The Eagle's Gaze
“Oh my, have you been waiting long? My apologies. The Magister Militum had to step away for a moment.”
What in the world is this situation?
He had come to meet the de facto ruler of southeastern Britannia, yet here was a stunningly beautiful woman sitting right in front of him? In the easternmost fortress of the land that had long been the domain of the mighty Dumnonii tribe in southwestern Britannia—the first to clash swords with the Romans, and now known as the closest to Roman territory among their old holdings. The mind of Drustanus, the only son of Tigern Cador, lord of Caer Cadwy, was in utter turmoil.
How did my situation end up like this...?
It was all because of that damned love. A love he would gladly burn his body for without regret! Ah—a blazing inferno he would leap into dozens, hundreds of times over! But as the eldest son of a family that ruled over countless farmers—not some ordinary peasant—and burdened by the guilt of betraying his father's immense respect and expectations, everything around Drustanus lately felt heavy, burdensome, overwhelming.
Yet as the heir to a lineage that had held the lofty title of Tigern for generations, he could not show weakness. Straightening his posture and resolve once more, Drustanus replied,
“It's only natural for an unannounced visitor like me to wait. I am Drustanus from Caer Cadwy, the fortress to the west. If anything, I am grateful for Avalonia's hospitality in providing warm water for washing, wine, and bread to this unwelcome guest.”
Courteous, but not servile. All those lessons from his father and the family elders that he once dismissed as pointless were proving invaluable in this unexpected place and moment. The posture and eloquence flowed unbidden, feeling strangely foreign even to him. Like the sword he had swung to shake off pursuers or the arrows he had loosed.
Before he knew it, Drustanus had become the fine warrior and man his father had always hoped for. Though this was hardly the confirmation he had wanted.
“Caer Cadwy... You've come a long way.”
Isut, with her dazzling golden hair that made it impossible to hide her instant infatuation—the first time she had ever loved anyone so deeply—had been safely hidden away thanks to the Prefect of Londinium, who proved even kinder and wiser than rumored. Seeking counsel, Drustanus had been told that perhaps Avalonia held the answers he needed. So he had reassured the tearful Isut as best he could and boldly knocked on the door—what even he now saw as reckless.
But out of nowhere, this woman with her reddish hair had appeared in the Magister Militum's stead (not quite as beautiful as Isut, but still a remarkable beauty).
“I am Guinevere, daughter of Comes Uterius.”
“Ah—”
Beauty aside, it was the sharp glint in her eyes, the natural elegance—or was it intimidation?—that set her apart. Wondering who she might be, everything clicked the moment Drustanus heard the name Comes Uterius.
This is Guinevere. Daughter of the legendary eastern warrior, Uther.
Even as Roman rule persisted and many adopted Roman names, the spirit of this land lingered here and there. Drustanus himself borrowed Roman form, but Romano-British names still breathed with Britannia's traces. And even one like Uterius—Uther—who had sealed Britannia's eastern coast for decades was no exception.
No wonder the title of greatest eastern warrior seemed to be passing from Uterius to Artorius. Was she being positioned as the next consort to carry it forward?
“Your father's renown has reached even the far west, Domina Guinevere.”
With a premonition that he might be facing Britannia's future lady even now, Drustanus straightened his already impeccable posture further. He raised what was clearly an expensive glass, calmly meeting the cool gaze of Guinevere as she subtly masked her expression.
What kind of woman's gaze is this...?
“Caer Cadwy follows Comes Vortigern, does it not?”
The question came sharp as a blade the moment she set down her glass.
“The Dumnonii lands have long been tied to Emperor Magnus Maximus. When he needed troops, he wooed them by giving his daughter in marriage, and her husband became Comes Vortigern... And now, our relations with Vortigern are hardly cordial.”
“Domina, I absolutely—”
“I know well, Domine Drustanus.”
Her smile dissolved the suffocating tension in an instant.
“We call them Dumnonii from the outside, but not everyone there is of one mind. In Caer Cadwy, Tigern Cador's will matters more—your father. Am I wrong?”
“You speak truly, Domina.”
His throat burned as he answered, but he couldn't bring himself to reach for the glass. Maintaining his rigid posture grew harder, yet Drustanus recalled his training and strove for composure.
“I heard a certain Isut is currently a guest of the Prefectus in Londinium. That you personally escorted her, Domine Drustanus. How kind of you. Though just days ago, there was a rumor... that Comes Vortigern seeks alliances across the sea.”
This woman knows everything.
“It was quite the shock. Not long after western and southern coasts burned at the hands of sea raiders, and now he's pursuing marriage with the ruler of the land those raiders came from? What do you make of it, Domine? If I were to aid you somehow... Could you convey these concerns—our deep Romano-British concerns—to your father?”
Forget any poetic notions I had about her name evoking Britannia's charm.
Drustanus thought,
An eagle. She's the Roman eagle incarnate.
She tried to mask it with a gentle smile, but the predator's gaze overflowed uncontrollably. Nodding, Drustanus found himself wishing to face the Magister Militum himself—said to surpass even legendary giants—right here.
[Drip-drip—]
Ah, rain's falling.
“Pick up the pace!”
“Full legion! Double time!”
“They say move faster!”
“[Hereward! Move quicker!]”
“Got it!”
“[That's informal!]”
“[Right!] Sorry!”
Avalonia was just a little farther, so I chose not to halt. Did I mention Britannia's riverbanks turn into nothing but marshes? Quite exaggerated, perhaps, but on rainy days, they truly become swamps. Of course, the Camulodunum River—known for occasional floods—hadn't overflowed once since I awoke in this world, only blessing the surroundings.
Still, the road turned to muck in the downpour, and pitching tents nearby was a miserable hassle. No matter how superior the gear, high the morale, or skilled the commanders, they were all still human. And humans aren't built to wallow in mud.
So I pushed to traverse quickly, but that's where I felt the stark difference between Roman and barbarian troops.
“Huff! Huff!”
Any commander of this era's soldiers faces marching as the first challenge before battle. Even with Rome's godlike roads as a buff, it wasn't easy. Injuries cropped up without cause, and soldiers—vigorous young men—could spark chaos if vigilance slipped. Beyond those headaches, factors like troop speed, distance, obstacles, random bears or wolves, bandit ambushes, refugee pleas, or sudden calls for aid from distant forts could combine unpredictably.
Truly, without my godlike intuition for military matters, Avalonia would've burned, along with every major city and fortress from Camulodunum to Londinium.
Living as a commander honed my ear: I could gauge a unit's caliber from their march alone. The fiery zeal those end-of-the-world fortress protesters showed had mellowed; now they trudged demurely mid-column like brides. Not bad, better than expected.
But upping the pace revealed the novices unaccustomed to such maneuvers. Instead of slowing, I handed the chariot to Caius and waited for the reserve Romans—Avalonia's recruits.
[Step! Step! Step! Step!]
[Drip-drip—]
The rain intensified. Our Romans grouped by eight-man tents as minimal squads, scaling up with zeros for legion structure. But these reserves clustered in tens, twenties, or even villages.
Reorganize from scratch, train, promote the capable as leaders. If Hereward proved worthy, build him as a core axis—start as foederati.
“Keep running! Almost there! Clean water and tasty bread ahead without lines! Don't stop! We're there!”
It reminded me of Captain Cho Seung-sang brazenly lying to thirsty, irritable troops about water. But my words were all true. These barbarian-blooded reserves just didn't grasp them yet.
Still, sharp enough to catch on—they babbled unknowable words (probably “got it”) while gasping and stomping on. Some eyed me like I'd lost my mind: why was the top commander out here in the rain?
I'd seen those looks from Avalonia's warriors before. Honestly, I wouldn't deny aping Wu Qi, that Warring States genius from far eastern China. I couldn't suck pus from their feet, but his essence rang true: share hardships, especially in tough times, to win simple men's hearts.
That's what I did, and after three years, I had troops who pierced storm-lashed marshes without complaint on my order. These reserves would be the same.
[Pouring—]
Reigniting, I shouldered stragglers, lightened their loads, and soon Avalonia's high watchtower loomed. The drizzle had swelled; tasting a drop, I pegged it at 97% shower odds.
Anything military, and I knew instinctively like a beast. Give me five million more, and I'd wipe barbarian strongholds clean—not arrogance.
“Magister Militum! Magister Militum! Domina Guinevere awaits in Avalonia with an important guest!”
Didn't see that coming. Guinevere visiting wasn't odd, but an important guest?
“Tell them I said got it! No—come with me! Caius! Bring the chariot carefully! Beduerus! Galbaginus! Rest immediately at the gates! Wash first! Unwashed aren't Roman citizens! Clear!?”
“Yes, Magister Militum!”
“Everyone hear that!? Wash on entry! Hot water awaits!”
“And Wolfmaer! Need more from you now! Caius'll show the reserves quarters! They wash first too! No wash, no bread!”
“Understood, Magister Militum!”
“I'm going ahead!”
[Step! Step! Step! Step!]
[Clink-clink-clink—]
Sprinting, space shrank like magic. Rain slapped my face—cheating, I know—but mere droplets couldn't harm this body. Sorry, Mother Nature.
“Ugh! Gack! Cough!”
A reserve on my shoulder wailed pitifully. Tough luck; you're coming with me.
Soon I crossed Avalonia's east gate, laid the near-fainted man on soft ground, and hurried inside.