Isca's Ashes and the Northern Raiders
Sometimes, garrisons had to be stationed right in the cities, and Isca Dumnoniorum was a prime example. With Vortigern and the city's highborn all crossing the Styx together in a sudden burst of camaraderie, the whole place felt eerily unmoored. Add to that the folks who'd fled in panic thinking the end times had come, now slinking back home, and you had the perfect setup for thieves and brigands to thrive. Bringing the army inside the walls might not have been optional after all.
"Doom! The end is nigh! Tremble in fear! The prophesied apocalypse! Repent your sins and offer up your wealth! Cast off all worldly vanities and seize your salvation!!"
"Grab that bastard right now."
"Yes, sir!"
"What are you lot? Unhand me! I'm a servant of the Lord! Let me goooo!"
"No, I just touched it a little! I wasn't gonna steal it!"
"Hey, old timer."
"How rude! I'm still spry as ever!"
"Sure, less-old timer. Come quietly while we're asking nice. Do we look like some pushover city watch to you? Keep resisting, and we might just conscript you."
"My apologies, sirs."
In this world where barbarism and civilization coexisted, every manner of scoundrel crawled out of the woodwork. Swindlers preying on the desperate, petty thieves, even would-be bandits eyeing the outskirts—it kept us run ragged for three straight days. When I first heard Vortigern and his cronies had all kicked the bucket, I'd pondered how to handle their lurking remnants in the city...
That was a naive, ignorant notion born of underestimating Roman folk, one I shed the moment we entered the gates.
"I'm not asking what they are," I shot back. "I'm asking why they burned them."
"The populace vents its rage now and then. Chariot races are a big trigger, but elite blunders like this spark it too. Especially when their hard-won garrison vanishes overnight and the leadership gets... well, regrettably culled by Marcelus. Who could stop an angry mob? From what I checked, the city watch numbered barely 100—all scions of noble houses."
Beduerus's calm explanation prompted me to notch up my mental image of Roman nobles' recklessness and the citizens' ferocity. Some emperor centuries back had massively expanded citizenship, leaving hardly anyone but slaves outside it—so this applied empire-wide. They all pretend to disdain the military, but deep down, no one loves violence more. I've got your number now.
Amid last year's spring-to-winter Saxon raids along the coast, with taxes rising even as the pillaging worsened? The simmering citizens seized the opening Marcelus and I handed them, unleashing pent-up fury: torching, killing, toppling the homes of Isca's fat cats.
Thus, striding into the forum amid swirling ash, what greeted me—ironically—was the survivors of those very noble houses I'd feared might intrigue against me, all begging for protection at my feet.
"Take our houses, our gold—everything! Just spare our lives!"
"We want to leave this city! Magister Militum of Rome! Artorius of Romano-Britain! Please...!"
Even if they'd hiked taxes, how bad could their thuggery have been? Worse than barbarians who rob and kill at whim? ...Nah, no way.
Whatever the case, these ancient lineages' downfall was self-inflicted, but I'd played a part too—so I sheltered them and cleared a path straight to Dubris fortress in the southeast. Uterius should be there by now; I trust he'll ship them across the Channel smoothly. As the saying goes, even ruined wealth lasts three generations. Survive, you Isca noble survivors of Romano-Britain! But leave all your rights and properties behind. I'll claim just what's on Romano-British soil in exchange for your lives. Fair trade, no?
Call it steep ferry fare.
With the departed gone and the rest to hustle onward, I swiftly executed the rampaging criminals and pretenders, soothing the wary cityfolk while positioning myself as the new master. From administrators to every land deed tucked in corners, I gathered it all—Vortigern had managed quite the hoard, ripe for reshaping to my taste.
Then came word of a beacon fire.
"What? Beacons along the northern waterways?"
Half a day later, a lathered messenger collapsed before me, thrusting forth Caius's report from a leather tube.
"Magister Militum! Centurio Caius's dispatch and message! We've secured the northern coastal watchtowers, but raiders sighted! First clash done—they're withdrawing!"
"Hand it over."
The parchment bundle, still hot from frantic riding, unrolled into over a dozen waxless, cord-tied sheaves—6,500 characters of battle report. Caius hid his tension well, but it seeped through. No screw-ups, I hope?}
Skimming the urgent tome, Caius's handling of the foe unfolded vividly before my eyes—far better than I'd dared hope.
"Hmm. Uh-huh? Oh ho."
Savoring it like fine fiction, I finished the tome, unpinned my droplet-shaped cloak brooch for the near-fainting messenger, and sent him off to wash, eat, and sleep.
"Thank you! Magister Militum!"
"Go rest."
"An honor! Dominus Invictus!"
Overjoyed at the trinket like it'd been a king's ransom, he departed—and we plunged straight into council.
"1,500 to 2,000? Don't these western barbarians know to plant spring crops? If they don't farm, what do they live on?"
"That's the Roman view. To them, probably better to raid us."
"Hah."
"Council" meant Beduerus and I talking while the centurions listened. Bluntly, handling troops was more art than science. Effort and experience mattered, but innate talent dominated. Not everyone masters deployment and maneuvers equally—some just stand out on the field, racking merits while others don't. These centurions had all earned promotion through blood, yet a chasm yawned between them and commanders like Beduerus. Laughably, even between him and me loomed walls he couldn't scale.
I'm an anomaly from the start, but Beduerus proves the world isn't fair.
"They live easy, plotting to fleece others. So how do we guard ours?"
"Advance and smash them, Magister Militum."
He'd long mapped my battlefield thinking over shared rations; I knew his too. Hence his crisp reply—I nodded.
"Beduerus, you stay in Isca Dumnoniorum. 200 enough?"
"I'll erase every trace of Vortigern, Magister Militum."
"Good."
Trusted lieutenants are gold—they divine your intent without spelling it out, then make it real. Militarily, I'd trust Beduerus at my back anytime.
"All auxilia, Avalonia troops, and the new legion move with me. Not far—I'll lead, supplies via waterways behind. No telling the urgency; no dawdling. Half-day departure—possible?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Aye! Dominus Artorius!"
The commanders snapped up in salute, eyes alight. Our auxilia leaders, shadowing us for days, caught maybe 20% of my words outright—half the rest by guesswork, but they followed. I'd picked up Angle tongues too, so they'd anchor my center for simple orders. Crucial: battle-ready now.
The "new legion" were Dumnonii heavy infantry fresh from surrender—elite enough for my right wing, eager for glory. Genetically right-handed troops make the left flank weakest always, so Avalonia elites take left.
Rough order: Avalonia-auxilia-newbies. 1,000 strong against double barbarians? Very doable. Led by Artorius? Victory assured.
"Move out."
No fast horses this time—scout the swiftest local ship. Dispatch ahead via waterways to Caius's likely-held fort: I'm coming; hold and fight.
Vortigern had stockpiled siege engines there at river-mouth; Caius could hold.
"Half a day ours, Beduerus."
"I'll hurry the guests along."
A dozen awaited audience post-nobles: one covert from across the sea, another from Guinevere in Avalonia. Couldn't ignore—quick hearings first.
"Magister Militum, their numbers: 1,500 warriors, 1,000 kern rabble! 400 decent, 100 elites—the real fighters. Plus 200 slave drudges. Spear-throwers by trade, but rushed supplies mean short on gear. No horses either—low mobility! Reinforcements tough—"
"..."
"..."
Unprompted, he prostrated and spilled the barbarians' full order of battle in flawless Latin. Beduerus and I could only exchange glances at this spy's sudden bounty.