Pirate King
Spring was the season for sowing seeds. Or, put another way, it was the chun-gung-gi, the lean days of early spring. After scraping by on winter stores of grain, there came that precarious gap right up until the harvest—when your food ran down to cabbage, kale, the first stirring fish and shellfish, eggs, garlic, and onions. If you'd miscalculated your winter grain, or some mishap struck your stocks, or for any other reason... spring was mostly a season of hunger. That's why the folk north of the Wall always eyed those south of it with drooling envy.
[Down there, there's food.]
What started as that primal survival instinct twisted into: [The Romans have piles of gold.]
And so, from last spring through winter, every tribe that raided without cease grew fat and wealthy. This year, they were out in force, more determined than ever. As they say, the first time's the hardest—like slaughtering livestock, your hand shakes on that initial knife thrust, but keep at it and soon you're wielding the blade while your mind drifts to the neighbor's wife and her sly glance from last night.
Thus, the moment one fool took that wrong step, it flooded like a breached dam, surging from every direction. Less like people, more like a swarm of locusts.
Yet the tribes north of the Wall were human enough to think—and they quickly learned to steer clear of Roman Britannia's eastern coast, the richest prize. [The blood of ancient giants still lives in Roman Britannia to the east!] [Word is, that giant claimed the eastern coast as his own territory!]
No raiders who went there ever returned, and the rumors that trickled back were grim: barbarians massacred, wiped out, killed or captured and slaving away.
So the Caledonii north of the Wall all veered west—even those from the eastern and northern fringes headed for the western shores. They glutted on Roman tears once, feasted wildly, then faced the lean spring again. Nostalgic for last year's glory, they mobilized bigger this time—still a mess, but with some semblance of hierarchy now—and launched a proper raid.
"Run awaaaay!"
"Vallor! Vallor comes! The wicked giant king!!"
[Whoosh!]
"Ah..."
[Boom!]
"Kyaaak!"
[Splash! Patter-patter—]
A slender something hurtled in at speeds too fast for the eye, smashing a Caledonian raider's gut and hurling him high. He sank slowly into the spring-chilled sea.
"Glug-glug—"
His instinctive thrashing for air weakened, then stopped. One more spasm, fierce and final. As the Caledonian yielded to the currents at last, his vacant eyes stared up through muffled screams, bursting sounds, and darkening waters pierced by sunbeams like spears of light—until a colossal shadow loomed, rippling across it all.
Vallor...
The dread king of the sea giants. Legends called him one-eyed, his gaze slaying multitudes in an instant. How could mortals prevail against such a beast? Why had he been quiet last year? Maybe that eastern giant had—
[Glug—]
No more thoughts. The raider's soul, plunging deep, had fled this world.
One by one, more raider corpses rained down like drizzle into the abyss. Glug-glug. Gluuuug. The deep-sea denizens scattered in panic from the uproar.
Thus, beneath the raging surface battle, the waters held an eerie silence, a bizarre stillness, a mystical void where light and shadow intertwined. Into it plummeted the fallen: woad-painted faces and bodies, leather-armored brutes, looters decked in pilfered Roman helms and mail. Short swords, long Roman spathae, spears, shields—all tumbled down together. Some dead on impact, some dying mid-fall. All who surrendered to the dark were dead, and not a single Roman Briton among them.
[Shriiik—]
A curious fish—or perhaps fearless from long survival—darted from the gloom toward the light. Beyond its frantic fin-beats lay the fresh chaos of the battlefield.
[Whoosh—splash!]
"Grab only the valuable stuff! You there! Why snag that dagger!? I'll give you one later—just leave it! Look at the gold on these bastards! That's what to take! What? Yeah! Strip the armor and helms, load 'em up!"
"Decurio! Can't I keep just one souvenir!?"
"Toss the cursed junk! Throw it out, you idiot! That stuff looks evil and barbaric!"
"Hey—hey—haul in anyone who looks salvageable, let the goners sink."
"Illuvit!"
"Gack!"
Like fishermen netting fish, they slung lassos or actual nets, dragging up men and glittering flotsam. Clad in Roman armor and cloaks, these were no novices: the front line smashed resistors and runners, while the rest bickered like market hagglers, stripping the newly enriched barbarians of last year's gains.
[Baaaam—!]
"Huh? All right—hey! Heyus! Heyus! Time to go! Everyone, pack up!"
[Clap-clap!]
"Up anchor! Up anchor! Make way! Make way! Pack it in! No lingering—just shake it off! We'll strip more later!"
"Adsum! Adsum! Decurio!"
All this unfolded on Manavia Island, where Roman Britannia's Magister Militum Artorius had taken root—mere twenty days in.
"Hahaha! Gold and iron! Endless fine manpower flowing in! Come on! More! More! More! If you won't come, I'll fetch you myself!"
"Victory again! Salute the great Invictus—"
[Snap!]
"Artorius! Artorius!"
"Artorius Felix! Artorius Fortunatus!"
He sallied and met foes; he met them and crushed them. Manavia, teetering on collapse, became the spearhead of this "aggressive defense," drawing men and supplies. Booty—no, spoils—piled high, luring merchants from Deva Victrix to Isca Dumnoniorum.
Why do barbarians abandon farming for raids? Artorius confirmed the answer daily.
"Wa-hahaha!"
"Je-ha-haha!"
"Grr-ahaha!"
And so, Roman Britannia's legionaries—island-dwellers once strangers to the sea—grew intimate with waves and swells.
———
This was getting out of hand. It made way too much money.
"Two ships' worth of gold and iron trinkets this time, plus three packed with prisoners. Average haul, Magister Militum."
"Mm."
Even Galbaginus—who'd initially balked at this "raid," no, aggressive defense op, fretting my safety and pushing for safe land grabs—was now asking when we'd sail next. The take was that juicy.
"Three more ships from Deva Victrix tomorrow, I hear—won the open auction bid. Londinium folk, as expected. All the money in this land's in Londinium..."
"Plenty of the rich there. Land barons too."
"True, but that's old news. This land's richest is you now, no contest, Dominus."
"Hrm."
Merchants paid premiums to dock at Manavia for the right to buy our loot—no, contraband—er, spoils. We dug and fought well enough as a legion, but legions always trailed merchants. Harsh truth: war breeds coin. Soldiers and traders were inseparable—and in my case, from debut onward, Comes Uterius of Camulodunum and Merlinus of Londinium had my back, scaring off any chiseling dealers.
Money woes sparked revolts in Britannia's legions and even the mainland ones. Maybe as vital as the fighting itself.
Yeah, it all boiled down to survival. Even those barbarians—if they raided, they knew the risk of getting fleeced.
"Move it! You! Stand still there!"
"These stupid barbarians can't even understand!"
"[Walk faster, you savages!]"
"[You speak our tongue, don't you?]"
"[This filthy, impious savage dares speak to us!]"
[Slap!]
"[Ow!]
"Hey! You! Don't rough up the prisoners! Straighten up and march if you don't want a beating!"
"[Go stand with your mates over there!]"
Last year, many western Roman Britons died or were enslaved. Barbarian thralls rarely fared well: kids might join the tribe if useful, or get sacrificed ritually. Men slaved at dirty, grueling tasks—disposable tools. Women suffered worse, then sacrificed or concubined. High-status Romans sometimes ransomed back at double their weight in gold, spilling tales of their kin's fates.
"You—speak our language?"
"[...?]"
"This one's for the mines. You—speak."
"[...Eh?]
"This one repairs Deva Victrix walls, then fields. Next."
"[I have name. Roman. Man.]"
"From now on, you're reborn an auxilia soldier of glorious Roman Britannia. Take him."
"Follow quietly, barbarian. We'll make a fine Roman warrior of you."
"[Wh-what? Let go! Let me gooo!]"
[Thwack!]
We enslaved barbarians too—mostly for farms, mines, roads, walls. But under me, we folded them into the auxilia legions. Serve twenty years dutifully, learn our tongue and ways, earn second-class citizenship and land rights. Far kinder than what they did to us.
"Magister Militum!"
As my officers and merchants appraised captives, sorting my thoughts, Caius rushed up with a parchment. Familiar script. His voice summarized:
"From Londinium—Domina Guinevere's arrived! She's at Deva Victrix now—"
"Ready the ship, Caius."
The first step's always hardest—admitting you care. Once accepted, it blazed like wildfire, impossible to quench. I wondered what news she brought, but more than that, I just wanted to see Gwen.