Teeth-Rotting Sweets and Fallen Foes
"What a commotion. So sweet it's rotting my teeth."
[Crunch-] The apple Galbaginus bit into was astonishingly sweet. The tartness that followed even felt sweet—Avalonia's apples maintained this flavor year-round. The farmers, of course, insisted it was impossible, all speaking in unison. Those worshiping the Lord or any other god mostly called it a blessing. So what should one call the man who descended upon this land alongside that blessing? The priests were quick to hush such talk, as if confronted with a question they dared not answer. Were they afraid to label someone a prophet or the chosen one?
Galbaginus knew there was more subtle maneuvering at play. Over there, gazing contentedly at the distant silhouettes of the Magister Militum and Lady Guinevere was Hector, the "deacon" of mysterious rank who had managed Avalonia's affairs for years now. Under his guidance, Britannia's religious world was heading down paths never seen before. Galbaginus, lacking deep insight into the church's ancient quarrels with traditional Roman faith or the complex establishment and revision of doctrines, could only conclude that this freewheeling Britannian faith culture wasn't so bad. Much like past emperors who elevated their status through Sol Invictus and solar worship, everyone—from the church to primitive faiths—was zealously exalting the Magister Militum.
Ah, Christus Sanctus! This was an era needing faith's power more than ever, especially in Britannia, surrounded by enemies on all sides. If deifying the Magister Militum as some local god gave people hope, it didn't matter which path they took.
"..."
[Rustle-] If there had been one concern about Deacon Hector's bold, radical direction, it was surely the Empire's heartland's reaction...
"With Rome burning, they probably can't spare attention for this remote corner."
Was the Empire truly on the brink of collapse? As Galbaginus pondered Merlinus's report and mulled over various implications, his gaze caught Guinevere startling to her feet and Artorius kneeling on one knee before her.
"...Hah, damn. What a real commotion."
People who had eyed Galbaginus curiously at his tongue-click soon spotted the beautiful couple in the distance, nodding approvingly and chiming in.
"Perfect timing. Youth is a wonderful thing."
"Speaking of which, how old is the Magister Militum turning this year...?"
"If my calculations are correct, astonishingly, he hasn't even hit twenty yet."
"...Good Lord."
"Precisely."
An absurd age, indeed. Barring mishaps, given the Magister Militum's innate physique, health, and strength, Romano-Britannia would have its finest leader for at least fifty to sixty years. And fifty or sixty years was ample time to accomplish much. Alexander had forged an empire from Greece to the eastern world's edge in one lifetime.
"We gathered to plan winter preparations, but it looks like we'll be holding a wedding instead."
"Indeed."
"Heh heh heh..."
The elders—no, the senators—nodded at Galbaginus's head-scratching remark. His father, Comes Eturnus, and even Beduerus on the edge. All could retire without raising eyebrows. Until now, Britannia's dire straits had kept these veteran heroes on the front lines, but truly, they needed to take on greater rear-echelon roles now. Running military academies, training soldiers, defending cities and nearby coasts and estates, bridging commands at the Magister Militum's side, managing military personnel, and so on.
It finally felt like this land's systems were functioning normally, so Galbaginus looked forward to the season after the coming winter. Last year saw fierce barbarian assaults; this year, Romano-Britannia reclaimed what it had lost. Next year would bring Romano-Britannia's historic counteroffensive under the great captain Artorius. The enemies had much to anticipate.
"Comes Galbaginus, aren't you planning to marry?"
"...Pardon?"
Lost in visions of the future, Galbaginus blinked as his father—Comes Lot—suddenly jabbed like a spear thrust in formal tones. This was why meeting his parents was awkward!
"..."
"...Why are you staring at me, Galbaginus?"
He shot a pleading glance at the one-armed swordmaster, who had two lovers despite his stoic demeanor, but Beduerus sliced it away without mercy. Truly, Romano-Britannia's finest swordsman. Galbaginus yearned for such free love too, but airing personal thoughts before his father was impossible. There's his brother in Eboracum, isn't there? Let the family line pass to him!
How to respond? Galbaginus bit into an innocent half-apple instead.
[Crunch-]
"Heh heh heh. When the time comes, he will. Comes Galbaginus is an outstanding man, after all. Suitors will come without effort."
Comes Cador, promoted to administrator of Isca Dumnoniorum, laughed breezily like a man detached from worldly cares, reining in Galbaginus's father. Those present knew the family's history well and cleared their throats awkwardly, holding back.
Yes, Cador's son Drustanus had wrapped things up well, but hadn't that colossal figure stolen another's fiancée and even sparked a war? Galbaginus's father, Comes Lot, seemed to nod faintly as if even inaction beat Drustanus's antics, then pointedly looked away in displeasure.
Galbaginus, sighing in relief, seized the chance to ask a question and change the subject of Comes Eturnus, promoted to administrator of Deva Victrix.
"By the way, how's preparation for that bow unit the Magister Militum mentioned? It didn't seem easy."
"Ah, the sagittarii longi? Actually, some Botadii hunters already handled greatbows. Scaling it up is simple in theory, but astonishing no one's thought of it before."
"Our Romano-Britannian forces traditionally used mechanical crossbows, didn't we? Bows lose effect in rain anyway, so no need when crossbows were available."
"Hahaha. Spot on, Comes Galbaginus. But longbows are different. I only grasped the Magister Militum's intent after seeing skilled hunters shoot. With good wood and string care, no complex materials, they fly true even in rain like regular arrows. The challenge is shooting accurately, but it's worth training specialists now."
"I see..."
Roman legionaries were bred as rugged soldiers facing blades head-on, yet Roman doctrine prioritized cavalry first, archers second. Romano-Britannia hadn't ignored archers out of ignorance; cursed Constantinus stripped the legions, leaving only aged retirees and hunters who knew bows. Bows, reliant on tensioned strings, were notoriously hard in Britannia's damp rains—which outnumbered sunny days—making infantry the priority. Horses bogged in mud too.
That longbow the Magister Militum suddenly took interest in? Seen on tribal chiefs and warriors from mountain clans during Isca Dumnoniorum's capture; he'd ordered investigation. If viable, investing heavily in a professional archer unit made sense. The Botadii, with their hunter prowess, should handle training. Deva Victrix folk would rejoice—a major undertaking.
"Eboracum fully supports the Magister Militum's plan. If more funds are needed, tell me without hesitation, Comes Eturnus."
As expected of Father. Comes Lot sniffed the money like Galbaginus and dangled a foot in.
"Hahaha. Thank you, Comes Lot. Aid is always welcome—Eboracum's practically family, guarding the Wall. Grateful."
"Only natural, Comes Eturnus."
'Old folks and their faces.' It struck Galbaginus anew: this was Britannia, where the weak and foolish had long perished. Watching the elders' business dealings soured his mood; he turned back to Merlinus's report.
'Rome burned...'
He'd wished it would collapse. But actually happening? This wasn't just one city aflame. The Empire clung by history and prestige; this signaled its true crumbling. As Beduerus said viewing burning Vercovicium: if their Dominus Artorius lit a beacon proclaiming the Empire lived here, Rome's blaze signaled its real-time fall. To whom? Barbarians everywhere, every imperial ambitious soul.
"Chaos will erupt. Massive chaos."
Romano-Britannia was ready. Two 5,000-strong formal legions already, three by spring. Forges in revitalized Isca Dumnoniorum, Deva Victrix, Eboracum churned siege engines, wagons, weapons once mere paper. Londinium's Merlinus-directed administrators moved solely for the Magister Militum, awakening this abnormally militarized land. New settlers filled depopulated areas; barbarians once shunned now accepted under the Magister Militum's tolerance, draining rotten blood for fresh transfusion. Hot, zealous blood—from those proving themselves fit for Romano-Britannia, citizens of the Magister Militum.
Yes, in one year, Romano-Britannia rose gloriously from near-ruin. But Italia? Gallia? Hispania? Distant eastern provinces?
"Should be entertaining to watch."
Workaholic Galbaginus flashed his dashing smile freely and laughed.
-----
"What? That Vortigern just up and died?"
"Yes, yes! Ealdorman Hrosa!"
"Ha. Hahaha!"
In lands where snowflakes already danced, amid a Saxon waterway, mighty Hrosa laughed heartily from his vast hunting camp.
"Ah-hahaha! Ahaha. Ha! Kekeke!... Haa— That bastard, no wonder the silence. Dedicates his wealth then croaks. Pfft-hahaha! Madman! Uhahaha!"
The man acknowledged as ealdorman, top chieftain by neighbors, plotting next year's grand invasion. Hrosa. As his encircling warriors stiffened, he wiped tears from laughter-swollen eyes and flung open the tent flap. Fierce north winds whipped his beast-like black beard and hair.
"Now, whose hide do we claim the unpaid half-fee from?"
His gaze turned west. Gallia or Britannia—where Rome lingered.