Flames at the Fortress Gates
Rome excelled at crafting everything, but if I had to pick their specialty, it was fortresses. They’d even build a makeshift castrum just to spend a single night somewhere. Perhaps we Romans are the only ones in this world who train specifically in erecting garrisons. Masters of digging drainage ditches, artisans of agrimensores leveling the ground, virtuosos assembling watchtowers like plastic models from prefabricated parts. No title would do them justice.
So imagine what they could achieve when building walls and fortresses meant to last a lifetime. The basics start with packing earth around a high hill to form a sloped foundation, then piling the walls atop it. True Roman cement requires pozzolana from the volcanoes in southern Italia, but our wise Romano-Briton forebears had already stockpiled substitutes. They fired clay, or mixed in fine sands from southern Britannia’s shores. But the real gem? Grinding shattered pottery and bricks into fine powder and blending it in. Layering bricks or hewn stones with this mortar, course by course, and suddenly a towering wall crowns the hilltop in a broad rectangular footprint.
From there, it’s up to the architect’s whims: watchtowers at each corner, a cruciform grid of roads defining east, west, south, and north gates, districts for eating, sleeping, bathing, training. That’s your Roman fortress. There’s a saying that if something looks simple, it’s probably devilishly hard. In truth, all this demands abundant resources, manpower, and generations of accumulated knowledge—siegecraft beyond any barbarian’s wildest dreams.
Vercovicium was the textbook embodiment of these principles, its sturdy timber gates shut tight behind an arched stone wall that felt almost nostalgic to me. The barbarian eyes peering from the arrow slits in the flanking watchtowers? Not so welcoming.
So how do you crack it? Ladders won’t reach those sheer walls, watched by towers with perfect fields of fire and no blind spots. Double-reinforced gates with iron bars. Hopeless? If the defenders have the numbers, barbarians have few options. But we’re Romans. And what’s Rome’s other specialty? Sieges.
Rome has toppled countless barbarian round forts. And not just those—our own square forts and cities have fallen by the score in civil wars. How many cities have burned in our internal strife? Proudly, Rome could conquer anything. Even itself!
How do Romans breach their own masterpieces? First, blockade and starve them. Timeless tactic—as long as humans eat, it works. But rivers or seas foil it, and unless attackers outnumber defenders three-to-one, forget it. If the defense has a Zhuge Liang and the assault a Sun Quan... He Fei holds.
Next: rams and siege towers. Simple, intuitive, devastating. No wall withstands repeated massive impacts. Roll up towers as tall as the battlements, and the wall’s advantages vanish. Fight it out honorably—no panties involved—and one side wins. The other’s dead.
Common sense says it’s no picnic. We assembled our rams from wagons on-site, but siege towers for Roman walls? Impossible in the field; they’re pre-fabbed in cities, then winched up hills at horrific manpower cost. Flat ground or nothing. Or earth ramps taking forever—which I wasn’t about to do.
With blockade and direct assault off the table, side dishes like tunnels or ballistae remain. Fine for barbarian hovels, useless against Roman works. They build deep foundations for a reason. And from atop those walls, their artillery outranges and outpowers field pieces.
So what now? The best siege is no siege at all. Attackers face hell, but defense cracks too. Civilians inside? Short rations? Bad water? Panic sets in, and terrified humans do stupid things. Plans are made by people; ruined by them too. Garrisons betray, gates open, or they surrender outright.
These Vercovicium barbarians showed no signs of folding. They’d negotiate or hunker behind walls and towers. Textbook would spread my 4,000 from the west, Lot’s 2,000 veterans and 4,000 green recruits from the east, enveloping the hill from all angles. But rushed march means siege gear days away, and who knows what barbarian reinforcements they’d summon? Barbarians feud among themselves but unite against Rome.
Speed is key. But against those gates and walls? I started with fire.
[Whoosh-thud. Whoosh-thud.]
“Urgh, uwaaaah—!”
I juggled clay-sealed amphorae like a pitcher warming up with baseballs. The engineer centurion beside me trembled, at a loss. Priceless artifacts? No—just extremely dangerous.
“Time to begin. Hoo—!”
[Thud!]
My massive hand showed surprising finesse, fingers guiding the jar. Run-up into pitch motion: legs, hips twisting, torso unleashing power, finding its path. My eyes locked on Vercovicium’s left arch-gate like a catcher’s mitt; mind zeroed on fingertips as my shoulder wound up.
“Hup!”
[Snap!]
Two steps’ momentum, torso torque, raw shoulder strength surged through arm and wrist like a whipcrack, fingers releasing the jar in a mad spin toward the wall.
[Whiiiiiine—]
“Oooooh!”
“Wha—?!”
The round jar seemed to float an instant before smashing into the gate, shattering everywhere.
[Crash!]
“Yeeeah!”
“Nailed it!”
Save for the ram assembly crew, all 10,000 Romano-Briton troops watched my antics. They’d stopped trying to understand—just witnessed, felt, marveled. World Series Game 7, ninth inning, lone pitcher on the mound? Something like that. Amid expectant cheers, I reset.
Identical form, flawless second toss splattered the right arch-gate.
[Crash!]
“Got it! Two for two!”
“Uwaaaah! Number two!”
“Artorius is a human trebuchet!”
Human. Yeah, that’s me. Just inhumanly strong.
[Crash!]
“Uwooo!”
[Crash!]
“Raaagh!”
From Roman farms, fishing villages, cities—even barbarian recruits across the sea—every legionary cheered in their own way.
[Thwip! Thud!]
Barbarians atop the towers loosed arrows in futile spite. Too far for bows alone, no engines to bridge the gap. And here I was, doing it with my bare body.
“Centurion. That enough?”
Invictus!”
No “Artorius” anymore? The distance stung. Squinting at the distant mess, the engineer nodded vigorously.
Each jar brimmed with tar, pitch, animal fat, dusted with sulfur for flair. I eyed the defiled gates—pure Roman innocence smeared black—with a twinge of guilt.
‘Corrupted by barbarians, O fortress of Rome. Fear not—I shall purify you.’
With holy fire.
“Caius!!”
“Here, Magister Militum!”
I knew he was right there—ritual demands drama. Yelling for barbarian ears:
“Bring the spear of fire!”
“Yes, Magister Militum!”
Caius, who loved tormenting barbarians more than anything, grabbed a spear tipped like the jars, dipped it gingerly into the roaring brazier.
[Whoosh!]
Flames clung greedily, like a starved hog, spitting embers wildly.
[Crackle! Crackle!]
“Here you are, Dominus!”
“Hand it over.”
[Grab.]
Gripping the spear, flames met my gaze. They writhed defiantly—‘How dare a mortal!’—then calmed under my stare.
I turned, sweeping eyes over the watching throng, then thrust the spear skyward.
[Snap!]
“Behold, Romano-Britons! My neighbors, brothers—witness! With sacred Roman fire, we burn all barbarism!!”
Locking eyes once more, I charged. Body in motion, mind on target.
‘Hurry, free me, Artorius!’
The fortress’s wail under barbarian filth. How Luffy’s crew felt torching the Going Merry...?
“Forgive me... Vercovicium! Hrah!”
[Boom!]
My forearm whipped the air again.
[Crack!]
An anachronistic boom as fire streaked red, embedding in the gate.
[Krunch!]
Misshapen gate and surrounding black slime ignited in furious blaze.
[Roooar—!]