The Escapement Read online

  At dawn the next morning, Secretary Psellus made an unannounced tour of inspection of the forward batteries. He was there when the first shot of the day was loosed, and he followed its long, looping trajectory, from the moment it left the slider to its rather anticlimactic impact in the bank of earth that hid the trench from view. He thanked the artillery crew and praised them for their diligence, then went back to the Guildhall.

  “Useless,” he said sadly to the assembled joint chiefs. “I saw it myself. It wobbled through the air and stuck in the big pile of dirt. We could bombard them all day long and they probably wouldn’t even notice.”

  Orosin Zeuxis of the Linen Drapers’, colonel-in-chief of the artillery, shook his head violently. “The plan is,” he said, “to keep up a constant, hammering fire which will inevitably smash up those wicker basket things, loosen the earth and send it sliding down into the trench. We’ve run tests using donkey panniers, and—”

  “Useless,” Psellus repeated mildly. “We need to do a whole lot better than that. The scorpions are accurate, I grant you, but it’s no good being able to pitch five shots in a foot square if they don’t actually do anything. No, I think it’s time we brought up the trebuchets and mangonels. I know,” he added, raising his hand in a rather weak gesture; they stopped arguing at once, even so. “We were planning on keeping them in reserve, we don’t want to let them know the true range we can achieve, so that when their main army gets close enough, we can take them by surprise. And no, ideally we wouldn’t want to commit them to the embankment in case it’s over-run, and there wouldn’t be time to move them back again. All perfectly true. The fact remains that they’re digging their wretched trench at an appallingly fast rate, and our only hope is to slow them down until their food runs out. Therefore,” he said softly, so they had to shut up just to be able to hear him, “we will deploy the heavy artillery straight away. Orosin, that’s your department. If you need help with transport and installation, feel free to use whatever resources you like. I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d quite like to have at least one full battery in place and working by this time tomorrow.”

  Zeuxis glowered at him, then nodded stiffly. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  “I’m sure you will,” Psellus replied. “And with any luck, that’ll put a stop to their confounded tunnelling, for a while at least. Meanwhile, though, we need to do something else. I had a good look at the new trench they started the day before yesterday.”

  “Oh,” someone said, “that. You know, I’m not too fussed about it. It’s moving very slowly, compared to the others.”

  Psellus smiled. “That’s because it’s three times as wide,” he said. “Which suggests to me that it’s not for bringing up soldiers or sappers. I think that trench is going to be used for machinery of some sort. Artillery, perhaps, or some kind of digging or battering engine.”

  Someone else shrugged. “Maybe it is,” he said. “But it’s still a long way away. Out of range, even for the Type Twenties.”

  “Quite,” Psellus said, dipping his head in graceful acknowledgement. “Which is why I think we ought to try a sortie.”

  This time they weren’t so easily quelled. As their voices rose in protest and complaint, they merged, cancelling each other out, so that Psellus couldn’t make out a word anybody was saying. He didn’t need to, of course.

  Manuo Phranazus, commander-in-chief of ground forces (not so long ago he’d been chairman of the Cabinetmakers’ standards and quality control committee; war’s strange alchemy, Psellus thought), eventually managed to make himself heard over the buzz, and the chorus gradually subsided. “We’ve been through this before,” he said aggressively, “dozens of times. A sortie simply isn’t practical. My men may be kitted out in the finest armour money can buy, but they’re not soldiers. They’ve never seen action, their drill’s still shaky, and the officers and NCOs have a long way to go before they’re fit to be trusted to command a serious action. And on top of all that, trying to keep them in some semblance of order at night, in the dark—”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a night sortie,” Psellus said mildly.

  Now they were so stunned they couldn’t even speak. “You can’t be serious,” Phranazus said at last. “You’re actually thinking of attacking in daylight?”

  “That’s right, yes.” Psellus’ chin tended to wobble when he nodded. He’d noticed it in the mirror for the first time a few days ago, and was still painfully self-conscious about it. “Noon, to be precise.”

  “That’s—”

  “Recommended,” Psellus interrupted. “In the book. It gives a whole host of excellent reasons: technical stuff, mostly, about shift timings. I’ve had someone keeping an eye on them, and there’s always a shift change about a quarter of an hour before noon. The men coming off shift are worn out after working, and they tend to stop a little early. Meanwhile, it takes the new shift at least ten minutes to come up the trench and relieve them. And of course the last thing they’ll be expecting is a sortie, in broad daylight, in the middle of the day.” From the bottom of his pile of papers, he drew out a sketch. “If we come out of the sally-port and bridge the ditch here,” he explained, “we’ll be out of their line of sight until we actually round the point of this bastion; then it’s only, what, six hundred yards, in a straight line, and then you’re in the trench. At least, one unit goes in and kills the poor sappers. A second unit follows the line of their wall, bank, whatever you care to call it; the point is, they’ll be out of sight from the enemy camp, so when the new shift come rushing up to take on our men in the trench, this second unit can drop in behind them as they pass and attack them from the rear. We can then use the trench as cover and rush ahead to sabotage the new trench, which’ll be the real object of the sortie. The only point at which we’ll be fighting them on equal terms is here” – he pointed – “where we’ll need to send up a couple of platoons to hold them off while the rest of us do as much damage as possible in the new trench. I’m afraid this holding party probably won’t be coming back.’ (He looked away as he said it.) “Still, the loss of two platoons will be a small price to pay if we can stop them bringing up heavy machinery for a while.”

  It took a moment for the joint chiefs to realise that it was actually rather a good plan; an excellent plan, in fact, and afterwards they spent some time discussing among themselves where on earth the old fool could possibly have found it. Not from any of the approved texts, which several of them knew by heart; it must be that mysterious bloody book that he wouldn’t let anybody else see. The thought that Psellus had dreamed it up all by himself never occurred to them. Even so, they said: a sortie. When will he get it into his head that we aren’t proper soldiers?

  The point that the joint chiefs had overlooked, though it hadn’t escaped Secretary Psellus, was that the Vadani sappers weren’t proper soldiers either. When the sortie burst into the trench, they couldn’t understand what was happening. They’d been expressly told that the Mezentines had no infantry; their mercenaries had all gone home, and the citizens themselves were far too effete to fight. Who the men in armour pouring into the trench could be, therefore, they had no idea; nor had they any intention of staying around to find out. They dropped their picks and shovels and tried to scramble up the blind, unbanked side. Some of them made it.

  To begin with, the Mezentines were, as one of them put it later, like a widow killing a chicken. They slashed wildly at the sappers’ heads and arms, frantically trying to get the loathsome job over and done with, desperate not to touch or come into contact with the scrambling, wriggling bodies of their enemies. As a result, they killed few of the sappers but wounded all of them; long, slicing cuts to the scalp that sprayed blood like a cow pissing, chunks hacked out of shins and elbows – the pain revolted them, and made them flail even more furiously, their arms held out straight to maximise the distance (which meant more cuts were made with the tip than the edge; the wound the fencing books called a stramazone, designed to hurt and infuriate an enemy
into making an error). Some Mezentines hit hard enough to sever hands or feet, others struck at too shallow an angle, so that the blade skipped off the scalp and sliced off an ear or a nose; results so grotesque that the Mezentines were sick with horror at what they’d done, and lashed out even more to put an end to the nightmare as quickly as possible.

  All of which took time; rather longer than planned. Also, the relief shift (not being soldiers) failed to rush to their comrades’ assistance, as they were supposed to do. Instead, as soon as they realised what was happening, they scampered back to the camp and called out the guard. The Mezentines waiting in ambush didn’t know that, of course, and the ambush itself went flawlessly. Their attack (in rear, in the cramped trench) went home exactly as planned, but the Eremian and Aram Chantat infantry who’d answered the relief sappers’ call were adequately armoured, though not as well as the Mezentines, and knew in a matter of seconds what was going on. They turned and fought back. The Mezentines, suddenly finding themselves facing line infantry instead of men in thin shirts with shovels, immediately tried to back away, but the sides of the trench were too steep for heavily armoured men to climb. After half a dozen had been cut down without making any effort to fight back, they rallied and launched a wild, completely unscientific counter attack. They did relatively little damage with their weapons, but their armour was too strong to be easily penetrated or smashed open, particularly in a crowded, narrow trench with no room for a really good swing. Accordingly, the allies jabbed and bashed at them but couldn’t actually kill them, and they flailed and walloped back to more or less the same effect. Only when they were too tired to keep up their windmill assaults could the allies get close enough to find the weak joints and hinges in their armour; and by then, the Mezentines behind the fighting line had had the wit to pile up a few empty gabions into a makeshift stair, to get them out of the trench.

  Because the guard was busy elsewhere, the two platoons sent to die nobly for their country got to the mouth of the trench and found nobody there to meet them. They stood about for a while, horribly afraid they’d messed up and gone to the wrong place. Then their nerve broke, and they ran back the way they’d just come, meeting up with the first gush of fugitives from the ambush party; who in turn assumed they must be reinforcements, and (bravely and with agonising reluctance) tried to climb back into the trench and continue the fighting. The result would have been very bad for them if a handful of men from the two platoons hadn’t looked down on the helmeted heads milling around in the trench below them, and promptly started pelting them with rocks. Fortuitously (it could have gone either way), the heads they battered were Eremian and Aram Chantat rather than Mezentine, and the shock of the unexpected hail of missiles from a quarter they’d not expected trouble from prompted the allies to pull back out of the fighting, letting the surviving Mezentines in the trench get out safely.

  None of which mattered, of course. The real objective of Psellus’ plan was to let an assault party loose undisturbed in the new trench, which he correctly guessed was being built to take heavy machinery up to the ditch. Well aware that their time was limited, they set to with the ferocious determination of very frightened men. They smashed gabions, cut open fascines, scattered the brushwood in big heaps and set fire to them; they grabbed shovels or pulled off their helmets to scoop dirt with, and remarkably quickly managed to undermine the supports of the earth bank, so the spoil slid back into the trench and filled it. They even rolled back into the trench a huge boulder, which had taken two shifts of sappers a whole day to prise up and haul out of the way. As they were doing this, it occurred to them that they’d been rather longer than they’d anticipated. The two platoons should’ve been shredded and swept aside by now, and enemy soldiers should be pouring into the parallel, their cue to stop work and run. But no soldiers came, and they started to worry. Did the absence of the enemy mean that the plan had been wholly subverted; was there an enemy force waiting to intercept them on their way back, rather than engage them in the trench? By this point they’d done as much damage as they could without additional equipment. They had no idea what was happening, only a vague feeling that something had gone wrong and they were in a different danger than the one they’d been expecting to face. After a brief, slightly hysterical discussion, they decided that they couldn’t trust their planned escape route any more, which meant they had no choice but to go back the way they’d come, down and along the approach trench…

  By the time they ran into the enemy, the bombardment with rocks from outside the trench had stopped, and the allies were trying to make up their minds whether to press on and try and rescue the sappers, as they’d originally intended to do before the ambush hit them, or call it a day and go back. The sudden appearance of yet more Mezentines, coming up the trench, was rather more than they could cope with. The Eremian lieutenant who was now the ranking officer (the Aram Chantat captain had been one of the few allied casualties who’d actually died on the point of a Mezentine sword) ordered his men to pull back, intending to form a shield-wall at the point of the zigzag, where there was rather more room to deploy. But the surviving Aram Chantat officer took this for cowardice in the face of the enemy and ordered his own men to push the Eremians out of the way and attack the Mezentines at once. What happened next was never quite clear. The Eremian lieutenant maintained that a party of the Mezentines outside the trench, the ones who’d thrown the rocks, crept up along the bank while the two allied contingents were scuffling and contrived to undermine the gabions and loose spoil, bringing the bank down on the allies’ heads. Other survivors maintained that in the course of the scuffle, the gabions at the base of the bank were dislodged, and that was what caused the bank to collapse. In any event, a good third of the allies were under the landslip, and when the dust settled, both sides found themselves separated from the enemy by a solid wall of earth.

  All this time, the Mezentine detachment who’d started the sortie by attacking the allied forward shift were wondering what had become of the ambush party, who were supposed to come down the trench and join them after they’d finished dealing with the relief shift. The original detachment were in comparatively good spirits, once they’d got over the horrors of victory. They interpreted the ambush party’s failure to arrive as evidence that they were in trouble and needed help; so they set off down the trench to find them.

  Needless to say, they ran into the allies, taking them by surprise, in rear, while they were still effectively stunned by the disaster of the collapsing bank. As a result, the Mezentines caught them entirely unaware and began the engagement by killing half a dozen of them. This was, of course, the worst thing that could have happened for the Mezentines; it encouraged them to press home their advantage, so that when the allies realised they were being attacked again, by yet another separate enemy unit, they pulled themselves together and fought back with full professional savagery. It was only the speed with which the narrow trench clogged up with bodies that saved the third of the Mezentine detachment that made it out over the bank and escaped. The remaining two thirds never had the satisfaction of knowing they’d blocked the trench as effectively as the landslip.

  Just over three fifths of the sortie made it back to the City embankment; rather fewer than planned, rather more than Psellus himself had dared to hope. For the allies, the aftermath was almost as chaotic as the action itself. The Mezentines, according to the report the Eremian lieutenant made to General Daurenja that evening, were unorthodox but nonetheless fearsome opponents. Their offensive and weapons skills were negligible, but their sheer grim determination, the way they kept on attacking, wave after wave of them, made them worthy of cautious respect. On the other edge of the camp, meanwhile, the advance-shift sappers who’d managed to get away were having their horrific wounds treated by the Vadani surgeons, and were telling anybody who’d listen that the Mezentines were vicious, sadistic savages who fought to inflict pain rather than kill, and if the general thought they were going back down in the trench again wit
hout proper infantry support, he was very much mistaken.

  General Daurenja spent the night reflecting on what he’d been told, and called a full staff meeting at dawn. The situation, he told them, was not good. The approach trench for the heavy machinery was so badly damaged as to be useless; it’d be quicker and easier to start again. The main trench was blocked in three places. Casualties had been unexpectedly heavy – due mostly, admittedly, to the cave-in of the trench wall, but even so, it was clear that Duke Valens had underestimated the enemy’s fighting spirit, if not their military competence. Sorties, contrary to what the duke had told them, were likely to pose a real danger to siege operations. Furthermore, the sappers were now deeply worried at the prospect of further attacks – understandably so, considering the horrific nature of the wounds their colleagues had suffered – and were refusing to go back to work until satisfactory arrangements for their defence had been made. Strictly speaking, this was mutiny; however, the sappers were civilian labourers rather than soldiers, and they had a genuine grievance, which no responsible general could afford to ignore. Accordingly, he had decided to advance the artillery to the point where it could lay down suppressing fire on the enemy embankment, and to station archers, sheltered by pavises, at the points of the zigzags, which would also be fortified with redoubts built of gabions and sandbags. Finally, each redoubt would be garrisoned with a platoon of heavy infantry to provide a rapid response in the event of future sorties. It was true, he conceded, that advancing the artillery would bring them in range of the enemy, quite possibly leading to an artillery duel, which Duke Valens had been anxious to avoid. But that, the general said, seemed to him to be ducking the issue. Victory would only be possible if the allies could establish clear artillery superiority. If that meant a protracted artillery duel, the loss of siege engines and trained crews, it was a price that had to be paid. As he saw it, they really had no choice in the matter.