Black Cat Omen and Barbarian Tides
"Shoo, get outta here, you dumb cat. You think this is some playground for kittens...? Shoo—shoo—"Meooow! The cat that approached so boldly only to hiss and flee out of nowhere was pitch black. Just like the shadow of uncertainty hanging over the fort these days, the sentry thought. There'd be plenty enough barbarians dying here today. Better to chase that cute beast far away.
BOOOOM—— A deafening roar—not the pleasant mew of a cat, but something far more brutal—filled the blue sky. This place used to be perfect for a quick nap, lulled by the rhythmic crash of waves. But at some point, tension had become more familiar than peace. When had that started? Leaning against the battlements on watch, the weathered sentry dredged up distant memories.
Ah, right. Back when the legions still held this land, the barbarians never dared show their greed so openly. By the calendar, that made it about ten years now? Facing the ever-growing waves of savages, the old soldier marveled at how he'd managed to survive this long.
BOOOOOOM—— Another horn answered the first, this one echoing from farther out at sea. The barbarian rowing ships that should have been intercepted near shore already numbered thirty. Romano-Britannia had no proper warships, and the small, shabby vessels Dominus Artorius had captured so far couldn't fight a naval battle. So even if those barbarians clattered ashore along the Roman coast, there was comically no way to stop them.
All they could do was light the beacon fires in haste and hold out here in this fort—officially a century of a hundred men, but realistically just ten eight-man squads after excluding the too-old and too-young—until reinforcements arrived. Fortunately, the walls were tall enough, the fort neither too large nor too small, the moat deep, and the ballistae and bolts plentiful. All that remained was for the garrison not to lose heart against the barbarians swarming since early spring...
Surprisingly, in this southeastern corner of Romano-Britannia, troop morale hadn't been an issue for at least five years. Why? "Damn, they're persistent. Right on schedule again this year, like clockwork."
"If my third kid had even half their work ethic, I'd be a happy man."
"Weird, isn't it? Don't the barbarians talk among themselves? After getting smashed by Dominus Artorius, you'd think they'd learn."
"That's why they're barbarians, you dolt."
"Ah—hurry up and catch or kill 'em all so I can soak in some hot water."
Unlike the west and north, where grim rumors spread daily of villages burned and forts emptied, the people of southeastern Britannia centered on Avalonia had always won. They could chat idly about household matters even with barbarians teeming below because, first, they weren't afraid—and second, it was routine.
BOOOOOOM—— Another horn blared, and the barbarians gathered in one spot, bellowing war cries as they raised spears and swords, banged shields, stomped feet, and built momentum. They occasionally pointed at the walls, shouting passionately or gesturing mockingly at the sentries, laughing among themselves. But the garrison had seen this spectacle countless times over years.
"Time for their chief to step up and give a speech?"
"Last one's voice was crap. Let's hear this one."
"I do love their war horns."
"Best sound barbarians make, right?"
"Things are about to get busy."
Soon they'd prop up ladders—hastily fetched or makeshift—against the walls, and a few would tumble off, pierced by arrows and javelins. No need to hold long; he would come from the west. And whichever barbarian led them would lose its head first.
"Alright, break time's over. Back to your posts, lads."
"Yes, centurion. Let's go."
"Centurion, looks like we're it this time. No support from Camulodunum?"
"That's for the Comes to decide. We do our job here. Understood?"
"Yes, centurion."
Rubbing shoulders day in, day out had blurred military hierarchy into neighborly camaraderie, but since none were proper soldiers anyway, the retired centurion expected no legionary discipline. And here, it wasn't needed.
"Hold just a bit longer—Dominus Artorius is coming!"
"Artorius! Invictus!"
"Mars! Lord! Protect him!"
Just calling his name triggered a reflexive chorus. Britannia's hero was their discipline. Facing hordes, Britannia's men stood unshaken.
-----
Snort! As the scent of battle thickened, the horses snorted less frequently. Among the four pulling my chariot, the meanest, with the strongest teeth, was the pure white one on the left—I'd nicknamed it Maverick. Because Top Gun was so damn fun in my past life. A naming choice infused with soul, in my book.
The white-spotted one beside it was Dallas, the black one Ochus, and the other black one Yukchul. Hilarious watching Caius stumble over them at first: "Mavericus...? Uchucus...?" On reflection, their utterly foreign ring made them distinctive, so I stuck with them.
My sturdy body and iron will kept homesickness at bay—I barely knew the word—but Caius's puzzled reactions reminded me I was a stranger here. A soul adrift in another world, you might say. Sounds poetic, but by now, my identity boiled down to a Romano-Briton shaman-seer who knew bits of the future.
Anyway, Maverick hadn't had proper warhorse training, but the bloodthirsty brute—snorting even at my bulk—was aggressively eager, always straining to charge ahead alone.
Yank. "Magister militum! Riders from Camulodunum's gate! Gesturing this way!"
Reining in Maverick to calm it, I saw Caius—one hand on his helmet—point to Camulodunum atop the distant right hill. Sneakily, he called Maverick "Bucephalus," some great king's warhorse from old tales. Maverick or Bucephalus, my lead horse always favored the hand with a carrot—who cared about names?
Those Camulodunum riders weren't to be ignored. Likely sent by Comes Uterius spotting my approach. Better to press on than halt for formalities and remarch. I raised my hand, signaling: Join. East. Attack. Join. Hurry. Attack.
Not sure if they got it, but the twenty elite cavalry quickened pace—trusting their decurion to catch on.
"Keep moving! Caius! And all of you—remember! War is swiftness! Mobility first! The fastest wins! Fly, Maverick!"
Neighhh!
"Ad victoriam!!"
"Britannia! Et Artorio!!"
"Charge! Strike! Smash! Charge! Strike! Smash!"
Voices boomed from riders around. No hesitation in the thundering hooves behind my chariot. My forces were primed for battle—now it was on me to shine.
In Romano-Britannia, where a thousand-man clash was massive, a commander's skill was everything. One great leader saves a city; one fool dooms it. Pressure followed naturally, but I'd grown to shoulder it effortlessly. With this body, how much could I bench? Twenty layers of underarmor top and bottom, and they'd all bow weeping.
Clop-clop-clop-thud— Hooves like heartbeats mixed with rattling wheels—how far had we gone? Camulodunum faded behind as enemy presence loomed ahead: reddish, ominous, pure barbarian vibe.
"Caius! Foes ahead! Blast the cornu loud! Let them know we're here!"
"Yes, Magister militum!"
Nothing visible yet—just ridges, hills, paths—but Caius's eyes held no doubt. He rummaged from the left seat (Briton driver's side), wiped the mouthpiece on his sleeve, and blew hard. A snakelike cornu blared triumphant melody.
Pahm—pahm—pahm—pahng—papahm—pahng—papahm—
Notes like swinging a red lightsaber swelled my chest. Grand, sinister march fitting Rome fired up my cavalry.
Snort! Snort! Blood-loving Maverick champed wildly, excited. Leader's charge spurred chariot team and battlehorses to surge. Time for blood and steel! Ahead lay oil-slick slaughter! Instinct dawned in every beastly mind, four legs or two.
"Wolfmaer! Stay behind me!"
"Understood!"
"It's 'understood, sir' then!"
First, handle the barbarians unused to our ways. "Fine day for a run! Don't charge drunk ahead of me! If dizzy, follow my banner only!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Aye!"
Thud! Riders punched shields with spear fists, acknowledging. Commanders need volume first.
Two more hills down: sea visible, a lone fort ahead, cluster of men. Scattered groups screamed barbarian. Five hundred? Six? Light guard along this river path—they trusted their river-flushed ships.
My Avalonia thirty riders, Camulodunum twenty tailing. Five barbarians per. Plus my chariot. Beduerus's main force—500 heavy infantry—half a day back. What now?
"Probe 'em! Eyes sharp! This is war! Britannia! No land without strife! Today we return home once more!"
"Artoriii-us!"
"Ad victoriam! Ad victoriam!"
Warriors who'd rob without me now. Leading these bloodthirsty maniacs, I reluctantly headed to battle again. Tragic. "Remember—no prisoners today!"