The Red Season
"We can barely manage to administer all the lands we've spread across in Britannia. Good heavens, I never imagined finding people to manage them would be harder than acquiring the land itself."
"I didn't expect this either."
"I'm not blaming you."
[Smack-] Something soft touched my lips and pulled away. Then, something equally soft and light added its weight to my chest. Our married life was such that everyday conversations quickly turned into official business, and vice versa.
Ever since Merlinus brought Stilicho's One Third Law to these lands, a literal third of Britannia had become mine. Guinevere had been surprised at first, saying the lands offered up by the previous owners—smiling and claiming it an honor, no matter what they truly thought—were far better picks than expected. She'd spoken of Merlinus almost like some wizard, but to add my brief personal opinion, he surely hadn't relied on entirely legitimate methods.
In a world where nobles held vast estates, and the laborers there could be handed weapons instead of tools to become private soldiers overnight, it was no surprise. Merlinus, who had offered up half his fortune to me and still ranked among Britannia's richest, was also the patriarch of the veteran Ambrosius family—an ancient house with countless strings to pull and direct retainers at his command. It was fortunate he harbored grand ambitions for Britannia; had he been like Vortigern, chasing personal glory, the island might have fallen long ago.
In any case, his noble status was at its peak, his real power and wealth unmatched, and his position in the new Britannia I'd swiftly reorganized around myself was supreme. No other nobles or landowners could oppose a man who was, for all intents and purposes, Britannia's number two.
Thus, one man claiming a literal third of Britannia wasn't so shocking—not on the level of legendary Crassus, whose personal wealth eclipsed the state's, but in just one year, I'd amassed a fortune of that scale. At least nominally.
"Britannia aside... we haven't even started on Hibernia and Gallia."
"Is that so?"
I twisted slightly in the bedsheets still warm with heat, pulling Guinevere close. Her gentle warmth settled something deep in my chest.
"It feels like we've squeezed every last administrator out of Britannia, but we'll have to find more somehow. At the very least, the top posts should go to Britannians..."
"Hmm. You think?"
"Help me out here. It's not someone else's land—it's yours."
"Ours, if we must put a label on it."
"Don't say that outside these walls, ever. The closer the ties, the more precisely we need to sort out property matters."
[Smack-]
It might seem obvious, but Rome had divorce, of course. Roman noble society—this elite class—proved surprisingly useful from my vantage point, though it came with its share of flaws. To understand from a familial angle, beyond the national perspective, just consider their circumstances.
A young man and woman in their twenties—teens for the hasty ones—wealthy, handsome, well-educated. They marry on their elders' say-so after a glance and checking reputations. They swear eternal love before the gods and slowly merge family fortunes. But if they discover flaws they overlooked, or flaws too grave for a normal marriage... they face two choices: infidelity or divorce.
Complicating it all: How mingled are the fortunes now? Which family needs the other more? Who loves whom, how deeply? How much hatred has brewed? Only the couple knows the full tangle. The proceedings dissolve into chaos, mediated by laws and thick tomes of jurists' writings—voluminous as weapons.
Money troubles are ripe for bloodshed anywhere. Especially in noble circles, property was paramount, and Guinevere seemed wary of it. At marriage, it was one thing, but in under a year, my personal wealth had ballooned beyond what all Britannia's nobles combined could match... because, as she whispered tickling my chest, Hibernia and Gallia were now in the mix.
"No need to overthink. Hibernia's land? We'll just install the old kings as governors. Taxing after back-to-back wars is tricky anyway. I'll let them recover for at least three years."
"...Won't they rebel? I've heard they're wild."
"Who knows, Guinevere. If we're talking wild, no man burned hotter than I did last night—"
[Slap!]
Her wide eyes narrowed cat-like.
"—Anyway, eight thousand troops in Hibernia sounds impressive, but they're all shepherds and farmers at heart."
Hibernia's first-line forces were already crushed by me at sea last summer. The warriors who'd scrapped with me this winter were either too young or too old. Hibernia had no capacity left for war. At least by my reckoning... but if some mad king rebelled? Fine by me. They couldn't stop me with first- or second-lines; third-line? They'd all die. Just them.
"So we can send administrators slowly. The 1st Auxiliary Legion lads will handle 'our' Hibernian lands for now."
My Hibernian holdings: the entire east coast and kings' hillforts. Most kings there had welcomed me—then died. Real conquests. Felt like cherry-picking the best, but the big objectors were dead, making me Hibernia's great king in practice. The lone big holdout: the Conachta megatribe in the northeast. They'd stayed suspiciously quiet, so I'd leave them be. If they struck now? All dead. Just them.
"Gallia..."
"Gallia's the real headache, right?"
"Just leave it all to Lancearius."
"Pardon?"
Gallia here meant the northern coast around Rotomagus, not the whole expanse. That long stretch bordered Frankish lands along the Rhine—rich and fertile since antiquity. Barbarians flooded there first, overwhelming usurper Constantinus. Ironically, its prosperity drew crowds: militias beat back invaders, then ousted Roman officials, the usurper's men, and imperial loyalists—priests and nobles alike. Lancearius led it all, and now northern Gallia formally fell under "Patrician" Artorius as his blood-patron.
Surprisingly, the local nobles accepted the One Third Law. They yielded ports around Rotomagus and the far western tip, Aremorica—famed for vast vineyards. Looked like total surrender; made me wonder if I'd campaigned in Gallia this winter instead. Per Merlinus, southern pressures were mounting, so I'd soon visit Gallia's barbarians eyeing our lands and people.
"Most nobles just hand over titles and call it done, but the land and folk stay put. No need to uproot working people forcibly."
"True, but..."
"And I don't care much for border-marking. One thing in this world is truly mine, and that's enough. Since you won't ask, I'll say it: you—"
"Enough, really."
Guinevere ducked her head; her breath quickened too.
"Still, they're Artorius-Uterius family now. We should invite Gallia's administrators to Avalonia sometime."
"As you wish, my lady."
"Don't talk like it's someone else's business."
[Slap!]
"Ow! Guinevere, just so you know, that really hurt."
[Slap!]
"Ow!"
Was there no mischief in her spanking my rear? After flailing and bickering, we resumed our sacred marital duties. Seasons flowed; late winter crested its final pass.
[Whoosh-]
"Quiet."
[Splash- splash-]
Fog-shrouded dawn. This sea always cloaked in thick mist at such hours. Especially pre-dawn, when night and day blurred—only waves and wind guided. Saxon warriors loved these seas.
[Splash- splash-]
Gentle waves lapped near shore. Winter's chill tamed them more than open ocean. From the murk, Saxon warboats emerged: four, five, ten, twenty. Dozens entered Frankish waters.
"We start there."
"Aye, ealdorman."
The lead clan: first to submit when Hengest and Horsa showed their faces. Born and dying in Elbe's chill, their warriors were fiercest.
Blue eyes scanned ahead to the sleeping dockside village. Stone walls like Romans, but wooden houses like Saxons. Half-breeds. That was Saxon scorn for Franks.
"Kill resisters, spare usable young ones. Southern slave markets open soon."
"Understood, ealdorman."
"Leave elders and infants. Grab grown ones if you can; let runners flee. Kill fighters."
"The buildings, ealdorman?"
"Burn them all. Leave ashes to spread terror."
"Aye."
[Whoosh- crash!Whoosh- thud!Creak-]
"Hngh!"
[Splash!Splash- splash!Clatter!]
The last boat rammed Frankish shore. Without horns, Saxons landed stealthily and charged without pause.