Unleashing the Wings
“Beduerus.”
“Awaiting your orders, Magister Militum.”
“Begin.”
“Yes! Magister Militum Artorius. I’ll see you after the battle.”
[Clash!]
[Shing—]
In a single fluid motion, Beduerus drew his long sword effortlessly with one arm and thrust it forward in a graceful arc.
“Avalonia! Forward! Advance!”
[Baaaaam—]
[Bwoooooom—]
His voice didn’t quite match mine in sheer power, but the Roman golden cornu horns and the real bone horns brought by those proto-Romans from beyond the eastern seas backed it up with a resounding echo.
“1st Centuria! Forward! Raise the banners high!”
“5th Centuria! We advance! Stay calm!”
The intent I’d casually passed to Beduerus spread like wildfire through the chain of command—the horns, the centuriones, the standard-bearers, the signalers—transforming in an instant into the will of the entire army.
“Whoa.”
[“Fast.”]
To the 500 auxilia troops I’d placed directly under me in the center, simplifying orders and hand signals to the extreme, the sight of our flanks spreading out like wings must have been impressive as they surged forward from all sides.
Conventionally, you’d thicken the center and lighten the wings with fast movers. But with me leading, it was more profitable to strengthen the opposite side from where I stood—and today, that meant both wings.
An army is a mass of people moving as one, but in practice, it starts to feel like a single living creature made of all those varied souls. Like ants or bees in a colony. The individual in a crowd and the person under a collective—especially in something as specialized as an army—are practically different species.
So if you see the army as one body, with organs, spine, and brain all in this center, there’s no need to explain how vital it is to protect it.
Why, then, had I placed those 500 proto-Roman auxilia—Auxilia-1—right in this ultra-critical center?
Because of my unique presence on the battlefield.
[Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!]
[Baaaaam—]
As planned in yesterday’s council, the outermost Avalonia 1st and 5th centuriae halted after about fifty or sixty paces, with the inner 2nd and 4th stopping at thirty, facing the enemy.
We’d marched right on schedule—two or three days faster than the enemy expected, even if not as quick as I’d hoped.
Yet the siege around that circular fort, Caer Cadwy, looked more precarious than I’d anticipated.
“If we’d been a day later, it really would’ve been dangerous.”
[Clop-clop-]
With the enemy right in front of us, why not attack? Are you a coward? Maverick shook his head and stamped his front hoofs, shooting me insolent glances, but I gave the reins a light tug to remind the beast of his place.
“Settle down, you. Too spirited.”
[Snort!]
As usual, I bantered idly while scrutinizing the enemy skirmishers blowing their horns frantically and the main force reacting around the fortress walls.
They’d arrived first and set up positions, so if they wanted to block us, we’d fight here. If they feigned madness and kept pressing Caer Cadwy, I’d crush these trembling skirmishers in front of me and then smash the fools daring to siege with our army at their rear.
[—!]
[Bwooooooom—!!]
[Baaaaam—!]
[Hoooooo— Whooooooo—]
“...!”
The enemy lines grew suddenly chaotic, and amid the familiar horn calls, one unfamiliar sound pierced through.
That’s definitely… Yeah. The same eerie wail from the barbarians we faced guarding the southern coast last summer.
Last year’s western and southern raids were probably the largest plundering since the Roman legions pulled out of Britannia.
Those involved hailed from across the western seas and beyond the northern wall.
And they always blew those instruments— not our serpentine cornu or standard horns, but long poles as tall as a man, topped with boar or horse ornaments, wailing like beast cries.
Sounds just like that.
[Hooooooo—]
“Looks like the western sea barbarians have already arrived.”
“Is that so? Ptoo! Savage bastards…!”
“...”
Wolfmaer, fired up by my personal command of the auxilia center, spat curses at the barbarians with renewed vigor.
Though just days ago, you were an eastern sea barbarian… No, no. He’s now a proud citizen of Avalonia—and Rome. He’d more than earned the right to revile barbarism.
“Ptoo! Filthy barbaroi!”
“...”
“...?”
Hereward, standing to the right of my chariot, cursing the barbarians looked even stranger than Wolfmaer. Avalonia’s rapid logistics had given him a decent Roman look, but he and his auxilia still lacked formal citizenship, barely spoke our tongue… and just days ago, they’d been raiding our eastern coast until I caught them and forced their surrender.
No, no. Right. You and your men are my subordinates, my citizens now.
As I rationalized it, Wolfmaer’s glare at Hereward turned downright skewered. I shot him—a translator and center sub-commander this battle—a look: don’t stir up trouble. The crafty warrior got it instantly.
“The manipularis seems… quite enthusiastic, Magister Militum.”
“It’s a fine sight. Let him be.”
“You speak of me!”
“Yes, Hereward. Keep it up. I expect great things in this battle too.”
“Leave it to me! My life—for Artorius!”
[Thud!]
[Artorius!]
[Koo-thud!]
Hereward’s shout prompted 500 warriors to slam fists on shields in unison. The Avalonians on the wings, pushing ahead, glanced back curiously, but the morale boost was welcome.
“There—enemy cavalry moving, Magister Militum.”
Wolfmaer’s sharp eyes pinpointed the enemy main force stirring at last.
“Coming for us, looks like.”
“Not many— they must think it’s manageable. Your orders, Magister Militum?”
“If they want to fight, we’ll oblige. The ground ahead slopes gentler—perfect to meet them. Tell Galbaginus to advance, clear that left hill, and watch the enemy main’s movements.”
“Understood!”
My heralds behind the chariot had heard every key order, but I routed it through Wolfmaer deliberately.
“-relay this to the 1st Centurio at once!”
“Yes! Hya!”
[Clatter! Clatter!]
It positioned Wolfmaer firmly in the army’s eyes, and Hereward’s surrender opened new doors.
Every imperial city suffered manpower shortages, but Romano-Britannia was dire. I’d always figured barbaric raiders were best killed or enslaved for construction.
But scouting during the march, Hereward and his proto-Romans proved obedient, innately skilled soldiers. Third or fourth sons, practically disowned—no real homeland or registry. Mercenaries, essentially, hired for scraps of wasteland. And they’d farm it, paying me taxes!
This was massive potential.
So I was building our army’s foundation now: under my legions, my command, rank was all that mattered—my ranks. I’d make bullies regret it, but my veterans who’d endured years with me seemed to accept Wolfmaer, Hereward, and the auxilia fine so far. Good.
[Baaaaam—!]
The advance horn blared from the left wing’s vanguard, and Avalonia’s 2nd centuria pushed forward, backed by the 4th.
Galbaginus and Caius led them—my heart felt secure.
No commander in the Empire, given equal troops, would doubt Galbaginus wouldn’t lose. That Eboracum rich boy was born for war.
More astonishing: Caius, the street urchin I’d literally picked up and saved, matched him in talent.
Of course, Beduerus leading the right wing’s 1st centuria was my top commander. Galbaginus and Caius had time to grow.
Oh, and lovesick groom-to-be Drustanus was crammed into the extra 5th on the right—I’d assigned to Beduerus.
[Waaaaah!]
[Yaaah!]
[Baaaaam—!!]
[Hoooooo—]
Did they think 100 Romans approaching was worth a fight? The enemy skirmishers guarding the hill decided to hold against Galbaginus’s 2nd centuria.
Galbaginus crested the gentle rise effortlessly, hurled darts, charged in, and swung his long sword. Its elegant curves and lines dodged shields, spears, blades—severing limbs like ghosts in the wind.
“Hoo.”
Wolfmaer, sharp-eyed from his saddle, let out a low sigh. I asked casually,
“Wolfmaer, you lived long across the eastern sea, right?”
“Yes, Magister Militum. Anglia’s coast—harsh beauty.”
The old warrior’s eyes grew distant, nostalgic. Both of us, chatting idly with battle brewing ahead. Veterans like us differed vastly from greenhorns—fear, excitement, blood, cold sweats fade after a hundred battles. We might be a bit broken, at least emotionally.
“Though nothing compared to Romano-Britannia under you, Magister Militum. Never seen warriors fight like that.”
“Ha.”
Blunt flattery, but it landed well. Bluntly, Britannia’s wars paled in scale, gravity, professionalism to Rome’s heartland. As a longtime Roman foederati mercenary, Wolfmaer had seen real ones—war was Rome’s fifth season.
Appropriate lip service, but praising my warriors felt good.
“They’re falling back.”
[Whooooooo—]
The beast-wail horns signaled their lines crumbling.
Under Galbaginus’s cool command, the 1st centuria seized the hill effortlessly. Caius’s 3rd, looping behind, linked up seamlessly.
A slightly later retreat signal, and my barbarian-hater’s lads would’ve left none alive.
“Enemy horse stirring—70? 80? Easily 100. Main force turning too. Minus those guarding the Caer Cadwy rear, the whole army’s heading here.”
“We advance to meet them. Hereward, sound the horn. Auxilia, forward.”
“Yes! Magister Militum! Hoo—!”
[BWOOOOOOOOOOM—!!!]
“Artorius!”
“Artorius!”
[Thud!]
[Clack! Clack! Clack!]
[Snort!]
[Clatter-clatter-]
Trailing the surging ranks in my chariot, I kept the heralds running via Wolfmaer.
Left wing fights hugging the hill: 1st and 3rd centuriae hold there, join or defend as needed. Right to Beduerus’s discretion. Main body advances.
No time for details—or need. My battles rested on one absolute premise from this odd formation onward…
“Quick reaction, eh? This’ll be fun. Wolfmaer! Hereward! Watch my signals close!”
“Yes! Magister Militum!”
“My life—for Artorius!”
“Let’s go, Maverick.”
[Snort!]
My warhorses, fully warmed, stamped powerfully. The massive chariot surged past the parting center, charging ahead.