A Fine Season for Battle
War is like the seasons. Especially here, to these people, it was no different from a festival. The gods loved the brave, and weren't warriors those who craved the gods' favor even more than a woman's love? Honor was another name for their lineage. They would bury in the marshes anyone exposed as a drought-bringer, dishonorable, or craven coward, offering them up to the gods as sacrifice. For men born to fight, warriors, marching to war was so natural that asking why was like asking why they ate bread every day.
And to the farthest east of Dumnonii lands, before a fortress so ancient even the bards could scarcely recall its founding, war arrived like the scent of flowers.
[Whooooosh—whoosh—whoosh— Hooooow—hoooow—hoooow—]
A faint sound echoed, like human screams. Then came footsteps like drumbeats.
[Whooooosh—whoosh—whoosh—]
“A-ri! A-ril!”
[Aril! Aril!]
“A-ril! Ri! Mu-wan!”
[Aril! Ri! Mu-wan!]
The Romans lumped it all together as Hibernia. Among the lands its people called Ériu, the greatest names were Uurd, Ragin, Conachta, and the like. But ask the warrior striding boldly at the front of that battle band of some 150 men, and he would surely bellow that the Érainn clan was Hibernia's finest, Ériu's strongest.
“Warriors of Dumnonii! The warriors of King Aril have come!”
His cloak proclaimed his dignity in navy blue. A golden torc around his neck boldly displayed his exalted status, and lightness was a virtue of the finest warriors, so he wore leather armor and a leather helmet adorned with gold fittings for show, his face painted with the same navy pattern to ward off evil. The same motif was painted black on his sky-blue shield—like three spirals interlocked. Atop each spiral's axis, a snarling boar's head grimace gleamed in precious bronze.
“I am Per-gal mac Mau-re Du-in! With King Aril's champion band, I have come to reclaim Lady Isut, daughter of King Mu-wan, of Banfla! Filthy Peredir! Vile Drohal! A name fit to be drowned in the mire! Where is Drustanus!?”
“Filthy wretch! Drustanus!”
“Dishonorable cur!”
[Hooooow—hoooow—hoooow—]
At the hated name Drustanus, war horns blared high as if to wash their ears clean. Their bloodshot eyes burned with rage, as if their own daughters had been stolen away.
Watching from his saddle, Vortigern's cavalry commander Marcellus shook his head slowly.
“Noisy bunch has arrived.”
“Hah.”
“All talk, those lot.”
“A hundred? Hundred fifty? Not bad for a hasty dispatch.”
The riders sharing Marcellus's nonchalance wore full Roman kit: heavy cavalry armor and helmets for the saddles, long swords, spears, shields, and red cloaks. These were the scant cavalry left when Rome's legions abandoned Britannia soil—the empire's elite riders, graciously spared by that false emperor to save Comes Britanniarum's face. About 120 strong. Twenty-man turmae grouped into six squadrons. A pitiful number, yet enough to seize a city's reins in Romano-Britannia's frailty. Especially here in the southwest, with no terrifying name like Artorius to reckon with.
“Will they help? Praefectus Equitum? Didn't you see Caer Cadwy's defenses? No ordinary fort.”
“And we're in a hurry besides. Past Caer Cadwy, it's open road to Isca Dumnoniorum. The city's got nothing ready at the walls. Especially...”
Staff decurions chimed in around cavalry commander Marcellus. Meanwhile, from the Dumnonii warrior band—eyeing the Romans warily—one slipped away toward the raucous sea-crossed barbarians.
Marcellus's mind was too tangled for such trifles. He knew all too well what trailed that mumbled ellipsis.
'Especially against Comes Artorius. You can't fight that commander in open fields.'
It was suicide by another name. Mainland highborns might not grasp it, but Artorius's mad engagements over the past decade in Britannia—casualty ratios, enemies felled and captured—were unbelievable. He'd single-handedly plugged that long eastern coast. And Marcellus knew he could never match such feats.
So open battle with Artorius was impossible. Even if those yammering savages followed with 1,000 warriors.
Nothing was absolute before the name Artorius.
They had to take Caer Cadwy, persuade that cursed fort commander Cador, or retreat deep into the valleys, abandoning Isca Dumnoniorum outright.
But field commanders and lofty politicians saw differently, and Marcellus and his Roman riders—grown accustomed to noble ease as Isca Dumnoniorum's sole Roman force—were loath to relinquish it. Vortigern was, after all, rightful son-in-law to Emperor Maximus Magnus, his ancestors Dumnonii nobility—practically emperor here in the southwest.
'Play our cards right, hunker down, and we might snag a spot below him...?'
That hopeful circuit soon spun:
'Isca Dumnoniorum's cavalry, a few militia, 1,000 Dumnonii levies, plus those barbarian allies crossing the sea soon...'
'Tough against Artorius, sure, but worth a shot? It's not a one-on-one duel—war's about numbers!'
Classic: conclusion first, then frantic justification. But these last Roman riders of Britannia—fattened under Vortigern's doting like Roman patricians—couldn't let go now.
So they'd marched to the field.
From last spring through winter, while barbarians plundered western and southern coasts at will, they'd made excuses to lounge in Isca Dumnoniorum. Now, at last, those heavy arses were in saddles.
Spirits high upon marching out was fine, but Marcellus—whose rank wasn't won at dice—saw no good in this no matter how he twisted it.
“...Momentum's good, at least. They want a fight that bad, they'll push hard on Caer Cadwy. Drustanus's father commands there, after all?”
“Madman's father? Bound to be mad too.”
“Steal a barbarian rex's daughter? No ordinary lass...”
“A true Roman, in a way?”
“...”
“...?”
All eyes turned to the decurion who'd slipped in that sly quip with a smirk. He rolled his eyes, babbling nonsense.
“N-no! Damn it, name a Roman hero without an affair! A man's heart can stir for a woman!”
“...Don't speak a word to my wife henceforth.”
“...”
Head throbbing worse from the idiocy, Marcellus massaged his temples and reassessed.
'Hit Caer Cadwy first. They've shored it up some, but it's still a barbarian ringfort. Caesar took one like it centuries ago under siege. Pack 'em in one spot, it crumbles. Time's the key.'
Mu-wan's allies across the sea—who knew when real forces would come? Rallying tribes meant explaining to chiefs, burning political capital for consent, crushing dissent. Marcellus figured a fortnight at best before they sailed.
Artorius? No commander in Britannia ignored his lightning mobility. The madman sometimes rode alone in pinches. With donkey trains, Avalonia to Londinium to Calleva, then Caer Cadwy: 13-15 days average. His army? Ten days. Maybe less.
Marcellus and Vortigern's host had no time to waste.
“Once their intros are done, invite 'em to camp. We've greeted them ourselves—face saved.”
“Yes, Praefectus Equitum.”
“Call the Dumnonii chieftains too. Attack like it's do-or-die.”
“Yes! Understood!”
“Move out, then. Time's gold.”
[Snap!]
The Roman riders saluted in unison and dispersed—elite precision belying their recent ribaldry. Veterans knowing their roles instilled infinite confidence in their commander.
Yet Marcellus felt one side of his chest solid, the other churning with dread.
“Ten days. Ten days...”
Seize the fort, face Artorius there. In this harsh world, to safeguard his family in Isca Dumnoniorum, they had to win.
Marcellus wheeled his mount, gazing east a moment.
“Comes Ambrosius.”
“Magister Militum! Welcome!”
Our first march succeeded, cautious to spare the auxilia unfamiliar with Roman pacing. These barbarian-born reserve citizens had sturdier legs than I'd thought; I was heartened, figuring we'd move faster than planned.
Before meeting this portly fellow in Londinium, that is.
“Last forum, you backed the motion for my Magister Militum post with fervor.”
“Ah, hahaha! All for Britannia's sake, no? I know the Dominus's mind! But these times... Dominus Artorius, what's done is done!”
Like a stage actor, overblown gestures and expressions—but Ambrosius, distant kin to Merlinus chattering supply with a quartermaster yonder, was no pushover. Policing Londinium, Britannia's greatest city, meant that.
The era's most influential house always claimed the seat. I'd seen his troop-handling in bandit hunts; without me, he'd have succeeded Comes Uterius.
“Enough. Truth be told, I owe you thanks. Belated, but grateful for your faith that forum day. Comes Ambrosius.”
“...”
No overacting hid innate presence. This plump man was skilled at it, but not fooling my eyes. A glint like Merlinus's foxiness, but sharper—a general's aura, flickering.
“You always reverse it, but thanks belong from me, Londinium, all Britannia to you, Magister Militum.”
Grinning and nodding, Ambrosius eyed the resting Avalonia troops with a chuckle.
“Whew—numbers swelled nicely. And that elite edge... Never seen the like in Britannia.”
“Long road ahead.”
“Hahaha. You see far, as ever. My sort minds the near. Anyway, I'll hold the east till your return!”
I knew he'd manage. With Comes Uterius, more than enough.
“Back soon.”
That evening, Ambrosius led 100 house guards to Camulodunum. Next day, Avalonia's host marched anew for Calleva Atrebatum.