Chapter 59: The Final Glory of the Empire!

Duncan began his preparations.

Since he was going to take a large number of Britain's elite troops with him this time, he had to set up defenses in advance. He left Clevito in command of the garrison at Porchester Castle, which served as the western gateway to the British Isles. As long as Porchester Castle did not fall, Southampton would be completely secure.

Moreover, the Saxons had not yet finished fighting the Picts. Word had it that a great many of their elite forces had been slaughtered by the legendary Black-Sword Warrior. Such rumors hinted at ancient lore, and this warrior likely belonged to a tier of ultra-rare, elite combat units.

Clevito wore a look of disappointment. What, I'm not coming along this time either?

There was no helping it.

He was not particularly skilled at horseback riding and came from a strictly infantry background. Leaving him behind to guard the rear was far more useful. Duncan was definitely taking Creggan and the Sarmatian riders with him.

"Pick out everyone who knows how to ride horses."

Duncan did not just want elites; besides being capable fighters, there was a prerequisite—they had to know how to ride a horse, reaching at least the proficiency level of mounted infantry. Anyone who had ridden a horse in his past life knew that riding a docile horse was not difficult, and anyone with a little practice could manage it. However, fighting on horseback was an entirely different matter, demanding extremely high equestrian skills.

His plan was to select men with a foundational grasp of riding and turn them into mounted infantry the moment they touched a horse.

As for where the horses would come from?

There were not many horses on the British Isles, but the Huns had plenty. He would temporarily store them with the Huns and retrieve them when the opportunity arose.

The Hunnic Western Expedition had brought over a million horses. This time, Attila the Scourge of God had mobilized a massive cavalry force, with many elite riders maintaining two horses each. If Duncan seized the right opportunities, he might even be able to assemble a Dragon-Banner Cavalry unit right here in Britain.

Inside the military camp.

Duncan walked up to a young lad, only fifteen or sixteen years old. The boy was relatively tall, but still clean-shaven, lacking even the faintest hint of a mustache. Meeting Duncan's intense, pressurized gaze, he mustered his courage, lifted his chin, and puffed out his chest, trying to look as valiant as the rest of them.

Duncan frowned, his voice deep. "What is your name?"

The youth answered loudly, "Karl! My lord."

Duncan turned his head to glance at Creggan, a trace of displeasure on his face. "He isn't even sixteen yet, is he? Why recruit someone so young into the cavalry?"

Just as Creggan opened his mouth to reply, the youthful lad blurted out loudly, "I am already sixteen years old, my lord."

Even so, he was far too young.

His domain's manpower was not so desperately strained that he needed to send a tender sixteen-year-old boy onto the battlefield. Among the exiles, there were plenty of able-bodied young men, all eager to win glory and establish achievements in battle.

After all, Duncan had never lost a single battle to this day!

Taking a deep breath, the young lad met Duncan's gaze with a resolute expression and eyes filled with reverence. "My lord! My elder brother once marched alongside you and slew Hosa!"

"I wish to become a valiant knight just like him!"

What?!

The offspring of the General's Bodyguard?!

The displeasure on Duncan's face vanished. He carefully looked the boy up and down, his expression shifting gradually as a sense of familiarity stirred within him, awakened by the youth's tender features.

If this was the descendant of an elite guard knight, that changed everything.

Under any circumstances, the door was wide open for them, because they were the personal guards who had truly risked their lives fighting side by side with Duncan.

Much like the elite Jiangdong youths who served Xiang Yu, the Hegemon of Western Chu—they had fought to the very last breath!

Twenty-eight men breaking through the encirclement of an army of five hundred.

Gazing at the youth's face, Duncan asked in a deep voice, "Is your brother Jill?"

They shared a striking resemblance.

The young lad looked deeply moved, filled with a sense of shared glory, proud that Duncan still remembered his brother's name. With a resolute nod, he answered, "Yes, my lord."

During the battle of Hosa, nearly half of the General's Bodyguard had fallen. Everyone had received pensions and rewards benchmarked against standard medieval knights. Jill's family should have been granted a small knight's fief—likely no more than the land of a tiny village. Because Jill had left no wife or offspring, the fief would have been inherited by his brothers. According to Roman tradition, the title would typically be passed to a brother's son, who would be legally recognized as Jill's son to inherit his estate, ensuring the title remained with the family since it was won with blood.

With a small knight's fief, their livelihood would be secure, affording them an upper-middle-class standard of living.

Bodyguard or not, these men were minor landowners, required to lay down their lives when the critical moment arrived!

The casualty rate among the personal guards could sometimes reach a staggering one hundred percent.

This youthful boy had volunteered to join the army; he was different from the ordinary conscripts.

Duncan said nothing more.

He patted the boy on the shoulder and turned away. As he reached the camp entrance, he instructed Creggan, who walked beside him, "Take him under your personal instruction. Do your best to keep him alive."

Swords and arrows have no eyes on the battlefield.

In this upcoming clash between the Imperial Allied Forces and Attila the Scourge of God, the danger level was no less than that of Liu Bang facing Xiang Yu. Although Attila's personal martial prowess was not freakishly terrifying, the Hunnic bodyguards surrounding him were each exceptionally ferocious combatants.

Historically, in this very battle, the Visigothic king was shot down from his horse by a volley of arrows and trampled to death by the thundering heavy cavalry.

Patrician Aëtius led his elite cavalry in a fierce charge, only to lose his bearings entirely and end up trapped deep within the Visigothic camp, nearly believing he would die that day.

As for the chieftains of minor tribes who perished in the fray, they were too numerous to count. The battle was immensely brutal; heavy infantry clashed directly with the charge of elite cavalry, their iron horsemen repeatedly gouging through each other's lines. On that battlefield, silver-gray tier-two eagle-archers were countless, and legendary Hunnic eagle-shooting heroes might even have made an appearance.

These were the men among the eagle-archers who bore the title of 'Hero,' typically boasting astonishing combat records, such as personally slaying barbarian chieftains.

On the imperial side, Aëtius had committed nearly the entire strength of the Western Empire's Eagle-Standard elite legions.

Any gamer who had played Total War knew what the Empire's Eagle-Standard Legions represented!

These were the absolute last reserves of the Empire.

Attila's devastation of northern Gaul had shocked all the barbarian tribes of the Western Roman Empire, making everyone realize that relying on their own strength alone was impossible against the Hunnic hordes.

Seizing this rare moment of shared hatred against a common enemy, Aëtius traveled far and wide, exerting his supreme political acumen to forge a unified front against the Huns. Germanic tribes from Gaul and Hispania, and even Celtic tribes from Britain, dispatched troops to reinforce him. The Visigothic king Theodoric, Aëtius's bitter rival of twenty years, personally led his army to assist.

Duncan's force was not the only reinforcement from the British Isles; numerous Celtic tribes had also sent over a thousand men, repaying the debt from decades past when the Empire, despite abandoning the British Diocese, had repeatedly dispatched legions from Gaul to help them drive back the Saxon pirates.

Twenty-odd years ago, the Empire had still been dispatching legions across the sea to fight, rushing them back to Gaul to defend against barbarians the moment the campaign ended—truly running themselves ragged.

This wave was a genuine gathering of forces from all corners!

Those unruly barbarian chieftains actively responded to the Patrician Aëtius's mobilization, leading their armies to converge upon Gaul, the territory known in later eras as France.

This battle would decide the fate of all Europe; once the Empire was defeated, the Roman Empire, which had endured for centuries, would instantly collapse.

After all, Attila the Scourge of God had forced the Eastern Empire to pay tribute and kowtow before turning his sights toward the Western Empire. Had Constantinople's fortifications not been so difficult to breach, and had the Huns lacked Mongol-style siege engineering, that city would likely have fallen as well—it had already been tightly encircled.

With the great war imminent, Duncan's primary energy was poured into reorganizing his troops. Roughly two days later, a force nearly a thousand strong arrived in Southampton.

These were the indigenous peoples of the British Isles.

Most of them were mixed-descent descendants of Romans and locals, belonging to various tribes, and some still swore allegiance to King Uther. Yet this time, upon hearing that Attila the Scourge of God was marching his army west, they decided to cross the sea to fight for the Roman Empire one last time.

The Empire had ruled the British Isles for over four centuries. Now, in its twilight years and setting sun, there were still those willing to cross the ocean to wage war for the sake of the Empire.

The Saxons had also temporarily halted their internal wars, focusing mainly on the Picts. Back on the European mainland, a small number of Saxon chieftains who had migrated to Lesser Germania answered the call, assembling armies to clash with the raiding detachments of Huns.

This time, the Huns had truly driven everyone to the edge of desperation!

In Southampton.

A rugged-looking middle-aged man stared at Duncan, bowing his head slightly. Hesitating for a moment, he dropped to one knee and said, "Lord Duncan!"

He was not a lord who swore fealty to Duncan, but Duncan's reputation on the British Isles was simply too overwhelming.

Seeing him in person today—with his hawk-like gaze and wolfish visage—spurred an involuntary wave of fear and immense pressure, forcing him to greet Duncan with the etiquette reserved for the kings of Britain.

Duncan had only just finished training, and his killing intent had not yet dissipated. The heavy pressure of his intimidating aura weighed down on them as he looked down condescendingly from above at these British natives. "You want to borrow my ships to cross the strait?"

Throughout the entire British Isles, Southampton possessed the greatest concentration of ships.

The leading middle-aged man nodded. "Yes. Otherwise, we fear missing the critical moment of war."

Duncan gave a faint nod and suddenly asked, "Once you enter the region of Gaul, you will obey my command. Is there any problem with that?"

This was a blatant seizure of military authority, performed brazenly in front of everyone present.

Yet, strangely enough, the native nobles in attendance did not voice any dissatisfaction—at least, none dared to show it openly, and some even wore expressions of relief, readily accepting the outcome.

Only a few leaders looked hesitant. One of them, mustering his courage, spoke up: "We are willing to obey Lord Duncan's command!"

"However..."

"We are not subordinates who have sworn fealty to you. Once the war is over, we will return to our own domains."

They needed to make things crystal clear.

Fighting under your command during the war was acceptable, but once the fighting ended, they would each return to their own homes; it did not mean they were permanently becoming your troops.

This was their final shred of stubborn pride.

They were answering the Empire's call to war, not rushing eagerly to pledge themselves to Duncan. Although Duncan's name was renowned, he had not yet reached the point where men would throw themselves at his feet in absolute submission. Among these men, there were still those who had sworn oaths to King Uther; it was simply that King Uther was wounded and utterly incapable of responding as one of the regional lords to the Empire's final summons.

Even if Uther had been completely healthy, he likely wouldn't have gone either.

This battle marked the final, tragic glory of the Western Empire—centuries of imperial splendor were required to summon the indigenous Britons for an overseas crusade.

Just like when the Great Tang Empire collapsed, there were still those beyond its borders who raised aloft the banners of its former glory.

The Western Empire did not die heroically; its end was bleak and desolate.

Yet this did not prevent Duncan from carving his own indelible mark into history at the very moment of its twilight.

"The cavalry units will move with me!"

"The infantry will be incorporated into the auxiliary legions."

Duncan's gaze was as sharp as an eagle's. With the assistance of his squires, he donned his inner leather armor and strapped on his heavy lord's cuirass, saying in a deep voice, "All of you are incorporated into my General's Bodyguard!"

"At noon today, prepare to board the ships for Gaul!"

These British noble knights were all heavy cavalry, and Duncan intended to use them as the spearhead force trailing right behind him.

This battle!

He was going to carve out a core foundation of elite cavalry right from the hands of the Huns.