Conquering the Kings' Hill
We found traces of several people who had stayed here. Yet the barbarian warriors who should have been guarding this important place were nowhere to be seen. A thin stream—too feeble to really call a river—flowed northward, probably why they'd camped here for easy access to water. From the signs, their numbers looked to be somewhere between two and three thousand? Closer to two thousand, really. That was more than the warriors from that band that had crossed the sea to aid Vortigern, but for the main forces of the Laigin and Ulaid who were said to have divided the island into quarters with the Muwa folk, it felt somehow lacking. This was their home turf, after all.
I was just an expeditionary force that had rushed across the sea, so even bringing five centuries along was no small feat. But these Laigin-Ulaid barbarians who'd camped here a few days ago and raided our river outpost even earlier must have suffered heavier losses against me last summer than I'd estimated. I'd sunk and captured quite a few of them, after all. And it was their fault for stubbornly sailing out again to test us. It had worked out perfectly for me and Britannia.
"Is that the Kings' Hill?"
It was massive, no doubt. Hard to believe it was man-made at first glance. But the flattened top and the artificial structures visible atop it confirmed it was a constructed mound. Taller than a hill, more like a low mountain? Around the central pair of large and small touching mounds stood several more round barrows, giving the whole place a sacred aura. Naturally, those big and small hills were ancient tombs of someone or other. Likely all belonging to immensely powerful figures—and probably all thoroughly looted by now. If even one intact tomb remained, that'd be remarkable.
Honoring the dead lasts a generation. After a few, everyone who remembers them is gone. All that's left are round mounds and rumors of treasures buried within. As far as I knew, in my previous life, no ancient tomb worldwide had escaped being ransacked—whether by individual grave robbers, imperialists, or even scholars cracking open lids for "research." After that much time, the original stories fade, and people figure they've paid their respects enough.
Surprisingly, though, the defenders of this Kings' Hill still seemed intent on protecting the dead within those tombs.
"Eight, eighty, one hundred. Eight, eighty, one hundred... Roughly five or six hundred, Magister militum."
Counting gets faster with training. Even so, Caius—now a Comes with some real commander swagger—frowned hard before reporting the enemy's scale to me.
Once we'd squared off like this, their numbers didn't matter much to me unless they outnumbered us five-to-one or had us fully surrounded. I nodded to Caius, then ordered Peredir to form a simple line without fancy tactics. What caught my eye next was the enemy's gear. Even in winter, with both them and us wrapped in beast hides and layered cloth, not a single scrap of metal showed. No signs of iron plates sewn inside their cloth or leather either—just lightly armed infantry as they appeared.
They had spears and shields, at least one each, and probably a javelin or two tucked inside those round shields. And we were the Roman heavy legionaries specialized in devouring exactly that kind of barbarian. Our crossbows outranged and outpowered their javelins. The clear weather for days meant no issues with bowstrings. Even if those barbarian warriors sprinted desperately to close the gap, they couldn't drop our long-shielded, iron-armored legionaries with javelins alone.
It's basic: ranged weapons like bows, javelins, and slings work best from the flanks or rear, not head-on against a tight shield wall. Against our Britannian legionaries, masters of the shield, frontal fire would wound maybe one or two at most. And if they got that close, they'd be in our throw range—our javelins returned bare-handed or otherwise wouldn't be stopped by their flimsy leather and cloth.
I could already picture them routing. But to be thorough, let's play it out. They somehow breach the range, charging madly with eyes rolled back. Then I step forward first. Caliburnus slashes the sky, cleaving anyone unlucky enough to cross its path. Skilled or veteran warriors might parry with weapons or shields, but spear, sword, shield, arm, leg—all severed in one go. Caliburnus isn't some oversized dumb club. It bounces arrows from afar and slices steel armor like water.
A few big swings, and ten, twenty lives snuffed out. Then Caius, Peredir, the knights, and legionaries plunge into their broken lines. The battlefield turns into a factory of mechanical death—joy for us, sorrow for them. My legionaries show no mercy on the field; plenty will die before any surrender.
Did they sense this? The faces of those facing us—looking more suited to herding sheep—were already wavering. Romano-Britons feared these Hibernian raiders mainly for their unpredictability: you never knew when or where they'd strike. Surprise and uncertainty were their strongest weapons. But in a stand-up fight, face-to-face? Our Britannian legions had no reason to fear.
"Magister militum, troops deployed."
"Good."
While I eyed the enemy, the five centuries had spread into a thin, long line. Not the standard Roman tactic of at least three ranks to avoid instant collapse, even in line formation. This was arrogance born of confidence. We advance wide open: Can you break this? The roughly six hundred barbarian warriors, clustered round, indirectly admitted they couldn't by huddling tight.
"Magister militum, awaiting orders."
"Hit them, and they're all dead."
"...Victory is always yours, Magister militum."
Peredir, handling overall command beside me (with Caius held back as cavalry reserve—mere twenty horses), chose his words carefully. Mercy belongs to the strong, after all. Every simulation in my head ended with their massacre and zero losses for us, so I decided to offer surrender.
"Anyone in our ranks speak their tongue?"
"Yes, Magister militum."
"Tell them to surrender. Tell the shepherds and farmers nearby... we'll forgive the recent raids and this blockade if they just drop their weapons."
"As you command, Dominus Invictus. Whee-!"
Peredir whistled sharply, stepped away, and whispered orders to a nearby legionary. The centurion saluted briskly, called another, and soon a horse galloped boldly from our lines toward theirs. Under the clear midwinter sky, breath steaming, our legionaries' cold gazes never left the foe.
Soon, loud words I couldn't quite catch echoed back. The barbarians' lines buzzed, then erupted in fierce argument. The mood turned ugly—the horse spun wildly, the herald barely calming it before returning.
"They want to fight?"
Didn't seem so from the vibe. Beyond their cluster loomed the massive Kings' Hill—a sacred site, sparsely populated. But surrounding hillsides filled with faces peering from huts and homes. All terrified. Armed, they'd make militia; warriors, no. These barbarian kings had boldly raided our outpost with their full force, never dreaming we'd march in winter. Reasonable, since they knew only about five hundred Romans total, sheep isles included. What they didn't know: I'm more instinctual, sensory—impulsive, even—than they guessed.
"Looks like they've reached an agreement, Magister militum."
"Hah."
The arguing factions split, spitting and shouting—until the biggest barbarian bellowed suddenly, strode to a horse, and charged us. I signaled the crossbowmen—fingers on cold triggers, killing intent rising—to stand down with an open palm.
"Hold! Lower them! You there—hands off, hands!"
I preach honor and chivalry first, but our Britannian troops are second to none in dirty fighting. Without my order, that barbarian might've caught a "stray" bolt through the throat.
"[My cowardly neighbors are half-terrified, half-honorless! But Romans! Don't misunderstand! Here stands a warrior unafraid of death! Will you tread the Kings' Hill!? Then you must best me first! My name is—]"
"What's he saying?"
"Wants a duel, Magister militum."
"[–son of Fiachra, Conall! We Ulaid men are descendants of great heroes! Cursed never to retreat from battle! Is there a Roman to face me!?]"
"Looks like just that barbarian wants to fight; the rest behind seem ready to surrender?"
"Hard to see, but the mood fits, Magister militum. Warriors don't cheer duels like that."
All wore grim faces; clearly, only that loud warrior wanted to die here. I stepped forward to end it quick and painless—
"I can't stand more of this! You barbarian! Who do you shout at!?"
Clop clop!
My knight with the deepest barbarian hatred, Caius, charged like Palamedes, sword drawn.
Shing!
"[Name yourself before death! Roman!]"
"Die!"
"[Mo-rele? Wait, speak—anyway, you honorless Roman pig!]"p>
Caius swung mightily; the blade twisted mid-arc, slashing diagonally from head across sword, torso, legs. Beduerus called it the trajectory born of Caius's build: long arms, hyper-flexible wrists enabling such irregular strikes.
"[Urk—]"
So cleanly severed, death came slow. The warrior slipped off; the lightened horse bolted, his lower half tumbling from its cloth saddle.
"You arrogant barbarians! Can't understand the Magister militum's words? Listen! Fight and die? Or drop weapons and kneel!!"
Fidelis—gloomy for its "faithful" name—drank deep yet gleamed innocent of red. Caius's single stroke cleaved their last resolve; the warriors flung shields and spears, kneeling warily.
I nodded to Caius and advanced the legionaries. Prisoners stayed put; folk from surrounding hill huts showed only fear. We marched slowly, passing a grand, ornate building and towering stele beside it, until reaching the Kings' Hill summit. No divine wrath struck me down.