Meat. Real, dripping, roasted meat.
Ragnar sat on a log near a roaring bonfire, a skewer of pork in one hand and a horn of decent ale in the other.
For months, their diet had consisted of watery fish stew and bread that tasted like sawdust. Now, thanks to Ragnar's "fat ships" and his fast talking, they were seated in the guest ring of the Great Heathen Army's encampment.
"I tell you," Starkad shouted, grease running down his beard, "I always knew the boy was smart! Even when he was drowning in the mud during training, I said, 'That boy thinks like a fox!'"
"You called him a soft-handed milk-drinker two days ago!" Bjorn roared, laughing as he shoved Starkad's shoulder.
"That was affectionate!" Starkad protested, tearing into a rib with savage joy.
Ragnar smiled, taking a sip of ale. His father, Ulf, was sitting with other chieftains, his chest puffed out, telling a highly exaggerated story about how they had "tamed the ocean" with their new ship designs.
They're happy, Ragnar thought, watching his younger brother Ivar try to wrestle a dog for a bone near the fire. They're fed. Step one complete but a good engineer never stops at step one.
Ragnar's eyes wandered from his celebrating kin to the upper tier of the camp. The King's pavilion was set on a small rise, guarded by the elite Huscarls. The flaps of the royal tent were open, revealing the King holding court.
And there she was. Princess Gyda sat slightly behind her father.
Her gaze cut through the smoke and the crowd, locking directly onto Ragnar. It wasn't a romantic look Ragnar wasn't delusional. It was the look a cat gives a mouse that has suddenly started walking on two legs and juggling.
She raised her goblet slightly in his direction.
Ragnar raised his horn in return, a silent toast. She knows, he realized. The King thinks I'm a funny madman, but she knows I'm doing something different. I have to be careful with that one.
He looked away, breaking the connection.
The Great Army was sailing for England to take York. Ragnar knew his history. York (or Eoforwic, as the Saxons called it) had walls. Old Roman walls. They were stone, thick, and designed to keep barbarians out.
He looked at the pile of "siege equipment" the King's army had staged nearby. It was pathetic.
There were ladders hundreds of them. There were a few large logs capped with iron to act as battering rams. And there was something that looked like a giant slingshot that probably had a range of ten feet and a fifty percent chance of killing the user!
We're going to run face-first into stone walls, Ragnar thought, grimacing. Ladders mean climbing. Climbing means getting rocks dropped on your head.
He took a bite of pork, chewing thoughtfully.
I need a wall-breaker. Something simple. Something I can build with timber, rope, and iron.
His mind briefly flashed to electricity. He imagined rigging a primitive generator, maybe shocking the English defenders or creating a spotlight to blind them.
He shook his head, chuckling to himself. Don't be an idiot, Ragnar. To make a generator, I need copper wire. I need magnets. I need insulation. Electricity is a pipe dream. I need physics. I need leverage.
He reached down and picked up a twig. He smoothed out a patch of dirt near his feet, illuminated by the flickering firelight.
The Romans used ballistas, he mused, drawing a line in the dirt. Torsion springs. Twisted rope. Efficient, but finicky. If the humidity changes, the tension changes. Too complex for a first prototype.
He rubbed the dirt smooth and started again.
What is the simplest way to throw a heavy rock very far?
The Onager? A bucket on an arm, powered by a twisted rope bundle. It kicked like a mule and wasn't very accurate.
No. He needed the king of siege engines. The weapon that dominated the medieval period until gunpowder ruined the party.
The Trebuchet!
Specifically, the Counterweight Trebuchet.
It was beautiful in its simplicity. A long arm on a pivot. A heavy box of rocks on the short end (the counterweight), and a sling holding the projectile on the long end. Gravity pulls the heavy box down, the long arm swings up, the sling whips around, and—whoosh—goodbye, castle wall.
"What are you drawing?"
Ragnar jumped slightly. Bjorn had flopped down next to him, holding a massive turkey leg.
"A way to open a door," Ragnar said, sketching the triangular frame.
Bjorn squinted at the dirt. "That looks like a fishing crane."
"It's a gravity engine," Ragnar corrected. He deepened the lines with the stick. "Look, Bjorn. The King wants to take York. York has walls. High stone walls. How do we get inside?"
"We climb the ladders," Bjorn shrugged, tearing off a chunk of meat. "We kill the guards. We open the gate."
"And while you climb," Ragnar said, poking Bjorn in the chest with the twig, "the Saxons throw boiling oil on you. They shoot arrows at you. Half of us die before we touch the ground."
Bjorn stopped chewing. "That is... usually how it goes. It is the price of glory."
"It's the price of stupidity," Ragnar said. "Why climb the wall when you can knock it down?"
He pointed to his drawing.
"This," Ragnar tapped the stick on the pivot point, "is the fulcrum. We build a tall frame. We put a massive arm on top. On this short end, we hang a box the size of a hut and fill it with the heaviest rocks we can find. Lead, iron, boulders."
"And on the other end?" Bjorn asked, leaning in.
"A sling. We put a stone the size of your head in it."
Ragnar mimed the motion with his hands.
"When we let go, the heavy box falls. It pulls the arm up. The sling whips around at incredible speed. It throws the stone three hundred meters. It hits the wall with the force of a thunderbolt."
Bjorn stared at the crude drawing. He looked at the stick figure Ragnar had drawn getting crushed by the falling rock.
"No men pushing?" Bjorn asked.
"No men. Just gravity," Ragnar said. "The earth pulls the box down. The machine does the work. We can sit back, eat an apple, and watch the walls turn to dust."
Bjorn's eyes went wide. The idea of destroying an enemy without even sweating was alien to him, but also deeply appealing.
"You can build this?" Bjorn whispered. "Here?"
"Not here," Ragnar said, erasing the dirt with his boot as a group of drunken warriors stumbled past. He didn't want anyone stealing his IP (Intellectual Property). "We don't have the seasoned timber. But I can design the iron fittings. We can forge the pivot axle and the release hook here in the camp smithy before we leave. When we get to England... plenty of trees there."
Ragnar looked back at the pile of ladders. They looked so primitive now.
"I need to talk to the smith," Ragnar muttered, his engineer brain revving up. "And I need rope. Lots of rope. And maybe some leather for the sling."
"You have that look again," Bjorn noted, grinning.
"What look?"
"The look you had before you made the ships fat. The 'I am smarter than everyone else' look."
"I'm not smarter," Ragnar said, standing up and dusting off his breeches. "I just have a better education."
"Same thing," Bjorn laughed.
Ragnar looked toward the King's tent one last time. The Princess was gone. The King was drinking from a skull-shaped cup.
The invasion of England was going to be a bloodbath. Ragnar couldn't stop the war he was just one man. But if he could knock down the walls of York from a safe distance, he could save thousands of Viking lives. Including Bjorn's. Including his father's.
He was going to bring the Medieval Industrial Revolution to the 9th Century, one wooden beam at a time.
"Come on," Ragnar said to Bjorn. "Finish your turkey. We have work to do."
"Now?" Bjorn groaned. "But there is still ale!"