Kings' Hill
In my past life and here too, most people who step onto the path of the soldier—through the military gates—first feel a profound dissonance. Not with the world around them, but with themselves. The self you've lived as up until now clashes sharply with the image the army demands of you. Even in this Roman Empire, where master and servant exist as stark realities and ranks stand harder than bricks, blinking and flicking their tongues, the gulf between civilian and military life remains vast.
What makes it so tough? That alien feeling between civilians and soldiers, persisting for over a millennium. It's the inherent uniqueness of the military life. Take this example: "Hey, could you fetch some water from over there?" In civilian life, unless it's from some highborn Roman noble of a great house, most folks would shoot back, "Why should I?" You wouldn't get beaten or thrashed for talking back with, "You bastard, how dare you sass your betters!" Sure, it's a rigid class society, but slaves have their own hierarchies by household, so people tread carefully. Being a freeman doesn't automatically put you above a slave—mess with the wrong estate's servant, and your thatched roof goes up in flames, same as in Rome.
Anyway, back to the point. In civilian life, you might question an order to fetch water. In the army? No such luxury.
"Over there, there, and beyond those hills—scout ahead first."
"Yes, sir!"
"Understood!"
Questioning isn't permitted. Especially in the field, raising doubts about an order marks you as done for. The empire's tradition of brutal training exists to drill that out of you—washing uniforms over and over, standing guard duty sweating buckets, freezing your eyebrows off—until the civilian softness drains away and you're called "soldier" no matter the province. Only then do you rise to command a tent as a decurion.
The exceptional ones, proven amid overflowing battlefields, become centurions. Above them lie the Comes, commanding multiple centurions. Look around even now. After the sheep-folk left the island, we gathered the few troops left at the river garrison and pushed northwest for two days now. In the heart of Hibernia's brutal winter, where villagers shook their heads, our legionaries gazed at my face as I declared the march—thoughts like "We're screwed," "Bullshit on horses, bullshit on words," "Shit, piss—hehe, piss launch!" might've crossed their minds, but none said we couldn't. Because we must. Obedience to orders is the soldier's foundation.
Of course, failing that foundation is why the empire's everywhere tangled with rebels and barbarians. At least I can boast to all directions that Britannia's army has this chain of command locked down tight.
[Flutter—flutter—]
"No anomalies detected, Magister militum."
"Indeed. Remarkably, our allies' reports all checked out true."
"Isn't that only natural, Dominus? Last summer, those braggarts' raiders all drowned under the waves. What's left are the too young or too old. Rebellion needs some backbone, after all!"
"...You're thinking deeper these days, Caius."
"Aw, I've seen and learned so much! And now I'm a full-fledged adult and Comes myself!"
"And what say you to that, Peredir?"
"He's a Comes, sure. Adult? Debatable, Dominus."
Trading jests with Caius and Peredir at my side, the scouts beyond the hill—perfectly blocking our view—waved their flags frantically upon finishing recon. Good thing they brought a few horses; otherwise, it'd have been far rougher.
"Looks like we've got them all. One last push."
"Yes, Magister militum!"
"No issues!"
Where was I? Right. How did Britannia's army forge this ironclad chain of command and discipline? Before that, what's the root difference between armies prone to mutiny and those that aren't? My answer: barring freak cases like the Britannian legions propping up Constantinus as false emperor, most troop unrest stems from commanders. Breaking promises to soldiers or driving them into hellish battles without cause. Leadership gets tested, and if the commander's fault shines clear, that legion's as good as finished. Then it's suppression under "mutiny" pretenses—or the legion turns on its suppressors and goes full rebel.
The empire's lived through every variant. No need to go far—Gallia's Constantinus is exhibit one. Not just Western Rome; the East suffered too. Alaricus's Goths—mercenaries in name, regulars in truth—plundered Greece-Italy in a mess closer to warlord infighting than straight invasion.
Conversely, Caesar, Pompey, Germanicus avenging Varus, Trajan conquering Dacia to Persia, Aurelian quelling East-West revolts to reknit the empire, Stilicho the last bulwark. How did these greats hold legions through endless campaigns, dancing with death? No need for Spring-Autumn warlords like Wu Qi—the answer's simple: win.
Stack up debts, gamble bold against all advice—if you win, legion woes vanish. What spoils you deliver comes second; the invincibility aura alone defies imagination. My name carries that weight for Britannia's troops—crossing winter seas to unknown barbaric wilds, 500 legionaries march without hesitation on faith alone. So what I must give them? Endless victory. Uphold every absurd legend about me. That's the bare minimum I owe these men.
Thus, half-day march, half-day rest—hit high noon tomorrow and seize Kings' Hill in one stroke.
"A hill, but really a massive grave, right?"
"If you mean Kings' Hill, yes, Magister militum. Said to be this land's oldest round fort, maybe... but so ancient now, no walls left—just a kings' council site."
Don't underestimate barbarian round forts. If the earthwork's packed solid, it holds basic defense. Future cannons might smash stone walls men piled, but flatten dirt into a hill? Attackers draw blanks. Even bunker-busters falter on deep bunkers; nukes barely dent buried ones—anyway. Drustanus's home en route to Isca Dumnoniorum was an old round fort too. Maintained well, it's active duty.
Problem: round or Roman fort, facing me means a siege unlike any. But word is, Kings' Hill was once grand, now more ancient royal tombs—spiritual, ritual weight outweighing defenses. Funny part: weak as it is, it's the heart of local barbarian kingdoms. All their roads lead there, like Rome's to Rome.
Why leave such a hub wall-less? Barbarian tactical blindness? Not quite—they never dreamed their vaunted warriors would sink all summer at sea. Nor Britannia's forces—peaking into new heights—swallow Manavia, storm east coast, dig in. Walls aren't omnipotent either; my past life's Kaesong had none, Joseon's Injo hid in Namhansanseong's heights and desperation despite them. Outcomes tragic, sure.
Soon, big trouble for Hibernia's barbarians—not solely kings' and nobles' incompetence. Opponent's me, after all. Silver lining? I'm unlike any conqueror Rome birthed or faced. How so? Plenty.
"Fine sword you've got, Caius."
"Ah, thank you, Dominus! Named her Fidelis!"
"Fidelis, Fidelis, eh?"
I smiled reassuringly at Peredir eyeing Caius's hip enviously.
"Every knight gets one. No need to fret."
"Your graces already overflow, Dominus. What more from the man who avenged my father? From now, I'll lead to fulfill your every will."
Good lad. Warriors envy that blade regardless. Peredir's top-tier by strength alone—can't miss its worth. Lucky Caius picks friends well; shallower Peredir might've envied open boasts.
Anyway, differences? I'm no Caesarian debt-fiend gambler. Caesar's genius commander, true—but politician first. Both bear heavy duty, but victory vs. power? That's the split. I'm commander over politician.
Power? The Lake Goddess gripped my head, showed history from planet's birth. Face that raw? Mundane "values" get reevaluated. What's truly vital? Why live? Not power, for me.
Dip a toe in her mysteries, I roam Britannia unbound. Deeper: wield it right, summon 21st-century boons sans trial-error—centuries early? Tall order for all, but my reach? Better lives, surely.
Where I diverge from modern saints: I'm a conqueror. All conquerors—whatever the packaging—are narcissists, self-centered. They know they're tops. Me too. I'll impose my will: my vision's best. Better than your savagery; Artorius of Britannia—not Rome—points true north.
Defy it?
"War soon. Prepare, Caius, Peredir."
"Awaiting it, Dominus!"
"Knight Peredir obeys, Magister militum."
Whose will's righter? Humanity's ancient tradition: ask the heavens.