A Savage Encampment and the Champion's Fall
Impressive camp, in the worst way possible. They'd circled their wagons like a makeshift palisade, with large tents scattered around haphazardly lit campfires, traces of last night's debauchery everywhere. From one to ten, I could list a thousand flaws in that setup. If I ever needed to train our green recruits on building a proper encampment—what happens when you ignore the rules—it would be the perfect, utterly disastrous teaching aid.
No palisade, so no need for trenches either. No trenches meant no drainage ditches, just scattered pits for dumping filth. At least they hadn't fouled the stream providing their drinking water. Small mercies.
[Hoooooo—!] The barbarians finally noticed our approach, raising a racket as they scrambled out of their "camp"—I wouldn't dignify it with the term outpost; it was just a bivouac. They hurriedly cleared their circled wagons and rushed into the open, where our ranks stood patiently waiting, already formed up. It looked amateurish, but those wagons had blocked any cavalry charge straight in—that was the main reason I gave them time to assemble. Second, once melee began, controlling the fight got tricky no matter how well-trained or high-morale our troops were; I wouldn't hand the enemy that chaos. And finally, I wanted to shatter these barbarians in one decisive battle. No scattering in panic from a surprise attack.
"Chaos incarnate," Caius muttered.
"There might be a sharp edge hidden in that sloppiness. Don't get complacent. Remember, eagles give their all to every hunt, Caius."
"...! Understood, Magister Militum."
Frankly, watching them shamble out and barely form ranks, anyone would think them pathetic. But a frontline soldier might feel that; a top commander couldn't afford to. Sportsmanship belongs in games, not war. On the battlefield, you focus solely on neutralizing the enemy as ruthlessly and thoroughly as possible, no mercy, no tears. In my past life, we'd called it "stomping noobs"—dominating weaker foes decisively was a vital skill. Especially when our numbers weren't overwhelming.
"They're forming up over there. Time to take position."
"Right. Our goal today is overwhelming force. Make it clear not just to them, but to the barbarian king across the sea who sent them. Repel the enemy decisively."
"No mercy."
"We're not in a position for it either. Steel yourself, swing that sword boldly. Caius."
"Yes, sir!" [Snap!]
Caius, resolve hardened, spurred his horse leftward. Wolfmaer and Hereward waited at the front of the right wing and auxilia lines, eyes fixed on the foe. Behind my chariot stood heavy infantry from Isca Dumnoniorum; medium cavalry from Rome—thirty riders led by the now-nominal slave Marcellus and his men—flanked both sides.
"..."
[Snort!][Whinny! Clop-clop-clop—] The warhorses sensed the tense air, pawing the ground restlessly, their body heat rising as instinct and experience told them a charge was coming. Truth be told, commanding medium cavalry under my banner for the first time had me excited like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Marcellus, when I signal, charge without looking back."
"Just give the word, Dominus Artorius!"
I chatted idly with Marcellus to shake off my thrill, then gently tugged Maverick's reins, easing the chariot forward. [Clop-clop—rattle—] The ground was fairly even, no recent rain to bog us down. I wouldn't plunge into melee with these precious horses at risk, but for scouting the enemy from afar, the height and speed were ideal.
[Whoooosh—] The sun crested its peak, starting its descent. A bit longer, and the sea breeze would die down, shifting as river winds blew seaward. For now, the offshore wind blew straight at us. A javelin exchange would favor them—our only play was to envelop, cut off escape, close fast, and stick tight. They were light infantry to our heavies, but the sea blocked their rear; seal one flank, and done.
"Block the left, open the right." That would funnel any pursuit naturally back toward Isca Dumnoniorum.
As I reined in to launch the engagement, a hulking warrior strode out from the barbarians' ragged line.
"[The blood of the Picts stands here! Vile Romans! You stole our distant kin's lands! Slaughtered them! Raped them! Fiends whose heinous deeds echo through centuries of death and blood!]"
"[Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!]"
"[Cowards! Honorless scum! No true warriors!!]"
"[Ah-oooh! Ah-oooh!]"
The giant bellowed in their guttural tongue, his rabble howling like beasts to intimidate us. I leaned against the chariot, watching. This blustering brute seemed to psych himself up mid-rant—voice and eyes growing wilder—until he jabbed his long spear at me.
"[Cowards hiding behind walls of wood and iron! How craven! Come out like men, if you dare face us! No guts to meet me!]"
"[Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!]" [Thump! Thump! Thump!][Hoooooo—]
"[Look at their clothes! All the same color! Same armor! Helmets! Shields! More enslaved than chained prisoners!]"
"[Poor souls!]"
"[Wretches blind to freedom's glory! Ptooie!]"
"[And those shiny faces, mustaches shaved like women! True harlots! Rome is a whore!!]"
"[Coooock-a-dooooodle—]"
"[Hen-pecked fools!]"
"[This elder's sturdy club will teach you soon!]"
"..."
I couldn't parse a word, but the onomatopoeia needed no translation.
"Is he begging to die with that show...?"
Chicken impressions and hip-swaying gestures—they wanted to feminize us, TS-style. I reached for a spear on the chariot's right, then paused as an idea sparked. I signaled Caius on the left and Wolfmaer on the right.
"Magister Militum!"
"You called, sir?"
I outlined my plan to the arriving commanders. "They want to play hero. We'll humor them. Meanwhile, Caius, peel off two centuries for a wide flank. Wolfmaer, same with the auxilia—about a hundred to spread the wings further."
"...Understood!"
"On it."
"We'll break their morale and lines at once. On charge signal, no javelins—straight at them. Pursue till retreat sounds. Clear?"
Peel off for wider envelopment. Charge on signal, no hesitation. They nodded.
"Good. Back to positions."
"Yes, sir!"
"Aye!" [Snap!][Clop-clop!]
I glanced at their retreat, then faced the foe. The still-ranting champion, deeming morale sufficient, crept forward, spear aimed at me again.
"You! Roman! If you're no coward, fight me!!"
High-status barbarians used our gold coinage, so Roman speech wasn't surprising. Brass necklaces marked him as a chieftain or his son. Fiery red hair, blue tattoos on face and bare torso—he was their champion, top warrior. Rallying with insults, offering single combat: admirable, but he dies by my hand.
[Snort!][Clank!]
"Stay put."
Dismounting, grass tickled my toes. I advanced slowly; distance shrank, and his cocky face stiffened.
[Thud—thud—]
"What? Bigger up close than you thought?"
My murmur wouldn't carry. He was burly as me—not scared of presence alone. Likely insulted: no javelin, no shield, just a wooden club over my shoulder as I strolled.
"Roman! Don't you know dueling? Grab shield and spear! [Look at this idiot Roman! Armored and helmed like a coward, but left spear and shield behind!?]"
"[Hahaha! The dumb Roman's terrified! Lost his mind!]"
"[Wasted on that bulk! Roman!]" [Thump! Thump! Thump!][Whoooo—hoooo—]
They were thrilled, chattering, blowing eerie horns, banging shields. Disgusting. Why drag wagons across the sea? Never about the king's daughter or handing over Drustanus—they just planned to load up loot, by pillage or tribute from cowed lords.
Fueled by rage, I bellowed at the cackling horde.
"Hey! You stupid barbarian fucks!"
Fucks!! Fucks—uuuucks—aaaah.... My thunderous voice echoed seaward. The barbarians froze, shockwaved into silence, staring. Half-naked, red and gold hair, blue eyes—exotic lot. Subtle movements from my troops behind confirmed the flank.
Timing perfect for the duel.
"Barbarians! I am Artorius! Hear my prophecy!"
"What bullshit, you oversized Roman!"
"You'll all die or be captured here today! Especially you!"
"Shut it, you beardless girl! What prophecy from a shave-puss?!"
"You'll die first!" [Swish—]
I hefted my club, pointing at the redhead. His face purpled like wine; he hurled his spear.
"Madman! Leaving your shield was your choice in this sacred duel! Die!"
[Whiiish—!]
Javelin masters hurl with arrow-like precision. This one was perfect—angle, power, speed from vast experience killing men and beasts.
[Thwack!]
I snatched it left-handed, inches from my face.
"...What?"
"Prophecy fulfilled!"
[Whirl—bang!]
Juggled one-handed, I flung it back.
"Uh—"
[Thud! Crack!]
Resistance ignored, optical illusion of the spear lifting—then the red-haired champion clutched his chest dumbly. Cannon-hit, hole through; shattered fragments spilled as he hit ground.
"Guh—blech—uh—"
[Thump!]
Blood from mouth and nose, eyes rolled back, he toppled. I turned to my legions and roared again.
"Now!"
[BAAAAAMMMM—!!!]
The cornu blared majestically; the Roman army charged as one.