From the Deepest Darkness, Dawn Shall Rise
In the Spring and Autumn period of ancient China, about a millennium before our time, there lived a general named Sun Tzu. In his writings, he said that if you know your enemy and know yourself, you need fear no result from a hundred battles. Thanks to this barbarian informant spilling every last detail about the enemy's forces, at least in this campaign, our army won't be caught off guard by ignorance.
[Scritch-scritch-] Beduerus listened to the man's somewhat accented Latin, jotting down only the key points on his wax tablet. A quick glance showed the enemy's numbers, likely targets, command structure, strengths and weaknesses, supply lines—all crammed in tiny script, a line or two per item. I could sense such things instinctively on the battlefield, but the Romans were a people wedded to numbers, and Beduerus would no doubt turn these scraps of intel into daggers to plunge mercilessly into the foe.
"-And finally, if the Magister Militum achieves the righteous victory he deserves! My master across the sea bids me convey that he will surely drive out that foolish, shameless king who sparked this pointless strife, yielding no gain to either the Muwa or the Romans!"
The informant finished his spiel briskly, even adjusting his pace when Beduerus's hand busied itself mid-report—like a 21st-century AI in its sharpness. Whatever his motives, this plucky barbarian had poured out intel worth his weight in gold. I was about to ask what he wanted in return when he volunteered it unprompted; his master must be an impatient sort.
"Drive out the king?"
"Y-yes, Magister Militum! To punish the fool—"
"Suppose it all succeeds. I crush the army sent by this—what was it?—foolish, shameless king. Your master topples the king. Who sits on Muwa's throne then?"
"M-my master... Of course, should the Magister Militum show favor, he is carefully considering shouldering the heavy burden of Muwa's throne..."
Look at this guy, dancing around it. Where'd he learn his Latin? These barbarians—west, east, north—were endlessly amusing. How much infighting had they endured to hone such political intrigue? It made me pity Romano-Britain's porous borders, but it also stoked my competitive fire, my thirst for victory. The legions fled, the emperor abandoned us, but I would never forsake this land. I'd save it, strengthen it, make it unbreakable—until those who discarded us came crawling back. To do that, I couldn't just slaughter every barbarian; nor should I. Rome failed here, so I had to show this land something unprecedented. The details were still hazy even to me, but vague outlines were forming—something we could try.
For now, tackle the immediate problems one by one.
"Rest easy. After this battle, tell your master: Vortigern shares the blame, so out of regard for your master's aid, we'll pursue Muwa no further. The throne is yours to claim."
"Yes! Magister Militum! Thank you!"
We hadn't even crossed swords yet, but he acted as if every Muwa warrior lay dead. Amusing—and did he trust me too much? What made him so certain?
"You'll march with us, then. No need to fight; stick to the supply wagons."
"As you command! Dominus Artorius! My thanks again!"
"Beduerus, see he doesn't get snatched up."
"I'll issue a water-drop brooch and identity papers."
In this near-collapsed Romano-Britain, there was no proper registry like household registration. To claim "Civis Romanus sum"—"I am a Roman citizen!"—your name had to be on a censor's rolls. That was when the empire functioned; now, any prefect or comes with power could validate you as Roman and citizen. Not just here—Gaul, probably Italia too. Citizenship had broadened anyway, so my clean-shaven, Latin-speaking informant was unlikely to be conscripted by mistake or arrested as a spy. Still, badges and documents would minimize the risk.
"Good. Anything else I need to know?"
"That's all, Magister Militum."
"Well done. You can watch the battle from here, then return to your master. Next time he sends word, bring his name too. Dismissed."
"Yes, yes! I'll tell him! Magister Militum!! Farewell..."
Objectively, they hadn't shown all their cards—especially hiding the master's name, hedging for if I lost. Infuriating, but prudent; I liked it.
"As expected... their command is a mess, Magister Militum." Beduerus glanced up from the tablet, speaking softly.
I gestured outside for the next visitor, nodding at Beduerus to continue.
"1,500 men, 2,000 with non-combatants—no clear overall commander. If their king led personally, maybe, but per this, they're running 1,500 troops by committee."
"Committee of commanders?"
"A republic on the battlefield, Magister Militum."
"Heh."
Beduerus stayed grave, but the sarcasm cracked me up. It highlighted our cultural gulf... or did it? Command disputes plagued even kingdoms and empires. Stilicho, Magister Militum not just of Britain but the whole empire, hadn't held undivided control long. In China's Warring States, generals were swapped endlessly; even in Choson, they demoted Yi Sun-sin for Won Gyun. These western barbarians were a forced coalition of tribes anyway—so their consensus system might be the most rational.
To me, it'd lose even winnable fights. But recalling their tactics and goals—raiding... Their ultimate aim might not be victory at all. A group whose purpose is the plunder. Less an army, more...
"Bandits. No different from bandits."
"...Indeed, Magister Militum."
"Do such foes even need strategy or tactics, Beduerus?"
"Sometimes overwhelming force is key. Their ambushes, skirmishes, preference for scattering make sense—no unified command, so they fight piecemeal. As you say, press with textbook pressure, smash the dispersed with cavalry."
On rough, roadless terrain, chariots were useless; cavalry filled the role. Javelin skirmishers too—even revived thrice, they'd never beat heavy infantry in armor and shields. Javelins ran out; ours threw them too. Plus mechanical crossbows. Our doctrine: mixed arms—cavalry shadows every infantry advance. Plains, mountains, swamps, marshes, deserts, steppes, forests—everywhere but jungle, Rome's history forged this.
How do infantry beat cavalry? Enemy commander's a fool, call our horse, or cram in a monster like me. None? Die. No other conclusion: their forces and command couldn't touch my Romano-British legions. What gave them such reckless courage? I'd ask soon enough.
"Magister Militum! An honor to meet you!"
[Snap!] Midway through debating barbarian overconfidence with Beduerus, the second guest saluted sharply. I nodded; he introduced himself as a courier from Londinium, handing a leather case to my guard. The guard rummaged, producing a letter sealed with wax stamped in a water-drop emblem—Avalonia's sigil.
"Guinevere?"
I broke the seal hastily, unrolling the parchment to familiar script—bold, elegant, manly enough to fool a stranger. It opened with concern for my welfare, longing from a devoted wife, then shifted to the shrewd politician's prose. No wonder it looked familiar: she'd copied her father Comes Uterius's hand. And more than script—she'd learned his mind.
"...From Prefectus Merlinus in Londinium?"
"One might say so. Or not."
"...?"
I passed the letter to quizzical Beduerus, then removed the leather vambrace from my left wrist and tossed it to the courier.
[Whoosh-]
"No reply needed. Rest a day, then back to Londinium. Tell her I read it—nothing more."
"Yes, sir! Magister Militum!! Thank you! I'll treasure it forever!!"
"It's a vambrace, worn not worshipped. Replace when worn. Dismissed."
"Yes! Dominus Invictus!"
[Snap!] As the courier saluted out, my mind churned against his backdrop. The letter conveyed this:
The frail lady Isut fled the tyranny of Muwa's barbarian king to seek refuge here, only for vile Vortigern to exploit her, summoning foreign powers to plunge all Britannia into ruin.
Thus, Avalonia's Magister Militum has risen in righteous fury—
Join this just war to save Britannia! Britannians, stand now beneath Artorius's banner!
This proclamation—now ratified by Londinium's Forum, the land's highest council since the emperor's abandonment—blanketed every corner of Romano-Britannia. Villain: Vortigern. Extras: barbarians. Hero: Artorius. Script and direction: Merlinus, co-author Guinevere? Backers: Uterius and ilk. Independence loomed, the throne of Britannia's many usurper-emperors inching toward me.
Unlike before, this wasn't rebellion against Rome; the emperor had forsaken us—we were building a sovereign kingdom. No shirking the crown now, but the speed tangled my thoughts. Far quicker than I'd planned. I was ready in spirit, but was Romano-Britain? Would hasty unification spark civil wars?
"We must smash the barbarians swiftly, Magister Militum." Beduerus set down the letter, face impassive, but I caught satisfaction in his eyes.
"Londinium seems poised for a greater battle."
His eyes gleamed with open anticipation; I just laughed.
"Yes. Let's."
After a few more urgent petitioners, I led the army north along the waterways.