The Beacon Has Been Lit?
“A beacon has been lit?”
After chatting a bit more with Galbaginus about my modest ambitions for Great Britain, I’d caught a short nap in the luxurious domus in Londinium, mulling over the future. I was just trying to wet my whistle with a hunk of bread and a cup of wine when the whole city suddenly erupted in chaos. I sent Galbaginus—who looked like he’d slept poorly too—to find out what was going on. He’d dashed out with light steps, only to return shortly after, his face grim.
“The signal system worked perfectly overnight. The beacons kept relaying without a break, and word arrived at dawn. From the east—Camulodunum.”
“Prepare to move.”
“Yes, Magister militum.”
“I’ll head straight to see Prefectus Merlinus. We leave the moment I get back.”
“Yes, sir!”
No need for long explanations. A beacon from the east, from Camulodunum? We all knew what that meant. What surprised me more was the timing. Spring or not, the weather was still basically late winter, and the seas this time of year weren’t forgiving. Yet they’d forced their way across it and hugged the coast to get here? The first raiders of the year had shown up earlier than I’d expected. And right there, I felt a nagging sense of unease.
Maybe this year’s barbarian assaults would be far worse than last year’s full-scale, scattered raids. A dark premonition like that.
[Thud-thud-]
“Ah! Magister militum! The news—oh.”
“Magister militum.”
“Dominus Artorius.”
Striding along with huge steps that matched the pace of men running, everyone I passed recognized me and called out greetings. Half of it was respect, half awe, but I nodded back while hurrying on. Merlinus’s office was right across from the forum where we’d held yesterday’s council, in a district lined with domus, so it wasn’t far.
Word of the beacon must have spread through the whole city— the streets were packed like I’d just entered the Colosseum. Voices tinged with anxiety buzzed about the year’s first raiders, but the good news was, there wasn’t thick fear in them yet. Not to pat myself on the back, but from Londinium to Camulodunum and all the way down the southeastern coast—the farmlands of Britain hadn’t suffered a single barbarian raid thanks to me and my men. These people were worried, sure, but not paralyzed by terror. And that was exactly the attitude I expected from every corner of Britain, every person here someday.
Of course, ignoring the way they stared at me like some white knight from the apocalypse—thanks to all the grim rumors from neighboring cities—the mood in Londinium itself wasn’t bad.
[Thud-thud-clack.]
“Magister militum! The Prefectus was just about to send for you. Come in!”
“Got it.”
Even with helmets on, the deep wrinkles on their faces couldn’t be hidden. Two old soldiers—veterans who could’ve retired ages ago—stood guard at the Prefectus’s office door that early in the morning. By old Republic standards, they’d have been triarii for sure. But in the late Empire, here in Britain, they were still on active duty. I nodded to the one ushering me in, showing the respect they’d earned, then strode inside.
The building was as squarely rectangular as the domus where I’d spent the night, but instead of a garden in the center, it was crammed with desks and chairs piled high with stacks of papers—an office.
“Ah, you’re here. Magister militum.”
“Prefectus.”
“We’ve got plenty to discuss, from how you slept to all sorts of things, but the situation’s urgent. Let’s save it for later.”
Merlinus spoke calmly, his face as composed as ever. Not our first rodeo like this, after all. We’d faced far more pressing crises.
“I heard a beacon went up. From Camulodunum?”
“That’s right, Magister militum. We got word at dawn. By my calculations, the barbarians might already be facing the fortress at the mouth of the Camulodunum River.”
Camulodunum sat high on the riverbank named for the city, while Londinium hugged the broader Thames below it. All those rivers eventually met at the eastern sea, of course, with fortresses guarding every key estuary.
A hundred years ago, the mighty Classis Britannica, Britain’s fleet, would’ve patrolled the Saxon Shore. But that once-mighty navy—which had circled the whole island up to the north—had, in true British fashion, vanished amid a string of rebellions long ago.
Ten years back, even if not at full strength, the Classis Germanica—still potent, watching the Frankish coast—could’ve aided us. But three years ago, when the barbarians crossed the Rhine and Constantinus took Britain’s last legions to the continent to crown himself Constantine III, it all burned to ash.
So the estuary forts, meant to crush any barbarian thoughts of eyeing Britain’s east or south coasts in tandem with the navy, now did little more than light beacons and blunt the first enemy probes.
“You’ll head out immediately?”
“Yes. That’s why I came—to let you know. We’ll assess the enemy’s numbers on site, so no telling when I’ll return.”
“Let’s pray the northern and western barbarians stay quiet in the meantime. God and I aren’t on the best terms these days.”
Merlinus rattled off something that’d have the bishop of some grand cathedral reaching for his rod. But alas—no bishops left in Britain anymore. Plenty of priests lingered in village churches, but the high clergy from the big cathedrals had crossed the Channel with Honorius and Constantinus III’s people. In the end, they’d been men of Honorius or Constantinus, not Britain. No hard feelings from me.
“Even barbarians farm, or at least herd livestock. Spring’s no season for mustering big armies. They’ll sow their seeds first before moving.”
Last year, northern and western barbarians had rampaged wildly, crossing borders in brutal, scattered raids. Villages along those frontiers were all but wiped out. So if they crossed again, they’d skip the border hamlets for bigger prizes. Once they’d looted the easy pickings, what was left but walled cities and forts?
I figured the north and west would take time to gear up. But the eastern ones? Especially those Saxon bastards. Tireless except in winter seas, dopamine junkies chasing the big score. Mosquitoes swarming across straits in their longboats.
“Then, as always, may Mars’s favor shine on you. Ah, but this is your first campaign as Magister militum Britanniarum.”
“Heh. Guess so.”
Supreme commander of Britain. Even accepted, it was absurd. Mentally, with my past life, I was pushing forty-plus. But by years since birth—or awakening?—barely fifteen. Fifteen packed years, stained with human and beastly blood and flesh, sure.
“I’ll be back with victory news in days. Don’t worry. Oh, and if possible, any way to get more details on northern and western barbarian movements?”
“Sadly, as Londinium’s Prefectus, I don’t reach the barbarians. But Comes Lot in Eboracum or Comes Eturnus in Deva Victrix? They might. They’d know a friendly tribe or two. I’ll look into it.”
Rome was division, civil war incarnate—but the barbarians weren’t so different. We lumped them as Caledonii-Picts, Brigantes, Scots, ignoring their internal rifts beyond shared interests. Profitable targets like Romano-Britain aside, they’d knife each other without hesitation. If 99 of 100 tribes were hostile, one might be Rome-friendly. Like that Angle chieftain who’d visited days ago.
“Appreciate it.”
I stood, shaking Merlinus’s right hand with mine. His lean middle-aged grip was feeble against my massive paw, but the trust in it weighed heavy.
“Go carefully, Magister militum.”
“I don’t get cocky. No need to fret—the worry will soon be theirs.”
I strode out of Merlinus’s office as briskly as I’d entered.
------
[Flutter-flutter-]
The red banner whipped in the wind. This land always had wind—damp, relentless, season be damned. It had felt alien at first. Now it didn’t. Beduerus found that mystical.
[Click-]
The sword of the one-armed master, honed from Noricum steel, was a lifetime’s companion. Once adorned with an eagle at the tip, now a teardrop matching the banner’s emblem graced the hilt. Stroking the grip—which felt like his lost arm, phantom sensations and all—Beduerus mused.
“Still, 500’s a bit light for a legion.”
Legio. Empire’s shield and spear. Pride. Small forts housed 500-man units, sure, but at root, a legion was 1,000 minimum. Tradition demanded 5,000 or 6,000 for the grand wars of old.
One-tenth? 500?
[Flutter-flutter-]
[Thrum-thrum-thrum-]
“But led by him? More than enough.”
Hoofbeats grew from afar, mingled faintly with rumbling wheels. Under the warm spring sun, Avalonia’s warriors straightened gear and stances in formation. No Noricum steel, but British iron spearpoints gleamed at identical angles alongside curved oval shields. Matching helmets, hamata chainmail to the thighs. Long swords dangling left from sword belts over shoulder guards.
Victors always, their natural aura seeped in: fierce, valiant, elite. Artorius’s warriors.
[Clop-clop-clop-]
“Beduerus!”
Artorius’s thunderous voice boomed; Beduerus barked back.
“Here, Magister militum!”
Starting with the title. It’d change soon, but for now, the world was finally recognizing his lord. The thought flashed through Beduerus’s mind.
“Men of Britain! Warriors sworn to me, Artorius! Mars’s hour! The storm’s hour! The beacon sounds—the enemy comes! Why hesitate!? Blood and steel’s hour!”
[Thrum-thrum-thrum-]
Closer now, Artorius’s voice filled the vast space alone. The giant gripped the reins of his four-horse chariot with one iron hand, raising the other in a massive fist. His piercing yellow eyes—flashing like lightning against the night sky—seized every warrior’s soul.
Then, as Caius dashed to the chariot, grabbing helm, shield, spear, a roar erupted behind him. Mars. Hercules. God. Artorius.
Caius climbed aboard, fist thrust east. Artorius’s chariot surged first.
“Artorius-!”
“Artorius Invictus!”
His legion followed in step.