The Fallen King and Britannia's Gold
“Eeeeeek!” [Whoosh—] With pupils dilated as wide as they could go and mouth agape, oblivious to what he himself was doing, I rested Caliburnus on the shoulder of the charging barbarian warrior.
“Ah, aaah—” He was trembling violently; looked like he’d pissed himself. His knees buckled slowly, the ground beneath soaked.
The battle near our right flank—where the enemy’s fury had felt most intense by Roman standards—was effectively over. All around me, the earth looked stained blood-red. Mangled human forms lay split open everywhere, their eyes lifeless and vacant. Even our Britannian troops, alongside the barbarians, were shaken; some turned away to vomit up their guts.
Me? This was nothing to rattle my nerves. Scanning the foes calmly, I saw no more will to charge. No need to cut down even the ones who’d gone mad with desperation and rushed in. We’d killed enough already.
“Aaaah...”
“Comes Hereward.”
“Yes, Magister Militum!”
Even for an auxiliary legion, I’d standardized the ranks simply. They’d become a proper legion eventually anyway. Hereward here was living up to my first impression a hundredfold—seemed damn useful. His ability to judge and act independently in tough spots was still unproven, so commanding a full legion? Questionable for now. But he executed my orders flawlessly, which pleased me no end. Might even become Britannia’s first knight from barbarian stock, alongside Wolfmaer.
“Hold this line until Palamedes returns.”
“Not a single step back, sir.”
I nodded at the reliable reply, then lifted Caliburnus from the barbarian warrior’s still-kneeling, shuddering shoulder. He collapsed sideways like he’d been carrying a boulder, sprawling awkwardly and quaking nonstop.
“...”
His mind had shattered. This warrior might wander today’s horrific battlefield in his nightmares forever. No full recovery for him. Even in that distant future where everything outstripped this era, they still couldn’t save broken battlefield minds. Humanity hadn’t overcome plenty after a millennium either. Made you think: life’s hardships vary by degree, but people’s lives are ultimately similar. Maybe the era you’re born in doesn’t matter. The place might. Folks born in Ravenna or Constantinople faced less raw violence than those in future Israel-Palestine, Ukraine-Russia, Central Africa, or South America.
By that logic, the dead here just picked the wrong damn spot. Not like they chose to be born raiding my land’s homeland. They didn’t die for being pagans, cowards, or poor fighters. Their single crime? Meeting me on this field. I’d prove that was their only sin, time and again. Friend or foe, I’d ensure the blood price of all these dead wasn’t cheap.
[Clank—clank—] My massive armor announced my stride with fitting clamor. The ranks parted like waves, salutes snapping up without pause.
[Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap!]
On the battlefield, they smacked fists to chests with spears tucked at sides instead of full salutes.
“Artorius! Artorius Invictus! Invictus!”
“Invictus.”
“Dominus Invictus.”
“Dominus.”
Roman legions fought in rotation. Infantry especially. No soldier in Rome sat idle—Britannia least of all. Sweat streaked every face, blood drops here and there. These fierce fighters bore the marks: confident glints, savage grins, breaths still hot with battle rage. Warriors who’d faced double their number fearless—my soldiers.
I met every eye along the path, nodding. That simple act swelled the cheers for victory, for me, for all my names.
Reaching the center, I found Galbaginus standing with his right hand on his left shoulder. Below him lay a man with eyes closed, a shortsword buried right at heart level. The barbarians—helmets off, hair wild—gazed at the unmoving corpse, tears streaming.
“Galbaginus.”
He turned from the body at my voice.
“Dominus.” [Snap!]
His salute was a touch awkward; blood seeped from his left shoulder.
“You alright?”
“Just a graze, Dominus. Lucky break.”
Lucky? I stepped closer, inspecting the wound he showed. The blade tip had entered but not twisted deep. Odd. Barbarian one-handers outranged shortswords anyway. And the dropped blade, bloodied—rusty iron club more than sword, yet straight, no chips. Well-forged and maintained even by Roman standards. A proper swing or thrust rends flesh all too easily.
So, either Galbaginus’s arrogance—opting for shortsword over Galatina—or this serene-eyed barbarian sparing the finishing blow after the stab.
“...”
No scolding needed for a finished warrior like him. I’d advise commanders occasionally, but personal combat? He’d handle it. Not a kid; he had reasons. More curious about the fallen one.
“Get that wound treated properly—see the medics. But who’s this?”
“My shame, Dominus. Their king. Said his name’s Conall. King of the Hill of Kings, apparently.”
“I see.”
Explains their reaction. No wonder the center felt the fight slacken early. Big king down.
“Honorable duel—something like that?”
“The duel itself was honorable, Dominus.”
“A king worth remembering. And the battle?”
“He shouted that if he fell, all should drop arms. And as you see, they did.”
“Worthy of a name remembered, a stone raised.”
The barbarian warriors lifted heads from their fallen king. Meeting my gaze—which had lingered on them through talk with Galbaginus—they quickly bowed again.
[Clunk—clang—thud—clunk—] Front ranks had dropped weapons already; now those behind tossed spears, swords, shields, hand axes, daggers.
What does dropping spear and shield mean on a field? Stumbling through barbaric tongue I’d studied hard, I declared:
“The battle is over. Take your honorable king. Drop your arms and shields. The battle is over.”
Three stepped forward slowly—all resembling the fallen king, so brothers or sons. The smallest seemed far too young for this.
“...”
Youth? Or that bold one’s sly glances—foxy, evading notice. But against me? Futile. Tricking my battlefield senses? Near impossible. Got a cunning vibe from the little fox.
“Galbaginus, withdraw to the rear and tend that wound. On the way, fetch Caius from the left flank and send him to me.”
“As you command, Dominus.”
The red-hot iron of battle cooled. Left flank—where Caius’s medium cavalry charged—likely slew the most barbarians numerically, despite less ferocity than center or right. Cavalry were beasts beyond wolves or bears. And Caius? Stubbornly tenacious at times.
“Centurions, clean the field. Shift to the Hill of Kings first. Round up the surrendered in one spot.”
“Yes, Magister Militum!”
“At once!”
[Piiiiaaaam—] Right on cue, Palamedes and his riders approached fast, horns blaring from afar. They’d mopped up pursuers and raced to seal the field. Lucky survivors—their king had ended it. Wise choice in a ruler. They knew it too; at a centurion’s order, those carrying the body moved slowly, and surviving warriors followed, heads bowed or right arms raised.
[Piiiiaaaam—]
[Pahm—piiiiaaaam—]
Signals flew amid the chaos, yet Britannian troops didn’t roar victory. Just watched silently from deep helm shadows as the barbarians bore their king toward the hill.
[Victory!]
[Yeehaw! Haha!]
[Roma Invicta! Britannia Invicta! Artorius Invictus!!]
Of course, Caius’s and Palamedes’s cavalry—rushing center from flanks, clueless to details—blared horns freely, singing triumph.
[Pahm—! Pah-pahm—pah-pahm—pah-pahm—]
[Ting—] A gold coin bounces on pale, slender fingers. Sunlight streams through tall windows, bathing the gleaming orb—solar splendor spinning, flaunting its radiance.
Thud. It lands palm-up: laurel wreath symbolizing Rome, water droplet for Britannia etched within.
[Ting—] It flips again, spins, lands. Now a sword plunged rock-upside-down, curved letters arcing above.
Magister Militum per Britannias
The reverse held a matching arc.
Dominus Artorius Invictus
All pointing to one man.
[Ting—thud.]Merlinus’s deep blue eyes scrutinize the coin anew.
“Gaul, Franks, tribes beyond. All craving not Roman gold, but Britannian gold...?”
We’d reopened the mints shuttered with Rome’s wall withdrawal. Old silvers and aurei couldn’t meet demand. These weren’t forced fakes. Britannia boasted shells or resources? Nah—grain powered the economy for over a decade. The Londinium-Avalonia-Camulodunum belt? Never a failed harvest.
While other provinces starved from invasions and civil wars, the emperor’s discarded Britannia sowed and reaped effortlessly. Merlinus wasn’t some fanatic dumping family vaults; he had more left precisely because he stayed loyal. Same for other nobles, farmers.
This Britannia—raising armies nonstop, expanding legions—still had surplus. Overflowing. Cities, villages, roads burgeoned. Seemed limitless. That’s how Merlinus saw it.
Unbelievable enough, yet soon: an event unprecedented in Roman history, right here, in his lifetime. Hibernia joins Britannia’s fold.
News of Dominus Artorius’s great win days ago rocked the isle. Midwinter, yet folk kicked doors open for festivals. Avalonia’s lake overflowed with pilgrim offerings—no room to step.
Military, economy—national power brimmed. Obvious to neighbors. Hence these coins.
“Power is credit.”
Conversely, credit is power. Question: power toward what?
“Magister Militum per Britannias...”
Time to tweak that title a bit, no?