Like a Volcano
[Victory!] [Artorius! Artorius!] [Artorius! Invictus!!]
As the years wore on, one thing that had changed was my growing patience in observing situations unfold. This war had claimed many fine warriors. It wasn't just Tigern Cador who had guarded Caer Cadwy for generations. If Cador's lineage ran deep, then the warriors of Caer Cadwy who had fought at his side, his father's side, his grandfather's side, and all their ancestors before them had likewise battled generation after generation for this land. That was a tribe, after all.
The Romans never hid their disdain for this tribal system. But in truth, a tribe bore striking similarities to the clans the Romans held so dear. It had to—Rome itself had begun as a confederation of tribes, or so I'd heard. Traces of that origin must linger everywhere. And so Cador treated his warriors like family, and they him. That's why, even in this absurd war, they had rolled up their sleeves and risked their lives for Cador—and for that hot-blooded fool of a son, Drustanus.
Cador had to win and survive, if only to honor the blood price of those men.
[Clop-clop-clop—clank-clank]
But wars aren't won on spirit alone. Anyone can declare one, but finishing it in victory? That's no small feat. Cador and his warriors knew that full well yet chose to fight anyway. If there was one thing to lean on...
In his heart, he wanted to thrash his son to within an inch of his life for eloping with that coward Vortigern's bride-to-be. But far to the east, in the very place they'd fled, dwelled a warrior whose name rang across the land. And whether by design or not, he was already locked in rivalry with Vortigern. That had to count for something.
Truth be told, Cador had figured he'd die in this war, no question. If Artorius had arrived even a day later—there, in the distance, the man mounting that chariot and approaching slowly—he surely would have. Vortigern had no reason to let Cador live after Caer Cadwy had shaved so much off his pride. Pitifully so. The fortress itself might have vanished.
This incident went far beyond Drustanus catching eyes with Vortigern's fiancée and running off. It was an extension of much deeper, older conflicts. As the eastern gateway to the Dumnonii, Caer Cadwy had always been close to Rome—and now, more people here saw themselves as Romans than Dumnonii. Fewer and fewer introduced themselves as "I'm so-and-so of the Dumnonii" like they used to. From his father's time, more said, "I'm from Cernow."
Cernow was the ancient name of a small tribe from across the western sea that had made Caer Cadwy its home before joining the greater Dumnonii. Reviving that dusty old name meant the rift between Dumnonii and Cernow folk had already existed before Drustanus's scandalous affair.
The eastern border fortress growing too cozy with Rome, a weakening empire, abandoned Britannia, and Vortigern. Those pieces stacked up, giving him the confidence to demand—threateningly—that Tigern Cador send his son with the delegation. More than a few warriors had urged fighting back rather than obey that outrage.
"Father, I'll go."
"Drustanus, this is Vortigern's trap. If it comes out you helped summon barbarians from beyond the western sea... Even if everything goes his way and Romano-Britannia falls to him, it'll ruin your honor."
"But if I don't go, he'll use that as an excuse to torment us. What we need now is time, Father. Send me."
"...Son."
He hadn't imagined the "time" his boy so nobly bought would be just a month or so. But when the news came, Cador laughed heartily. Better this way, he'd said. He knew confrontation with Vortigern—and the Dumnonii beyond him—was inevitable. It had been set since the legions left Britannia.
But he hadn't expected it to unfold so quickly, nor all those desperate plans, brutal fights, rousing speeches from that fateful night, and warriors' resolve to die... to end so anticlimactically in the hands of someone utterly unexpected.
[Clank-clank—prrr!]
"..."
"That man... Artorius. Artorius Invictus."
"Britannia's greatest warrior."
The greatest warrior of Romano-Britannia. The invincible Artorius. His fame was legendary—no fortress lord could avoid hearing it. Merchants' tales alone painted the picture: west and east of Londinium felt worlds apart, all because of one man.
At first, you doubt it, double-checking. But as reports pile up—cross-verified—they crystallize into fact. He beat a bear to death alone. Slaughtered a notorious wolf pack and displayed them at Londinium's gates. The barbarians he felled alone numbered four digits; captives sent to Eboracum and Deva Victrix for wall repairs. Once you realize every wild tale is true, you have no choice but to accept it: Who fights best in Romano-Britannia? Artorius. Only one name.
Yet acknowledging it and feeling it are different. Caer Cadwy's folk heard of his mounting exploits daily but thought only, "Impressive." "Good to know someone like that still holds Romano-Britannia." "What a relief." Nothing more.
"..."
"..."
Looking around, the warriors who had steeled themselves for a final blaze now stared with dazed, glassy eyes. No wonder.
"..."
It defied description, really. They'd witnessed a battle that shattered every law of the world. No choice but to stand there, souls adrift.
[Clank-clank—prrr! Screech—]
"Warriors of Caer Cadwy! I hope I'm not too late! I am the Magister Militum of Romano-Britannia—Artorius! Is your Tigern safe!?"
The massive man atop the grand chariot boomed like thunder. No mere volume—it reverberated through everything, true thunderous might. Shivering power.
"Magister Militum Artorius! Thanks to your aid, this stubborn neck lives another day!"
Cador answered swiftly, gesturing below for the gates opened.
[Grrroan—]
Confirming the sturdy wooden gates creak open amid fitting rust, Cador steadied his trembling voice and bellowed to the fearsome warrior above.
"Caer Cadwy is Rome's fortress! Just as Isca Dumnoniorum is Rome's city! This stronghold is yours, Magister Militum of Romano-Britannia!"
Cador rarely bowed so low. Even to nominal superior Comes Vortigern of Isca Dumnoniorum, he and his Cernow folk had gladly butted heads. They were that independent.
But this was different.
"...Mine? Not sure what you mean! But I thank your goodwill! The fight's mostly done! If you have men to spare, lend a hand with cleanup? Prisoners are mine! Spoils we split halfsies!"
"Your word is law! Prepare at once!"
"Eh? Ah, yes, Tigern!"
"We won? We won!!"
"Woo! Victory! Roma Invicta! Artorius Invictus!"
"We won anywayyy!!"
"Serves you right, Vortigern!"
Warriors who had lost reason watching three armored men fly now joined the distant victory cheers echoing across the plain. Exhausted from sleepless nights battling Dumnonii and Vortigern's hatred at its peak, they forgot fatigue, eyes wild, scrambling down the walls.
Amid the chaos, Artorius's voice pierced effortlessly once more.
"Oh! Tigern Cador! Your son, Dominus Drustanus, fought under me! Shall I send him to the fortress now?!"
That brat.
"Lord Drustanus?"
"He's alive!"
"Knew it! Our Cernow blood's bold spirit lives in him!!"
"Uwaaa! Vortigern! You couldn't kill us! Can't reclaim your stolen bride!"
"Second-worst man after Honorius! Can't even protect your woman, coward! Haha!"
His son's mere existence now mocked Vortigern. But Cador silently thanked the ancestors that the boy lived—thrash him later.
"...Gratitude upon gratitude, Magister Militum!"
"Ha! Just what Rome's Magister Militum must do! We'll tidy the field and visit after!"
The man laughed like thunder beyond hearty, wheeled his chariot, and departed slowly. Only then did tension ebb from Cador's body. Leaning unwittingly on the wall, a low sigh escaped.
"Huuu..."
Survived somehow. But how to keep surviving this land ahead?
"..."
[Clop-clop—clank—thud—]
The answer galloped boldly not far off, beyond the wall.
"Britannia's strongest...? Ridiculous."
Someone in the whole empire could match that—no, that warrior. A year, two at most, Cador reckoned. Enough for all Romano-Britannia to rally under one banner again.
"Magister Militum says he'll send Drustanus soon. Drag that brat straight to me."
"Yes, Tigern!"
Britannia and Caer Cadwy's future aside, first things first... Rubbing his temples, Cador braced for the barbarian daughter-in-law thrust upon his house.
----------
"Oh, do come in."
In today's Londinium, an invitation from Artorius meant influence in itself. First the legions, then the emperor abandoned Romano-Britannia—yet here he stood to defend it. More astonishing: he had the prowess, seeming the next lord of this forsaken land.
Thus, Isut—who received an invite to Artorius's base, Avalonia—found Londinium nobles flooding her door that day.
"Thank you for the invitation, Domina Guinevere."
"My goodness! You're as beautiful as they say, Domina Isut. Thank you for accepting."
Fluent Roman tongue. Sweeter than Drustanus's, perhaps not—but this Roman noblewoman, like a statue of a beautiful goddess come alive, spoke with deeper grace. No book could teach that. Not like Isut's own somewhat clumsy Latin.
"Care for a simple meal? Fruit, perhaps?"
[Pour—]
Avalonia felt worlds from Londinium. The buildings and folk en route were less ornate, for sure. Even Artorius's—the real power in Romano-Britannia—manor was plainer, humbler, more austere than Isut's Londinium lodgings.
Yet none of it mattered. No paintings, no mosaic tiles in this receiving room. The woman's beauty and poise filled it utterly.
The wine in the elegant glass was subtler, too. Just the pure fruit's taste?
Time passed for a sip of wine, a bite of apple. Pleasantries exchanged. Then, smiling softly as if casual, Domina Guinevere spoke.
"I heard you hail from Muwa across the sea, Domina Isut."
"Yes, Domina. That's right."
Her gentle gaze sharpened.
"Such a long journey—what more can you tell me of it? Specifically, the powers around Muwa. Or factions within Muwa itself."