What Romans Do Best
“Have you met with Comes Uterius?”
“He wasn’t there. They said he’d headed straight for the Durovernum fortress down south. Barbarians can just pick a spot anywhere and come charging in, but for those of us defending, it’s damn hard to predict where they’ll strike next. At least he went to guard the most critical point.”
[Hiss—]
Steam rose hot from the bathwater that Brother Hector had his people prepare in advance. This land of Britannia was one where rain fell year-round, crisscrossed by great rivers and little streams everywhere, so water was never scarce—making luxuries like this possible. Was everything in the world like two sides of a coin?
[Splash—]
I poured it over my head and sank fully into the tub, scrubbing off the mud, bloodstains, and sweat caked everywhere. They had something primitive called sapo here—a sort of soap—but it was mostly for washing hair. Instead, the locals slathered oil on their bodies for bathing, let the grime cake on, then scraped it off with a shoehorn-like tool. Not my taste, so I stuck to hot water. With the heat and the vigorous friction of my hands, what chance did blood or sweat stains have?
After that combative bath, I hopped into the large tub beside it for a quick cold rinse, toweled off, and—before my skin fully dried and flaked—rubbed in some fragrant oil. Skin care done. Astonishingly, the whole routine wrapped up while exchanging a few words with Brother Hector waiting outside the door.
“If only we had a powerful fleet remaining... But that’s still a distant dream, isn’t it?”
“We’d need at least three legions on this land before we could even attempt it, Brother. Two minimum on the northern wall, and one as reserves. Even that would be tight... It’s like a pipe dream, isn’t it?”
[Swish—swish—scrape—scrape—]
Water wiped. Oil applied. Mirror check, stray hairs trimmed. Combat bath complete.
[Creak—]
I opened the bathhouse door, and there was Brother Hector holding my clothes. He effectively served as my household steward, so it wasn’t awkward anymore. Still, being human, I occasionally felt a twinge of guilt and gratitude.
“Dreams are what we invoke when speaking of the unattainable, Magister Militum. Yet even my hazy eyes can see a clear future: the newborn Britannian fleet proudly flying Avalonia’s banners, safeguarding our coasts.”
“Is that so? I can’t see it myself. You must have better eyesight than me, Brother.”
I slipped on the white tunic Hector handed me and cinched the thin belt. Romans traditionally used urine for laundry—of course, I banned that outright and, in a somewhat brutish, semi-forced way, changed the method. Burn hard wood to ash, mix it in a tub with pure rainwater, filter slowly—boom, instant detergent. The clay from the southern coast worked straight up when diluted in water. When I asked why they hadn’t done it before, they admitted they’d known the method for ages. So why urine? Tradition, convenience, urine-processing cartels, and a bunch of other excuses. I swept them all aside, unleashed my inner tyrant, and ensured no dry piss stench wafted in my city.
The result? My mental happiness skyrocketed, and though these folks might not notice, urban hygiene improved, boosting quality of life overall.
“And wear this as well.”
“...”
I glanced at what Brother Hector offered: a purple cloth, just long enough to wrap my forearm. My questioning look prompted him to nod at my right arm.
“Magister Militum, positions like yours require such symbols now. No downside to wearing it, only gains—so just put it on.”
You heed a brother’s words. I wrapped the armband obediently; the tunic’s loose fit tightened a bit, but otherwise no change. Seeing Hector’s satisfied face made it worth it.
“It’s temporary. Temporary.”
“Hohoho. I heard you said as much in Londinium’s forum. Wear it well in the meantime.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Anyway, who’s this guest waiting with Guinevere?”
The escorts outside the bathhouse saluted as I emerged. I returned it casually and headed toward the reception hall. Hector glanced at the now-clearing sky after the shower passed and hurried to match my stride.
“Caer Cadwy, the fortress guarding a key southwestern pass. Its heir has come.”
Caer Cadwy was a vital stronghold defending Dumnonii lands. Pass through it, and you could plunge straight into the heart of Dumnonia, the deep ravines. Naturally, its guardians had always been mighty—and now its heir shows up out of nowhere. Surprising.
“I heard the western coast took heavy damage. For Caer Cadwy’s heir to roam so freely, things must be manageable there?”
“Perhaps the opposite, Magister Militum.”
“...? What do you mean?”
I waved off the guards at the reception building’s inner door—no salute—then lowered my voice.
“Vortigern seems desperate. Rumors said he reached out to barbarians across the western sea, and it looks true.”
“He’s half-mad.”
We’d been hounded relentlessly just last autumn by raiders—and now he’s begging help from their possible chiefs across that sea? For what?
“The problem is, that’s not all. Confirmed reports: it wasn’t just aid he sought—he planned a marriage.”
“Who? Vortigern?”
“Yes.”
“He’s completely lost it.”
Tie himself by marriage? To barbarians? Suppose, by some one-in-a-thousand—no, one-in-a-billion—chance, he drives me out and claims Britannia. How long could he hold that throne? I wasn’t sure whether to admire Vortigern’s audacity or sigh.
“As with most of his schemes, this one hit a snag—”
“And that snag’s name is Drustanus.”
I’d already heard the guest’s name and basics. Drustanus. Classic Dumnonii name with a Roman flourish at the end. Word was he’d protected a woman and single-handedly shaken off pursuers. But hearing the full story, this wasn’t just some chivalrous knight’s romance.
“Not good. This could escalate. So the woman Drustanus brought is...”
“The barbarian chieftain’s daughter from across the western sea, betrothed to be Vortigern’s wife.”
Damn.
“...Understood. I’ll go hear her out.”
“Don’t forget: you’ll have to clash with Vortigern sooner or later, Magister Militum.”
“...Not the sort of thing for a servant of the Lord to say, is it?”
“I abandoned holy orders long ago. I’ll assign quarters in the spare barracks to your new barbar—er, prospective Avalonian citizens.”
“Appreciated.”
I nodded to Hector, then signaled the silent reception guards.
[Snap!]
“Magister Militum!”
“Magister Militum Artorius!”
The guards saluted thunderously and slowly opened the doors. I strode down the long corridor to the round table at its end. I wasn’t sure when the tradition started, but Avalonia used round desks and chairs in training grounds, meeting rooms, reception halls—most places.
“Magister Militum.”
“Magister Militum, Dominus Artorius...!”
Guinevere’s sharp brown eyes sparkled at me; I instantly clocked that this spirited girl had cooked up some ruthless plan again—but I didn’t show it in front of the guest. I’d ask later.
More importantly.
“Dominus Drustanus? That you?”
The man across from Guinevere—closer to me—shot to his feet, looking up. The romantic hero who’d ditched pursuers alone with a foreign princess in a tearful elopement. And now my headache.
I sized up Drustanus’s handsome face from every angle.
Big.
“Dominus Drustanus? That you?”
And heavy.
“Yes, Dominus Artorius.”
No chance for pleasantries like pleased to meet you or I’ve heard of your fame. The fallen at his sword and bow proved he wasn’t a coward—but for perhaps the first time, Drustanus felt purely overwhelmed by someone’s presence.
There are people like this in the world.
Astonishment hit.
Vortigern truly means to challenge him?
Doubt followed.
“Sit. I got the basics on the way in.”
Cautiously retaking his seat at the Magister Militum’s natural gesture, Drustanus still heard Artorius’s voice from on high.
“Is it true Comes Vortigern sought marriage with barbarians across the western sea? To borrow their forces?”
“True.”
“Hah. So you, Drustanus, took the bride-to-be—”
The Magister Militum paused, seemingly weighing words. Drustanus dared guess: that giant was pondering how to sugarcoat “kidnapping.” He’d spent the whole day agonizing how to explain it to his own father.
“...You escorted the domina to Londinium?”
“Also true, Magister Militum.”
“Fought pursuers en route and repelled them?”
“Yes. True.”
What a mad thing I’ve done. Realization struck again. From across, as the cleanly shaven Magister Militum stroked his chin thoughtfully, came Domina Guinevere’s soft voice.
“Vortigern used underlings to arrange the marriage. He wanted it quiet, but soon all Romano-Britannia will know. Then it becomes a matter of his honor.”
“Honor... What idiocy do you think Vortigern pulls next?”
“He’ll cut off the tail. Stage an accident to assassinate Dominus Drustanus here—or go further, target Domina Isut in Londinium.”
“Assassination under my roof? Impossible. Londinium’s practically Praefectus Merlinus’s domain. Even if he has lingering loyalists, bribing one won’t be easy... Still, caution never hurts.”
Drustanus could only listen as the pair casually discussed grim possibilities.
“I’ll inform Merlinus.”
“Thanks.”
“One more: a method Vortigern might try.”
“...”
“Londinium and Avalonia are tough for him—but Caer Cadwy?”
...Father?
Drustanus’s eyes trembled faintly; a deep furrow creased Artorius’s brow.