Chapter Thirty-Four: Renowned Far and Wide! The Legend Spreads!

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Along the coastline, Kvetto stepped onto the soil of Britain, his face alight with excitement. He saluted Duncan and reported, “My lord, the first two hundred recruits have all arrived.”

Clad in Roman field army scale armor, wearing an iron helmet, wielding a large shield, and with a heavy short sword at his waist and a spear on his back, he looked much stronger than when they last met. A layer of fat had settled around his midsection—no doubt a sign of good food and drink, combined with steady training. His physical condition had fully recovered.

The initial batch of mercenary recruits all appeared healthy, having shed the pallor and gauntness that once plagued them.

Duncan nodded and patted his shoulder. “Very good. Follow me.”

He then headed toward Krigan’s direction. Upon seeing the Sarmatian cavalryman, Kvetto’s heart skipped a beat. The Sarmatians held a pivotal role in the Imperial army—as elite mercenaries, they were indispensable cavalry forces.

Early Roman cavalry had always been a weak spot, but after integrating the Sarmatians, the cavalry strength had significantly improved.

Duncan fixed his gaze on Krigan and said gravely, “This is Kvetto, commander of the mercenary legion. You are to assist him in training this unit.”

Relieved, Kvetto exhaled quietly, having feared his position might be usurped again.

Krigan nodded solemnly. “Understood, my lord.”

Though a seasoned cavalryman skilled also in infantry combat, Krigan was no infantry commander. He would only temporarily assist in training; the Sarmatian horsemen were best employed in cavalry units.

—Exile Mercenary Legion (High Morale) (New Beginning) (Trained) (Moderate Discipline)!

From a divine vantage point, this reorganized legion carried several designations. Training quality was ranked in three tiers: untrained (rabble), trained, and well-trained. Discipline also had three levels: undisciplined, moderately disciplined, and strictly disciplined. Above these were elite units—not considered regular troops—comparable to Spartan hoplites, Roman Praetorians, or Imperial Eagle legions.

Typically, higher training corresponded with better discipline—excluding the barbarian berserkers.

This mixed legion numbered over two hundred soldiers, including traditional Celtic warriors recruited by Severus.

Following Duncan was a burly guard, a Celt who had migrated from Gaul.

—Gaul Oathbound Warriors (Two Stars)!

This was the only two-star unit recruited by Severus, named Culin. In Celtic mythology, a geis is a recurring concept—translated as a sacred taboo, prohibition, or oath. It held great significance yet remained deeply mysterious.

There was even a weapon called the “Sword of the Victory Oath,” and Culin was precisely such an oath-bound Celtic warrior.

When the Empire first conquered Gaul, these oathbound warriors inflicted considerable losses on the Imperial heavy infantry. They were elite infantry units with certain extraordinary abilities.

Duncan turned to Kvetto and asked, “I recall there are over thirty of the Exiles who are of Gaulish origin, correct?”

“Assign them to Culin to reorganize into an assault infantry unit.”

The Exiles were a complex mix.

Various peoples from different ethnicities had melded together, unified by their status as “the bankrupt.” Most could be reorganized into Imperial mercenary legions, but a minority with barbarian heritage could be formed into special units.

Duncan busied himself until midday, finally settling these men near a coastal village.

In the afternoon, a rider named Gill arrived with a detachment, delivering some supplies. These had been squeezed from the Duke of Tintagel’s meager resources. He was also recruiting local warriors, planning a counteroffensive to reclaim some lost territory.

Britain was not short on food—its population was sparse, with a peak of only two to three million, now reduced to barely over a million. After the Empire abandoned the province, many Romans relocated, and Saxon pirate raids had slaughtered many.

Now Britain was a vast land with few people, surrounded by sea, with sufficient fisheries to avoid famine. What it lacked were other resources, especially iron armor, which would have to wait for Anya’s trading caravans.

Gill dismounted and hurried over, eyes filled with reverence as he lowered his head. “Lord Duncan, the Duke has reassembled over a thousand men, preparing to reclaim Devon.”

“He sent me with some supplies to reward the legion.”

Though Duncan had only brought two hundred men, he was already a minor warlord in this Britain. The island had once been divided into a dozen or so petty kingdoms—tribal chieftains at best—with combined forces of barely a few thousand, mostly militia.

The Duke of Tintagel had suffered a defeat and urgently needed to restore his prestige. He sought to exploit the Kentish kingdom’s internal strife to regain lost lands. Cornwall was a poor mountainous region, much like Wales—a backwater.

If Duncan hadn’t shot the King of Kent earlier, the Duke might have been utterly crushed.

“Launching a counterattack so soon?”

Duncan’s expression grew grave. “Too hasty. What fighting power do these hastily raised native troops really have?”

The natives referred to Celts not fully Romanized; those around London had largely assimilated.

Gill lowered his gaze. “Reconnaissance riders report the Saxon garrison in Devon is withdrawing.”

“Retaking that land shouldn’t require much fighting.”

The further east in Britain, the more mountainous and forested the terrain. Cornwall was rugged, but to the west lay more plains. The Empire had built paved roads early on and established over a dozen tribal administrative districts and more than thirty towns to facilitate urban management and troop deployment.

Each tribe was roughly equivalent to a minor kingdom or county.

After securing Devonshire, advancing toward London would mean facing large-scale legionary battles, with Saxon barbarian troop movements easier to coordinate.

However, plains were harder to defend once taken.

The richest lands of Britain lay around the Thames near London. The Empire had developed this region for centuries; major towns clustered there. London even had a university—not like our modern conception, but an imperial adult school serving nobles to assimilate native British ruling classes.

Assimilate the nobility first, then have them guide the assimilation of the common folk.

“Could it be that my killing caused their full withdrawal?”

Duncan entertained the possibility.

Barbarian forces were limited; abandoning remote areas made defense easier.

If Duncan killed a dozen of them daily, their garrison morale would collapse swiftly.

The enemy had only a few thousand soldiers, including militia and servant troops totaling perhaps ten thousand.

Let the Duke of Tintagel reclaim Devon if he wishes. Duncan was not ready to act yet; his exile forces were still forming—he needed at least four or five hundred men to fight a pitched battle.

The exile camp was at a deserted village called Tiram.

Duncan ordered Kvetto and Krigan to assist in training, while he prepared to recruit more Britons, aiming to form three companies of a hundred men each.

Quality over quantity.

His resources could not support a larger force.

Night fell.

Suddenly, the sound of hoofbeats echoed outside the camp, followed by Kvetto rushing in, his face alight with excitement.

“My lord,” he said hurriedly, “someone wishes to see you.”

Huh?

Duncan rose, Gaulish guards close behind. Outside, a dozen horsemen approached, led by a man with bluish skin, as if painted with some dye—bearing fearsome totemic tattoos.

—Hornland Noble Cavalryman (One Star).

—Britannian Hunters.

—Cantii Auxiliary Infantry.

Cantii referred to natives living around Kent, later spreading elsewhere. They were the unluckiest branch of Britons—the Kingdom of Kent was built on their ancestral lands.

This small band numbered just twenty-seven: six cavalry, twenty-one infantry, poorly equipped, some ragged, almost savage. Only half wore leather armor.

The noble cavalry leader wore chainmail and looked at Duncan with surprise, scrutinizing him by the firelight.

Rumors about Duncan had grown wildly exaggerated—he was almost hailed as a legendary hero.

“You are the Duncan who shot the King of Kent?”

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The noble cavalryman’s expression was haughty and somewhat incredulous. Duncan’s physique was less imposing than the tales suggested. Beside him, Culin and Krigan resembled the native warriors of legend—broad-shouldered, muscular, fierce as wild beasts.

Such figures fit the native image of a hero better.

—Intimidation (Special Ability)!

Bathed in firelight, Duncan narrowed his eyes; his gaze was deep as an abyss, radiating a menacing aura. An invisible chill swept the air, causing the flames to flicker wildly.

The noble’s warhorse spooked, and the rider, overwhelmed by Duncan’s presence, stumbled from his saddle.

For a moment, he seemed to see visions of rolling heads and rivers of blood in the darkness.

When he looked up again, panic etched his face, but he still stiffly said, “My lord, you’re different from the rumors.”

Duncan chuckled. “What kind of rumors?”

The noble hesitated. “They say you’re mighty and towering, like a giant. That you can tame wild horses barehanded, fight tigers and leopards, wield unmatched archery skills, and eat an entire ox in one sitting.”

Such absurd rumors?

Duncan smiled. “And why have you come?”

The noble’s expression wavered, then he gritted his teeth. “We heard your legend and came to pledge ourselves, to fight the invading Saxon barbarians alongside you.”

“But…”

“The rumors are too exaggerated. I wanted to see for myself, to convince my men.”

He added, “We have over three hundred men, currently stationed over the valley.”

A minor exiled lord—no wonder he carried some arrogance, daring to test Duncan’s strength.

As Duncan rose, Culin stepped forward, tattooed chest exposed, kneeling on one knee. “My lord, leave it to me.”

Upon seeing Culin, the Celtic warriors on either side showed disappointment and withdrew.

News of Krigan’s knighthood had spread through the camp.

Others were eager as well. Though Duncan had yet to reclaim territory, the knightly title had widened the gap between Krigan and the rest—especially Kvetto, who envied and resented him; he regretted not coming to Britain sooner.

“I was here first!”

Though fewer in number, the Celtic warriors under Culin had their own ambitions. As natives, they longed to make a name on this land.

Krigan planned to form a small cavalry squad and return to his homeland, recruiting more Sarmatian horsemen integrated with natives. He had childhood companions in the region and could easily recruit retainers under his knightly banner.

“To leave home without glory is like wearing fine clothes at night—unnoticed.”

First establish one’s reputation in battle, then return home to boast, bringing men to strengthen one’s personal guard.

A smooth, flowing plan, bolstered by loyal followers.

Outside the camp.

Duncan glanced at him and nodded slightly.

Culin, excited, did not even draw his weapon but waved the sword sheath at the newcomers—a slight insult!

The Cantii noble cavalryman, furious, drew his sword and raised his shield, charging at Culin. He had some skill, clearly trained from youth, more in horsemanship than infantry fighting, which was average.

Clang! Clang!

In single combat, the two-star veteran’s skill showed clearly. Culin blocked the noble’s one-handed sword with his scabbard, then charged and easily toppled him, shieldless and unprepared. The nobleman sprawled helplessly; just as he looked up in frustration, the scabbard was held at his throat.

His footing was unstable; he was likely stronger on horseback.

“Such skill, and they dare challenge Lord Duncan?” Culin sneered.

A traditional Gaul oathbound warrior, elite heavy infantry of the first echelon, capable of fighting Imperial Praetorians, even charging Spartan hoplites head-on in the pre-Christian era—a rare breed able to breach Spartan formations.

Frankly, the Cantii noble cavalryman was no match. Even a mounted charge could be countered and turned into a kill.

Severus recruited few, but they were strong.

True elite units had yet to arrive: the Old Gods’ temple guards recruited by the Raven Queen Triss were the real heavy hitters.

Duncan stepped forward and helped the humiliated Cantii rider up.

He glanced at Culin, who immediately withdrew respectfully, shedding his earlier arrogance, returning to the Celtic ranks.

That fellow knew how to put on a show.

Duncan patted the noble’s shoulder. “What is your name?”

“Talon Sari,” the Cantii cavalryman replied respectfully.

Duncan pondered a moment. “Bring your men here for retraining. My fleet will soon bring more food and weapons from North Africa.”

The venture still depended heavily on Anya.

A wealthy benefactor was indeed invaluable.

Talon’s force had only a third capable fighters; the rest were militia, forming auxiliary units. After reorganization, Duncan’s force had fewer than three hundred true infantry, with more than two hundred auxiliaries—not suited for heavy fighting.

Today’s events seemed like a signal. When over ten more arrived on the third day, Duncan began to sense something amiss.

“Is my reputation really that renowned?”

“Why have hundreds suddenly come to pledge themselves? And Welsh archers too?”

The third morning was even more remarkable.

Most of the recent arrivals were refugees who had lost lands to Saxon pirates—mainly exiled Cantii, Brigantes, and Votadini—native tribes forced into mountain exile, desperate to reclaim their homes.

When Duncan saw over a dozen one-star Welsh archers, he fully grasped the power of legend.

Wales was not occupied by barbarians; they had come purely because of Duncan’s name!

That was the realm of King Uther.

The Welsh archer leader looked puzzled. When asked, he answered honestly, “I don’t know either…”

“The Druid priests said, to fight the invading Saxons, come pledge to Lord Duncan!”

“So we came together.”

They mainly sought glory and advancement—the mountain folk’s lives were hard. They hoped to transcend social status through valor.

Druids?

Avalon shrouded in mist?

Duncan immediately thought of the faeries guarding Avalon. Recently, he’d heard wild rumors linking him to Avalon. Because of this, natives still adhering to traditional beliefs flocked to him, swelling the legion to nearly six hundred men.

His legendary renown seemed to enhance not only his dimensional strength but also his real-world influence.

In just half a month, his name had spread throughout Britain.

…

Avalon is helping me?

Duncan incorporated the Welsh archers into a nearly hundred-strong ranged unit, all self-supplied with provisions, weapons, leather armor, and arrows.

The Britannian Hunters became the "Britannian Auxiliary Archers" after reorganization.

Talon’s three hundred-plus, mostly farmers, herders, and militia, were formed into two companies as the "Britannian Coastal Militia."

“Logistics are tight.”

When Kvetto approached with the ledger, Duncan realized feeding so many men and horses was draining his coffers.

Anya, where are you?

I miss you so much!

Though only some six hundred men, supporting them was costly. Daily food, drink, maintenance, and training would require a hundred gold coins monthly—without paying wages. An Imperial legion’s operating costs would be several times higher; a hundred-man field company needed nearly a thousand gold annually.

The Imperial field army was notorious for its expense, far exceeding other forces.

Of course, this was for regular troops, the main combatants. Auxiliary legions cost far less. Imperial soldiers were paid quarterly, with a company costing about 350 gold coins per quarter—a tight budget requiring reliance on loot and rewards.

Barbarian troops received half the pay but shared loot and land.

Duncan’s recruits were unpaid for now, but daily sustenance was unavoidable. Feeding five or six hundred burly men was no small expense. By Duncan’s standards, they wouldn’t be starved; at least one meat meal a day—fish or game—was mandatory, even if it drained the treasury.

The large crowds eating attracted nearby Britons, forming a small market outside camp. Fishermen brought catches to exchange for household goods.

Duncan still had to equip them—shields, weapons, miscellaneous gear—draining his purse. Many remained without armor, relying on rudimentary shields.

Anya’s pouch of gold was slowly but surely depleted.

“We can’t wait any longer!”

“Time for live-fire exercises.”

Realizing his funds were nearly exhausted, Duncan resolved to act.

Reconnaissance cavalry scouted!

Krigan and Talon each led a dozen scouts—about twelve riders total. Duncan had few cavalry; horses were mostly stolen or captured. Buying mounts was beyond his means.

Local chieftains had their own escorts; Duncan’s only cavalry were Celtic infantrymen. His resources paled in comparison.

The Duke of Tintagel had reclaimed most of Devon, even capturing Exeter.

His forces were now engaged in a stalemate near Dorset.

In plain terms, the Duke was advancing rapidly, regaining a county-sized territory, probing the Saxon pirates in the neighboring county, both seeking opportunities to crush the other.

The day passed swiftly.

As Duncan prepared to move,

“Fleet!” came a cheer from the coast.

“Ships arriving!”

Duncan sprang up, hurrying toward the shore.

Anya’s fleet!

The beloved sorceress Anya had finally returned.

There were no proper harbors nearby; unloading took time. Anya’s fleet consisted of six merchant ships and three smaller vessels, all shallow-draft Mediterranean traders. The Saxon pirates controlled nearby coasts, making the journey risky, but fortunately, no trouble arose.

Anya stood on deck, dressed in an opulent Roman noblewoman’s court gown, resembling a proud peacock.

The Church’s influence had grown; Roman traditional attire had evolved. Anya wore early Imperial noblewomen’s dresses, reminiscent of those in Spartacus—noble gowns with slight exposure, enhancing her beauty and grace.

After the Church became state religion, Imperial fashion changed; arenas closed, Olympics ceased, and society grew more conservative.

Men carried goods ashore—shields, javelins, heavy short swords, food, cloth, dried meat—all packed to the brim.

Anya strode onto the shoreline, head held high, flashing Duncan a coquettish smile. “I sold my North African estate at a low price.”

“From now on, I must rely on you.”

“This is the first batch of supplies; the sale of my Roman estates will take more time.”

She had truly sacrificed everything.

Though a noblewoman with many aristocratic flaws, Anya possessed far greater boldness and decisiveness than most men.

This shipment relieved Duncan’s urgent needs. The only regret was the lack of armor—even Anya could not procure standard Imperial field armor.

One ship carried some leather armor, enough to equip some men.

Duncan said nothing, only clasped Anya’s hand, interlacing their fingers, then raised her hand high, motioning to the others. Cheers erupted.

Flushed with excitement, Anya seemed to relish the attention.

“I also brought some people with me.”

On the way back to camp, Anya whispered in Duncan’s ear, “They are former Imperial military merchants.”

“Unneeded loot can be sold to them.”

—Military Merchants.

—Imperial Mercenary Guards.

Duncan had noticed them already—their guards wore Imperial mercenary legion garb, some wielding crossbows.

The Empire rose through war.

Since before the common era, Imperial legions were followed by many military merchants. They bought loot at discounted prices and supplied the legions with needed materials, partially replacing civilian labor.

All for profit.

Military merchants were highly profitable, shrewd businessmen. Their resale of loot could double the value elsewhere. Loot converted to cash was distributed among the legion according to merit.

Everyone benefited, provided commanders were honest, and soldiers’ pockets swelled after victories.

Roman foreign wars often yielded huge gains—massive war reparations from Carthage, Mediterranean dominance; Macedonian war reparations alone reached 120 million denarii, with annual tributes afterward—roughly three years’ national tax revenue.

Since before the common era, military merchants had grown alongside the legions, even handling loot from barbarian Huns’ raids.

As long as profit existed, they dared anything!

Inside the camp.

With Anya’s return, her merchant associates immediately took over logistics. Few Britons could read or do arithmetic, but Romans generally received higher education. Anya’s guild managed trade routes between North Africa, Carthage, and Alexandria—handling logistics for five to six hundred men was no problem.

As she left the tent, Anya hooked her pinky finger in Duncan’s palm, a subtle expression of seeking reward on her lovely face.

She was famished from constant travel, sun, and wind.

The Raven Queen Triss looked on indifferently, her gaze following Anya’s graceful, curvaceous departure, eyes distant and contemplative.

Her meeting with Merlin was not smooth.

Simply put, Merlin was a moderate, favoring the Church, unwilling to meddle in such troubles, and felt no obligation to aid her.

Duncan knew this when Triss returned without mentioning Merlin. Whether Merlin helped or not was irrelevant; he was never part of Duncan’s plans.

In such chaotic times, one could rely only on oneself!

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