Rome's Two Unwelcome Guests: Taxes and Civil War
They say in jest that there are two things in Rome that come calling even after death: taxes and civil war. I'd always thought it was the kind of joke only born cynics like Merlinus would enjoy. But there was truth to it. Most cynical humor is black comedy satirizing reality, after all. Rome truly had a bureaucracy so advanced it could tax the dead—considering the year was 410, it was almost unbelievable—and it waged civil wars with astonishing frequency. How many emperors did Rome have right now? Anyway, my rambling thoughts match the complexity in my head, but the point is this: the season of civil war had arrived faithfully even in this land of Romano-Britain. Funny, isn't it? Even in a land without a single legion, the Romans were gearing up for civil war.
At this point, you can't help but wonder. Could it be that Rome's highly advanced system—the one hailed as the best in this reality—is actually breeding rebels? Or maybe a unified empire was nothing but a pipe dream on this European soil from the start. Romano-Britain is no different. In my last life's final memory, 21st-century Britain flew one flag, but distinct identities like Ireland, Scotland, and Wales clearly existed within it. Who can say what it'll look like a century later? Maybe the people of this land are physiologically incapable of true unification.
"Magister militum. What are you thinking?"
"Ah— just some scattered thoughts."
In truth, all those random musings I'd entertained were avoidance tactics. Pointless excuses pieced together. Civil war is war at its core. And when it comes to fighting, my body—endowed with godlike intuition—had pierced the essence of this problem in an instant. What was the root reason Vortigern went so far as to send men across the sea to barbarian dens just to fetch a wife? Me. Artorius, the pivot of history itself. My head had grown too big; Vortigern had no choice. I'd spun tales about Rome's system breeding rebels and such, but in the human world, most problems boil down to people. Maintaining a vast empire for 400 years without telephones proves Rome's superiority. A few rebellions? The empire endured. At least until now. So the problem is the people. Vortigern clearly saw the legion vacuum and chaos in Britain as his chance to claim more than the Magister militum seat I'm occupying. Why else antagonize me? In the end, how this unfolds and resolves depends entirely on me. How far will I cross the line? The Britons raised me with their own hands to this Magister militum post. I'd instinctively dodged by calling it temporary, but the swirling politics won't tolerate more childishness. It demands a firm decision. So, Artorius, will you advance? Retreat? Take the throne? Or step aside and watch another sit it? Choose now. I feel the era pressing down on me. Arrogant? Maybe. But I've already set so much in motion.
"..."
"..."
Was my expression that grim? Guinevere's gentle voice and Drustanus's refined tone—reeking of noble upbringing—both faded as they gauged my mood.
"..."
Guinevere was always wise, especially. From our first meeting, I knew that girl was sharp. She knows her feelings for me are special, and I treat her differently from other women. I'd avoided this too, but it's time to decide. For her sake, waiting because of me, and for Comes Uterius's dignity in rejecting all those marriage proposals. I knew I couldn't delay forever, but damn, it's not easy.
"Guinevere. What kind of man is Vortigern?"
One last indulgence. Asking her—her wit impossible to hide beneath those sparkling eyes—she answered promptly while still watching my face.
"He married the daughter of Emperor Magnus, once Britain's legitimate ruler—though she died young—that's his claim. He's from a prominent Dumnonii clan. Even Constantine III, the soldier-emperor backed by Britain's last legion, ceded the southwest to him—that's his prowess. If I had to compare, he looks like my father on the surface."
Uterius's hair and beard are all white now, but he was once a renowned warrior. Old folks' tales always mixed in his brutal exploits. He seems self-made, but his family managed the Camulodunum region for generations.
"But compared to my father, Vortigern is an insult. Father was always on the front lines. My childhood memories are just with my frail mother.... I only understood him after growing up, but he couldn't even be at her deathbed. The barbarians didn't pillage out of pity for our plight."
She spoke calmly, but the scar was visible. Uterius was a stern commander, but weak for Guinevere. More than doting—it carried deep guilt.
"From last spring to autumn, while the west and south coasts burned, Vortigern vanished. Holed up in Isca Dumnoniorum, his nest, 'cleaning up.' Cleaning what? Burned villages? The corpses beneath? So he's just.... another Constantine. The difference? Constantine took Britain's last legions across the strait without hesitation; Vortigern stayed."
Her voice was steady, but laced with the shared fury of all Romano-Britons. Even Drustanus nodded unconsciously, disgust flashing in his eyes.
"Ruthless, ambitious, decisive—maybe. But he's not what Britain wants. Second-best at best, never the ideal."
Like a judge reading a verdict, Guinevere concluded. I didn't press. No need to ask who was best—her sparkling eyes never left me.
"Whew..."
I closed my eyes and exhaled. An army's core is speed. That's the essence of war I'd learned. If you're doing it, do it decisively—and swiftly above all. What's it to be, Artorius? Time to choose.
"Dominus Drustanus."
"Y-yes! Magister militum!"
Another short breath, eyes open.
"If you were a barbarian chieftain whose daughter was kidnapped, what would you do next?"
"Uh— well...."
"Forget paternal love; pride alone would force your hand. Warrior societies work that way. Whatever Vortigern does, the western barbarians will move. And their first target? Dominus Drustanus's homeland."
"Ah— yes.... You're right, Magister militum."
This rich kid, who eloped with a barbarian princess after a whirlwind romance, hadn't lost all sense of reality; he drooped, chastened. But no worries. Romans kidnapping barbarian princesses? That's the Roman spirit.
"What of Dominus Drustanus's father? Time is short. Be objective, no emotions. For his house and fortress's survival, would he hand over his own son to Vortigern or the chieftain?"
"Such...!"
It must've stabbed like a lung wound. Harsh, but Drustanus needed to ponder it himself. He lifted his head sharply, then slowly lowered it, answering in a cracked voice after deep thought.
"Magister militum. No. My father.... He'd rage like fire, but for this foolish son—he'd shoulder the risk himself."
"I see."
So kids are useless? Knowing that, he still caused this mess. No—love's beyond control. Not a one-sided abduction; two young lovers clicked. What can you do?
"Dominus Drustanus, you'd love to rush to Londinium and see Domina Isut. But you'll move with me for now."
"Yes.... Wait— does that mean Magister militum will help me...?"
"Explaining to your father and accepting the aftermath is all on you, Dominus Drustanus."
"..."
His solemn nod held firm resolve.
"Meanwhile, repelling the western barbarians falls to me. I'm Britain's Magister militum, after all."
And in that process, I'll shove Vortigern aside. He's had over ten years of chances. If his result is last year's devastation on the west coast, he should've known his limits and stepped down. But he won't. That's who he is. To me, Britain must be protected; to his kind, it's just property.
"We depart in two days. Go to Londinium. Don't be late. In two days, I head to Caer Cadwy."
"I won't be late, Magister militum. And.... thank you. Dominus Artorius. I know how foolish this is, how much I owe. I'll repay it. No matter what."
I stared at Drustanus, vowing like he'd sacrifice his life. Stubborn eyes. People like that don't bend easily. Reminds me of somewhere.... Galbaginus's eyes. All rich heirs like that?
"Rome's Magister militum fights nasty barbarians—that's the job. Don't overthink it."
"How could I not? Thank you. Truly, thank you, Magister militum."
He'd thank me all day, so I sent him to Londinium and ended it. He insisted benefactors exit first, refusing to leave my building—so I, the owner, left first. That reckless romantic warrior didn't look half bad. Overlapping with Galbaginus? My turbulent heart since becoming Magister militum cleared instantly. Once resolved, worries of what-next filled the void.
Reading some change in me, Guinevere followed quietly, then stepped ahead, tilting her head.
"Dominus Artorius. Something's different."
"Is it?"
"You seem.... more at ease."
"Domina Guinevere."
I called her name softly. She'd known me over a decade; she flinched, startled. Probably my unusual tone. But no choice. Things will change much faster now. Once resolved, speed is key.
"If uninterested, I'd have said no long ago. I like Domina Guinevere, for sure. But my standards differ; I need time."
"..."
Realizing my words, her face flushed. Treating it like battle, my mouth stayed coldly precise.
"If Comes Uterius permits and Domina Guinevere agrees, court me for a year? If good after—"
"Yes."
The slender woman answered briskly, no hesitation. Beaming, apple-red cheeks. Right. The season had turned to spring.