The Grand Britannian Wedding
“This marriage is the greatest event in all of Romano-Britannia, Magister militum. Such procedures are naturally necessary.”
“...Why is my wedding—”
“Even if a member of my family were to marry right now in Londinium, the entire city would be abuzz. I hate to boast before you, Magister militum, but my house has been rooted in Londinium for quite some time. So think of it in a similar light, Dominus Artorius. The guardian of our Britannia is wedding the daughter of Comes Uterius. This isn’t just the marriage of Artorius and Guinevere—it’s a Britannia-wide spectacle that will set every soul stirring. A volcano has erupted, Dominus.”
“...That big a deal?”
“Exactly that big. No, it might even be hotter than a volcanic eruption. Even the Gauls facing us will be buzzing about it.”
“Come on, Gaul too...?”
Merlinus was exaggerating as usual. He’d shown up with some teardrop ornament pinned to his cloak brooch, and now his head was full of water too? Sure, as Britannia’s Magister militum and with Guinevere being Lord Uterius’s daughter, the wedding would be grand enough. But was there really cause for all this fuss?
“It’s precisely that scale. No matter how I think about it... yes, it checks out.”
In the Londinium office, Merlinus read my thoughts as if he’d mastered mind-reading. He lifted the pitcher from the round table and poured himself a cup of wine, downing it in one gulp before refilling and setting it before him.
Handling the deployment of the 1st and 2nd Legions, training the 3rd, all the attendant tasks, and countless other duties—this man needed a breather too. He loosened up around me, but at his core, he was a workaholic who bound himself tight. So I let him do as he pleased.
“No exaggeration, no jest. Even starting preparations now, holding the ceremony by autumn might be tight.”
“Sorry, but that won’t fly.”
“Hmm.”
“Merlinus, I get how vital this wedding is. But my priority is Britannia’s people. A month gives everyone time to arrive. Let’s set it for exactly one month from now.”
“Sigh—very well, Dominus. The sponsalia—the betrothal—you two handled yourselves, so we can gloss over that. As for property, since Lady Guinevere is Comes Uterius’s only child, merging the houses should suffice. Naturally, the estates near Camulodunum fall to her share.”
Truth be told, as an orphan with no kin or connections, most of those convoluted pre-wedding rituals were skipped for me. In terms of assets, nominally a third of Britannia’s land was mine, and the new Roman citizens settled there were toiling away industriously. I might even be richer than I thought? My wealth was managed by Merlinus here, Brother Hector, and Lord Uterius, who submitted monthly reports despite my insistence they needn’t bother. It was all being funneled where needed.
Once married, Guinevere would join in handling the funds. Thinking how my purse was practically Romano-Britannia’s made the Roman era feel all the more real. No smartphones or computers in this age. The safest way to safeguard my wealth was entrusting it to reliable folk—and most reliable were family. That’s why Roman law harshly punished those who betrayed kin. Some things about human nature never changed across eras—
“Next item: ring exchange. You’ve already exchanged rings, I presume?”
“...”
“?”
“Not yet...”
“...Lady Guinevere has grown into a woman of profound understanding and patience. Britannia’s fortune indeed.”
From the proposal onward, everything had been so spontaneous—unavoidable! What did this old man know? Guinevere was fine with it!
“...I strongly advise securing rings immediately after this meeting, Dominus Artorius.”
“...I already tasked Marcellus with it. He’s lined up a craftsman, and I met him personally to commission it. Pretty rings will soon grace Guinevere’s and my fingers.”
A pitying glance flickered across his eyes, but I turned away, ignoring it. Merlinus shook his head softly and traced the parchment with hand and eye once more.
“Betrothal formalities complete. Next: satisfaction. Our laws emphasize mutual family approval, especially the bride’s. Comes Uterius and Lady Guinevere expressed theirs yesterday, so only you remain, Dominus. Are you satisfied with this union? Consider property and the match carefully.”
“What a procession of rituals. Naturally satisfied—thoroughly so.”
“Noted. Witnesses: myself, cleric Hector, and numerous Romano-Britannia Comes and Praefecti.”
[Scritch- scratch-]
The quill flew enthusiastically before halting. Merlinus’s finger moved to the next paragraph.
“You seem bored, so let’s wrap here for today. On to the nūptiae—the wedding day itself. You’re planning it for Avalonia, here?”
“Yes.”
“The bride’s side will depart from Comes Uterius’s estate, of course... But she can’t travel from Camulodunum all the way here, so we’ll need to build a bridal house on-site, even if simplified.”
“...”
Build a house for the wedding? ...Well, why not. For Guinevere, sure.
“The Hymenaei—wedding hymns—will avoid bawdy tunes, sticking to tradition. The flammeum—bridal veil—ritual?”
“Ah, Guinevere and I agreed to do as many as possible.”
“Understood.”
These details were typically settled during betrothal by family elders. With no parents on my side, Lord Uterius had stepped in as surrogate, preparing most alongside Merlinus. His questions now were like final approvals from the ultimate decision-maker. I wasn’t one to fuss over procedure—as long as I married Guinevere, the form mattered little.
Beduerus and Galbaginus, my groomsmen equivalents, had sworn to grant her every wish, sky falling or not. I’d just nodded along. Beduerus, one-armed Casanova that he was, had seen and done it all. But Galbaginus, why were you advising me...?
“Torches, doves, legionary escorts... Larēs—household gods—and lararium altar by Lord Uterius... Honeymoon suite here? Hmm—”
Merlinus paced, lost in thought, then nodded vigorously and stood.
He traced the sign of the cross over my face. “Heartfelt congratulations on your nuptials, Dominus. Or should I direct them to the other side? Lady Guinevere’s affection was known from Camulodunum to Londinium. In any case, all Romano-Britannia, our lord, and the other gods will bless this union. I must away—busy as ever.”
“Th-thanks, Merlinus. Appreciate it.”
Feeling like he’d dumped my share of work on me, I stood awkwardly to see him off. He paused mid-stride, turned with a smile.
“You might not believe it, but amid decades of turmoil, this gladdens me most. If all the world’s affairs were like this, everyone would covet their station. Ambitious sorts abound regardless. Haha, you’ll be busier yet, Dominus. Prepare well.”
Merlinus, alongside Lord Uterius, had watched over me since my first appearance here. Where Uterius embodied soldierly gravitas and elder wisdom, Merlinus felt more like a younger, mischievous uncle. Add Brother Hector from Avalonia later—they’d all filled paternal roles in this life.
I hadn’t just aided Britannia’s people unconditionally; I’d received their care and encouragement, those three and countless others. Unrequited love, like a parent’s, is said impossible to repay. Most parents don’t sell their children, after all—human nature wires them to love. Fortunate I had uncommon power; I’d repay every subtle act of kindness, knowingly or not.
And to Guinevere, even more diligently. She was my other half now.
“...The rings.”
Letting my mind drift brought them to fore. I’d tasked Marcellus—nominally my slave, really household guard overseer—with crafting them. Time to check progress. Common gold bands sufficed, but for extra, a gem. I’d ordered teardrop blue stones, one each. If as specified, they’d be dainty and lovely. If not, Marcellus and his cavalry retainers faced winter harsh-training with me.
Hurrying to central Avalonia for Marcellus, I glanced east toward Camulodunum—where Guinevere waited.
One month. Just one!
“Passage fare looks sufficient. How many in your party?”
“150, excluding me.”
“All in armor and arms... Legion veterans, eh?”
“Haha. Proof we’re no bandits here—check at leisure. So, how long to Britannia?”
“Hmm. Prep takes a week. Sea crossing one day; bad weather, up to three.”
“Pray for fair skies. Verify my credentials, ready yourselves, then find me. We’ll camp outside.”
In northern Gaul, where Constantinus had lost sway—chased by barbarians and locals alike, leaving a power vacuum. Or so it seemed from afar. In truth, Britannian traders, and Comes Uterius nearly resident at southern Dubris fortress, actively exchanged intel, goods, and men via Rotomagus port. There, a group appeared.
“Agreed. City guard let you through, but credit is our lifeblood.”
“Naturally.”
“You—your name? Don’t look local.”
“Palamedes. From the far east.”
The swarthy man flashed a Mediterranean smile.