The Franks Across the Sea
“Franks…”
Franks. That’s what they’re called in Rome. They were the traditional foederati, mercenary tribes who had guarded Rome’s frontiers for generations. No one knew their origins or birthplace. Rome had never cared much about where barbarians sprang up like weeds. Far more important was that these Franks showed greater interest in Roman culture than other barbarians—which meant they were perfectly suited to hire on as mercenaries and discard when done. But lately, that had grown ambiguous…. The once-mighty Roman Empire no longer had the luxury to use and toss barbarians at will.
“Comes.”
“Comes Uterius.”
“Ah, yes, inside here?”
“Yes, Comes!”
[Clack!]
Even digging through a lifetime of experience and accumulated knowledge in my head, that was all the useful information I had on those Franks. No helping it. Uterius had devoted his entire life to Britannia’s defense. What little I recalled was that the Franks, like other barbarians, weren’t united under a single powerful king or emperor? And Franks were occasionally spotted among raider bands? Something like that.
Uterius had cut off even his lingering attachment to the world’s beauties and every good thing preached by the church. He grasped Britannia’s current situation perfectly: defenses without Artorius were still a total mess, proven by last year’s great raids and catastrophe along the western and southern coasts. Thus, until we built more strength—in this cautious phase for Britannia—we had no choice but to pay special attention to the movements of those mercenaries, traders, and potential raiders across the strait.
“Comes litoris Saxonici, you’ve arrived.”
“Ah, Taurus.”
Guests to Britannia, yet using the watchtower top as a reception room. Even after all these years, Uterius couldn’t help a smile at Taurus’s unchanging rigidity, the very picture of a soldier. But the old warrior’s grin faded at the barbarians standing awkwardly before him.
“Then these must be the guests who crossed from the Franks.”
“Yes—”
“Pleased to meet you! Comes litoris Saxonici of Romano-Britannia, Uterius. Your name is renowned even across the narrow sea.”
Broad shoulders and high-set eyes confirmed a barbarian. Time had brought more intermixing than in the old Republic days, citizenship had expanded, blurring the lines everywhere but Roman heartlands. Still, Uterius’s experience held: barbarians were generally larger than Romans on average. Of course, outliers like Artorius slipped in.
“You speak our tongue fluently. I can’t imagine why this worthless old man’s name is famous, but thank you all the same. And you are…?”
“Merowig. King of the Hairy Ones, Hlodowig, is my father.”
“Huh.”
No wonder the cape clasp at his neck, the gleaming armor that shone even at rest, the golden hilt ornaments on the long sword at his waist, the fine fabric peeking from under the armor, the spotless shoes, the belt wrapped in layers of precious leather. Far too luxurious for a mere envoy—perhaps a favored relative of a barbarian king. But no, the king’s own son had come to this land.
“What brings the Franks’ ruler to send his precious son all the way to Britannia?”
A barbarian king’s son was still just that. This was Romano-Britannia—even a king in person wouldn’t shake Uterius. He’d spent too many years fighting them, knew exactly when they were most fearsome and when weakest. Fear always came from the unknown; he knew them too well for that.
“The world is in upheaval, Comes litoris Uterius. Every report from beyond the Alps to the south is dark and foreboding. Rome’s emperor and senate keep committing grave blunders.”
“Huh.”
Sounds of national ruin echoing everywhere, it seemed. Uterius, whose Roman identity overshadowed even his Britannian one, found it both ridiculous and tragic that a barbarian prince would speak such words—the empire reduced to this.
What on earth had they done to make a prince from the northern Rhine fringes spout such nonsense? Anger and sorrow welled up, but Uterius’s life had forged him too hard for emotions to sway him. The old Roman soldier faced the prince with steady tone and gaze throughout.
Those bright blue eyes gleamed, probing for any reaction. Merowig, was it? A barbarian prince hiding a fox’s cunning beneath his savage exterior.
“No greater folly than abandoning Britannia.”
“Ah, not that emperor. This time, another made a colossal mistake.”
“...? Not Honorius—surely you mean Constantinus?”
Rome had many emperors, but Britannia’s two most despised were Honorius, recently risen to top spot for officially ditching us, and Constantinus, long unchallenged at number one—the fake who’d dragged every legion across the sea to Gaul. In his wake, nobles, clergy, merchants fled and never returned. Barbarians had started knocking instead.
“Yes, Comes litoris. That Emperor Constantinus. Word is the fool’s leading his army over the Alps—Alaricus is ravaging the southern slopes, they say.”
The prince meant the Alps. The towering range that once severed the empire’s cradle from the barbaric world. Famous for Hannibal crossing in the Republic’s darkest days, paths were now well-developed, and with spring blooming, an army traversing it wasn’t so shocking anymore.
Thus, Constantinus—who’d callously discarded Britannia for his ambitions—now leaving Gaul for Italy’s heartland didn’t surprise Uterius. The name that caught his ear more keenly was Alaricus.
If memory served, that was the infamous king of the Goths.
“One who couldn’t hold Hispania dares cross the Alps…. Magnus Maximus failed and died less than thirty years ago, gripping Hispania, Gaul, and Britannia. This Constantinus won’t last long, I’d wager.”
Probing done, Merowig dropped the awkward accent, speaking like a true Roman. Uterius nodded.
The emperor had abandoned us—hard to proudly call it our land now. Still, once guarded with his soul, it was ironic discussing the empire’s shame with a barbarian. But something more pressing mattered now.
“You even know Magnus Maximus’s name—seems you know Britannia’s affairs inside out. Shall we get to the point?”
“Haha! Romans love to talk, so I prepared thoroughly. But Comes Uterius, you feel closer to us Franks than Romans—no offense to your kind.”
‘If you know we hate hearing that, don’t say it, you barbarian.’
Suppressing a flare of long-buried barbarian loathing, Uterius simply stared at Merowig. The prince stroked his Roman-shaven chin, smile fading to earnest seriousness.
“Constantinus and the Gaul council are gambling dangerously. Burgundians back the council—no secret anymore. Whether Constantinus crosses the Alps or not, whether Honorius dies or not, the empire can’t go back to the old days.”
“...”
“We think ourselves better than those beastly Burgundians, but Romans like you see all barbarians the same. Still, Comes litoris, laughable as it is from a barbarian, hear me out. Aren’t there too many barbarians in Roman lands now?”
‘Is he trying to make me laugh?’
A bar joke for the ages—but Merowig’s face was astonishingly grave.
“Even south of the Alps, they’re asking why kill Stilicho. Alaricus even seized some Roman noble—pardon, noble—and proclaimed him emperor. Even the dimmest can sense something’s wrong. Ultimate crisis for Romans like you; for barbarians like me, a chance that won’t come twice.”
Another emperor? The empire was thriving. Patient listening yielded mainland gossip we’d never heard. Still utter chaos, hopeless. Part of him glad for the abandonment… Uterius suddenly pictured Artorius. Without him, Britannia would be far darker, more despairing than the mainland mess.
As if reading his thoughts, Merowig’s main point involved Artorius.
“I came to Britannia in these troubled times to deliver a gift to this land’s ruler, Magister militum per Britanniarum, and foster good relations.”
[Tap-tap.]
At Merowig’s natural gesture commanding a subordinate, one silent barbarian guard behind him drew a leather case from his bosom and displayed it.
Taurus moved to halt the suspicious act, glancing at Uterius for permission, who nodded at once.
[Swish.]
Merowig took the leather case himself and slowly unrolled a bundle of parchments stained with blood everywhere. Unfamiliar handwriting, but packed with Roman script. Faint smells of dried blood, sea salt, human sweat.
As Uterius scanned it, Merowig’s voice drifted into his ear.
“Vortigern sent an emissary to the Saxons. That Roman—sorry, noble—boldly crossing our lands, so we watched closely. Seems he thought us tight with the Saxons…. Or figured all barbarians alike? Anyway, we grabbed him on the way back and sent him to meet your gods and confess his sins. Probably crossed paths by now—with Vortigern himself. Haha!”
“...”
Gold, wool, grain in abundance if you muster the Saxon warriors and strike Londinium. Especially capture this Artorius if possible; if not, kill him. Capture or kill—one must happen for the bonus.
The document’s content, stripped of florid rhetoric, boiled down simply.
‘How can one curse the dead? But truly, you deserve to die twice over, Vortigern.’
What set you apart from Constantinus, who dragged Britannia’s legions across the sea for his ambition? Worse—you sought to invite the barbarians, the very foes whose blood the people of this land shed to defend it.
“...A magnificent gift, Dominus Merowig.”
“Oh? Dominus. Haha! Hearing that from one like you, Comes Uterius, makes me feel like lord of Romano-Britannia. Ha!”
“So the Frankish king desires ongoing exchange between Franks and Britannia?”
“...Yes, Comes litoris. More precisely, our king seeks a closer bond with Magister militum Artorius. First step: his son setting foot here personally.”
“I’ll arrange a meeting.”
“Haha. Couldn’t ask for more.”
Absurd as it sounded, no one was more attuned to Rome’s plight than barbarians. Perhaps they knew Rome better than Romans themselves. Among them, the Franks—who knew it best—might be the most dangerous. That they eyed Artorius was worrisome, yet carried profound implications, Uterius sensed.