The Plains of Pluto - Chapter 2

Devnum Docks

The wheels of Hortensius's hired carriage clattered to a halt on the cobblestones near Devnum's sprawling dockyards. He stepped down, his boots meeting the stone with a solid thud, only to have to hop back into the carriage almost instantly to avoid being run down by a man with a hand cart.

To say the docks were busy was an understatement. People were moving in every direction, most carrying large and heavy things. Hortensius was used to the chaos of his factories, but at least those seemed to have a system to them. Ordered workstations and a place for each thing, all mostly contained inside a building.

Here, the chaos stretched in either direction and seemed to have no sense of the madness.

Hortensius exited the carriage again, this time more carefully, looking both ways to make sure it was clear before exiting all the way. He made his way toward the administrative building, which sat back from the water, a practical structure of brick and timber.

Inside, clerks bent over their ledgers while foremen consulted charts and schedules posted on the walls. One of them, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, pointed Hortensius toward the meeting room without looking up from his work.

Hortensius found Lucan already deep in discussion with his staff, standing over tables covered in technical drawings.

"My apologies for the delay," Hortensius said, stepping into the warm room, heated by a large stove in one corner. "I got tied up with a project and missed the train I'd intended to take."

Lucan smiled and shook his head. Hortensius knew his reputation, and did not take it personally.

"I'm glad you made it. Perhaps you can explain this madness to me." He jabbed a calloused finger at the blueprints. "This isn't shipbuilding, it's pure fantasy."

"I've looked these over thoroughly. The calculations are sound," Hortensius replied, moving to stand beside the table. "The displacement-to-weight ratio…"

"Calculations?" Lucan scoffed. "I've been building ships my entire life. I get the benefit of iron ships, but when we added iron plates to wooden hulls, at least on the riverboats, we were still working with actual ships underneath those plates. This? This is a metal box that will sink faster than a stone."

"It won't. Wood or steel, water displacement will hold a sealed vessel up aloft. As you've said, you've been building ships your entire life. You know that."

"Sealed is the key. Wood swells as it gets wet, pushes tighter into other planking. Tar and pitch seal it tight. Steel does not swell and tar and pitch will not soak into steel like it does wood."

"Which is why the consul instructed us on these new building techniques. Specifically, the advancements in riveting. See here, and here. The overlapping plates, when properly affixed…"

"I've seen plenty of riveted armor," Lucan cut in. "Never once did I look at a lorica segmentata and think, 'By the gods, this would make a fine boat.'"

"This is different from anything we've attempted before, true. But the principles are sound. The consul knows what he's doing, and as you see, many of the parts here were in the river boats, which is why he wanted us to do those first. So that we could focus on the new techniques needed for this ship."

"I don't doubt the consul, but different is an understatement."

"I think you need to consider what we're working with. Much of it, we've been using on land and have a strong understanding of. This isn't iron we're talking about, but shaped tempered high-grade steel. It'll hold up to immense strain a wooden ship could only contemplate. Second, the new riveting techniques the consul has described should change the nature of shipbuilding completely. We've done some small-scale tests, and I can tell you, the results are amazing. These are the same quality steel as the plates, heated to temperatures previously unattainable, since it can hold the heat better, and when cooled, creates a stronger bond than anything we've achieved before. Especially when paired with the new compressed air tool the consul describes on page thirty-two."

"I saw that, but it left me a bit confused," Lucan admitted.

"I felt much the same until we built one and started testing it. The results are... extraordinary. The steam ending forces the air into a small space giving it intense pressure, and when allowed out it escapes with incredible force. more force than a man could apply with a single hammer. It not only pushes this larger bolt into the hole making an incredibly tight fit, but it flattens the larger head, which is too large to go through the hole, tight against the metal, which is where it will stay when it cools, keeping the plates tight together. Actually, it shrinks even more as it cools, pushing the overlapped plates even tighter together."

"But does tight mean watertight?"

"Yes. We use similar riveting, although smaller rivets, on some of our steam boilers, and they hold incredibly high-pressure air. If it can hold that, it can hold water."

"As you said, a ship like this isn't the same as a boiler tank," Lucan said. "The stresses involved in seafaring..."

"Are considerable, yes," Hortensius nodded. "But we've accounted for that in the design. The plates will hold together and the metal hull will be stronger than a wooden one. This will revolutionize the way battles at sea are fought. The Consul's designs are frankly, very impressive."

"Don't get me wrong. If the Consul says these will work, then I believe him. He hasn't led us wrong yet," Lucan said.

"My concern is these gun emplacements," one of Lucan's engineers said. "Eight guns total? Most of our ships carry thirty or more. How can we expect the same effectiveness?"

Hortensius watched as Lucan pulled out a folded telegram from his pocket, spreading it carefully on the table.

"I had the same question, and the Consul addressed it specifically. Primarily, these aren't just standard cannons."

"Actually, they are much, much larger than the ones we currently mount," Hortensius added. "Larger even than the ones the legions used, because they would be too heavy to carry easily. The only other place we'll be able to deploy these is fixed positions for the coastal fortresses Admiral Valdar is building. We actually developed them for that first. That is the other benefit of the strength of these ships. A wooden-hulled ship could never support this kind of weaponry."

"But the design eliminates the gunports," the engineer said. Eight guns and they have to be manually adjusted into position as a ship is moving. It seems too complicated."

"That too has a benefit," Lucan said. "We know the gun ports actually weaken the hull's structural integrity, which we've always accepted as a necessary evil once we started building these ships. This eliminates this need and with almost only the barrel exposed, the crew is protected. I will agree the rotating turret is … complicated, and I do have my concerns about how quickly something this heavy can be turned to bring the guns into firing position."

"That is a fair concern," Hortensius said. "I've sent a message to the council asking about a steam-powered solution. We have enough power for propelling the ship and operating the turrets. I've already begun some of my own ideas on a smaller scale, to test until I hear back from the Consul. My initial attempts tell me it's possible."

"I'm pleased to hear that," Lucan said.

"And everything else is just scaled-up versions of what we have on the river boats. The steam engines, smoke stacks, powered rudders, and propeller screws, they should all be much easier this time around."

"Good. So then all we have to do is wait for you to deliver the pieces and we can begin assembling our first test platform."

"How long should it take?" Hortensius asked.

"Two years. Perhaps eighteen months if everything goes perfectly, but I wouldn't count on it. Even with the Consul's directions, this is much larger than anything we have done before, and more complicated since we're outside of traditional building methods."

"I know the Admiral will try and plead for it to be faster."

"He can plead all he wants," Lucan said. "Once we have one finished, we can begin working on multiple ships simultaneously and speed things up, but until then, this will take time."

"Then I won't hold you up any longer."

***

Carthage

Medb sat down the document she was reading and rubbed her eyes, tired of hour upon hour shifting through minute records, trying to find any clue to what was happening in this damnable city.

Not that these had a chance of giving her any actual clues, filled as they were with half-truths and outright lies as every merchant and factor tried to avoid the import taxes charged by the empire. Carthage was the biggest port with access to Oceanus, and had supplanted Kalb, which had become almost strictly a military port, sending trade either here or up the coast of Iberia to one of the ports controlled by the Hispania Alliance, to give that trade to their economy instead of that of the Empire.

Medb did not fault a little graft. She was a firm believer in catching a little and letting the rest operate more or less in the open. It kept people from hiding it as much, and made it easier to keep that from obfuscating things she was finding.

Or that was normally the idea.

And yet, here she was, shifting through it, hoping that the rebels had tried to hide whatever they were doing inside the normal graft of business. With her agent gone, she’d had little other chance of finding anything. 

She’d thought she’d been so clever when they’d first found the smuggling. They knew the rebels were getting arms and even low-grade gunpowder, so it made sense. But it had all been for nothing.

Arresting Marcellinus had, as far as she could tell, nothing to do with them. It had been a distraction, nothing more. He’d just been a common, well, somewhat uncommon, smuggler caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was happy he’d been dealt with, of course.

He’d gone beyond that acceptable level of graft and had to be dealt with, but he’d been an effective smoke screen for what the rebels were doing. Part of her wondered if they’d encouraged him, knowing he would be just that. It would have been clever, but she didn’t believe in accepting anything without strong evidence, and there was none to say one way or another.

Just another possible pin, unconnected, left hanging. Like all the rest. Evidence everywhere she looked, and yet not a single clue.

It was maddening.

Worse, it had been over a month since her only actual source of intelligence had been killed, and his murder still went unsolved. She knew the rebels were behind it, but the fact they could kill with such impunity irked her.

She’d pushed Claudius hard since Gerals’ death, to the point of vocally questioning his ability in one particularly heated moment, but she knew he’d done his best. His men had been relentless in their efforts to find the culprits, but the rebels were entrenched hard and knew they were looking.

There was every chance they’d gone to ground and were waiting until the heat died off.

But, the longer the investigation dragged on, the more impatient she became, a state that made her a terror to those around her. The thought was a bitter one. Medb prided herself on her control, on her ability to manipulate others through intellect and strategy rather than brute force.

But backed into a corner as she was, she’d been left with little choice.

She was saved from going in any more mental circles by a knock at the door, which was then pushed open by one of the guards stationed at her door.

“My lady, a messenger from the gate. There’s a man insisting he must speak with you personally. Claims it’s urgent.”

“And did this urgent visitor provide a name?”

“No, my lady. Says he can’t discuss his business with anyone but yourself.”

For some, they might send the man away, as visitors regularly came to the palace, asking for position or favor. Those people did not come to see her.

Although not as bad as in Britannia proper, even here her reputation preceded her. More than preceded her. She knew there were whispers of her whisking people off the streets, throwing them into dungeons to never be seen again.

In reality, only a few people had been apprehended on her orders. Everyone else arrested in the city she had no knowledge or connection to, not that it mattered to the population, or her, really.

It helped for the person in charge of security to have a reputation for ruthlessness. Which meant when a person did brave that reputation and come to her, it was usually worth hearing, one way or another. If it was good information, fine. If it was a ploy, it still brought someone she should be watching into view.

Either way, it was worth it.

“Very well. Bring him in, but stay within arm’s reach.”

The guard nodded and left, presumably to go down to the gate and retrieve the caller. Five minutes later the guard returned with a thin man whose clothes marked him as coming from the poorer section of the city.

He was a nervous man, his eyes constantly darting between Bedb and the guard hovering behind him, hands clasped tightly before him.

“You claimed urgent business with me. Speak.”

“I... I knew Geral, my lady. I bring a message from him.”

That got Medb’s attention instantly. She, however, kept the sudden interest suppressed and off her face.

“Did you now? And you’ve waited over a month since his death to mention this because?”

“I was afraid, my lady. The way they killed him ... I thought they might be watching me too. I have not stepped foot outside my home since his death.”

“And why would they watch you?”

“Because... because I was one of the few he talked to. And because of what he said that last time I saw him. He said they were starting to suspect him, that he thought he might be in danger. Said if anything happened, I should come to you. He said that he worked for you. Said he needed someone to know, in case … but then he disappeared for weeks, and I knew. I thought they might think I was, being his friend and all. As I said, Geral didn’t have many friends.”

“What’s your name?”

“Arishan.”

“Sit,” Medb commanded, gesturing to a plain wooden chair opposite her desk.

Arishan hesitated, his knuckles white as he gripped the backrest before lowering himself onto it.

“Now, tell me exactly what Geral said to you. Spare no details.”

Arishan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “He came by my house, on that last day I saw him before he disappeared, looking scared. Geral never looked scared. He told me he had to check something, something about shipping. He said the lead he’d been following there was a false trail.”

“We already knew about the false trail at the docks. It had nothing to do with the people Geral was investigating.”

“No, my lady, that’s not what he meant. He meant he’d discovered it was false and that he had finally found the real evidence. He meant the thing he was checking at the docks was something different. He said it was connected to a shipment going out that night. He said he didn’t know everything, only that it was important.”

“Going out?” she repeated. “Are you certain? As far as we know, the rebels have been focused on bringing supplies into the city, not sending them away.”

“I’m sure, my lady. He even repeated it when he told me to take a message to you should something happen to him. That I should tell you about the shipment going out, and that he thought it was connected to what he was investigating for you.”

“Did he say anything else? Who was behind the shipment? Where it was going? What was being transported?”

“No, my lady. He said he didn’t have enough to be sure and needed to confirm it first. That’s why he went that night. He was careful, always careful, but he said he thought someone might be watching him.”

Medb didn’t say anything for a moment as she grappled with the implications. Geral had been a good agent. Careful and with good reasoning. He paid attention. If he thought this was worth looking into, even if he thought he was being watched. If he’d stumbled onto something about outgoing shipments significant enough to get himself killed, then there was something here.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” she said finally. “We’ll investigate the matter.”

Arishan didn’t look pleased about that response, however. If anything, he looked more scared.

“My lady. I fear for my life. If they knew I spoke with you...”

“I understand,” she said, cutting him off. “You’ll stay here in the palace for now. If your information proves useful, I can arrange work for you in Devnum, well away from any who might wish you harm.”

Relief flooded Arishan’s face. He began to drop into a bow, but Medb waved him off.

“Guard, escort him out. See him to suitable quarters.”

As the door closed behind them, Medb drummed her fingers on the desk. Outgoing shipments. The rebels exporting something was unexpected enough, but exporting something valuable enough to kill over was something else. But what could they even be exporting? Groups like these import resources, not the other way around.

Once again, she was left with more questions than answers.

***

Eastern Germania

Ky had heard the sound of artillery as soon as he had disembarked from the train thirty minutes before, and it had not slowed down in the time it took for his small party to guide their horses across the rocky ground toward the front.

This area had not seen significant fighting yet. Most of the pressure from the easterners had been in the central area between the Margus River, which would be known in later times as the Morava River, and the Vistula. The area between them was made up of a watershed of the Carpathians between the Carpathian and Sudeten mountains. They had chosen this because it was the shortest land area between rivers they controlled, mostly with traditional river boats, although more of the ironclad river boats had started to show up, solidifying their hold on the Vistula and Danube and its tributaries, which together cut off both Eastern Europe and Greece from Asia.

Besides being the shortest route between the rivers with roughly sixty miles of land between them, fifteen miles of that was a very flat area that could be easily controlled by fifteen or so miles of trenches, which is where the bulk of the attacks by the easterners had taken place.

The remainder of the land was either mountains or transition from the watershed into mountains. Land that was too steep of terrain for trenches, but also too steep for most armies to operate easily, which was almost certainly why the easterners had focused almost entirely on that flat land between the two mountain ranges.

It had also been where they had taken huge levels of losses. Ky had expected them to begin probing along the edges of the trench line for some time, which is why he had been pushing the engineers to build the series of reinforced concrete emplacements along the line, extending out lines of mines and barbed wire along the ridge up to the emplacements with artillery positioned with good lines of sight down the mountain and into the field below.

He just hoped it was enough to keep them from breaking through.

As they approached the main command bunker near the far southern end of the line, Bomilcar emerged from its reinforced entrance.

“Consul. Thank you for responding with such speed.”

“Of course,” Ky replied, dismounting smoothly and handing the reins to an aide.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Nearly six hours. They started a little north and have been working their way south with each wave, probing our lines, seeing where they can overrun it. I expect them to move into the mountains before long.”

“How far up have we finished the line of defenses?”

“Almost to the summit of the closest peak, although we don’t have the mines laid out nearly as far as I would like. I have a cohort stationed along the less field out section, but they too are spread out. The terrain is just too difficult for men to mass.”

“Which means they will face the same problem if they try and push through that point. If they are going to continue probing, we need to finish the defensive positions all the way to the river as quickly as possible. They may decide to skip some sections and try to catch us unprepared.”

“Agreed.”

“Well, I guess show me what the easterners have tried so far,” Ky said.

Bomilcar led the way into the bunker, ducking slightly under the low concrete ceiling. The space was cramped but functional, with the telegraph station taking up the bulk of the available space.

Ky moved to the observation slit and looked out past their trenches. The no-man’s land in this section stretched nearly twice as wide as other sectors, the result of their gun emplacements on the mountainside forcing the enemy to dig in much further back to stay out of range. The space between the lines was littered with the consequences of the repeated assaults.

“So they’ve already hit the end of the line at least once?” Ky asked, seeing bodies piled up just along the slope, where apparently men had tried to use the uneven ground and even large boulders that had rolled down it as cover.

That might have worked for the rifle fire from the trenches, but the artillery had the entire area well cited, and chunks of those larger boulders were gouged out where the explosive shells had smashed the hiding troops.

“Twice. I expect at least one more before they try the mountains themselves. Your timing was good.”

“How many attacks?” Ky asked, not taking his eyes from the field.

“Four major assaults since dawn,” Bomilcar answered. “They’re using new tactics, sending waves in closer succession, trying to overwhelm individual sections before we can shift reinforcements.”

Ky nodded. His men had fought purely defensively since the trench lines were put in place, so he hadn’t gone over with his commanders the various strategies used in trench warfare, but it seemed as if the easterners were speed running through the progression of strategies tried in his histories past, during the brief stretch when trench warfare ruled, before the invention of tanks and planes reduced their usefulness.

A fresh barrage of enemy artillery fire walked across their lines, the impacts throwing dirt and debris skyward. It still looked to be mostly solid shot, with a few very underpowered explosive packed rounds mixed in. The only one that did any damage was one that exploded before it touched the ground, sending shrapnel just over the lip of the trench. The scurry of men in that section suggested some injuries may have come from them.

That, however, was clearly a lucky shot. With cut and lit fuses, it was very hard to get the timing down just right.

The bombardment was clearly a prelude to an attack, maybe in hopes to get the Britannians’ heads down and lessen the fire they could put on the men coming across the open ground.

It was a poor hope. Sophus’s records listed assaults where massed artillery of much higher quality than either force here could employ at the moment pounded a line for days before an attack, and caused almost no drop in the defense’s effectiveness.

In all of Sophus’s records, there were almost no cases where artillery itself was able to weaken a prepared position to any significant degree.

However, artillery could affect a charge of men in the open, which was shown again now as a fresh hell erupted. The sound, a cacophony of booms and cracks, was almost overwhelming. Their own artillery, positioned strategically along the line and on the mountain slopes, opened fire with a vengeance. Great gouts of earth and debris erupted amongst the advancing ranks, sending bodies and limbs flying.

The ground vibrated under his feet with each concussive wave. The howitzers, with their higher trajectory, were particularly effective, their shells arcing over the battlefield to explode amidst the enemy formations.

“They’re throwing everything they have at us,” Ky observed.

“It would seem so,” Bomilcar confirmed. “It is... shocking to see, every time they try this. They are not valuing the lives of their soldiers.”

“As I keep saying, that is the nature of this kind of war. It is why I forbade any strategy that has us trying to break their lines. We don’t have the men to waste for that, even if I were prepared to waste them. Which I am not.”

“And they do? Surely they see that no men are making it through our defenses?”

“They’re testing us. Each wave is a probe, a test of a different tactic, a different approach. This would be as new of a form of warfare to them as it is to us, and they’re trying to figure it out. Unlike the lined infantry and volley fire tactics we faced last year, they can’t just copy our strategies, since we have made no attacks for them to emulate.”

“And this is the best they could come up with?” Bomilcar asked, his face grim.

Ky didn’t answer. There wasn’t much he could say. In spite of the horrific loss of life, Ky knew it could be worse. Maybe if their soldiers were able to retreat and make it back to their line when the wave broke. Once newer, faster-firing small arms made it to the front, Ky knew that number would drop to almost nothing.

No one other than himself had any inkling of what a weapon like a machine gun would do in warfare such as this.

The carnage could always be worse.

Even with the artillery, the rifles they had were slow enough firing that the enemy line managed to make it to the barbed wire before being cut down or hitting the first mines laid out.

It ended just as every attack against his trench had ended over these last few months.

Before the first wave had been completely decimated, another emerged from the distant trenches. Ky could see some slight differences in the attack, with the wave coming in staggered groups instead of all at once like the last one, probably to try and reduce the damage done by shell fire.

Whatever their strategy might have been, that was as far as it went. A general can order whatever he likes, but once the soldiers executing it come under fire, they tended to forget it and focus on their own survival, which is what happened here.

The attack faltered well before the last one as men slowed, using the bodies of their fallen comrades or shell holes for cover, trying to creep up on their lines.

It was a mistake and made them easy targets for the artillery, but Ky could understand why they’d do it. Seeing the string of dead bodies, thickest along the front of the wire line, it would be difficult to get more men to follow behind that.

The next wave, however, was different. As it advanced, it split into two distinct groups.

Half continued on the same path as the first, straight towards the waiting guns of the trench line. The other half veered south, towards the mountainside. Ky watched as the distant figures began to scale the steep incline. Even from this distance, he could see it was a difficult climb, the men scrambling over loose rock and uneven terrain.

“They’re going for the mountain,” he noted, stating the obvious.

Immediately, the defenders in the fortified bunkers along the slope opened fire. Ky could see small puffs of dirt and rock erupting around the climbing soldiers. There were fewer hits here than there were on the open field, but that was to be expected. Unlike the cleared, open expanses below, the mountainside was filled with boulders and small trees.

Good obstacles for men to hide behind.

Of course, that was outweighed by how much longer it took for each man to get to the Britannian line of fortifications and barbed wire, giving his own men additional chances to gun them down.

The riflemen were also not the only obstacle they had to pass.

As they got closer to the line, they encountered the edge of the much larger although more spread out minefield. They had been placed strategically, either in open paths that men would tend to gravitate to or set up in a way to trigger rockslides, and they did their job with brutal efficiency. The explosions sent cascades of rock and earth tumbling down the slope, sweeping away the men following behind. Ky watched as enemy soldiers were buried under the sudden small avalanches. Those who weren’t buried now had much more uneven terrain to clamber up, giving his riflemen more time to fire down. It was a grim but effective tactic, and one Bomilcar had thought after he’d seen the mines’ effectiveness along the main trenchline.

Those not killed by mines or rifles were hit by the pre-signed artillery, which caused even more rockslides. The attack predictably faltered, with the survivors that remained turning and running back to the safety of their own lines.

The firing gradually died down, sporadic shots marking where soldiers spotted movement in the carnage-strewn field. Mostly men who’d hidden behind bodies or rocks, too afraid to make the run back to their own line. The enemy’s latest attack had been decisively repulsed, leaving hundreds of bodies scattered across the killing ground and mountainside.

With no more waves appearing, the artillery fire also slowed and then stopped. The enemy trenches were dug at the cannon’s far range, which meant it didn’t do any good to keep wasting ammunition.

That was also the reason the attacks were struggling. Confronted by the new shells, the easterners had recoiled while they tried to figure out how to fight through them. It wouldn’t be much longer until they realized that the shells, while devastating, had much more limited effect on properly built trenches.

When they did, they’d move the trench lines up again, giving their men a much shorter distance to cross and increasing their chances of a breakthrough.

“That appears to be the last of them for now. The waste of it all... I’ve commanded in battles before, but this...” He gestured at the field of dead. “This is madness.”

“It will only get worse.”

“Worse?” Bomilcar turned from the observation slit. “How could it possibly get worse?”

“Our rifles take time to reload. Even with training, the best soldiers manage three aimed shots per minute. That leaves gaps in our firing line.” The enemy can exploit those gaps if they coordinate properly. Eventually, they’ll figure out the right combination of artillery bombardment and infantry tactics.”

“They lost over a thousand men today trying to break through sixty yards of our line,” Bomilcar countered. “Their bodies are piled three deep at the wire. No sane commander would…”

“Hortensius is working on new designs,” Ky cut in. “Rifles that can fire fifteen rounds before reloading. Eventually, we will see weapons that can put out hundreds of rounds per minute. When those reach the front, crossing open ground will seem all but impossible, and yet I can tell you it can still be done by a determined enough enemy.”

“Hundreds per minute?” Bomilcar’s voice held disbelief. “That would turn this... into pure slaughter.”

“That’s the point. To make attacking so costly that the enemy won’t try. Not that it will, but until other technologies catch up, it is how we defend such a large area. That isn’t the worst part. The worst part is that the Easterners have proven adept at copying our technology. Whatever advances we make, they’ll match eventually.”

A distant explosion punctuated his words. Even with the firing basically stopped for the moment, the front was never completely quiet.

“This is only the beginning,” Ky continued. “The weapons will keep improving. The casualties will keep mounting. Even with the carnage you’re seeing, trench lines are not impervious. And they’re learning. Each attack shows more sophistication. They will eventually figure out the right combination, and then we really will have a fight on our hands.”