Even Cavalry Digs Trenches
We pulled back from the battlefield and quickly set up camp on a hill with a clear view of the fortress. The sky looked like it was grinning ear to ear right now, but Britannia's weather could flip in an instant, dumping rain like it wanted to drown us just for fun. First order of business: dig drainage ditches around space for men, horses, and eight-man tents.
[Dig! Scoop! Dig! Scoop!]
Roman castra—camps, fortresses—don't spring up overnight! Start with the dolabra—pickaxes—to smash up the hard ground into powder. Then grab a pala—that's a shovel—for trenches. After that, axes, sickles, ropes, and baskets to clear, shape, and pile it up neat with stakes for barriers. Simple bivouac done.
Thirty Avalonia cavalry, twenty from Camulodunum joining late, and four useless barbarian riders. Normally, it'd take two meals' worth of time. But with me pitching in? Time for a quick bite of bread.
"Caius, tidy up from here to there. Just make sure water flows downhill."
"Got it!"
Ever tell you I'm a railgun in the 5th century? Add in that I'm a backhoe, bulldozer, and giant drill too. Infinite strength, tireless stamina! Machines break down sometimes, but me? No mistakes, no breakdowns—the ultimate construction god. Or king of the worksite. Maybe my real talent's here?
Truth is, half a Roman legion's soldiers, half builders. So my skills fill every hexagon for a perfect Roman soldier.
[Slam!]
I finished smoothing the tricky east slope and stabbed my shovel into the mound I'd piled up. Sat on it, and everywhere folks were wrapping up. Not a drop of sweat on me, but I wiped my forehead with my forearm anyway. Sitting still, I felt the breeze flowing from the northern river to the eastern sea.
Random thought, but what a beautiful land.
"Magister militum! Banners from the west!"
Caius ran up, wiping sweat after finishing the ditches, yelling from afar.
"Yeah? What shape?"
I grinned and asked. He puffed out proudly.
"Too far to see clear, but red field with a blue dot in the middle!"
Avalonia's blue water drop. No one nearby flies eagles or chi-rho like that except us.
"Beduerus and Galbaginus hustled. Send a herald to guide 'em here? Hill's a prime spot."
"Yessir!"
Caius dashed off again—peak teenager energy. Turned east: fortress solid, defenders scanning us nonstop. Waved big; they cheered and flailed arms.
A hill perfectly blocked their view ahead, so enemies probably couldn't see well. They'd backed off far, set their own camp. Might sneak boats out at night, skirt the coast south. North coast villages to Eboracum evacuated ages ago—no loot. Hiding inland's a headache, but patrols on roads lock key passes.
So if they move as a group, southbound. Southern coast's always crowded.
"I trust you, Comes Uterius."
He'd know all this better than me—over thirty years defending this turf. No delusions of solo heroics. Trust and fight together. Long borders crumble without it.
Shaking off those thoughts, I headed to camp center. Plenty to do before dark.
"So, let's review the situation."
"Gladly, Dominus."
"Ha, Dominus?"
'These sneaky Romans are rotten to the core—land, isles, all of it.'
One of the fierce Seax blades' mighty chieftains. When the Rhine froze years back, he stayed home, biding strength instead of rash crossing. Swore to ancestor Woden, renamed himself Hingst—stallion. Now he eyed the Roman warily.
"Marcellinus Audovenus? Odd name, guest."
"Hahaha. Frankish blood up top. Britannia, Franks, Saxons, Angles, Jutes—we've mingled long enough, eh? Hahaha."
Hingst stifled a sneer at the Roman's laugh-punctuated words. Frankish kin? Did this fool know western 'Franks' and local Saxons weren't chummy? Meant to lighten the mood, but warriors' glares sharpened with every word.
"Right. Anyway, Marcellinus—who sent you here—"
"Comes Vortigern, yes."
"Indeed. Comes Vortigern claims your master's got Romano-British legitimacy. So why cross the sea, trek Frankish lands, to pitch this deal?"
Vortigern's envoy brought word to Hingst's tribe. Strip the Roman fluff: military aid wanted. Vague foe meant bad news.
"Britannia's chaos now, Rex Hingst. More friends, better times? Hahaha."
Rex? Romans tossed that at chieftains when weak. Hingst calculated; his sharp-eyed brother stepped up.
"Slippery."
"...Pardon?"
"You remind me of a snake, Roman."
"...Ahaha. Dominus, if so, my failing—but I'm no such—"
"Ealdorman decides. So..."
Shut it. Brother held back. Hingst swallowed a chuckle, dropped his beard-stroking hand. Roman's smooth-shaven face stiffened. Brother's rough, but Romans fit servile, sly, craven.
"Brought advance pay?"
"Yes! Rex Hingst, a token from the Comes—"
"Leave it."
"Yes...?"
"Need to discuss. Your Comes doesn't rule Britannia alone; I consult my tribes."
"Ah, yes. Hahaha... I rushed. Dominus Rex."
Winters tamed internals: two big allies, four mids, four watchers. Share the gifts, rally warriors. But crossing to Romano-Britannia—not Rhine—had one snag.
"Guest, best head back. My warriors'll guide. Hard for us to send; return after one moon?"
"O-of course, Dominus Rex!"
"Good. Someone escort our guest."
"Yes, Ealdorman."
A loyal warrior led him out. Roman babbled sweets till the flap; brother spat as he vanished.
"Ptoo."
"Heh heh heh."
"Brother, your plan?"
Hingst and Hrotha brothers. Vowed at Woden's shrine, sacrificing white stallions. Lead tribe to glory, die fighting. Renamed stallion (Hingst), horse (Hrotha)—die running. Noble warrior lives, deaths fit high blood. Top names on Saxon shores now; mightier ones crossed frozen Rhine.
Left behind: young, weak, or wealthy.
"Brother knows: sea yonder holds a terror."
"..."
"...!"
Warriors tensed at Hrotha's whisper. Some been to Britannia, seen the giant.
Yes, giants dwell there.
"Artorius."
"No empty name like that filthy Roman's prattle."
"I know, Hrotha."
One man slays hundred? Rumor. Years on? Fact. Scoffers mad.
"Brother, kin who've shared ale: no rush. Spring just here. Back to Studer first. Invite chiefs along river. Spring hunt?"
"Yes, Ealdorman."
Hrotha bowed out, sturdy. Warriors' gazes solid, expectant. Shrugging familiar weight, Elbe's warlord's eyes deepened.
"...So, let's review."
"Ja!"
The barbarian's bark was crisp—unlike my tangled thoughts. About twenty knelt before me, helmed and armored; front one's crested. Obvious leaders.
Why huddled?
"Surrender? All of you?"
"Ja-a!"
Last night, infighting. Dripping-head losers (obviously); winners grovel here. Why fight? They wanted to yield to me.