Welcoming the Sarmatian Steel
[Snap!] "I'm Palamedes! Magister militum."
Uterius had sent word that a mercenary band had crossed over from Gallia. And here was their leader, bowing before me—a man who looked every inch the 'mercenary,' the very embodiment of mercenarii.
His appearance alone set him apart.
"Artorius. Pleased to meet you, Palamedes."
"The honor is mine."
"Your letter said you chose Britannia for a worthy fight. That right?"
"Yes, sir. If I may be bold, there were no good causes under Constantinus. Nor any gold, for that matter."
So, their employer had stiffed them on pay. It was a problem that had plagued even Roman regular legions a few times... Not that it should happen, but in this empire, it did. If even the regulars dealt with that nonsense, then for the foederati foreign mercenaries and straight-up mercenarii who formed one pillar of the empire now, life must have been half battle, half haggling over what they were owed.
The trick was haggling over the full amount they'd been promised in the first place.
In that light, maybe I was lucky. I'd started my monster-hunting career in the domain of Uterius, a man who ranked at the top for decency in this crumbling Roman Empire.
After my first deal with him, I'd never been backstabbed over bounties or the like. In this chaotic era, with Britannia's mess, that was damn near miraculous.
"Britannia doesn't touch a man's rightful share. You wrote you'd take half-pay every six months, plus half the land. If you rack up merits on the field, we can adjust that upward."
"A man blessed by Iustitia, goddess of justice. Magister militum."
I had no clue where Sarmatia was on the map. Uterius's report, which arrived a day ahead of him, said it was far to the east—beyond anywhere a backwater like me, who'd never seen Constantinopolis, would know.
But according to Uterius, these Sarmatians were descendants of riders settled here over two centuries ago by Emperor Marcus Aurelius to bolster Britannia's legions.
Some of the few cavalrymen left in Britannia today might even be distant kin to these folks. Blood ties, maybe?
Viewing them that way, they suddenly felt... familiar?
I stood, approaching the bronze-skinned man who was sweating bullets but forcing a desperate smile, to encourage him.
[Snap!]
Palamedes snapped another salute, looking less like a mercenary and more like a Roman regular cavalry captain. I didn't know Gallia's legion situation well, but the mainland relied even more on mercenaries than we did, so calling him Roman army was fair enough.
I clapped his shoulder and nodded.
"To me, people are the greatest treasure. I don't know Sarmatia well, but I learned your ancestors came here long ago to fight barbarians at our side. Let's carry on that legacy—avenge our forebears' grudges and fulfill their dreams. I'll unite Britannia, Caledonia, and Hibernia as one."
"...!"
My ambitions were no secret in Britannia anymore. No point hiding them—I'd been upfront everywhere. And after reclaiming the Wall, I wanted our people to ditch the complacency that it was all over, that peace was here.
This island's mess from all directions meant I needed to crush at least two fronts completely for the stability I'd set as my benchmark.
No rest till then!
"My brothers and I eagerly await the day we charge the enemy under your command, Magister militum!"
"That's the spirit! Perfect! Haha!"
"Thank you, sir!"
"Take seven days—no, hell, make it nine! Scout the land, then join the Avalonia barracks!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Marcelus is handling cavalry training right now. Chat with him on your way out. Hey! Someone out there?"
"Here, sir! Magister militum!"
"Fetch Marcelus!"
"Yes, sir!"
With gold and land secured, he was my man now. My sudden warmth left Palamedes a bit dazed, but he'd adjust. Welcome to Britannia.
"I've got about three hundred mid-weight cavalry in training, but frankly, they're lackluster. Maybe thirty are proper riders; the rest look shaky even to me, who can't ride worth a damn. I'd appreciate you and your hundred fifty Sarmatians helping whip 'em into shape."
"Understood, Magister militum!"
"Horses and armor are plentiful—pick what fits. Talk to Marcelus about it... Oh, and Britannia's horses are bigger than Gallia's or Italy's. Heavier, slower, but they can trample beasts—or low-eyed men—flat. Meet 'em; you'll like 'em! Hahaha!"
"Yes, sir! Magister militum!"
I thumped his back heartily, turning his bronze skin a bit pale. I must've looked like an overeager manager welcoming a new hire, but everyone has their role. The friendly camaraderie would come from guys like Galbaginus and Caius on the front lines.
Rank-wise, I outranked even Uterius here in Britannia, so this kept the hierarchy smooth below me.
"Hahaha!"
"Ha, haha!"
After laughing heartily, I asked about his family's quirks and standout moments from his eastern travels, then let him go. Those Sarmatians would be busy now.
I'd kept Marcelus and the cavalry pinned near Camulodunum, but I'd given these Sarmatians a patch of Avalonia's northern wetlands—prime pastureland.
Of course, it was a lease. They'd serve as soldiers in war, work the land or hire hands in peace, and pay me rent: tributum soli, land tax.
Standard rate was one or two gold coins per small plot yearly, but Merlinus and I aimed lower to stabilize the tax system and get goods and coin flowing.
Plus, they'd rack up merits in next year's big push, maybe earning bonuses instead of paying taxes. I planned to win, no question.
[Creak-]
I leaned back in the sturdy chair carpenters had labored over to bear my weight. Everything in my Avalonia home was oversized—fitting for a man named Artorius. I was two to four times bigger than most; furniture had to match.
"Gwen, marriage. Caledonia, Hibernia, Roman Empire, Gallia, Hispania, Italia. And internal unity."
That was my mental priority list.
Marriage brought Gwen's cute face to mind, filling me with joy—but also an unknown dread squeezing my heart.
I'd faced nothing like it before; I didn't know the playbook. I'd been flailing blindly, swelling like a balloon ready to pop.
Thankfully, Gwen had sorted it naturally after wrapping up Camulodunum and returning to Avalonia days ago.
She was hilariously overseeing construction of her own bridal house for the wedding day.
They'd claimed a big plot— it'd become an annex post-wedding.
I'd thought becoming Britannia's Magister militum meant just commanding against barbarians. But people expected more.
Guests never stopped coming; even my household guard under Marcelus couldn't bunk in huts anymore.
Gwen's bridal annex—our future wing—would grow bigger. At this rate, my lakeside home would turn fortress-like, a castle within Avalonia's walled city: walls within walls.
Defensively, it'd be monstrous—
"Ugh, idle thoughts again. Ngh, ughhh—"
I shook my head to clear it, then stretched from my comfy chair to snag a paper from the massive desk.
It was Merlinus's report: this year's Romano-Briton revenue, next year's budget.
Merlinus had sweated it, but his admin team probably died doing the pen work. Rear echelons were as vital as the front. Big rewards for them.
"Hmm."
This year? Answering why the barbarians ravaged our coasts so viciously last year.
We'd earned way too much. Rescuing enslaved citizens was huge, but metals piled high enough to restart the mint.
Gallia north trade revived; Franks would middleman Rhine barbarians this winter. Our fine wool had always tempted Italian nobles.
Once Franks kicked off that trade, looted Roman gold from Gallo-Romans and Italians would flow back via barbarians—hilariously.
"Mad world."
Revenues funded city rebuilds by local comites and praefecti, plus roads, forts, watchtowers to the Wall.
Most cash from 'offensive defense,' sparking a construction boom in Romano-Britannia.
Construction was always a manpower hog; folks ditched fallow fields for wages.
Roman cement tech meant post-winter, roads and buildings would transform unrecognizably.
New legionaries got land-mixed pay, not just silver/gold—so their taxes would fund future salaries, growing as they prospered.
Merlinus's math: up to six or seven five-thousand-man legions could self-sustain.
With loot and land taxes covering infra and military, the surplus—vast grain, wool, minerals from reopened mines, sea trade—would pour in next year.
Britannia would grow stronger yearly.
So now? Internal unity, I thought.
Gazing at Romano-Gallia, Italia, Hispania's chaos, we seemed tight around me.
But I wanted something more symbolic, meaningful.
With everyone under me gathering for the wedding—a rare chance—I craved impact.
I tossed the paper aside, staring out the huge window. The serene lake gleamed beautifully.