For the Glory of Rome: Chronicles of an Isekai'd Legion

Gareth Irontongs was just settling down for the night, drifting away into a particularly pleasant dream, when a sudden noise jarred him into wakefulness.

One eye creaked open as he stifled a grumble of annoyance. Beside him, his wife slumbered on, her comparatively petite form motionless except for the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. As always, the sight of her peacefully lying there brought him comfort. Even if it was spoiled somewhat by her thunderous snoring.

He waited a moment, listening for more. The fact that he'd heard the sound at all over his wife was nothing short of impressive. But now that he was awake, he could hear some sort of activity in the far distance. Still, there were no shouts of alarm or follow-up horns closer to town. Whatever the problem was, it seemed to be none of Habersville's business—or his.

After deciding that the alarm wasn't meant for them, Gareth closed his eyes once more and tried to get back to sleep. Only, it refused to come. That drowsy state that he'd been so rudely pulled from refused to reappear as his mind whirred back to life with thoughts and ideas. After lying awake for a long while, Gareth sighed and admitted that his efforts simply weren't going anywhere. Not tonight at least.

He carefully shifted the blankets off himself, grasping the handle he had installed into the wall to ease his weight off it without making the whole thing bounce upward. The springs quietly protested, and he steadied them with a hand, slowly releasing them so as not to disturb his wife. Each of those thousand springs had taken him hours to forge, but Gareth had no complaints. Both the time and the extravagant expense had been worthwhile for a bed as comfortable as it was sturdy.

Sure, goose feathers were comfortable, but they didn't offer enough support for a man like him. His bulk tended to flatten them so much that they didn't feel any softer than the wood underneath when he laid down. But these springs? He'd thought the idea was simply the ramblings of a drunkard when he'd first heard it, but after trying it himself, he couldn't imagine ever going back. The only issue was the disproportionate size difference between himself and his wife. If he wasn't careful, too sudden of a movement on his part could send her launching straight into the air.

Gareth stepped toward the window to peek outside. He and his wife lived on the second story, just above his already tall shop, meaning he was able to see a good bit farther than most. His view revealed nothing particularly notable aside from some sort of movement over at the Legion's camp just outside the walls.

Nodding, he began to get dressed. With his high-level stats, the blacksmith only really needed to sleep once a week. It wasn't uncommon for him to just lay in bed until his wife went to sleep, then get up and do something else. Considering how heavy of a sleeper she was, the arrangement worked out quite well. He'd been hoping that this wouldn't be one of those nights, though.

With a heavy sigh, Gareth made his way downstairs. Hopefully no one would complain if he went down and got his forge started for a few hours. There were plenty of quieter bits of work he could take care of. He would just take it easy on the hammering. Though honestly, his wife's snoring might be enough to drown even that out. Maybe he really should look into that soundproofing idea for his neighbors' sakes.

Tiberius stood in his command tent, poring over maps, reports, and troop positions. A few of his staff officers remained close by, ready to jot down notes or fetch someone if the need arose. Many already had messages to relay, but they would wait until morning. He tried to avoid disturbing anyone unless absolutely necessary—it was late, and most of the camp was either enjoying the evening or already asleep.

Thinking about it, he realized that he'd probably spent more time in a tent like this than anywhere else in his life. It had to be a close contender for first place, even competing with his own bed. Though nowadays, Tiberius found he no longer needed much sleep. Age and duty had whittled down his rest requirements to four or five hours at most. He would wake stiff and sore most mornings, but his mind remained sharp. And that was a blessing he valued even more.

One finger tapped out a steady rhythm atop a stack of reports. The scouts who had been sent to check the mines had returned. They reported a small force stationed there—maybe a hundred people at most. The scouts had attempted to make estimates about their levels and classes, but despite taking the [Appraisal] skill, such information wasn't exactly forthcoming. Apparently, its effects worked best on beings that were at a lower level than oneself.

Still, the information itself was valuable. The scouts' own experience allowed them to gain a rough estimate of the skill and temperament of the forces they'd observed, and they didn't seem particularly troubling. Nothing that would pose a serious threat, though Tiberius remained wary of any System nonsense that would beg to differ. There weren’t even signs of preparations for an invasion. Either word of the war they'd declared hadn't yet reached this far, or the men were simply too complacent—or confident—to care.

Of course, taking the mines was one thing. Keeping

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No, the bigger and more pressing challenge was mobilization. Even if the defenders each fought with the strength of several men—which Tiberius highly doubted, given what he'd seen so far—the mines could easily be taken with a single cohort. Five hundred or so men would put the odds well in their favor. But Tiberius saw an opportunity for training. His troops needed more practice—real combat experience, not just hunting monsters.

Hunting had been only a minor part of their duties until recently, with the most dangerous creature they ever encountered being a rogue lion. Even then, the locals usually handled such matters. Now, however, slaying monsters were becoming a more significant part of their duties—and one that he didn't expect to lessen anytime soon.

But as much as that rang true, it didn't change what the Legion was best at. His men were trained to crush armies. And while the force at the mines was small—far less than a cohort, and even smaller than a century—it was an army nonetheless. Taking them on would be a good experience for his troops, even if most of them wouldn’t directly participate. It would also give them valuable intel on how larger armed forces conducted themselves in this world.

Tiberius wrestled with the decision of how many cohorts to send. One? Two? Perhaps as many as four? The more he sent, the more confident he would feel in the results, but perhaps a little challenge would make the training aspects more effective. There was also the matter of leaving men here at their stronghold to watch over things. And should he go himself, or use this as an opportunity to test his officers?

As he weighed the pros and cons yet again, a sudden, chilling sensation swept over him. His skin prickled with dread and sourceless grief, as though a ghost had thrust a blade of ice in his gut.

He froze, his gaze shifting instinctively to the tent wall. He stared at a precise spot off in the distance without knowing entirely why. His officers did the same.

Something had been lost. A small sliver of the comfort he drew from his troops and their unity dissipated, replaced by an overwhelming surge of emotion—an almost tangible fury. Not just his own, but that of his men. A feeling of tangible oneness among all of his Legionnaires crystallized for a brief moment, flaring to life as though to contrast the sudden loss. The connections burned with sudden, righteous anger.

Tiberius was certain he knew what had happened. He didn’t know how or why or even the source of his certainty. But without the shadow of a doubt, he knew: a Legion member had died.

He turned to one of his aides, his voice low but commanding. “Ready the first and second cohorts,” he ordered. Then, to another: “Bring me my armor.”

Within seconds, the signal horn blasted through the camp, and the mobilization began.

***

The sound of the horns blaring through camp snapped everyone out of the spell they'd fallen under. Marcus watched on, taking in the scene around him as time seemed to resume for the Legionnaires. Gone was the atmosphere of rest and joviality. Instead, figures poured from tents and scurried about like an angry tide of ants, each moving with purpose and certainty.

He quickly stepped back to move out of the way of one such Legionnaire, then forward again to avoid being trampled by another pair. Marcus quickly realized that he'd need a better place to stand if he wanted to avoid dancing around like a drunken heron. But with the camp abuzz like this, no such spot seemed particularly forthcoming.

"Only the first and second cohorts. The lucky fuckers… they might as well have fallen in a manure heap and found gold.”

Marcus looked over at Cassius. The Legionnaire was standing now, in the midst of donning his armor. A dark expression accompanied his words.

A centurion nearby gave the man a glare and smacked him on the back of the head. “Stop complaining and get moving. Even if we're not deployed, we still need to be on guard. We cannot allow an enemy to get close to camp.”

Marcus belatedly processed the words and blinked. The Legion was comprised of several smaller subunits that came together to form a singular army. One of these subunits was a cohort, a large formation led by a relatively small staff of three officers: a centurion, a standard-bearer, and a second. Each cohort was comprised of several centuries, with each century holding somewhere between 80 and 120 men.

They were sending out two cohorts. If he wasn't mistaken, that was almost a thousand soldiers. A thousand soldiers, all to deal with whatever had felled one of their number.

He eventually found a place where he could remain out of the way as the camp erupted like a kicked beehive. Within moments, ranks of Legionnaires had formed facing the direction of the first horn blast from deep in the forest. Centurions started marching forward even as men continued forming up behind them. Marcus couldn’t help but gape at the speed of the response. In less than a minute, the men had gone from resting to armed and on the move. If he didn't know better, he would have suspected some sort of skill at play.

Still, as centurions and soldiers continued to fall into place, more and more rows of men marched at an incredible pace into the forest. At the same time, the remaining men began positioning themselves along the camp walls or forming into smaller groups of eight to ten, patrolling the edge of the forest. It felt as though he'd barely blinked before an entire defensive perimeter sprang into existence.

Marcus allowed himself one more look around before moving to follow the mobilized cohorts. If that sensation hadn't already clued him in, this whole sequence had made it clear that something was happening—something big. And this time, Marcus would not allow himself to hear about it secondhand. He wanted to be there and see the story that was about to unfold. After all, how else could he ensure that future audiences fell privy to the most heroic and juiciest details?

He broke into a jog, internally cursing the marching speed of the soldiers. He could already feel how sore his legs would be in the morning.