Flames of Reclamation
“It burns so brightly.” Would saying something like that make me seem a bit off? But those massive flames were truly beautiful. I could almost understand why our distant ancestors would light a huge bonfire and dance around it in circles. It was that kind of beauty—fleeting insight into some ancient emotion, profound enough to grasp for a moment before it slipped away. Maybe it had nothing to do with mysticism at all. Not animism, like donning beast masks to borrow their power or invoking some god. Perhaps they simply celebrated the sheer beauty of the fire.
Ahh—yes. I’m not sure of the exact time, but with Stella Polaris now visible in the sky, it must be around one in the morning? Feeling this surge of emotion makes me think, yeah, I’m human after all.
“By morning, there won’t be anything left.”
“Yeah, probably.”
Whenever the flames weakened, I’d grab one of the ceramic jars piled nearby and hurl it with a flick of the wrist. At this range—in my line of sight—distance was no obstacle, and under this starlit sky, that roaring blaze was an easier target than most. What started as fire rising from Vercovicium’s two-arched south gates soon spread along the path of the dark, viscous liquid I scattered—no, let’s drop that phrasing. It followed the jars I threw, expanding its reach.
After burning merrily for half a day, the watchtowers were ablaze, the walls were ablaze. The entire south gate area of Vercovicium turned into one massive campfire, lighting up the night so brightly that my Romano-Briton forces didn’t need a single torch while setting up camp. Burn brighter, burn more. Burn it all down, everything. The purity of Vercovicium, sullied by barbarian hands—no, enough of those thoughts.
“Beduerus, think the barbarians have given up by now?”
“Gates and walls are only useful if there’s ground left to stand on while defending them, right? I’ve never seen or even heard of a siege like this. No wood, however sturdy, can withstand a full day of burning—even a ram would smash the gates open then. The siege would be over. So... yes, Magister militum. If I were the barbarian chieftain tasked with holding that fortress, I’d be throwing open the north gate and fleeing by now.”
“Is that so?”
I glanced at Beduerus’s profile as he stared at the flames. His face was blank, entranced. In the five or six years we’d fought together, I’d never seen him like this—my antics today must have shocked even this veteran soldier. Hm. Stoic, huh? It’s just a matter of crazy accuracy and range. Nothing special, in my book. And it’s not foolproof either. These barbarians don’t know how to extinguish special flames like these, so they just splash water, but there were plenty of ways to douse the tar mixture in those jars: sand, vinegar or urine, wool or hides soaked in water, or as a last resort, collapsing or cutting away the burning sections.
Of course, even Romans would struggle against flames that large, like some fire spirit incarnate. What I mean is, it was the kind of attack you could defend against if you tried hard enough. So it wasn’t that awe-inspiring—no reason for my 10,000 Romano-Briton warriors to gape at the blaze like it was divine punishment, faces full of reverence.
Flashy performance, sure, but the reaction’s over the top.
“Reclaiming the wall isn’t just about securing Romano-Briton’s northern border, Dominus.”
Beduerus, who’d been sitting beside me on a camp stool brought by an aide—both of us staring blankly at the fire—suddenly spoke up. All we’d need is marshmallows for the ultimate legendary campfire.
Snap.
“The people will love it, right?”
“Hahaha. Of course they will. From Eboracum to Londinium, Avalonia, and beyond—Gallia, Italia, Africa, Asia, Syria, Aegyptus. All of Rome will hear soon enough. That Artorius of Britannia reclaimed the old wall of Hadrian. That he alone held this land after Emperors Honorius and Constantinus fled.”
Has the magic of dawn touched Beduerus too? He’s not one to show emotion like this. Fascinating. I snuck another peek, but he was still gazing at Vercovicium like a moth to the flame. Or maybe not at it—perhaps beyond, at something farther off.
“This is bigger, Dominus. It’s a proclamation to the world. That this land is still Rome, even if it shakes. That Romans still live here. Like... a beacon fire.”
Typical soldier—his metaphor was a signal fire. No Roman I’d met was blind to the Empire’s tremors. Worry etched every face I’d seen. The only bright spots were the innocent kids scampering about. But at some point, faint smiles started returning to Britannia’s people. Seeing that kept me going, and here we are. This veteran who’d shared the whole journey seemed deeply moved, and so did my subordinates gathering around, nodding in agreement: Comes Eturnus, Lot, Galbaginus, Caius, Wolfmaer, Hereward, Marcellus, Drustanus, Peredir, Cunedagius, and the centurions below.
A good crowd now.
[Clink—]
I stood, picked up another round ceramic jar sealed with mud, leather, cloth, and cord, and hurled it with force. It flew dead-on, no margin for error, splattering its contents and stoking the furious flames.
[Whoosh!]
“Io!”
“I-o!!”
“Io Axe!!”
I thought they were sleeping, but not a soul had dozed off. Ten thousand legionaries roaring at the soaring flames—it was a sight to behold. I’d stressed that rest is battle, but I let it slide instead of scolding them. If barbarians were still holding out beyond those blazing gates and walls, they’d be tough bastards. Then we’d burn another day, rest, and storm in. We’d brought cartloads of the mixture jars and javelins anyway. If it didn’t rain for four days, I might just incinerate the whole fortress from my seat.
[Thud—]
I dusted my hands and sank back into the stool. Yeah. Ignoring it till now, but I do thrive on the battlefield. The discomfort, tension, stickiness. Smells of fire, iron, char. But peace is still better.
“Before Rome hears, I hope those barbarians get the message loud and clear.”
“What message, Dominus?”
Everyone perked up at my exchange with Beduerus. I ignored them, eyes fixed on the roaring Vercovicium. Oh, there—the watchtower’s collapsing at last.
[Rumble—]
“That this is just the beginning. I’m burning our fortress now, but next it’ll be theirs—I want them to understand that.”
“They won’t accept it easily, Dominus.”
“Then I’ll burn them all.”
Four centuries behind that wall—long time to coexist. Now it’s Rome or oblivion. They’ll choose soon.
[Fizzle—whoosh—]
The flickering flames died down by dawn, leaving only scattered embers. I sent in three centuries of centurions; beyond the charred south gate, not a single barbarian remained. The news spread from Eboracum to Londinium, across all Britannia. Romano-Briton had reclaimed the wall.
-----
“Reclaimed the Vallum Hadriani? For real?”
“Did Romano-Briton still have legions?”
“It’s that guy. You know, the one proclaimed Magister militum in Londinium—”
“Artorius.”
“Yeah, that name.”
Far north, across the sea, a rumor trickled in. Amid despair from south and east—where the Emperor had abandoned them—the north, once forsaken by the world and God, brought astonishing news. Perhaps even a spark of new hope?
In northwest Gallia, where false Emperor Constantinus had welcomed barbarians only to be ousted by Romans fed up with his cronies and their ravages, the people gathered in Rotomagus (modern Rouen). Grim-faced, they called them Bagaudae—peasant rebels—in the city.
“Artorius Invictus... if, if it’s all true...”
“Then maybe, really...”
“...”
“...”
These folk had bravely expelled Constantinus’s officials, priests, and barbarians, but they were farmers at heart. Driven to revolt by brutal taxes and atrocities. They’d drawn courage from Britannia purging Constantinus’s men first. No grand strategies or plans here—just survival. No great minds in this once-rich northwest Gallia to offer more. Yet today, from bleak Britannia—worse off than ruined Gallia—came word of reclaiming the wall. The hero? Artorius. They’d dismissed it as tall tale before, but no longer.
“Guess someone should go verify it.”
“...”
Eyes turned to one man: a young noble with arms crossed. Bright blond hair, blue eyes—barbarian blood mixed in, but that meant little in Gallia anymore. North of the Alps, who was pure Roman? What mattered: this scion of a fallen house had valiantly defended Rotomagus from barbarians.
“I’ll go.”
“We entrust it to you, Lancearius.”
A long Roman spatha hung at the tall youth’s waist, oddly suiting his name meaning “lance-bearer.”