just across the small channel from the British Isles. Imilcar smiled to himself. This man was about to learn what many men had learned before him; the cost of disappointing their emperor.

The emperor stood, his purple robes swishing at his feet, and looked across at the collection of courtiers, generals, and noblemen gathered to witness what could happen to them if they too failed him.

“A year ago, you stood before me and pledged your eternal devotion,” the emperor said, his voice booming, haughty, and self-righteous. “You pledged that you alone could ensure the downfall of your people, that you could get them to submit to my rule. You promised that your father and the evil spirit he named Consul would kneel before me.”

He paused, letting his words sink in as his gaze swept over the courtiers in the courtyard before returning to the ragged form at its center.

“Instead, what did you bring me? Failure. Time and again, your proclamations of spies and loyalists turned out to be as hollow as your courage. You’ve shown that you are only capable of incompetence and insufferable arrogance. The British Isles, once firmly in our grasp, have slipped through our fingers because you were unable to bring us a single one of their new weapons. Unable to bring us a single piece of information that could be used to counter this evil spirit. Their armies now threaten our very shores, just across the Syrian Sea in Barbaria.”

There was a rumble around the courtyard as men murmured their agreement with the emperor, that responsibility for their defeats lay with this traitor and, more importantly, none of them. The emperor raised a jewel-encrusted hand, causing the crowd to instantly fall quiet.

“The gods themselves have granted Carthage dominion over everything the sun touches, yet you chose to defy them. You squandered what resources you were given, lying and blocking our armies from their rightful victory. It is clear now that your promises were all lies. You still serve your father, sent here to utter falsehoods at every turn. And when it was clear your treachery could be hidden no longer, you filled a ship with as many valuables as you could steal and attempted to sail back to your people as a noble hero. Now, it is time for your treachery to be rewarded.”

Caesius threw himself prostrate, hands outstretched on the ground, and pleaded, “No, lord of the known world, protector of the chosen people, I would never lie to you. I’ve only ever wanted to serve you. I was not fleeing. I wanted only to contact those still loyal to me, to get what you require. I thought if I could do it in person, I might …”

“Silence,” the emperor bellowed, cutting Caesius off. “I’ve heard enough of your clever deceptions and false promises.”

“Please,” Caesius begged, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I only want to serve you. Have mercy …”

“Mercy?” Imilcar laughed, the crowd of sycophants laughing with him. “You dare ask for mercy? You should be honored. Your death will be remembered by everyone who hears of it. You will be a reminder for all time of what happens to anyone who fails me.”

With a flick of his wrist guards rushed forward, grabbing Caesius by his arms and dragging him to a large, standing wooden planks in the shape of a giant X that had been set up just behind where he had been kneeling. As the emperor sat back on his throne, waving forward an attendant with a tray of fruit, a nail was driven through Caesius’s hand, affixing it to a board.

The emperor delicately selected a grape, popping it into his mouth as the first strip of flesh was cut off of Caesius’s body. The scream of the man who thought he would be Emperor, echoed across the courtyard.