Field Battle (2)
A single phrase circled endlessly in my mind, one I desperately wanted to spit out. But with the Duke of Aveiro right beside me, I had no choice but to hold it back. In the end, the Portugal-Malaga allied forces missed the golden window to push back the enemy. Seeing the foe who had sealed off the beach, we could only let out a collective sigh.
"Ugh..."
The duke groaned in agony, his heart burning much like mine. I'd known he was cautious by nature, but that very caution had now become our Achilles' heel.
Infantry thickly arrayed around the beach. Countless archers visible behind them. And the elf nomadic cavalry that kept circling our perimeter, grating on our nerves. A maddening collaboration. To break through that, we'd need cavalry at minimum... Unfortunately, the Portugal-Malaga allies consisted solely of pikemen, swordsmen, and musketeers. Gunpowder was running low, too. From our position, we couldn't launch a preemptive strike, so we had no choice but to endure like this—and the enemy knew full well that approaching us would cost them dearly due to our technological edge. Their plan was to force us to withdraw on our own. They intended to starve us out, plain and simple.
Of course, supplies like rations, powder, and fresh water could be replenished... but the sea sharks, the Barbary pirates, weren't about to let our supply lines through unchallenged. Out of every ten shipments, only nine made it. A mere ten percent loss overall didn't seem catastrophic, but as the attrition piled up, the soldiers' morale began to sag bit by bit. Our only victory had been securing the beachhead. It felt like we might just wither away like this.
"We need to reinforce the eastern palisades more solidly."
With no clever stratagems left, our forces shifted to fortifying the area. Night raids with fire could end us outright, so we carved driftwood from the sea into stakes, erecting palisades as barricades against cavalry incursions. In this way, our foothold expanded inch by inch into a fortified camp. Whenever we tried to venture beyond the beach, elf cavalry prowled like neighborhood dogs. Inside the beach, it was all within our archers' range. Stepping out meant losing support from the archers on standby aboard ship... So all we could do was keep building those palisades.
"Understood, Your Grace."
"Tonight's watch falls to the Malaga forces in rotation."
I nodded at the Duke of Aveiro's words. Portugal and Malaga troops alternated night watches... and it was our turn. Ordinary soldiers handled the basics, of course, so the duke meant the command level. That included him, me, and our respective staffs, taking shifts in rotation. I'd done plenty of this in the army before possessing this game world, so it felt routine.
"The sun's setting now... let's wrap today's council and reconvene tomorrow."
"You've worked hard today, Duke of Aveiro."
The duke waved dismissively and headed to his tent. I watched him go, thoughts swirling, but duty called, so I returned to mine. Giambattista della Porta greeted me upon arrival, dark circles stark under his eyes betraying his exhaustion.
"Welcome back, my lord count."
"You get some rest now. I'll handle the rest."
"Th-thank you, sir."
Unlike the early days, he bowed gratefully at the permission to sleep. And for good reason—we'd been toiling day and night on a certain project. Cryptography. What we were pouring our efforts into was a cipher wheel.
The Caesar cipher we'd twisted into something new. The ancient Caesar shift was deceptively simple: A shifted by 2 becomes C. "I love you" might turn into "K Nqxg Aqw." Effective enough in its way. But as an old cipher, it had flaws. First, it only worked against the illiterate. Second—and worse—it couldn't exceed the 26 letters of the alphabet. Limited permutations. Still useful, spawning improved variants. Ours was one such.
I incorporated concepts rare in the West: zero and negative numbers. Already known in Arab, Indian, and Maya realms. Europe wouldn't embrace them until the 17th century—over a century from now. We exploited that gap. We assigned a specific letter to zero daily, like a changing password; without knowing zero's letter, decryption was impossible. Plus keywords and our custom table. Essentially Caesar plus Vigenère with negatives. Complex, but command officers' education levels could handle it. This cipher would be our lifeline later. Perfect busywork for night watch.
Then a messenger approached, kneeling gravely before me.
"What is it?"
"The mood outside feels off, sir."
In this situation, only a night raid came to mind. I turned to my guards and issued orders.
"Assemble all sergeants and above in the command tent. Notify the Portuguese forces too, so they can move at a moment's notice."
"Yes, sir!"
My aides, seeing me don armor and sword, armed themselves and prepared to deploy.
"Sir Gareth, order the sentries to patrol waving torches and pick swift soldiers for light gear—just swords and shields."
"Understood."
"Have them stomp as they move to make maximum noise. Don't forget."
Waving torches made us look numerous; stomping in the sight-blocked night suggested vigilance everywhere. Minor tricks, but they could delay any raid.
"Shall I ready the full force?"
"No—fatigue would build. Watch and wait for now."
"Understood."
The troops dispersed with my orders. Sir Gareth headed straight to the next sentry post. My aides and I moved toward the reported spot.
"Torches over there flickering—growing, shrinking—and hoofbeats."
"Yes, sir. Looks like a raid prep."
"Hmm..."
Just as we used torches to spot them, they needed them to see us. A true raid would come dark and silent. Realizing this, I waved everyone to attention.
"It's a feint. Tell Sir Gareth to cancel all orders."
"Yes, sir."
Tension eased among the men. I knew these elf cavalry pulled such ruses—they'd fooled us before. But we had to react each time; one infiltrator torching the camp could doom us. Grinding my teeth, I glared at the enemy.
Then an idea struck: they couldn't have all the fun.
"Got any straw?"
"Yes, sir—seen it piled on the hull."
"Make scarecrows, dress them in armor."
"To make our sentries look more numerous?"
"No—to bait the enemy."
My aide tilted his head. Seizing the chance, I fleshed out the plan, hoping to snag the possibly defected Jermi Walli too.
"Hmm..."
The elf stroked his chin. Leading the Berber cavalry, he spotted a small boat heading somewhere from near the enemy camp. A man holding a torch aboard. The captain cocked his head.
"Doesn't seem threatening..."
"But isn't it suspicious, sir?"
His lieutenant chimed in. The captain nodded.
"As soon as we showed raid signs, Malaga stirred... and now a boat launches. Odd, yes."
"Shoot it with arrows?"
"No. Let's see where it goes."
The cavalry nodded silently, watching the boat's path. Something fishy about it—drifting with the current, torchbearer unmoving.
"Fake."
"Agreed."
Foolish Christians, thinking such ploys would fool them.
"Ignore it."
"Back to camp, then?"
"Regrettably, yes."
The troops wheeled about. But something nagged the captain. Too obvious—hence suspicious. Moreover...
"That boat's heading toward Bensu..."
"Yes."
Near Bensu: where Jermi Walli, once Malaga count's officer, had surrendered. He'd resisted fiercely post-landing, but captured and yielded. Converted, joined Morocco—but warned of Malaga landing at Bensu beach. Instead, they hit Tangier with Portugal. Jermi lost trust, now tagging along as a camp follower. Fail to prove himself, and he'd slave as a Christian—doomed to rot as a scavenger.
Recalling this, the captain halted and eyed the drifting boat.
"We should haul it in, check what's aboard."
"Risky?"
"Heading to Bensu beach... gives me chills."
"Understood."
The cavalry approached the distant boat, far from enemy lines. They hooked it expertly with grapnel ropes and dragged it ashore. Smaller than a fishing boat. A straw-stuffed scarecrow in Malaga armor stood aboard.
"Fake, as expected."
The captain tsked, hurling it irritably. Parchment fluttered from the dummy. Scribbled letters—alphabet, but gibberish. Spotting it, he beckoned a Christian slave.
They always carried such slaves for combat captures. Dragged on ropes during maneuvers, tied in woods otherwise. In this beast-ridden land, the slave—recently mauled—lacked one eye.
"Translate."
The slave prostrated, took the parchment, squinted painfully—other eye weak too—holding it to his face, laboriously deciphering.
"Th-this looks like a cipher."
"Cipher?"
"Y-yes... the old Caesar cipher..."
The captain nodded, wheeling his horse toward main camp.