A Great Storm Approaches
“A storm. A great storm approaches, great Roman.”
The old barbarian twitches his snow-white beard, which resembles storm clouds, as he speaks to me. On this early spring day when the chill hasn't fully lifted, why the sudden talk of storms? I thought there was a wisdom uncommon for a barbarian glinting in his eyes, but perhaps senility has set in? As I gaze at him with such doubts, the quick-witted barbarian chieftain hurriedly adds,
“Not a literal storm—a figure of speech, Roman. A figure of speech.”
“You seem to know even difficult words consistently, so it appears you're not just passably familiar with our language.”
“I studied diligently. Roman tongue. It was important.”
“Why was that, Wolfmaer? What sort of man were you?”
“I was Rome's foederati.”
A Roman mercenary, then. Nothing particularly remarkable about that. These barbarians beyond the Rhine often allied with or fought Rome—either one or the other. Enemies yesterday, friends today, enemies again tomorrow. I understand a terribly complex web of relations sprawls around the Rhine frontier on the mainland, and the problem is that blaming it all on the barbarians' lack of honor won't solve everything.
Over the past few decades, our Roman Empire has shamefully welcomed several emperors, and times with a sole emperor in power were actually rare. It wasn't just us Romans caught up in that chaos; if you think about it, the barbarians coalescing and scattering beyond the Rhine must have been just as dizzy from the empire's frequent changes of emperor.
“As one Roman to a man who once raised a shield for Rome, I offer my respect, Wolfmaer.”
“Thank you, great Roman.”
“But now, as one man determined to defend Romano-Britain, I ask: you're from the Angles, I hear. Why do you wish to come to this land?”
“Protection. Yours.”
That's precisely the issue.
“Never mind how you learned my name—why come straight to me, bypassing Comes Ambrosius of Londinium and Comes Uterius of Camulodunum?”
Though our proud Britannia has officially(?) been cast out by the Roman emperor himself, this land still retains Rome's intricate hierarchy of offices rooted here for the past four centuries. In other words, this barbarian chieftain ignoring my superiors and coming to me so recklessly could be seen as a grave discourtesy to the two comes of Londinium and Camulodunum from my position.
Of course, that's only in terms of procedural formality. Whether those two cities' military commanders can actually exert any coercive power over me is another matter to examine point by point. As you know, it's been quite some time since Romano-Britain had proper legions...
“Great Roman, you listen without suspicion. No ill intent. But coldly speaking, Romano-Britain is weak.”
And regrettably, this old barbarian before me seems to know Romano-Britain's internal affairs all too well.
“Rome's legions? Still strong. But Romano-Britain? No legions. Borders? Weak. I know you've been repeatedly bested by northern barbarians not even properly armored. You'll suffer again this year. Lands without you will keep suffering.”
As my mood sours and I unwittingly furrow my brow, the quick-witted barbarian chieftain falls silent. Beduerus, standing beside me, notices and quietly remonstrates.
“Dominus Artorius, it's painful but true. Compared to the northern wall, the west, and southern coasts, the eastern coast has seen virtually no damage. The world already knows why. Someone has completely sealed off the landing sites near Camulodunum, which would otherwise have been raided countless times without surprise.”
Landings aren't something you can do just anywhere on a whim. You must account for tides, and viable docking spots usually have outposts, however small. Especially along coasts with fixed river entry points. Through Comes Uterius's still-functioning border system, the barbarian landing attempts I've thwarted number nearly three digits by now. Instead, I've seized over a hundred of their ships and sent the raiders off to forced labor in the north and west—hundreds of them—while burying a similar number after killing them.
But the news from the western and southern coasts, and near the northern wall, is uniformly grim: some village burned, some monastery plundered.
“Continue, Wolfmaer.”
Regrettably, borders full of holes is the reality of present-day Romano-Britain. Understanding what Beduerus meant, I compose myself, relax my stiffened expression, and gesture for Wolfmaer to go on.
The barbarian chieftain lets out a small sigh of relief and continues more cautiously than before.
“You, great Roman—Artorius's name has grown very famous over the last few winters. Even those who don't know the names of neighboring villages—Druchton, Yaldurman, Cunung—know yours.”
As if to prove he's dealt with and met more than just one or two people, he begins with praise.
“We, whom you call barbarians, call ourselves Angles. We revere the strong. Life is harsh, so we do. Last summer, extreme drought struck the fields. Last winter, early snow fell. This summer will be even harder. Drought and early snow aren't just about food for us. If we starve, those further east starve too. Horsemen come. Hunas. Those who shoot arrows from horseback.”
He succinctly describes their current state.
“My tribe and I needed a place to survive this winter. Our homeland won't do. We'd die holding out. So it was either beyond the Rhine or Britain. While pondering, I heard rumors of you. Your battles are fearsome but honorable. I felt I had to meet you. If you refuse us, we have no recourse. But if you take us under your wing, we have something to offer.”
Next, he explains why he sought me and what benefits they can provide.
“From me to my tribe, we have thirty warriors—what Romans would call soldiers. We'll be your foederati. Foederati who take no gold. We'll swear by Woden and Thunor. In your battles, we won't retreat without your command. And there's one more thing we can offer you.”
Thirty warriors is a significant number. Especially if this mercenary chieftain's words are true—they'd be thirty elite-level fighters joining, a far greater help than expected. And though I hate to admit it, these barbarian mercenaries truly fought well. Along the southern coast, we often hired Frankish mercenaries from the Rhine front; in joint operations, I felt they knew how to fight properly. Before closing distance, they hurl hand axes and javelins to disrupt enemy lines, then thrust spears up close. Even in prolonged fights, few lower their shields, and even when close enough to hear the enemy's breath, none panic but swing swords or axes.
It sounds simple laid out like that, but executing it on the battlefield means elite troops. Honestly, I'm already swayed, but at the chieftain's words of one more thing, I hold my patience.
“Horses. We'll offer all the horses our tribe handles. Every warrior in my tribe is an excellent rider.”
“Hm?”
Riders? No matter how I look, these are sea barbarians with grubby beards. Where did they learn horsemanship?
“Two generations back, blood mixed with horse tribes further east. And that's one reason we're leaving our homeland. We're ironically a bit different from our homeland folk, treated much like we were in Rome.”
In other words, mixed blood. Now I grasp everything he's saying. And my deliberations on what to do with them aren't long.
“I've heard you well, Wolfmaer. Wise Angle.”
“Then...”
“I can't give a firm answer here. You have territories too, so you understand—I can't arbitrarily grant you this Britain land.”
“? You?”
Wolfmaer tilts his head here but maintains his attentive posture.
“Fortunately, this land has plenty of abandoned old forts and fields, so with permission from Londinium and Camulodunum, I can likely arrange a place for you to stay.”
“Ah, that's what you mean. I know Rome's complex rules well.”
Truly wise. This old Roman mercenary is... how shall I say, worlds apart from the raiders I've seen.
“Conveniently, there's a major council in Londinium two days from now. I'll get a clear yes or no there. Until then, I'll treat you as my guest—will you stay here?”
“Of course, great Roman. I swear as your guest not to tarnish your honor.”
“Good. Caius?”
“Yes, Dominus Artorius.”
“Guide Dominus Wolfmaer to his quarters?”
“As you command, Dominus.”
A few years back, Brother Hector suddenly built a guest annex, and I remember calling it a waste. He's probably handling Avalonia's administration from my office right now(...). Brother Hector, like Beduerus and Galbaginus, has been with me from the early days. That monk, clearly educated at some great institution, didn't like talking about his past, much like Beduerus. His abilities are proven, and in my village, he's been a father to the orphans—naturally, Caius was one of the boys who saw him as such.
Is this why it's wise to heed elders? Perhaps Brother Hector foresaw guests like this coming years ago.
Watching the Wolfmaer chieftain lightly bow and depart after Caius, followed by his two Angle warrior escorts, I down the cup sitting like a decoration on the table. The wine, starting sweet and ending with a sharp tang, pulls my wandering thoughts back to reality.
“What do you think, Beduerus? He doesn't seem like a spy to me.”
“I agree, Dominus.”
“Galbaginus, your thoughts?”
“Honestly, I don't know the details, but if they're truly skilled riders, that's appealing. It's what we lack, isn't it?”
The young noble Galbaginus speaks truly. From my personal circumstance of being unable to mount a horse due to innate limitations(...), those frail four-legged beasts are irrelevant to me, but from a military command perspective, having a cavalry auxiliary would make operations far smoother. Smoother operations mean fewer casualties for my soldiers. And proper cavalry are synonymous with vast operational range, right? Thus, quicker responses to outbreaks everywhere become possible. We already have the centuries-old beacon system for alerts, so no need for messengers there, but active aid to the west and south—previously impossible due to practical limits—could now be explored.
Indeed, the possibilities are many.
“More importantly, Dominus, you first called them barbarians, but now Angles.”
As if reading my leaning mind, Galbaginus slyly remarks with his characteristic smile. Beduerus nods and adds,
“The real issue is the Londinium council in two days, Dominus.”
Yes, that's far bigger than meeting the barbarian chieftain. What was it—internal strife and civil war are Roman tradition? Even we in Romano-Britain, full Romans until just the other day(...), can't escape that proposition.