Ravenna's Tempting Offer
Early spring had already arrived in southern Italy. The flowers hadn't bloomed yet, but compared to the unusually harsh winters of the past few years, it felt like a remarkably mild one was passing. The air was still filled with chilly winds, yet warm breezes slipped through the gaps now and then.
"From Ravenna, you say."
It had certainly been a bearable winter. My hands and knees didn't ache from the cold, and the mild southern Italian weather meant no worries about firewood or food even in winter—a comfort I felt anew. But while my body was at ease, my heart was colder and heavier than any winter before. Every Goth warrior felt a gaping hole in their chest.
Great King Alaricus was dead.
The Western and Eastern Emperors had branded him a traitor, untrustworthy, pointing fingers. Yet he was the powerful, wise king who commanded their respect until the end, and now he had left us.
The king of the Goths who had led their arduous migration from the distant East, pursued by horsemen, always at the vanguard—and who had ultimately razed the Eternal City. The man tasked with filling that great void, Ataulf, felt it more keenly today than ever.
"Indeed, Magister MilitumAtaulf."
"..."
Rome, Rome, Rome. Ataulf and his generation had never set foot in the distant East, their tribe's mythic origin, and their Roman identity overshadowed their Gothic one. Yet he marveled each time at the extreme flexibility—or brazenness—of these Romans.
Did they not know that Alaricus, his clan's elder and father-in-law, had burned the Eternal City? Had they forgotten propping up that Roman noble, Priscus Attalus, as a rival emperor and even crowning him? That all of it was a venomous insult aimed at Honorius in Ravenna and Theodosius II beyond in Constantinople?
No, they knew. It was simply the Roman way. Even if the city was worn and tattered, the Eternal City itself—the Empire's symbol—could burn, and Ravenna's Romans wouldn't bat an eye. Perhaps the Emperor had raised a toast with a laugh upon hearing that countless senators had died and their fine homes burned. Honorius hated Alaricus, but he loathed the Roman Senate even more, if not worse.
Indeed, the Great King had seen farther and been wiser than Ataulf ever could. One couldn't fight such incomprehensible monsters forever. And there was no need to, anyway. The Goths were now Romano-Gothi.
"In any case, Ravenna's reaction amounts to an acknowledgment that the late Magister Militum Alaricus earned it. Weren't you wronged, though? Only now, with the Rhine defenses utterly breached, can we say the previous Emperor was perhaps a bit harsh on Alaricus."
Wasn't that just because the Rhine was breached, and now even Gaul was overrun, with barbarians swarming into Hispania? Word was the hoofbeats were growing louder in the Empire's northeast frontier. And in the southeast, Persia—the Empire's nemesis more fearsome than all barbarians combined—remained strong. Honorius's intentions were obvious. He wanted to tidy up either Gaul or Hispania to restore some prestige. For whom? The wounded Roman citizens? Hardly. The Emperor didn't care for the Eternal City. Shockingly, the direction he sought face in was the East—toward that other Emperor in Constantinople.
"I once served under Magister MilitumStilicho myself. I learned much. So I know well how much blood the Goths have shed for the Empire. The grudge bound in blood was washed away when Alaricus burned the Senate. Now it's time for we who follow to uphold our forebear's grand vision, no?"
Come to think of it, I hadn't asked his name.
"You served under Stilicho..."
"Finding high officers in Ravenna or Constantinople who didn't serve under him would be harder. Though executed for treason, we all know it wasn't truly so. Politics is like that."
It wasn't lip service. Genuine understanding gleamed in the Roman's eyes for those past events. And oddly, as his words continued, Ataulf felt the icy chill in his chest warming just a little.
"What is your name?"
"Constantius. Comes Constantius."
"Comes Constantius."
"Magister Militum Ataulf."
Finally taking the measure of his counterpart, Ataulf asked as king.
"What does Ravenna's Imperator want from us?"
"One month. In one month, we attack the usurper Constantinus, hunkered behind the walls of Arelate in Gaul. Join us in this assault."
"...And what do we gain?"
"Italy's prosperity relies mostly on grain from the African provinces. Southern Gaul is even richer. And beyond it, Hispania? What the late Magister Militum Alaricus so desired. Land for the Goths to finally settle. That's our offer."
Ah, Great King.
'We've arrived, Great King.'
A warm hearth for the children. A life not defined solely by killing and dying. True rebirth as Romans. That was what Alaricus's faction among the Goths had ultimately sought.
But with the Great King's death and the rise of another faction hardened by blood, Ataulf had already conducted a purge over the winter. This proposal could upend the Goths' chaotic, fracturing state in one stroke. At last, he could chart a course for all.
But hunts must not be rushed.
"Too generous a condition. Has Ravenna abandoned all interest in Gaul?"
"To fight back-to-back, there must be no secrets. You and I—we're soldiers more than politicians, right?"
"..."
"Even toppling Arelate won't bring southern Gaul under our sway easily. The heart of this Gallic rebellion isn't men like Constantinus—it's the Gauls themselves."
"You mean..."
"Crassly put, Gaul has lost faith in Ravenna's Emperor. The Rhine breach was too devastating. And those barbarians who broke it remain in Gaul. So yes, we offer Gaul and Hispania—but it won't be easy, Magister Militum."
"..."
That bad? From his words, Gaul was practically a separate Rome. A world apart from this peaceful southern Italy. More like Greece and northern Moesia in Alaricus's days of balancing the two Emperors—a world where might made right. And the Goths were the epitome of might.
"I'll decide swiftly and inform you. Where shall I send word?"
"I'll remain here awhile. And... one more thing you should know."
"What?"
Ataulf could respect genuine intent to cooperate—especially in one who knew a warrior's honor. Leaning forward, he watched Constantius's face harden as he uttered a name.
"There's a foe more fearsome than any barbarian. Perhaps that's why Ravenna's Emperor resolved to yield land to the Goths sooner."
"More fearsome?"
"Artorius."
Artorius.
"Heard of him?"
Of course.
"They hush it at court, but northern Gaul is effectively his—Artorius of Britannia. If you seek to settle in Gaul, Magister Militum, you may ultimately face him."
Rumors once whispered had swelled uncontrollably. Even here in southern Italy, everyone from common folk to forum-goers knew of that Britannian commander. Tales of impossible battles. Even those who laughed them off now stiffened at the dozens, hundreds of reports, prying desperately about Artorius.
A man who reclaimed all Britannia south of the Wall in a single year. Revived its legions. Goth commanders were elite, but the pinnacle was Great King Alaricus. And near his deathbed, as amusement, he had read eagerly every scrap about this Artorius.
'Never match yourself against such a man. If half these tales are true, this young Artorius is Rome's finest commander. Neither young Stilicho nor I fought like this.'
The Great King's jesting voice echoed in Ataulf's ears.
"Greatest Ri! Greater than any who sat upon the Hill of Kings!"
Here we go again.
"To speak of myself, from that ancient line of Yough—passed down to its fifth daughter—"
One thing I'd noticed about these Hibernian barbarians: they could talk. They drank well, sang well—especially while drinking and singing. But the issue was their genealogies. Instead of a simple "I'm so-and-so from such-and-such," they recited impossibly tangled lineages no one could verify, twisting back through ages.
Fun drinking buddies, but tiresome in earnest? Might hurt feelings to say it, but after hearing dozens already, I just wished they'd wrap it up.
"—Originating from Muwa, through trials and tribulations! In the fifth generation, reaching near the Hill of Kings, and in the sixth, to the north—"
I'd once tried interrupting; his face turned apple-red, veins bulging like he'd burst. After that, I let them be. My local guide-advisor, Lorrae, explained that cutting off a king's self-introduction was grave insult here—especially among them. So I sat dumbly in my custom extra-large throne, remade to fit my frame.
"—Thus, my name is Coirmac! Son of Aed! I offer this ancient heirloom of my house and lands to the divine king who claims the Hill of Kings! I humbly beseech you: accept me and my people! True king of Eire! Permit me to call you Ard Ri!"
"Thanks for the long journey, Coirmac Ri. I've done too little for this land's people to claim Great King—Ard Ri. King suffices."
"Ooooh, my king! Wiser even than your mighty strength! Truly, you are the Goddess's own son, mother of all rivers!"
The grand battle's prize? Submission oaths from countless kings. New to me: these folk—warriors and kings especially—treated oaths like geasa, sacred as life. With their faith in gods, curses, hill sacrifices, it made sense. But the final step? Utterly unacceptable to me.
"My king! Accept my oath!"
"...This fair land now feels a new wind named Artorius, so I've shifted the sacred rite slightly."
"You mean...!"
"Son of Aed from Yough's blood, Coirmac Ri, approach."
Kneeling forward, he received the ring with its large water-drop seal, extended slowly. Sized for my massive fist, it looked more necklace than ring—a Britannian seal ring.
"Kingship follows honor. What is honor? Righteousness. What is righteous? Protecting the weak: elders, women, children. Never betraying trust. Today, as king guarding this Hill of Kings, I bestow upon you the charge to uphold honor and loyalty. If you swear it, kiss the ring."
"...I swear, and swear again. Great king! Sole ruler fit for all Hibernia and Britannia!"
Mwah—
Thus ended the sacred oath. Originally, that kiss went to my nipple... No way. I raged I'd burn it all and kill them first. Custom tradition now.
'Whew...'
Anyway, with dozens of kings flocking, I cleared Hibernia's east coast far quicker than expected. Left: Muwa southwest, and Conachta megatribe northwest. Won't take long.