Arthur, Pen Draig
"I've ordered plenty of fuel stoked in the hypocaustum! Get inside and warm up, all of you! Rub your hands and feet especially! Wet gear—never mind, just strip it all off! Wash first, then come in! That's an order from the Magister Militum! You colts! Even if it kills you, the patrol squad washes first!"
"Augh—"
"Fuuuuck—"
"This damn army..."
"What's with all the chit-chat? You got energy left over? Move those heavy asses now!"
"Grrraaah—"
Hypocaustum—its very name meant "heated from below." This central heating system, far older than one might think, had flourished brilliantly on Britannia soil, installed without fail in every fortress of stone along the Wall. Without it, no one could survive this frozen land.
From spring through autumn, the legions of Romano-Britannia, led by the Magister Militum, had relentlessly raided the borders of the western and northern barbarians—those called Hibernians and Caledonians—carving out a vast no-man's-land. Not content with reclaiming old Roman territory, they'd pushed even further, leaving both barbarians and their own Romano-Briton people stunned. It worked? This easily? They folded like this? Without a fight?
Whether Romans or barbarians pondered the same questions in different tongues, whether their societies reeled from the shock or not—the indifferent sky wheeled on tirelessly. Seasons turned; the lingering warmth of autumn yielded to winter's grip. The season of survival had arrived.
"Whew—at least the water's warm. Lucky break."
"Fuel keeps rolling up from the southern roads nonstop, doesn't it? Better than home. If it weren't for those damn drills and patrols, anyway. Fuckin' hell."
"Shit."
"This damn army... Speaking of, even inside these red-hot stone walls, the chill seeps in. How do those northern barbarians up there survive winters worse than this? Ever thought about it?"
"Heard their hides are way thicker than ours. Plus, they've got more hair!"
"Hair? Hm. What about their women?"
"Bet they're hairy too! Heh heh heh—"
Heh heh—ha ha—
Unlike the crude banter turning to bawdy jokes among these Romano-Briton soldiers, the barbarian lands swept by Artorius's "aggressive defense" were in far worse shape than imagined. This gulf was lost on lifelong Romans raised within civilized walls; in those primitive societies, a man's value went beyond plowing fields and fighting—it was everything.
Especially now, abutting winter. They'd planted crops, sure, but memories of last year's sweet raiding spoils meant few tribes had sown properly this year. On this harsh soil, even diligent tilling barely yielded enough grain to feed a family. So every year at this time, men gathered for hunts, foraging—or raids on weakened neighbors, which they called "cattle plundering" or "cattle wars." These autumn-winter survival ordeals, etched into their culture by brutal nature, had proper names in the northern and western barbarians' tongues.
And those cattle raids fell to the tribe's warriors—the men. The strong preyed on the weak to survive, mirroring nature's food chain. But this year, those men were dead or captured.
What of the remnants? The weaker elders, women, children?
Some sought stronger tribes, per nature's law. Their fate rested in those hands: most struggling tribes, fearing their own winter, turned them away, took only the prettiest few, or enslaved and expelled them. That was merciful in this merciless world. Others, hearing of the border tribes' collapse, swept in to seize what little remained, slaughtering resisters, kidnapping comely women and children, vanishing like wind.
The survivors wailed in grief, awaiting winter—death's other name. They foraged fields, but rivals weren't just men. Wolves prowled; bears, fattening for hibernation, were deadliest now. Manless tribes realized their options dwindled. Die weak as nature decreed, eyes glazing like beasts impaled on wolf fangs or bear claws? Or lurk near fiercer northerners, praying to catch their eye—only for enslavement, a beast's life, not a man's?
Hating both? Only south remained: where husbands, fathers, sons were taken. Romano-Britannia.
"Augh—why'd I get night shift today of all days."
"Tell me about it!"
"What do you know, fresh meat? Where'd you say you're from?"
"A riverside village down south!"
"Another one. To you, that means home, but Britannia's got rivers everywhere, kid. No dry spots. Nearest big city's what?"
"Uh, uh—Verulamium!"
"Oh? Decent size. I'm from near Londinium—practically neighbors. Know any girls around there?"
"Y-yeah!"
"Yeah? Augh, even colder now. Rank 'em by looks in your head while you fetch more fuel. Wear gloves—don't want frostbit hands."
"Yes, sir!"
[Clink-clink—]
"...These recruits are getting worse by the day—huh? Wait... what the hell is that?"
The land that stole husbands, sons, friends. Where Camulus, the barbarians' war god, incarnated. Lair of the monstrous. Who'd march there willingly? They debated fiercely inside: quarrels, splits. Some chose death, some slavery. But few. Most life-hungry souls trickled toward that terrifying wall, lighting fires one by one.
"Hey, you—riverside kid."
"Y-yes, sir!"
"Stop stoking and run to the Decanus right now."
"Y-yes?"
"Snap to it! Tell him barbarians sighted in the dark. Go!"
"Got it!"
Trembling barbarians watched the wall blaze instantly, fires chasing away encroaching chill before full winter hit. Those flames had lured tribes last winter across the wall. Onto their shores, swarming with warriors. In this cold, dark, evil, fear-filled land, tales of southern bonfires were inevitable. They lived warm, ate warm, wore warm. Same world—why so different? Just one wall?
Doubt bred rage, desperation. Legion withdrawal? Their chance. Now, they begged mercy.
Staring at flickering flames from light-dark borders, barbarians lurked shadow-cloaked, avoiding glow, lest they rouse the dreaded ones—like gauging a cave beast's domain. Days passed; ten flew. North of the wall, women, elders, children amassed, uncountable. Lakes bridged by human masses, sheep-herds thick.
Unlike sheep, they awaited shepherds meekly. Five more days; stem-plants gone. Starvation loomed as the flame-lit gate groaned open.
[Rumble—]
Earth-shaking roar sent winter-visiting birds skyward—not from noise, but what followed. Instinctual dread gripped barbarians, despite hunger. Like a deep cave's master emerging from din.
[Clatter-clatter—]
A massive chariot. Legends said highland chiefs rode them. Storybook stuff, rolling slow. But size off—too clear, too near. Worse: its rider. Trailed by cavalry, crimson Roman banners flying. Scale warped—him gigantic.
Rumor-knowers spat the name.
"Artorius..."
"Arthur, Arthur of the Romano-Britons..."
Doomed souls mumbled, staring at approaching demon. Eyes held pure awe—no fear, regret, hate. Of course we lost. Rumors true. Our warriors fought honorably, died or captured—not cowardly, angering gods.
Roman legions, horse-handlers especially, flew dragon banners long. These riders trailed the great eagle with coiling dragon sigils. All dragons dangerous—but southern Roman ones terrified Hibernians and Caledonians. Dragons devoured worlds, guardians of devouring fire.
Eons later, the colossus loomed. Name-knowers uttered Caledonia's taboo.
"Arthur, Pen Draig."
Chief of evil dragons. Dragon lord, war chief. Beneath towering gaze, all prostrated: elders, women, wild children. Hunger fled; primal terror reigned.
How long? Then:
"You all—from now, Romans. Follow me. Quick."
Stilted Caledonian from colossal voice. Prostrates realized: that voice their chieftain, king. Their Pen Draig now.
One side standing, one bowed—eerie standoff dissolved. They moved silently wall-ward. No clash. Fugitive birds returned, watching.