The Legion Marches Forth
“Move it!” “Seventh squad! Seventh contubernium! Find Decanus Brocus now! You're the last ones!” “Form up! You there! Watch the line!”
No matter the era or army, it was probably much the same. Even before Alexander the Great set out for the East, or Caesar marched on Gaul. The final inspection before departure—what I didn't want to call a review, but lining them up single file to check gear and morale? Yeah, that qualified as one. The difference was, we weren't parading for show, wasting the whole day on standing drills or marching practice just to look pretty. Sure, that had its uses, but in this age, we needed practical stuff more than rigid drill. Like full kit: weapons, armor, helmets, sandals. Were they properly equipped with assigned arms and protection? Had they packed personal rations, cooking gear, tent supplies without missing a thing? Spare shoes? What about the wagons and mules trailing behind? Nothing could be overlooked, but it was too fine-grained for me to micromanage.
That's why the Roman army organized everything around eight-man tents, systematizing it all. Those decani—the squad leaders—personally grabbed each man and searched them like rats, then reported up to their centurions of eighty. The chain of command flowed from there. So the man at the top—me—oversaw the whole process, listening to comprehensive reports from Beduerus and Galbaginus.
“Preparations for departure are complete, Magister militum.”
“And the auxilia?”
Typically, only Roman citizens formed the legions. Auxilia were usually barbarian auxiliaries from border regions—not absolute, but the norm. In principle, they earned citizenship after twenty-five years... but these days, that old tradition was mostly ignored. With no Roman natives lining up to enlist, who cared about legionary versus auxiliary distinctions? Generals took whatever troops they could get, gratefully. So right now, the label was just to separate Wolfmaer and Hereward's freshly surrendered Angles—barely two days under my command—from the rest. Those greenhorns sure as hell couldn't match Avalonia's battle tempo yet.
I'd mulled it over. If fighting broke out, I'd probably lead those auxilia lads straight from the center myself.
“Wolfmaer's sharper than expected. In just two days, he studied our organization and reshaped the auxilia to match.”
“Is that so?”
Wolfmaer, suddenly my interpreter and auxilia commander, had tribesmen back across the sea pining for his return, so we bent over backward for him. Avalonia was generous to most, but we upgraded him to the best quarters and gave his three escorts prime gold coins, wool cloth worth selling, and a seaworthy ship bound for his Anglii tribe. Credit might've been an issue otherwise, but two escorts turned out to be his sons, the third a nephew—he didn't seem worried. They answered briskly, departed in haste, and looked utterly reliable. Spring weather helped. I prayed their voyage dodged rough seas, and that Wolfmaer's tribesfolk arrived safely. Lord, Mars, whoever—Lake Spirit of Avalonia. Help them out.
“I've watched them closely these past two days, Magister militum. The auxilia warriors aren't fluent in our tongue or tactics yet, but they have excellent qualities to become fine soldiers.”
“In what ways?”
“They despise cowards, value honor above life. Bodies toughened by harsh labor, zeal to fulfill orders. Give me a little time, and within a year, I'll forge the auxilia into Avalonia's second legion.”
Beduerus's eyes gleamed with equal parts anticipation and confidence. What soldiers craved most: first glory, second, swelling ranks under their command. Two prizes in one—he'd been grinning ear-to-ear since two days ago. Hard to spot on that stony Roman face, but I saw it.
“Five hundred plus five hundred barely makes one legion now.”
“Hah. True. I'd grown too used to Avalonia's scales. A Roman legion starts at a thousand.”
“I hear they once based legions on five thousand. Long road ahead, Beduerus.”
“Rome wasn't built in a day, Magister militum. And your five hundred scare me a thousand times more than five thousand rabble. Avalonia's army will grow far stronger.”
After I named him Magister militum, Beduerus had made a not-quite-request: drop the honorifics for him. I'd treated him with respect as elder and senior officer, but now he politely asked to end it—said it suited him better that way. Reasons aplenty, but mainly his comfort. So suddenly, I was firmly on top. It felt... off. Like the romantic days of blood-brothers dashing about had ended, replaced by something more systematic, professional. A touch bittersweet. Like startup comrades crowning me chairman, then the wild amateur vibe hardening into a proper firm?
I knew it was inevitable—now Magister militum by acclaim of every Britannian power in Londinium's forum, save Vortigern. But still.
“Hope it goes smoothly.”
“...Vortigern?”
“Can we avoid fighting, Beduerus?”
“Doubtful, Magister militum. Every Dumnonii male's a warrior. Half follow Vortigern—that's thousands. Add overseas barbarians, he has no reason to yield.”
“Hm.”
Rome had fought and hired barbarians forever—so Vortigern importing them wasn't unheard of. Accepting Wolfmaer and Hereward's folk was similar, in a way. Difference? Britannia's elites chose me. Split east and west, proxies clashing. Or Vortigern, last gasp of Magnus's faction, lashing out. Worst: this feud invited barbarians into Britannia proper—like late Han China's Three Kingdoms birthing the Sixteen Kingdoms of Wu Hu.
So I couldn't yield to Vortigern.
“Better this way. If he comes out for my specialty—fighting—no matter thousands or tens of thousands, bring 'em.”
“Hahaha.”
“Galbaginus is waving. Time to go.”
“Yes, Magister militum. Destination: Caer Cadwy. We march.”
[Clink]
Beduerus's right fist—sword-grip style—thumped his chest lightly. Chainmail rustled softly. Salute done, he raised his hand; a mighty cornu blast echoed across the field.
[Bam- Bam- Bam- Bbam-Ppa-Bbam- Bbam-Ppa-Bbam-]
The tune I'd jokingly suggested—lifted from my past life's Starz—fit imperial marches perfectly. Now Avalonia's anthem. Casual pebbles I tossed could ripple unpredictably, so I'd been cautious, watching the world's eyes. But responsibility crushed any room for hiding. No gunpowder recipes in my head, not even solid soap. Just this stupidly sturdy body and god-touched tactical genius, undefeated record.
"If you're dumb, your body suffers," elders said in my old life. I'd vowed yesterday to roll in the mud gladly. What about you, Vortigern?
“Magister militum Artorius!”
“Artorius!”
“Artorius Invictus!”
“Artorius!”
“Legion of Artorius! Forward!”
“Artorius!”
Avalonia's warriors roared my name after Beduerus's lead. I mounted the chariot Caius had prepped, glancing back. There, in white, Guinevere waved from afar.
[Bwoooong---]
The auxilia kept their horns—nice sound, right?
“Let's go, Maverick.”
[Neigh!]
My white steed snorted, stepped forward; the thousand-strong legion followed, footfalls far heavier than five hundred.
“...You sent this expecting obedience?”
“Please think wisely and act accordingly—that's what he said.”
“Wisely? Wiiiisely?”
Bearish brows and beard. Mouth clamped like a straight line, thick and twisted—hinting at the man's nature. Stubborn, bluntly. Essential for Caer Cadwy's tigern.
[Sizzle-]
“Ah, no...! Tigern! That's the personal letter from Comes Britanniarum!!”
“You bleat like a goatherd. That your origin?”
“Y-yes? What insolence—”
“Insolence is your master's doing, you brainless fool. Better ponder how to slink home alive.”
“...!”
Of course, this veteran tigern of decades wouldn't kill an envoy, no matter how arrogant the sender. Some laws of the world must hold.
“Hand over my son? Hah.”
But Vortigern lacked such laws. Sure, the boy eloped to Londinium with Vortigern's betrothed, but he was my son. Heir to Caer Cadwy.
“S-spare me! I just relay the noble one's words—”
“Spared. But tell your master clearly.”
A man with three hundred personal troops, calling himself Comes Britanniarum? Laughable. Probably just denied like a coward, losing out to my far manlier son, Drustanus. A craven who couldn't even take the field had nothing more from Caer Cadwy.
“Quit the nonsense. Tell him to join those western barbarians and do what he planned. Caer Cadwy will do the same.”