The Lion's Vow
“My king! Grant me vengeance! I'll throw away my life two, three times if I must—I have to have revenge! Hear me, King of Rome! My father lived his entire life for those people. And what did he get in return? The blades of godless wretches! To return that favor, everything. Everything I have now, everything I'll have in the future, I offer it all to you…!”
His voice was drenched in raw desperation and fury. Ahh—yes. Fury. A feeling all too familiar to me. When was it? The first time I broke free from slaying mere beast-type monsters and killed a humanoid one? I still don't call them people. They're monsters.
[Come here! Come here!!]
[Heh heh heh. Heh heh ha ha.]
[Woo-o-tan! Woo-oo-tan!! Staaab-noo!!]
The village where I'd occasionally stop to sell hides was engulfed in roaring flames—it all felt so unreal. Laughably, it was only after the stench of smoke, ash, blood, and human screams assaulted me that I truly felt the world before my eyes was real. Every particle of scent invading my nostrils, every gust of wind laced with heat scraping my skin—it all stabbed at my brain like needles: 'Still not accepting it?' 'Even watching them burn and die feels unreal?' 'Then look closer!' Hammering those words into me like nails.
Looking back, that was when I first tasted pure, crimson rage.
[Gasp—huff—gasp—]
How long did I rampage in that blood-red haze? When I came to my senses, bodies were strewn everywhere—necks twisted at grotesque angles, heads shoved into torsos, some decapitated entirely. Gulping air nonstop amid the dying village, thankfully there were survivors. Tears streaming, they all reached out trembling hands toward me. Laughably, instead of fearing me, they showed something else.
[Artorius… you saved us…]
There was this old man who bought a lot of my hides—a true Roman, stern as they come. So picky he'd nitpick every flaw to haggle the price down. But I knew he had a grandson, the child of his son and daughter-in-law who'd died young. I'd pretend not to notice and hand over the hides anyway. Clutching the already-dead boy tight, vomiting blood from his throat, he stared at me. In those eyes, before the light fully faded, I saw that exact emotion.
[Vengeance, Artorius. Avenge us…]
“I seek vengeance! King of Rome! Son of Pelinoor! All Peredir can offer you now is to take up my father's spear and shield and charge first into battle at your command! But if you hear me! If you let me reclaim my father's legacy! Land, people—I'll give it all to you! I swear it before Manannan and your gods, all the forgotten gods this world once knew! If I break this oath, tear me apart alive—I'll do it myself! So, King of Rome! Artorius! Please!”
Blood rushed to his head so fiercely his bloodshot eyes looked ready to weep crimson tears. Peredir, son of King Pelinoor the fisherman, was a warrior of immense build. The largest I'd met on this land—astonishingly close to my own height, a novelty. Yet this giant prostrated himself flat on the ground, not shedding tears but unleashing a gut-wrenching sob like spewing blood.
Yes, rage inevitably carries a measure of sorrow.
[Crackle—pop—crackle—]
Suddenly the overcast sky sprinkled rain with a chill wind, the braziers flickering cautiously between us.
“...”
“...”
Peredir prostrated, me seated before him. My subordinates stood in a line, heavy silence awaiting my word. Galbaginus, who'd been gleeful at the opportunity; Caius, annoyed by this filthy barbarian invading our camp; Wolfmaer, Hereward, Marcellus too. All who held the core of my legion now watched me.
“Betrayal cuts deep.”
Would one among my men ever betray me? People's hearts are unknowable, but I couldn't imagine it from these lot. Not unless they wanted to die… They'd seen me fight up close—surely not? But human nature is fickle. If a traitor emerged, it'd truly grieve me. I'd treated them all like little brothers, blood aside. Though by this world's years, they're peers or older… Combining my past life, I'd lived at least twice their span.
“Your resolve to avenge your father's unjust death is sacred, Peredir, son of King Pelinoor. Raise your head.”
“...”
Peredir slowly lifted his gaze—his eyes gleamed yellow. The flickering firelight made the killing intent in them beastly, not human. A lion, perhaps.
“A lion-like warrior, Peredir. But a warrior who loses his humanity always dies. Rage and thirst for revenge are tools—wield them well, or they'll consume you.”
“...”
How much would my nagging sink into those feral eyes? Still, sincere advice. Rage is vital for a warrior, but let it devour you and you'll peak there. I aimed higher on this land—to achieve greatness, protect more. I'd escaped blind vengeance, now bending it to my will.
“I'll help you. But as you said, the Magister militum of Romano-Britannia moves no army without recompense.”
“Everything—”
“What good seizing lands ruled by your father, his father before? Once you slay the traitors and reclaim Manavia's throne, you'll honor the oath you swore here.”
“You mean…”
“Henceforth, Manavia follows me. As part of Romano-Britannia, enduring these trials together. Defy it, and all die.”
“I swear it—swear again. My king.”
Peredir bowed low, forehead to earth—not servile, but like a lion crouching before its master.
I figured this wouldn't resolve easily, so I messaged Beduerus at Isca Dumnoniorum with the gist, left troops to transport the captives, and marched a thousand strong toward Deva Victrix.
-----
“Here they come.”
[Blam-blam-blam—blam-ppa-blam—blam-ppa-blam—]
Four centuries ago, the cornu's blast first echoed across this land, now playing a majestic tune from afar. Banners soared high, every one flaunting Rome's eagle into the lofty sky. No longer flags to inspire fear, respect, or barbarian awe. The fleets once watching beyond this vast island's northern edge to world's end—gone. The legions thrusting blades into northern barbarians' heartlands beyond Hadrian's Wall—gone.
Four hundred years. A long, long era, Rome's iron grip finally loosening. As barbarians, long testing imperial borders from deepest caves and swamps, prepared to unleash pent-up grudges at this pivotal moment… from Britannia's southeast rose the droplet banner.
“Artorius Invictus.”
Dominus Artorius. Unlike pretenders like false emperor Constantinus or false ruler Vortigern, chosen by Britannia's own hands—their Magister militum. Not seated as emperor, but de facto sole ruler of this severed Britannia. No noble birth, no soldier's rise—he forged it all himself. Even sharp-eared folk across the sea would note this freak's name.
The Invincible Artorius.
[Clack-clack-clack—]
“…Have you ever seen a Roman legion march like that?”
“No, Father.”
“No, you haven't.”
Britons, abandoned by the emperor, needed scapegoats—blaming absent legions for Britannia's woes, eyes blind. Truth was, before Constantinus dragged them off, Britannia's legions were already rotten. Ghost numbers on ledgers, endless issues piling up—even Londinium and Eboracum balked at paying in gold. No wonder Constantinus floundered as barbarians' emperor after crossing the sea.
To Botadii tribe and their ruler, Comes Eturnus—who'd guarded Romano-Britannia's northwest—it shone clearer. Grandfather always said true foes reveal themselves in their march; I'd never grasped it until Artorius's legion.
“See it, son? My son, Cunedagius.”
“What do you mean?”
Sharing his late epiphany, Eturnus eyed his son. Having lost his father young to barbarians, Eturnus poured double the paternal love into Cunedagius. Once worried that blind affection bred bias, judging him harshly—yet the boy was genius. Not in lofty arts or poetry, but war.
“Don't you see? The power sweeping away all Britannia's shadows approaches.”
“Haha, that?”
Eturnus grieved confirming his son's talent. Why mourn a genius son? His own father—a legendary warrior Botadii awaited—led the charge in their direst battle of a century, slaying foes till victory. Smiling amid cheers, wounds felled him days later. Eturnus was five.
On this land, a war genius meant that life—death anytime, anywhere. Cunedagius had fought countless battles; lucky to outlive Eturnus, unlucky to fall unknown.
Then, from southeast rose the eagle-droplet banner. Eturnus felt it body and soul: winds fiercer than worst storms, waves taller than highest tides—a colossal change sweeping in.
“How could I not, Father? The world's abuzz. Songs of the light god's heir, sun god's descendant descending on this land—from Dubris to the Wall. Haven't heard?”
Suddenly bard-like, Cunedagius belted it out; all Botadii warriors arrayed before Deva Victrix joined in.
Lux, Sol Invictus. Artorius.
The lyrics artfully blending three names reeked of politics or religion. Eturnus's seasoned mind didn't probe their Londinium origin—overthinking such loses more than gains.
“Never heard such beautiful melody echo this land till now.”
[Blam-blam-blam—blam-ppa-blam—]
Beneath the swelling Britannian legion's tune, a giant atop a chariot raised one arm. Song ceased; only cries of “Artorius!” remained.