Military Discipline
Military discipline—the rules and regulations governing an army. This nation's forces had spent ages researching ways to elevate it. And the results? Mostly punishments based on laws and orders, plus rigidly packed daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly schedules. In a proper Roman legion, it was standard to have not just medical specialists but legal experts embedded with the troops. We in Britannia couldn't spare high-level talent like lawyers from city and village administration to stick them in the ranks... but that's the textbook way. Why does an army need legal experts? Once you hit a thousand-plus men, the top commander isn't just a battlefield leader anymore—he's basically the chief of a mid-sized village. He needs legal advice on every military and civilian issue that crops up. And surprisingly, having a legal expert around cuts down on the insane antics pulled by hot-blooded soldiers. But even that can't fully tame a mob of late-teens and early-twenties lads. So the one trait shared by every high-discipline, elite legion? They keep their troops constantly busy with tasks.
"What're we doin' today?"
"Diggin' ditches."
"Aaaah... Deus Dominus..."
"Quit your bitchin' and grab a shovel. Line up—the centurion's comin' through for the officers' meetin'. Second tent! Second decury! Shovels up, now! Last one's on pickaxe duty!"
"Third decury... get your asses together while I'm askin' nice. No matter how much we slack, that dirt ain't goin' nowhere. Gotta dig it eventually, so let's keep it civil."
Digging first. Same as always, same as it'll ever be—the universal habit of every army in the world, past, present, and future. They dig in snowfields, deserts, grasslands. Even mountains! Not for fun, but because digging is the foundation of every garrison build, every project. Hell, if you can't dig right, you're not an army. After fighting and marching, a legion's work capacity is the next big thing. That's what sappers specialize in—and the fresh century of engineers who'd just crossed via the sheep isle were cussing out the legionaries' handiwork on the Kings' Hill fortifications, all because they were the pros.
"These fuckers and their shitty digging... Did they never plow a field back home?"
"Centurion, sir. What the hell do we do with this? It's not a trench—looks like a goddamn ditch."
"What else? Bulldoze it and start over. Wrap this up quick and move to the sewers. These barbarians just shat in pits and bogs, from what I hear. Lucky there's streams everywhere..."
"Lord have mercy...!"
Next up: sentry duty. You can lose a battle and retreat. Wars mean casualties. But fuck up sentry duty? No excuse saves you. Scale it up—no legion that can't post guards properly deserves to be called one. Unless it's some unavoidable disaster, this is basic of basics.
"Ugh, freezin'. Too damn cold! Signed up expectin' to die in battle, not freeze my balls off."
"Centurion, sir!"
"Yeah, yeah. Nothin' to report? Everyone holdin' up?"
"Yessir!"
"Aye, sir—"
"Who yanked your tongue out...? Salute proper!" [Snap!]
"You here, sir?!"
"Heavens? You get slicker every day—nah, what's the point? Just hurts my mouth. Anyway, no sleepin', no takin' off gloves, eyes on the dark. This ain't Britannia, lads—it's Hibernia. Slacken off and your head's gone. Got it?"
"Sir!"
"Yep."
"Any weird shit, blow the whistle right away. If it's iffy, blow it anyway. Clear?"
"Sir!"
"Aye."
The Kings' Hill was a round hillock, easy to guard. We'd crushed a big rebellion early on, deflating these tough natives' pressure, and won so overwhelmingly they'd gone straight to terrified. Me showing up on the front lines—the core of Britannia—had pros and cons, but the massive boost in frontline support alone outweighed the rest.
A month in, and what started as a barbarian holy mound was taking shape: the classic Roman camp grid, broad roads inside, log palisades framing walls, drainage ditches, basic sewers. Rome's knack for turning anywhere Roman was kicking in, even in barbarism's heart.
Plus, we'd seized the massive granaries these barbarian kings had hoarded. We fed ourselves, of course, but started distributing grain to nearby villages too. After the rebellion culled most of the troublemakers—buried on the west hill slopes—the locals were surprisingly compliant. Or maybe they were just bowing for the food. Before any "superior civilization" talk, every ruler's headache is squeezing resources from nothing and divvying them up.
The old kings here must've locked the vaults tight for their pricey winter war biz. I just cracked 'em open and shared the grub—probably why folks were playing nice. Our sea routes only get snarled by storms, so grain supply's no issue. And mild winter was hitting late season. Less snow than expected, no deep freezes. Not the barren wasteland I'd pictured—way more livable, cultivable even. Especially the sheep: tough and healthy enough to thrive feral. Soil fertility? Gotta test crops. But rain-fed grass was insanely lush. Grains were oats and mixes, plowed by big oxen, harvested with scythes. Folks lugged man-sized blades—waist-high grass laughs at hand sickles.
Patch fields for people food, rest to pasture sheep and pigs. Chase wolves, huddle in circles, build walls—scale up to round forts? These folks were basically wet-land nomads. Half-farm, half-herd? Nah, too vague both ways. Sedentary enough for "settled folk." But livestock-dependent life felt more nomadic mentally. Weird barbarians. That was my take on this winter isle (Hibernia).
No big farms here... Stick to herding, sell wool. Grass quality beat Britannia's—manage well, huge potential. Livestock paradise over people. Breed 'em thriving. Plenty of solid pack-donkeys too. More I looked, more usable this land seemed. Kings' Hill to the southern Black Pool (Dublin) fortress—claim it all. Digest that chunk first.
"Magister militum, here as expected."
"Peredir."
"Two reports at once, Dominus. Comes Drustanus, heading south to Dublin, spotted barbarian forces approaching from the west."
"The Muwa raiders finally hearing about this?"
"They've forgotten winter's Gallia gobblers were old Roman legions, it seems."
"Let alone us Britannia legions, tougher on cold and rain than any Roman. Laughable. Underestimate us? Leave the heartland empty and trek this far?"
"Ignorance is top of the barbarian synonyms, no?"
Peredir wasn't just brave—he was sharp.
"Mobilization?"
"Comes Caius is prepping, Dominus."
"Leave one engineer century; everyone else rolls out."
"On that note, second report: From Avalonia, Comes Galbaginus's reinforcements departed days ago."
Galbaginus incoming.
"Storms permitting, twenty days to the 1st Auxiliary Legion. Marcellus's medium cavalry too."
The 1st Auxilia: Palamedes's all-weather Sarmatian horse, Wolfmaer's barbarian riders, Hereward's heavy infantry core. Called "auxiliary" for origins, but a year fighting side-by-side showed wilder, deadlier beasts than our controlled Roman packs. Leashed hounds vs. feral wolves? No citizenship yet, hence the name. Combat power and size? Regular legion equal. Plus vets like Palamedes from eastern fronts.
Strip commanders, pure troop quality? Auxilia might be Britannia's strongest. Marcellus's mediums now 100. Palamedes 300 horse, Wolfmaer 100. Cavalry at 500, 600 barbarian heavies. 1,100 killers in twenty days. For Roman citizenship, families—they'd die gladly.
"Change of plans. You and Caius cherry-pick veterans, horse-riders—poke the barbarians' nerves."
"Yes, Magister militum!"
If only I could ride...
"Minus engineers, I'll lead the rest—lure 'em slow to Kings' Hill. If their momentum's too hot, yield the hill. Galbaginus hits, we devour 'em."
"Understood!"
Discipline's worth? Lets commanders unleash tough tactics freely. With a militia—armored rabble with spears and shields—I'd stick simple: hunker in palisades or gamble on personal prowess. But a disciplined legion? Bait and smash.
"Summon all centurion-level officers and messengers now."
"Yes, Dominus!"