When Winter's Snowflakes Vanish, Spring's Life Returns
As winter's snowflakes melted away, spring's vitality returned. The white had long vanished, and northern Italy's soil was now cloaked in the pale green that precedes lush new growth. Soon it would burst into pinks, reds, and blues in full bloom. And atop it all, hot blood would surely flow. Thus did time and season herald yet another war. Rome would once more fatten its lands with human fertilizer.
"Magister militum, can we truly trust those Goth lads?"
[Clop-clop—]
A voice roused Constantius from his reverie as he rode, taking in the splendid northern Italian landscape and the Alps to his right. It was his adjutant, Castinus.
"Castinus, my friend, even if those fellows look like pure Scythian barbarians, they're semi-citizens of Rome now. And in a fight, they might even outdo us."
"Bonifatius, I asked the Magister militum, not you."
"I was just answering to spare the Magister militum any needless distraction from your odd question. Haha!"
Bonifatius chuckled playfully, winking at Constantius, while Castinus bared his white teeth in a fierce grin at him. From these two young soldiers, Constantius sensed the fresh vigor of spring. As long as such cheerful, capable men remained in the empire, Rome's eagle would not fall. I will make sure of it, Ravenna's supreme commander vowed to himself.
"They're no mere Goth warriors. These are seasoned veterans who've long served under Magister militum Alaricus. As Bonifatius says, they might even surpass us in imperial tactics and strategy."
"No way... really?"
Castinus's eyes widened in disbelief, but Bonifatius nodded quietly in agreement. Indeed, in strategic insight, Bonifatius was the sharpest under Constantius's command. Even 'Felix'—the other Constantius, his rival back in Ravenna sharing his name—couldn't match Bonifatius's eye for the battlefield.
Castinus, on the other hand, possessed the raw courage Bonifatius lacked. No barbarian had ever withstood the blade swung by that sturdy frame. Each had exceptional qualities, but both needed to grow far beyond their current selves—to aid Constantius himself on even greater fields of battle.
Africa's Heraclianus had once been a loyal commander capable of repelling even Alaricus's detachments, but the news from Africa lately was nothing but suspicious and ominous. Hispania's chaos was a tangle so vast he couldn't even grasp where to begin. The emperor Honorius's kin, Gerontius the usurper's general, his son, and now Suebi and Alan barbarians—all whirled in a massive storm. Villages that were Roman one day became Alan the next, then Gallic after that.
And to top it off, central Gaul's barbarians, with Artorius to the north. Patricius. Magister militum Britanniae. 'Flavius' Artorius.
'Flavius Artorius. What a fearsome name.'
Originally a noble name from the imperial house, 'Flavius' now denoted the aristocracy just below the emperor itself. And who set that precedent? Honorius himself. The emperor had personally bestowed 'Flavius' on Supreme Commander Stilicho to honor his greatness—then cruelly and basely had him executed.
Now, a second 'Flavius' outside the imperial line had appeared far in the north. This was utterly different from Stilicho's era, centered on Italy and Greece, Constantius thought.
'The level of danger is on another scale.'
To the emperor himself, the physically nearer Stilicho might have seemed the greater threat—after all, the military had followed Stilicho more than the emperor.
'If only, that day... if he'd just given me the order...'
Constantius might have gladly beheaded Ravenna's emperor. He might even have challenged the other emperor in Constantinople. For a man like Stilicho, he could have died smiling.
But Stilicho was no mere traitor. In his final moments, the supreme commander ordered his outraged subordinates to stand down and accepted death. Thus the empire revived once more.
Artorius in the north was a different story, though.
'A hero risen from lands the emperor abandoned first. And a general of Britannia, no less.'
Britannia's generals rarely bent the knee easily to Rome's emperor—whether the capital was Ravenna now or Rome before. To grant a potential rebel the rank just below the emperor, the most honorable name in Rome... Even if he'd quelled Britannia's unrest for now, Constantius had no idea what came next.
So he could only hope his subordinates grew swiftly—surpassing even him and Supreme Commander Stilicho.
"Now we must observe and learn everything from them. We must reclaim the honor of the empire's finest elites, as under great Emperor Theodosius. Bonifatius, Castinus—you must achieve this with me. Can you do it?"
He gazed at the next generation's pillars with hope and faith. Their eyes sparkled with youth, strength, boldness, and ambition.
"Just leave it to us, Magister militum."
"Give the order."
"Good. I believe in you."
Such distant matters could wait. For now, it was time to deal with the enemy at hand. The city of Arelate, where Gallia's rebel Constantinus had fled, lay five days ahead.
-----
[Hummm—]
The lake vibrated. If an earthquake felt like this in tales, then the ground beneath his feet trembled in the face of an approaching colossal presence, his whole body shuddering with awe.
'He comes.'
Kneeling before it, Lancearius stared at the lake gradually glowing green, determined not to miss a single moment.
"Oh, ooooh."
"Goddess... Invictus..."
"It's real...? All those rumors..."
Those who'd seen this sight before, those witnessing it for the first time—all knelt without exception. Romans never knelt even in sacrifices to the gods, but this was Britannia. In this land where civilization and barbarism blended strangely, prostrating oneself wasn't a flaw to scorn. It was a thrill denied across the sea, a bodily freedom savored.
Britons, Gauls, and folk from afar—all knelt as one. They had no choice.
A true miracle of the divine unfolded before their eyes. Amid revelations, mysteries, oracles, and all holy things once mere words, a genuine miracle manifested.
What faithful soul wouldn't kneel? Christians of the cross, thunder-god worshippers, tree or stone idolaters—all quivered in ecstatic rapture.
This was... beyond even the tingling climax of perilous love Lancearius adored—from head to toe, a higher plane of spiritual, soul-deep ecstasy.
Did high priests feel such stimulation always? He should have become one. Ah, but 'high' priests were positions the lowly couldn't ascend to.
The bitterness of a fallen noble snapped Lancearius back to reality. A man who'd seized leadership of northern Gaul's peasant rebels—the Bagaudae—through raw prowess and military talent alone. And now, this one had thoroughly crushed his pride, once convinced he was the world's finest in talent.
The first man arrogant Lancearius truly acknowledged emerged slowly from the glowing lake.
"Ahh..."
"The gods exist. Truly... What do we do now? How do we accept this? New questions arise..."
"A miracle..."
The figure striding from the parted lake could be no impostor—it was Artorius. No other man matched that gigantic frame, that thick, irreplaceable aura. Childish as myths and hero tales from youth sounded, no description fit better. A truly 'godlike' presence.
Never having seen a god, none grasped the phrase's weight—until now, every soul here understood.
Like Britannia's raging sea storms, it rendered humans utterly powerless. If any were born to rule, it was he.
"Flavius Artorius Patricius."
For the first time, Lancearius bowed his head in genuine reverence. Not a trace of resistance stirred. It was simply due homage—as warrior and ruler.
Only this man could handle a proud, half-mad wretch like himself.
"You've put on a bit of weight since last we met, Dominus Lancearius. Glad to see you're faring well."
No one dared lift their head under that crushing voice. But Lancearius? The man who soothed every widow and married woman's lonely heart in northern Gaul. The shameless Roman whose talent matched his audacity? His role model was Caesar—in personal feats and passionate love alike, he merely followed the hero's path.
Ignoring his pounding heart, Lancearius slowly raised his gaze. And met those eyes.
Dominus Artorius, haloed by the still-glowing lake, looked utterly inhuman.
"Dominus Flavius. You've grown even more robust. Did Hibernia's food and climate suit you?"
"What? Hahaha!"
Droplets fell from a massive hand that gently lifted Lancearius—like a giant careful not to crush a sandcastle.
Lancearius was sturdy-built and tall, his golden hair and blue eyes melting women's hearts. Yet beside Artorius, all that vanished; he felt merely human. Before those deep brown eyes, everything seemed to disassemble.
"Come, all of you—rise. After such a long journey, I'm famished. Show's over; back to your duties. As for me—oh! Gwen!"
Searching for something, the Dominus moved his colossal frame with squirrel-like agility, spotting Domina Guinevere.
'The Domina's tall for a woman, but...'
Like a father bear embracing its cub—an irreverent thought—but the pair, famed in Britannia-Gaul high society for their devotion, forgot the world in their private spacetime.
Glowing lake, emerging giant, embraced lovers, tearful onlookers. So surreal, Lancearius momentarily forgot why he'd come to Avalonia.
Northern Gaul's coast around Rotomagus now formally entrusted to Britannia-Hibernia. Precisely, under Patricius Artorius.
Moreover, Rotomagus's noble retainers and retired soldiers' militia had become an official Britannia legion—three thousand strong already, by Britannia standards.
He'd come to seek permission for this new Britannia-Gallia legion's formation—and its command.
Looks like he'd have to wait a bit.