As the last ray of the setting sun slowly disappeared beyond the horizon, a crescent moon hung high in the dim, yellowish sky.
The Roman expeditionary army that had crossed the sea was set to face the allied forces of Britannia in a decisive battle the following day.
The Roman expeditionary army numbered fifty thousand, organized into five legions, with an equal number of logistical support personnel.
"So this is what you call a 'favorable situation'? Those barbarians are practically slapping us in the face! What kind of commander lets himself get baited into a trap?!"
At this moment, in the Roman military camp, Emperor Claudius I was hurling insults at his silent, downcast commander.
From his appearance alone, one could tell that Claudius, who had only become emperor by a stroke of fate at the age of fifty, bore obvious signs of illness. He could barely walk, needing to brace himself with his hands on his thigh, one of his legs twisted and deformed.
Modern medicine would likely diagnose it as the aftereffects of poorly treated polio. But here in the first century AD, most simply saw him as cursed by the gods.
"Your Majesty, the decisive battle is tomorrow. I humbly ask that you stand before the army in the name of Mars, god of war, to inspire the troops..."
Commander Plautius grew increasingly unsure as he spoke, especially seeing the emperor's expressionless face. After all, Claudius could barely walk—let alone lead troops into battle. If the man could even give a speech, it'd be a small miracle.
Yet Plautius had no choice. A year and a half ago, he had followed Claudius' orders to invade Britannia. At first, everything had gone splendidly—quickly securing the coastal regions and pressing inland, sweeping across the island's plains and forests in record time.
By all rights, it should've gone like this:
Southern monstrosities landing along the Britannia coast.
An unspeakable killer advancing toward Colchester.
The despicable Roman barbarians marching into Southampton.
Roman commander Plautius conquering southern Britannia.
With victory seemingly within reach, all that remained was the final step:
The supreme Emperor himself arriving on this loyal Britannic isle.
But, alas, that final step became a disaster. The Roman expeditionary army had stumbled into a trap and found themselves surrounded.
It wasn't entirely Claudius' fault. Sure, the emperor had come to claim the glory, which was only natural to solidify his rule. But he knew he wasn't fit to command on the battlefield and had left command in Plautius' hands, simply waiting to bask in the military achievements.
And yet, as fate would have it—things fell apart.
According to today's scouts, the battered, retreating Britannic alliance had somehow rallied. Reinforcements arrived: the towering, sometimes even called giant-like Picts, and massive magical beasts steeped in ancient mystery.
Now, fifty thousand Roman soldiers were trapped by a Britannic alliance of nearly ninety thousand. Advancing was impossible; retreat risked triggering a full-blown rout, potentially dooming the entire force.
"Plautius... you understand better than anyone what happens to you and me if we lose tomorrow," Claudius said, voice low and heavy.
If the Britannic campaign failed, not only would Plautius face ruin, but Claudius himself wouldn't escape punishment. Forget the throne—whether he lived at all was uncertain. Fifty thousand casualties would cripple the Roman Empire, still reeling from Caligula's madness. Every hidden faction, every whisper of discontent would rise up. Magecraft, curses, unfathomable mysteries—the ancient empire would face extinction.
Claudius could escape using the court magi, sure. But news traveled fast. The Britannic alliance had their own magi. If the Roman army believed the emperor had fled, morale would collapse instantly.
"...Understood..." Plautius replied quietly.
Claudius dismissed him and returned to his quarters.
"Oh, Roman gods, bless your children with victory. Mars, god of war, let your light shine upon Rome once more."
Claudius closed his eyes in prayer. He never much liked the gods, but right now, he desperately hoped they were real.
For reasons unknown, over the past forty years, the world's mysteries had rapidly vanished. The gods who once walked the earth disappeared as if their legends had been mere illusions. In the blink of an eye, the planet had transitioned from the age of gods to the age of man.
"Report, Your Majesty! News from Rome—the... anomaly from the province of Anatolia..."
"Enough. I don't want to hear another word about those backstabbing political games," Claudius waved the court mage away, refusing to listen to that nonsense.
He already knew what the news would be. That so-called "anomaly" spreading everywhere—the Christian faith. More food donations here, another church built there—tedious details. He couldn't be bothered. The only thing that mattered now was the ninety-thousand-strong Britannic army outside, waiting to devour them...
What's that noise? Claudius, chin resting on his hand, suddenly noticed a sound outside. But it quickly quieted down.
Curiosity piqued, Claudius left his quarters. Even the information-gathering mages hadn't reported anything? Strange.
Following the direction of the crowd's gaze, Claudius instinctively looked up. Normally, because of his nephew Caligula's lunacy, Claudius harbored deep resentment toward the moon goddess Diana and rarely looked at the night sky.
But this time, glancing upward with the crowd, he understood why—despite the restless masses, the tightly packed logistics lines, the faint, unfamiliar sounds—there was no shouting, no panic.
Only silent, motionless awe.
The last rays of sunlight sank beneath the horizon. A crescent moon hung high in the dim sky. And beneath the twilight, a colossal, fiery-red object appeared in the heavens.
"Hmph, more barbarian magic tricks. Trying to rattle us," Claudius sneered, turning to his court mage. As emperor, he understood—the only force capable of creating such a spectacle was magecraft.
But the court mage's trembling voice shattered that certainty.
"N-no, Your Majesty. There's... no magical energy at all. It's... purely a... phenomenon."
"What?! Look again! Is it some unknown magical beast in the sky?"
"No, Your Majesty. Nothing like that. It's just... the sky itself. It's like... pure..."
The mage gulped, unable to finish.
But Claudius understood. The unspoken final word was miracle.
Silence hung over both the Roman army and the Britannic alliance. Everyone prayed, desperately hoping this long-lost miracle belonged to their side.
The evening breeze, carrying a chill, brushed against Claudius' face. He shivered, eyes fixed on the strange object slowly forming in the sky.
His heart sank.
This wasn't a Roman miracle. The emerging shapes bore no resemblance to the familiar symbols of the Roman pantheon.
It could only belong to the other side.
Claudius' mood plummeted, and so did the morale of the Roman soldiers. It wasn't the war god Mars' symbol—it wasn't theirs. The army teetered on the brink of collapse.
Just as Plautius prepared for a final, desperate assault, the sky's mysterious shape fully revealed itself—
A blinding force, radiant and dazzling, yet not destructive—merely brilliant beyond belief.
"What... is that?" Claudius whispered.
Five enormous, fiery-red crosses blazed in the sky, facing the Roman army. Below them, glowing words appeared:
In this sign, you shall conquer.
"Your Majesty... the only faith in Rome that bears the symbol of the cross... is Christianity," the court mage explained quietly.
Claudius fell silent. After a moment, he summoned a messenger.
"Quick. Tell Plautius—paint identical crosses on every shield. This is divine power. The five crosses represent our five legions. Rome will be victorious!"
The order spread like wildfire. Soon, every shield, every markable surface in the Roman army bore the cross.
And with that came renewed belief—the unwavering certainty that Rome was divinely protected. They could not lose.
"Christianity. The cross... A new god, huh."
It wasn't a question, but a quiet mutter. Under the dark sky, Claudius spoke to himself.
"Shall we inform—"
"No need."
Claudius waved off the court mage.
"I'll meet him myself. That so-called 'messenger of the new god'—Novia, from the province of Anatolia."
The following day, in the decisive battle between the Roman expeditionary army and the Britannic alliance, the alliance suffered a crushing defeat. The regions of Wales, Cornwall, and beyond fell entirely.
And so, in 48 AD, Britannia became the forty-fifth province of the Roman Empire