Roman Rex Arthur Pendragon
“Roman Rex Arthur Pendragon.” What the hell does that mean?
I hadn’t learned enough of the barbarian tongue to understand words like that yet. Truth be told, I had no need to learn so many barbarian words anyway. I was Rome’s Magister Militum. Now it was those people who needed to learn Roman speech.
Still, judging by the way that old man groveled facedown, it seemed like some kind of high honorific. The “Roman” at the front and “Arthur” at the back were probably their mangled versions of Rome and my name. These barbarians... Why did they have to twist a perfectly good name like Artorius into whatever they pleased? Of course, if you looked at it objectively, our proud Great Roman Empire was the champion of word-theft and cultural plunder. You know that? Before the Lord, the gods we Romans worshiped were all straight out of Greece... Hold on a second—come to think of it, the Lord himself wasn’t exactly an original Roman deity either—
“Magister Militum! Reporting in! All the barbarians—no, the prospective Roman citizens—have settled in without any major issues so far! The supplies and laborers you ordered have all arrived on time, and especially under the escort of the legionaries we conscripted from beyond the wall—no, wait! The ones who ‘volunteered’ from beyond the wall—we’ve restored order swiftly!”
“Good. So these ‘voluntary conscripts’ are pulling their weight, eh?”
“Yes, sir! Magister Militum!”
There was no such thing as voluntary conscription, of course. After reclaiming Vercovicium, I’d naturally wanted to push the wall’s territory a bit farther north, and in the process, we inevitably clashed with a few barbarian tribes. Surprisingly, some of them even banded together to try blocking me. But could a clump of dirt really stop a bulldozer? Naturally, they got smashed, and after that, you couldn’t find a single barbarian shadow as far as those two northern lakes.
About fifteen days ago? That was before I got that strange report back in Avalonia.
Barbarians had appeared beyond the wall—none but old folks, women, and little kids. At first, I thought those wicked savages had cooked up some clever lure tactic, but seeing them now, sobbing and embracing my new recruits from the legions... it almost made me feel like the bad guy, so I had to look away.
“[You’re alive! You’re alive! Forgive this worthless husband! Forgive this worthless father!]”
“[Sob... sob...]”
“[Waaah—Daddy!]”
“[Yes! Daddy’s here! But what about my parents? Your parents...?]”
“[With other tribes...]”
“[Those goddamn bastards...!]”
Once again, no clue what they’re saying, but their raw mix of half-joy, half-sorrow, plus another half of pure rage—150% emotion pouring out—stirred something in my chest. Even so, this was calmer than when they’d first crossed the wall under escort. Back then, people collapsed in each other’s arms without even thinking to eat the hasty barley or oat porridge we’d scraped together. Most had gone days without food, so for a while, the military physicians and their aides were rushing everywhere tending to them, flat out busy.
This sudden influx of migrants naturally delayed my wedding a bit, but oddly, Merlinus, Lord Uterius, and even Guinevere all seemed relieved, urging me to hurry back. I’d pushed the date forward because I wanted to get it done quick, but apparently, for the folks preparing, it had been a burdensome crunch. For someone like me, who’d always lived by the creed that speed decided victory or defeat, this was a new experience—one that made me reflect on the value of pacing myself.
On the battlefield, my instincts nailed the perfect timing, so I could focus solely on speed. But off the field? Maybe I needed to look around more, heed the counsel of wiser heads. And how far should I heed them? What if their direction clashed with mine? On the battlefield, my judgment was always right. But beyond it? Was it still infallible?
Ruling was damn hard. Setting a group’s direction was a crushing weight. Had Honorius buckled under that pressure to make history’s first decision to abandon Britannia? Even looking back now, it was pure madness. Honorius, and Constantinus dragging all the legions out of Britannia like they were fleeing... what a pair of lunatics.
“Magister Militum, and— it’s almost evening. Shall we have bread today, at least—”
“Oat porridge again? Bring it on.”
“...Understood! Magister Militum!”
This incident was the same. A massive group from beyond the wall—barely any able-bodied men, just old folks, women, and children—knocking at the gate was unprecedented. The Comes and Prefects gathering in Avalonia had all sorts of opinions, but their core advice to me was identical: The wall was built to keep barbarians out, so bar the gates until they left on their own.
It was harsh but logical. Feeding, housing, and clothing five figures-plus wasn’t simple, especially when you were overseeing Britannia’s cities just hitting their growth stride. You didn’t want that headache. If we’d sold the grain going into their mouths across the sea, we could’ve scraped up more gold—for city rebuilds, roads, new legions, upkeep. Personal greed probably factored in too. I didn’t blame them. Noble extravagance was a key part of the imperial economy. You couldn’t stifle it by force. Artists needed to eat. And once society stabilized, everyone—nobles and commoners—craved amphitheater plays and circuses. Merlinus was already lining up troupes from Rotomagus for next year’s Britannia shows via his connections. Romans threw festivals even as the country burned.
“Here you are, Magister Militum!”
“Ah, thanks. Comes Moderatus. Care to join me?”
“An honor!”
“Haha. Your brother Galbaginus is as good as my own kin. Treat me like a close big brother.”
“Yes, sir! I shall! Magister Militum!”
His hand trembled as he said it... Felt like some neighborhood bully tormenting his friend’s little brother.
“Where’s Comes Cunedagius?”
“Supervising the bathhouse construction! Probably eating there too!”
“I see. Hope I’m not overstepping and making you, Cunedagius, and the 2nd Legion lads suffer for it.”
[Snap!] Moderatus’s eyes gleamed dangerously as he saluted sharply. I’d noticed it since last summer, but Galbaginus’s brother was way more aggressive? Sharper? What was the word—threatening? With his fine looks, it was like madness lurked in his eyes.
“Any who’d dare think such disloyal, vile thoughts have no place in our 2nd Legion. I’ll make sure of it, Magister Militum!”
“...Thanks, but your precious oat porridge is spilling. At ease—sit and eat.”
“Yes, sir!”
Slurp— Why did they hate this stuff? I’d devour barley or oat porridge anytime I could get it. Some folks saw my build and figured I was a massive glutton—and they weren’t wrong. I was. Most big eaters don’t fuss over sides. Especially my body: hyper-efficient with energy, yet demanding heaps of nutrition. It didn’t crave fancy meats or pricey spices—just anything edible worked. So right there, I polished off my fourth bowl clean.
Around this frigid wall area, wheat struggled, but tough grains like barley and oats thrived. Hard to make bread from them. Instead, we boiled them thick in water or milk. Fussy Romano-Britons darkened at mealtimes, but I loved it.
“Comes Moderatus, it’s been two seasons since you came to Vercovicium?”
“Yes! Magister Militum!”
“What’s your take now that you’ve seen it? The land north of the wall?”
“The scout reports—”
“No, just your raw impressions. Does it really feel like frozen wasteland?”
“Hm, haven’t seen winter yet, so hard to say precisely, but no, sir. Magister Militum.”
“As I thought.”
The Roman Empire’s farthest reach in Britannia wasn’t this wall. Farther north, beyond it, there’d once been another: the Antonine Wall. Built by Antoninus Pius, successor to Hadrian. So why push that far? To honor Hadrian’s personal campaign from distant Rome?
Half-true.
“Wheat’s tough to grow. But barley and oats? Perfect conditions.”
“Up to the Antonine Wall site, it’s more lowlands than highlands. Abundant rivers mean rich fish, good for livestock too.”
“That’s why Antoninus advanced there three centuries ago.”
“...”
Britannia Isle. Merlinus had once voiced concerns about my plan to unite it with Caledonia and Hibernia under one flag—not whether I could, but whether I should. No need for such barren lands and people, he’d hinted delicately. Better to mix methods, unravel it gradually than fight through highlands, swamps, dark woods.
And I agreed with Merlinus. My plan had been to shatter perceptions with a strong example—change how Romano-Britons, neighboring barbarians, and Romans saw us. The massive pirate sweep last summer had already started shifting that.
But coming here to the wall myself, those lowlands strung along the northern waterways... they felt like they had to be mine. And Hibernia’s east and south coasts, so strikingly similar, far richer than expected? Mine too.
Was this the conqueror’s greed? I’d already stepped onto that path, so yeah, it rising was natural.
“I want it.”
“...If you command it, I’ll deliver it, Magister Militum.”
He probably didn’t know the word, but that parasite-like pretty boy flashing dangerous eyes somehow fit—and didn’t. Faces aside, how could brothers differ so much in vibe? Made me pity Comes Lot raising them. Good thing it worked out, but Galbaginus had been a runaway teen too.
“Good. Thanks. One more bowl, then.”
“Yes, sir!”
Moderatus snatched my bowl, scooped a heaping ladle from the massive pot over the central campfire—commendable, and a bit funny. Porridge steam mingled with laughter, filling the space under the wall.