Freestyle Without a Beat
Even in Show Me the Money, they hash out an agreement before passing the mic. Even variety shows that claim to be live have some script or outline, but right now, that man Merlinus had just shoved the mic into my hands and told me to freestyle with no beat whatsoever.
And the audience? None other than the power players of Romano-Britain—or their proxies and representatives.
"..."
"..."
What the hell was this? [Clink.]
I set down the brass cup I'd drained in one go and slowly rose from my seat. Heads turned upward endlessly to follow me. Because I was so damn huge, they all felt the unfamiliar angle of their necks but nodded in unison anyway.
"Dominus Artorius."
"Dominus of Avalonia."
"Dominus."
Dominus was originally a formal honorific. In my past life, it was like adding "-ssi" to a name? There was a feminine version, Domina, used for gentlemen and ladies alike. But the Romans bowing their heads as I passed didn't seem to be using it as some rote courtesy.
No, there was a definite undercurrent of respect—hell, even reverence—in every title they uttered. And woven into it all was a heavy weight of expectation.
Had everyone but me rehearsed this script? Everything was flowing too smoothly, making me wonder if the whole meeting had been staged just to put me on the spot. The reactions were unnaturally uniform.
I walked as slowly as I could, but the forum wasn't some massive circular arena, and my strides were too long and powerful.
"Prefectus Merlinus."
"Dominus Artorius."
I was about to exchange a glance with Merlinus when this middle-aged Roman suddenly bowed his head in response. One big difference in this life from the last: Romans didn't bow easily. Not even to superiors. It wasn't their culture. They didn't bend at the waist like that.
What looked like half-hearted nods were actually profound shows of respect—profoundly unfamiliar ones. I'd smashed plenty of barbarians, sure, but had I really earned this level of deference from these stiff-necked Romano-Britons?
Or was it something else? The thought bubbled up unbidden.
"Prefectus Merlinus, and wise citizens of Romano-Britain. You've called me here, and here I stand. I am Artorius."
Why the hell did you summon me? I dragged out the question at length, and a glint of amusement flickered in Merlinus's eyes. But his voice remained calm and courteous—the voice of Londinium's de facto ruler.
"Dominus Artorius. From last spring through autumn, what was the scale of the largest barbarian force you faced?"
"Uh—hmm."
Caught off guard by the sudden dive into battle details, my mind—which never forgot a single step from advance planning to after-action reports when it came to fighting—recalled it effortlessly. Come to think of it, it had been raining then too. Half the battles on this beautiful land happened in the downpour.
"A cloudy day, the twenty-second of the sixth month. Beacons had blazed two days prior, and we moved east swiftly. We met scouts who'd tracked the enemy's movements ahead of time and intercepted the bastards mid-march after they'd landed."
They'd been kitted out head to toe—armor, helmets, spears, swords, shields, the works. The barbarians gunning for the Camulodunum River and the Thames grew more elite with every wave: better gear, tighter discipline, bigger numbers. I figured that bred confidence in them... but that very confidence led straight to their doom.
Because this was my land.
"Around thirty ships, some six hundred men. A few escaped post-battle, so not exact, but that's how many we dropped. The western barbarians were similar, but when facing eastern ones in open fields, the real danger is close-quarters chaos."
Fight barbarians enough, and the first thing you notice is their melee prowess. Roman legionaries back in the day had shredded long-range pikemen with short swords, closing gaps relentlessly. But that was the Republic—four centuries ago. Now, those hand-axes and long blades outclassed most Roman legions in a scrap.
Hell, Romano-Britain didn't even have legionaries anymore. Excluding oddballs like me, local commanders were leading farmer levies—no, not even that. Militias facing off against raiding specialists.
Plain truth: open-field fights were impossible. It wasn't a matter of willpower. Could you take folks who'd never held a plow and match them against lifelong farmers? And farming was child's play compared to killing. Dirt takes the plow quietly; enemies on the spear's wrong end don't go down easy.
So facing barbarians in the open with militia? Suicide. I wanted to explain this as gently as possible.
"When I spot barbarians, I keep distance and fight from range. We've got what they lack. Forced to sail far, their shitty boats cram shields, spears, swords, axes at the prow—the rest is loot space. Meaning pitifully few bows and arrows.
"So scout relentlessly to pin their position, seize the ideal spot, fight with the sun at our backs—not in our eyes—and we secure half the win in open plains."
"Half...?"
"All that effort for just half?"
"Arrows whittle them, but infantry closes eventually. Then it's spear and shield, sword and axe deciding it. Even Roman elites struggle against barbarians there. Best bet? Fortresses. River forts first—city outskirts next. Never abandon them."
Basic principles, but follow them and you hold against raids. First: Londinium's eastern fields I'd tamed yielded bumper crops yearly. Competent administrator and quartermaster Merlinus had stockpiled grain, filling silos across Britain. No mass starvation anytime soon—that was huge.
Second, cold but true: Sacrifice a few outlying villages or monasteries—evacuate folks in time—and it barely dents the big picture. Rebuilding's tough but doable.
But last year's new wrinkle—
"You described last year's horde, and talk flowed naturally there. Good. Fine Comes across regions have held barbarians that way for years. But precisely from last year, their assaults turned ferocious. More frequent, fiercer, larger. Is this mere raiding anymore? That's the question."
Merlinus nailed it. Barbarians crossed the Rhine in force four years back. Shockwaves hit all Rome; Constantinus III gambled big, stripping Britain's last legions for the mainland.
The gamble flopped hard, and now the bill was due here too. Scattered small raids last year were morphing into full invasions—signs everywhere.
"Last year's worst uprising? Everyone here—and you, Dominus Artorius—knows it already. This year worsens; next year worse still; the year after, catastrophic. They're not raiding for loot anymore. They want us gone, this land theirs."
Ambition isn't just Roman. Rome, once invaders, had fattened Britain ironically. Fertile grain fields; west bursting with ores—gold, silver, copper, iron. Everything. Prime real estate, legions gone. Smart barbarian chiefs would eye it hard; Merlinus had pegged it perfectly.
"So I ask again, Dominus Artorius. Can frontier forts—understaffed as they are—withstand the barbarian host ahead? What must we in Britain do to survive this?"
"..."
Why ask me, smartass? The thought flashed, then faded. In its place rose strategies I'd mulled alone.
Folks thought post-legion Britain weak. Really? Headcount alone, we could take all northern, western, eastern barbarians combined.
What we needed was time. Quell chaos, unify splintering cities, forge a single legion, train it, sustain and grow it.
But concentrating power? Here in Rome? I eyed Merlinus and the room, doubts plain. Eyes met mine—half fear, half inexplicable hope.
Then I spoke.
"Britain needs a legion. Numbers don't matter. A thousand—no, five hundred if needed."
Peak Empire legions: five, six thousand. By Diocletian and Constantine? Down to a thousand, frontier limit five hundred. By latest standards, my five hundred retainers were a legion.
But we needed at least one more. Rome's curse: borders too vast. Britain's too.
"And it must command from the center. Whatever 'center' means now... I mean grasping every local situation from one hub, responding fast."
"Basic theory again, Dominus Artorius."
I'd poured it out, and Merlinus cut in sharp. I scowled; he met it with cool eyes.
"No one here doubts your military genius. Your deeds prove it. But we know those plans. Local limitanei hold firm; central comitatenses reinforce swiftly. If theory worked, would the Rhine line have crumbled?"
Limitanei: border troops. Comitatenses: field army. Rome's system was theoretically sound. Most of the Empire was.
"Gold, men—we can muster them. Weakened? This is Rome. Rome. We're Britons. Cowards fled with the false emperor. We who remain? Ready to defend. We'd rather die holding than run—we chose that."
Merlinus's solemn tone spread resolve across faces. They were already fighting, after all.
"Dominus Artorius. We don't need better systems. Is Rome falling to barbarians for lack of institutions? No. We need a strong center. You don't get it even after we staged this—so bluntly: Not as Dominus anymore. As Magister Militum—our acclaimed choice. Take command of Britain's armies. Artorius."