Cannons

Vitus hesitated no longer. He picked up a small black flag and waved it vigorously toward the open ground within the city.

With a thunderous roar, a stone projectile surged from the cannon's muzzle, hurtling through the air with immense kinetic energy. It streaked over the city walls, flying toward the enemy outside under the terrified gazes of the defenders.

However, the stone missed the siege cannons entirely, instead smashing into a supply wagon over a hundred meters to the right.

That was way off.

"Malaka!" Vitus cursed under his breath. He grabbed a small red flag and waved it twice toward the city.

The cannons fired again, still missing the target, though the margin of error was slightly smaller. Hesitating, Vitus picked up a small blue flag to make another fine adjustment to the coordinates.

By the fifth adjustment, a shell finally landed within a fifty-meter radius. Limited by the inherent inaccuracy of the artillery, Vitus stopped adjusting.

"This will have to do. With enough shots, we're bound to hit the target eventually."

He signaled the caravan workers to operate the cannons against the enemy outside based on the final firing coordinates.

Suddenly, seven deafening booms erupted in succession from the open ground within the city. The scorching stones flew outward. One draft horse was grazed by a shell and collapsed into a pool of blood, screaming incessantly. Terrified of suffering the same fate, the remaining horses broke their tethers and scattered in all directions.

The mercenary gunners were terrified too, but they had no choice. The Noose Mercenary Group's mission was to breach Pistoia within half a month, and their only hope lay in the three heavy siege cannons.

If the mission failed, the Duke would not pay the remaining bounty, and the mercenary group's reputation would be severely tarnished.

"Fire! Destroy their walls!" The flag captain urged his men to load the gunpowder and stone, then lit the fuse.

Hiss— After a massive roar, the stout, iron-hooped cannon launched a twenty-kilogram stone, which slammed into the base of the distant city wall.

The remaining two bombards also fired, filling the area with a pungent white smoke. The flag captain stood on tiptoe, trying to observe the results of the volley. The next moment, eight more stones flew from the city. Seven missed, but one decapitated a gunner, sending the rest into a panic.

"Keep firing!"

The flag captain urged his men to reload and bombard the north wall of Pistoia. The serpentines inside the city continued to fire as well; most shots missed, but the occasional stone that struck a hapless gunner shattered the morale of the men.

It is unclear how much time passed before the incessantly shouting flag captain was killed by a shell. The gunners, unable to endure the terror any longer, attempted to flee the danger zone.

Unfortunately, the Noose Mercenary Group had organized a disciplinary squad, using spears to force the gunners back to their posts.

The bombardment continued for a while longer. Around nine in the morning, the barrels of the three bombards overheated, forcing a brief ceasefire. The mercenary commander decided to shift positions, moving to an open field two hundred paces away.

However, the mercenaries didn't have long to celebrate before the city's artillery began its counter-battery fire. After the initial test shots, the defenders had re-established the general range and continued to shell the enemy.

By ten in the morning, few mercenary gunners remained. One bombard was struck, its barrel spiderwebbed with cracks; it was clearly scrap metal.

Seeing this, the mercenary commander cursed and swore. He abandoned the idea of using heavy artillery to destroy the walls and began urging his men to dig tunnels and build trebuchets and siege towers.

In the days that followed, Pistoia returned to a state of calm. Vitus stayed atop the tower, using his notebook to record his observations:

Italy had a typical Mediterranean climate with heavy winter rainfall. The defenders could stay indoors to avoid the cold, damp rain, but the attackers had no such luxury.

The camp outside the city was laid out in a chaotic, disorganized fashion. Hemp ropes were strung between tents, draped with countless sodden garments. Rainwater flowed along the terrain, pooling in low-lying areas to form filthy, soft quagmires.

Looking from afar, Vitus could imagine the stench—a mixture of rotting straw, wet wool, horse manure, and human excrement.

"In the Roman era, there were strict requirements for the location and layout of military camps. Soldiers were forbidden from relieving themselves at will, and rainwater was channeled out through drainage ditches to ensure the camp remained clean and orderly. Entering the Middle Ages, this aspect has only gotten worse."

Constantinople had a rich collection of books. Over the years, Vitus had read the military treatises of Flavius, Leo VI, and others, all of which touched upon camp layout to varying degrees.

"Camps are divided into two types: temporary camps built during field marches and long-term camps with higher standards. The Jixiao Xinshu also covers this. What were the specifics again?"

Vitus clutched his pen and paper, trying to recall fragments he had seen online. Occasionally, patrolling militiamen passed by; they had long since grown accustomed to the strange Greek man and did not interfere.

A week later, tired of watching the mercenary camp, he drew a sketch and had the carpenters and blacksmiths work together to create more suitable field gun carriages, improving the mobility of the serpentines. The results were verified to be quite effective.

Day after day, the persistent rain severely hampered the progress of the siege. Water seeped into the tunnels the mercenaries were digging, and they spent most of their energy on drainage.

There were no steam engines in this era, so the mercenaries used primitive, inefficient methods, with men bailing out the water with wooden buckets. The gathering crowds exposed the location of the tunnels. That evening, Vitus found Giulio and told the defenders to make the necessary preparations.

"There is no need for that."

Giulio poured the young man a glass of wine. "I just received word that Florence has hired two more mercenary groups and urgently conscripted a batch of militiamen. My eldest son, Pauli, is among them. They will arrive in a few days."

Is that so?

With the siege nearing its end, Vitus's mood improved slightly. In his view, Florence was fighting on home soil, after all; they shouldn't lose to mercenaries from Milan who had traveled such a long distance.

On December 5th, there was unusual activity among the mercenaries outside the city. They abandoned their unfinished tunnels and siege equipment, organized their gear, and polished the rust off their armor and weapons, preparing for the coming battle.

On the city wall, the commander of the defenders sighed. "Our reinforcements have arrived. Should we sally out to meet them?"

Pistoia's militiamen lacked combat experience and were only suited for defensive operations behind the walls. Giulio had been agonizing over this for days, worried they were unfit for field combat.

"Of course we must sally out!" Vitus's stance was clear. Once the two armies clashed and the battle reached a stalemate, even low-morale militiamen could become the key to turning the tide.

"Sir, for the defenders, the most important thing is not the wall itself, but the hope in the hearts of the garrison. If the reinforcements are defeated and the citizens' belief in salvation collapses, this city will fall regardless."