Death in the Storm
[Rumble—Boom—!]
The heavens roared in grief. As if weeping on behalf of my sorrowful heart. In southern Roman Italia, at Regium, in the quiet outskirts village of Consensia, Alaricus felt his dying body.
“That storm... when do you think it’ll let up?”
His leaking voice was lower and rougher than the metallic rasp beneath scorching fever. And Alaricus had heard such voices countless times before. This was the voice of one with death at their doorstep.
“It doesn’t seem like it’ll stop anytime soon, Magister Militum Alaricus.”
The response came back strong and reassuring. That lad won’t die anytime soon. What was his name again? Ah, right—Ataulf. The very same Ataulf who’d taken my fair sister.
“Ataulf. Are you there?”
“Here, Magister Militum.”
“Come closer.”
No footsteps reached him. Now, only the distant rumble of the storm filled the air. The stifled tears around him, the grief, the lost resentment—they no longer touched Alaricus’s ears.
Alaricus, who had wandered battlefields his entire life, knew this was his moment.
What had he accomplished in his life? Countless feats of valor. Yet in the end, he had failed to provide even a single warm hearth for the people he led.
His lifelong rivalry with Stilicho stemmed from that very difference. Stilicho had enjoyed the patronage of the glorious Roman emperor Theodosius, settling countless Goths within Rome’s borders.
Why could Stilicho succeed where I could not? Perhaps Alaricus’s entire life had been a quest for the answer to that question.
And how absurd the world was—Stilicho, who had raced so far ahead, died miserably, and the Gothic warriors he had welcomed saw their families slaughtered in an instant, driving them into Alaricus’s service.
And now, as Alaricus attempted to cross the Messina Strait toward the lands of old Carthage, this storm had destroyed the ships he’d painstakingly prepared.
What was right, and what was wrong? Alaricus could no longer know.
“Ataulf. In the end, I’ve failed.”
“...! Tiudan—Gothic king! How can you say such a thing!”
“No need for that, Ataulf. You bear-like oaf who stole my lovely sister.”
A faint smile crossed Alaricus’s lips as muffled sobs thickened around him. Like fog settling over a lakeside, the weeping deepened, overlaid by the growing thunder from the heavens.
Soon, the blare of war trumpets rang out. Alaricus’s mind drifted to that eternal battlefield of his nights!
Ah—the beautiful banks of the Frigidus River, the great battle where the surrounding gorges were swept away! There, Alaricus had charged at the forefront!
At his side: Stilicho! Timasius! Bacurius! Gainas! Countless champions of Theodosius stood in formation!
Sound the trumpets! Roman heroes! Leave no rebels alive!
Look there! Behold the great Theodosius himself stepping forward! See those arrogant eyes like the empire’s eagle!
Victory to the emperor! Victory to Rome!
“Burning Rome ends my vengeance. And the grudge of we Goths ends with it.”
“...! —!”
No more voices from the living world reached him. The swelling trumpet blasts infused Alaricus’s flesh with their final surge of strength.
“No time for mourning, Ataulf. Keep my funeral simple. Just float me down a nearby riverbank or bury me. That suffices. Our next move matters more than my death. What will you do? With the ships lost, we can’t cross the Messina Strait. So where to now? Lingering in Italia means all-out war. That’s a path to death. A foolish one. Always ponder why Stilicho chose his own end. Why I ended my revenge by merely burning the Roman Senate—you must always reflect on that.”
“—!!!—!!!!!”
“Yes, shout it loud. I was never blessed with children, so I treated you like a son. Remember this, Ataulf. We are Romans yet Goths, Goths yet Romans. Head to where chaos stirs—that will be our new path.”
Bam—bam—bam—bam—the familiar rhythm dawned on him: just like those war trumpets from the field!
“I... shall go soon.”
A faint smile rose over the weary face of Alaricus as his eyes closed.
“Magister Militum! Magister Militum Alaricus!! Open your eyes! Please, open your...”
Once more, thunder crashed over the heads of the wailing Romano-Goths. Days after the storm sweeping south from the north devoured the Roman seas, Alaricus thus perished.
[Cluck—cluck-cluck-cluck—cluck—]
“Rome, Rome, my dear little Rome. Your comb looks so splendid no matter how many times I see it. Just like our Roman helmet.”
[Cluck!]
Ravenna. A natural fortress shrouded in marshes on all sides. Now the heart of the Western Roman Empire, home to the emperor, high officials, and generals.
This region, blessed with natural waterways, was especially advantageous for trade and diplomacy with the Eastern Romans. Thus, most of Emperor Honorius’s reign unfolded here. The rest of Rome? Well, they’d have to fend for themselves.
[Rustle—swish—rustle—]
A young man draped in opulent purple and red silks wore a golden laurel crown atop his head, evoking bay leaves. It wasn’t an official imperial diadem, but paradoxically, the absurd ornament suited the youth tending to his chicken.
A kind-hearted lad caring for animals. His silk slippers whispered softly over the marble floor as he shuffled toward the sunlit golden chamber.
The hinges, oiled to silence, eased open a lavish door, and a cautious voice approached the youth and his chicken.
“Dominus Noster Flavius Honorius Augustus. Your most faithful servant, Eutropius, at your service.”
“Hm?”
[Cluck!]
Honorius, mid-scratch on the chicken’s chin, let out a quiet sigh of resignation and cradled the proud rooster. Raised from a chick with utmost care, this rooster followed him like a father—unlike those wretched senators in Rome. Thus, Honorius cherished his rooster, Rome, like a son.
“Come in, Eutropius.”
“Eternal glory to you, Dominus Noster.”
“I told you to drop that.”
He settled naturally into an ornate chair, scratching the rooster’s nape. Rome closed his eyes in bliss at the touch, then tilted his head at the approaching man.
“It’s fine. All good, right? Our Rome. You’re okay?”
“...”
Honorius irritably waved one hand toward the opposite chair at Eutropius, who bowed upon approach. The eunuch scurried over and sat across, watched by the chickens dotting the lavish space.
“What’s it this time?”
“I shall report, Dominus Noster Augustus. The vile traitor Alaricus is dead.”
“Oh? Alaricus died? Didn’t he say he was heading to Africa before?”
“It seems he perished before achieving his goal.”
“Tsk, poor thing.”
Scratching the rooster’s head with a pitying look, Honorius tilted his own head. Eutropius’s bowed lower.
“And the old Roman senators? They must be thrilled.”
“Not quite, sire. Alaricus alone is dead—the Goths remain on this soil.”
“I see. Well, that’s good then. Plenty of those senatorial fossils have died off, and now Alaricus too. All the ones who deserved it croaked nicely. Any other issues?”
“Yes, Dominus Noster. Olympius, the culprit behind this mess, should probably step down soon.”
“Olympius...?”
“Wasn’t he the one who sowed discord before you, urging the slaughter of the Gothic legionaries’ families after killing Stilicho? His head would satisfy the enraged Gothic troops who lost their lord, and the senatorial survivors of Alaricus’s rebellion. All could reach accord.”
“Hmmm...”
In stark contrast to the carefree air, a terrifying scheme unfolded in casual phrases. Eutropius awaited the emperor’s word, head bowed, as Honorius fidgeted—twisting his neck, scratching his chin, twirling his hair. Finally, he gently set down the dozing rooster Rome and walked to the ornate window.
Beyond: surging seas, the Roman fleet, and in the foreground, vigorous banners and legionaries drilling in camp. The bustling might of Ravenna pleased the eye.
Thus clearing his tangled thoughts, Honorius nodded.
“Can’t be helped. Olympius was loyal enough, but he hated Stilicho too much. Still, send him off quietly, painlessly if possible?”
“As you command, Dominus Noster.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“One more thing... reports on the Gallic usurper...”
“Ugh— that again? Never mind.”
“Understood, Dominus Noster.”
“Better yet, you’re still tracking my nephew in Constantinople, right?”
“Of course, Dominus Noster.”
“Hmmm. Good.”
The emperor’s gaze fixed eastward. When his brother, heir to the East, died, that other crown in Constantinople might have been his. Had Stilicho not restrained him, Honorius might now sit boldly in the palace of Constantinopolis.
“Stilicho really... why’d he stop me back then?”
Might’ve spared him otherwise. What a shame.
“Anyway, that all? Then shall we head to the arena?”
“I shall guide you, Dominus Noster.”
“Haha! Right. Which teams are playing today? Hope the Greens win.”
“I’ve a strong feeling they will, Dominus Noster.”
“Yeah? Wanna bet?”
The chattering emperor and his loyal eunuch departed, watched by the chamber’s chickens. Such was the peaceful daily life under Emperor Honorius’s rule in Ravenna.
[Cluck—cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck—cluck—]
“Phew. Made it without being too late.”
Roman Britannia, Dubris fortress. The sea was calm. The voyage smooth. Yet this rough ocean still gave headaches to first-time visitors.
Shaking his head to steady himself, the man—in tattered cloak, worn clothes, and battered shoes to maintain a ragged guise—patted the backs of his staggering companions, who clutched their stomachs, and laughed.
“Britannia’s seas are something else, eh? Haha!”
“Urp—ugh—urp—”
“S-sir—stop patting—ugh—”
After much retching, the group mostly stood, their sturdy builds and sharp edges peeking through the rags, betraying they were no mere farmers. Spies? Yet their blurted words felt oddly familiar.
“C-Comes Constantius, we made it somehow, but how do you plan to find this territory’s ‘Magister Militum’?”
“Dominus Noster abandoned this land first, so we’ve no real pretext... Comes.”
Undoubtedly Roman soldiers—but not of Britannia.
“How? Obviously, we go to him!”
“Pardon? Where to...”
“The fortress first, naturally?”
Constantius’s eyes, brimming with resolve, fixed on the towering Dubris fortress in the distance.