Britannia's Supreme Commander
The Magister militum, simply put, is a position that encompasses both the army and the navy. Compared to a Comes with their regional and legion-specific boundaries, it's far broader and carries far greater authority. In plain terms, it's like the supreme commander. And now, Merlinus was offering it to me.
An orphan of unclear origins, not even holding any official post—a wild man, a mercenary captain. That's exactly my station, nothing more, nothing less. So I didn't know what to say.
"Magister militum? That's—"
That's something the emperor appoints, isn't it? The thought formed in my mind up to that point, but before I could voice the rest, I remembered that very emperor had abandoned Britannia. I glanced at Merlinus, who stared back at me as if to say, go on. What more could I expect from the man who'd orchestrated this?
I turned back to face the sea of eyes. Wouldn't some find this situation uncomfortable? Power has its nature, after all. For a rootless upstart to suddenly ascend to such heights? Does that even make sense? I scanned them, my gaze carrying that unspoken sentiment, but their eyes seemed to question me right back.
Why hesitate?
"I have no experience. I'm not even a proper soldier."
"It's been five years since Britannia last had any proper soldiers. Fully intact forces? That was decades ago, wasn't it?"
"What about Comes Uterius? Or Ambrosius here?"
"Don't take this the wrong way—I respect Comes Uterius no less than you do, Lord Artorius—but the man is literally old. Wisdom and valor don't scale together, and what we need most right now is valor. As for Ambrosius here, he's family, so I know him well. He's a fine soldier, but he lacks the talent to save a nation."
Merlinus countered point by point, and Comes Ambrosius of Londinium, who'd been sitting quietly, chimed in.
"He's right. No need to feel slighted! Even famed commanders need talented subordinates to achieve anything. What can anyone do in this barren land with nothing? I couldn't do what you have, Dominus Artorius. Mark my words: had you not taken root in Avalonia, we'd have lost the farmlands of Camulodunum by now. We'd all be scheming about when to flee and how to liquidate our assets."
These Londinium cousins seemed to have coordinated in advance. I'd always seen Comes Ambrosius as affable with his plump face and generous smile, but now I spotted the fox hidden beneath his belly fat—a family trait. I'd overlooked it.
A brief silence fell.
"The Magister militum is a great position. It demands a great man. And aren't you the greatest in this land, Dominus Artorius? The Botadii will heed the wise consensus of Britannia."
Cunedagius, who'd been gauging the room, spoke first. Then:
"Those from Eboracum, Deva Victrix, and the surrounds may not know, but the Saxon Shore's defenses can no longer even be planned without Dominus Artorius. The cities and forts, from Dubris onward, will fully abide this Londinium council's decision."
Comes Toer—the outstanding commander guarding Dubris, whose face I'd come to know through joint operations—rose and nodded toward me.
"No, wait. Everyone, hold on."
This had turned into some ideological purge, which wasn't what I'd wanted at all, but Romans always triple their combat effectiveness once they seize the momentum. As they nodded contentedly, the final voice belonged to... Galbaginus?
He stepped forward from the obscure seat I'd once occupied, shoulders squared with the poise of a noble heir, not one of my rank-and-file soldiers.
"I am Galbaginus, son of Comes Lot of Eboracum."
"Ah, that Galbaginus under Dominus Artorius—"
"So he's Galbaginus."
Those recognizing him with gleaming eyes all prefixed his name with mine. I knew my mercenary band was famous, but I hadn't realized provincial powers noticed us this much.
"My father says Eboracum is an extension of Londinium—a mere forward base. It will naturally follow Londinium's will. And he believes Londinium's wise leaders will surely make full use of Dominus Artorius."
Galbaginus, enough already. I squeezed my eyes shut.
"..."
"..."
I'd closed my eyes unwittingly, but his freakish senses relayed every subtle shift in the watching eyes. The silence carried not the anger of imperial abandonment or hysteria, but a strange anticipation.
"Dominus Artorius."
This wasn't mere fear of responsibility making me balk, nor some Eastern custom of testing thrice. No—for now, I was just a mercenary captain. I could still refuse. In legionless Britannia, cast off even by the emperor, what was a Magister militum chosen by the Britons themselves? A name only. In truth, a king.
And what is a king? Omnipotence is a pipe dream—possessing it invites trouble. Simply put, a king is the group project leader for the most insubordinate, meddlesome Romans who'll stab you in the back at the slightest whim.
Me, take that seat? As the scales tipped toward refusal, Merlinus's low voice snapped my eyes open.
"Dominus Artorius, this would be unthinkable in peacetime. If the Empire were intact, we'd never have reached this point. But here we are. Londinium, Deva Victrix, Eboracum—and absent Vortigern. No one can easily stand above the others. Even if one did, would they be accepted? How long would it last? And supposing a miracle—everyone yields to one representative—what of the real threat? The external barbarians? Which of us has faced their might and won a true victory?"
Yes, if circumstances were even slightly more favorable, I'd have withdrawn without hesitation. I wouldn't have started this mercenary business. I'd have lived quietly somewhere, met a pretty woman, fallen in love, built a happy home. Died when the time came.
But Britannia allows no such leisure now. Spring is upon us, and the barbarians will strike. The signs are too clear to ignore. If we're to act, it must be proper and swift.
Britons like Merlinus saw this more clearly than I.
"Uterius has already consented. Vortigern's agreement is irrelevant—a Comes Britannicum with no troops is as hollow as that false emperor's voice. But yours is different. Look, Dominus Artorius. Everyone here holds vital posts they can't abandon. Why come today? To hear me? No—they came to see you."
"..."
"So tell us now: with things as they are, what must we do? Artorius."
As suffocating silence crept back, testing me, I steeled my resolve.
*****
"I'll accept the Magister militum... on a temporary basis."
Ha! Galbaginus nearly burst out laughing but barely suppressed it. Temporary? A temporary Magister militum? That's a qualifier the giver attaches, not the receiver.
My lord. Do you think it'll go as you wish?
Dominus is usually a formal honorific, but Artorius's warriors use it to mean one thing: liege lord. Galbaginus and Avalonia's fighters had long prepared to die for him.
"You've granted a high seat; I'll meet expectations. As you said, time presses. First, I need precise numbers from every city and fort: troops deployed, reserves, gold and supplies for more. Last year's barbarian hotspots—rivers, landing points. All intel, immediately."
Why risk life for one man? No need to look far. Death was never distant in barbarian-infested lands, but only in Avalonia—his stronghold—did true peace exist. A place where forgetting to lock your door meant nothing amiss. Where morning walkers greeted with smiles. Rare even in mighty Rome.
Orphan warriors' loyalty to Artorius bordered on excess, but later settlers were little different. In Britannia, where noble and base distinctions had crumbled, he'd shown true nobility: charging first, withdrawing last. Taking in the abandoned—beasts without masters, sheep without shepherds—with no strings, while living in a hut himself.
Though he recently upgraded to stone—but compared to Londinium domus or glittering villas...
Look now. Those scorning honors rarely scorn gold; those scorning gold seek honors or hail from wealth. But Dominus Artorius sought neither.
Then what did he seek? Always gazing from eagle heights, what distant vista did he behold?
Eboracum's notorious rake, the debauched Galbaginus, had shed his old self following Artorius. True strength shatters one's frailties.
Britannia's new Magister militum's first order: compile all stats. Leaders hurried off, bowing to their Magister militum one by one. Watching, Galbaginus stifled laughter again.
Temporary? A temp post.
Did the Dominus—no, Magister militum—mistake "eternal" for "temporary"?
You always say crisis is opportunity.
Here he'd simplified, but last summer's battle was far graver, riskier. Rain blinded us; scouts lost the barbarians' trail amid their swift maneuvers. With such downpour, they'd move on foot—we'd guessed.
Artorius, eyes resolute as ever, bade us follow. We struck their flank mid-march, crumbling them. Just one of his hundreds of victories.
"Hahaha!"
Watching his lord confer gravely with Merlinus, Galbaginus couldn't hold back this time.