The Plains of Pluto
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 7
Illyrian-Macedonian Border
Modius leaned against a dead, twisted juniper and surveyed the slope before them. The ground was covered in a mixture of snow and rock, alternating brown and white, making for an almost serene view, if it wasn’t for what lay ahead of them out of sight.
Ahead and slightly below him, his men fanned out, scattered along a dry riverbed, with good spacing to allow them to take cover behind outcrops of stone and the small number of trees.
Part of his mind still protested seeing his men like this. At least the tightly packed rifle companies in line for volley fire were roughly reminiscent of the tightly packed shield wall he had known coming up through the ranks in the Roman army, facing off against equally tightly packed Carthaginian phalanxes.
It still made sense and felt like the proper way to fight, even if they fought at a distance, firing their rifles instead of using swords and spears. A piece of him couldn’t shake the feeling that this kind of fight, each man hiding behind cover, operating almost on his own, was sheer madness.
Except he knew what happened to men in firing lines and shield walls when they went up against rifles. He’d seen it enough in the war against Carthage. Bullets were not intimidated by shields or close organization. They only respected stone and thick wood.
He agreed with the Consul’s new orders for open-field battle, even if his warrior soul twinged a bit.
Besides, it was better than being stuck in one of those stinking trenches, unable to maneuver, having to live under constant fire day and night. This was at least still war and not pure carnage.
The sound of boots crunching on snow announced the approach of Renius, the tribune whose cohort Modius had taken half of for this expedition. He was a good man, although young, having been one of the later batches of recruits in the Carthaginian war. Men like him made up a large percentage of the modern officer core. They’d learned to soldier with rifle and bayonet and didn’t have notions of gladius and shield to fight against, and tended to do better in this new way of war.
“Captain,” Renius said, using the title Modius was still called by, even though his rank was equal to a prefect. “Scouts reported movement on that upper ridge about half an hour ago. Are we certain we want to hold below them? We will be giving them the high ground.”
“True, but the slope here isn’t that bad. Beyond this ridge, the ground rises more and has less cover than the riverbed. If we tried to stand there, we’d be stuck with no trees and no cover except rocks that might not provide cover for a single squad. Anyone climbing further would end up pinned by the next crest. No, this is the better ground.”
A dozen or so pickets had crested that line as soon as they’d reached this point to begin probing for the enemy and confirmed that this was the most defensible piece of ground. While Modius would agree that he’d prefer the high ground, he’d take adequate cover over what elevation could be obtained here.
Besides, they were responding to the enemy’s movements, which meant they were not able to determine the ground as much as they could if the enemy was coming to them.
To his right, the crew of the light howitzer unlimbered the gun behind a crumbling stone wall. Not a lot of protection, but still some, and the gun observers and a small signal team moved off to his left, to some of the highest ground on this side of the riverbed, to allow them to spot for the gun, which would be operating almost completely outside of direct line of sight from the ridge the enemy would surely be coming over.
Modius was about to order the gunners to move their limber a bit further back, to keep it from being accidentally touched off by a lucky hit, when sudden cracks of rifle fire could be heard just out of sight ahead of them. A few minutes later, his picket came racing over the ridge and down the slope, with two of the men supporting one of their comrades who was clearly injured.
The lead picket hurried to where Modius was standing and reported, “Eastern forces, sir, about four hundred strong. They’ve got at least one cannon with them.”
Modius nodded and dismissed the man as he looked over the ground he would shortly be fighting on.
“Have two of your centuries hold the center. They are to fire as soon as the enemy is in sight and keep up the pressure. I want the enemy focused on the center,” he told Renius. “Send the other two centuries along the left and right flank. Break them into squads; I don’t want a grouping larger than that at any one point. Let’s see if they’ve learned the new tactics we’ve been training on. Keep two squads from each flanking century in reserve in case they are needed and keep back the special teams until I signal.”
Renius nodded and rushed to give orders to his centurions. Modus frowned. Even the language was changing. A contubernium was now a squad. How soon until centuries and cohorts were called something else? He would never second guess the Consul, but his conservative nature did not see the need for change simply for the sake of change.
It did not take long for the enemy to follow on the heels of his scouts. At first, it was just a handful, who halted when they met the fire of his center units, which had opened up from their cover, with aimed instead of volley fire.
Within minutes, that handful became a dark tide, flowing over the crest. They were close enough that, through his spyglass, he could make out the faces of what were probably Macedonian troops mixed with Eastern soldiers, their unusual skin tone and eyes very different from what was seen in the West. He’d met a few up close in one of the prison camps on the way to Greece last year. It was odd, seeing people so different looking from his own, much like the first time he’d met a Nubian.
The world continued to give him surprises, show him that there was more to nature than he ever knew. Of course, he would prefer if that diversity wasn’t actively shooting at him now, but at least it made it easier to tell friend from foe.
The enemy tide had halted at the ridge line as they tried to find cover, many just lying on the ground trying to fire from a prone position. Not an easy task with a rifle that had to be loaded from the muzzle. It was a mistake, and not one he would have allowed his men to make, as it greatly slowed their rate of fire.
Not that he was one to not accept a gift from the enemy.
“Hold the cannon silent,” he ordered, seeing the crew start to work the weapon. “Wait until they reveal their artillery position.”
It took a few minutes, but from his vantage point, he could see his flanking units begin to flow around either side of the ridge line, using cover as they moved to encircle the enemy position. The enemy saw them too, and their position bulged as their line now faced not just his center, but either side along an arc until it was a semicircle.
When his men reached about a hundred and twenty passus, the enemy opened fire. Several of his men were in the open, moving to their next position when the heavy fire started, and were cut down. Most had cover, though, and began returning the fire.
“Get those wounded men back,” Modius commanded. “And spread the flanking squads wider. They’re still easy targets. I want more of an envelopment. Make them have to defend more ground.”
Another development in the new legions. Small groups of men who did not carry rifles and were trained by the physicians for simple medical tasks, who pulled men out of the line and back to aide positions, or at least off the front line in times like this, when no aide position existed.
The enemy had the benefit of being on the interior of the battle, allowing for a tighter range of men and to quickly reinforce from one side of their line to the other without having to go all the way around.
The enemy tried to make a concerted push down the center, to split his line in two, apparently hoping they could use a charge down the slope to their advantage. His men, however, were not spooked, maintained good fire discipline and checked the attempt. The enemy was too tightly packed, allowing for most of the Britannian fire to find its mark without much difficulty.
The enemy was still slowly learning their strategy, not adjusting quickly to the shifting Britannian tactics. They only made it halfway down the slope before the men turned and ran, many not stopping when they reached their lines, continuing toward the rear, out of sight.
A dull thud between Modius’s position and his men in the riverbed, followed by a geyser of dirt being thrown into the air by the impact, signaled the introduction of the enemy’s cannon, which they must have finally gotten into position.
It took a minute for him to find the weapon. They had put it further back, on a higher slope, near the ridge behind the one they had put their infantry on.
Another mistake.
A direct-fire weapon needed an open field of fire. High ground was important because it allowed weapons like that a wider range of fire, and it used gravity to allow the range of the cannon to extend. Where that high ground failed was on uneven terrain such as this, where the interceding ridge with their own infantry partially blocked the depression where the riverbed was.
He couldn’t be sure how many of his men the gunners could see, but he imagined the reason it landed behind his lines was because there was limited visibility. Unfortunately, it also meant they would be able to see where he’d positioned his cannon.
Still, moving his cannon would only draw their attention and putting it in the ravine with his infantry would put it under rifle fire. Better to try and take out their artillery piece altogether.
“Signal the gun crew, they may fire. Target their artillery piece,” Modius told one of the runners, who dashed off toward the weapon.
No reason to expose himself with signal flags on such a small battlefield if he didn’t have to. He was, after all, also in the direct line of fire of their cannon.
As if to confirm their cannon was not without teeth, another shot fired, this one still behind his front line, but much closer. Just before it hit the ground, it exploded, sending a scattering of shrapnel into his men’s backs, causing a handful of casualties.
Not enough to turn the tide of battle, but Modius would not let them fire on his men unanswered.
A minute later, the Britannian gun fired, sending a shell on a high arc, coming down a dozen or so paces in front of the enemy piece. Close enough to send men scrambling, but not so close as to actually put it out of commission. Flags off to his far left went up, signaling to his gun crew the position of the shot in relation to the enemy gun.
Smartly, the enemy did not wait for ranging shots to reposition their piece. However, they stayed on the same far ridge, still without an effective line of sight on his men.
With the enemy lines solidifying, the flanks continued to press against the sides of the enemy line, spreading out more and more to get further into the enemy rear. It did put them in danger of being swept up if the enemy’s flanks hinged out and came down either side of the ridge. If Modius was in their position, it would be what he would do, attempt to envelop the enemy and refuse the position.
It was their best chance at breaking the temporary stalemate between their forces.
He didn’t want to give them time to consider that option. “Message to Tribune Renius to send in the special teams on the left flank. They are to go as far down the enemy flank as they can get. His flankers are to increase pressure until their assault begins.”
The messenger saluted and ran off to pass the message. He’d considered having them hit in the center of the enemy line, but they’d have to get close to the enemy line to give them the Britannian’s newest little surprise, so the fewer guns they had to face doing it, the better. This wasn’t going to break their lines, but he wanted to keep them off balance until his cannon finished off the enemy armillary and was able to turn to their infantry, which would turn the battle.
Besides, from where he stood, it looked as if there was more cover on the very far left, enough to get within distance.
After a few minutes, he could see a small group of men working their way along a dry creek bed on the left flank. They moved carefully, just behind the flankers, waiting until they fired to move to the next set of cover.
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