The Front and Back of the Coin
On a bright day, the sea that had seemed so calm suddenly reared up, far from gentle. Who could have imagined that crossing such a short distance—where land and island faced each other almost within arm's reach—would feel so shaky and precarious? Unthinkable in the Mare Nostrum.
"Quite different from the Mare Nostrum, eh!? Haha! Welcome to the Fretum Gallicum and the Oceanus Britannicus!"
"Just as they say! Britannia's seas are rough! The coxswain's skill is remarkable! Doesn't crossing this sea scare or trouble you!?"
The roar of the waves was so loud that without shouting, his voice couldn't reach the men vigorously rowing at the far end. On this boat, the only one not rowing was Palamedes himself.
"Awe! That's something all seamen carry! The gods dwell in the sea! But fear!? It looks like a stern, harsh father! Yet the waters south of Britannia here are relatively mild! Haha! It's the west and east coasts of Britannia where you truly feel a father's violent might—or so they say! I've never been there myself!"
Unlike the nitpicking merchant from Rotomagus, this guide he'd arranged had a kindly demeanor from the start, and everything about him pleased Palamedes.
I'll have to give him a gift when we disembark—
"What about the north, then!? How's the north!?"
"A dreadful sea! Or so the tales go among seamen! Our distant ancestors sailed it! Cold! Frozen! A sea where colossal monsters occasionally pass beneath the waves! Isn't it a sea you just have to visit once!? Hahaha!"
"You'd make a better soldier than coxswain!"
"Oh no, not at all! Look! With a voice like this, if I didn't sing sea shanties, wouldn't Neptunus himself grieve!? Listen!"
The coxswain then drew out a long shanty, its lyrics powerful and merry. Simple and humorous, they soon brought smiles to the rowers' faces. It was as if the waves danced along with the tune, and you could almost glimpse Neptunus's smile gazing up from the deep.
Against that backdrop, Palamedes leaned quietly on the low railing for a moment.
[Swish—]
This was unmistakably a Roman vessel. Yet by Palamedes' reckoning, the Roman fleets in northern Gallia and Britannia had all vanished; at best, only fishing boats remained. But no matter how he looked, this ship—with its nets and harpoons cleared away, scorpions mounted fore and aft, and legionaries aboard—could transform into a warship in an instant. Otherwise, it wouldn't have that ramming prow ready for action.
A sturdy, fine vessel. So why had the 'citizen representatives' of Rotomagus built it in the first place? And given the bustling shipyards of that industrious city, why were they still churning them out?
'Citizen representatives.' What an amusing title.
The real threats facing Rotomagus and northern Gallia lay to the south and west: barbarians, Constantinus, and the emperors beneath him. Were these people of Rotomagus some ship-loving folk who had to go boating even if they died today and tomorrow? Unlikely.
So why? Palamedes, who believed everything in the world had a reason, gazed at the gleaming white wall looming ahead.
The Hadrianic Library in Athens, the far grander Library of Alexandria, the fierce chariot races in Constantinople's Hippodrome. He'd seen wonders across the world in his time.
But...
"Saxa candida..."
The dazzling white cliffs that every Roman bound for Britannia inevitably encountered. Untouched by human hands, shaped by Mother Earth and Father Sea over countless ages, these mighty cliffs welcomed Palamedes and his mercenary band.
"Welcome to Albion!"
Palamedes watched the coxswain intently as he cleverly twisted the shanty's final note into a greeting. On that Rotomagus man's face, gazing at Britannia's white cliffs, shone pure anticipation, exaltation, and longing.
Longing for what? Palamedes felt he knew the answer at once but held back from hasty judgment.
"Thank you, coxswain."
"You've already paid the fare..."
"That greedy merchant must've skimmed plenty from your share. Take this."
"...Thank you! Dominus!"
Palamedes smiled at the coxswain's transparent honesty, then waited for the arriving ships and his mercenary comrades aboard them, taking in the nearby Dubris fortress.
The fortress guarding Britannia's southeast, legendarily founded by Caesar's own legion, they said. The very legion that conquered Gallia, eyed Britannia, and nearly forced Pompey and the Senate to their knees, elevating Caesar toward the throne.
Caesar himself died pathetically, though...
They'd ultimately placed another giant, Augustus, on the throne. The strongest legion in Roman history, without doubt.
Caesar and Pompey. Nearly five hundred years past, yet immortal names no great had surpassed—not unlike how those two never topped Alexander.
Five centuries of empire. No one had yet eclipsed those two.
Yet as Palamedes idled in a pointless contract with pathetic Constantinus, awaiting gold without battle, a strange new name reached his ears.
"Artorius."
A name spreading like wildfire through Gallia. As Constantinus abruptly marched to quell Hispania's revolt—after vowing to invade Italia, oust the inept emperor and Senate, and rebuild the empire—it burned ever fiercer.
Likely, this Artorius was why Constantinus would throw everything into crushing Hispania's uprising. Otherwise, his own 'emperor' seat might truly be at risk.
"Centurio, there. Do you see them?"
"...I see. Fast."
"Yes, fast. Nothing like Constantinus' legions."
"We'll see about that..."
Palamedes and his 150 mercenaries. From distant Alexandria to Greece and Gallia, the third and fourth sons of Sarmatia had lived and died as sellswords, battlefields their home. Though born and bred on Roman soil, the bright steppe eyes and ferocity of their ancestors lived vividly in Palamedes and his brothers. On that skill and honed training, their band had built a solid reputation.
But as fights dragged on and brothers fell disproportionately to earnings, Palamedes and the survivors craved something new: a balance of stability and adventure.
They were sick of the Eastern Roman emperor and his greedy nobles, hunkered behind high walls, uncaring as Greece burned under Alaricus nearby.
Was Western Rome's emperor any different? When Rome itself burned again under Alaricus, Ravenna's emperor and his rapacious nobles did nothing. And now Alaricus headed for Africa.
Gallia's Constantinus was a fool; Hispania's new usurper, a false emperor propped up by Constantinus' own deputy.
Return to the distant Eastern homeland? Settle in Alexandria? As Palamedes and his men pondered, Artorius' rumors reached them like fate. Their last hope.
Some comrades had boarded doubting it all meant anything. But facing the cavalry from distant Dubris approaching in a flash, vigor lit their eyes.
For that speed exceeded expectations. The first gauge of any legion's prowess: probing reaction. Slack ones dawdle even on scouts; elite ones swarm like hornets.
As now.
[Clop-clop-clop—whinny!]
"Whoa—whoa! Halt! I'm the decurio of Dubris! Who's in charge here?"
"That'd be me. I go by Palamedes; we're all men who've sold swords East and West."
"Ah, you must be him."
[Whoosh—snap!]
Seasoned riders, all ten. A decurio implied a centenarius above. Britannia's forces were supposedly shattered when Constantinus fled.
Yet this seemed more than intact—it was...
"We've heard of mercenaries prowling near Rotomagus. They say you served under Constantinus. Mind sharing why you've come here?"
As the decurio naturally greeted the neatly arrayed Palamedes' group, the other riders' hands drifted to horns, spears, swords. Their eyes smiled kindly but chilled.
How long till they signaled and Dubris' full might poured out?
A soldier's instinct flickered in Palamedes' mind, but he had no intent to test it.
"Why would mercenaries seek this distant land? Haha. We all wish to fight under Dominus Artorius in Britannia."
"...My orders are to verify you and escort to Dubris fortress. Ready to move now?"
"Of course."
[Snap!]
[Snap!]
Fists to chests in salute, mutual respect sealed. Palamedes and his mercenaries, preparations done, followed the riders' splashing droplets and eagle banners to Dubris.
Well-kept roads, lofty watchtowers along the coast, web-like supply lines, people and goods bustling with smiles toward some goal.
Under Dubris' towering walls growing nearer, Palamedes realized Britannia was far more intact and prosperous than he'd imagined.
And that made him all the more eager to meet the man behind it all.
"Comes Uterius, the guests you mentioned have arrived."
"Send them in."
"Enter."
Having eagerly surveyed Britannia and Dubris, Palamedes stepped cautiously under the archway at the soldiers' clipped exchange.
There, before a sweeping view of Britannia's sea, stood a man with snow-white hair neatly combed back, at an antique table.
Glancing from documents, the elder's gaze heavier than expected straightened Palamedes unwittingly.
"I am Comes Uterius. So, you're the mercenaries?"
[Snap!]
"Yes, Comes Uterius. I'm Palamedes, leading 150 men. All Sarmatian-born."
"From the far East, eh. Sit."
Moving naturally to the receiving room, they sipped wine poured. For Romans, sharing wine meant more than drink—guest-right acknowledged.
Thus welcomed, Palamedes noted Britannia's wine fiercer than expected: as if crushed grapes pure, no sweetening needed.
"Romano-Britannia always needs fine soldiers. Sarmatians? Most must be horsemen."
Words failed before skill. Sarmatian blood ran true.
"Yes."
"Good. The magister militum decides all, but we can agree on basics first. Pay or land—which?"
Soldier-straight to business, Uterius prompted Palamedes' sly smile. Romano-Britannia's first impression neared perfection.