“It learns,” Lykos whispered. “It is the land now.”
On a spring morning in 114 AD, a merchant ship from Llundain docked at Ostia. Its captain had no crew. Only a hold full of amphorae, and a single note in his pocket, written in his own trembling hand:
“Where is your tribe now?” Marcus asked—but the voice came from every blade of grass, every rotting log, every fallen warrior’s open mouth. thmyl-labh-rome-total-war-2-llandrwyd
The Battle of Llandrwyd was not a battle. It was a harvest.
“Thmyl-labh,” the Greek scholar called it. The Mycelium Lab. “It learns,” Lykos whispered
But spores do not respect quarantine.
The mycelium answered for Cadwallon. We are the tribe now. Only a hold full of amphorae, and a
Marcus’s legion marched inland, but his scouts carried no horns or banners. They carried clay pots. At every stream crossing, every ancient oak, every ford, they buried a shard of the mycelium. Within a day, the fungal god had woven itself into the roots of Siluria.