Divided by the Wall
Just one wall, and the north and south were worlds apart. Beyond the southern gate, where reconstruction was in full swing, lay nature tamed just enough by human hands. A long road stretched east to west, with a grand avenue running neatly southward through its center. Where that great road faded into the distance, low hills appeared—and beyond them lay the rear supply fortresses that had supported Vercovicium's logistics and expeditions beyond the wall. Even those low hills where the fortress stood had been leveled and packed flat and broad by human effort.
In stark contrast, the north remained raw wilderness, untouched since primordial times. If you ignored the trampled grass patches—marks of humans fleeing en masse at dawn some days ago—stretching between the northern lakes, everything was pristine. Even those flattened grass patches might just be tall weeds that had grown unchecked without human interference. Or was that too much of a leap? From Vercovicium's vantage, the south and north felt utterly alien to each other, like the chasm between Rome and them. Not that one was superior—it was simply the clear, visible divide.
"Here! We need more mortar!"
"Hey, me too! Bricks over here!"
"Are those carts behind you just for show!? Move your asses!"
How had this divide come to be? The answer lay in the fabri—the engineers—swarming over the gate and walls in their furious restoration work. Any Roman legion of a thousand strong always included a hundred-man detachment of these SCVs, specialized in construction and repair. But in combat, they were no different from regular legionaries: versatile geniuses who built and operated siege engines, dug trenches, and fortified positions. They earned better pay and treatment, of course, but alongside the cavalry, they suffered the most grueling hardships on campaign.
Bamp-bam-bam— bamp-bam-bam—
"Hey! It's cena time—dinner! Put down your tools, everyone!"
"Work's done! Work's done!"
"I-o! Kkyat-hu!"
"Just let me finish this! No, you've gotta lay the brick on the mortar first."
If the engineers felt that pain intuitively, the cavalry did work that was less visible but no less vital. Under me were Marcellus and his thirty medium cavalrymen, plus the light horse from our cities, totaling about 150 mounts. Far from lounging as precious reserves—well-fed, well-rested, and training idly—they scouted every direction for enemy traces and galloped as couriers to the rear. Now Marcellus's medium cavalry had taken on the "Roman-Briton Cavalry Evolution" project too, leaving their schedules packed tight. His daily cavalry timetables he sent me showed barely a moment's rest.
Thanks to them, in nearly three weeks since seizing Vercovicium, we'd reclaimed the entire wall from the western sea to the eastern under Romano-Briton's sway.
Did that mean the infantry lounged while engineers and cavalry slaved? Hardly. No specialists like the fabri, but every Roman legionary was a competent builder. Abandoned for over three years, the wall's watchtowers, small forts, rest stations, and ramparts all cried out for human touch. Restoring them all fell to my ten thousand legionaries.
So while Beduerus, Comes Lot, and Eturnus oversaw the wall's revival from central Vercovicium with me, lower commanders and troops labored directly to bring it back to life. Galbaginus and Peredir I'd sent back to Manavia to guard against western barbarians; swift Caius to the southern highway to Londinium, linking with Merlinus to revive the massive supply line from Londinium-Eboracum-Vercovicium.
In short, everyone was run ragged. It felt like Romano-Briton hadn't moved this boldly in a decade—excitement buzzed in the air.
And me? I met a guest from across the sea.
"Magister militum per Britannias, Dominus Invictus Artorius. An honor to meet you. I am Lancearius of Rotomagus, in the city of Lugdunensis."
From Gaul, then. I'd been curious about affairs across the water, and if Merlinus sent him straight here, he bore important news. Striking was his bright blond hair and piercing blue eyes—not the rough blond sometimes seen among Romans, but a lineage screaming from every angle. Yet this was Romano-Briton, more mixed than even Gaul. Blondes and redheads were common; his look wasn't alien.
What stood out was his posture: courteous yet dignified. After our first eye contact, his gaze lowered modestly but held firm resolve. To my senses—honed amid the fierce eyes of allies and foes alike—Lancearius's eyes leaned feminine. The kind women adored. He could rival self-proclaimed heartthrob Galbaginus.
From time immemorial, vital embassies picked the eloquent, upright, handsome. Even hostages were beauties. No randos. Meeting a proper Roman envoy after crude barbarians, I felt anew our ancestors' wisdom.
"You've come far. Yes, I'm Artorius. How fares Gaul?"
"Grateful for your audience, Magister militum. We thank your concern, but alas, northern Gaul, Rotomagus, and its Roman citizens groan in agony."
"Hm. Dominus Lancearius, no need to mince words before me. I was raised in the fields—rough talk's fine. More to the point, Rotomagus's folk endure hardship? Wasn't it held by Constantinus? I heard he sealed the Rhine tight. Am I wrong?"
One of Constantinus's excuses for stripping Britannia's legions and bolting to Gaul was securing the Rhine. In Stilicho's day, barbarians had crossed the frozen river in an unnaturally harsh winter. Gaul's senate, irked by Italy's emperor and senators' self-preservation, flipped instantly. Britannia's Constantinus answered the call, donning Gaul's diadem and claiming the purple.
So what had that fool done to send an envoy from Rotomagus, northern Gaul's heart?
"A long, tangled tale, but I won't steal your time—I'll be brief."
Hm. Bonus point. Romans knew etiquette. Pretty boys spoke well too. Lancearius, was it?
"As Hadrian's Wall cleaves Britannia north-south, so Gaul now splits."
"?"
What? Even a pretender emperor there—how split?
"Constantinus and Gaul's senate, eyeing Italy and Hispania, let in barbarians."
"Cacator."
"Putere!"
"Mentula."
Curses erupted from my commanders' mouths. Britannia's blind eye to Vortigern's suspicious death stemmed from barbarian collusion; Constantinus mirroring it triggered reflexive disgust.
Lancearius flinched slightly at our sharpness; I gestured him on.
"...Had he managed them, fine—but obsessed with Italy, Constantinus herded them into northern Gaul. Then levied horrific taxes to feed them and his legions. Not a coin from his or the senate's coffers. We could endure no more. Like Britannia, we rose, ousting his men and the barbarians."
"No easy feat."
"Indeed, Magister militum. Many fine Romans fell. But our dogged, desperate fight drove the barbarians south. Constantinus's taxmen never returned north."
"..."
"..."
How much blood? Lancearius's sunken eyes told all—eyes of one who'd watched men die up close. Vacant yet distant, flickering strangely: the badge of battle-hardened souls.
So Rotomagus and environs were anarchic now. What a mad world.
"A heavy grief. No pain tops losing kin. We know it well. Then, Lancearius—what can I do for you, Rotomagus, northern Gaul's citizens? You've seen our state: no spare strength to aid others. Shameful, but I can't lie to brothers in need."
Wall rebuilding and Manavia coastal defense alone tied up all ten thousand legionaries. Soon, perhaps spare time—but not now. North and west defenses held, but east threats loomed. Double our numbers, push north for a buffer zone, secure Britannia fully—then eye the continent.
Honestly, given spare strength, I'd sail west, smash or subjugate those barbarians under Rome's eagle. Then the north.
Reading my mind? Lancearius bowed his head.
"Rotomagus and Lugdunensis folk have ever been kin, brothers to Britannia's. How could we demand your blood? Emulating Britannia, we Romans rose to defend ourselves—and will spill ours freely ahead. But I come to you, Magister militum, because despite our utmost, we feel lacking. Against threats or powers we can't overcome alone, we beg Romano-Briton's Magister militum pity and protection."
Save us in dire crisis. But from what?
"Honorius, Constantinus, Rome and Gaul's senates call us bagautai—rebels. But Magister militum, we're wronged. If we rebels for rising to live, what are they—pointing fingers, forcing knees under law's guise, slaughtering us? We can't accept such as Rome's rulers. But you, Magister militum—you're different. I saw, felt it from Dubris to Avalonia to Vercovicium: how unlike them you are."
"..."
"Thus I plead: pity Lugdunensis's citizens. Magister militum, Dominus Invictus. Protect us—we offer all."
His gaze shook my every calculation: raw desperation. That's why embassies pick silver tongues... No. Pure sincerity.
I stroked my chin, eyes closed in thought.