Blood on the Mosaic Tiles
“What the hell are we supposed to do with this now!!” [BAM!]
Isca Dumnoniorum. The name meant, quite literally, “the waters of the Dumnonii.” The southwestern tip of Britannia was a long, narrow stretch of land crisscrossed by rivers and ravines, and at its heart flowed a great river that cleaved the Dumnonii territory cleanly in two, running north to south. That river had become their central hub. But after centuries of war with Rome, they had fallen under the Empire’s sway—and in exchange, absorbed every advancement Rome offered. Four hundred years later, they had Roman roads, Roman walls, Roman buildings, Roman clothes, writing, language, customs, and even Roman ways of waging and ending wars. Walking among people who could no longer be called anything but Roman...
Cavalry commander Marcelus, accompanied by his sole surviving senior decurion and twenty riders, hurried onward.
“What the hell was our Praefectus Equitum doing!? We had twice, three times their numbers! How the fuck do you lose like this!?”
The hall, filled with ancient paintings and ornate decorations attesting to a long history, lay behind him. He stopped before a firmly shut door, from beyond which came the sounds of outrage. A voice condemning the Praefectus Equitum—one all too familiar.
“P-Praefectus— ”
“Quiet.”
The guards recognized Marcelus and moved to announce him, but his gesture for silence and the menacing glares of his men silenced them at once. A strange hush fell outside the door, while inside, voices echoed in agreement with Vortigern’s fury.
“The reincarnation of Publius Quinctilius Varus! What have you done to my legion!?”
“Comes! We must summon the western tribes at once! Even if we have to give them more—right now, the urgent matter is—”
Varus’s reincarnation, was it? If they’d lost to an ambush like Varus, he might have accepted it with grace. But what they’d faced yesterday on the open plain before Caer Cadwy was more nightmarish, more terrifying than Teutoburg Forest. Would these people even understand if he explained? No, what the men beyond this door needed now was pretext. A way to wrap up this war with a show—blame it on hardliners within the legion, surrender most of their gains, and save face for Magister Militum Artorius. And the perfect hardliner? Marcelus himself.
Cold, but it was one way Rome ended wars. So Marcelus understood.
“Open the door.”
“Y-Yes...! Praefectus Equitum...!” [CREEEAK—THUD!]
Normally, they’d have opened it slowly, with deference to his rank. But reeking of the battlefield and radiating lethal intent, Marcelus and his men prompted the servant to fling it wide in panic. The murmuring crowd inside turned, frowning at the rude entrance—then spotted him.
“...”
“...Praefectus Marcelus.”
At the far end, in the seat of honor, sat Vortigern. Before him stood his tribal allies—the Romano-Dumnonii nobles, in other words. How had Vortigern raised an army? How had he bought those expensive barbarians from across the sea? The answer to every question lay with those men. In truth, Vortigern might merely represent the influential Romans of Dumnonia, southwestern Britannia.
And what did these Romano-Dumnonii nobles want? Obvious. With the legions gone and the Emperor abandoning this land, they craved dominion over it themselves. The order centered in Londinium no longer served their interests. Hence this mess.
“Hmph.”
Marcelus closed his eyes briefly, steadying his breath. When he opened them, Dumnonii warriors had taken positions around Vortigern.
“Ha.”
With a low chuckle and a shake of his head, Marcelus took a step forward. Vortigern raised his right palm, his stern face unchanging.
“Halt, Praefectus Equitum Marcelus.”
“Comes Vortigern.”
“We were just discussing the battle at Caer Cadwy with the lords here. Now that you’ve returned, we can hear it from you. What exactly happened?”
Vortigern drew out his words slowly, deliberately. Behind him, someone hurried from the room—likely to question how Marcelus and his twenty riders had reached this place unhindered, swords still at their sides. Or perhaps to summon reinforcements. Marcelus met Vortigern’s gaze steadily.
“...”
“...Ha.”
He got it. He’d seen that look before. With a nod, Marcelus signaled his men behind him and scanned the chamber. This room, steeped in centuries of Roman grandeur and luxury, brimmed with Isca Dumnoniorum’s ambitious schemers.
Will this be enough to cover it? Even if I die, at least my family...
“Praefectus Equ—”
“Vortigern.” [CLANG—THUNK!]
Hurling his sweat-soaked helmet aside, he called the man’s name. As Vortigern’s eyes widened at the raw killing intent in his voice, Marcelus drew his longsword.
[SHIIIING—]
“You seem to know little of a legion’s true nature...”
[SHIIIING—SHING! SHIIIING!]
“Everyone, stay in your places. Don’t move.”
“Stay right there. Not a finger.”
“Swords have no eyes, no mercy. Nobles, don’t play the hero here.”
In an instant, his men fanned out, swords leveled at the dignitaries. As Marcelus advanced through them, he sized up the guards stepping forward to shield Vortigern.
“How many emperors has the legion of Romano-Britannia toppled on its own? How many was Constantinus, who fled across the southern strait to Gaul, when the legion raised him?”
“You...! Do you know who you’re dealing with? I served Flavius Magnus Maximus Augustus—”
“Near a century. Few emperors or princes in this Empire died in peace. You must die for the greater good, Comes Vortigern.”
“B-Block him! Stop that madman now! Kill him!”
“Raaagh!”
His senior decurion and one rider lunged to meet the charging guards’ screams. Iron clashed, flesh tore, screams followed. Amid the chaos, nobles drew hidden daggers and spits, stabbing at Marcelus’s riders. Soon, the deepest council chamber of Isca Dumnoniorum reeked of thick blood. Crimson pooled across the beautiful Roman mosaic tiles.
“We’ve hated that bastard Vortigern since way back!”
“Hear, hear!”
“Our village will follow Magister Militum Artorius’s will!”
“Hear, hear!”
An impromptu unity rally had broken out in Caer Cadwy. If it needed a name, perhaps the “Pro-Artorius Uprising Festival”? Not something I’d ever hoped for. Yet these villagers stormed the banquet hall uninvited, lined up before me after nibbling bread, and pledged loyalty out of nowhere. They’d follow my will? What did they think that even was? Aside from ousting Vortigern here, I had only vague sketches myself...
“I’m grateful for your words. I won’t forget this resolve.”
“An honor! A double honor!”
“Roma Invicta! Artorius Invictus! May your divine grace be ever with us!”
Riverside villages: three or four. Hill villages: another four or five. Seeing their headmen bow in unison gave a real sense of accomplishment—like maybe this was why Rome expanded. They say power changes people; was I changing already? Confidence was good, but arrogance? Always watch for that.
“Once the guests are gone, let’s talk business.”
“Yes, Magister Militum!”
“Here’s the battle report.”
“Thanks, Beduerus.”
After feeding the coastal and hill village headmen well, handing out gifts, and sending them off, we reconvened in the Caer Cadwy office I’d claimed as my own for a military council. Attendees: Beduerus, Galbaginus, Caius, and other centurions; Caer Cadwy’s lord Cador; and Drustanus, sporting a black eye from finally catching a paternal cuff.
Burials, wound care, iron sorting, POW handling. Three days later, the cleanup was done. A bit late, perhaps, but Isca Dumnoniorum—whose main force was effectively annihilated—had gone quiet as a grave. We had some breathing room. Four thousand men clashing made for massive fallout, even if it sounded puny next to the soul-crushing millions in those Northeast Asian showdowns.
Constantinus had stripped about five thousand legionaries from Romano-Britannia for his imperial ambitions. So this was the biggest clash in a decade or two here. No wonder the village headmen rushed to pledge loyalty.
“...Casualties are higher than expected.”
Avalonia troops: 500, with 50 dead, 100 wounded. Auxilia: same numbers, same losses. A tenth of our strength gone. Brutal—not just numbers, but neighbors, comrades who’d fought beside me for years.
“...”
“...Hm.”
Galbaginus’s cold glance said it all. To that Eboracum noble, crushing 2,500 with 1,000—150 casualties even encircled—was a triumph. True enough, but I’m greedy; the dead weighed heavier.
“Names, homes, families of the fallen—all recorded?”
“Yes, Magister Militum.”
“Remains housed near Caer Cadwy?”
“Yes, Tigern Cador here oversaw it personally.”
“My thanks, Tigern.”
“No need. My ancestors would rise and scold me otherwise. As you said, we placed them on a sunlit hill.”
I’d visit families myself. The bare minimum for those who trusted me with their lives.
“Good. Care for the wounded too. Now, our next target: Isca Dumnoniorum. First, confirm our order of battle. Caer Cadwy contributes 100 heavy infantry, 40 archers, several scorpions. And the POWs—600 all volunteering for Auxilia?”
“Yes, Magister Militum.”
“Heh.”
We won big, took 150 casualties—but our strength grew. Even without Caer Cadwy’s elite aid, the captured Dumnonii were Roman-trained heavy infantry. The 600 swept up in our reverse encirclement after I cleaved their center and trampled their cavalry? All eager to fight under my banner. Heavy infantry now: 1,500. Fight more, grow stronger? No wonder imperial hotshots spark civil wars.
“Good news, then. Distribute the surrenders across Avalonia and Auxilia for control—”
“Magister Militum! Magister Miliiituuum!”
“...?”
“Who causes a ruckus during a command staff meeting?”
A voice cut me off, drawing nearer. Beduerus’s icy tone had guards moving—when
[THUD-THUD—THUMP!]
“Huff! Huff!” [SALUTE!]
A messenger, sprinting from below to this high council room, gulped air and saluted me.
“Magister Militum! Urgent news! In Isca Dumnoniorum—a rebellion! And as a result, Vortigern... is dead!!!”
“...”
“...?”
...
It was like a bomb had exploded.