The One Third Law
“Hahaha!”
Was that really Galbaginus laughing from way over there? Was he actually laughing? I had no idea what was so funny, but I might as well join in. “Then we’ll go with the one-third split.”
I’d been about to shoot some intangible killing intent at Galbaginus when Merlinus’s voice pulled my attention. After accepting the provisional Magister militum post, I’d started by grasping the state of affairs across the central territories. The moment I caught a breather, I’d immediately sought Merlinus’s wisdom on the barbarian tribes’ immigration issue.
And what he’d proposed after some deliberation was this one-third plan.
One Third Law?
“What’s that?” I had the guts to admit when I didn’t know something, and Merlinus calmly explained it to me.
“The empire’s former Magister militum was an exceptional man in many ways. You may have heard of him—Stilicho.”
Stilicho. The name rang a vague bell. That was the guy who—
“The general Honorius had killed?”
“...A true tragedy. A man who poured his efforts into the empire, yet all people remember is that tragic end. Yes, indeed, Magister militum Artorius. It was the most grievous blunder among Emperor Honorius’s many follies.”
Setting aside his intense disdain for Honorius, this cool-headed Briton seemed to harbor genuine sympathy for Stilicho. But our immediate concerns outweighed some distant mainland saga, so I didn’t pry for details.
“History’s full of such regrettable figures. If they’d all lived, we wouldn’t be in this mess. More importantly, Merlinus—what’s this one-third business?”
“...Sometimes you pierce right to the heart of it without batting an eye, sir. The one-third plan was Stilicho’s attempt to replenish the empire’s withered legions. At its core, it meant granting land to barbarians friendly to Rome.”
“Granting land... to barbarians?”
“That exact reaction is why Stilicho ended up dead at Honorius’s hands. Tragic, really.”
Merlinus rubbed his eyes briefly, then lifted a decorative cup and took a sip. With a quiet sigh, he continued.
“Stilicho failed, but his one-third plan touched on every problem plaguing the empire today. First, the barbarians. Second, the landowners who offer no interest or aid amid the empire’s crisis. And third, the exorbitantly expensive mercenaries born of our depleted military strength.”
Barbarians, landowners, mercenaries. A rough outline was forming in my mind, and Merlinus sketched it out boldly.
“On paper, lands near the borders are still imperial territory, but we’ve lost control of them in practice. Reclaim just one-third of those and give it to the barbarians. They’ll become Rome’s shield, stepping up to fight future invaders themselves. That was Stilicho’s negotiation pitch to the Gothic king Alaricus. Had it succeeded, the empire might have some breathing room now. We can’t block every barbarian horde anyway—better to hire them as mercenaries, save on gold, and secure sturdy allies and a standing army. Stilicho’s name rang high among the Goths and Vandals.”
“But it failed.”
“As expected—and feared. Rome’s noble senators must have held visions far loftier than anything a backwater Londinium bumpkin like me could dream up. They killed Stilicho alongside the emperor, sure. Now we wait and see what they do next. Personally, I have very high expectations.”
His words feigned uncertainty about the future, but Merlinus’s eyes, whenever he mentioned Rome, the emperor, or the Senate, brimmed with thick disappointment, mockery, and pity.
“Surrendering what you have is never easy, Magister militum Artorius. Fortunately for us, most who held vast wealth on this island have liquidated everything and crossed the strait already. What remains are southwestern Vortigern, my own family in Londinium, and Uterius in Camulodunum... Hardly what you’d call grand estates.”
The rich had all fled. That was Merlinus’s point.
With the legions withdrawn, there was no force to protect property. Naturally, the wealthy moved where their assets would be safe. Timeless logic, even in this AD 410 world.
“Makes you wonder if we should rejoice or mourn all this empty land.”
“Rejoice, Magister militum. This island has never had an opportunity like this.”
A bitter smile crossed my lips at the thought that rulers, merchants, clergy, soldiers—everyone—had abandoned this place. But Merlinus declared firmly.
“The moment the Rhine fell, land deeds north of the Alps became worthless scraps. Britannia beyond the strait? Even more so. The moneyed and learned fled, yes—but this is the perfect chance to reform the island’s very constitution. A luxury only our Britannia can afford, thanks to the likes of you, Magister militum Artorius.”
“You’re flattering me too much.”
“Need proof? Then take my family’s farms near Londinium. I offer two-thirds to you.”
“...?”
Eh?
“Think on it: it still lets us retain one-third in my family’s name.”
“What are you saying, Praefectus Merlinus?”
“The farms near Camulodunum pay rent to Comes Uterius since the old owners fled. But trace those taxes—they mostly fund Saxon Shore defenses or flow to Avalonia. May the Lord watch over our wise Comes Uterius; no man in Roman lands is as honest and incorruptible.”
“Enough.” I raised my palm. “Offering land—what’s all this mean?”
“For the past decade, my top priority wasn’t managing Londinium or monitoring the mainland chaos. It was confirming what manner of man you’d become—whether you’d turn out like that false emperor Constantinus III. While we’re at it, tell me, Magister militum: how much property do you own now?”
“...”
I couldn’t process it. Out of nowhere, he offers prime farmland near Londinium, then probes my wealth? In this formal setting! Did I look that broke...?
“Enough to get by.”
“A lakeside shack. Ah, upgraded to stone now? Anything else? Right, that chariot you brought—is it yours?”
“...It’s mine. A gift.”
“And that’s it. Magister militum Artorius, that’s your full holdings on paper. But follow the money flows, and something odd emerges. Britannia’s most famous mercenary and bounty hunter? Only one name comes to mind. So where did all your gold go?”
“I swear I never spent it improperly— ...? Wait, it’s my money; what business is it of anyone’s where I—?”
“Avalonia. Precisely: clothes, homes, food for the ragged, starving souls who sought you out. And then you forged a full legion’s worth of elites in just five or six years.”
“...One legion sounds big, but it’s only five hundred.”
“Those exact five hundred elites are why we had to yield the borders to barbarians, Magister militum Artorius.”
Guiltless as I was, I couldn’t meet Merlinus’s piercing gaze. How did a deskbound pen-pusher radiate such force? Look at his cousin, Ambrosius—same blood, yet shrinking in the corner. Ambrosius outweighed him twofold, easy.
And beyond those who’d rushed off at my orders, everyone lingered, hushing to eavesdrop on our exchange.
“So let’s recalculate. Better to offer those lands to you and salvage a portion than clutch them till we die in fear. If someone must reclaim Britannia’s vacant fields, it should be the man who built a city from nothing and birthed a legion.”
Now Merlinus’s gaze swept from me to the hushed room overhead, like a raptor eyeing prey. I felt battlefield killing intent.
“If you deem these aid-seeking barbarians useful, Magister militum, grant them land freely. Make them Romans. And I propose—with all here as witness—that from this moment, all ownerless estates fall to your discretion. If any object, speak now.”
Object, and face ruin. No fool here missed the Londinium ruler’s intent.
Ambition was universal; expressing it varied. Staring blankly at Merlinus, I grasped that a little. And that Praefectus Merlinus of Londinium would gladly burn any obstacle to safeguard and revive this land, for what he believed in...
I understood that too.
[Knock knock-]
Uterius rubbed his bleary eyes at the rap on his office door, then mustered his remaining voice. “Come in! It’s open!”
The smooth hinges parted silently, revealing a clean-cut young man. Fair-skinned and handsome enough to steal girls’ hearts. Artorius’s command seemed thick with such beauties.
“Welcome, Caius. It’s been too long.”
“I’ve been remiss, Comes Uterius. Forgive me.”
After brief greetings, Uterius gestured for Avalonia’s messenger to sit opposite.
“How fares Avalonia?”
“Haha. Thriving, Comes. The apple trees are lush, the lake as mysterious as ever.”
“Good tidings. Rare enough on this land, and most from Avalonia. So, what happy news from that blessed place? From Dominus Artorius?”
“Hahaha...”
Uterius’s cheerful laugh, recalling Avalonia and its giant, faded at Caius’s awkward hesitation.
“Right, Artorius is away. Beduerus, then?”
“Er, yes, Comes.”
“No—Hector. What’d he say?”
“He told me to deliver this. And to say the time has come.”
Caius produced a letter from his breast. The script screamed old Hector. The veteran who’d spent more time on the mainland than in Britannia, even alongside Uterius himself. Outward saint, but Uterius knew he’d long abandoned the faith. Dangerous by empire and church lights. But from Britannia’s view... truly?
In this chaos, someone always seeks scapegoats. Will you tolerate Vortigern pursuing his vain ambitions? What sets him apart from Constantinus III? Or will you raise the far superior, evident choice—the man Britannia has already embraced? What is the natural order?
“...”
The letter began and ended with questions.
“...Doddering fool playing wise.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
He tossed it aside without folding, pondering silently. For a moment, greed flared—a Roman man’s rightful ambition. But visions of Avalonia’s giant crushing foes quenched it. Then children’s innocent laughter around him. This very Caius had laughed loudest.
Torment vanished; clarity remained.
“Write a letter for me—not to Hector, straight to Beduerus—”
Before he finished—
[Dong-dong-dong-dong-dong-dong-!]
Urgent bells tolled from afar.