Invictus
"..."
"..."
Citizens, behold this square. Even if Claudius, that famed court poet of the Eternal City, were to recite his hidden verses, he couldn't captivate people's eyes and hearts like this. And to think, that man wrote for Honorius himself in his lifetime. Of course, in today's Rome—in Ravenna—who isn't? ...
When the false emperor, in his ambition, dragged every legion from Britannia across the strait to Gallia, amid the frenzy of chaos and terror where all of Britannia's so-called notables fled in madness, he was one of the few names who steadfastly held their ground. In this land of Britannia, where the false emperor's officials—and even priests friendly to him—were all driven out in rage at the legions' withdrawal, he remains, perhaps the highest name still standing. The defender of Britannia's eastern coast. More precisely, the Comes litoris Saxonici of the Britannia-Saxon shores.
Uterius sat in the front row of the crowd, staring blankly at the man on the platform. He was big. That was the first thought that struck him. Big, broad, and strong. In the end, even complex beings like humans rely on primal senses. So impressions start there, and simply put, the man before his eyes was too immense to overlook. No other thoughts arose—just pure awe.
"Invictus...."
The name and title for that giant man were Artorius Invictus. Artorius the Invincible. What was amusing was that someone had murmured Invictus without thinking—a title that, in the Roman Empire, gods like Jupiter, Mars, Sol, or Hercules, or emperors who achieved great feats like Aurelian, Diocletian, Maximian, or Constantine, had claimed for themselves. Yet Artorius was no emperor, nor even faintly of imperial blood.
On the contrary, Uterius remembered that giant man as a huge child just a few years ago. A mysterious lakeside boy who appeared one day. No one dared claim him as their son. Who would raise their hand and say, "That's my child!" after that boy(?) first appeared in the world by felling a man-eating bear? Any such bold frauds had long since died in this land of Britannia or fled to the mainland.
Thus, the boy who revealed no parents had no connection to the ever-shifting emperors of the empire. That left only the question of whether he was a god or demigod.... Ridiculous, Uterius knew well. Yet deep down, he had entertained such foolish thoughts. What if that man truly had divine blood? Not our Lord, perhaps, but something like a lake spirit from the old gods.
Because the boy who debuted by slaying a man-eater had grown into a youth who, single-handedly, defended Britannia's crumbling eastern coasts and rivers. Uterius had watched those miracle-like battles up close, and such thoughts had arisen unbidden. The man's fame for personally crushing raiders' skulls drew all the worthy remnants of collapsing Romano-Britannia to the lakeside west of Camulodunum, just to glimpse his face.
Retired legion veterans, descendants of once-noble houses faded by time, third-, fourth-, or fifth-born sons of still-prestigious families. Those with no further prospects due to their circumstances came to verify Artorius's renown—and once drawn in, they never left. And they became his spear and shield.
"Comes Uterius. You could have left amply, yet you stayed to guard this land and its people. Thus, it is right that you lead us. Rome's emperor has abandoned us. So what shall we do now?"
Like an ownerless wild mountain. That was Romano-Britannia. To the distant emperor in Ravenna, it was worth just that. How many false emperors had this island birthed? If one sought to rebel against the center, no Roman territory was more fitting than this vast island. Too far to bother with easily, yet not to be ignored—with its legions subtly embedded, no small gold output, and resilient people.
Now, with the false emperor, legions, officials, church—all fleeing like cowards—this was the moment. If Artorius willed it, sheer prowess alone could make a bid for power. Uterius's seasoned mind already pictured it clearly. Many in this land followed that name. Shamefully, Camulodunum—this key southeastern fortress—had barely under 500 garrison troops left, and even mighty Londinium fared little better.
Yet 500 warriors had gathered nationwide at Artorius's name alone. Not farmers dressed as soldiers with awkward gear. Men so perilous even legendary legionaries couldn't predict victory. Without Artorius, they'd have pursued their own agendas or turned bandit. In old Romano-Britannia decades ago, perhaps not—but in today's legionless isle, they had the strength to claim lordship unhindered.
Yet, unlike history's pattern, Artorius had not. Strangely.
"Artorius."
"Comes Uterius."
Hadn't that man just heard with him of Rome's emperor directly abandoning this land? What meaning did a mere comes hold here now? Why, then, did Artorius bend that massive frame to show respect to this old, useless man?
Uterius wondered.
"Six years ago, when ten barbarian ships were driven ashore by a fierce wind. Without that club you swung, some village wouldn't have ended merely burning."
"..."
Artorius's gaze—pure, as if asking what this old man meant—somehow pleased Uterius, who had worn away his lifespan dealing with self-servers and even traitors inviting barbarians. The old Roman chuckled.
"News from west and north is all grim. Villages burned today, fortresses emptied, some hiding in ancient mountain ruins."
"Comes—"
"Sorry to sour the mood you've calmed, but it's true. We can no longer ignore reality. Ravenna, Gallia—whichever true emperor, both abandoned us. I'm too lowly to know if this is our Lord's trial. But I doubt I can overcome it."
Above all, Uterius was too old. Worn. His last shield-raise felt ancient; even phalanx formations faded from memory. Cruelly, his late wife's face blurred lately. By any measure, his death loomed.
But behold this giant hero. Though his epithet echoed only in once-great empire's fringe—Romano-Britannia. A warrior who claimed Invictus himself. Any with eyes must acknowledge: People aren't born equal, and the world's laws applied exceptionally to Artorius. He was special. Worse, everyone knew without him saying.
To Uterius, in chaotic Britannia, this mattered greatly.
"True, I'm comes—nominally overseeing Camulodunum, Portus Adurni, Anderida, Rutupiae, Dubris, all those forts. But Artorius, listen: They no longer heed the Comes litoris Saxonici. I sit here only by this city's citizens' sufferance. I hold no real power."
Why ignore this plain fact? You hold this seat by your favorable stance toward me—why don't you see it?
Uterius's voice, delivering harsh reality, was low. As it flowed calmly, silence settled like a dream's end. All eyes fixed on Artorius. On eyes that seemed to glow alone—not human. Pale brown, gleaming yellow-gold.
"I'm unlearned, but isn't meaning ultimately bestowed by people?"
The hero's powerful voice filled the vast square. Worlds apart from Uterius's faint reach, even close.
"Why has your title no meaning, Comes? Even if Rome's emperor abandoned us, nothing changes. Sowing season nears. We'll till fields, feed livestock, teach children. Then harvest, winter. As these years, we won't starve children or let beasts or men harm us. Then spring again."
A steady voice. Like Uterius's cold realism, but rooted differently. Uterius's in despair; Artorius's brimmed with courage, hope.
If—
"Great as the void left, more remain. Too much to abandon. But I talent only in advancing, fighting, guarding. Leading this needs wiser heads. Comes Uterius, one experienced and wise like you must guide us."
If—if a king rose here again. Wouldn't it be such a man?
The thought struck the old Briton's mind.
"..."
Uterius couldn't meet those blazing eyes. A massive flame—incinerating human frailty. It would burn his old body and soul to the last.
Glancing around, he saw the gathered like first-time choir hearers—moths to flame, fixated on the platform. Ah. Not my thought alone.
Then Uterius knew his duty in time left.
"...In three days, meeting Londinium's prefect. News likely reached all reachable cities, forts, villages. Will you go?"
"Londinium, you say?"
Artorius's shining eyes seemed to gaze afar briefly, then he nodded.
"Unsure what I can do, but if needed, of course."
"Good. Very good."
Perfect. Uterius nodded vigorously, rising. The white marble seats curved in long arches—Roman. Emperor abandoned, but as Artorius said: still Rome.
With Artorius's aid, Uterius mounted the platform, facing the crowd. Their eyes—once flaming rage at the emperor's absurd abandonment decree (surrender? independence? what to call it? Had Rome's long history seen such?); the messenger bearing that disgrace—now sparkled with new hope. Heat remained, but forgeable steel. What power.
"Esteemed citizens. Did you hear Artorius? A time needing courage—for us all.... Return to daily life. The emperor bids us fend for ourselves; so we shall."
Anger from despair lingered. But new possibility, overwhelming it, awakened here.