Travis Starnes
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The Fires of Vulcan - Chapter 17
🕑 Added 2023-09-13 17:22:43 +0000 UTCDevnum
Faenius walked purposefully into the temple, past the marble columns, intricate mosaics, and frescoes depicting religious tales, flanked by a squad of his best Praetorians, including the recently promoted centurion, Claudius, whom Faenius had been watching closely, as the man had promise.
The thunder of their synchronized footsteps echoed off the high ceiling as the guards fanned out, establishing control of the vestibule. Two temple guards moved to block their path, leveling spears with shaking hands.
Fixing them with an icy stare, Faenius said, “Stand down. We are here on orders from the Empress herself.”
The guards exchanged nervous glances, then reluctantly lowered their weapons and stepped aside. Satisfied, Faenius motioned for his men to continue into the temple’s inner sanctum.
At the far end of the hall, beside an enormous statue of Jupiter, Vesnius knelt in prayer. Hearing the Praetorians’ approach, the High Priest rose and turned. His eyes widened in shock at the armed men.
“You dare desecrate the sacred temple,” he said, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Explain this intrusion at once.”
“Lucius Vesnius Sacerdos,” Faenius said, stepping forward, his face hard. “You are under arrest for treason and conspiracy against the Empire.”
“How dare you. I am the Flamen Dialis! High Priest of Jupiter Optimus! I demand to know the meaning of this!”
“You’ve used your position to spread sedition and treason against the Empire.”
“Lies, all of it. You have no proof,” Vesnius scoffed, pointing a long, bony finger at Faenius. “You defile this sacred place with your false accusations.”
Faenius stepped closer until they were face to face, eyes boring into the priest, “We are here in the name of the Empress. If you resist, we will drag you out in chains.”
Faenius nodded sharply, gesturing for two guards to take hold of Vesnius. They grabbed the priest, gripping his arms tightly when the old man tried to yank his arms free. He dug in his heels, but his sandals only slid uselessly along the smooth marble floor of the temple’s inner sanctum.
“Unhand me, you filth!” Vesnius spat as he was hauled through the temple’s towering entrance and out into the bright sunlight.
The commotion had not gone unnoticed. A crowd was already gathering, commoners and merchants mingling with robed priests and stunned members of the Senatorial class who stared and murmured amongst themselves.
Faenius emerged behind Vesnius, surveyed the scene, and gestured curtly for his men to proceed. The guards holding Vesnius adjusted their grip and marched onward, dragging the struggling priest down the temple’s steps to the street level.
Vesnius craned his neck looking around wildly and yelled, “Is this how the Empress’s justice is dispensed? To protect foreigners and barbarians, they haul your priests away in chains?”
The murmurs of the crowd grew louder, undercurrents of anger and confusion rippled through the gathering throng. The priest had led the people of Devnum for decades and had always been a trusted servant of the gods. The people were deeply troubled to see him arrested.
Sensing the crowd’s budding resentment, Faenius turned, raising a hand for attention, “This man stands accused of treason by decree of the Empress herself. Return to your homes and businesses.”
His tone brooked no argument. Behind him, the Praetorian guards formed a tight cordon, shields at the ready.
Vesnius noted Faenius’ caution with a spark of satisfaction, struggling against his captors’ grips.
“So this is how Rome’s protectors address her free citizens? With arrogance and unjust acts?”
The edges of the crowd pressed in, their angry murmurs growing louder by the second. The Praetorians scanned the mass of people, noting the tell-tale signs of a gathering storm. Fists clenching, shoulders squaring, faces hardening.
Faenius quickened his pace, as the situation began to spiral out of control. The sooner they were free of this mob, the better. But the crowd was already spreading to block the intersections ahead. They’d reached critical mass.
A piece of rotten fruit sailed past Faenius’ head, splattering against the wall of a nearby insula making a wet smack. More debris pelted in from all sides - clay pots, stones, sticks - peppering the cohort of Praetorians. Faenius pivoted, looking over the throng. Faces blurred together in a mass of anger and suspicion. He couldn’t pinpoint the sources of the projectiles.
“Free Vesnius!” an unseen voice yelled out.
Others echoed the demand and it slowly became a chant, serving to build the people’s anger more.
Faenius spotted a red-faced man hefting another stone, arm cocked to throw.
“Disperse at once!” Faenius bellowed, pointing at the man, halting him mid-motion. “Return to your homes before this escalates further!”
His warning went unheeded. More debris sailed toward them. One man surged forward, practically spitting with rage, only to be shoved back by a Praetorian’s shield. Cries of indignation erupted from the crowd. They were growing bolder, inching steadily closer, testing the squad’s defenses.
Faenius steadied himself. He had hoped to avoid this, but the situation had escalated quickly. It was clear they wouldn’t be able to withdraw without using force. The Praetorians were outnumbered.
“Form a cordon!” Faenius bellowed.
Immediately, the soldiers tightened their spacing, linking shields to create an impenetrable barrier, lifting the truncheons they carried in addition to swords, bracing for impact.
“Advance!”
At Faenius’s command, they began pushing as one down the street. Truncheons swung ruthlessly, driving back those who resisted. Shouts of pain competed with cries of fury as the Praetorians bulled their way forward. Step by step, they gained ground.
The mob attacked the cordon with renewed zeal, raining down blows and clawing at shields. A hurled stone glanced off a soldier’s shoulder armor. He whirled, spotting a wild-eyed youth clutching another rock. Their eyes locked for a split second before the Praetorian’s truncheon crunched sickeningly across his jaw. The young man collapsed in a heap.
The crowd was a churning avalanche of bodies, threatening to overwhelm them through sheer numbers. The Praetorians heaved back against the human tide, Roman discipline overcoming the mob’s chaotic fury.
The Praetorians continued their relentless push forward as the mob clawed and shoved against them. Faenius spotted gaps beginning to form along the edges of the formation as his men were gradually being separated. He barked an order, and the soldiers pivoted, presenting a new face to push the crowd back and close the gaps. Despite their discipline, the sheer press of bodies made it nearly impossible to maintain cohesion.
It was clear they would not make it to the prison with their prisoner intact if this continued much longer. He had to act decisively before things escalated into wholesale chaos.
“Claudius!” Faenius shouted over the din, the centurion turned his head briefly to show he was listening. “Take three men, get Vesnius out of here. We will cover your withdrawal.”
Claudius nodded and began barking orders of his own. He and two other guards grabbed Vesnius and pulled him from the mob’s grasp. Faenius could see the stark fear on the priest’s face as he was dragged away into a side street. Now they just had to buy enough time for Claudius to get clear.
Faenius used the opportunity to issue new orders, “Form paired columns, we’re going to sweep this rabble aside and clear the streets.”
The Praetorians reconfigured into two columns bristling with shields and truncheons. On Faenius’ command, they lurched into motion, bulling their way through the densely packed mob like a plow tearing through soil.
People cried out in pain and fright as they were battered and thrown aside. The Praetorians were careful to avoid killing blows, focusing on swift, debilitating strikes to clear their path. With the priest and his cries gone, resistance quickly crumbled before the inexorable advance of the paired columns.
Within minutes, the last of the stragglers had been driven into side streets or fled entirely. An eerie quiet fell over the agora. Faenius kept them moving at a quickstep, wanting to put distance between them and the mob, should it regroup.
As soon as he reached the palace, he went toward the dungeon where the priest would be held. Claudius would have been able to move fast, but it was possible that parts of the crowd paralleled him, catching up with him short of the protective ring around the palace.
Thankfully, he spotted Claudius emerging from the dungeon just as he arrived, the centurion hurrying over as soon as he saw his commander.
“The prisoner is secure, sir,” Claudius said, saluting.
“Well done, Claudius. Have the men with injuries see the medicos and take an hour’s rest. I need to report this mess to the Empress. She’ll want to question Vesnius herself about these treasonous allegations.”
“Yes, sir,” Claudius replied crisply, before marching off.
Faenius watched him leave, thinking forward to his meeting with the Empress. He’d arrested the priest, but not as quietly as she had ordered. There was going to be blowback from this action, to be sure.
***
Daramouda
While he waited for the rest of his officers to finish filing into the command tent, Tabnit read over the scrolls containing the lists of supplies and logistics for the coming campaign, handed to him by one of his aides. Not for the first time, he wished he had some of the flat sheets the Romans invented that they called paper. He’d gotten his hands on a few sheets taken after one of their few victories, and it hadn’t taken long to realize how much easier it was to work with than the rolled scrolls that his people used.
“The final shipments have arrived,” Tabnit announced when the last of his officers had finally taken his place for the command council. “We now have enough to fill out Atar’s section, which means we’re ready to start our end of the campaign.”
Murmurs rippled through the tent as the officers exchanged approving glances. After months of waiting, everyone was eager to get started. Small harassing attacks had not given many chances for glory, which is what all of his subordinates would need if they were to get commands of their own.
“I know some of you have also heard we’ve received the shipment of weapons from the Far East the emperor promised us. While that is true, unfortunately, the weapons will all remain with the main body under my command, as we have a limited amount, and we won’t use them until we begin our attack on the Romans in earnest. I want them to be a surprise. That’s why none of your people have been allowed to see the shipment. I do not want word of what this weapon is leaking out. This means that I expect all of you to hold your curiosity. Do not go looking to find out what it is, and do not attempt to see it for yourselves. I give you this warning once, and I expect you and your subordinates to heed it. At my request, the emperor has sent some of the Acolytes of Hexitas, who have been instructed to kill anyone not authorized if they attempt to view the shipment. There will be no warnings or second chances. Is that clear?”
A murmur passed along the group. Of all the tools the emperor had to control his subjects, the Acolytes of Hexitas were by far the most feared. Clad in all black except for the skull masks covering their faces, the Acolytes were fanatical, welcoming death if it came in the service of their god. They saw every death they caused as an offering and were brutal in their devotion.
Tabnit did not enjoy having them around, but he knew he’d only get one real shot to make this new weapon work for him, and he had to make it count. If he could push the Romans off the continent, he could turn the tide of the war and cement his place in the annals of the empire.
“In addition to the new weapons, the emissaries from the Far East have brought us something else. Engineers who will teach our men a way to attack their forts without having our men torn apart by their thunder weapons. I do not want to delay starting our march for training, so each group will select men for a detail that will train every evening when the army stops for the night. During our attack, they will direct our men to build the fortifications that will allow us to get within striking distance of their walls. I expect every one of your men to train hard, to be ready for our attack.”
Pausing to make sure the men understood him, he continued, “We will be marching quickly. I received word two days ago that our northern army has maneuvered the Romans into terrain that negates their thunder weapons and they have most likely already begun their attack.”
Murmurs rippled through the tent as the men reacted to this news.
“We greatly outnumber their forces there, and without their thunder weapons, we will be able to finally crush their forces in the North. I want to push their southern army back into the sea before word of the loss can reach their islands. We will be marching at dawn, and I want your men ready to march. I will accept no excuses.”
“Apologies, General, but what of their string of interconnected forts built along the north side of the mountains?” Nabalsa, one of the section commanders, asked. “Our raiding parties have had limited success against them. They’ve cleared a large amount of land around them, giving their weapons room to decimate our warriors. When we attempted to put them under siege, we were attacked by the forces from the other forts, pinning us between them. With these new techniques, we should be able to get close enough to capture the forts, as long as we keep sufficient forces to counter their reinforcements. Even with all of that, I don’t think we can destroy all of the forts in the timeline you’ve allotted.”
“We aren’t attacking the forts,” Tabnit said. “We will swing wide around them and then cut in between the last two. Once we cut off their port, they will have difficulty supplying them, and they will wither on the vine, being forced to retreat or starve. We only have to worry about the one closest to the port, since they will be in range to support the port and attack our forces. We will keep part of our army turned to take on any forces they send from the rear, while we destroy the port. Other than that precaution, we will ignore them.”
He looked around for any other comments and received none. That was to be expected. Nabalsa was a newer commander and had yet to learn the dangers inherent in offering opinions—opinions that might anger a commander, or someone with the power, enough to retaliate or that might be taken seriously and result in the officer being responsible for a plan that could fail. Silence was the safest strategy for most of the men most of the time.
“Good. Prepare your men for the march. We leave in the morning.”
The officers saluted and left, leaving Tabnit with only his aides. The general looked over the map, tracing a line to the sea. This would work. With the new ways of war from the east, he would finally crack the Roman defenses and push them off the continent for good.
***
Mediterranean, Pillars of Hercules
Admiral Valdar stood at the bow of his flagship, the Britannian ship Bellona, gazing out over the glittering expanse of the Middle Sea. A stiff breeze filled the Bellona’s sails, driving the sturdy ship forward at a brisk clip. Around him, Valdar could see the many other vessels of the Britannian fleet sailing in tight formation. After months of preparation, they were finally embarking on their mission against the Carthaginians.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d sailed these gentle waters, back when he was just a merchant, before he linked his future with the Britannians. Now he was back, but trade wasn’t the thing he had in mind anymore. He knew the risks they faced were great, venturing into the very heart of enemy waters. His ships might be far superior to anything the Carthaginians could put on the water, which didn’t even consider the addition of the cannon he carried, but they had hundreds of ships in these waters. He had twelve.
Still, if they succeeded here, they would block the Carthaginians from shipping in and out of these waters, destroy the bulk of the Carthaginian navy, and force them to march around the world in order to reinforce their armies on the continent. It would turn the tide of the war.
“Enemy ships sighted off the port bow!” the lookout bellowed.
Glancing upward, Valdar saw the Bellona’s lookout gesturing wildly from the crow’s nest high above the deck. Following the lookout’s pointed finger, Valdar spotted a number of tiny dark shapes emerging from a harbor perhaps ten mille passus distant.
Valdar snatched a spyglass from his belt and trained it on the distant vessels. Through the lens, he could make out dozens of Carthaginian galleys sailing out to meet them.
“Signal the fleet,” Valdar called to his first officer. “Form in line and prepare for battle!”
Moments later, colored signal flags were soaring up the masts of the Bellona, quickly mirrored by the other ships. The great vessels began shifting into neat rows, their crews rushing about making ready for the imminent confrontation. Cannons were rolled out along the gun decks as marines took up positions with their rifles.
Valdar clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze fixed on the approaching Carthaginian fleet, gauging their speed and formation. They were attempting a double envelopment, trying to get some of their ships close enough to board his and take one of his ships intact. It had been their standard tactic ever since they learned of the existence of the Britannians’ cannon. It had worked on some smaller merchant ships, but so far, they hadn’t even gotten close to the Britannian warships. It didn’t mean they’d stop trying.
“Steady lads,” Valdar called out, feeling the pre-battle nerves that always swept through the crew right before a fight. “Remember your training and trust in your shipmates. We’ll send these bastards to the bottom!” A ragged cheer went up from the surrounding sailors and marines. Valdar allowed himself a tight smile. The men’s morale was high, their courage steeled for the fight ahead.
“Full sail,” Valdar ordered. Moving fast would allow him to blow through the Carthaginian formation, giving his ships a chance to rake their ships without giving them a chance to get his boats to grip. The ship surged forward as still more sails were unfurled from the masts above. The rest of the Britannian line matched the Bellona’s acceleration perfectly, keeping their line tight.
The two fleets closed on one another with startling speed, faster than Valdar had predicted. He lifted his spyglass again, looking over the enemy ships. It wasn’t hard to spot what was out of place. The Carthaginian galleys had new sail plans, clearly modeled after the Britannian designs. While the actual hulls and structures of the Carthaginian vessels remained inferior, the addition of the new style sails allowed them to harness the wind as never before. Though still less maneuverable than the Britannian ships, due to their bulkier builds, the sails were enabling the Carthaginians to close the gap faster.
If they didn’t do something, they would intercept his fleet, and his cannon wouldn’t have a good angle to damage enough of them to stop their own destruction.
“Adjust formation, prepare to turn!” Valdar ordered. Signal flags soared up masts, and every sailor on the Britannian ships leaped into action. Hands flew across lines, sails were trimmed, and rudders kicked over as the sleek warships heeled into tightly arced turns. Decks tilted at precipitous angles while sailors held on for their lives, expertly navigating the ocean swells.
The Carthaginian ships attempted to turn with them, to avoid the swinging broadside, but their ungainly vessels couldn’t copy or counter the maneuver. Had the Britannians been even a few ship-lengths slower, they would have exposed their vulnerable sterns and been shredded by Carthaginian rams, brought to grips, and boarded.
The Carthaginians continued to close the distance, the easterly wind helping push their small craft on even as the Britannian ships cut hard southwest into their arc. They were getting too close.
“Hard a-lee,” he called out, ordering his ship to cut even harder, turning back into their own line. “Order the ships to break the line. Make easterly and fire as they bear.”
The entire line breaking and turning back would, hopefully, allow them to get the distance they needed to keep the Carthaginians from getting a hold on them. His flagship, riding in front, was in the greatest danger, as the rest of his ships were further back and had more time to turn. They wouldn’t get the full fleet-wide broadside that he wanted, but it would save them from disaster. Sailing into the wind would allow him to put distance between his ships and the enemy and then they could come at them again, without the surprise of the updates to their ships upsetting his plans.
His ship passed within a hundred paces of each of the closest Carthaginian ships. So close Valdar could see the sailors with his naked eye. Ropes arced out of the closest ships, trying to grapple onto the sides of his ship. Most missed by a wide margin as his ship’s sails expanded as they turned with the wind. But not all of the lines missed, those from the closest ship managed to latch on.
“Repel boarders,” he called out, pulling his sword and running to the nearest line. Arrows flew past, one embedding itself a hand span away into the forecastle. Accuracy with a bow was nearly impossible on a rolling deck, but enough arrows were being fired to be a danger, and he saw sailors here or there fall, a shaft sticking out from their shoulder or chest.
He hacked at the line, his steel sword cutting through the thick rope after two whacks, sending the men scrambling up it into the ocean. The rifles of his marines fired, picking off archers and sailors on the other ship, as his sailors cut lines and hurled whatever they could at the men trying to climb onboard. It wouldn’t matter. As the galley pulled itself closer to his ship, to allow more men to try to board, it put itself exactly where it didn’t want to be. Directly in the path of his broadside.
His gun captains didn’t wait for the order. Fire and smoke erupted out of the side of his ship, hiding everything from sight. The thunderous sound was deafening, drowning out even the shouts and screams of maimed men.
When the smoke cleared, a scene of devastation followed in its wake. Masts and rigging lay in tattered shambles floating in the waves. The ship that had been trying to gain a hold of his had all but vanished as every cannonball hit it, smashing it to pieces.
More cannon fire echoed, drawing Valdar’s attention. Instead of following his orders and all turning to the east, his ships had continued the arc that his fleet had been on before he gave the command, although at a much tighter angle. The sharper curve and the fact that they were further behind put more distance between them and the enemy ships. Valdar’s sudden maneuver to avoid being boarded worked in their favor, moving his ship out of the way and giving the rest of the fleet a clear field of fire, which they used to devastating effect, sending the remaining boats chasing the Bellona running for the sandy bottom.
The Britannians had inflicted hellish casualties, but these were just against the front ranks of the Carthaginian fleet. The ships further behind had more time to arrest their onward momentum and turn back towards the Britannian line at an impressive speed, attempting what their comrades had failed to do.
The danger was over, however. The Bellona continued to swing around and rejoin the column, which finished its arc and straightened out as the enemy got within range, allowing for a perfect firing position. He didn’t even need to order his men to fire. This was the exact scenario they had drilled endlessly for. The gun captains on each ship watched their batteries and timed their ships’ barrage for when it had the best chance to strike. As he watched, more Carthaginian ships disintegrated, ripped apart by salvos of Britannian cannonballs.
Seeing their fleet decimated from what must have seemed like the very edge of success, the remaining Carthaginian captains desperately attempted to disengage and flee the battle. Valdar watched the enemy ships scattering in all directions, torn between wanting to pursue them and holding his position. With the advancements the Carthaginians had made to their sails and rigging, they wouldn’t be able to track them down quickly like they had before.
He believed his ships were faster than the enemy’s, so he was confident he could still track them down, but they would be able to run farther before his men could catch them. Chasing the fleeing Carthaginians meant destroying more of their navy, but it would also force him to divide his own ships as they spread out in pursuit.
Considering their willingness to lose men and material, that very well could be their plan. Let the Britannians split their fleet and then jump them one at a time, when they had no support from any other ships. Even if it wasn’t a trap, the ships were scattering in all directions. It was unlikely that his dispatched ships would chase down more than one or two of the enemy before the others made good on their escape. The risk versus reward just wasn’t worth it.
“Signal the fleet to hold position. Let them leave,” Valdar commanded.
Valdar watched the enemy ships dwindle into the distance, unable to prevent their escape but satisfied he had made the strategically sound choice. As frustrating as it was to let some of the Carthaginians flee, preserving his fleet took priority. The smoking wrecks and floating debris left behind in the wake of the battle made it clear he had inflicted a decisive defeat on the Carthaginian navy this day.
Watching the enemy ships run, he was still bothered. Though still inferior in design, their new sails and rigging had allowed the enemy galleys to maneuver far better than anticipated. If they got out of the Middle Sea and into Oceanus with these ships, they would be able to run down the Britannians’ merchant ships, which would be a disaster. He didn’t have the ships to blockade the entrance to the Middle Sea and continue into the sea to hunt down the Carthaginian navy. His orders were clear, but his duty was equally clear.
“Order the fleet to take up positions to blockade the entrance to the sea and stay in range to support each other should the enemy sally again,” Valdar said, continuing to stare out toward the sea.
This was a holding action to buy him time to think. He had thought of a solution that would allow him to take up both the tasks at hand, but it would take some planning.
