Blood Oath of the Kneeling Saxon
AD 410. Early spring. One year—or zero, depending on how you count—since the (forced) independence of Romano-Britain. The circumstances of the brawl between barbarian tribes and the resulting fatal stabbing in front of the fortress at the eastern edge of the coast were as follows.
Originally, several neighboring tribes living on that cold, worthless stretch of shoreline heard rumors of golden lands to the west. Upon inquiring further, they learned that those who had left long ago had all become rich, while those who remained were the pitiful ones who had missed the boat on the ascending pillage coin. So, late to the party, they rushed in hoping to grab something for themselves—and it just so happened they arrived near Camulodunum.
In a tragically unjust twist, they encountered a giant in Britannia—
“Hold on.”
“Yes, Magister militum.”
Wolfmaer, who now acted as if he’d been at my side for a full decade, responded with perfect deference from behind me. He had naturally become my interpreter, though I wondered if it was right to use a tribal chieftain like this. Still, he seemed content, so I let it be. His translation skills were surprisingly polished, too.
“Ask who led this raid.”
“Yes! [You lot! Who’s your leader?]”
“[...He’s dead over there.]”
“The owner of that head on display, Magister militum.”
I couldn’t catch every word of the exchange between Wolfmaer and the kneeling barbarian, but I could infer from the gestures, tone, and accent.
“No way to verify. Tricky.”
“Shall we kill them one by one until we find out?”
“...No. We can’t do that.”
“Indeed, your mercy is profound. Mercy is the privilege of the strong.”
Wolfmaer’s brutal suggestion tempted me, as expected from a barbarian. But as a civilized man of the era—a Roman—I couldn’t stoop to that. Even punishing villains required adherence to law and custom. And by the laws of our Romano-Britain, executing these pillaging barbarians outright would cause no issue. That was the maximum penalty in court.
But strictly by the book, there were complications aplenty, deepening my deliberation.
“Ask why they came to this land. There’s plenty beyond the Rhine, or east and south of them. Why target Romano-Britain specifically?”
“Yes! [You stinking Saxon beasts! Why target the land guarded by Britannia’s giant? Where did that baseless confidence come from? Don’t mention the dead—dare deceive me, and I’ll kill you one by one and hang your worthless guts from your ship’s prow!]”
“...”
That was a mouthful. He must have translated it properly.
“[Listen, old Angle. We surrendered to the famed Artorius of Britannia. Why do you scold us?]”
“[Ha! If you truly surrender, you wouldn’t glare like that. You’re already a traitor. I don’t know your Saxon laws, but we Angles don’t tolerate betrayers. I now serve Magister militum Artorius, so naturally I judge you as a Briton.]”
“[...Betrayal? They betrayed us. No promised bread or gold—just death at our doorstep.]”
“[You’ve truly never heard of Britannia’s giant?]”
“[Not at all would be a lie. But rumors don’t convey half the truth, and we never dreamed this was that place. We just followed that headless one. Had we known, we wouldn’t have boarded the ship.]”
“[Does that erase your crime? Failed pillagers die here in Rome, our lands, and yours. Why not fight honorably?]”
“[Already on the traitor’s path. What honor left to guard? If I can, I’d save even these men.]”
“...”
Patiently listening, I watched Wolfmaer’s initial fury— like facing a mortal foe—gradually shift to admiration. The frontmost kneeler, likely their representative, spoke calmly in rough barbarian tongue with surprising dignity. Despite being failed pillagers and barbarians, he carried himself with spirit.
“Wolfmaer, what’s he saying?”
“Yes, Magister militum. The Saxon says it’s true they aimed for Britannia but didn’t know you were here.”
“So it’s fine as long as I’m not there? What a clown.”
These pillager scum always had rocks for brains... Still, credit where due: he sought surrender without a fight. We Romans weren’t exactly paragons of faith and justice. We’d invited barbarians to feasts only to slaughter them, assassination was standard, and we shunned no dirty trick.
So they’d come expecting death. Killing them all now might drive the distant warriors to desperate last stands, risking my precious men.
“...”
I glanced at Wolfmaer, recalling the Three-Part Strategy left by the empire’s late Magister militum, Stilicho, unjustly executed. Clever Merlinus had explained it: generously cede useless imperial lands to win barbarian loyalty.
And Romano-Britain brimmed with empty lands and fortresses. We lacked legions and population. The key was controlling any barbarians we took in...
“Wolfmaer, ask them: if I accept you, what do you offer me? How will you guarantee loyalty and prove it?”
“...Yes! Magister militum! [You, Saxon warrior. Magister militum Artorius is merciful. He offers even you death-deserving wretches a chance—what do you and yours offer? How prove your oath?]”
“...!”
As Wolfmaer spoke steadily, the kneelers lifted their heads. Last night’s infighting looked brutal—bloodied faces, bloodshot eyes—yet a glimmer of hope dawned.
My ice-blue eyes hardened. The frontmost, helmet with wing adornments beside him, stared through sweat, blood, and mud-matted hair.
“[Old Angle. Tell Artorius: bid him draw his sword and point it at me.]”
“... Magister militum. Seems barbaric, but he wishes to swear on the gripped blade. Angles, Saxons, Franks—all Woden followers hold such oaths dearer than life. Breaking it bars welcome anywhere, as a god- and ancestor-forsaken omen.”
A barbarian oath?
“So you need my sword for it?”
“Yes, Magister militum.”
Glancing around, Beduerus and Galbaginus flanked my chair, Avalonia warriors encircling the barbarians—all faces solemn. A bond transcending Roman and barbarian cultures? Some universal warrior code?
My men’s gazes toward the surrenderers softened—a good sign. Beyond easy disposal, war’s greatest victory is winning without fighting. I inwardly favored accepting.
First, convince my warriors. Living on the Roman-barbarian frontier, they leaned wild; the kneeling warrior’s courage scored points.
Shing—
No need for more—I rose, drawing my longsword. A longsword to others, but a shortsword to me; I rarely used it. My favorite: the massive wooden club from the lakeside one day.
It fit perfectly, so once gripped, no other weapon mattered. Unbreakable despite swings, it looked like a fat chicken leg—and I’d clubbed many barbarians with it.
Thud—thud—
The barbarian knee-walked forward, raising empty hands to signal no threat.
“Think you could nick a hair swinging at me?”
Amused, I quipped; all but the barbarians chuckled. To an innocent passerby ignorant of context, we might look the villains. But we were the righteous Romans.
Thump.
His next act was novel. My ever-maintained blade gleamed sharp—Caius saw to that—but he gripped it barehanded without hesitation, interlocking fingers, then drew the point to his solar plexus, bowing to bare his crown.
“[I am Hereward, son of Osric. I swear to Woden, Roman gods, and this gripped sword. Hereward, son of Osric, shall stand by Artorius’s shield, guard your hall, follow your banner. Gods witness. By this iron, honor, flowing blood I swear. While I breathe, no foe reaches you—save over my corpse...]”
Bare palms on the edge? Blood flowed, yet his ice-blue eyes sharpened. Impressive show, barbarian. Nearly fooled me.
I’m a Roman—cunning as they come.
“...Oath complete, Magister militum.”
“The warriors behind too?”
“...[You lot—what say you?]”
Barbarians erupted like competitors. Some scanned for blades; braver—or stupider—ones approached my warriors for daggers, got smacked, and scurried back to kneel.
“Enough. Tell them I understand—no killing.”
“Yes, Magister militum. [Calm down—you live today.]”
“But these lives are mine now. Say they’ll serve me, learn Roman tongue and script, accept Roman gods. Worship what they want inwardly—just pretend. Understand? Become full Romans.”
This went for Wolfmaer too.
“...I’ll convey precisely, Magister militum.”
“Have them surrender weapons voluntarily, separate the badly wounded. Oh—and tell this one he’s free now.”
Blood dripped down the hilt, but his gripped hands trembled not. Barbarian failed pillager, yet bold. Hereward, was it?
Train him right, he’ll be useful.
Suppressing talent-lust, as Hereward released at Wolfmaer’s words, I had Caius tend his wounds, then wiped the bloody blade on cloth.
“Beduerus, we head to the fortress first. It held beautifully.”
“Yes, Magister militum.”
As camp bustled at Beduerus’s signal, I stood central, eyeing the barbarians watching my every move.
Can I truly make Romans of these?
The world never stopped challenging me.
-----
“Hoo... So this is it...”
Flutter—
A crimson banner whipped atop a soaring stone tower piercing the sky.
“...Avalonia.”
Majestic. Unbelievable this city rose in just ten years—tall, vast, brimming with vitality. Londinium, visited en route, suited “ancient and grand”...
But this felt different. Perhaps that ice-blue water drop amid the red banner.
Ten years ago, maybe not—but now, no Roman or barbarian in Britannia knew not that sigil.
“The new master of Britannia... Closest to that seat.”
And perhaps the one to save my life.
From the distant southwestern fringe’s opposite, the fugitive man—Drustanus—took a deep breath and stepped forward.