Avalonia: The Eternal Apple Grove
Avalonia. The first word in my village's name, Aval, wasn't Roman. What should I call it? Native tongue? Local dialect? In any case, this land had people living here long before the Romans arrived some four hundred years ago. Astonishingly, their distant ancestors' language still lingered on these shores. And it wasn't just that. In this remote corner of the Empire—Roman Britannia—ancient gods, customs, laws, culture, and traditions still throbbed with life, breathing vigorously.
The reason people treated this massive lake, which appeared out of nowhere with my emergence fifteen years ago, as something sacred, and why the elders gazed at me like some mystical spirit... it all stemmed from the unbroken continuity of those ancient cultures and faiths. In short, in the old tongue, aval or apal simply meant apple, apple tree. The suffix -onia followed Roman convention, dubbing our village Avalonia. The land of the apple trees. Even if Honorius had abandoned us yesterday, I'd plant another apple tree today... If you're wondering why not "lakeside village" but "apple trees," it's because enormous apple trees truly flourished all around this lake's shore. These trees even bloomed early and, occasionally, bore fruit twice a year. To me, with no real agricultural knowledge, it was just fascinating, but the people saw it differently. Why else would they name the village after apple trees?
And so, whether fish kept flowing in via the waterway connected to the sea or not—I couldn't say for sure—but in the end, we had apples, fish in abundance, and overflowing grain from the farmlands stretching along the water route from Camulodunum to here. My villagers had never known hunger. In other words, it was a reasonably safe place with plenty to eat. In chaotic times, such rumors spread like wildfire, drawing endless migrants from across Roman Britannia. It was curious that they bypassed the massive city of Londinium on a larger river to the southwest or the sizable fortress city of Camulodunum to the east, heading straight for this Avalonia. Before long, our population surpassed three thousand. In this Roman Britannia, already scarred by one massive exodus, that was a number with real weight.
"Dominus Beduerus. Welcome back!"
"Yes, young Caius. You didn't slack on training, I hope?"
"No, sir! Not a single drill missed!"
"Remember this, Caius. In real battle, you won't perform half as well as in training. So train harder. Sword high, shield close, spear far."
"Sword high, shield close, spear far!"
"..."
Watching Beduerus and Caius, their bond felt more like the master-disciple pair from some wuxia novel in my past life. Beduerus, the one-armed, family-less loner—a man to whom "solitary wolf" fit like a glove—had started changing subtly since taking on the earnest learner Caius. Softer yet tougher, somehow? It was just my gut feeling about people, hard to pin down precisely, but something like that.
"Caius, training's important, but make friends too. Speaking of which—those barbarians—no, where did you say these folks came from? Beduerus."
"The eastern barbarians are usually Saxons or Angles."
"Filthy barbarian scum!"
"..."
"Ah, sorry! Dominus Beduerus!"
Well done, Caius. I shot him an approving glance, then gestured for Beduerus to continue.
"...Among them, the one seeking an audience with Dominus Artorius is an Angle chieftain."
Saxons and Angles. From the Roman heartland across the Channel, the focus might be on the far greater threats near the Rhine. But from an all-seeing Roman Britannia view, those two groups were the most immediate dangers. Like farmers at harvest, they launched boats when the weather cleared, mostly targeting our eastern and southern coasts. They were squarely in my crosshairs. Unlike the filthy-named Saxons, the Angles leaned more toward negotiation and trade than outright pillage—but that didn't mean they abstained from raiding.
In truth, the Saxon-Angle divide was our Roman perspective. Without venturing into their lands to understand their workings, definitively labeling "this one's a Saxon barbarian, that one's an Angle" was tricky. Especially now, after their massive Rhine crossing a few years back, accurate intel on events beyond—or even within—Roman borders was scarce. So we stuck to the hard line: the only good barbarian is a dead one. We lacked the means to discern friend from foe on approach. And most were foes. Especially now, with the Emperor himself cutting Britannia loose—no need to belabor it.
Put simply, we're too weak to befriend recklessly.
"An Angle chieftain? Beduerus, be frank. How much do you trust him? That barbarian's word."
"Half suspicion, half faith."
"Suspicion they're spies or scouts for some larger barbarian horde, I take it. And the faith?"
[Thud-thud—]
To ease the new recruits' discomfort, I walked slowly, asking as we went. Among the influx of migrants were skilled craftsmen—likely former slaves from road-maintenance families—who'd paved neat roads radiating everywhere. Stepping on Roman stone paths stirred something soulful.
"Faith in none other than you, Dominus Artorius."
"Hm? We were talking barbarians—why bring up my name?"
Was this old Roman subtly jabbing that I looked like a barbarian? I knew Beduerus wouldn't, but I eyed him suspiciously anyway. The humorless veteran met my gaze stone-faced.
"Barbarians can't be trusted, but your power can."
People who approach with such sincerity are intimidating. That gaze was hard to meet casually. I still couldn't fathom what this seasoned soldier, fit to lead a legion, saw in me to pledge himself. But facing that honest look stirred a sense of mission. Like with the one-armed man. Or the orphans who'd join me for a safe haven, a warm bread crust, a sip of clean water. Widows, elders, discarded slaves, landless farmers, boatless fishermen. A duty to keep them fed, safe from harsh wilds and blade-strikes welled up.
"I've fought my whole life. East, west, even against fellow Romans—shamefully. But nowhere have I seen anyone fight like you, Dominus Artorius. No commander like you."
Beduerus spoke without passion, like a scout reporting flatly to the command tent. Yet Caius's eyes blazed with fervor. Galbaginus, who'd caught up from Caius's sprint path, nodded too.
"So I trust what I've seen, Dominus. Their true nature, their aims—irrelevant. If they mistake us for easy marks and swarm, all the better. Then they'll learn: this Britannia harbors the world's greatest warrior and commander."
"..."
Those eyes of conviction bored into me. Perhaps Beduerus understood me best in this world. From the moment I awoke in this adult body—not reborn as a babe—I knew. The absurd combat stats I'd set in my past life had carried over. Before studying or understanding, instinct told me where victory blew. No need for practice; I just knew how to grip, swing a sword, hold shield and spear. Beduerus's downward strikes were fearsome—to normals. Against me, he'd never landed one properly. My club would've cracked his chest or throat first. Such prowess defies description.
Thus, I grasped his confidence. Past-life me might've demurred. But here, I thought differently. See those countless eyes on the camp's core three—me, Beduerus, Galbaginus? They craved certainty. In this unstable age, they yearned for a stronger anchor. So I must be bolder. They wanted my arrogance.
"Beduerus. Of course. Even if those barbarians bring a hundred ships, vomiting thousands at once—no way I lose to them."
In peacetime, I'd honor the elder veteran with deferential speech. Now, battle-hardened curtness. He seemed pleased, nodding with a rare smile.
"Dominus Artorius, it's ready. Turns out Caius here prepped it all."
Galbaginus, watching quietly, clapped Caius's shoulder to lighten the mood.
"Did he? Caius, didn't I say speak up sooner?"
"Sorry, Dominus! But your time's worth more than some barbarian chieftain who might be a spy!"
The young barbarian-hater's voice brimmed with positive energy—shared by the whole camp. Proof I was steering right.
"Good. Let's meet him then. This Angle or Saxon chieftain—we'll see."
"As you command, Dominus."
I followed Galbaginus's lead. Every passerby bowed, eyes fixed intently.
"Wolfmaer. My name, Wolfmaer. Pleased to meet you. Rome's mighty warrior."
My front yard had a tidy round garden at its center, dominated by a grand apple tree. Beneath it sat a small table for occasional tea time (wine substituted here). The barbarian chieftain occupied it now. Spotting me, he rose—a white-haired, white-bearded figure like a polar bear.
"You speak our tongue, I see, Dominus."
Dominus implied "master" or "teacher," used to honor. Even as a barbarian-hater, I couldn't greet a supplicant with "filthy barbarian chieftain!"—so a polite elevation. The old warrior visibly relaxed.
"How live in world without Roman? I am Wolfmaer. Your name, I know. Artorius. You... bigger than rumors. Big. Strong."
From a barbarian-hater's view, exceptionally, this weathered face held wisdom in its eyes.
"Overpraise—exaggerated tales. Sit. I need to know why you skipped Londinium and Camulodunum's notables to seek me out."
Double agent? Spy? Genuine recruit? Headache either way. But first, I'd hear the intruder out.