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

Gareth Irontongs was not having a good day. Or a good week. It wasn't his year, either.

Retirement was supposed to be peaceful and relaxing—time to really focus on his craft and dive into his passion. An opportunity to ignore the pressures of fast-paced city life with its demanding clients wanting everything done now, now, now. He was done with that life and the weapons that came with it—especially swords. If he never had to make one of those gods-awful gem-encrusted hilts again, it would still be too soon.

No, he just wanted to relax and spend an afternoon on a single project. Like making a beautifully-filigreed teacup for his wife. Or fixing his neighbor's plow such that it would last a hundred years longer than its original maker intended.

However, life had other ideas. Things in Habersville were not nearly as quiet as his niece had promised. Not anymore. Mere months after his arrival, the sleepy out-of-the-way town had become a war zone.

Well, not really a war zone. There weren't any battles actually being fought, really, aside from those against the forest's monsters. But it was hard to see it as anything else given the gargantuan army camp that had spring up overnight. And that wasn't the worst of it. Temples were being taken down and constructed anew. Houses had been demolished and replaced. There were great works of moving water in progress, and even the walls were rebuilt in a day.

It was all very exciting—and Gareth hated it.

He let out a resigned sigh as he headed back toward his workshop. After an initial period of tumult, things had slowly begun returning to normal—as normal as they could be under the Legion, at least. But now there were rumors that this army was preparing for war. Actual war, against actual people. That didn't exactly inspire confidence that such a state would last. Especially given that the iron ore in his shop was starting to run low.

Talking to the merchants he knew confirmed that a new shipment was supposed to come in later next week, long before it would actually run out. But would that even make it to the town? The Legion had been pretty strict on the movement of things in and out of town, so he wasn't exactly optimistic. It wasn't like anyone would prioritize the needs of the local blacksmith among all this..

As he stomped back into the smithy, Gareth frowned in distaste. The blast of heat he'd been expecting was nowhere to be found. It barely took him a glance to realize that the bellows had been allowed to grow cold.

He shouted the name of his last remaining apprentice. He'd originally had three of them—useless, incompetent louts who could barely tell the horn of an anvil from its heel. But despite that, they were still his apprentices, and it was his responsibility to whip them into shape. A few months of pumping the bellows would have put some meat on their bones, and then they would have been allowed to get near the furnaces. But no. The idea of hard work and actually learning something useful apparently paled next to these fanciful ideas they'd gotten into their heads.

Despite none of them receiving a combat class from the System, that didn't mean they ever stopped dreaming of adventure. What boy did? And so, with the Legion going around conscripting all the young men, offering the promise of battle and being part of a "real" military, regardless of their classes… it was no wonder where they'd gone.

Not that Gareth approved in the slightest, of course. He was all but certain that the soldiers would use them as shock troops, sure to die in the first engagement. Especially given their lack of combat skills. But that kind of levelheadedness simply never got through to the youth.

Gareth stormed back out of the shop, slamming the door and locking it behind him. Not that anyone really would bother stealing from him. Carrying heavy loads of iron really wasn't worth the effort for most thieves, and he didn't have any sizable commissions anyway. But still—habits were habits.

He headed toward his apprentice's home with a heavy glower that turned aside most of the villagers he passed by. It was entirely possible that Ratcliffe was simply sick or slacking on the job. But given how he'd been acting all week, it was pretty unlikely. Still, if the boy was home, then he'd have a chance to chew him out in person.

Gareth did his best to withhold most of his prodigious strength as he pounded on the door. A startled, slightly exhausted-looking mother emerged from within, blinking up at his towering form. "Gareth?"

"Nancy. Your son 'round?" He crossed his arms, eschewing any polite greetings. He just wasn't in the mood.

She paled. "No. I thought he went to your smithy. Tell me he didn't…"

Gareth blew out a long breath. "Yep. Seems like it."

A whole range of emotions paraded across Nancy's face, finally ending on a fearsome scowl that made even Gareth wince. "That— that bumbleheaded fool! I told him, I did, nothing good would come of it! Why, when he gets home…!" ŗΑɴôᛒËS

Gareth found himself nodding along with the woman's tirade. At some point, she whisked him inside and insisted that he join her for tea while they commiserated over the foolishness of her son. Her furnishings were clearly not made for someone of the blacksmith's size—even the teacup was barely bigger than his thumb—but the hospitality was much appreciated. The drink even had actual honey in it.

For a while, he listened to the good woman complain about how yet another one of her sons had run off to war. He felt for her, he really did. Especially since that was his fucking apprentice. That shit-for-brains maybe would have been good for something ten years from now, once Gareth had managed to knock some sense into him. But now…

After pacing himself so as not to finish the tea in one gulp, Gareth got up very carefully so as not to destroy anything. A half-hour later, he was on his way once again. His glower returned, albeit slightly softened—the tea had actually been really good. But instead of heading back to his forge to continue on what little work he had, his feet took him on a different path. Enough was enough. It was time to find one of those Legion recruiters.

It didn't take long. They were all over the town, after all. But as his shadow fell over the soldier, Gareth realized for a moment how absurd this scene must look. He knew he was a big man, and so most people gave him space. But the tiny recruiter in front of him, who was at least a hand span or two shorter than him and probably was less than half of his weight, simply maintained his gaze like a hardened veteran with absolutely no fear. He could likely have folded the man around his fist with a single punch, but something in that look told him that starting a fight with this man wouldn't go as well as he wanted.

That was fine. Gareth wasn't here to fight in the first place. He didn't even like making weapons, and the last time he had thrown his fists in anger had been almost thirty years ago after a night of too much drinking.

No, words would suffice here.

"Are you people done stealing my apprentices?"He growled in what was lovingly known as his outside voice by his wife.

The Legion member barely flinched. His eyes narrowed slightly, his hand moving to rest on the grip of his sword, but he didn't actually draw it.

Gareth and the Legionnaire stood staring at each other for a long moment. As it stretched on, the blacksmith began to realize that the man had no intention to respond. At all. In fact, once he finally blinked, the Legionnaire began scanning the street once more as though Gareth didn't exist.

Gareth sighed. As satisfying as it had been, he couldn't help but admit that the outburst probably wasn't the best approach here. He tried again, this time using his inside voice. "...Tell me. Why are you people so intent on stealing all the young men in this town?"

The soldier finally acknowledged Gareth, nodding in approval at his shift in attitude. When he spoke, it was in a surprisingly reasonable tone. "We do not steal anyone. The Legion only takes volunteers and conscripts given to us rightfully by a judge or magistrate of your town—for example, those who have committed some sort of crime. In fact, given that we haven't had any conscripts in the last several days, it's likely that your apprentice came to us of his own free will."

Gareth crossed his arms. "Well, we can't have all our young men runnin' off to fight some war. Not if you want this town to keep running. Otherwise, you can say goodbye to the farming, the crafting, the trading—all of it."

"The Legion doesn't—and won't—prevent anyone who wants to join. Especially when there's much need of auxiliaries."

He snorted. "For what, defending the place? Goin' to war? Good luck with that if you can't even leave behind a functioning town. Who's gonna fix the plows, huh? And the tools? Or are you gonna leave me to do everything myself?"

It was a bit of an exaggeration. There were other smiths in town, of course. But if he was losing his apprentices, he imagined that they had as well. And besides, despite his personal frustration with the current state of affairs, he really did believe that this path was doomed for failure. The Legionnaires had to stop taking away all their labor, or this town wouldn't have anything to support itself with.

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"Your complaints are not without merit, though they are not a top priority at the moment. Although…The recruiter looked at him and rubbed his jaw. "Am I right to assume that you're a blacksmith?"

"Damn right you are," Gareth said proudly. He dialed back his volume just a little bit more.

"I see. Do you have a specialization?"

Gareth blinked, surprised by the turn of questioning. His eyes narrowed. "I'm no young man like those fools. If you're thinking to drag me into this army of yours—"

The recruiter chuckled. "I understand. Rest assured, I am not attempting to recruit you. You're far too tall a man for any shield wall."

After a moment, the blacksmith nodded. "Aye, lad. I used to be something of a weapon and armorsmith, but mostly retired now. Just want to work on my farm tools and the like. Took an oath not to make another blade."

It was a bit more than he normally told people, but he wanted to make sure they didn't come to him clamoring for swords and the like. Even if he was damn well good at what he did—better than anyone else in this town, certainly.

The Legionnaire rubbed his chin. "One moment. I need to fetch my superior. I think a centurion would like to talk to you."

The man turned and headed off, leaving Gareth to wait. He soon found himself tapping his toe with his arms crossed impatiently. He hadn't expected things to take this long. Nor had he honestly thought that his complaint would accomplish much past letting out some of his frustration. But they seemed to be taking some kind of action, so this was going better than he'd hoped.

A few minutes later, someone with an even fancier helmet showed up. They went through a quick conversation, and after telling the officer the same information, Gareth found himself walking with the man outside of the town and towards the Legion camp.

He found himself impressed at the structure despite himself. It was even larger than the town, with walls that towered overhead almost excessively. The place was composed mostly of tents and temporary structures, but over the men's time here it had also accumulated a few more permanent ones as well. Nothing like their work in the town, of course. But he still couldn't help a bit of grudging admiration.

Gareth's escort remained quiet for the most part, which suited him just fine. It didn't take long for them to arrive at a tent, at which point he was asked to wait on a small stool that creaked dangerously under his weight. A few minutes later, an aide bustled out.

"Blacksmith Gareth?" he called.

Gareth grunted as he stood. "That's me."

"The Legatus will see you now."

Gareth frowned. From what he understood, the Legatus was supposed to be the leader of this group. The fact that he'd been shunted up the chain of command so quickly baffled him. Hopefully, it meant that the man recognized the importance of smiths and wasn't a portent of something more worrying.

As he followed the soldier into the tent, Gareth found himself swallowing despite himself. Why was he feeling nervous? He had talked to many more powerful people in his time, intimidating ones too. Yet something about the cold efficiency of these Legionnaires still put him on guard.

A large wooden desk dominated the tent's interior. Behind it, a man with gray-streaked hair and a face like weathered rock pored over a collection of tablets and papers. The most opulent helmet yet sat on the desk at his elbow. At the sound of the tent flap, his hard eyes flicked up to see the newcomers.

"You are the blacksmith, Gareth?"

As he stood to greet Gareth, the blacksmith once again noted the man's surprisingly small stature. These soldiers were short, shorter than the average person, yet almost uniformly so. He wondered at that.

"That's me."

The two men clasped forearms. Despite his size, the man's grip was surprisingly strong. Still, Gareth held back so as not to crush his forearm. Better to be safe than sorry.

"Legatus Tiberius." The man—Tiberius—said, sitting back down. "I hear that you have a complaint about my recruiters, Master Smith."

"That's right. And just call me Gareth." Seeing the stools in front of the desk, Gareth plopped down onto one himself, unprompted.

The Legatus gave him a smile and evaluated him with his gaze for a second. The look felt strangely heavy. Not as though the man were using any skills, though. Simply intense, as though he were attempting to peer into the smith's very soul.

"Alright. Gareth, then." Tiberius leaned his elbows on his desk. "I see why my men brought you here. You strike me as a man who has been around to see times change."

He snorted. "You look like you've been around the block a time or two yourself."

The Legatus chuckled. The sound was a low rumble that started deep in his belly. "Mmm. I like you, Gareth. Call me Tiberius."

To his surprise, the Legatus did not immediately launch into the matter at hand. Rather, he began asking questions about Gareth himself and his trade. At first, the blacksmith assumed they were simple pleasantries. But many of the questions showed actual insight and curiosity about his work. Information about his latest projects, inquiries about his shipments, gossip about the quality of certain metals coming from nearby mines… Before long, Gareth felt as though he were simply talking to another smith. A less experienced one, to be sure, but one with some level of general knowledge.

Eventually, the Legatus held up a hand. "Gareth, why are you here in Habersville? You clearly are far more qualified than a place like this would call for. What brought you to the fringe of civilization?"

Gareth's first instinct was to shoot that question right back in Tiberius's face. However, he didn't think that would go very well. As polite as the Legatus had been thus far, it seemed unwise to challenge him like that—especially without good reason.

Instead, he really pondered the question. "I wanted to retire. I just want to work on the finer points of my craft—of smithing in general. I want to leave a legacy that isn't just in blood. I love the fire and the pound of the hammer against metal, the feel of my work transforming a useless hunk of ore into something truly amazing. It's... there's a beauty behind it.

"But war—well, never been my thing." He shrugged. "Tried making that shit for a while, and it didn't do it for me. Even if it paid the bills."

Tiberius leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes locked on Gareth. "You mentioned that, about your oath. And why are you taking apprentices? Surely you don't actually need them to do the work?"

"'Course not," Gareth scoffed, "But someone's gotta pump the bellows. I could do it myself, but... well, transforming the useless into the useful works with people just as well. Give me a decade with any man and I'll turn 'em into something better, someone actually useful to society. It's…" He paused, hesitating for a moment. "It's my way of making a legacy. One beyond just the metal I shape."

Tiberius nodded. "I thought I recognized that in you. I'm not blessed to have children of my own, but if my time in the Senate has taught me one thing, it's this: that Rome itself is a legacy worth leaving. I don't need to leave a personal legacy. So long as I do well by Rome, hers will continue on past me for generations to come."

The Legatus's eyes went unfocused, as though staring into a spot far in the distance. "We are the burning light of civilization. Under the eagle banner, we conquer, and the world is better for it. The idea of Rome is something worth fighting and living our lives for—even dying for."

Gareth shrugged and grunted. "I see you believe that. But it's not me. I'm more about what I can see. Lofty ideals are something a blacksmith doesn't really trade in."

Tiberius nodded. "I can understand that. However, it leads us back to the matter at hand." The man leaned back in his seat. "With all due respect, changing our recruitment process is out of the question. Even if I theoretically could do it, I won't. Especially not now."

Gareth crossed his arms. "I get that you need soldiers. Even if I don't get this war you're lookin' to prepare for. But an army needs smiths, too. Even if you got bodies, you need equipment for them, each and every one. And soldiers are shit at keeping their own. Not a single one I've ever met wastes time learning to repair his kit, much less make the damn stuff."

Tiberius stroked his chin as he leaned back, considering. "I can't give you your apprentices back. They are bound to serve as auxiliaries for their full term. However, I can offer you new apprentices."

The blacksmith's eyes narrowed. "New ones?"

"Indeed. Perhaps not direct ones. But I can guarantee that they will care about smithing. They will want to learn everything you have to teach them. And they will not abandon those efforts partway."

Gareth considered that. Despite his old apprentices being good-for-nothing louts who had only barely come under his tutelage, he had grown rather attached to them. He wouldn't simply pretend that replacing them made everything better. However, if there was a chance that he could teach men who actually wanted to learn…

"Where do you plan to find these 'new apprentices?'" Gareth arched a suspicious eyebrow.

"Among my men." Tiberius held up a hand to forestall the blacksmith's objections. "Let me explain. Amongst my Legion, we take care of our own equipment. Additionally, while all serve as soldiers, we have no shortage of those with additional responsibilities and vocations. Many of the men are somewhat competent smiths. They might not be able to make a blade, but they can repair it. And many of them prefer doing that over soldiering.

"I could have a hundred men volunteering by tomorrow to come and work in your forge. For their duty hours, of course, they would work on Legion-related projects for the most part. But if you desire teaching to be your legacy…"

"I won't be making blades again," Gareth interrupted.

Tiberius nodded. "I understand. Would you object to your apprentices forging them?"

Gareth tilted his head and thought about it, considering it deeply. After a long moment, he shrugged. "That's their business. As long as I don't need to."

"Good." The Legatus relaxed back in his chair, apparently pleased. "Then I will be more than happy to provide the manpower. The materials as well, though I expect you will have some specifications on that front."

The blacksmith shook his head in disbelief. "'Course. Gotta say, though, that's one odd army you're running—what kind of man puts [Blacksmiths] alongside their [Soldiers]? Or do your [Soldiers] waste some of their skill slots on smithing skills?"

"Anyone who I send to you will have at least some related skills," Tiberius guaranteed. "Learning which are most worthwhile and valuable will be part of their tutelage."

An odd army indeed. Gareth shook his head at the strangeness of the request. Still, he would be getting something out of it. Even if he would be working closer to the military than he would have liked, the opportunity seemed too enticing to pass up. It would give him a great opportunity to pass on his craft. If it worked out, of course.

Tiberius smiled. "I think you'll find yourself surprised by my men's dispositions toward learning. A Legion is more than a simple military. Much more. Back home, some of the senators joked that they're more of an engineer team that occasionally engages in war."

Gareth threw back his head and laughed.

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