Armies Do Not Move Rashly
Armies do not move rashly. Even a simple march required a host of detailed plans. We needed supplies for eating, sleeping, maintaining gear, and the occasional bath. Other barbarians might not care, but my Romans fought that way. No, forget the other Romans—this was how I waged war.
We ran dozens of mock battles to anticipate the enemy's moves and prepared several tactics in advance. Before that, we'd scout their exact numbers by bribing merchants ahead of time, doubling our reconnaissance if needed, or probing their positions first if all else failed. It was amusing, really: once battle began, those plans turned into mere guidelines, and victory ultimately hinged on the skill of the on-site squad leaders and unit commanders. But we always remembered Sun Tzu's wisdom—win before the fight even starts.
So there I was, preparing to siege Isca Dumnoniorum and drawing up all sorts of plans, when a message arrived that blew them all to hell.
"Messenger, explain slowly once more. What happened in Isca Dumnoniorum? And is Vortigern truly dead?"
Beduerus asked in my stead, sparing me the habitual stroke of my chin. The messenger took a cup of water from an aide, steadied his breathing, and continued.
"Yes, sir! I grabbed people fleeing the city and asked over and over—the answers were all the same!"
"Hold on. People are fleeing the city?"
"Y-yes, sir! I saw it with my own eyes! Magister Militum!"
Classic Romans: when war or pillaging hits, they bolt for the cities. But abandoning the city to run? Unless Vortigern was pulling some ruthless scorched-earth tactic, driving out the entire population... this had to be either a trap to lure us in or the bastard had suddenly taken a sword to the gut and dropped dead. Either way, I had no idea how to process it. What the hell was going on over there...?
"Continue, messenger."
"Y-yes, sir! Where was I—"
"You said people were fleeing the city. Did they say what happened in Isca Dumnoniorum?"
"Ah! The day before, Prefectus Equitum Marcellus rushed back and headed straight for the forum! Vortigern and the Dumnonii tribal leaders were there, and suddenly screams rang out, followed by the clash of blades."
"A rebellion, then."
"Sounds like the Comes Britanniarum and the prefect weren't on good terms. Predictable, really. Getting smashed by a mere thousand with twenty-five hundred men—not just routed, but annihilated. Someone had to take the blame... and neither wanted it. Of course, the one who gave the order bears far more fault than the one who carried it out."
Beduerus's calm assessment contrasted with Galbaginus's sneer, but they amounted to the same thing: half pity, half disappointment. Cador, the castellan, nodded eagerly at Galbaginus's words—clearly, the brutal siege had bred deep resentment toward Vortigern.
"No need to look further, Magister Militum. Give the order. We won't even need ladders for Isca Dumnoniorum now."
Vortigern's army had been crushed in the field, and he'd fallen to one of his own cavalry captains. The Dumnonii leaders who'd opposed me were likely dead too. No one left in that city to stand against us. The cavalry captain who'd killed him—Marcellus, was it? Whatever he planned, taking Isca Dumnoniorum would be easy now. Shout once at the gates, and the survivors would probably deliver his head on a platter.
"Galbaginus is right. Beduerus, how many troops can move out immediately?"
"The Avalonia forces and Hereward's auxilia can march at once."
"Then designate the surrendered prisoners as the temporary 2nd Auxilia. Leave them here at Caer Cadwy and—"
"Magister Militum! Magister Miliitum!!"
"...What now?"
A familiar sense of déjà vu hit as another voice shouted from afar. I halted preparations and waited by the council chamber door. Sure enough, a second messenger burst in, identical in his disheveled state, saluting sharply.
[Snap!]
"Urgent dispatch! A enemy herald arrived at Caer Cadwy's gates! He says Isca Dumnoniorum wishes to surrender!!!"
"..."
"...!"
Surrender. Well, now.
"Go tell that herald: their leader, Marcellus, must come here himself to prove his sincerity."
"Yes, sir! At once!"
[Snap!]
The messenger dashed out as hurriedly as he'd arrived. We all fell silent, lost in thought—probably the same ones. Vortigern and his stubborn Dumnonii nobles were gone, which was good... but it meant facing a far greater threat next.
"Surrender or not, we stabilize Isca Dumnoniorum swiftly. You all know this."
"Yes, Magister Militum!"
Armies don't move without plans. Time to set the next objective.
"Even roadless, disorganized barbarians will have mustered forces by now. They'll hit us here—because Dominus Drustanus is with us."
All eyes turned to Drustanus, who ducked his head, one eye bruised purple. Cador ground his teeth at his son's state, but I didn't dwell on it.
"Finish mobilization preparations in two days."
"Yes, Magister Militum!"
[Snap!]
"Dismissed. Beduerus, Galbaginus, Wolfmaer, Tigern Cador—stay behind."
I left as they rose and saluted.
"Good work, messenger. Take this—rest a full day, then report back."
I unbuckled my dagger and handed it over. Civilians couldn't fathom it: racing alone down unlit roads to deliver vital news. It took guts, fighting off starving beasts on a whim, pathfinding without maps. You needed riding skill, reporting savvy... So I always gave messengers a little extra when I could.
"Th-thank you, Magister Militum!"
"See you soon."
Soldiers were odd: deadlier than any beast, yet a mere dagger brought tears to their eyes. I clapped his shoulder and headed out, straight to the tall watchtower beside the council building.
Caer Cadwy stood apart from Roman fortresses—built on a Dumnonii round design, not rigid right angles. Circular base, curved walls: inefficient for defense, but refreshingly unique.
"Hoo—"
Atop the tower, the vast expanse unfolded. From the round fort's peak, it felt like the world curved around me.
[Clank-clank]
Armor and footsteps announced Beduerus, Galbaginus, Wolfmaer, and Tigern Cador's arrival. Guards sealed the entrance. With everyone assembled, I leaned on the railing.
"Assume Vortigern's really dead. Do I kill Marcellus... or spare him?"
"..."
"..."
Too blunt? My inner circle exchanged glances. I turned northwest, along the river—faint city outlines shimmering in the hazy sky, or maybe not.
"Magister Militum. If Vortigern were alive... would you have spared him?"
Galbaginus, ever bold and young, ventured cautiously.
"No."
"..."
"..."
"Vortigern proved himself a threat for the last decade. Unnecessary in this Britannia. He'd have caused more harm—no place for him in the world I'm building. I'd have removed him at the first chance. Alive or dead."
My candor didn't faze them—not my limbs, not even Tigern Cador. Wolfmaer, the barbarian, nodded as if to say, What's wrong with that? Warriors gonna warrior.
"As expected. Killing Marcellus would secure Isca Dumnoniorum smoothly... but do you have other plans, Magister Militum?"
"Haha."
Galbaginus—skilled fighter, sharp mind—fumbled his probe, amusing me.
"You already guessed. Why push it on me? Fine: we need fighters to face the barbarians on all sides. We're desperately short on numbers."
Britannia's state was abnormal. In my past life's terms, imagine the army elevating an enlisted officer to emperor, then yanking every troop across the sea to Japan (or China) beyond the 38th parallel—for a mad civil war. Pay issues were the excuse, absurd by any era's standards. Panic followed; four centuries of Roman blood and sweat in economy, society, religion—all crumbling in a year.
What I meant was: we'd won a big victory and gained momentum, but we couldn't be picky.
"Marcellus, his surviving cavalry, our new prisoners—all solid heavy cavalry, not light skirmishers. You couldn't buy them with gold."
Competent officers with careers flocked to the mainland, not this backwater. That's why I wanted these rebels.
"We follow your will, Magister Militum. But concerns remain: can we trust turncoats? What roles do we give them?"
Beduerus summed it up, as always. If they truly surrendered, how to treat them? I'd already decided.
"Spare them, but strip their ranks."
"...!"
"..."
"Penal legion sounds harsh. Atonement unit? They'll earn forgiveness through battlefield merit. Sentence: ten years' service. Easy to extend after."
Marcellus defected with about thirty; twenty survivors from our captures. If it went my way, fifty heavy horse under me. In Britannia's fields, that was a game-changer.
"If they refuse... no choice."
Kill them all.
"...Understood, Magister Militum."
"Good. We're agreed."
[Snap!]
"Yes!"
"As you command."
They nodded eagerly. Tedious, maybe, but most human problems stem from poor communication. Sharing my thoughts constantly with commanders paid off.
"Next: Muwa in the west. Preparations aren't enough. Galbaginus, visit Praefectus Merlinus."
"As ordered."
"The ships stockpiled in Londinium."
We'd seized plenty from raiders.
"Bring twenty."
Blocking Muwa's horde was one thing. Then what? Wait endlessly for the next raid? Last year's bloodbath said no. If they left their base lightly defended...
I'd cross and face their arrogant king myself.