Britannia's Unyielding Roots
The Western Roman Empire, centered on the city of Rome, and the Eastern Roman Empire, centered on the city of Constantinople. Both had been inherited by Honorius and Arcadius, sons of Emperor Theodosius. When Arcadius died young, the East fell to Theodosius's grandson, Theodosius II. The name Theodosius thus carried immense weight across Rome. Why? Because he was the great emperor who had repelled the flooding Gothic invasions and triumphed in multiple civil wars.
Surprisingly, while the Eastern Empire somehow endured, the blame for the Western Empire's visible, real-time collapse also fell on the late Theodosius. He had waged massive civil wars—once against Magnus Maximus, and in his final years against Eugenius. The great Theodosius overcame these dire crises, seemingly uniting the vast empire under one banner and ushering in new prosperity. But reality proved otherwise. Tens of thousands of legionaries perished in those civil wars, unleashing the barbarians. Theodosius, who should have dealt with the aftermath, died of old age instead, leaving the divided empire—West to one young son, East to the other.
What is an empire without its legions? The East still had some reserves, but in the West, the barbarians were no longer confined beyond the Rhine—they now jostled within Roman lands themselves. In this dire state, the West's only worthwhile forces were the legions guarding Italy's vital farmlands. Even those were a shattered remnant compared to the might Theodosius had commanded just twenty years prior. Small wonder, then, that Rome's Senate had abandoned Britannia.
Setting aside this chaotic world for a moment, what of military affairs in legionless Britannia? On the surface, it was hopeless. The fortresses upholding Hadrian's Wall were abandoned for lack of defenders, seized one by one, forcing the Romano-Britons to yield the wall's midsection and cling desperately to its ends. In the west, Deva Victrix barely patrolled nearby; in the east, Eboracum did the same. And with Vortigern failing to counter the barbarians' massive raids...
'At best, the southeastern strongholds of Londinium-Avalonia-Camulodunum and the breadbasket below them remain intact.' That was likely the outside view of Britannia. Mostly true—but missing one key point.
The highborn, the wealthy, the officials and soldiers planted by past emperors—they had all been chased out by furious Britannian crowds. Yet the true foundation of Romano-Britannia, the common folk born and raised on this soil, stayed put.
"What's your name?"
"C-Cunobindus, my lord (Dominus)."
"I'm no highborn, so no need to tense up. Where are you from?"
"Uh—six nights west along the road from here, no, seven? Nonstop. Then the sea, and over two hills, there's a valley if you look close—"
"I see."
"Y-Yes, sir..."
[Scribble-scribble.]
The illiterate farmer wouldn't know it, but his name—Cunobindus—and origin were now marked in black ink on parchment: 'Western hill village.' That would be his official hometown in this camp.
"Why enlist?"
"W-Well, my second brother was taken. Left his wife and kid, but fewer hands to work, same mouths to feed..."
"Understood. Head in—they'll measure you for gear. And obviously, no selling it for wine, no losing it by tossing it around. Treat it like your life."
"Yes, sir! Thank you! Truly!"
"Not 'sir.' Next!"
No matter how shallow and close the sea dividing Britannia from Gaul, it wasn't for the penniless. Unless you could swim like a seal or dolphin—and even then. Near-impossible. Being born and raised in Romano-Britannia meant family here. Family—and generations of fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, ancestors etched into the soul like inherited memory. Uprooting all that? Utterly unthinkable.
These were Britannians before Romans. Without that stubbornness, they wouldn't have backed countless false emperors and rebels in endless revolts. So aside from nobles living off rents, those who tilled the soil themselves? Not one fled. They never even considered it.
What did they do instead? Amid barbarian raids, they fled to the safest spots they knew. Cities, especially one buzzing with unbelievable tales of the giant called Invictus.
Avalonia. A temporary refuge there.
"Name?"
"Senacus (the old man)."
"..."
"...An alias?"
"Changed it."
"...Fine. Origin?"
"Hometown's southwest along the western coast... You won't know it. Coastal village. But my service record matters more—I served the Rhine's lower reaches in Gaul. Ten years."
"I see... No need to explain returning. Welcome back."
"Thanks. One more thing—I was cavalry."
"...!"
Some escaped with most family intact, by luck. But many Britannians lost kin. Raids—especially barbarian ones—were brutal, savage. Last year's western coast claimed countless Romano-Britons. Yet that couldn't kill them all. Far more Britannians survived than the barbarians slaughtered or abducted, eyes blazing with vengeance.
Those with revenge and justice burning in their hearts craved more than personal safety. They pounded on the gates of Avalonia, Londinium, Isca Dumnoniorum, Deva Victrix, Eboracum. And the camps, under Artorius's orders, welcomed them with open arms.
[Bwoooom!]
"Tuba heard? Afternoon drill starts! Shields and swords— to your spots!"
"Ugh, time flies relentless."
"Let's go."
"Move it! 7th Centuria! 3rd Contubernium!"
"7th's 3rd! Here!"
"Ready? Begin! Remember—hurt 'em bad, but not too bad! Spar like it's real war! That blood and sweat you spill now saves you on the field!!"
"Damn it, easier said—ow! Hey, you bastard! I was talk—ow!"
"Who yaps like you in a fight?"
With legions gone, markets and mints shuttered, pay was grain and cloth this year—not useless silver. Plus promises of rewards for valor. In this chaos, that alone drew recruits. But stronger still: Londinium formed a 4,000-man legion. Deva Victrix and Eboracum, 2,000 each. In two months, 8,000 filled the flyblown empty camps.
The root? Primal love of homeland—and revenge. In tight-knit rural webs, no death or abduction was "someone else's problem." Britannia had been abandoned, raided, seething with rage upon rage. They just needed someone to channel it.
And they were Romans, after all.
"Orders! We're reserves—marching out soon! No fear! Recall your training! And above all—remember who leads us!"
"...Artorius."
"Artorius, Invictus...!"
No commander sends green recruits—trained barely a month—to the front. But this wasn't an age for sensible, beautiful laws. So these villagers-turned-legionaries hid anxious glances, forming ranks. Veteran instructors bellowed overhead.
God, courage, revenge, justice, Rome. Amid the whirlwind, one name alone banished fear from hearts: the commander who'd won hundreds of battles. Its weight turned dread into certainty, even for first-timers.
[Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!]
Marching to cornu blasts, steps synced. Instructors' sermons—"All Roman warfare starts and ends with the march"—bled into blisters, fusing blood and flesh into recruits' chests.
Supplies at rests were lavish for barbary victims. Weary feet eased, camps pitched deftly now. Social shells cracked from faces, soldierly masks emerging. Callused plow hands mastered military shovels, accustomed to shield, spear, armor, sword, packs. Jokes with comrades grew cruder by the day. After ten days' march, beholding Eboracum's walls, they felt it: they were Roman soldiers.
Before them, a pre-pitched camp. Under the commander's cold gaze, they stood statue-still, breaths hushed. Even mayflies in light rain ignored.
"...Impressive. Two days' rest, then march. Optios—pitch tents, hygiene first. Centurions—to my tent now. Magister militum's orders."
"Yes, Comes Lot!"
[Stomp!]
Dozens saluted as one. Amid the menace, the helmeted commander—white brows peeking—merely eyed the ranks once more, then turned to his tent.
"Hoo—"
Only then did the Romano-British Comitatenses II exhale in unison.