Omens of War and Gerontius's Desperate Charge
There were plenty of omens foretelling the outbreak of war. Crows cawing not in flocks, packs of starving wolves appearing, the sky tinged an eerie red for a spell. Mostly, these were just rumors and nonsense. But there were clear signs too. Farmers and soldiers conscripted and dragged to camps, blacksmiths hauled in alongside them hammering anvils day and night. Grain to wine, everything requisitioned without mercy and stacked as supplies beside the camps. Riders on horseback more common than ever, kicking up dust clouds. As lines blurred between army, barbarians, and bandits, families stripped of food fled to places with brighter prospects, while those who couldn't escape died or turned to banditry themselves. And when priests began coming and going from both camps, it was as good as a declaration of war. Nothing mattered more to warriors heading into battle than a blessing. That wouldn't change no matter how much time passed, so long as humans clung to faith.
And so, at last, the standards rose high, and the war that both Gaul and Hispania had anticipated curtained up.
"Forward! Crush those rebels!"
"Soldiers of Rome! Who is the true emperor of our empire, of Gaul!? We follow his son! We are the righteous legions of Rome!"
The empire's authority had fallen to earth anyway, and justice in these lands had grown slack beyond measure. From the moment the Rhine defenses crumbled and Stilicho died, the empire's chaos had been foreordained. So they shouted all the louder for authority and justice.
Gerontius, who had risen in Hispania with yet another pretender emperor, clashed against Constans—son of Constantinus and co-emperor of Gaul—at the left pass of the Pyrenees mountains, the border between Hispania and Gaul.
[BWAAAAAM---!]
[PAM---]
Both armies shared a common origin, if you looked closely: they had once manned the walls of Britannia. Was that why? They used the same signal codes, so when the enemy blared their advance, some of our centurions mistook it and moved out.
"Forward! Don't retreat! Victory always goes to the brave—and we're braver!"
"Remember your frostbitten toes! Retreat now, and the days ahead will make those horrors nostalgic! That's what defeat means in the empire! We can't lose today! Fight to the death!"
"Yaaahhh!"
"Roma Invicta!!"
"For our Imperator!"
"Victory to the Imperator!"
All the same rhetoric. Tens of thousands tangled on the dry ground, and thick dust clouds soon shrouded the field.
[PAM--]
[BWAAAAAM-! PAM!!]
[Aaaagh!]
[Yaaahhh!]
With visibility zero, all that pierced the haze were frantic signals, screams, and roars.
What decided the fate of these eerily similar armies was the judgment of their supreme commanders.
"Can't command what you can't see... Nothing's visible at all."
"Dominus Gerontius, what are your orders? Hispania's northeast is practically ours already. We could withdraw for now—"
"No. We can't. Don't you see? Even if this legion dies to the last man, take Constans and we win. Legions can always be rebuilt. If need be, ally with the Vandal or Suebi barbarians. But today's victory can't be borrowed later. So—charge."
"Pardon...?"
"Raise the signals. Banners, form up! Attack! Attack! Let the goddess of fate decide whose lives she claims today!"
[Shing!]
"Y-yes, Dominus Gerontius!"
[BWAAAAAM---]
Instead of retreat, Gerontius chose advance. Because, truth be told, his side's situation wasn't much better than the rebels he'd so boldly incited.
Under Constantinus, he'd thought anyone could play emperor. But installing a puppet and becoming the power behind the throne? He quickly learned the empire's woes weren't so easily dismissed.
Retreat now might buy a day or two of safety. But after? Before facing Hispania's wrath, he'd have to deal with the Vandal horde. And he was certain his Hispania legions couldn't beat them.
So—attack. Somehow win here, establish authority.
Thus, Gerontius charged to survive.
[BWAAAAAM----]
"What was that sound? Truly, I can't see a thing..."
On the opposite side, commanding the other legion, Constans lacked Gerontius's desperation.
He'd entered military service just as his father Constantinus crossed to Gaul with his comrades. Thrust into co-emperor, he'd become Gaul's most eligible bachelor—but high station hadn't forged matching talent.
Gerontius drew on his own desperation plus instincts honed by long soldiering: reading the battle's flow, he struck the straining frontline with shock.
Constans lacked that insight, or the guts for bold decisions. He just followed the textbook: deploy, advance, adapt.
But fate dealt him the fog of war as a cruel test, and this young commander had no clever solution.
"Send messengers to scout the front, and ready the reserves for immediate commitment."
"Yes, Imperator."
His staff nodded at the orthodox orders. Some soldiers looked uneasy, but with scant intel, who could urge the co-emperor to charge now?
That decided it. Messengers plunged into the dust; some returned with grim reports.
[Clop clop! Neighhh-]
"Huff! Pant! Report, Dominus Noster—our 'Our Lord,' the supreme honorific for the emperor...! Third Century—half annihilated! Urgent support—"
"Report, Imperator! Seventh Century fighting hard! Requests reserves now—"
"Enemy cavalry! Cavalry sighted!"
The predictable flow twisted into chaos, enemy horse adding to the frenzy. Time to decide.
"Imperator! Your orders!"
"What now!?"
"Th-this—..."
Advance and fight? Or retreat? The former demanded utter courage. Lose everything here, no reinforcements from Arelate, none from Gaul.
Take some losses and pull back? Regroup slowly, somehow salvage?
Constans's trembling gaze chose the easier path.
"Hold the reserves. Confirm the field once more before retreat—"
"There! Enemy horse!"
A soldier rudely interrupted, pointing afar.
Constans saw: heavy cavalry charging under the imperial chi-rho banner.
"Constans! My dear Constans! Where are you!!"
"Gerontius..."
How could he forget the voice of his father's once-stalwart "uncle"?
Rage flared briefly at the traitor's call, but the battle's momentum had shifted. To fight, he'd needed to act sooner.
Too-late realization struck Constans.
"...We retreat."
"...Yes! Imperator!"
"...No retreat signal, Imperator."
"Do it."
His guards scattered; Gaul's reserves began a slow withdrawal.
Seeing it, Gerontius laughed loud, pointing his bloodied sword at Constans before wheeling back into the dust.
"Yes! Son of Constantinus, who else? Haha! Slow like your father! Sloooow!!"
Victory-certain Romans fought thrice as fierce. Defeat-certain ones, six times weaker.
That day, Gaul's emperor and council's painstaking punitive force against the traitor was utterly routed, pursued over days until annihilated.
-----
Avalonia—Britannia territory. Lugdunensis Secunda. The city of Patricius Artorius. Rotomagus.
Last year's gloom and unease shed in an instant, Rotomagus showed why it claimed to be Rome's northern trade hub.
Water traffic always surged from late winter to spring, but the ships crowding its harbor now outstripped even the glory days with a full Roman navy.
How? With three—no, four!—emperors battling below to decide Gaul and Hispania's fate amid empire-collapse talk, how could Lugdunensis Secunda's heart surpass its peak?
When doubts arose, folk gazed at the flag atop the tallest lighthouse: great water droplet and laurel wreath. Symbol of Magister Militum Britanniae, Flavius Artorius Patricius.
That emblem was now a vast promise: I protect you.
For that security, haughty Rotomagus and Lugdunensis Secunda, plus west Durocortorum-centered Lugdunensis Tertia (Armorica), adopted the One Third Law and swore to Patricius Artorius as overlord.
Result? Now even snooty Senones and Aurelanum in Lugdunensis Senonia sent spies tracking Rotomagus and beyond to Britannia.
Folk prayed for these dream days to last, beseeching the Lord's peace on Patricius and his house. They bought his emblem—Goddess icons trending among soldiers—wearing them on necklaces or close to heart.
One man's endless victories thawed cold hearts wearied by barbarian raids, ambitious soldiers' and politicians' civil wars.
Here, northern Gaul's core where three legions filled instantly on recruitment call, the spark of grand counterattack finally kindled.
"Our goal: south to the Liger River boundary, east down the Sequana."
"Liger's first target: city of Turonum. Down Sequana: Lutetia."
"Correct, Comes Beduerus."
Roman soldiers said: Beware scarred veterans, old hands. Especially from Britannia: Patricius Artorius's first knight, first sword.
Beduerus, white streaks in hair, one-armed, exuded authority sans his lord's presence. He earned Gaul legions 4,5,6's respect—Lancearius's divine sword from Patricius a huge factor.
"Alans ravage near Turonum especially. Our expedition's smoothness hinges on that first fight, Comes Beduerus."
"We need total victory. Understood, Comes Lancearius. Take vanguard, earn glory?"
A veteran's presence was like borrowing a whole legion.
Lancearius felt the huge burden from solo Bagaudae command vanish.
"Victory alone to our Dominus."
Beduerus nodded silently at the crisp smile.