Travis Starnes
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The Wings of Mercury - Chapter 13
🕑 Added 2024-08-13 12:43:30 +0000 UTCDevnum
Hywel was leaning over a patient, looking at the bandage. It hadn’t been an overly serious wound, but one he’d offered treatment to in order to test out some treatments the Consul had given them for wound types. This one had been a man who’d had a bad burn in one of the local factories. The issue with burns was that they would fester and sickness would set in, and the larger the burn, the more chances of sickness.
The Consul had explained that this was, again, an infection caused by bacteria. Hywel had spent his life treating illnesses in the villages of Caledonia, learning the trade from his grandfather, who had been a healer in his own village. Back then, sickness was just a way of life. Sometimes the gods allowed you to recover and sometimes they didn’t. The fevers that came, if you survived them, were a test by the gods to show your strength.
And then the Romans came, or at least their Consul, as he’d learned that was where all the Roman innovations originated, and showed that much of what he’d learned was not true. Some was, of course. Bones should still be set, rest for sickness was best, but those were in the minority.
The Romans had taught him much, but by far the biggest was learning that so much of their ills were caused by a variety of these tiny creatures, which the Consul called bacteria and viruses. It seemed unbelievable that all of these problems were related, but everything he’d seen since he was told about it said the Consul was right.
“Sir!” called one of his assistants, bursting through the door. “We’ve got an urgent case coming in. Wagon accident, crushed arm. It... it’s bad.”
Hywel knew why that was important. That was one of the injuries they’d discussed for testing amputations. It had been weeks and none of the injuries on the list had showed up. The more Hywel had studied for the procedure, the more nervous he’d gotten. He’d seen men get cut before, trying to remove foreign objects or cut off mostly severed limbs, and in most cases, the patient had died. Those who hadn’t had gotten blessed by the gods, and it had been a close thing.
Even knowing the errors they made that ended with those results didn’t remove his nerves. But this is what he’d been waiting for.
“You two,” he said to two of his assistants who’d been reviewing patients with him. “Prepare the operations room. Boil more water and ready the instruments.”
His team hurried to carry out his orders. They had yet to use the room the Consul had given them designs for and had called an operations room. Completely marble, with a drain in the center of the floor, to let out the water. In the center of the room was a solid steel table, polished and smooth with no channels or davits where blood and other biological material could flow and fester.
The Consul had been insistent that the room be cleaned down with caustic acid and boiling water prior to use, after use, and daily to keep the surfaces clean and free of germs, as he called them.
His assistants had left to do exactly that, in fact.
Hywel’s thoughts were interrupted as the patient was brought in on a stretcher. The man’s arm was a mangled mess, crushed beyond recognition and partially hanging loose. Thankfully, one of the stretcher bearers was one of the pretorians who’d undergone some of the rudimentary first aid training they’d started providing, which included how and when to apply tourniquets. One had been applied here, and early enough that the man was pale, but not bled out, which could happen with wounds like this.
“Take him to the operating room,” Hywel ordered. “Prepare a saline drip and time it to four hours, remove his soiled clothing, and clean him.”
Besides the sterilization methods, another universal practice the Consul had given was the use of infusions to help keep patients from bleeding out. The easiest was a saltwater solution that Sorantius’s chemists had begun producing that matched the salt levels found in human sweat and tears. According to the Consul, the increased fluids helped the body produce blood on its own and was a major help in both injuries and situations where a patient had lost a lot of fluids and just drinking them would not add it fast enough.
It wasn’t something easily done out of direct medical supervision, since the Consul had been very specific that too much would cause a kind of flooding in the body that could strangle the patient’s organs. Although, as with all of his explanations, he’d then added that was an adequate but wholly incorrect description, which Hywel found somewhat disconcerting.
There was, apparently, an additional step that could be taken where a family member could be used to transfer their own blood into the patient’s body, although the steps required to do this were long. Apparently, not all blood was the same, and different people had different blood. Worse, it wasn’t even evident what made one person have one kind and another a different kind. People in the same family could be different but match with complete strangers.
That, however, was important and the Consul had given them a test that included a foot-pedal powered spinning machine that would separate out the donor blood into a clear liquid and a thick, more solid one. They would then test the sample against similarly prepared blood from the patient. The Consul had said if coagulation was seen, it meant the blood was incompatible, and if you put incompatible blood into a patient, it could cause them infection and often death.
There were apparently other issues. Some people could have conditions where their blood would be damaged and others would have infections in their blood, both of which could pass those problems on to the patient.
So far he hadn’t dared attempt that, as the strength and sheer variety of the Consul’s warnings about the blood transfusions caused Hywel some hesitation.
Thankfully, with the tourniquet in place, it wasn’t needed here.
By the time Hywel had changed into clean clothes that had gone through the sterilization procedure and the cleaned and sterilized leather apron, the patient had been stripped bare, washed, and cleaned.
An assistant was standing near the man’s head, a cloth over his mouth and nose, holding a small container with a bag attached to it.
“Start the administration. Remember to control the flow rate,” Hywel said to the man before looking to a woman who was holding onto the man’s uninjured wrist, thumb pressed against it. “Make sure you let us know if his heart rate slows.”
They had attempted this on a few test subjects, and even Hywel had asked to be put under to see what it was like. Thankfully, none of their test subjects had died from it, thanks mostly to the consul’s very complete notes.
The man’s moans of pain subsided and then ceased, his body relaxing as the chemical knocked him out. The woman holding his wrist looked up and nodded. He was alive, at least.
With the patient now unconscious, Hywel approached the operating table. He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. This was it.
“Iodine,” he called out, and an assistant quickly handed a sterilized cloth and a small bottle of the inky substance.
Hywel liberally applied the iodine to the crushed arm and surrounding area, staining the skin brown.
“Scalpel,” Hywel said, holding out his hand and taking one of the instruments designed by the Consul.
The cool metal of the instrument felt reassuring in his grip. With practiced precision, he made the initial incision. Blood welled up immediately, but an assistant was ready with more sterilized cloth, to wipe it away. He worked his way through muscle and sinew, cut away the flesh above the crushed area of bone, exposing it while leaving the fest cut evenly. He also cut away as much dead tissue as he could find, since they now knew that was the source of many postoperative infections.
However, he saved as much skin as possible, knowing he’d need that at the end.
“Saw,” he called out.
The bone saw was heavier than he expected. As he began to cut through the bone, the vibrations traveled up his arm. The sound was unsettling, a grating noise that turned his stomach. The bone was left jagged after he finished. He took another tool and began to file down the edges, smoothing it and rounding it to keep the sharp sides from cutting into the patient or causing cuts in the tissue.
He also tied off any major blood vessels he could find. The Consul had said there were smaller ones, but the thing suture the Consul had developed two kinds of material. For internal, they used a sinew from cat gut that had been trimmed into a thin line and sterilized. Apparently, it would dissolve over time, once the wound itself had scarred over and closed. The goal of closing off the larger blood vessels was to keep the patient from bleeding internally before the cuts healed over.
Without the large lens the Consul had devised, Hywel wasn’t sure this step would have been possible. Even with it, seeing what he was doing was difficult and it was a slow, painstaking process.
Finally, however, he finished, closing up all the ones he could see. As he began to fold the skin flaps over the exposed wound, closing it up to allow it to heal and protect the muscle and tissue from infection, the patient jerked suddenly.
“Put him under,” Hywel hissed at the assistant by his head, who had been more focused watching him work than on the patient.
Thankfully, he hadn’t woken up all the way, which would have been a terrible memory for him. The ether soon took effect and the man slipped back into sleep. The last steps were to use horsehair sutures, which were stronger than the cat gut but would have to be removed later, to tie up the flaps of skin so they covered the wound completely. He’d left it slightly baggy, not tight, to lessen the chance of ripping and tearing, and to allow it some room for swelling without tearing the sutures.
Hywel stepped back from the table, his brow damp with sweat. The amputation was complete, although that was only the first step. Now the man just had to survive the recovery, which was going to be the hard part.
“Remove the tourniquet and let’s get him cleared up, the wound dressed, and I want someone with him at all times, monitoring his condition.”
There was going to be seepage, even with most of the large arteries sewn up, and standing biological matter would be a problem. The stump itself was neat, but there would probably have to be skin trimmed over time, based on the instructions he’d read.
Until then, all they could do was watch for infection, administer penicillin and hope that worked, and manage the man’s pain. If he made it through the initial recovery period, the next step would be to train a few more healers to go to the legions and train their people on how to do the technique.
One step at a time, though.
***
Eastern Germania
Ky stood on the crest of a low hill, a patchwork of thin forest and field stretching out before him, smelling of pine and damp earth. He had ten thousand men dug in along the forest edge in a long line stretching in either direction. It was, however, a far cry from the slowly advancing tide of men and steel coming toward him.
The enemy had almost three times his number. They were being cautious, something he’d never had to deal with when fighting the Carthaginians. Ky’s advanced vision could pick out skirmishers pushing forward, taking small shots at his line, trying to feel for the trap they expected from him.
“They’re being careful,” Ky said.
“We know they worked with the enemy in the last war,” Bomilcar said, still not comfortable directly naming his own people after all these years. “Enough that they know you have a flair for the dramatic.”
Ky gave a small smile but didn’t look at the general directly. He would argue he had a tactical mind that knew how to turn a weakness into an advantage, but he could see the general’s point.
“Then let’s show them what we have. Tell the artillery to open fire. Target their skirmishers first, then shift to their advancing infantry. I want to disrupt their formation as best we can before they start in on their main assault.”
Bomilcar signaled an aide and relayed the orders. Moments later, the distinctive boom of Britannian cannons echoed across the battlefield. Plumes of earth erupted among the eastern skirmishers, sending men flying. The enemy’s line paused ever so briefly, but the respite was brief, and it continued its roll forward.
It also had an answer for the Britannian artillery as its own cannons replied. Shells screamed overhead, crashing into the Britannian lines with devastating effect.
His men had only been under artillery fire in one battle, and this was much more intense. It was directed most intensely at the center of his line, which started to waver slightly.
“Shift the sixty-third cohort to cover their left,” Ky ordered.
His most veteran units were shifted toward the center, in hopes of keeping it together, since it looked like that was where the enemy was going to hit the hardest.
The entered rifle range, and the battle commenced in full. His men were able to stand and fire away while the easterners continued to march forward. It was a terrible sight, seeing waves of easterners fall as they tried to close the ground between his men, who’d had a chance to dig in, and the enemy, who had an open field to march through.
They took it and continued on.
Not that it was one-sided. A unit here or there would stop and take shots, and the enemy artillery continued its barrage on his center. Men fell. Much more on the eastern side than on his, but not enough more.
“They’re going to reach our line,” Bomilcar said, watching through a spyglass.
“I know. We need to just hold on a little longer. Send in the reserves.”
“Consul, sending them in now will…”
“I know. I know. But they can’t break. They have to hold.”
Bomilcar saluted and went down to the men, to relay the orders himself. It was still a close thing. The enemy had closed, bayonets fixed, and charged, slamming into his center line. It seemed to Ky as if the whole thing was on the verge of breaking until the reserve cohort smashed into the melee.
It was still chaos, but the line stiffened and held. The flanks continued to fire on, putting pressure on the easterners still coming across the field, almost funneling them. That was good in that it kept his flanks solid, but it was still putting too much pressure on the center.
“Consul…” Aelius warned, taking up Bomilcar’s position.
Ky, however, no longer looked worried. He’d had his drone out, scouring the battle failed, and saw what he’d been hoping for.
Out of the far treeline on the left flank, more cannon erupted, crashing right into the middle of the enemy line, as ten thousand more Britannians marched out, toward the Carthaginian line.
“Right on time.”
The enemy seemed torn, unsure of how to handle this new attack on their flank, or if they should continue to focus on the line in front of them. And then Ursinus’s lines stopped, and with a ripple brought their rifles down.
A wall of smoke appeared as the first volley fired, crashing into the enemy. And then a second. And then a third. For a moment, half of the enemy army looked as if they were going to turn and charge this new threat, but the fire from the front and from the side was too much. They started to waver, a unit here or there breaking and running for the rear.
It was not yet, however, a rout.
“The cavalry to swing in and hit their left flank. Hard. They’re on the verge of breaking,” Ky said, turning his horse toward the right flank and heading down the side of the mountain.
“Consul,” Aelius said, reaching out and grabbing Ky’s arm hard. “You cannot go down there. We can’t afford a repeat of last time.”
“The men need someone to lead them and they will be riding into unbroken lines,” Ky said.
“The men need their leader alive,” Aelius countered. “You’re too valuable to risk. Let the officers handle this.”
For a moment, Ky considered arguing, but he knew Aelius was right. He nodded reluctantly.
“Fine. Go.”
Aelius saluted and rode toward the front rank, his aides falling in behind him. Ursinus’s line held strong and continued to pour fire into the enemy’s flank, so much so that pressure began to ease off on the center. New soldiers weren’t thrown into the melee, while his continued to fight, with the reserves still pressing into the fight.
And then Aelius and the cavalry struck. Some of the enemy saw them coming, but engaged as they were, they couldn’t form a cohesive defense against the wall of men and horse.
The impact was devastating. The cavalry slammed into the enemy lines, cutting deep into them before curving back out. Sabers slashed through men, and hooves crushed them into the ground. It was too much for the battered enemy lines, which collapsed almost as soon as the cavalry hit, with wave after wave of the enemy running for the rear.
“Signal the infantry to press forward. We need to capitalize on this moment. Ursinus is to angle and maintain fire until pursuers reach his lines, and then join the advance.”
Trumpets blared and flags raised as the word was passed. The Britannian lines surged forward. The enemies’ break intensified, men throwing their weapons to the ground trying to avoid being caught in the three-sided press of death.
It had turned into a full-on rout, with the exception of the rear guard. This section of Germania was a series of slow-rolling hills, and his men had set up to fight in the valley created by two of those hills, giving them a clear, open lane of fire and room for Ursinus’s men to do what they did.
Unfortunately, he was not the only one who could take advantage of the landscape, and the enemy had set up their reserves on the top of the slope on the opposite hill. Worse, after Ursinus’s arrival, when it had become clear they were unlikely to break the Britannian line, the enemy commander had pulled all of his artillery onto the top of that hill. It now opened up with devastating effect and had a commanding view of the area, meaning if his men tried to bypass, they would be bleeding casualties and put a not insignificant number of enemy soldiers in their rear.
“They are not as broken as we thought,” Ky said to one of the messengers near him as those cannons now opened up on his men. “Send word to Bomilcar to assault that position and silence those guns.”
The young man nodded and sprinted off. It was going to be costly all the same. They had enough rifles on the hill and they would be shooting down into his own men. True, he’d be able to surround them, which is why he hadn’t set up a similar positioning for himself, but with their small force, that is what they wanted. Their goal was to keep the rest of the enemy army from being annihilated, and it was going to work.
Bomilcar sent them in scattered waves, with enough distance between each to keep the cannister-loaded cannon at the top from wiping out swaths of his men with each pass. He didn’t need the massed men for volley fire because shooting uphill as they were, a lot of those bullets would sail into the sky, hitting nothing. What he needed was for them to get into bayonet range long enough to occupy the enemy for more waves to catch up and reinforce them.
“Commander, there are multiple battles from the era of rifled muskets where this type of attack became deadly to the attacker, leading to large casualties.
“Did they have the variance in the number of men?” Ky asked.
He hated the plan, but he couldn’t see another way out. He was happy to hear one, but so far Sophus had little to supply once their initial plan was executed.
“While the attacker had a larger force in most instances, no, the odds were not as large,” Sophus said.
“Do you have a better suggestion to keep those cannons from tearing us apart?” Ky asked.
“We could pull back and concentrate fire on the hilltop,” Sophus said after a beat.
“I don’t remember saturated bombing being effective when we did it short of the kiloton range,” Ky said. “I find it hard to believe that it would be with just cannon. Would we be able to shell them into silence or would we just be waiting for their ammo to run out?”
“It is impossible to predict without knowing more of their capabilities.”
“Which means you have no idea. And if they have enough ammunition, we could take significant damage before that moment is reached.”
And so they watched as waves went up the hill, only to be torn apart by cannon and rifle fire. A few times his men got close, finding a little cover and firing at close enough range to have some accuracy. They didn’t last long, but they managed to create enemy casualties even without getting into bayonet range.
When they faltered or ran, another wave was sent in, screaming and charging uphill. Taking a shot when they got close enough and then continuing the charge until the fire became too great.
Bomilcar did direct some cannon fire onto the ridge, and even managed to hit some of the enemy artillery, sending the cannon tubes sailing into the sky. But not enough of them to greatly accelerate the course of the battle.
And then a wave finally reached bayonet range. The enemy fire had slackened, probably through lack of ammunition, but it was enough. Ky could see the fight from his position, and it was brutal. Had they been all he had, the enemy might have pushed them back, but Bomilcar had seen it too, as his men were getting close, and pushed the next line up early.
Just as the men in contact began to run, the next line hit. This time the enemy was less prepared. More off guard.
And then the line after that arrived. And then the next.
The pendulum swung fast, from the enemy holding off a hundred times their number, to collapsing quickly. His men swarmed the hilltop, wiping out artillerymen and soldiers alike.
Ky knew there was no use trying to stop the slaughter. His men had been at their mercy for too long, trying to make it up the hill, and they wanted revenge.
They’d won their first victory. The bulk of the enemy might have gotten away, but they’d lost several thousand, of men in the process.
Now to find out what the cost to his own people was for this victory.
