Welcoming the Exiled King
“[Isut.]”
“[Father.]”
Everyone from Deva Victrix, even folk from Isca Dumnoniorum, had flooded into the harbor. Among them were a few merchants I'd spotted a time or two back in distant Londinium to the east. They'd all gathered here today for one reason: to lay eyes on that barbarian king. The old man's garb was ragged, dethroned as he was, but his gaze burned fierce and unyielding. The Romans let out gasps of admiration, murmuring that he was undoubtedly a king of barbarians.
It felt just like the buzz when zoo fans swarm in for a new exotic animal. Spot on.
“[To think you'd keep a beast that devours its own parents as your daughter.]”
“[I'm just glad you made it here safely, Father.]”
“[That secret passage in Cashel—the heart of Muwa—was dug by your great-grandfather himself. Only I, you, and your uncle knew its exact exit. Yet those Connall bastards were waiting right there. Have you nothing to say to me?]”
“[You meant to hand me over to Vortigern, Father. I merely did as you taught me and handed you over to the Magister militum.]”
“[Vicious girl. Looking at you now, you truly are my daughter.]”
“[My relief at your safe return is genuine, Father.]”
For a touching father-daughter reunion, the edge in their words was downright murderous. I couldn't make out the barbarian tongue they were jabbering in, but body language, gestures, glances—they all scream emotions louder than words, don't they? I knew little of their savage speech or customs, but no way was that how a father chats with his beloved daughter.
Funny part? Drustanus—who surprisingly spoke a fair bit of the western barb tongues—fidgeted beside Isut. And behind him stood ComesCador (he'd asked to be called by the Roman title instead of Tigern), watching the future in-law drama with a stern face. What a tangled mess.
“Whatever the circumstances, welcome to Romano-Britain. DominusAril.”
“...”
Dethroned, he was no longer a king. Dominus would suffice. Seeming to accept it, Aril—his face twisted like a wounded beast—slowly bowed his head to me.
“Your lofty name has reached not just the folk across the sea in Muwa, but all the people of Éire. No need to ask twice—you must be Artur, the Magister militum of Rome.”
His words came halting but precise in our tongue, laced here and there with western barbarisms. The mix lent an oddly exotic dignity. Had to be from years on the throne, even if he'd lost it now. In some world without me, maybe he'd carved out a slice of Romano-Britain alongside Vortigern. And then? Clashed with the savages Vortigern summoned from the east? Who knows.
“We'll treat you as a guest. Drustanus is a promising soldier of Romano-Britain under my command, DominaIsut will be his wife, and you? Her father. Stay peaceably on this soil, and I guarantee your safety.”
I'd come out myself—that saved face. Now for reality. Barbarian king or not, under Romano-Britain's banner, he meant nothing. If he couldn't swallow that, I'd ship him far away. Surprisingly, the ex-king nodded readily.
“What makes you fearsome—unlike other Romans—is that you grasp honor. They say you might win or lose a fight, but meeting a warrior who truly knows honor is a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of luck. I gratefully accept your courtesy.”
“...Good.”
This old fox reeked of danger, more than I'd figured. He knew how to bury grudges. But my instincts—spot-on for friend or foe—said that grudge wasn't aimed at me.
“Drustanus, will you personally guide our new guest to his quarters?”
“Yes, Magister militum!”
“Count on it, DominaIsut.”
“It's only right. Thank you, Magister militum.”
All the Romans held their breath, watching Drustanus fluster before his father-in-law-to-be and Isut stride ahead coolly. I nodded to ComesCador, who'd just welcomed his almost-son-in-law; he nodded back and trailed after the pair.
“...No ordinary man, Dominus.”
“Aye, he isn't.”
Galbaginus sidled up, eyeing the departing barbarian king as he spilled fresh intel.
“Not just a hunch—their king had his nipples sliced clean off.”
“...!?”
What the hell? I shot him a disgusted look; he shrugged.
“Their tradition, they say. Blame the weak king for droughts or defeats. Worst case, they dunk him headfirst in a bog. This time, just the nipples. Supposed to be a huge disgrace... but he's holding up well, eh?”
“...”
What the devil did a king's nipples even mean to those savages? Wait—did the new Muwa king undergo some nipple ritual too? You know, when a new king ascends, his people step forward and greet his bountiful nips with their tongues—
“Gah!”
[Thud!]
“Ughhh—”
“Earthquake!”
“Gaulia!?”
To scour the filthy thought, I bellowed a kiai and stomped hard. The shock rippled out, staggering the crowd—but Galbaginus and my legionaries, veterans of this now, stood firm.
“Truly barbaric scum.”
“Indeed.”
“I can't stomach their loathsome ways. Those nipple fetishists...!”
“We Romans have our share of that sort, I hear.”
“Galbaginus! How's the plan shaping up?”
“Give the word, and we launch. Even the Frankish heir's on board—more eager than expected. Auxilia forces need a final check with Beduerus, but he greenlit it. Merchants from Deva Victrix and Isca Dumnoniorum are bidding to supply us, and ComesEturnus fully backs it.”
“Good. Caius! When do they arrive?”
“Half a day, tops!”
“I'll teach those cultureless swine true civilization!”
My crowd-pleasing theatrics drew roars from the Romano-Britons who'd come to gawk at the barbarian king. I waved regally to their chants of my name, then strode toward the forum building in Deva Victrix.
“Is it true? An expedition to collect barbarian nipples?”
“No, nipples aren't the objective. This is... part of an aggressive defensive operation.”
“Aggressive defense? What's that?”
“Striking the enemy's raiding power at its source, turning their strength into ours. Advanced tactics.”
“...Isn't that just fancy talk for looting?”
“Hush! Voice down...!”
“Gasp.”
Everyone could hear anyway—why not shout it? Hell, why not billboard that we're loot-crazed and raiding for real?
At the edge of the massive round table in the council chamber's heart, I watched no fewer than a hundred centurion-level commanders file in and take seats. Beduerus and the Comeses claimed the main table; ranks of chairs beyond held the centurions. Our Avalonia army's freewheeling vibe had spread to all Romano-Britain forces. As I propped my chin, commanders trickled in, murmuring local news.
One or two whispers are whispers. Twenty? That's a din. And with my hearing sharper than most, I figured: spill it all, clean and clear.
“Everyone here? Let's start. Galbaginus was set to brief, but you're no fools... I'll cut to the core of this op.”
[Snap!]
Slouchers straightened. The loose vibe had some chuckling over wine—like that Frankish prince, Merowig? The golden-haired, blue-eyed poster boy for barbarians looked rattled, setting down his cup. Ignoring it, I snatched the pointer from a mildly miffed Galbaginus and jabbed Manavia.
[Tap!]
“We secured the island and spent near a month smashing every savage boat in the surrounding waters.”
“Ooh!”
“Invictus!”
Cheers died down; I pressed on.
“Started as island defense, but smashing them revealed... these savages have more than we thought.”
I'd pegged most as ragged panty-men. Shocker: they packed decent gold. Raiders had it—what riches in their home dens? Pure curiosity sparked this op.
“Sunk plenty, but captives outnumber them. Half rebuild our walls and roads. The rest? With ComesEturnus, Wolfmaer, and fine retired legionaries, they'll rise as proud AvaloniaAuxilia!”
“Ooooh!”
“Avalonia! Avalonia!”
“But I'm still hungry.”
From an all-seeing mindset, Rome's crumbling today because it lost that hungry spirit. What drove the empire's wolf-milk-stealing founders? No tomorrow—just raid villages, snatch women, soul-on-the-line skirmishes, living for today. Rome the Eternal? Sacked by barbarians multiple times—history records it all.
So Rome must stay ravenous. Britain, clawing back from doom, needs it worse.
“Frankish warriors newly joined and our Auxilia will raid their western coasts.”
“...!”
“!?”
My blunt looting talk sealed mouths, held breaths.
“Target gold and bodies. Reclaim last year's kidnapped Romano-Britons; snag useful savages. They crave Rome's ways? I'll make 'em all Romans.”
And so, as spring breezes softened, dozens of ships from Romano-Britain's ravaged western shores—site of last year's horrors—sailed west and north as one.