In November of 871, Vig traveled by carriage to the Royal Arsenal south of Londinium to inspect the latest model of bronze naval cannon.
The testing ground was the same grassy field used the previous year.
Ten draft horses hauled a heavy bronze cannon into position, its target a thick wooden barrier one hundred meters away.
The craftsmen loaded a powder charge, followed by an iron ball.
They then pierced the powder bag with a metal rod, inserted the fuse, and lit it.
BOOM!
A deafening explosion tore through the air.
The cannon recoiled violently, gouging a deep furrow into the ground as flocks of birds erupted from the distant forest.
After the shot, Vig walked forward to inspect the results.
The foremost wooden barrier had been damaged.
Although the straw dummies behind it had not been directly struck, they were riddled with splinters.
For the second test, the target was a slightly thinner wooden wall, comparable to the hull planking of a medium-sized warship.
This time, the front panel was ripped open by a terrifying hole.
The two trials demonstrated that the bronze cannon could penetrate the hulls of small and medium-sized ships.
Against the heavy Byzantine dromons, however, the cannon would be somewhat less effective.
It would be better to target the bow, stern, and upper decks—areas that were relatively vulnerable and could be pierced with ease.
Next came testing against stone walls.
The bombardment continued for nearly an hour.
Vig eventually lost patience and headed to the mess hall for lunch.
After eating a large shrimp pie, he stretched out in a chair for a midday nap.
When he returned to the range some time later, the testing was still underway.
A thin haze of white smoke hung over the field.
Suddenly, he noticed something odd.
The cannon's report carried a faint but unusual undertone—a dull, unsettling sound.
Walking closer, he discovered numerous scratches and grooves of varying depth inside the barrel.
The craftsmen exchanged nervous glances.
They loaded another round.
This time, they inserted an extended fuse and, after lighting it, everyone hurried behind nearby earthworks.
The next shot did not produce the familiar thunderous blast.
Instead, a horrifying shriek split the air—a piercing, tearing sound like the dying scream of some monstrous beast.
A jagged crack suddenly burst open along the middle of the barrel.
White smoke and sparks sprayed from the fissure, igniting nearby patches of dry grass.
The cannonball limply emerged from the muzzle, traveled only a short distance, and dropped harmlessly onto the field.
Vig asked,
"How many rounds has this gun fired?"
The supervisor answered awkwardly,
"Two hundred and ninety.
"We can continue improving it. We'll definitely meet your requirements."
"There isn't time."
Vig shook his head.
"Begin production using the current model."
A three-masted warship could carry twenty cannons.
Vig ordered the production of one hundred and twenty guns—enough to arm six dedicated gunships and prepare for any future conflict in the western Mediterranean.
After the demonstration, Vig returned to Londinium.
To accommodate its growing population, the Cabinet had organized a construction workforce of six thousand men.
New city walls were rising across the eastern and northern outskirts, greatly expanding the urban area.
Originally, the Cabinet had proposed walls twelve meters high.
Vig considered that unnecessary and reduced the height to seven meters.
The future belonged to firearms.
Tall walls were more likely to be struck by cannon fire and were therefore less defensible.
Traditionally, defenders had built walls as high as possible to prevent attackers from climbing them.
The drawback was that such walls collapsed easily under artillery bombardment.
Drawing inspiration from gunpowder-era fortifications, Vig abandoned the concept of pure stone walls in favor of a composite earth-and-stone design.
The interior would consist of compacted earth, which absorbed the impact of cannonballs remarkably well.
The exterior would be faced with brick and stone to prevent rain from eroding the earthen core.
During a siege, even if the outer masonry was shattered, the compacted earth behind it would still block infantry assaults and absorb further bombardment.
The Cabinet did not strongly oppose the idea.
At worst, the new design would cost a little more money.
The Empire's finances were healthy enough that nobody wanted to antagonize the Emperor over such a minor issue.
Once completed, the expanded city would occupy three times its current area and be capable of supporting up to 150,000 residents.
Afterward, construction crews would pave new streets.
The roads would be slightly raised in the center, with drainage ditches on both sides.
Rainwater and wastewater would flow into an underground sewer network.
The sewers followed the classic Roman vaulted design.
They were four meters wide and three and a half meters high—large enough for small boats to pass through, facilitating maintenance and cleaning.
Meanwhile, scholars at Londinium University had reconstructed Roman surveying instruments and leveling devices from ancient texts.
These tools ensured that the sewers maintained a slight but consistent gradient, allowing wastewater to flow continuously into the downstream reaches of the Thames.
The final major project involved laying wooden rails down the center of the main roads.
The rails reduced friction on wagon wheels, allowing horses to pull heavier loads and significantly improving transportation efficiency while reducing congestion.
In Vig's memory, rail horsecars had existed in nineteenth-century European and American cities.
They operated with fixed routes, stations, and timetables, functioning much like later buses and subways before eventually being replaced by electric trams.
Because labor was in short supply, residential construction was contracted out to private builders.
Most apartment buildings followed a standardized design.
They stood three stories tall.
The ground floor facing the street housed shops or workshops, while the upper two floors served as residences.
Ordinary citizens could not afford glass windows and instead used wooden shutters.
By evening, Vig completed his inspection tour.
While returning to the palace, he suddenly caught a strange but appealing aroma.
It was bitter, yet somehow fragrant.
He tapped the carriage wall lightly, signaling the driver to stop.
Leaning out the window, he looked around.
Not far away, two sailors crouched in the cold wind around a copper pot.
The flames beneath it flickered in the breeze.
One sailor was grinding dark beans in a stone mortar.
The crushed fragments were poured into boiling water, producing a thick dark-brown liquid.
"A miraculous drink from the New World!"
the sailor shouted.
"Cheap prices! If you don't like it, you don't pay!"
A curious young man accepted a clay cup and took a cautious sip.
"Devil's bile!"
He coughed violently, nearly spitting it out.
The surrounding crowd burst into laughter.
The younger sailor sighed.
He dropped a lump of red sugar into the copper pot and stirred vigorously with a wooden spoon.
Then he poured himself a small bowl and drank it in one gulp.
His Adam's apple bobbed dramatically as he swallowed.
After finishing, he exhaled a cloud of steam.
An almost holy expression appeared on his face.
His fatigue and hunger seemed to vanish instantly, and his eyes lit up with renewed energy.
"Those native shamans were right!
"This is food for the gods!
"I can feel a warm flame burning from my throat all the way down to my stomach, spreading strength through my entire body!"
Yet no matter how enthusiastically the sailors performed, nobody was willing to buy their hot cocoa.
At least, not until a black-cloaked armored man approached.
Without a word, he tossed down a small pouch of coins and purchased every unsold cocoa bean they had.
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