Return of the Dominus Invictus
One flag in particular flapped high in the sky. It wasn't the Roman aquila. Nor the Chi-Rho. If it wasn't the eagle of Rome or the first two letters of Christ, then what the hell was that banner? To cut to the chase, it was the flag and symbol that Caius—the kid who insisted on calling himself my first "worker ant" (god knows what that means, but he sticks to it)—had made for me.
I had no idea why a tiny village needed something like that, but I let it slide as the whimsy of a foolish child. Before I knew it, people flocking from all over started painting that emblem on their shields, clothes, cloaks, even their front doors. The design was just a simple droplet representing our village lake, but at some point, it became the symbol of my settlement, spreading far and wide.
My village. My village? Yeah, it's pretty wild when you think about it. All I did was wake up by the lakeside—the first place I opened my eyes in this world—build a humble hut because I liked it, and call it home. Then, bit by bit, people started trickling in, and now it's a full-fledged settlement with over ten thousand permanent residents, not even counting transients.
"Dominus Artorius approaches! Open the gates!"
"Opening the gates—!"
[Creaaaaak—]
Roman? No, not anymore—the emperor abandoned us, so are we half-Romans? Illegal Romans? What a joke. Anyway, the architecture of these people who'd lived as Roman citizens on this land for nearly four hundred years was impressive.
It'd been about fifteen years since I settled here (surprisingly, I emerged from the lake fully formed, the size of a decent teenager and able to walk just fine). I'd made a name for myself as a hunter of humanoid and beast-type monsters for another three or four years after that, so people had only started gathering in earnest about a decade ago.
In that time, we hadn't bothered with wooden huts—we started straight with stone and cement—and now the village had taken on a proper shape. There was that massive gate at the entrance, made from a whole tree trunk, and on either side, tall stone towers where sentries stood at attention, slamming their right fists to their chests as they spotted me.
"Dominus Artorius!"
"Dominus Invictus!"
Strictly speaking, I was an orphan here too, so I didn't have one of those middle names—the family names—the highborn loved so much. Instead, I had a bunch of nicknames, and the one these folks especially adored was Invictus.
[Snap!]
I returned the salute, fist to chest, and watched the gates slowly grind open. It felt a bit foreign compared to my discharge salute from my past life, but tracing its origins, it came from the old days when Roman soldiers pressed their short sword hilts to their chests. There was another style too—fist to the right side in attention—which came from resting spears there.
[Whinny!]
[Snort!]
As I stood waiting for the gates, the horses poked their long faces toward me. Cute beasts. Every time I saw them, I felt a pang of envy—not for the four-legged creatures themselves, but for my subordinates riding them.
Which made sense. This body of mine stood seven Roman feet tall and tipped the scales at nearly four hundred librae. A foot was the length of a sole, and a libra was the empire's standard weight unit, though we in Britannia tended to speak in rough approximations rather than precise measures—we preferred feel over figures.
So in Britannia terms, I was a full head taller than even the burliest local, with the width and weight of two men combined. Sadly, no horse could bear this bulk for long at speed, so I always trudged along on foot.
"Any trouble?"
"None, Dominus! Perimeter secure!"
"Not even a rat got through!"
"..."
Discipline was tight. In their chain mail, leather helmets, and red cloaks, anyone spotting them from afar might mistake them for elite troops. Truth was, most outer guards like these were fresh recruits who'd just joined our camp—what I still called it, even if "village" fit better now.
My warriors weren't even an officially sanctioned legion; we operated more like mercenaries, backed by Londinium in the west and Camulodunum in the east. Private army, basically.
Looking at how the empire was crumbling, I figured similar leaderless factions would pop up all over Romano-Britannia soon. Once word spread that the emperor had ditched us, what chaos would ensue? After a decade of tangled politics between this land and the empire, folks were already on edge. No good reactions there.
"Good work. No bandits left around here anyway, so don't push too hard."
"Yes, Dominus!"
"Thank you! It's an honor!"
These two had joined up this spring. I remembered them from the far west—cocky types who thought they were tough. Too bad my camp was full of better fighters. Like Beduerus and Galbaginus behind me now, glaring daggers. They were flawless warriors, vicious swordsmen who found and exploited any gap.
"Galbaginus."
"Dominus."
"Fetch Caius for me, will you?"
"At once."
The brown-haired, brown-eyed man who answered smoothly was Galbaginus. He'd joined early on, around when I was five (counting from birth, though my body was already mature), as I started gaining fame as a monster hunter. When we met, he couldn't believe my age and insulted me outright, then challenged me to a duel. I ground him down nice and slow.
Overwhelming strength and speed rendered his fancy swordplay useless—that was the lesson. Afterward, the noble young lord lost his mind and swore loyalty to me. Surprisingly upright, a stickler for principles—practically FM material—he helped enforce order in camp. Now he and Beduerus effectively co-led my private forces.
[Thud-thud—]
The two recruits eyed Galbaginus's retreating figure—precise strides and all. He had that drill sergeant vibe, and he backed it up in a fight. Arrogant Romano-British heroes who wandered in cocky always ended up meek like these newbies.
"Dominus, before you head to Londinium, there's one more person you should meet."
"Hm? Someone came here?"
"Yes, Dominus."
The man who'd tamed these natural thugs—or bandits or house guards for the rich—into Roman legionary material was Beduerus, speaking softly at my side. Everyone called him One-Armed Beduerus, the retired legionary.
"It's that tribe we sent away before. They came back."
"Ah—those barbarians."
"The ones you thought were spies and told us to brush off, Dominus. They want to join as foederati under you."
"Spies are spies, intentions be damned."
Beduerus had joined early too, like Galbaginus, as I built my rep hunting monsters (thieves, bears, wolves, etc.). His black hair still vigorous amid the long white streaks, this one-armed swordsman was the opposite of Galbaginus's gentleness—a classic Roman soldier who said only what was needed.
He rarely spoke of his past, spawning all sorts of rumors about his missing arm: lost in battle, bitten off by a wolf, born without it. But that remaining right arm wielded a long sword so viciously, no warrior could block it three times. Except me, of course.
"Turns out they really weren't spies, Dominus."
"Beduerus. You believe that? You haven't forgotten last autumn already?"
Last year, from summer to fall, my over five hundred warriors and I roamed eastern and southern Britannia nonstop. The south coast was trouble—post-legion withdrawal, barbarian raids had intensified, but last year it was no mere pillaging. Fleets of thirty to sixty ships ravaged the west and south coasts viciously.
The south held thanks to Comes Uterius, Comes Ambrosius of Londinium, and—embarrassingly—my modest help. But the west coast we couldn't reach suffered horribly. Last winter, refugees poured into our camp from there, keeping us swamped.
"Dominus Artorius, as I've said many times, not all barbarians are the same. Last summer's raiders came from the west. This chieftain hails from the east—we can't lump them together. Meet him once."
"Hmph."
All barbarians were the same. Awkward for a 21st-century guy like me to say something so discriminatory, but... this era's barbarians were barbaric. Loot, kill, burn. Witness them laughing as they did it, loading shiny loot onto boats, and rage boils up instantly.
After a decade smashing barbarians and aiding the weak, my mind was armored in extreme barbarian-hater, anti-barbarian zeal.
"Fine. The eastern barbarian. Let's meet him. Where's this chieftain?"
"Caius probably has him prepped. You'll know when you see the boy."
"Speak of the devil—he's coming now."
As the camp's lord and his second-in-command chatted idly, I glanced at the rookies' frozen gear checks. Then a figure hurried from afar.
Over the past decade, our camp drew not just warriors but widows, retired soldiers, escaped slaves, farmers whose land got sold out from under them, and countless orphans. War anywhere spawned orphans first—unrecorded tragedies. With legions gone and society crumbling, who knows how many kids died in the wilds before reaching us. Or still dying now.
Caius was the first orphan I found. I still remembered tilting a waterskin to the lips of that nameless boy dying in the eastern fields. First time I faced this world's cruelty, hunting mere beasts till then.
"Dominus! Huff— huff—"
"No one's kidnapping you, Caius. Calm down and breathe slow."
He'd grown up right. Seeing him hit me: fifteen years in this world. The kid who barely reached my knee now came to my waist.
"Huff— whoo— whhoooo— Dominus, did you handle your business alright?"
Orphans were quick on the uptake, mature early, and rarely knew their exact age. Caius was about seventeen, eighteen tops? In 21st-century terms, a teen. Here in Romano-Britannia, old enough to pull his weight.
"Yeah, no trouble in the village?"
"None, Dominus! Avalonia's lake water is blue and gentle today as ever."
The word Avalonia from the beaming kid meant "land of apple trees"—our village's name.