The Plains of Pluto
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 9
Carthage
The city was quiet as the day turned to evening. Winter in Africa was a far cry from how it was in Ériu, but even without the thickly packed snow, the pace was slower this time of year.
Without harvests to sell, most of the markets were a far cry from the bustling centers of commerce they were in midsummer. People still came to the city to sell and trade wares, but as the end of winter neared, most stayed home, limiting their need for food and supplies as much as possible as what they squirreled away all year dwindled.
This decrease in the daily ebb of population had the side effect of sending most of the rebels into hiding. With a smaller overall populace and fewer people on the streets, it was difficult for them to blend in as easily, naturally curtailing their activity.
While this was good for the overall safety and well-being of the city, it was a temporary fix at best. Worse, when the rebels were less active, it made the people Medb used to try and get information on them easier to spot, and it was harder to keep tabs on what activity they did have.
Which was why she was on this tour of the city.
Not that she thought she was going to find something that Claudius’s men missed. She just wanted to publicly remind them that she was still here, and they were not forgotten.
A juvenile response to their lack of success, but she was running light on choices.
She was a little surprised when Claudius and a few praetorians turned out of a side street and veered toward them, matching pace.
“The tour going well?” he asked casually as he waved their guards back as they continued to walk, giving them a little space for privacy.
“It is. You seem to have things well in hand.”
“Only on the surface. Maintaining this level of control is costly, both in manpower and gold. The rebels may be quiet, but they haven’t gone away. Just last week, we lost two men to an ambush.”
“Things are as they must be. I assume you are here now, however, because you have something for me.”
“I do, my lady. We’ve managed to examine some of the suspicious crates.”
She didn’t need him to elaborate on what he meant by suspicious crates. She also wasn’t happy to hear this news.
“You risked alerting the smugglers? I thought I made it clear we couldn’t risk spooking them before we understood the full scope of their operation.”
“You did, and we did not alert them. My men have been ... strategically clumsy over the past week. A dropped crate here, a wedged container there, all in full view of the crew, who never leave their cargo unattended. Nothing that would raise suspicion beyond normal port mishaps. They only caught glimpses of the contents, and the watchers were too focused on berating the stupid worker to notice them peeking at the contents.”
“Clever. And what did they see?”
“The crates contained powder, not the low-grade stuff we sell on the open market or that we’ve found in the hands of rebels. The same stuff used by the legions, in their original shipping pouches.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely. And that’s not all. We found rifled muskets. We couldn’t look to see the maker’s mark, but this type is only produced in Factorium and not sold. The worst, though, were several cases of the new fused artillery shells as well. The ones with the new shape.”
“What?” Medb said, stopping cold, an unusual display of acknowledgement from her.
“Which is why I wanted to talk to you right away. I can’t help but wonder how the Ptolemies acquired them. We aren’t talking about just a few. It was several cases packed with the weapons.”
“While the Egyptian connection is clear enough, it doesn’t necessarily mean the Ptolemies are the source. There are other possibilities to consider.”
“What? We would have heard of raids on military depots or armories.”
“Those would not be the only places to acquire those items. Equipment can be lost in combat zones, collected later and sold, or shipments might be getting skimmed during production and transport. The gods know, we’ve had enough officials inside our own government arrested for corruption. There are many hands involved in moving weapons from factory to frontline.”
“With respect, I find it unlikely that Hortensius would allow such theft from his facilities,” Claudius objected. “The man guards his innovations like a mother hen with her chicks.”
“True enough,” Medb conceded. “But Hortensius can’t watch every worker, every cart, every warehouse. The supply chain has grown complex as production has increased.”
“Which is my point, my lady. The level of coordination needed to get equipment at its source, or to put together the network to gather scavenged supplies in this quantity, is beyond a normal smuggling operation. That isn’t even considering the shipping involved with it.”
“I agree, which leads us to a more pressing question. Why go to such lengths? What purpose do these particular weapons serve?” she said, starting to walk again as she began to get her thoughts back into some sense of order.
“It’s not for here. I think Carthage is only a waystation in whatever’s happening. We’ve seen no evidence of rebels using the rifles or shells. Some of the captured insurgents had Britannian powder, yes, but nothing approaching this level of sophistication.”
“Precisely. If their aim was simply arming local malcontents, there are far more practical options. Basic firearms, traditional weapons, items that wouldn’t draw immediate attention.”
“But a smuggling operation like this makes little sense from a pure profit perspective. The quantity is too small to be worth the risk and the quality is enough to bring unwanted eyes. There would be cheaper ways to make a coin.”
“Unless what we’re seeing is merely the visible portion of a much larger enterprise.”
“My lady?”
“We may have only intercepted a fraction of the total shipments. Other crates could contain conventional weapons or valuable goods meant for rebel forces or black market sale, to offset their costs, and explain the funding of the rebels. As you said, this could be just a stop along their journey. Your own men report that most of these crates don’t remain in Carthage. They’re transferred to other vessels and shipped elsewhere. The question is, where?”
“The Egyptian connection seems clear enough, but...”
“Proving it is another matter entirely,” Medb said. “Particularly given the likelihood of high-level involvement. We’ve already seen how corruption can infiltrate even the most trusted institutions.”
“We’re making progress on getting someone aboard one of these ships, and we’ve secured a schooner to track vessels leaving port.”
“Good. As always, I appreciate that you think ahead, though I expect our quarry will take precautions against being followed.”
“The captain is experienced in such matters. He’ll maintain distance and use multiple vessels to relay positions. His name was on the list you gave me from Ramirus.”
“Excellent.” Medb’s approval was genuine. “You’re on the right track and doing good work. Stay on them, and hopefully they will do something soon that will finally give us more answers than questions.”
“Yes, my lady.”
He bowed and left quickly, the two men who’d accompanied him breaking off and following him while Medb’s own guard closed ranks to finish their tour.
Claudius was doing well, anticipating what she would have done, even when he still had questions as to why.
Now, she only had to hope that they finally had found a break in the network before whatever these people were doing came to fruition.
Factorium
Sorantius entered the main workroom of the munitions factory, the familiar bouquet of chemicals and soot hitting him as he did. He had been out checking on their latest shipments headed to the front, mostly ether and other medical supplies, and hoped that time had been enough for his people to make progress on setting up for the latest tests.
While he wanted to be there for the actual first run of all new chemicals, his time was much too valuable to spend setting up the apparatus needed to take care of it.
Thankfully, he had trained his assistants well and they were busy meticulously cleaning glassware and setting up the specialized equipment needed for the day’s experiment. On the table, brass clamps held thick glass containers steady, including the new mercury-filled thermometer that replaced the older version the Consul had introduced several years previously. It was a delicate instrument that would hopefully allow them more precise control of the volatile reaction they were about to create.
Or at least that was what the Consul had promised.
“Where are we?” he asked as he walked behind the busily working men, who all jumped in surprise at his voice.
One of the chemists straightened, wiping his hands on a clean rag before answering. “The nitrocellulose is ready. We’ve double-checked it and made sure it was a well-washed batch. We’ve also confirmed the ether-alcohol mixture is at the required ratio, three parts ether to one part alcohol, by weight.”
Sorantius picked up a glass beaker, tilting it to examine the pale liquid within. The faint, sharp smell of the mixture filled his nose as he gave a short nod.
“Good. Any problems?”
“None, sir. The mixture matches the Consul’s specifications exactly.”
Satisfied, Sorantius moved to the opposite side of the table, where a large copper basin sat atop a reinforced stand. A small valve near the bottom connected to a water pipe, ready to be used to adjust the temperature as needed, while a burner rested beneath it. Sorantius crouched slightly, running his hand along the base of the setup, noting the heavy insulation.
“Sir,” another assistant said hesitantly from behind him. “While the water has been preheated to just below the minimum range, we’re unsure if we’ll be able to maintain a constant temperature throughout the entire process.”
Sorantius straightened and gestured toward the thermometer resting on the table. He picked it up and held it between his fingers, the slim column of mercury flowing as he turned it.
“That is why the Consul had us develop this. It should allow us to monitor the temperature with precision. The bath must remain between forty-five and fifty degrees on the Consul’s measurement scale, no higher. If the mercury rises beyond the top marker here,” he said, pointing to the etched lines on the glass. “The reaction will accelerate uncontrollably. That’s why one of you was assigned to always watch the line and alert us if it does. We can add cool water if it rises too high or increase the flame if it drops too low.”
“Yes, sir,” the assistant replied, nodding and checking the new device attached to the tub.
Sorantius, sweeping his gaze over the table one last time, turned back to his team and said, “Alright. Let’s begin.”
The assistants moved quickly, one uncorking a sealed jar of nitrocellulose while another brought the ether-alcohol mixture closer to the table. The first assistant began adding the nitrocellulose slowly, using a wooden scoop to transfer it into the waiting solvent. Each scoop was small, and the process was deliberate; too much at once could destabilize the reaction.
As the nitrocellulose was introduced, two other chemists began stirring the mixture with long-handled paddles, also moving slowly. Numerous accidents over the years had taught all of them the dangers of not treating these chemicals cautiously.
Sorantius leaned in, watching the pale strands of nitrocellulose swirl and dissolve into the clear liquid, creating a faintly cloudy appearance. He adjusted one of his assistant’s arms, nudging it up to correct the angle of the man’s paddle, which wasn’t properly scraping the bottom of the container evenly.
“Temperature?” he called out without looking up.
“Forty-seven degrees,” the assistant with the thermometer replied.
“Good. Keep it there.”
He watched, moving around the table, as the chemicals in the container were carefully mixed. Even though he knew from the Consul’s notes what was going to happen, it was amazing to see the way it thickened gradually as more nitrocellulose was added. If he was adding a solid like flour or dirt into liquid, he would understand, but adding a liquid and having that reaction was another amazing thing the Consul had delivered.
“Slow your additions,” he ordered the first assistant as he saw some of the tell-tale signs the instructions had said to watch for. “We’re approaching the critical point.”