Mercy’s Brutal Price
“Really?”
“If you just spare us, I’ll give you everything. The gold I’ve hoarded all these years, my spear, my sword—take it all.”
Spare me! Just let me live! How far would a man go to survive? For Marcellus, who had a toddler just learning to walk and another child growing in his wife’s belly, there was truly nothing he wouldn’t do. He’d already steeled himself for death, but this colossal figure before him had dangled a slender thread of hope. So what choice was there? He had to surrender everything except his life. Pride, wealth—gone.
“Even if there’s bad blood between Vortigern and me, I know he was still a man the Dumnonii here followed. But you didn’t just kill Vortigern—you beheaded him and all the leading men of Isca Dumnoniorum. If I let you live, what am I supposed to tell them?”
Should he just say it straight? Truth be told, the odds of Isca’s people rising in fury over the deaths of Vortigern—who’d hunkered down in his fancy house while coastal folk were raided, chasing only his family’s gain—and the forum loafers who droned on with boring tales all day or spewed obscenities at the amphitheater were lower than the legions abandoning us for Roman soil suddenly growing a conscience and sailing back to defend this land. Four hundred years after Rome set foot here, folks still pined for the grand estates of the Republic’s early days, worked by exploited serfs. Those “noble” families—nothing special, really—had their heads lopped off overnight. More people would rejoice than rage.
But voicing that here? He’d end up like Vortigern, cooling in some church corner, rotting away. Marcellus could only bow his head low, voice dripping with desperation.
“My worthless life is yours now, Magister Militum. This fool begs only for mercy. But the people of Isca Dumnoniorum? They’d cheer the fall of Vortigern and his noble ilk, who hid in luxury while the coast burned, grabbing only for their own. They’d hail the true master of Romano-Britain’s arrival—not rage over a traitor’s death.”
“Is that so? You think?”
He couldn’t see the face with his forehead to the ground, but even through cold sweat, Marcellus caught the spark of interest in the giant’s voice.
“Truth is, before you even arrived, I’d already weighed your life—and your men’s—on the scales.”
“...”
Cold sweat trickled from his jaw, now in twin streams.
“You offered gold, your life, spear and sword. I’ll take every bit of it. How far are you ready to throw yourself?”
The giant’s voice shed its playfulness in an instant, heavy enough to squeeze a man’s heart. Sweat poured ceaselessly now, hot as fire—not cold anymore. But one slip here meant instant death; Marcellus tensed like a man stepping into a winter cave prowled by bears.
“Yes, Magister Militum. I know betrayal’s sin is grave. So forgive my presumption—if you spare my men... and my family lives, I’ll gladly die.”
Marcellus had already resolved this plunging his blade between Vortigern’s shoulder blades.
[Aaaargh!]
That agonized scream, the feel of steel slicing vertically through flesh, mangling the heart—transmitted vividly through the hilt. In that moment, Marcellus might have sealed his own fate too. But saying it aloud took more courage than he’d imagined… Still, he wanted to save at least his men and family.
“...”
“...”
Silence stretched; Marcellus’s mind went blank. No strength left to plead, just the blade of death hovering over his own shoulder blades, moment by moment. Then the reaper spoke his verdict.
“Fine. It’s decided. You and your men are my slave soldiers from now on.”
“...”
“Your gold is mine. You’ll follow where I go, fight at the front, in the worst of it. Fall dead, and the deal ends. In return—live or die—I’ll treat your families as my own. When I deem your sins atoned through enough merit, you’re free.”
“We’ll follow, Magister Militum. Thank you for your mercy.”
He’d live.
“Beduerus.”
“Yes, Magister Militum.”
“No need to wait. We occupy Isca Dumnoniorum now. Lead with Marcellus here—round up any families that might threaten us, conscript the militia. That’s priority.”
“As you will.”
Born third son of a worthless house, doomed to scrape at army gates his whole life… Better a hero’s slave than Vortigern’s dog. Marcellus would rack up merits till he earned the Magister Militum’s trust. Sweat-drenched, his face hardened with fresh resolve—different from those around Artorius. If anything, Marcellus was a jackal, a hyena: ends justify means, master’s will above all.
“Caius, form a cohort from fifteen centuries. Scout the coastal forts west of Isca Dumnoniorum—check defenses, report back fast. If any side with dead Vortigern, leave ’em; just mark positions.”
“...Yes! Magister Militum!”
Caius flushed—his first independent command.
“Wolfmaer, detach a hundred auxilia to back Caius.”
“Understood, Magister Militum!”
“Caius, Wolfmaer and auxilia are my men now. I tolerate no disputes or defiance among those under me.”
“I’ll remember, Magister Militum!”
“Same for you, Wolfmaer. Caius is young, but he’s fought long at my side. Treat him outside as you do me.”
“On my honor, Magister Militum.”
“Good. Move out. No time to waste.”
[Snap!]
Under the gleaming eyes of saluting officers, Artorius led from Caer Cadwy’s council chamber. Less Britannia’s war chief, more… something greater, Marcellus thought.
-----
By now, Isca Dumnoniorum’s under the Magister Militum.
Three days by his tally. Sent east by Dominus Artorius, he’d galloped nonstop, swapping horses. Londinium loomed. His three riders looked ready to collapse; tough-born Galbaginus just had a sore ass.
“Londinium soon. Hang in there.”
“Yes, Tribunus Galbaginus!”
Not just Romano-Britain’s woes—empire-wide warlords everywhere. But even ignoring shrunken forces, ranks were turning nominal, Galbaginus mused. His tribunus post? Old-school: 500 or ideally 1,000 men. Reality? No. Under Magister Artorius, Beduerus—Praefectus Legionis, Tribunus Laticlavius—was second; Galbaginus, practical field senior, third.
Titles meant little post-emperor’s abandonment. But Artorius stepping up? Rome would regret ditching Britannia soon. Galbaginus saw it clear: puffed ranks now, but conscript southeast, stabilize southwest, fold north under Magister…
Magnus Maximus reborn—the strongest ruler since.
Father praised Magnus, but no match for Dominus Artorius. Born Eboracum noble heir, yet Galbaginus knew birth didn’t equal talent. Artorius was truly Invictus. Matchless, bridle snapped—his path known only to him.
[Clop-clop-]
“Water drop mark! Magister Militum’s herald! Clear! Clear!!”
Musing on Britannia’s future, his house’s place, Londinium’s gates appeared. No ID check—security lax. Galbaginus and riders passed south gate unhindered. Absurd, but Britannia southeast’s ease, Artorius’s sway.
West: revolt crushed, barbarians looming. Here…
[Clop-clop-]
Passersby’s faces screamed another world. Refugees fled Isca to here along the road.
Maybe it’s real…
Praefectus Merlinus offering ancient family wealth to Artorius? Empire-wide news. Galbaginus admired the boldness. Scanning Londinium calmly, Merlinus stood to gain far more. Britannia realigning around Artorius—undeniable now.
Then where for Eboracum’s Lot and Galbaginus in this shifting land? Brooding, he dismounted habitually for the forum.
[Snap!]
“Tribunus Galbaginus!”
“Hard day already. Where’s the Praefectus?”
“His office!”
“Good work.”
[Snap!]
“Eh! Tribunus!”
Barracks bustled, supplies finding owners. Nobles fled, but underlings stayed. Four centuries Roman-Britons bloomed fiercer at empire’s end. Resurrection, really. Magnus, Constantine sucked dry? No—strength lingered. Architect: cool, unflappable at desk, shuffling papers.
“...”
“Sit wherever, Tribunus, if you’re here.”
“Praefectus Merlinus.”
Respectful tone drew those piercing blue eyes from documents. Like father’s. Galbaginus knew them: strip you bare, drier, colder, more calculating than a swordsman’s. Only Dominus Artorius safe from such.
“Rushed here—trouble at Isca Dumnoniorum?”
“Yes. Unbelievable, but Vortigern’s dead. Revolt.”
“...Is that so?”
What’s this reaction? Nod like an ant died—feigned surprise, almost comical.
“...Tragic. Lived long in Britannia, though. No wine today.”
No sorrow—just rote eulogy. Merlinus turned; Galbaginus followed gaze to a woman, shadow-quiet till noticed, then smiling.
Galbaginus knew her best in the world.
“...Mother.”
“Gwalhmei, my son. I’ve watched you in dreams, whispers on the wind.”
Not in Latin. Northern tribal tongue: Molgause. Pious facade, but his mother was a druid seer.