Chapter 25: Anya on the Offensive!

On a small slope beside a stream, Duncan and his companions drew near. The Duke of Tintagel rose to his feet, taking the initiative to welcome the knight who had saved his life.

He was the Duke of Cornwall, a man of vast territories whose power was second only to King Uther Pendragon. The two were rivals, and before the massive Saxon barbarian invasion, he had even clashed with Uther. Long ago, when meeting with King Uther, the Duke had brought his wife, Igraine. Uther had fallen in love with her at first sight, consumed by longing. Later, with the help of the knight Ulfius and the wizard Merlin, Uther had used magic to infiltrate Igraine’s bedchamber, spending a night with the beautiful Duchess, an encounter that would lead to the conception of King Arthur.

Cornwall lay at the southernmost tip of the British map, tucked away in a remote corner. Because they were avoiding Saxon pirates, the landing point for Duncan’s party had been rather out of the way.

As the group approached, Gorlois, the Duke of Tintagel, gazed at the people who had just saved his life. The most eye-catching among them was undoubtedly Severus; his attire was far too famous on the island of Britain in Celtic mythology. A Druid priest!

Only then did his gaze fall upon the young man riding alone, bow on his back and sword at his side. He was so young—the Number One Human Vessel was only nineteen this year, having worked as a blacksmith’s apprentice for only half a year before being sent back to the frontier village of Bran for dallying with the still-charming landlady next door. He was handsome, upright, with deep, piercing eyes and a restrained divine radiance. His features were like those of a sculpted ancient Greek statue, making it impossible to look away; when he stared directly at someone, it caused their spirit to tremble. The Duke prided himself on his own striking appearance, but upon seeing this young knight, he could not help but feel a twinge of inferiority.

In truth, the Vessel had a solid foundation of good looks, or he never would have been able to take such shortcuts, but he was merely above average in handsomeness. His true transformation had begun when Duncan started carving his path through slaughter. His appearance had developed a unique temperament born of blood and fire—still as an abyss when at rest, and like a thunderclap when in motion. The cold light radiating from his eyes was enough to make one shudder. Unknowingly, the carnage had forged a unique aura, and with the blood of the Holy Grail and his improved physical condition, this change became even more pronounced.

The Raven Queen, Triss, wore a veil, concealing her breathtakingly beautiful face. Consequently, the Duke’s gaze quickly shifted to the witch Anya. His expression showed a hint of astonishment; he seemed momentarily captured by her beauty, stunned for a brief second. Had he not just suffered a crushing defeat and barely escaped with his life, he would certainly have tried to strike up a conversation with such a glamorous Roman lady. But now, his focus was entirely on Duncan, and his gaze was quite fervent.

What a mighty warrior! He had never seen a knight so fierce in his entire life.

Duncan rode forward, Anya slightly half a horse-length ahead, with the others trailing behind. The hierarchy was immediately obvious. "It seems that Roman lady holds the highest status," the Duke realized, though he also noted that the warrior held high status as well, as everyone else deferred to him. Even that stunning Roman lady turned to look at him from time to time, her eyes filled with obvious reliance and affection.

Anya carried the heavy aura of the old Roman Empire’s nobility. Her arrogant posture, her features, her skin, and her attire all bespoke a high-born aristocrat; such an air of wealth and breeding could not be cultivated by anyone lacking a truly deep-rooted noble pedigree. After the last Roman legion withdrew from the province of Britain, various factions carved up the land, and the Duke of Tintagel had inherited a portion of that Roman legacy. Otherwise, he would have been unable to assemble his makeshift British field army.

The Duke stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Duncan, but he greeted Anya first: "My thanks to you all for your rescue!"

What a fierce general! That was exactly what he lacked most. By comparison, although Anya was stunning, his own wife Igraine was one of the greatest beauties on the island, and he had built up a resistance to such sights.

Anya gave a slight nod. Though her status was technically inferior to his, she would not yield in presence. An old Roman aristocrat never lost her poise. Indeed, her proud demeanor genuinely intimidated the Duke. After all, Britain was a remote, abandoned province of the Empire. The title of "Duke" sounded impressive, but this was not the Middle Ages; a Duke was not necessarily superior to a Count, as a Count was a commander of the Imperial field army.

Anya, a socialite of the Empire, was more than capable of handling a provincial lord. She displayed the arrogance of the Romans to the fullest, to the point where the Duke began to feel insecure about his own background. After a brief exchange, Anya answered with such fluency that the Duke became convinced she hailed from a true Imperial military family. Although the legions had withdrawn, the Roman influence remained deep after centuries of rule. Indeed, the Duke’s own ancestors were Roman legion commanders who had married the daughters of native chieftains. By that standard, Anya was clearly more noble than he.

Though the Duke spoke with Anya, his eyes kept drifting to her cold guard, Duncan. It was obvious: this fierce warrior must be the lady’s personal bodyguard and lover. It was hard to recruit such a fearsome knight without the resources of an old Imperial house.

Of all the group, only Anya’s status could be presented openly. Duncan, born a commoner of the Empire, was harder to display. Anya, even if her position was usually closer to that of a decorative object, was extremely proud, even daring to cast a provocative glance back at the Raven Queen. Triss smiled without a word, her lips curling into a playful arc, which made Anya shiver involuntarily.

*Endure.* Now was not the time to challenge the Raven Queen’s position.

Anya had been dealing with nobles since birth; compared to her effortless, elegant arrogance, the Duke seemed like a crude country bumpkin. He had always felt his wife, Igraine, was a graceful, noble beauty—the rose of Britain—but compared to Anya, he felt only his wife’s beauty could even begin to compare.

The Duke was burning with impatience, unable to find a chance to speak properly with Duncan. *Mighty brother! No matter how beautiful that woman is, she is just a fallen aristocrat. I am a lord with real power—come, serve me, and I shall make you a noble knight.* He had to admit, once a man was on the battlefield, a fierce warrior was more attractive than a beauty. Beauties were common; mighty warriors were rare.

This trial of wits helped them clarify each other’s foundations. Many things could distinguish true nobility, and pretending was not easy. The Duke also learned why Anya’s party had been stranded: they had encountered Saxon pirates. In recent years, the Britons had suffered constant defeats, and the coastline was almost entirely controlled by the Saxons.

The group traveled back to the castle together. On the way, Anya lagged slightly behind and whispered to Duncan: "Speak little for now; leave it to me." In the eyes of the two witch sisters, Duncan was still a nineteen-year-old sprout who could not handle such an old fox. Anya was keen at reading expressions; seeing the Duke’s interest in her "personal guard," she knew she had to take the initiative.

She had to seize control. To hold the advantage, she had to reel in this country Duke. She held little regard for him; a backwater Duke of Britain wouldn't even earn a seat at the Imperial court.

The orthodox nobility of the Roman Empire were just that overbearing. It was time to show this man her methods. The Raven Queen, hmph—just a barbarian with a bit of martial strength.

Once safely away, the Duke let out a sigh of relief. He dared not return to gather his broken troops; he only wanted to reach his territory quickly to summon other units and call for aid from friendly native tribes to intercept the invaders at his castle. He had lost this field battle because he had overestimated his strength, thinking victory was in his hands, only to be crushed in a single wave. Three thousand men against a thousand, shattered instantly.

Along the way, Anya chatted with the Duke. She didn't mention the battle, merely explaining how she had accidentally ended up in Britain and promising that if he helped her return to Rome, she would reward him handsomely. This was the first step of taking the lead; Anya moved methodically, waiting for the Duke to take the bait.

He did. The Duke stepped right into it, declaring righteously: "You saved my life; I ask for no reward. I shall certainly find a way to escort you back to Rome."

Anya had steered the conversation toward her need for his power to reach Italy, as they had lost their ship. As fields appeared in the plains near the rivers and lakes, Anya spoke leisurely of the Roman court, including the current Emperor Valentinian III and the Patrician Aetius, acting as if she were intimately familiar with the Empire’s high-ranking figures. This was the second step: elevating her status.

News was scarce on the island of Britain, and the Duke listened, enthralled, learning that the Empire was indeed in trouble. But a camel that dies is still larger than a horse. The Roman Empire could still face the five-hundred-thousand-strong army of the Huns—a number that made even a country Duke shudder. Compared to the vast territory of the Empire, the province of Britain was a land that could be abandoned.

It was the Empire! For centuries, Britain had been the most insignificant province. It was abandoned because it lacked sufficient value; in the eyes of the Empire, maintaining the province became increasingly unprofitable.

Anya watched his expression closely, continuing to fish. She sighed softly, "I would never have ended up in Britannia by accident. It was all because of the turmoil in North Africa; the Vandals have invaded Carthage. My business has been severely affected."

*Huh?* The Duke pricked up his ears. This was the third step: the temptation of profit. What Anya said was true; after the Empire lost its grain-producing region in North Africa, it fell into a fiscal crisis, and her trading house suffered as well. Anya’s fleet had controlled two trade routes: one from Rome to Alexandria in Egypt, passing through many port cities with immense profits—the most lucrative route, which could even reach Jerusalem and connect to the Silk Road. The other route was from Rome to Carthage, also highly profitable. Now, one arm was severed, and the other broken. Her entire caravan was in trouble. She had taken the sea route to Gaul because the land routes beyond the Alps were already embroiled in war.

*A wealthy woman? A very rich widow?* The Duke was tempted, but looking at the cold, heroic Duncan, he felt he had no chance. How could he compete with that young man who looked like an ancient Greek statue? He was also a cunning man and could tell that, deep down, Anya did not think much of a Duke from Britain. It was like a royal noble from the capital looking down on a local thug in a remote border region.

*She has a fleet? And can run ocean trade in the Mediterranean? East to Alexandria? West to Carthage?* This was incredibly tempting. Britain was remote; it was never the core of the Empire. There had once been ocean trade, but after the Saxon invasion, everything had turned to chaos. The Saxon pirates had almost completely blocked trade with the European continent.

Cornwall was remote, tucked into a corner, but it had one advantage: it was near the coastline. As a competent ruler, the Duke realized this was an opportunity. If he could gain the support of this Roman lady, he might be able to recover—grains, weapons, goods—all could help the economy of Cornwall, which had been ravaged by war.

This was Anya’s method. Only tangible benefits could attract such a political creature. Duncan, standing nearby, was slightly surprised. He had heard the Raven Queen mention that Anya was wealthy and had a merchant fleet, but he hadn't expected her to have reached so far.

In fact, it made sense. A descendant of a fallen noble house (a confidant of Julian the Apostate)—why would she marry a commander of the Imperial field army? Because she was beautiful and wealthy—it was that simple. After her husband died in battle, she had legally inherited most of his family’s fortune. She was truly rich.

*Hmm, it seems I underestimated her. Next time, I’ll be gentler,* Duncan thought to himself.

Anya stopped there, leaving the Duke to his own imagination. Fishing had to be done step by step; she was currently "baiting the hole." Her true goal remained Duncan’s plan for a mercenary army, but her appetite was larger. She wanted to legitimately and legally possess a territory on the island of Britain. Preferably somewhere with a port.

Once she had land in Britain, she could consider transferring part of her wealth there. Although business wouldn't be as good as in the Mediterranean, there were many port cities along the route from Britain to North Africa. With land came opportunity. Most importantly, she could prove that she was the best helpmeet to assist Duncan’s rise!

*Men are always more enjoyable when they are stolen.*

*Hmph! Raven Queen, you are just a barbarian.*

Undoubtedly, the Duke had taken the bait. His position on the island was awkward; King Uther was the King, and he was a Duke, equivalent to a vassal, so he was inferior in both status and power. If not for the Saxon invasion, he would likely have been crushed by Uther. Legend had it that after he died in an accident, Uther would also die two years later, leading to the rise of local lords and the true age of chaos for Britain.

At Tintagel Castle, the Duke, having fled in disgrace, looked grim. Yet, he sent men to accommodate Duncan’s party while ordering his guards to summon troops to defend against further Saxon incursions. His territory was not small; at his peak, he had controlled the area around Winchester, though his base was in Cornwall. His conflicts with Uther were constant, but he had grown weaker, and his vassals had defected to Uther.

Inside the castle, Anya quietly stepped to Duncan’s side and pressed a bag of gold into his hand. "Reward the servants later," she whispered. Don't be too generous, but don't be stingy.

Everyone was hungry from the flight. The Duke, though defeated, still wanted to maintain his dignity and ordered a banquet prepared to welcome his guests. Saxon barbarians were not good at sieges; they might not dare to assault the castle directly. The Duke’s power had plummeted, but as long as he lived and his assets remained, he would not perish just yet.

Duncan nodded slightly. During the banquet preparations, he casually—but noticeably—bestowed gold coins upon the servants and squires. It was just the right amount. Five gold aurei—on the front, a bust of Augustus with a crown and long beard; on the back, a winged goddess of victory. Each weighed about 4.5 grams. Within the Empire, one such coin could exchange for 30 to 50 silver denarii.

This reward left the servants pleasantly surprised and quite obsequious. Romans were arrogant; in their eyes, Britain was a backwater, and the cities were only built because the Romans had helped. The higher Anya held her head, the more they believed her.

Not long after, one of the gold aurei reached the Duke’s hands. He squinted at the coin, listening to the squire’s account, lost in thought. A whole bag of gold. The squire’s eyes had nearly popped out. Who would carry a bag of gold unless they were truly wealthy?

*Clink.*

The Duke tossed the coin back, and the squire caught it joyfully. The Duke was deep in thought—not because of the gold, but because of what it represented. Anya had inadvertently revealed that she had a private armed force—a standard Imperial private legion (the exiles Duncan had recruited). He believed this. Duncan’s strength and fighting style were clearly the hallmark of a trained soldier.

*"This is an opportunity!"*

The Duke realized it, but the problem was how to secure cooperation with this Roman lady. The best way, of course, was to marry this wealthy widow. But his wife would not agree, and the lady might not be willing. Other forms of cooperation were clearly less stable than marriage.

Regardless, this lady, who had appeared as if by fate, gave him a possibility to escape his current plight. This was Anya’s brilliance. She did not intend to beg the Duke for cooperation, nor did she intend to join the British faction as a low-status mercenary. She wanted the Duke to ask for her help, acting as an ally, while incidentally accomplishing what Duncan needed—establishing a foundation of armed strength on the island of Britain.

A legitimate, legal foundation that was not that of an invader, one that could truly take root in Britain!

"My Lord Duke."

"The Lady is here!" a maid reported.

The Duke looked visibly impatient. Igraine had borne him three daughters and no male heir, and after many years of marriage, their relationship had grown cold. He had even considered finding a mistress to produce a son.

Soon, a graceful, beautiful woman walked in. She was in her thirties. Seeing the impatient Duke, she trembled, covering her mouth in panic. Her husband had returned in defeat. *Then who was the person who spent the night with her the day before?*

The Duke, at this moment, did not yet realize that while he had suffered a defeat, his home had been stolen by King Uther.