Whispers in the Londinium Forum
Shield-bearers, lift it up. Already starting? Civil war? Internal strife? Whatever it is?
“Could you tell Comes Eturnus that I heard him loud and clear? And pass along my thanks as well?”
“Of course, Dominus Artorius.”
He'd seemed like a naive soldier at first glance, but watching this young Cunedagius nod with such resolute eyes, he didn't come across as purely innocent anymore. That's why first impressions matter when judging people. Same face and eyes as the ones I'd seen in that forum earlier, yet this felt entirely different. Right now, he reminded me of a more serious Galbaginus, one who smiled less.
“Well then, it was an honor to meet Britannia's famed hero! Hope we cross paths again!”
Once he'd moved away from the murmuring crowd, Cunedagius raised his voice theatrically, as if inviting everyone to hear, saluted me crisply, and passed back through the archway into the forum. If he was putting on an act of youthful clumsiness, it was passable enough—but saluting me, a man with no official position, felt like a misstep in his setup from the start…
Watching the onlookers—who'd been whispering among themselves while eyeing our conversation—nod as if it were the most natural thing, I started to wonder if I was the one standing on my head here. Sure, Honorius's official abandonment of Britannia had only been formalized three days ago. But honestly, it felt like the people of this land had ditched Honorius and Constantinus long before that. Or maybe they never cared what those distant central figures decreed in the first place—
“...”
Overreacting, probably. More importantly, the real powerholder in the northwest had bowed to me first? That meant the situation was dire, and my own reputation had grown to match. Last year's massive barbarian assaults from west and north must have shaken them badly. It only fueled my growing desire for fast-moving cavalry units. And now that I'd shed my pedestrian status myself…
Guinevere's gift chariot had been a revelation on its first ride—far better than I'd expected from two beasts pulling it. Sure, it jolted over every bump, and on this rainy, marshy Britannia without proper Roman roads, getting around was no easy feat. But now I was a proper mounted warrior—
“We'll resume the council shortly, so please return to your seats!”
After Honorius's declaration, the Romano-Britons typically cycled through sorrow → anger → despair → anger. The forum attendees—local leaders each in their own right—seemed to skip the first stage faster than I'd predicted. At the booming call from Londinium's tax overseer, those who'd stepped out for a breather shuffled back inside.
I watched them a moment, then bowed my head and followed through the archway.
*****
Another trait of these Romans, who treated civil war like daily life: even facing death, they'd clutch a cup of wine. An exaggeration, like spices sprinkled into the drink—but we Romans loved our wine that much. Was it the poor water quality? Having lived my past life with clean water, I pondered it, but concluded it was simply because wine was sweet and delicious.
“Slurp—.”
I lifted the cup—brass plated to gleam like gold—and drained the wine. Back in the Republic days, when Pompey and Caesar's genius drove relentless expansion, Roman legions spread grapevines, asparagus, and oysters wherever they went. A healthy Mediterranean diet propagated across the world. It made us look like civilizing missionaries—bringing education, medicine, sewers, humane religions without human sacrifice, and more.
“...?”
Looking closer, wasn't some of that true…? But no. The Romans as invaders remained an unchanging fact. How many slaves seized, treasures plundered? Caesar paid off his massive debts to Crassus with one Gallic campaign alone. Subsequent rulers were no doubt ruthless.
Fast-forward four centuries from Caesar's stabbing by Brutus's blade, and here we were. In Londinium—the heart of the old Iceni tribe where Queen Boudica once wept blood against brutal Romans—the Romano-Britons, mingled with Iceni blood, cursed Honorius yet trembled in fear. Not joy at Rome's abandonment, but genuine terror.
The world's ironies run deep. What would Boudica think if she saw this? When Hector the monk first told me such tales, I didn't know how to react. He added that even those oppressed Iceni had likely built power through wars and atrocities in their distant past. Studying ancient native faiths revealed their brutal sides, he said—his Catholic worldview slipping through, but even without it, I saw lessons there.
Without power, you're nothing. Sometimes fear is necessary. Scriptures preach loving enemies, but humans are instinctual beasts. Hunt once, and you feel it deeper: we're animals too. Staring down prey with spear or bow drawn teaches that life and death are close; today you're the hunter, tomorrow the hunted. Birds would fly on unconcerned from high branches over your corpse.
Instinctively grasping this essence, the wise Romano-Britons in this forum now agonized. Rome wasn't just a name or old grudge—it was power. Amid internal and external shakes, Rome was still order today. Mere years ago, barbarians crossed the Rhine, ravaged Gaul, reached Hispania—stripping most of the western empire's northern Alpine influence. Yet even they tried fitting into Rome's framework, not burning it wholesale. Why? Roman coin held value even in their frozen lands.
Thus, Britannians quaked at the emperor's sudden abandonment, eyes darting for solutions.
“Slurp—.”
“Dominus, I'm back. A bit late.”
As always, I hid(?) my massive frame in a corner, observing the forum like a living painting. Galbaginus sidled up behind me and spoke softly.
“Hey, your cup's nearly empty.”
He naturally lifted the wine jug and poured slowly into my cup. Leaning in, he whispered key intel.
“Dominus, looks like my father in Eboracum lost more than a bit of land. The city's garrison took heavy losses in that last battle—voices are rising to abandon the city outright.”
[Glug glug glug—plop.]
“Defending not the northern fortress Cataractonium but Eboracum itself seems a stretch. Father says Vortigern's never even set foot there, and to tell you his loyalty to old Emperor Magnus Maximus is fulfilled.”
[Clink.]
Galbaginus filled my huge cup, set the jug down carefully, and stood behind me.
Magnus Maximus—among the past thirty years' usurper emperors from Romano-Britannia, the most capable. Like others, he'd stripped legions for his ambitions, sparked civil war on the mainland, and died. But unlike Constantinus III, he'd at least tried doing something for this land. Or perhaps Constantinus's disasters elevated him by comparison.
Anyway, Magnus Maximus—with some legitimacy from the tangled imperial bloodlines—had wielded thick influence here. Now, that spell had fully faded.
“Slurp—.”
“—Thus, thanks to repelling last year's massive invasion, all farmlands from Londinium's east to the coast held secure.”
“Ooh—.”
“Gods be praised…”
“...Even in this mess, no law says we must die.”
One puzzle: why tell me Eboracum's plight via his eldest son? A sign of surrender? Submission? Unlikely for a man holding such a major city—he had no need, nor would he bow easily. More like a request for aid if we had spare capacity.
Indeed, after last year's nonstop assaults from spring to winter, another big wave in northwest and northeast would break them. If only I had two bodies. Or twenty million troops to split… Leave 1.5 million to guard farmlands, advance with a mere half-million to crush the barbarians.
“Everyone.”
Merlinus—calm, polite, pure Roman bureaucrat, sans his usual cheek—drew attention with a pointed accent, pulling them from their thoughts.
“Regrettably, Comes Britanniarum couldn't join us, but in this hall approved by Comes litoris Saxonici, we've reviewed our crisis in detail.”
Comes Britanniarum commanded legions south of Eboracum—honorary since Magnus Maximus drained them mainlandward, now held by southwest's Vortigern.
Comes litoris Saxonici was Saxon Shore defender: Uterius. Appointed by Constantinus III pre-departure, earned by his character and skill.
One key vacancy: Dux Britanniarum—overseeing wall outposts and legions north. Honorary even before Magnus's pulls.
“You all grasp the urgency. Even with grain for bread, without strength to hold it, we just feed barbarians. Those northern and western foes tasted blood last year—they'll return.”
Merlinus dropped brutal truths casually. Faces hardened regardless.
“Let me reflect: how did Londinium's eastern farmlands lose not a single seed to last year's attacks?”
“...”
“...”
Eyes snapped to me as his words landed. Undeterred, Merlinus rifled documents and continued.
“Last year, spring to autumn: 27 attempts along Thames and Camulodunum rivers, five direct coastal landings.”
“...”
“Frequent. Too frequent.”
“Mad barbarians!”
“My point: Saxon Shore raids didn't lessen last year. Yet we stopped them all. But Camulodunum's garrison? Just 500 men. Not 1,500. Five hundred.”
“...”
“...”
Eyes turned to me again. This time, Merlinus's too.
“How? How do we survive barbarian threats? Thus, I seek one man's wisdom.”
“...Slurp—.”
The once-sweet wine turned bitter.
“Dominus Artorius. A name I needn't explain to any of you.”