"Second, the pushcarts and wagons." Tiberius brought out the second model.
"These have one simple job: act as obstacles to slow the enemy down." He pointed at the wooden carving. "Look at this wagon, Vito. Both sides and the wheels are reinforced with iron plates. On top I plan to add a thick, foldable cover with firing ports. When we encounter the enemy, the soldiers stop the wagon, drop the cover, and shoot through the holes. During marches or when we set up camp, we can link the wagons end-to-end to quickly form a temporary circular laager. Our crossbowmen can hide behind the wagon walls and pour bolts safely through the ports!"
Yes—Tiberius had straight-up stolen the idea of Hussite war wagons.
Of course, without gunpowder or hand cannons, the defensive and offensive power was much lower than the famous historical version. In the future he would have to compensate with more shooters and temporary fortifications. It was strong on defense, weak on offense.
Then Tiberius pulled out another wooden model for Vito to see. "And this one—the wheelbarrow."
Vito examined it and immediately noticed the key difference: Tiberius had redesigned the structure, placing the wheel in the middle-front of the cart instead of at the very front like the common Essosi versions.
Yes, what Tiberius had made was the classic wheelbarrow—often called the "chicken cart."
This design, with the axle in the center, allowed one man to carry the load of nearly six people because the weight was balanced between the pusher and the wheel itself, rather than all on the person.
Such carts were common across East Asia and Southeast Asia because they excelled on rough terrain and narrow rice-field ridges.
European wheelbarrows, by contrast, had the wheel at the front, forcing the pusher to both push and lift, resulting in much lower carrying capacity.
"This design makes the cart far more balanced and able to carry heavier loads—arrows, shields, food, even wounded men if we widen the platform. And look at the front—I left space to fix two long spears, points outward. When needed, we push these loaded carts bristling with spears to the front line. They become mobile spiked barricades!"
"Now picture it, Vito—spearmen, trenches, sharpened stake chevaux de frise, pavise crossbowmen, plus these modified wagons full of firing ports and wheelbarrows packed with spears, all used together. In a field battle, how fast could we throw up a temporary fortress that'll give the enemy a massive headache!" Tiberius said proudly.
"Uh, Tiberius… can I make one suggestion?" Vito, now thoroughly impressed (or horrified) by the kid's devious cleverness, pointed at the wooden models.
"What?"
"Next time, don't carve the models yourself." Vito said with complete sincerity. "Look at this shield—it looks like a piece of driftwood that got chewed by pigs. And that little soldier figure? If you hadn't told me it was a man, I would've thought it was a minotaur or some twisted forest demon. The proportions on the arms and legs… Seven Gods, I'm going to have nightmares."
His gaze finally landed on the "war wagons" and "pushcarts" with their bizarre geometric wheels, and he couldn't hold it in anymore. His shoulders shook with laughter.
"As for your little carts and 'war wagons'… forgive me, Tiberius, but can you explain how square or triangular wheels are supposed to roll on the ground? Your soldiers are going to go insane before the battle even starts!"
Tiberius tossed the wooden models back into the box with a straight face.
"Shut up. It's abstract art."
"Fine, fine, I'll shut up, Lightning Kid." Vito raised both hands in surrender, but the mocking grin wouldn't leave his face. "Still, maybe don't waste that big brain of yours on carving wood anymore. Next time you have a good idea, just tell me. I'll find a real craftsman to make proper models. They'll look a lot better than these… 'uniquely artistic'… creations of yours."
---
"Look at this shit—I'm telling you, those Volantene archers are no joke!"
In a noisy tavern, Old Tom, freshly back from the front lines, pointed at the scar near his eye socket while downing strong liquor and complaining loudly.
"See this? This close! This fucking close and I would've lost the eye!" He held his thumb and forefinger a hair's breadth apart. "This close!"
"Alright, Old Tom, there's big news in Lys lately. Want to hear it?" a drunk at the next table cut in.
"What news could matter to me? Some rich merchant's mistress ran off with his riding instructor? Or some second-generation idiot blew a fortune in the Perfumed Garden and almost gave his old man a heart attack? Or maybe some triarch just found out his pretty heir is actually the son of his wife and a bard?" Old Tom took another swig and snorted.
"Nope!" The drunk leaned in with a sly grin, breathing wine fumes. "It's a crazy idea from some young master!"
"What? Whose young master?" Old Tom grumbled. "What does some rich kid's madness have to do with me? I lick blood off my blade for a living—I've got my own pile of shit to deal with."
"Heh, you'll care when you hear this!" The drunk slammed his cup down. "He's buying up slaves all over Lys—but only debt slaves. Strong former freemen on contracts. And he doesn't just buy the men—he buys their whole families, wives and kids included!"
"So what?" Tom scoffed. "Some eccentric rich boy with weird tastes. Either he's buying fame or he's got some sick fetish." Old Tom winked lewdly. "I've heard some bastards love doing it right in front of the husband—fucking the wife and daughter while the man watches. Gets them off."
"You don't get it!" The drunk rolled his eyes. "Word is, he's training those slaves to be soldiers!"
"Pfffft!!!"
Old Tom nearly sprayed his drink across the table. He coughed violently, face turning red.
"Training slaves into soldiers?" he repeated, stunned. "Did the kid get kicked in the head by a donkey? Or did too much gold and pretty slave girls squeeze his brains out? Slaves as soldiers? What fighting spirit do they have? They'll probably piss themselves at the first drumbeat!"
"Don't rush, Tom—there's more!" The drunk lowered his voice mysteriously. "The underground gambling rings in Lys are going wild over it!"
"Gambling? On what?" The moment "gambling" was mentioned, Old Tom's alcohol-fogged brain cleared instantly. His eyes lit up. "What are the odds? How's the line looking?" He leaned forward eagerly.
"They're betting whether that kid can actually turn slaves into real soldiers! Word is the triarchs and rich merchants are organizing a big mercenary tournament soon—supposedly to 'select elite new companies,' but really just an excuse for their sons to show off wealth and blow off steam!"
"That rich kid is probably aiming for that. So the whole city is betting: will he produce something that at least looks like an army, or will it be the most pathetic, laughable bunch of trash ever seen? The odds…" The drunk grinned and held up fingers.
"Betting he can at least make them stand in formation and hold weapons properly—fifteen to one! Betting they'll be so useless they can't even grip a spear without dropping it—eight to one!"
Old Tom quickly calculated the latest pay Jules had sent him.
Seven Gods, they're taking bets on this? He thought. This is free money.
Slaves as soldiers? What a fucking joke! Discipline, courage, tactics, honor—they have none of it. This bet is printing gold!
"Twenty gold dragons!" Old Tom slammed his hand on the table, voice trembling with excitement but tone firm. "Put it all on that arrogant little shit losing! I want to see how he plans to turn a pile of mud into a fighting wall!"
He could already picture the young master and his "slave legion" making complete fools of themselves at the tournament, while he walked away with a fat stack of easy winnings.