The Fires of Vulcan - Chapter 18

Gaul, North of the Pyrenees

Velius gazed out the flap of the command tent, watching as the last crimson rays of dusk disappeared below the horizon. Around him, his commanders shuffled into the large tent, still wearing their armor from that day’s ride.

“It’s been four days since the last Carthaginian patrol was spotted near our forts,” he said, facing the men once they were all seated. “Almost a week since the last skirmish or raid on our supply lines.”

“You think they’re up to something?” Sepurcius, the commander of the legions’ artillery, asked.

“I do. They weren’t this quiet over the winter, let alone at any other time since we landed on the continent. The question is, what? If they’ve pulled their forces back, they’ve done it for a reason. Their probing attacks on the forts haven’t worked, and their losses when they tried were heavy, but we know their current commander is a lot smarter than the generals we’ve faced in the past. He’s not going to just keep throwing men into a strategy that isn’t working. If he’s pulled his men back, then it’s because he’s decided on a new course of action. But what? Do we even have any idea where the Carthaginian army is at the moment? Or any of their detachment?”

“No,” Micon, the commander of the legions’ cavalry, said. “We’ve had patrols ranging pretty far, and we’ve sent messages up and down the line of forts via the semaphore. We haven’t even run into any scouts, let alone their army itself.”

“And none of the forts have seen anything?”

“Not since our last message yesterday,” Gordianus said. “We have sent another request, but the forts that have responded so far have repeated the same message. No sign of the enemy.”

“Fine, I want to send riders to …” he began before a commotion at the entrance to the tent interrupted him, drawing the eyes of all of the commanders.

A messenger was whispering to one of the guards, gesturing energetically towards the legion commanders.

“Let him in,” Velius said, waving the guard aside. “What’s so important?”

The messenger rushed into the tent, his face flushed.

“Sir. An urgent message from Port Invictus,” he said, handing over a piece of paper showing the rapid scrawl of one of the semaphore messengers.

“Damn,” Velius said, waving off the messenger. “We’ve found the Carthaginians. Their army marched out of the hills and has surrounded the port. Based on the message, it sounds like it’s the entire army.”

He paused, letting the information sink in. The commanders exchanged uneasy glances.

“But how?” Gordianus asked. “We should have seen them.”

“Not if they went south of the range and around. Slower going, but our scouts aren’t ranging over the mountains. They just had to leave a small harassing force in front of us until their army passed, and then pull that in behind them.”

He paused and looked back to the message.

“It gets worse. They’ve worked out a way to at least partially counter our cannon. Aelius reports that they’ve dug long trenches to keep their men partially protected from our rifle fire, and they’ve got some kind of log pile that can absorb or deflect our cannonballs. He reports they’re inching their way closer to the walls every day. We have weeks, at best, before they are under the guns and up against the walls.”

“We can make it by then,” Gordianus said. “We bring the legion down from the north, over the mountain, and hit their forces from behind. Trenches and log piles won’t protect them when they’re trapped between us and the fort.”

Velius grimaced, “They’ve thought of that too. Aelius reports Carthaginian forces extending far into the mountains, with ambushes prepared to intercept any reinforcements we send. Our only choice is to attack them in force from the rear, but with the numbers they’re reporting, it’s going to take time to push them back.”

“Do you think it’s a trap? Maybe they held forces in reserve to hit us from behind?” Gordianus asked.

“Maybe, although the forces close to the mountains suggest it isn’t. Still, the last thing we want is our legion getting bottled up between two Carthaginian armies. Worse, we’re going to be even more outnumbered than the last time. We’ve split our forces up among the line of forts, giving us just over one full legion between this force and the two cohorts in Port Invictus itself, while they have an even larger force. You’re going to have to move carefully, since you’ll also lose any mobility you have.”

“Me?” Gordianus asked, surprised.

“Yes. Even if there is just the one army, with their defenses and preparation it’s going to take time to squeeze them out, and they’ll be pressing into Port Invictus the entire time. I’m going to take one century and go a roundabout route to come into the port by ship, to assist Aelius in the defense. With so few men, I can move more quickly than the full legion. Do not let yourself get pinned down if there is another force out there. Keep scouts out and use the terrain to your advantage. From the mountainside, you should be able to fire down into their trenches, at least the ones closest to the mountains. If our riflemen can’t engage the men in the trenches with room to fire, don’t take them in too close. If the worst should happen, it’s imperative that we keep the legion mobile. Fall back to the forts for protection.”

“Even if we scatter them or are able to rake their trenches, we aren’t going to be able to cut them off. We don’t have enough men to completely surround them with enough strength to hold them in place, even if we were on flat, even terrain. In the mountains like this, it’s even worse.”

“Don’t try to hold them in place. If they pull out of the siege of Port Invictus, retreat and see if you can get them to follow you. If something happens to Port Invictus, your supply lines will have to stretch north to the Consul’s forces and the ports he’s using. If they are able to use their new tactics to negate Port Invictus’s walls and they’re successful, you might have to abandon the line of forts altogether. If that’s the case, it’s best to head north and link your forces up with the northern army.”

“If they go against the forts we built here, they won’t have the mountains to protect them and we’ll be able to attack from all sides. Port Invictus’s location makes it easier to besiege than any of those. I don’t foresee that happening. I also don’t think that just because they get close, they’ll be able to scale our walls. Logs might deflect shots at a distance, but point-blank canister will devastate them if they ever come out of their trenches, and it can stay supplied by sea for a long time, so the siege won’t starve them out. They might have new techniques, but they’ve picked the one target a siege can’t stop.”

“I tend to agree with you,” Velius said. “But they’ve become very clever of late, and it won’t help us to start underestimating them. Hope for the best and plan for the worst, as the Consul always says. I want you to keep your men agile and prepared to retreat north should things go to hell. First to the forts, and then to the northern army if need be. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Legate.”

“Good. I’ll be leaving tonight with one of Viridius’s centuries. I expect you to have the men on the march in the morning. And set up a semaphore station on the mountainside when you get in position. It will allow us to communicate across the siege.”

“Understood, Legate,” Gordianus said again.

“Good. Then get to work. I want you in position in two weeks’ time.”

***

Port of Kalb, Southern Tip of Hispania

The waters of the Middle Sea shimmered with reflected midday sunlight, a slight breeze pushing in from the west, but not enough to upset the gentle waves. The perfect day for the residents of the port was marred by the harsh sound of thunder, not from the cloudless sky above, but from the four Britannian ships outside the harbor.

Billowing cannon smoke drifted across the waves as the cannons spoke again, deafening thunder echoing through the harbor as round shot smashed through warehouses and homes along the waterfront. Flames and rubble marked where the ships’ rounds had found their marks.

From his vantage point, Valdar could see several Carthaginian ships burning at anchor after being caught helpless at the onset of the attack. Others listed heavily in the water, settling into the muddy harbor bottom with only their masts and rigging still visible above the surface. The docks, once lined with tall ships bound for trade, now stood shattered and abandoned.

Amidst the smoke and wreckage, Valdar saw a cluster of lateen-rigged galleys making a break for the harbor mouth, oars rising and falling swiftly.

“Signal the Seadreki to intercept that squadron attempting to escape!” Valdar called out to his signal officer.

Flags snapped in the wind as coded instructions were relayed to one of the patrolling frigates. Moments later, the Seadreki sheered off her station-keeping patrol and moved to cut across the path of the fleeing Carthaginian ships. As soon as she had closed within range, her sides erupted with cannon fire, splintering oars and punching holes through the thin hulls of the galleys. The ships not sunk outright were soon dead in the water, useless to the defenders.

Valdar allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction. Though brutal, the attack had been successful so far in bottling up the remainder of the enemy fleet and asserting Britannian dominance over this strategic passage. Kalb was one of the Pillars of Hercules, the narrow gap between Hispania and Africa that connected the Middle Sea to the open ocean. With his remaining eight ships blockading the narrow gap, it would be nearly impossible for Carthaginian reinforcements to cross from the Atlantic into the inland sea. At least not without braving the gauntlet of Britannian warships blockading the route.

Their blockade of the strait might be a solution to stop the ships that might harass his supply route back home, but it didn’t solve his immediate problem. He needed to be able to get his fleet into the Middle Sea and begin clearing it of Carthaginian shipping. That shouldn’t have been a problem, with their supply ships rigged with the new sail design, allowing them to outrun and dodge any galley. At least, it wasn’t a problem before he’d found out that the Carthaginians had managed to, at least partially, copy the sail plan for their own galleys. Still a little slower, they were fast enough that it was possible he might have his supplies choked off, causing his fleet to become easy prey as their powder and food ran dry.

With only twelve warships, he couldn’t leave half his fleet sitting in the strait to protect their shipping and achieve his goal, but a possible solution sat in front of him. A small, fortified port, able to act as a staging point for supplies, with one or two of his ships, could hold the entire strait and limit the number of supply convoys he needed to sail all the way back to Britannia.

It was something he’d considered ever since clearing the Carthaginian fleet from the strait and entering the Middle Sea. His main problem was, he could damage the port, but he couldn’t take it with the small number of sailors and marines he had onboard.

Another volley of cannon fire erupted from the Britannian ships, the smoke momentarily obscuring his view. As it cleared, he saw more of the waterfront in flames, wooden buildings shattered by round shot.

“If I had just a few soldiers, maybe a century, I could take and hold it,” he said, thinking aloud.

“Admiral,” Ingolf, his first mate, said, perplexed.

“What? Oh, I was thinking if I had a handful of soldiers, I could take the port easily. With the terrain as it is, it wouldn’t take much to hold it. Some cannons, a century of riflemen, and they’d be able to hold off any land-based attack. A few ships here and we’d have a protected staging point for our supplies and a nearby refuge for the supply ships to run to if the new Carthaginian galleys showed up.”

“You want to land and take the port?”

“I’m seriously considering it. We didn’t take into account the Carthaginians copying our sail design, and it’s going to upset our plans if we don’t make an adjustment. Short of leaving half the fleet here, there’s no way to keep our supply ships safe while we move deep into Carthaginian waters.”

“All of our legions are on the continent, and we needed almost every bit of our merchant shipping just to move them across the channel between Britannia and Gaul. It’s going to be hell moving an entire legion down here.”

“We don’t need an entire legion. The port lacks a garrison, and it was never designed to be fortified. Why would it need to be this close to Africa? Aside from some pirates, who would bother them? With a single century, I could take and hold it. From there, we could fortify it and have a base to take on the rest of the Middle Sea. Send a signal to one of our support ships. I want them to prepare to sail back to Britannia with my request to the Empress directly.”

“Is that wise? You know how hard it was to get the supplies we needed, and how short they are on manpower. Do you think she’ll listen?”

“We can only hope. Otherwise, we’re going to have a very hard time shutting all of their shipping down, and the legions up north are going to have a much bigger fight on their hands.”

He watched through the spyglass as his ships fired again. No, this was the right course of action. He was sure of it.

***

South of Factorium

The line of Carthaginian prisoners shuffled down the dusty road toward Factorium, prodded along by the stern Praetorian guards. Bostar kept his eyes lowered, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention. The chains binding his wrists chafed with each step, a constant reminder of his captivity.

As a junior officer in the Carthaginian army, Bostar had once commanded respect. Now he was just another prisoner of war, stripped of rank and dignity. The past few months had been grueling, marked by back-breaking labor constructing the Britannians’ new factories. The Praetorians showed no sympathy, shoving the prisoners to walk faster whenever they slowed. Bostar focused on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the throbbing in his feet. Bostar yearned to rest his aching muscles, but he knew the day held nothing but more of the same drudgery.

Or, at least that’s what the Praetorians had planned for them.

Glancing around, Bostar met the eyes of several of the most trusted of the other men. Men he’d been cultivating before they even heard of the work camps. Men he’d convinced to volunteer for this new work. A subtle nod passed between them. All in preparation for today.

Bostar gave the signal, a subtle lift of his chained hands. At once, two prisoners near the front of the line suddenly lunged at each other, viciously grappling and throwing punches. The Praetorians shouted in alarm, rushing to break up the scuffle. But as they moved in, the brawl was revealed to be a distraction.

With lightning speed, Bostar and a dozen other prisoners produced tools and makeshift shivs hidden in their clothes. After weeks of marching the men back and forth from Factorium, the Praetorians had gotten sloppy and stopped checking them so closely. Not everyone was armed, but enough managed to sneak makeshift weapons out to give them a chance. Before the guards could react, the Carthaginians were upon them in a whirlwind of violence. Bostar slammed his cudgel into the back of the nearest Praetorian’s head, dropping the man instantly. Around him, the other Carthaginians set upon the outnumbered guards with brutal efficiency.

Cries of pain and rage split the air as prisoner and guard clashed in a bloody melee. Bostar wrenched a short sword from the grip of a fallen Praetorian and pivoted, ramming it through the chest of another who charged him with a shout. Hot blood sprayed over Bostar’s hands as he kicked the dying man free of his blade.

The Praetorians were trained warriors, but so were his men, and the ferocity of the surprise attack had caught them off-balance. They reacted with discipline, attempting to form up and take Bostar and his men as a unit, but they’d been too spread out when the attack was launched. The prisoners enveloped them on all sides; each Roman forced to fight on his own against a dozen prisoners. Bostar glimpsed their centurion bellowing orders, only to take a savage blow to the neck from a prisoner wielding a blacksmith’s hammer.

All around, the cries of the wounded and dying competed with the ring of steel and the sickening crunch of cudgels crushing bone. The dirt road ran red with blood as bodies fell. Not all the blood belonged to Romans. Here and there a prisoner was cut down by Praetorian steel, but the Carthaginians pressed their attack relentlessly. This was their chance to taste freedom, and they seized it with a vengeance.

Bostar found himself fighting back to back with Gelu, a broad-shouldered infantryman who had been among the first to embrace his plans. Together they held off a knot of Praetorians trying to consolidate their defense. Bostar parried a thrust from a gladius and slammed the pommel of his acquired sword into his attacker’s face, crushing bone and dropping the man.

Beside him, Gelu gave a gurgling cry as a Praetorian ran him through, but Bostar was too hard-pressed to aid his comrade. He could only knock aside a wild sword slash and gut the offending Roman with a quick thrust. Fighting with his wrists chained was difficult, but luckily they were not wearing leg irons like they did in the camp, probably to keep the march from the work camp to Factorium from taking half the day. All around him, the melee seethed, prisoners and Praetorians hacking and stabbing at each other in a vicious close-quarters fight.

Bostar took a glancing blow to his shoulder that numbed his shield arm. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he traded blade-strokes with a burly Praetorian. The Roman was an experienced fighter, but desperation could push a man to extreme feats, and Bostar was very desperate. He smashed his shield into the man’s face, then stabbed him in the armpit as he reeled back.

The centurion was still bellowing encouragement to his men, fending off two prisoners with his gladius. But more Carthaginians were surrounding him. Bostar started toward the knot of fighters, determined to cut down the leader.

Suddenly, a galloping horse plowed into the melee from the side. One of the mounted Praetorians, which had been Bostar’s greatest worry. The men didn’t carry the rifles as they did on the towers at the work camp, probably fearing they might have them taken if something like this occurred. It made the mounted men the most dangerous.

Bostar ducked as the mounted rider’s sword sliced through the space where his head had just been. With a roar, he slashed at the animal’s legs with his stolen gladius, causing the animal to rear back and dash away from the danger, its instincts overriding its rider’s commands.

All around, the roar of battle reached a crescendo. The prisoners fought like cornered beasts, ferocious in their desperation. Despite being chained and lacking armor, they had the advantage of numbers. For each prisoner cut down by a Praetorian’s blade, two more seemed to take his place.

Near him, a great bellow split the din. Bostar risked a glance and saw the centurion had broken free of the men surrounding him. Covered in blood, the hulking Roman hacked down two prisoners in quick succession. Those near him fell back before his whirling blade.

With a shout, he rallied a knot of Carthaginians to surge toward the centurion. They met in a clash of shields and blades. Bostar found himself pressed up against the centurion’s massive frame, trading furious blows. The Roman’s greater size and strength began to tell.

Desperate, Bostar smashed his forehead into the Roman’s face. Pain reverberated down his spine as he made contact, but the damage to the Roman was worse. As the man stumbled back, a hand going to his crushed nose, Bostar rammed his gladius home under the centurion’s raised arm. With a gurgling cry, the centurion sank to his knees. Bostar wrenched his blade free and turned to find more foes.

More chaos. The rider had gotten control of his mount and charged again, bearing down on Bostar, his sword raised for a killing blow. Bostar flung himself aside, the blade barely missing him. As he rolled back to his feet, readying for another assault, two prisoners managed to reach up and grab the Roman as he rode by, dragging the Praetorian down. Stolen blades stabbed down, ending the man’s life as his horse, now free of control and who’d had enough of the noise and smell of blood, galloped into the distance, reins flying behind it.

The few remaining Praetorians were trying to retreat, hampered by prisoners pressing into them. Now was the moment. With a shout, Bostar rallied the remaining prisoners. Sensing victory, they attacked as one. Down to a handful of men, the centurion leading them couldn’t hold the assault back any longer. The last Praetorians were battered down in a frenzy of clubbing weapons and stabbing blades.

In moments, it was over. Bostar stood panting amidst the bloody corpses. Of the hundred prisoners who’d begun this desperate gambit, barely fifty remained. But against all odds, they had won their freedom.

The taste of victory, and the respite it offered, would be short-lived. Soon the Romans would realize this work detail was overdue. They would come searching. There were too few of them to make it to one of the ports, overpower the locals, and steal a ship. The Romans would suspect that and send men to the closest ports. Even with a head start, the Romans would be on horseback and would probably beat them to it, since he didn’t know exactly where those ports were and the Praetorians would.

No, their only hope was to flee inland. Hide in the hills and forests until the initial Roman search had passed. After that … survival. Take what they needed, and survive until the war returned to the island. If it didn’t, cause enough disruption to hurt the Romans’ war effort here, or make for a small fishing village once the search for them slackened. Steal a boat and run for the continent then.

“On me!” Bostar barked, gesturing the for ragged band of survivors to gather.

Amazingly, they still followed his lead even after the bloodletting they had just endured.

“The Romans will be on our trail soon,” Bostar said urgently. “Let’s make for the southeast hills. We’ll find a place to hide, and decide what to do from there. Agreed?”

Heads around him nodded as the men seemed to collectively decide to continue following him.

“Good, let’s get moving.”