Seasons Cannot Halt Us
“Did you think we'd stop just because summer passed?”
[No season can stop us.]
“Speak, Laigin. You call yourselves the Laigin, the spear-wielding folk. Where is your king?”
[Where's the king? Where'd he flee?]
Laigin. When Hibernia was divided into four kingdoms, this massive tribe seized the southeast. Last year, they'd raided Romano-Britannia and made a tidy profit. Ripe grain, women, men, elders, children. Gold coins, gold ornaments, silver coins, silverware, and those odd round metal tubes—who knew what they were for? The Romans, with all their wondrous goods, had been a great joy to the Laigin folk for an entire year. Why hadn't they known about this bounty until now? Why had the Romans abandoned this fertile land and withdrawn their legions across the southern strait? Questions swirled endlessly, but they all boiled down to one: Did they really have to end this easy plunder this year...?
In the end, the Laigin realized that stealing from others brought more joy than sowing their own fields. They'd competed with the northern Uluid and prepared for this year's raids. Confident as they welcomed spring, passed through summer, and reached autumn. But now, the triumphant Laigin had lost everything they'd stolen from the Romans the previous year, and the periodic raids by Romano-British pirates forced them to abandon all their coasts.
[Teamhair! Teamhair Hill! That's where they went! All the kings, great and small, will be there! It's the hill where the kings of Laigin and Uluid are buried!!]
“They've gone to a place called Teamhair, Comes Caius.”
“Laigin to Uluid. All the eastern Hibernian coastals will gather there. Good work.”
“Yes, sir! Comes! What about this one?”
One of the three senior commanders leading the honorable Romano-British 1st Legion, Legio Prima Avalonica, alongside Drustanus and Peredir. Caius looked down at the barbarian trembling face-down on the ground.
These scum dared to eye Dominus Artorius's lands?
He wanted to run him through with his sword right then, but Caius knew his place: he was merely a blade in the hands of the great Dominus.
“Spares those who do not resist—that's the strict order from the Magister Militum. No time for prisoners. Let him go.”
“Yes, Comes Caius! Lucky bastard. Thank Lord Artorius's mercy. Get lost!”
Th-thank you! Thank you!! Righteous Artur! I'll live the rest of my life in gratitude!
Barbarians who can't even pronounce the Magister Militum's name properly.
Truth be told, Caius had good reason to despise barbarians. Strictly speaking, it wasn't these western ones but eastern barbarians who'd done it. As a very young child—so young he barely remembered—Caius had lost his family. Blazing flames, sheer terror, flight with breath catching in his throat, and the savage laughter of those fiends behind him. Finally, his body wracked only by hunger and thirst collapsed, too exhausted even to gasp, waiting passively for death. No tears left, his parched face felt a cool trickle of water.
He drank desperately. Memories were hazy, but that moment remained vivid. That day, Caius saw death. Halfway across the river, he glimpsed his family beckoning from the other side. Grandfather, father, mother—all smiling sadly, urging him to come. But when the water touched his face, their sorrowful smiles turned to joyful tears. They reversed their outstretched hands, pushing him away: Never come here, little Cai. Follow the light! Live, Caius. You must live!
Snap out of it, kid. I can tell who's meant to die and who's not. You're not dying today.
For three days after, fever raged—a rebirth from near-death. When he finally came to, that hero's grinning smile etched into his soul. From then on, Caius's life belonged to Artorius.
“This Teamhair Hill—do you know anything about it?”
“It's the strongest fortress in the area, Comes. With our three centuries, it might be too tough—an ancient place with high walls. It'll be crawling with Laigin and northern Uluid warriors.”
The legionary reporting so diligently was actually a former Muwa warrior who'd surrendered. But Caius didn't care. Even if trauma made him instinctively loathe barbarians, his worldview was defined by Dominus Artorius's words. The moment Artorius accepted their surrender, they were no longer barbarians. They were Romans now. Warriors following Dominus Artorius, every one. To Caius, it was that simple.
“We move only on the Magister Militum's orders. Gather intel if possible; otherwise, withdraw.”
“Yes, Comes! I'll prepare at once!”
“Good. Pack up and we'll head out.”
“Understood, Comes!”
Watching his adjutant hurry off, Caius opened his leather map case. It showed supply lines from Manavia Island, with makeshift Roman forts marked—one on Limnus Island, another at the River Lifé mouth—secured by coaxing locals over the summer. Crude palisades and ditches now, but if Dominus willed it, engineers from Manavia would fortify them by winter's end.
“Drustanus two days south from here, Peredir one day north...”
Young hotshots of similar age. Recognizing each other's talent, they'd bonded over summer campaigns. These three senior 1st Legion commanders had hammered Hibernia with youthful vigor, competing honorably for glory—which included gold, silver, valuables, and captives: Romans and locals alike.
Without the Magister Militum's order to avoid inland advances, the proud Romano-British 1st Legion might have already clashed with a desperate Laigin or Uluid royal army. And they would've won. Dominus Artorius had forged this first legion himself—it was the strongest.
No offense intended, but the green recruits of the 2nd Legion, Legio Secunda Londiniensis, rebuilding around Vercovicium and probing north of the wall, had a long way to go to match the 1st. And that confidence was well-founded. This spring, summer, fall, only barbarian coasts had burned in the west.
[BAAAAAM---]
At the mighty cornu blast, Caius stowed the map and gauged the season. This winter would be a warm one for Romano-Britons.
-----
“This is Rome. This is a legion.”
Legio Secunda Londiniensis. The man leading Romano-Britain's 2nd Legion, named for Londinium, stood at Vercovicium's north gate—still smoke-stained—feeling the north wind tickle his nose. Autumn below, but chill winds here. Once abandoned, ruined, and eerie, the wall now blazed with endless fire tails stretching west to east. A grand declaration in itself: As long as these flames burn, you cannot touch Romano-Britain.
They'd groaned under broken promises before. No more.
“The Magister Militum has moved in earnest for just three seasons.”
What had they achieved? Secured Britannia's west, subjugated Manavia, then crossed to torch Hibernian pirate bases. Rescued enslaved Romans. Even now, across Romano-Britain, lost siblings, parents, children reunited in tears, all chanting Artorius Invictus! And reclaimed the wall. All in three seasons.
What of the seasons ahead?
“Unbearable, really...”
“What do you mean?”
The quiet, blood-red dusk felt dreamlike; he'd thought himself alone. But a guest had approached unnoticed. Cunedagius grinned and turned right.
“North from here, over the highlands to the world's end, they say. Our Britannic fleets once patrolled there. Heard the tale, Comes Moderatus?”
Moderatus. Moderate, temperate—fitting for a noble second son. Yet from close observation, this pale, frail man excelled at military affairs. Son of Comes Lot, brother to Galbaginus.
“Anyone who's seen the wall has heard it. It was a dream until now.”
His white skin and shadowed eyes gave a fragile air. They'd sparred, but unlike his battle-renowned brother, Moderatus lacked frontline talent. His danger lay in his mind. Recent northern expeditions followed his counsel to the Magister Militum, forcing barbarians north of the lakes. Though Artorius led, Moderatus earned a senior 2nd Legion command.
Similar yet different from his brother. Either way, a talented ally was welcome; Cunedagius was glad for him.
“Your 'until now' implies change ahead?”
“Ha—.”
Moderatus leaned on the wall, his decadent smile—said to enchant Eboracum's women—darker in the sunset.
“The Magister Militum didn't reclaim this wall to hold it. It's just a stepping stone.”
“...Caledonia offensive.”
“Dominus Artorius's will is clear—no need to ask my brother. And it's a grand opportunity. Though we're second legion, our glory could be first?”
That confident gaze in such a frail frame. Cunedagius chuckled and nodded. Unlike the debauched viper Galbaginus, the refined Moderatus was ambitious, aggressive, warlike. Cunedagius liked this young—almost boyish—commander. A man needed ambition. Artorius would reach the heavens alone; the rest would compete below.
“This winter will be a long one.”
Expectations ran high; time would crawl. Beneath the red sky, beyond to Stella Polaris, the two young commanders' eyes gleamed alike. Above, Avalonia's teardrop and eagle banner fluttered fiercely.
Source: Hand-drawn
This depicts Romano-Britain's offensive from summer to autumn. Today known as Lambay Island, called Limnus Island by Romans in AD 410—an island off Ireland's east coast, occupied. Persuading locals was key; it had long traded with Rome, so no real resistance when legions arrived. It became a forward base outright.
Ireland's coastal petty kingdoms, crippled fighting Artorius, lacked strength to resist. Thus, Ireland's east coast is either looted by Romano-British legions or abandoned by fleeing foes.
Barbarians north of the wall have been pushed back too. For a proper legion, this is standard.