The Lure of the Western Coast
A bit further west, the coastline of Romano-Britain twisted and turned in delicate curls, like the hips of a seductive woman. What man could simply pass by such plump, enticing curves! Even amid the raucous boasts of the neighbors who had plundered Romano-Britain to their heart's content last year, I'd felt it. There was no prey as ripe and vulnerable as a weakened empire. One good haul, and you'd rake in enough to live off for life without ever needing to till the soil. But you couldn't just charge in blindly. Tides shift with time, and oar-powered boats had limited windows to maneuver. Even if Romano-Britain's "hips" stretched out long and inviting, you couldn't grab just anywhere. Further west lay nothing but jagged rocks and treacherous reefs, leaving this spot as the only viable landing. Otherwise, you'd have to head east to where sea met river—but no matter how fast Rome crumbled in real time, the people of Romano-Britain weren't all fools. After last year's chaos, they'd surely prepared something.
So this was the place.
"Let's go, brothers! Time to properly loot some Romans!!"
"Graaah! Look at that water color! It's gonna be a slaughter!!"
"What a beautiful day.... Birds chirping, flowers blooming, gold coins filling our hands.... And if we snag a few slaves along the way, even better...."
No one shouted about rescuing the king's daughter. Not even the warriors handpicked by the king of Muwa. For one, it was a matter of the king's face, not theirs. And truthfully, they couldn't wrap their heads around why their precious princess—the one doted on by all Muwa—had been suddenly shipped off to marry some weird Roman across the sea. But no one dared voice it. The king's reign had brought no droughts, no real rivals; his power still stood firm. At least until civil war brewed in Muwa, there was time left—that was the common view.
So they brushed past the touchy, headache-inducing politics. Focus on the prize at hand. That was the mindset of the warriors, brimming with eagerness as they boarded some fifty-odd currachs—small skin-covered boats.
Soon enough, inhaling the sea salt, sweat, and reek of unwashed bodies, these fearless Muwa warriors rowed with mighty songs, closing in on the soft, supple shores of Romano-Britain they'd craved. The bright yellow underbelly of civilization itself.
"There! That's the spot!"
"Hold up! There's a tower there! People moving around! Hot damn, are those fools trying to light a fire!?"
"Hahaha! Look at them flailing! Full speed ahead! Row, row, row!! Don't stop gripping those oars, brothers! Warriors of Muwa!"
"Sound the pipes! Don't stop! This is our festival for the gods! Black raven, spread your wings! Silver Hand warrior, lead us! Spear of Lugh! Sword of Camulus! Morrigan of the battlefield! The battlefield raven calls us!!"
"Aaah! Ah! Ah! Ah!"
"Kiiiuuuu---"
[Hooooh---]
[Huuuuh---]
Human speech devolved into beastly roars. From afar, the uproar resembled a festival. Piercing through it all, the shrill pipes echoed far and wide, boldly announcing the arrival of Eirenn's descendants.
"Who will be first to clash with the foe?!"
"Me!"
"What nonsense! Row harder! Faster! We can't be late!"
About ten boats surged ahead toward obvious glory, with another forty trailing more leisurely. The frontrunners hailed from clans desperate for quick coin; those urging them on from behind had fared decently last harvest. As those who'd bet big on this raid—er, "righteous expedition to reclaim the king's daughter"—grew certain of victory watching the Romans scramble to light a fire with nothing else to show, a shadow of men suddenly appeared beside the tall Roman watchtower.
"Arrrghh!! Ar—.... Huh? Over there—"
"Harder! Faster!"
"Row! Row! Row!"
[Hooooh-]
A few sharp-eyed, cool-headed ones spotted the faint anomaly, but most had bloodlust in their eyes, so the advance didn't slow. And even if it was real, who would heed a call to turn back now? No choice but to land.
[Whoosh—crash! Whoosh—crash!]
Riding churning waves, they neared the shore. Hearts pounded with rising fury.
"Down!"
"Jump!"
"Mannanan! I'm going in!!"
[Whish—splash! Splash-splash!]
The warriors leaping like speared fish looked, reversed, like fishermen hauling nets. Grotesque and savage to the Romans beyond the hill, no doubt. One such warrior, plunging in with that thought, was startled by water rising to his chest but pressed on without pause. Slipping in mud, he still roared in sync with the frenzy around him—invoking sea gods, river goddesses, war deities. Some cried clan names; others bellowed unintelligible chants, likely carrying druid blood unbeknownst.
In the mad dash, sodden pants, tunics, and cloaks weighed heavy. He yearned to strip bare, fueled by hot blood, but clothes cost coin, and the chill forbade it. Here to get rich, only to fall ill from cold? Unthinkable.
"Yaaah! Aaaah?"
Belting out cries while clutching his purchased javelin, he halted as the leaders ahead stopped dead. Weren't they itching to charge and grapple? Why freeze now? Tiptoeing for a peek past leather-helmed friends, he spied a cluster of horsemen.
"Cavalry."
"Roman cavalry."
The flag flew high: square, red, with a redder eagle mid-spread wings. Oddly, a blue water-drop marked its breast, but it screamed Roman all the same. Beside it, a brass sea-creature—fish-like, elongated, jaws agape. Eirenn's folk knew Romano-Britain better than Romans sometimes; the warriors recognized it as the dragon symbolizing Roman horse.
"What now?"
"No one said cavalry would be here!"
"Ch-charge!! Courage wins the day!"
"Hold, fool. How do you fight horse uphill? Hold formation, wait for main force—"
"Coward!"
"What?"
Three to three-fifty warriors from ten boats ashore. The Roman horse atop the hill? Ten? Twenty max? Fleeing such a handful would shame them. So, charge it was.
"Cowards fall back! Attack! Attaaack! Only attack brings survival!!"
"The brave live! Cowards die! Forward! Forwaaaard!"
[Hooooh---!]
"Hu-raaaah!"
"Kiri-yaaah!!"
Roaring war cries to taunt, terrify, seize momentum—a timeless battlefield bellow—the Muwa warriors stamped forward as one. Gripping javelins reverse, they stuck out tongues, rolled eyes wide, posing maximum threat: I'll gut you. But the Romans sat impassive, almost bored. Wouldn't most quail at three hundred fifty foes? Blind to peril? Empire's fall sapped their will to live?
As doubts swirled, frontrunners—overconfident in their arms—hurled javelins.
"Hrrmph!"
"Take this!"
"Kyah!"
[Whoom—whoo-whoom—whoom-]
The throws missed but finally stirred the "calm" riders.
[Whinny! Snort!]
[Clop-clop-]
Instead of panicked Roman shrieks and scatter, the horsemen boldly wheeled to the Muwa flank.
"Insolent bastards!"
"Catch 'em! Kill 'em!"
"No, capture! They'll fetch a fine price!"
"Daring to flank honorable warriors!? Shameless cowards!"
Veterans and greenhorns alike raged, chasing the treacherous tails—when the Muwa line, shaken, parted to reveal shadows racing from where the Romans had stood.
"Huh? O-over there—"
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
"Grab 'em! It's sand—they can't maneuver! Javelins!"
"Look over there, you idiots!"
Shouts from the alert snapped heads around. They all saw it: beyond the watchtower's low hill, exploiting blind spots, a Roman unit advanced—long straight swords and massive oval shields at ready.
"Th-this—"
Before the flanked Muwa could cry out, Roman pipes blared first.
[Baaaaam---]
[Baaaaam-!!!]
"Squads one through five: engage enemy on contact! No pursuit if they break distance!"
"Attack!"
"For Artorius!"
[Step-step-step-step-]
Squads one to five—ten-man teams—advanced at quick time. Javelin volley, darts at will, then melee. Caius caught the enemy's frantic eyes, snared by Wolfmaer's lure. Lure, bait, engage—Wolfmaer had scripted it all. Veteran field commander, especially cavalry: perilous role. Caius etched the maneuver in mind while commanding crisply.
"Watchtower troops are all withdrawing, right?"
"Yes, Centurion! Told 'em they'd die if they didn't come out!"
"Tell 'em to hurry. Enemy main force is closing faster than expected."
"Yes! Hey! You lot at the tower—move it or we'll drag you out!"
"Aye!"
Caius's fights and commands stemmed from Artorius. His revered Dominus prized speed above all; Caius wouldn't botch timing for minor gains.
"Enough. Sound retreat. We've bloodied them plenty."
"Yes, Centurion!"
[Whish-whish-]
[Bam—baaaaam---!]
At the signalman's gestures, cornu blared twice. Squads one to five halted mid-advance. Squads six to ten covered with javelins; Caius's men reformed, withdrawing calmly.
[Step-step-step-step-]
Battle rhythm steadied, near-chaos averted.
[Clop-clop-]
Wolfmaer's riders wheeled back from the enemy rear at Caius's signal.
"Status after pullback. Move fast along the road. Watchtower holdouts join us en route."
"Yes, Centurion!"
"Understood!"
"I'll go ahead, prep the towers. Estimated rally point?"
[Whinny!]
Caius pondered atop the prancing horse, then replied.
"Fall back to the river mouth."
"Got it, Centurion Caius. Over."
"Thanks."
[Clop-clop-clop-]
Wolfmaer's horse thundered ahead along the road. Moments later, Caius's detachment marched on, scooping up panic-stricken limitanei from the towers. Beacon fires already blazed toward Isca Dumnoniorum, and the barbarians' rattled main force now hit Britannia's shore in waves.