The Immobile Invaders
“Caius!” [Salute!] “Magister militum Artorius!”
There were no major obstacles marching along the road, so we followed the long, sinuous river and arrived in just one day. At the river's upper reaches—well, the headwaters, anyway—the first riverside fortress flowing toward Isca Dumnoniorum welcomed us with a familiar face.
“You've filled out nicely. So, what's the situation? How far have the enemy pursued?”
I'd probably hear the full tale of Caius's exploits once I returned to Avalonia and sorted out the urgent matters, but now wasn't the time. Now operating independently of me as his lord, Caius had the air of a proper commander. I hurriedly asked where the barbarians were, but his response came back a bit hesitant.
“Well... they're still there. Magister militum.”
“Hm? Still there? What do you mean?”
“The enemy hasn't moved a single step from their initial landing site. Dominus.”
“...They haven't moved?”
Thanks to scattering scouts and keeping in constant contact with Caius, I hadn't worried about ambushes. No matter how much they acted like bandits, they were elite enough to be sent across the sea by their king, especially as light infantry suited for hit-and-run tactics and guerrilla warfare.
That was why I'd maintained a healthy tension, granting combat rest at this well-maintained riverside fortress while ordering readiness for battle at any moment...
But it seemed the enemy wasn't feinting at all—they'd simply plopped down at the landing site.
“What the hell are they doing?”
“...”
“Fine, let's say they're not moving. But they're not even sending out scouts themselves—what are they up to?”
“Well—they've occupied a watchtower first—”
It went without saying, but the farther you got from Isca Dumnoniorum, the lower-grade the watchtowers became. They were hard to maintain, and all they needed to do was light beacon fires, so there was no need for grand fortresses. Thus, Caius's “occupation” of a watchtower just meant the barbarians had taken a modest lookout tower of reasonable height.
Ten minutes. That's all it'd take—a squad of three eight-man teams could dismantle it down to the bones.
“—and we've confirmed they've seized two nearby abandoned villages and a monastery, looting whatever was left there.”
“...I see. Got it.”
Britain's western and southern coasts had been ravaged by barbarians all last year, leading to a natural scorched-earth policy this year. There was nothing left to take—and yet these Muwa barbarians were squeezing dry rags like they could wring out water, looting places already stripped bare.
Impressive in a way, but regardless of how pathetic it made them look, I couldn't just leave them be. I decided to advance immediately.
“Looks like they haven't heard the rumors about me. We'll have to deliver the news in person. Caius! Preparations for departure are complete, right?”
“Yes! Magister militum!”
“Wolfmaer! I hear you've been active here too.” [Salute!]
“Merely doing my duty as a warrior of Dominus Artorius.”
“You've already earned many merits in my service. Once your tribe arrives on these shores, they shall all be treated as citizens of Romano-Britain and my personal friends.”
“My thanks, Dominus Artorius! We shall fight with our lives...!”
I reward proven ability as a matter of course. Praising merit was as crucial as doling out punishment. Wolfmaer bowed his head deeply, and the Auxilia warriors under Hereward, watching me nod in approval, had a glint in their eyes that boded no good.
“No need to wait any longer, then. Caius, rejoin my main force and take the left wing.”
“Yes! Magister militum!”
With Beduerus left behind at Isca Dumnoniorum, I assigned the left wing to Caius. His growth had been remarkable; it was time to trust him.
“Wolfmaer, take three centuries of Auxilia alongside Hereward. Handle the right wing.”
“Yes! Magister militum!”
“Yes! Dominus!”
If Hereward spoke our tongue more fluently, I'd have handed him command of the entire Auxilia right then. Against barbarians, all it took was a brave charge anyway—perfect chance to test him. But the Auxilia, Hereward included, weren't yet accustomed to our Roman signal discipline, and their language skills were lacking, so I had no choice but to pair him with Wolfmaer.
Wolfmaer's abilities were proven time and again, and given his age, he'd be key to expanding my barbarian legions—the Auxilia—as their future core. Keeping him as a field commander long-term wouldn't work. This was also a chance to observe Hereward more closely. Wars never ceased in this land; opportunity would come.
“Marcelus. You and the standard-bearers, follow me in the center.”
“Yes! Dominus!”
The surrendered mid-cavalry and mid-infantry from Isca Dumnoniorum were placed in the center under my direct command. Unlikely as it was, if the barbarians pulled some trick and we faltered, the newly surrendered lot would bolt at the first chance. Putting such men on the wings risked instant collapse, annoying everyone involved—so I'd shoulder them myself.
“The weather favors us too. The sun's nearing midday—perfect timing. We'll recall the scouts en route, make one last check on enemy movements, then commit to battle. Any objections?”
The commanders' faces brimmed with confidence and eager anticipation.
“None? Then we're off. Caius, take point.”
“Yes! Magister militum!”
“The center follows, with the Auxilia bringing up the rear.”
“Yes!”
“Understood!”
Commanders mounted up around my chariot, scattering to their units. Soon, orders rang out as they found their men, and we marched west.
-----
“Ha! Our tribe tastes blood every season! We welcome battle! No offense to you all, but war demands stout bellies and patience! Build momentum, build it more, then—bam! Strike like the great hero Cú Chulainn slaying the fire-breathing beast in one go!”
“One go or not, what kind of fight leaves you staring while the enemy flees? Don't wolves hunt down wounded packs and finish them?”
“Let it be. I saw those folk cheerfully snag some sheep nearby a few days back. Means they've already profited.”
“Wh-what?! What do you take me for? This insults my honor! I swore to Muwa's sacred king I'd return his daughter...! You must respect a man like me...!”
“Swore? Respect? Go on, why stop?”
“Enough. We split those sheep fairly enough, didn't we? But everyone knows it's not sufficient. South leads to sheer gorges with no souls in sight. East is our only path.”
“Why only east? Cross back by sea. North's an option too.”
“Oh.”
A plausible idea finally emerged, and the chieftains—picking at their smoked, dried fish—perked up. But a calm-faced chieftain countered, and they returned to their shares.
“Where'd the Laigin bastards raid last year? From here, up the coast north and south. Three full seasons of plunder. Livestock, folk—no mercy. You all know better than I. Nothing left there either.”
“Greedy swine!”
“Pah!”
These Muwa warriors had boarded ships boldly for Romano-Britain, landed bravely—only to snag some stray sheep, plant warriors on a Roman watchtower for show, and loot scraps like chickens and chairs from a glimpsed village. Truth was, they felt the pressure.
Bluntly: the ferocious first clash had scared them more than expected. The hated Laigin and Uladh had boasted that plundering Romano-Britain's west and south coasts beat rustling neighbor sheep...
Had those curs lied, besmirching their honor? So fearful of Muwa's rise? Cowards by birth.
Still, I hadn't fully trusted Laigin or Uladh. But northern savages across the sea bragged of joining last year's great raid for their share. Muwa, skipping a season, rushed to join.
Yet here? It felt like the legions—rumored fled from Britain—had returned. No, stronger than the old wall-guarders.
The battle's aftermath was dire: last night, several tried sneaking back by boat. Heads rolled tearfully. Some impaled on stakes by the ships, others hung on trees to ward evil.
Problem: that sudden Roman force was small, retreating in perfect order—reinforcements surely coming. Warding heads wouldn't stop them.
Chieftains gnawed fish heads, feigning calm for honor and face...
But inwardly, all hid fear.
“Mm.”
“Urgh-mm.”
“Britain's fish—quite tasty!”
Uncertain battle loomed, pretext restoring the king's honor—no one dared suggest retreat. That'd mean the king's wrath and a head on a pike.
Sneaking south's harsh paths? No guides, deep woods, mountains in spring? Better sacrifice a chieftain and flee.
Left: the neat Roman road east. No one volunteered heroic charges like ancient legends.
They hemmed and hawed, eyeing for a sacrificial goat. Time flew—day seven post-landing.
Isca Dumnoniorum's Romans should've stirred by now. Chieftains grew restless, decisions unavoidable.
Then, unbelievable sound echoed from the east.
[BAAAAAM——]
“? What's that?”
“Not our pipes...”
“No. That's... Roman. Roman horns.”
Metal cornu, not beast-horn pipes. Details irrelevant as chieftains scrambled up, bursting from tents.
Under blazing sun, far off: faint fluttering banners.
“That's—a chariot. Chariots...?”
Outdated even for Muwa, yet atop them, shadows gazed hither. Red Roman banners rose like ghosts, swelling, nearing.
Chieftains grasped reality one by one.
“How already...”
“Damn. Ancestor hero Cú Chulainn, shield us from deep caves. Snap to! Enemy! They're here—right on us!”
“Blast that cursed horn! To battle! Warriors! The field calls!”
Realizing no retreat, Muwa warriors seized spears and shields in haste.