The test was conducted at the darkest hour before dawn, in a narrow ravine three miles north of Seigmer's Hold — far enough that even the sharpest Roman ears would hear nothing but wind.
Only seven men were present.
Seigmer himself.
Ingvar and Eadric from the original fifty.
The chief smith — the grizzled Roman auxiliary who had spent three sleepless weeks on the casting.
Two trusted slaves-turned-freemen who had hauled the bronze.
And one young volunteer who had proven himself in the training yard and earned the right to witness.
The cannon squatted on its rough wooden carriage like a squat, angry beast. Five feet of bronze tube, four-inch bore, cast in two pours and laboriously reamed smooth. Inside the bore they had cut crude spiral grooves — one full turn every thirty inches — filed by hand with jeweler's patience and constant fear of cracking the metal. The carriage was oak and iron strapping, wheels wide enough to cross soft ground without sinking. A simple touch-hole had been drilled near the breech.
No one spoke.
Seigmer knelt beside the piece and inspected the load.
First came the powder charge — a measured linen bag of the best black powder they had refined so far: 75% saltpeter, 15% charcoal, 10% sulfur. One and a half pounds, tamped firmly.
Then the canister: a leather sack packed tight with iron nails, pottery shards, and small river pebbles. Tied shut with sinew.
He rammed both home with a wooden rod, careful not to crush the bag.
A long fuse of twisted cloth soaked in saltpeter solution was inserted into the touch-hole and left trailing six feet.
Seigmer stood back.
"Everyone behind the log line. Fifty paces."
The men obeyed instantly.
Seigmer lit a slow-match from a shielded coal pot, touched it to the fuse, then walked — never ran — to join them.
The fuse hissed.
Ten seconds.
Fifteen.
The world held its breath.
Then —
BOOM.
The sound was deeper than any grenade — a throat-clearing roar that rolled across the ravine and echoed back from the hills. Flame stabbed from the muzzle in a bright orange tongue. The canister erupted outward in a widening cone of screaming metal and stone.
The target — a straw-stuffed Roman effigy line at sixty paces — simply vanished.
Straw exploded. Wood splintered. The wooden frame behind it cracked like dry kindling. Fragments whined into the trees. A few nails embedded in trunks twenty paces beyond.
Silence followed.
Then cheers — low, fierce, from the seven men.
Seigmer walked forward first.
The cannon still smoked. The barrel was hot but intact — no cracks, no swelling. The carriage had recoiled three feet and tilted slightly, but held.
He inspected the bore.
The rifling grooves were scorched but undamaged.
"Half-charge success," he said quietly. "No rupture. Recoil manageable with bracing stakes next time."
The smith exhaled like a man who had just been pardoned from execution.
Seigmer turned to the group.
"Double the charge next test. Solid shot first — then canister at full load. We cast three more tubes by the next moon. This is not a toy. This is the future."
He looked west — toward the distant Roman fires.
"They are coming. We will be ready."
The men nodded — faces lit by the dying glow of the muzzle flash.
The first cannon had spoken.
And it had not failed.
Far to the west, in the fortified legion camp south of the old ford, Legatus Gaius Valerius Maximus sat at the head of a long table inside the praetorium tent.
Oil lamps burned low. Maps lay spread before him. His six tribunes, the primus pilus, and the senior centurions stood or sat around the table — all of them tired-eyed, all of them listening.
Valerius tapped the map where the old castra had been marked.
"The scouts confirm it. The barbarians hold the fort. Walls strengthened. Ditches deepened with stakes. Scorpio mounted on the ramparts — our own engines. They have turned our castra into a proper stronghold. Patrols sent to probe have not returned. One survivor reports disciplined crossbowmen, silent movement, and a black banner with a white spiral."
He paused.
"The question is no longer if we take it back. The question is how — and who we are facing."
One of the younger tribunes — a thin-faced patrician named Aelius — cleared his throat.
"Sir… the men are saying supernatural things. Thunder without clouds. Men killed in their tents without a sound. Smoke that blinds and burns the lungs. A boy who walks through shadows and kills with a glance."
Valerius's eyes narrowed.
"Superstition."
Another centurion — older, scarred across the cheek — spoke up.
"Perhaps. But the survivors are not cowards. They are legionaries. And they are afraid. They speak of a boy who hanged a tribune in his own tent and left a note in perfect Latin. They say he is like—"
He hesitated.
"Like Alexander the Great," the centurion finished quietly.
The tent went still.
Valerius looked at the man as though he had spat on the eagle standard.
"Alexander was Macedonian. Educated. Civilized. This… thing… is a barbarian. A savage playing with stolen toys. He has crossbows, perhaps some eastern poison smoke, maybe even a few captured engines. Nothing more."
He leaned forward, knuckles on the map.
"We are Legio XIV Gemina. We have broken Dacians, Parthians, Germans before this one was born. We do not fear children with tricks."
He straightened.
"Tomorrow we advance. Three cohorts in column, one in reserve. Scouts tripled. Siege train follows. We will invest the fort, cut their water, bombard with our own onagers and ballistae, then storm the walls when they starve. No mercy. No prisoners except the boy. His head goes to the governor in a jar."
The officers nodded — some grimly, some eagerly.
But in the silence that followed, the scarred centurion muttered under his breath — so low only the man beside him heard.
"Alexander was a boy once, too."
The tribune beside him shot him a warning look.
The centurion shrugged and looked away.
Outside the tent, the legion slept under double watch.
But the forest across the river did not sleep.
And in its heart, a boy who had once been a colonel was already counting shells and plotting angles of fire.
The eagle had spoken.
Now the cannon would answer.