Burning Flames
“...!”
“...!!”
The woman's cries and gasps leaked from a deeply hidden room, shrouded in total darkness. What were this man and woman so desperate to conceal that they had to hide in the shadows like this? It was the season transitioning from summer into autumn; the moonlight, curious, peeked through the clouds this way and that, but saw nothing. All that emerged were sighs brimming with pleasure, ecstasy, and primal joy.
The fervent heat persisted for a long while, only subsiding after the clouds had veiled the moon five more times. The very crickets had fallen silent, ears perked to those raw sounds, allowing the weary, exhausted voices of the man and woman to drift out clearly.
“Haa... ha... Lancearius, you've gotten even more skilled since your trip to Britannia?”
“...Pardon? Ah, have I?”
“They say the men of Britannia are rough, and the women wield spears themselves.”
He seemed affectionate at a glance, but his indifference shone through. The woman, panting, leaned subtly against his firm body. The moonlight finally piercing the darkness made their relationship clear at least: she was utterly devoted to him. Yet what was truly suspicious was why such passionate lovers sought out this much darkness and chill. Unless it was an affair—what else could it be?
“Haha. Even so, the days when women wielded spears themselves are long gone.”
As he naturally stroked the hair of the woman nestling into him, the man called Lancearius recalled events from months prior. The Magister militum of Britannia—or rather, more accurately, a dux, no, a king. The memory of meeting him was still vivid.
Artorius Invictus! The man to whom the proud Britons had handed their throne—the seat they had never yielded easily to Magnus Maximus or Constantinus, even bestowing upon him the title of Invincible themselves. Just how formidable was he? What manner of man could rally those rugged Britons around him?
Curiosity had driven Lancearius to set out for Britannia himself. Hurrying along, he had witnessed the transformed land. Unlike the people of Rotomagus, who bore shadows on their faces even during festivals, the folk of Londinium brimmed with hope for tomorrow, long after their own celebrations had ended.
Hope. That was what the people of Rotomagus, northern Gaul, and Lugdunensis craved most. How had they obtained it? The beggars in the streets had whispered that with the legions gone to follow Constantinus into Gaul, Britannia's doom was only a matter of time.
Yet what Lancearius had seen upon crossing to Britannia was a land pulsing with vitality and strength—a vision of the 'Rome' from dreams, no matter where he looked. So, contrary to the persistent questions from this chattering wife of Rotomagus's high administrator now in his arms, Lancearius hadn't so much as glanced at another married woman in Britannia.
Yes, Lancearius had a peculiar fetish: he felt an intense pull toward other men's wives. With his tall stature, statue-like face and physique, married women would waver in their vows, feign ignorance of their oaths, and fall into his embrace—whether willingly or not. Their husbands were chasing other skirts anyway, he told himself to justify the impurity, drowning it in lust. Love was a complicated thing, and Lancearius's sharp mind knew full well that something in him was broken.
But human instinct always outpaces reason. This time, however, not even that instinct could overcome his curiosity. What exactly was in Britannia? Could this land, abandoned by its legions and even its emperor, truly be revived? No—more than revived, it emanated the invincible might of the empire at its peak, conquering all directions, a era Lancearius had never witnessed but which countless elders spoke of in unison.
“Hmm? So you're dodging the woman question?”
“Hm? Haha.”
Her face lifted with feigned venom, eyes narrowing, but it was all an act—she craved his attention. Her slender fingers teasingly tickled and caressed his body; Lancearius turned, seeking her lips, and soon they entwined once more, exchanging body heat in a tangle of limbs. The moonlight, beholding the sight, summoned clouds to shield its gaze. The crickets, about to resume their chorus, hushed again as the shameful sounds dragged on.
Finally, beneath the subsided heat, the woman murmured slyly.
“So, what was Artorius like? Britannia's Magister militum? The rumors say he's as tall as a city wall and felled all the barbarian raiders single-handedly. Was his waist really as thick as a tree trunk?”
There was a hint of jealousy in her intent, but genuine curiosity filled her question. And it was a query Lancearius had heard endlessly—not just from her, but from countless other adulteresses (ah, no—lovers), administrators, retired soldiers, nobles, and common folk alike, without distinction.
What sort of man is Artorius? Tell us, Lancearius, Rotomagus's finest soldier. Share with us.
Each time, Lancearius had reported truthfully, conveying all he had seen and felt to the best of his ability.
“Invincible. Precisely that.”
The man was so overwhelmingly powerful that it killed even Lancearius's fetish for married women. He already knew of Britannia's famed beauties, and the fact that the most renowned was engaged had his instincts stirring. The wife of such a mighty figure? Conquering her would be exquisite ecstasy, melting his brain with pleasure.
But those thoughts, just beginning to swell, had wavered upon facing the Romano-British legions at Vercovicium—and melted away cleanly the moment he met Magister militum Artorius.
Bene. Clean surrender. No chance of winning. Waist like a tree trunk? His forearms were thicker than most trees. He sat in a chair, yet his seated height matched others standing. Short legs, then? When Britannia's magnanimous king rose and extended a hand, Lancearius had genuinely felt his life threatened—no exaggeration. It was like a bear swinging its paw. Those pure, guileless brown eyes stripped him bare, leaving not a thread. No lie or evil could stand before this man. To try would mean death.
Any scheme against Artorius led to death. Defiance? Death. Scheming? Death. Eyeing his fiancée? No way he'd go down easily. The man himself was sheer power. And in that instant, Lancearius realized the path forward for himself, Rotomagus, all of Lugdunensis, and Gaul.
Overstepping his authority slightly, he had offered everything—Rotomagus and all Lugdunensis under its sway. Scoundrels like Honorius or Constantinus would have snatched it without looking back, but astonishingly, Artorius refused.
“...Without conditions, he promised to aid us if we ever truly faltered.”
“What? Without conditions?”
Ridiculous—even after three rounds of lovemaking, merely recalling Artorius dulled the woman's once-arousing touch. Lancearius had never met anyone with such grand vision. The shock was profound, eclipsing all other stimuli.
“If Britannia's legions cannot move, he vowed to cross alone.”
“Heavens—such men still exist? Like the heroes of Graiki.”
“He swore to protect any who sought to impose their will on Rotomagus's citizens.”
“Heh—impressive. But you know as well as I: the world doesn't turn on good intentions alone. Sadly... even if he promises aid, can he truly protect us?”
To her twirling fingers and question, Lancearius reflected once more on the Romano-British legions and Artorius. Their potential foes: the fool Constantinus, who blustered about seizing Italia only to redirect his army to Hispania over a rebellion there, alongside Gaul's Senate; Honorius and Rome's senators, blind to the Goths under Alaricus who had made northern Italia their base, unable to subdue even that idiot.
“He can protect us. That man can. Beyond mere protection...”
Freed from the shackles of Romano-Britannia, would it stop at protection? No matter how he pondered, the world had yet to truly see this great man. Lancearius's innate fetish for married women twisted oddly now. What if he gave that man Gaul as new wings? If he could draw him from Britannia?
How thrilling would that be? No grudge against Britannia, but honestly, Gaul and Britannia differed vastly in scale. Gaul was land blessed by the gods themselves—that was why cowards like Constantinus had abandoned Britannia in a heartbeat. If such potential found a worthy master?
“That would be... truly entertaining.”
“Hm? Suddenly? What—mmph.”
His lips met hers again; the peeking moonlight summoned clouds once more.
-----
“Magister militum, we've finally made contact with the city's folk. These scum—worthy of being devoured—have enslaved all our brothers.”
“Filthy wretches.”
“Our mistake for expecting better. From Theodosius onward, to these Romans, the weight of a promise is but a feather. No surprise.”
“Shall we slaughter them all? Burn and kill without rest for ten days.”
“As they did our brothers' sons, daughters, wives. Even roadside beasts wouldn't suffer so.”
Thick storm clouds gathered from the distant east. The Comes of Illyria, appointed by Emperor Theodosius himself. The Magister militum of Greece, named by Arcadius. Stilicho's nemesis, the emperors' headache. Yet guardian of Rome's frontiers against fellow Goths, Huns, and countless other foes. Victor of Theodosius's civil war.
All names for Alaricus. Within this vast tent mirroring Rome's grandeur, Gothic warriors in Roman armor and helms tempered their savage mood with restrained words. The legitimacy of the tribe, Roman office, and above all, his prowess. A warrior undefeated save by Stilicho, his sunken gaze filled the tent. Beneath it, vengeful Goths waited.
At last, their awaited king spoke.
“We strike Rome. The Eternal City.”
You dare scorn me so. Honorius. Rome!
Now I have no other choice.
[ROOOOAR!!!]
The Gothic warriors erupted like wildfire; Alaricus closed his wrinkled eyes amid the blaze.