Waves Accumulate
“Dominus!”
“Ah, Galbaginus.”
War is work from the moment you step into it until the very end. Planning it is work, executing it is work, but the greatest fatigue always comes afterward, in the process of cleaning up the battlefield.
How many of our men died? Just this first question alone is enough to make commanders tear their hair out. Emperors sitting safely behind desks, receiving reports like “This legion took heavy losses,” or “That one was wiped out entirely,” might end with a mere “Oh! How heartbreaking!” But when you're out there on the front lines, sweating and bleeding alongside them—when these aren't empty words but brothers closer than blood, and you have to confirm each death with your own eyes, pen each condolence report by hand and send it up the chain... that's different.
And if you're lucky, you recover the bodies intact. Most of the time, they're unrecognizable, so you log them on paper only, then pick out those still cloaked in the Roman sagum and bury them separately. How grueling is that? There's no way to explain it.
But the worst part of battlefield cleanup—the reason its intensity peaks—is that gathering the dead is just the beginning. You identify the recovered bodies, salvage their gear, kick the wounded survivors' asses to make sure they get to the medics in the supply train. You check equipment losses, force the blood-pumped victors to wash up even right after battle, feed them, bed them down. As the adrenaline and dopamine crash, you slap the moping ones around to keep them moving, make them do something.
Before you know it, these half-baked warriors—who were little more than bandits masquerading as Romans—are reborn as proper Romano-British soldiers. I oversaw the whole process myself and wrapped up the cleanup just as Galbaginus returned at the perfect moment.
“Isca Dumnoniorum is secure, Dominus. Tribunus Beduerus took the city without much fuss. The people didn't even seem to realize Vortigern was dead.”
“Ha!” [Swish—swish—]
If a field commander's greatest agony is losing men as close as family, higher commanders have headaches on another level. Heartache might sting a bit less, perhaps, but war isn't some simple game where you charge out, win or lose, and call it done.
Even this battle—summed up neatly as “Artorius repels the western barbarians' raid”—involved far more than that. First off, there were all these letters I had to answer personally. My name carried immense weight in southeastern Britannia around Londinium, but the southwest folk, cut off from my exploits, now fully submitted after Isca Dumnoniorum's fall and this victory.
Village headmen in the hills, stewards managing abandoned estates and their farms and slaves—they all raced to send messengers or letters. The contents were the same tired flattery: “We've awaited a hero like you,” “Who'd have thought those Roman nobles would abandon us without a backward glance?” Bashing old masters, fawning over the new. Clichéd, sure, but replying to each one was crucially important.
It informed them of Merlinus's new rules for this land—the One Third Law, which you could call the concept of royal domain. Follow it, leave, or rebel and die. Explaining these three choices in the gentlest tone possible marked the final stage of battlefield cleanup.
In short, barbarians fight for loot. Rome wars for something far more complex.
“Anything I can help with? I brought the supplies Tribunus Beduerus sent, but it looks like you need more hands.”
“Appreciate the thought. Not desperate enough to work a man fresh off a long road. Total casualties, combat and non-, around 2,100. Seven hundred dead in the fighting. The rest surrendered.”
Rounding generously: half our force slaughtered in one battle. A massacre by any measure.
Why? The enemy line crumbled too fast. Our mere thirty cataphracts punched way above their weight. And the encirclement—pre-positioned troops looping around—worked better than expected, driving the terrified barbarians into the sea themselves.
...If I had to add one more cause: maybe seeing me personally butchering their kin broke their last will to fight. Highborn, lowborn, slaves—they all wailed and fled, trampling each other to death or drowning in panic. We might've killed fewer than they managed on their own.
Rough count: 1,400 surrendered. Of those, about 300 were slaves they'd captured from their own lands or Romans taken from Britannia. So roughly 1,100 surviving warrior-class who joined willingly.
“...A great victory! Congratulations, Magister Militum!”
Yeah, absurd. Our losses around a hundred. Heartbreaking, yes—but scanning Britannia's near-century history, this was one of the rare triumphs.
“A thousand facing two thousand—half dead, half surrendered. Once word spreads, all that gloom about the Roman Emperor abandoning us vanishes from people's heads! Dominus!”
Galbaginus, true noble stock, grasped the bigger picture from scraps alone. A clear edge over street-smart Caius.
Caius was out helping the wounded, managing my letter list—pure field aide work. Beduerus at Isca Dumnoniorum blended both youths' strengths into veteran command and admin. But with Beduerus holding the rear as I roamed, Galbaginus was prime for expeditionary command going forward.
I couldn't lead every foray forever. And whether Britannia, the mainland, or the Empire—multi-front wars meant able commanders always had fronts to fight on.
“Speaking of, Deva Victrix sent word right on cue. Comes Eturnus penned it himself—seems our win over these western savages hit the spot for him.”
“Haha. Who suffered most from last spring's raids through winter? Had to be him.”
The western coast from Isca Dumnoniorum to Deva Victrix got pillaged as hard as the south. So Eturnus, dashing north-south in Vortigern's place, cheering like that? Understandable.
Trouble was, along with the letter, he sent his tribe's sacred relic: a battered sword and shield with a boar grinning atop a Roman laurel. Worn, but lovingly maintained—the golden boar pommel glaring at me screamed “special.”
I knew these honor-bound folk, especially the Botadii with their ancient traditions, gave gifts heavy with meaning beyond “I like you.” Burdensome, but I accepted.
“The Botadii fought northern and western barbarians even before the Empire set foot here. Ancient grudge—Eturnus's reaction feels natural.”
“You know the Botadii well?”
“Yes, Dominus. Born and bred in Eboracum, impossible not to. Our ancestors—and Eturnus's father with mine—guarded the Wall together to this day.”
“Good. Perfect.”
“Haha. Indeed. Couldn't be better.”
“No—you knowing the north so well. That's what's perfect.”
“...Pardon?”
Eturnus hadn't just sent gifts. Celebrating my improbable win, the Botadii chief shared odd news: the son of a bizarre barbarian chieftain dubbed “Fisher King” had visited Deva Victrix, farther north.
Deeming it serious, Eturnus sought my aid. I planned to send Galbaginus to investigate.
“Losing 2,000 at once? Even idiots among the western barbarians will lie low for now.”
“Y-Yeah...? They'll be in chaos. A sudden strong legion on their coast—might even send scouts to probe you directly, Magister Militum.”
“Let them. I'd love to sail over and slaughter or capture the lot, but Londinium has better ideas. Expedition on hold.”
I'd half-seriously considered crossing right then. But their kingdoms were more fragmented than thought, unexpected allies helped, and Merlinus and Guinevere already grasped it all. Better to conserve strength now.
Plus, Isca Dumnoniorum's elites bowed, revealing tidy resources—minerals, timber jumping out; siege engines dormant in arsenals, unforeseen windfall. Distributing from west coast to south and east would ease every fort and watchtower commander.
“Anyway, as you guessed—Eturnus didn't just send gifts.”
“Then...”
“Sent a man too. The Fisher King's son, apparently? Ring a bell?”
“Ah—yes. King Pellinor of Manavia, right? A barbarian king, but an odd one. Memorable.”
Galbaginus: educated young, networked nobility—walking intel hub.
“What makes him memorable?”
“Amusing fellow, Dominus. Pellinor obsessed more with catching fish than men. A few years back, came to Eboracum himself, hand-picked prime nets. Haha, funny barbarian, no? And no raiding...”
A non-raiding barbarian? Did such exist? World was wide, strange folk aplenty. Intriguing.
“And his son came?”
“Yeah. Pellinor's dead.”
“Pardon?”
“Son came howling for revenge. Name's Peredir.”
“Oh no...”
Strange barbarian, Fisher King's son seeking vengeance. But coming to Romano-Britannia? Something fun brewing.
“So meet this Peredir with me. If he's useful, head to Deva Victrix with the prince. Dig deeper on Manavia.”
“Understood, Dominus. If need be, that island—”
Galbaginus's eyes gleamed. Noble lad read my mind without spelling it out, smirk blooming.
“Yeah. Odd spot for an island.”
Ideal forward base for west or north campaigns.
“We've come to meet the lord of this island.”
“...”
Comes Torus, Dubris fortress commander, faced uninvited guests at dawn.
“...So, your king—Hlodowig—”
“Bold man! Hairy Hlodowig!”
“...Don't interrupt.”
“Ah, sorry!”
“Frankish king Hlodowig sends these gifts to Britannia's Magister Militum, right?”
“Yes! Not Vortigern! To the great warrior Artorius!”
Torus, undefeated against barbarians even outnumbered, had to admit: this was beyond him.