Revenge!
“Revenge!” “Revengeeee!” “Yaaaaah!”
Revenge. It might just be the most intense emotion of all. If your neighbor stole one of your livestock, it was only right to steal back two or three times as many in return. Especially in this warrior culture where honor was valued more than life itself.
Revenge wasn't merely for personal satisfaction. If it wasn't properly carried out, the backlash could be far greater.
“The sweetest fruit is often the most dangerous.”
Watching the king's warriors, brimming with fervor from afar, one of Muwa's power players muttered a line under his breath. Here in Muwa, where clans had been entangled for generations—enemies turning into allies and back again overnight—one of its elites swallowed those words whole.
'How could revenge belong only to you, my king?'
Ooganahata. A massive clan rooted in Muwa like ancient tree roots. So vast it was less a single household and more a tribe, another people unto itself. Descended from the great King Ogan, they had ruled the glorious era remembered by bards in the dim mists of antiquity.
But as time passed, like branches rotting away, the family's glory had steadily declined. Now, after a long descent, it sought resurgence.
Yet there was an obstacle in their path: the current king, Aril.
“Depart! For Aril! For our king!”
“Gold and honor! Their heads await you! Warriors of Muwa!!”
“The gods will rejoice! Open wide the season of blood!”
[Hooo— Hoooooo—]
Gazing at the raucous departure, Muwa's ambitious schemer stroked a blade long hidden away.
The king had poured considerable resources into this expedition to smooth over the farce across the sea. With gold, prestige, honor, and various conditions attached—through threats or negotiations—he had drawn precious warriors from each tribe. Recalling last year's massive plundering raid by neighboring foes, they all gleefully pretended reluctance while yielding to the king's excessive demands. They judged that raiding would yield more than sowing seeds.
Normally, Ooganahata's ambitious leader would have agreed. But the king's tribe had the warriors firmly in hand, forcing Ooganahata—focused solely on trade—to react far more sensitively to news from across the sea. And soon, they obtained crucial intelligence.
'Artorius lurks along the southwestern coast of Romano-Britain right now.'
[Shwaaaa— Crash!]
“Let's go!”
[Hooo—]
“Board the ships! Row! Sound the pipes of victory!”
The king and his retinue's gazes lingered on the Ooganahata tribe, who had opted out claiming insufficient manpower. They looked at them like cowards, eyes full of contempt.
But in truth, Ooganahata's schemer wanted to ask: How long did they intend to live like this? How much longer would they vie for power with great tribes like Ulraid, Laigin, and Connachta? How much longer waste energy on pointless, tragic internal strife?
Just cross that not-so-distant sea, and the vast Roman world awaited. A gigantic market unlike any they'd seen.
'Laugh all you want. Before this season ends, I'll offer you all as sacrifices to the sacred marshes.'
Since ancient times, in drought, if the king's nipples ran dry, he was deemed unfit and offered to the mountains as sacrifice. If this expedition ended in tragic, utter failure—with many dead and wounded—who would bear responsibility for Muwa's seedless winter?
One nipple wouldn't suffice. It was time for Ooganahata to rise after ages of scorn and lead the Muwa again.
“Gather every warrior, able or not, and send them off. With surveillance lax, cross the sea in secret.”
“What must I do?”
The slave bought dearly from Londinium was originally from a tribe across the sea, they said. Fluent in various tongues and unobtrusive, he'd proven useful thus far. Reliable again this time.
Ooganahata had traded for generations with Romans across the sea, building familiarity.
“I have contacts among Roman merchants. I've informed them ahead; they'll know you're coming. Follow their guidance to Isca Dumnoniorum. Deliver this letter to the governor there, then linger nearby and observe.”
How many among those fools marching off so eagerly truly believed in rescuing the king's daughter? Most were just thrilled at the chance for gold.
So the openly scorned must seize their own gains. Troop scale, supply status—and Ooganahata's total noninvolvement, full cooperation with Romano-Britain's new magister militum. That would do for now.
“Whatever way the war turns, confirm it firsthand and return. Can you do it? Handle this well, and I'll give you gold for a hundred cattle.”
“...Entrust it to me!”
“Good. Depart at once.”
A liaison-slash-spy dispatched. The man would repeat this process three or four more times, scattering agents across the sea.
And not just that? He needed to send word to influential tribes in Ulraid, Laigin, and Connachta—equally invested in Muwa's affairs.
At last, the season of blood. Whether the king or he himself ended up in the sacred marsh, someone would be buried before summer's end.
-----
“Listen, this is your final warning! We don't have much time.”
“Pl-please, just a bit longer!”
Isca Dumnoniorum lay on Britannia's southwestern coast. It marked the western terminus of the Roman road network radiating from Londinium. Beyond it, villages were sparse, mostly Dumnonii tribal hamlets in valleys—hardly under strong Roman sway. Though the Dumnonii themselves were practically Roman now, in terms of self-governance.
Unlike the magister militum's concerns, Caius had led his detachment along the northward-river then westward-coast for three full days. Matching the pace of trailing supply wagons, they'd moved leisurely—yet every fortress they'd encountered offered no resistance, astonishingly welcoming.
Tin mine forts, river-mouth strongholds, coastal beacon towers—even repainting vandalized warning signs left by barbarians.
The famously fierce, independent Dumnonii proved strangely friendly to Caius and his men. The reason dawned as they contacted more coastal forts westward.
“Ar-are you truly here to protect us under the magister militum? Is it true Vortigern of Isca Dumnoniorum is dead!?”
“This is the third time—truly the last! Magister militum Artorius is already in Isca Dumnoniorum. What does that mean? We're here to defend this land with you, and Vortigern fell most regrettably in the process!”
Caius omitted how Vortigern died; the fort's walls didn't press. It hardly mattered now.
What mattered: this beacon fort's role was vital to Caius and his lord Artorius. And the leaderless Dumnonii desperately needed someone to lead against impending barbarians.
Not a coward like Vortigern, who hid safe in the city last year while coasts burned, too busy to emerge.
They craved a leader like Artorius—who came personally, slew Vortigern (not by his own hand, but still).
Yes. Caius felt last year's infamous spring-to-fall plundering raids' aftermath this way, unwillingly.
“Ahh! Vortigern! Lord Vortigern! To go like that! What tragedy! May our lord embrace his poor soul! Then we surrender!”
“...We've not fought, so 'surrender' is odd! Cooperation suffices! My unit heads to the final western fort—keep doing your duty here!”
“Understood!”
[Clank!]
[Ching-clank!]
“...”
Prepared in advance? The Roman eagle lowered; Avalonia's banner rose. A crude water drop atop the imperial eagle—but in this all-male coastal fort, embroidery finesse wasn't expected. The symbolism mattered.
Thus, Caius secured the defensive line linking coast and river to Isca Dumnoniorum—all but one fort.
Considering Vortigern's once-vaunted name in Londinium, he'd expected resistance at one or two. But all switched flags seamlessly, as if waiting. Vortigern died well; perhaps even without haste, it would have crumbled anyway, Caius mused.
'Barbarians would've landed smoothly under his guidance, marched east unhindered, burning all. Many would've died...'
Coldly, the magister militum could've conquered bloodlessly, claiming justification.
But Caius knew that wasn't his way. Lord Artorius was the deadliest warrior in battle, unmatched commander in war—yet endlessly moral, guarding this land's people.
...Though foes like Vortigern wouldn't see it so.
Their views meant little to Caius. Only the magister militum's will mattered.
Sometimes he wondered if a harsher, more efficient path existed. Yet Artorius's unyielding righteousness drew Romano-Britons like moths to flame—a true sun they couldn't ignore.
“Centurio Caius. See that, far off?”
“Hm?”
[Clop-clop-]
As his mind wandered on horseback over rough paths, Wolfmaer approached, pointing.
Though barbaric-stained, forgiven personally by Artorius and an Avalonia citizen-to-be, Wolfmaer deserved respect. After days marching and forts "falling," they'd grown close.
Expecting some blunt overseas barbarian jest, Caius glanced—only to freeze.
“That's—”
“Beacon. Flames rise, Centurio Caius.”
At their final destination—the western coastal terminus fort—a red spark flared.
“What now?”
With the beacon lit, southwestern forts pledging to the magister militum would chain signals, ready defenses. No ironclad system like the eastern Saxon shore, but with few sites to guard, reaching Isca Dumnoniorum sufficed.
Plunderable spots were stripped last year; key assets were Isca lands, river trade, mines.
Return hastily? Camp and await the magister militum?
Caius recalled teachings, steadying his pounding heart.
“Approach swiftly. We must learn what happened. Scouts, Wolfmaer.”
“Leave it to me.”
Wolfmaer grinned fiercely, his riders equally reassuring.