Roman Roads Are Gods
Roman roads are gods. That was the bone-deep realization I'd gained from this march.
"Move out faster!"
"Every hour we dawdle here could be a lifetime for those far off crying for help!"
"Form up! Always form up before marching! Just form up!"
"Wolfmaer! How fares the auxilia?"
"Fit as fiddles! Ready to roll anytime, Beduerus!"
"Galbaginus! Caius!"
It had rained again the night before. Personally, I love the damp, chilly gloom of rainy days—the way everything feels subdued—so watching the downpour was a treat. Sadly, the frail human body is terribly vulnerable to moisture. When rain turns the ground into a muddy swamp, movement grinds to a halt.
But voilà. Roman roads shrug off rain or snow alike—as long as they're properly maintained, which isn't hard if nearby major cities are functioning. They let us boldly defy the heavens' command to stay put. Like a grown child starting to push back against its parents.
I'd heard God smote the Tower of Babel for humanity's hubris, but thankfully, He seems to tolerate roads.
"Vanguard! Ready!"
"Rear guard! Awaiting departure signal!"
"All units, hold position!"
Does a good road solve everything? No. Paradoxically, effective marching demands capable cities to back it up—like parents supporting a child. Armies are like kids a nation must raise; cities are the parents enabling them. They need each other. Sometimes roles reverse, but they're interdependent—like lovers, even if they bicker.
Fortunately for me and my legion, the prefect of Londinium, Merlinus, wielded administrative genius on a divine scale. With magic-like efficiency, he'd prepositioned men and supplies at every likely halt, ensuring we preserved combat strength with hot meals, beds, spare wagon wheels, and even reserve donkeys. It sounds simple, but this might surpass frontline warfare in greatness. No wonder Xiao He topped the Han trio—Xiao He, Zhang Liang, Han Xin. Brains from Zhang, brawn from Han Xin—what good without Xiao He's rice?
In that spirit, let's indulge some past-life national pride: Admiral Yi Sun-sin outdid them all, turning troll Won Gyun and dodgy King Seonjo into assets while provisioning his fleet amid disaster.
"Magister militum. No issues with troops or supplies."
"Good. I worried about the rain."
"Prefectus Merlinus prepared thoroughly. And over there, Magister Quiwium of Calleva Atrebatum helped greatly."
Tiberius, was it? Think of the magister as a mayor directing militia—titles mean little since the fake emperor's officials, priests, and soldiers fled, leaving roles as polite fictions.
"Grateful for this. To the city and Magister Quiwium."
I waved casually; the plump fellow's jowls jiggled as he bowed hastily. Overflowing dignity.
"We'll repay this favor with victory. They've bet on my success, after all—the citizens and he."
"Then they're cautious gamblers, wagering only on winning hands."
"Ha."
As we headed to battle, I nodded to Beduerus—my second, somehow gentler amid war—and boarded my chariot. Crafted from prime wood, iron, and bronze to match my bulk, it was vast enough for four horses with room to spare. I'd found it cumbersome at first, but my warriors loved the sight of such a behemoth charging. Chariots are eternal manly romance, it seems.
[Whinny! Snort! Clop-clop-clop!]
Pulling this beast required sturdy horses, and big ones usually carry weight well—but Maverick was fire incarnate. Fiery's an understatement; he's a lecherous thug, picking fights everywhere, sly as a fox. He'd feign innocence around people, fooling grooms who praised the herd's hierarchy. Battle strips even clever beasts of restraint.
"Easy, you brute."
[Clop-clop-clop!]
His jaw strength once snapped a bit; he'd eyed me guiltily, bits dangling politely from his mouth. Now my chariot always packs spare leather straps.
"Listen up! Destination: Caer Cadwy! No distress signal yet—but that might mean greater peril! Understood!? Men of Romano-Britannia! Soldiers of Avalonia! Spears and blades of Artorius! In half a day, we may face the foe! Are you ready to fight?!"
[Thud!]
A mighty shield-thump echoed. [Thud! Thump!] Auxilia, clueless on words, mimicked smartly, pounding shields or chests. Some overdid it, coughing—pure comedy. I burst out laughing.
"Haha! Good! March! No enemy? We enter Caer Cadwy. Enemy? Crush them, then enter! Galbaginus! Take point! Sound the cornu bold!"
"Yes, Magister militum! Hup! Hup!"
[Clatter-clatter!]
Galbaginus saluted sharply, spurred his mount, and bellowed to his aligned legionaries.
"First centuria! Hear the Magister militum? Sound the cornu! Raise Avalonia's banner! March!"
[Bwaaaam—]
The imperial march I'd composed boomed majestically. [Step! Step! Step! Step!]
Roman legions strode Rome's pristine roads. Glancing back, Londinium's folk watched entranced, as if spellbound. Romano-Britons might love Rome most—once abandoned, their obsession borders desperation. To them, we embodied reborn hope: Rome returning.
"Wolfmaer, Hereward."
"Yes, Magister militum."
"Speak, Magister militum."
"You've briefed your warriors? Battle's possible."
"Of course."
"..."
Hereward grasped little Latin yet, but this proto-Roman learned fast.
"Wolfmaer, when this ends, you'll and your kin—future Romano-British citizens—receive rewards from me."
"Your acceptance is glory enough, Dominus Artorius."
"Then aid to the end."
"Just command."
Wolfmaer owed me more than vice versa; without him, no Hereward—language barrier. I'd entrust him greatly. Han's trio served Liu Bang, the ultimate slacker who beat Xiang Yu by leveraging talent. That's my edge: maximize Wolfmaer, Hereward.
"Onward, Maverick."
[Whinny!]
[Whoosh—whoosh—smack!]
[Neigh!]
No whip needed; my voice spurred Maverick's tail-whip relay: right horse to second, to third (ochus), to fourth (luchus). They synced to his stately gait; my colossal chariot rolled forward.
'Wait, something's off about this war?'
The tribal warrior, summoned from a streamside village—common in Dumnonia—patrolled as usual when the odd thought struck. Wars erupt unpredictably, even from cattle theft, but this one reeked of chaos. With idle watch, he sorted his nagging doubts.
First: the casus belli stinks. Neighbors raided by sea-crossers—not one or two—yet Isca Dumnoniorum's comes pushes marriage to the raiders' king and in-law? 'Tch. That's fishy...'
Elites have reasons, but it felt wrong. Stolen fiancée made the heir's elopement laughable. Gods' punishment? Even I find it outrageous; deities must seethe. But no voicing that.
Second: the war's progress is weird. Punish thieves, make reparations—fair summons from Comes of Isca Dumnoniorum. Can't look weak; he's our leader. But sieges demand focus, right? Even farming suffers distraction; assaulting that hill-ringed round fort? Far tougher.
'Tch. This too feels off.'
[Yaargh!]
[Uwaaagh!]
See? Afar, no need to squint: ladder-wrestlers scream on walls. Eight, nine nights gone? Sea barbarians swaggered to overrun; instead, Caer Cadwy's warriors fought gloriously for honor. Absurd honor—guarding comes Vortigern's runaway heir and betrothed—but fierce. Amid such fury, why guard this empty east road for eight nights? What's the point?
"Hm?"
Suddenly, post-rain clear sky: tall shadows crested the low ridge, one by one.
"What... is that?"
Shadows? Many? Growing? "Hey! Something's coming!"
The Dumnonii villager, inwardly cursing superiors, pointed tremblingly and bellowed.
"Enemy! The enemy's here!"
From the east: banners clarifying—a vivid blue raindrop on crimson cloth.