Chapter 201 : Morale Problem

Lucius had never intended to invent fireworks when he first concocted gunpowder.

During the early stages of production, the workers’ lack of skill and constant trial and error had resulted in batches of powder with wildly inconsistent ratios.

"The explosive yield seems too inconsistent for military use."

"Still, throwing it all away feels like a waste, doesn’t it?"

Upon hearing their dilemma, Lucius had proposed another use for it: mix the unstable powder with various mineral salts and detonate it high in the air.

"Detonating Vesta powder high in the sky won’t drive off an enemy, though."

"Not all Vesta powder needs to be a weapon. Thunderous noise and bright flashes are invaluable for signaling. Besides... it offers a spectacular show."

"A show?"

"Imagine launching them into the night sky. Wouldn’t blossoms of fire in the night sky look magnificent?"

Lucius had originally planned to unveil the display in Rome for his sister Julia’s betrothal ceremony.

Instead, through the fickle twists of fate, the world’s first-ever fireworks display took place here, in the wilds of Gaul.

CRACK-BOOM!

With every concussive burst overhead, panicked shouts erupted throughout the barbarian encampment.

"What in the gods’ names is that?!"

"The heavens are wroth!"

Chaos swept through the Helvetian host as terrified warriors gaped at the sky. Each flash tore open the blackness of night, followed instantly by deafening thunder.

Not everyone lost their wits, however. Seasoned chieftains like Divico saw through the spectacle almost immediately.

"They are firing the ash of fire into the air!"

"The Romans are upon us! Do not panic—form your battle lines!"

"Lock shields!"

The chieftains roared themselves hoarse trying to restore order, but getting panic-stricken warriors into defensive formations in the dead of night was an exercise in futility.

Even for disciplined veterans, finding one’s place in pitch darkness was nearly impossible.

By the time the Helvetii finally formed a semblance of a shield wall, the flashes and thunder had ceased.

"Where are the damn Romans?!"

When no assault materialized, several chieftains bellowed in fury.

"Curse them, it was a diversion! They were distracting us! What are they plotting...? The ramparts! They are abandoning the defensive line!"

"Dispatch scouts to their fortifications immediately!"

"It is too dark! We risk butchering our own men in the gloom! Shouldn’t we wait for dawn?"

"Damn it all!"

"Divico! What are you standing around for?! The Romans are retreating! We must pursue them at once—"

"It could be an ambush," Divico snapped. "What happens if we stumble blindly out of camp and walk straight into a Roman trap?"

Right as the argument grew heated, the concussive blasts resumed.

"The Roman horsemen are approaching again! Ready your spears!"

Mark Antony’s cavalry loosed their firework arrows at carefully timed intervals. Darting along the perimeter just beyond javelin range, they kept the Helvetii’s attention fixed on the darkness.

"Pull back again! Keep them rattled so they don’t dare set foot outside their palisade!"

And while the barbarians cowered behind their shields, the legionaries of the 11th Legion quietly abandoned their trenches and slipped away toward the east.

***

"By Pluto, what is that?"

"Fire is falling from the heavens..."

The Helvetii weren’t the only ones stunned by the display. The retreating Roman legionaries flinched at the sudden blasts and blinding flashes.

Yet their reaction was entirely different.

"Lightning! Great Jupiter is hurling thunderbolts upon the savages!"

"The gods are with us!"

Helping their wounded along, the legionaries murmured quiet cheers.

"Shut your mouths and keep moving! One careless shout and the barbarians will be on our heels!"

"Double time! Move!"

Centurions hushed the men with harsh whispers, driving them eastward toward Geneva exactly as Lucius had instructed.

By dawn, the last cohort had made it inside Geneva’s outer defenses.

Though they had been forced to abandon some entrenching tools and heavy baggage, they had suffered practically no casualties during the withdrawal. Considering they had disengaged right under the enemy’s nose, it was nothing short of a miracle.

"We survived! We actually made it!"

Yet the crisis was far from over.

***

The following morning.

"Morale is dangerously low," Metellus reported, walking alongside me into camp. "More and more officers are arguing that we should abandon Geneva entirely."

"I can hardly blame them."

I surveyed the staging grounds outside Geneva. The encampment was in chaos as it struggled to accommodate the newly arrived 11th Legion.

The busiest men in camp were the army surgeons. They worked without rest, dressing gaping wounds and carrying mangled legionaries to makeshift cots.

"For days, the Helvetii assaulted our perimeter without letting up," I noted. "The 11th had to repel waves of savages without a single night’s proper rest."

To make matters worse, the 11th consisted primarily of raw conscripts. Expecting them to be in high spirits under those conditions would have been absurd.

"I need to address the men directly."

"You mean a speech?"

"Yes, panic is already setting in. They have no idea what the situation is, nor what tomorrow holds. If I were in their sandals, I’d be terrified too."

They deserved at least a basic explanation. If I merely barked at them to shut up and obey orders, I’d end up facing the Helvetii entirely on my own.

In times like this, I genuinely missed Father. Julius Caesar could deliver an oration so intoxicating that men would eagerly march into the jaws of Hades for him.

But I could at least try to imitate him.

"Assemble every man not assigned to perimeter watch. I will address them myself."

I looked at the weary, frightened faces around me.

What these men needed wasn’t honeyed poetry. It was the unvarnished truth.

***

"Hey, Vorenus. What do you reckon the kid’s going to say?"

"Watch your tongue and don’t call your commander ’kid.’ Unless you fancy being stripped and flogged for insubordination..."

"Fine, fine," Titus Pullo grumbled, rolling his shoulders.

Both wore the armor of centurions.

As the centurions and legionaries gathered in loose formation, Pullo leaned toward Vorenus and whispered, "Still, you can’t deny his age. That skirmish by the river was his very first real battle."

"And he brought the entire 11th Legion back alive without losing a man," Vorenus replied flatly. "Alexander was barely twenty when he brought all of Greece to heel. Age is meaningless. What matters is a man’s wisdom, his courage, and his virtus."

"Alexander? Isn’t that taking it a little far? Didn’t that strange powder of his save us in the end?"

Pullo wasn’t wrong to feel uneasy; their circumstances were undeniably bleak.

The veteran 10th Legion was crippled and still reforming, while the exhausted 11th and 12th were effectively trapped in Geneva.

A massive Helvetian host could descend upon them at any time. Even seasoned veterans and grizzled centurions were trembling beneath their stoic masks.

Amid the suffocating silence, a figure finally ascended the wooden dais.

Lucius Julius Caesar.

He climbed the platform, his gaze sweeping across the gathered ranks before he began to speak.

"Comrades. You all know who I am. I am Lucius Julius Caesar. General Pompey has entrusted me, as military tribune, with temporary command of Geneva."

His voice rang clear across the silent field.

"We were defeated in our last engagement. I will offer you no excuses. The enemy outmaneuvered us, and we paid for our hubris in Roman blood."

Pullo scratched his leg with the heel of his caliga. Generals always sounded the same. He had braced himself for another haughty lecture about duty to the Republic—a hollow speech he had heard enough times to make his ears bleed.

Yet Lucius’s next words were nothing like what he had expected.

"It is natural to be afraid. I am afraid. The only men who feel no fear are dead men. But last night, the 11th Legion broke through an enemy encirclement and reached this camp. The 10th is sharpening its blades to fight again. The 12th is standing with us, and I am standing right here beside you."

Lucius stepped down from the dais, walking slowly through the open ranks of legionaries.

"We must hold Geneva to buy time for Pompey’s army to arrive."

His voice cut through the stillness.

"Even as we speak, Pompey is gathering a massive force of volunteers and preparing to march for Gaul with all haste. Our task is not to slaughter the entire Helvetian horde this very afternoon."

Pullo blinked, scratching his head.

He could feel the atmosphere around him begin to shift. Vorenus and the other legionaries hung on every word in dead silence.

"All we need to do is hold Geneva today. And when tomorrow dawns, hold it for one more day. I will not ask you to cast aside your fear. But I demand this: do not abandon your post, and do not abandon the brother standing beside you. When the barbarians come, I will fight on the very same rampart as you."

He paused for a moment. "If not a single one of you chooses to fight with me, I will remain on this wall and fight with the cavalry who rode with me from Rome."

Uneasy murmurs rippled through the cohorts.

"But if you are willing to fight, stand by my side. That is all."

Lucius turned on his heel and walked away.

No thunderous roar or wild cheering followed.

The men simply stared after his retreating figure in stunned silence.

Yet no one could deny that the despair in the air had evaporated.

"What are you standing around for?!" a centurion barked suddenly. "We have a palisade to reinforce before nightfall! Go haul those timbers!"

"Double the pickets! I want reports on every Helvetian movement!"

Pullo let out a dry chuckle. "Simple bastards, aren’t we?"

Yet even he had no choice but to admit it.

"The kid didn’t flinch. Decisive, too. Maybe he takes after his father after all."

Spitting on the ground, Pullo hoisted a heavy oak log onto his shoulder.

"What are you staring at, you sluggish lot?! Move your asses!"

"Right away, Centurion!"

***

While the legions in Geneva frantically prepared their defenses, recruitment in Rome had reached a fever pitch.

After Pompey’s extraordinary imperium was ratified, citizens lined up in droves to serve under him.

At the recruitment tables, men gave their names, tribes, and places of residence.

They did not all enlist for the same reasons. There were impoverished youths seeking a path out of squalor, veterans who had found themselves adrift in civilian life, and true patriots driven by the Republic’s call.

"What do you mean you won’t take me?! What magistrate turns away a willing Roman?!"

"My apologies, citizen. The first levy is strictly reserved for veterans. You may apply during the secondary levy."

Pompey was enlisting only men with prior legionary experience.

"We have no time to drill raw recruits," Pompey had stated plainly. "To relieve Geneva, I need men who can march straight into battle."

"Limiting the levy to veterans will leave us short of men, General. If we blend veterans and recruits—"

Yet the magistrates were soon proved wrong.

The flood of veteran volunteers shattered all expectations.

"Is there an error in the ledgers? We’ve raised two full legions of veterans in mere days?!"

"It’s hardly a mystery. Young Caesar has spent years pouring coin into veterans’ welfare."

"Ah. They all expect lavish rewards if they serve under his banner."

"More than that, they genuinely believe Rome won’t discard them like broken tools once their enlistment ends. And the Veterans’ Fund meant we already knew where to find them. Didn’t every veteran in Latium receive a letter?"

The Veterans’ Fund had dispatched formal invitations to veterans across Italy. It was not a forced conscription, but a personal call to arms.

"They say the veterans who fought under Pompey in the East received prime farmland. Imagine the bounty this time!"

With veterans flooding the recruitment stations, recruitment standards became exceptionally strict.

Those who passed the physical trials were grouped according to their old cohorts, reuniting with familiar centurions and comrades.

While the legions assembled, Caesar’s operations in Rome buzzed with frantic activity as well.

"Faster! Every single barrel matters!"

"Hurry, but follow safety protocols to the letter! One stray spark and this entire warehouse goes up in smoke!"

At DARPA, still partially under construction, laborers hauled raw materials and carefully measured gunpowder ratios. Dirt rich in niter arrived constantly from Rome, while prospectors searched across Italy and Hispania for natural saltpeter deposits.

With the Senate funneling vast sums from the treasury into the project, powder production was ramping up by the day.

"We are starting with the simplest weapons Caesar proposed." Spurius said during his morning briefing with Vitruvius.

While Vitruvius oversaw the reconstruction of Nova Troia and the Subura, research and development of Vesta powder and new ordnance had fallen entirely to Spurius.

"Caesar has backed us with immense resources, rewarding every breakthrough generously," Spurius said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. "Now it’s our turn to repay the debt. We cannot let him wage this war alone."

"What exactly are you proposing?"

"The weapons we are building require specialized handling and maintenance. The legions have no time to learn how to operate them in the field."

"You mean..."

"My colleagues and I have all served in the legions before. We are no strangers to the battlefield."

Roman legions already had immunes, skilled specialists such as craftsmen and engineers who handled surveying and fortification work.

But Spurius was proposing something far more radical: a massive, dedicated corps composed entirely of skilled artisans and engineers.

"We are the only ones who understand how to handle Vesta powder, assemble these engines, and erect fortifications quickly. Where else in Rome will you find better technicians than at our technical school?"

And so, a new kind of soldier—the combat engineer—began to take shape.