Winter Seas and Whispers of Betrayal
Sailing in winter was no easy feat. It was tough even along the coast, but the route from Manavia Island to Sheep Isle plunged straight into the deep ocean, so sailors only ventured onto the open sea between spring and autumn. But we weren't just sailors—we were soldiers. When duty called, we had to launch the ships even in winter.
Why was winter so dangerous? The eastern seas were bad enough, but this western ocean was especially prone to sudden gusts in winter. The fierce winds whipped up towering waves, the water surged high, spray flew constantly, and fog blanketed everything, making it hard to see far. And now, to top it all off, brutal cold filled the air from dawn to dawn. Only soldiers like us would brave the winter sea—especially the open, deep waters.
Yet I'd heard about winter seas, seen them, even felt them myself... [Whummm—] As the massive blade of Caliburnus vibrated faintly and glowed softly, leaving a comet-like trail in its wake, none of those winter hazards the Manavia sailors had warned me about seemed to touch us now.
"Hey, centurion."
"Yes, Magister militum!"
"Not sure if it's just me, but doesn't the wind feel like it's died down?"
"Uh—yeah? Now that you mention it, Sheep Isle's in sight... You're right, Magister militum."
"The waves are steady too, and the sky's clear like autumn, isn't it?"
"That too, Magister militum. It's miraculous. Looks like the Goddess is blessing this expedition."
What? Was this guy a Lake Goddess devotee? Even if she was the oldest divinity (not "old" in a bad way), the water droplet faith had only just started this month. He must be an early adopter. Even in this world, hipster syndrome existed. Maybe that term would soon become "Briton syndrome" or "Avalonia syndrome," "Lake syndrome." Britain was heavily Roman-influenced yet growing its own unique head. Fully grown, it'd look like a hydra—assuming it stayed attached to the Empire's body, that is.
"Right, I see."
A blessing. As Merlinus had taught me, simple was best. No matter how you sliced it, the reason for this smooth midwinter voyage was Caliburnus doing something. My ten-ship flotilla and the 200 legionaries packed with supplies would all call it a blessing. How straightforward and clear. 'Blessing.' Click. Human cognition and expression were more intuitive and sharp than I'd thought.
More importantly, the trail Caliburnus left looked like a faint thread of light to my eyes. I wasn't certain yet, but it seemed to mark a path of light. If my mental notebook hypothesis was right, I could ride that light straight back across the sea to Avalonia. It stirred the same feeling as when Captain America, freshly thawed from his frozen state, saw the flying Falcon and yelled, "Argh! Flying N-word!"
My enemies. I had become a teleporting monster. Pure unfairness incarnate. You'd still charge anyway, wouldn't you? Not because you're evil or good, but due to basic climate, culture, systems. Angles, Saxons, Franks, Goths, Burgundians, Alans, Vandals, Suebi—and countless more from the east. Pushed by mixed pressures, they'd crossed the Empire's borders gradually or in one go, and they were still coming.
Counting them up, there were so many. Those bastards had flooded into Gaul, turning everything between the northern coastal defenses desperately held by Rotomagus militias and the southern lines barely guarded by Constantinus into barbarian territory. I figured they'd move again soon. Trapped top and bottom, the pressure would build, leaving them to retreat across the Rhine or push even farther west.
So that brave soldier from Ravenna had hinted to Uterius: Hispania was likely the next battlefield after Gaul. By Roman wealth alone, Italia was first, Africa second, and Gaul and Hispania vied for third. Britannia? We were our proud zero. Zero from behind. But zero-division looked cooler and more imposing than first-division, right? Roman society—we'd save it. We were the problem children, but the strongest.
[Baaaaam—] The welcoming blast of the distant watchtower's great horn was answered in unison by the dozen or so ships that had followed me. Sitting on the fluttering deck like a bride, I quietly looked back at the sea trailing its pure white path.
-----
"I get the gist of your thinking."
"Yes, sir!"
"Yep!"
What defined a young commander? A body hitting its physical prime, a mind not quite ripened, a heart burning hot. More concretely?
"So, Caius, Peredir. In this dead of winter, you're leading troops against those barbarians'—what was it—"
"They call it the Hill of Kings, Magister militum!"
"Arrogant bastards! How dare they crown themselves kings right in our faces...!"
Specifically: immature, reckless. Call it courage if you want, but positively, super aggressive; negatively, no-backup tactics, strategies, gambles thrown out boldly.
"Technically, I'm invading their land, so of course the barbarians will yap about being kings or whatever. What's not natural is your advance plan..."
"...!"
"..."
"On the way here, I saw snow blanketing Sheep Isle and the far shore. Fresh powder frozen over storm-scoured ground. What about that sky full of trash? If you push forward and the return path gets blocked?"
Caius and Peredir squirmed, mouths itching to speak. I raised my open palm like calming eager dogs and slowly fanned it. Whoa—whoa. Their breaths slowed; I gave Caius the floor first.
"You're absolutely right! Peredir and I made this plan—reckless, sure—but we got intel worth betting on!"
"Intel worth betting on?"
"Yes! Here—"
Fumbling in his tunic but finding nothing, Caius floundered until Peredir handed me a tightly rolled parchment with both hands. His natural curls made him look wild even with our Roman trim. So far, I'd forged swords for only Beduerus, Galbaginus, and Caius. Time to get busy when I got back.
"What's this paper?"
"Simply put, this barbarian land isn't united under one flag like Britannia, Magister militum. Would you believe there are dozens who call themselves kings? Just along this long north-south coast."
That was a lot. Basically village heads, township chiefs, block captains printing "king" on business cards. Diplomacy meant inflating titles. Bigger lands would claim "greater king," even bigger ones grander terms—a whole hierarchy.
Unrolling the parchment as Peredir explained, I saw crooked but unmistakable Roman script packed in. Summarizing the already condensed content: nearby kings wanted to join Britannia, offering spy intel in proof—please take care of us, how much reward might we expect?
"—We could doubt it, but everything they've sent this winter checked out. And it's not just one or two—here—"
Peredir rummaged again while Caius plunked down a big chest. Inside: rolled parchments like the first, varying words but same message.
"...This land, huh."
Staring at this massive betrayal scene, I could only mutter that. Caius and Peredir scratched cheeks, grinning awkwardly.
This land really gives its all to infighting. An unfinished thought. I still dreamed sometimes: if our Empire, glorious Greater Roma, united all provinces under one emperor, channeling that power one way—what wonders? Just Britannia working right? Hibernia, Caledonia, eastern boat-invaders? No fear. Same for Gaul—once solid, legions patrolled beyond the Rhine. Barbarians so polite, trade boomed. Hispania, Africa, Aegyptus—wealthy legends. Bundle it right...
Of course, failing that led here. Regret unavoidable. The Empire's systems couldn't bridge the distances. That's why Caliburnus's white trail lingered in my mind.
"So, basing the op on intel from these many 'potential allies' or 'future traitors'—the barbarian coalition heading southwest?"
"Yes, Magister militum. Cross-verified multiple times; it's solid. Even if it's a trap to lure us—even then, if true—"
"If true, you strike their heart in one blow. Got it."
Brave plan. Likely a trap. Lure into harsh terrain, surround, crush—classic barbarian playbook against Rome, ancient as dirt.
But if true? Every parchment screamed it: coalition hitting Muwa lands. Worth the bet. Plus, now I was here.
"Fine. Caius, Peredir. Man can beat man, but not seasons. Double-check that 'shortcut' from barbarian sources, send men to nearest 'kings' villages to gauge cooperation if possible. Can you?"
"Scouts checking routes and villages should return soon."
Peredir's calm report boosted success odds. Royal blood made him think different. As for you, Caius...
"..."
"?"
Never mind. Stay healthy. Fighters like you just need that.
"Good. Let's do it."
"Yes, Dominus!"
"Yes!"