One Week Until Artorius's Wedding
One week remained until Artorius's wedding. In Ravenna, a successful harvest had ushered in a festival hosted by the emperor himself, in full swing. The emperor, who had sacrificed much for that single advantage of impregnability, could not host grand chariot races in a massive hippodrome like those in Constantinople in the east. Instead, he staged what he called a hunting contest—a spectacle of men versus beasts—in a modest theater, dividing teams by color and pitting them against pre-captured animals for the crowd's delight. It was little more than theater itself, but the people of Ravenna were content. Circuses always came with bread, after all. Few in the world would turn down a free meal.
"Woooah!"
"Yeeeah!"
Whether in a colossal hippodrome or this modest—nay, intimate—amphitheater, a festival needed a splash of blood to truly come alive. Roman citizens, faithful inheritors of their ancestors' dopamine-addicted DNA, erupted in unified cheers at the sight of beasts shrieking and collapsing.
At the epicenter of the surging crowd, in a lavish viewing box adorned with every shade of purple and crimson cloth and gleaming gold, the emperor beamed and clapped heartily. And there, in a shadowy corner of the theater where a pair utterly out of place with their surroundings sat quietly, a pair of eyes keenly observed that Roman emperor.
"...What do you see, little master?"
His very appearance set him apart from any Roman. Jet-black hair and a thick, unkempt beard; clothing and a cap woven from beast hides. He resembled less a man than a wolf of the open plains. Such an aura naturally emanated from him that no one sat nearby, and a few Roman legionaries stood guard, keeping the locals at bay.
"Rome."
The young boy's voice replied curtly. The man who had asked bowed his head once more to his little master and inquired further.
"What of Rome do you see?"
"Weakness."
They did not converse in the Roman tongue. The boy and the fierce warriors encircling him spoke no Gothic either. Theirs was the language of the Huns, akin to the winds of the steppe.
"Sloth. Arrogance."
"You have seen and learned much, little master."
"Yet they possess a strength that endures despite such a feeble leader."
"..."
"Something we lack."
The boy's eyes flickered. The warriors gazing upon him lowered their heads.
An aged wolf, capable now only of baring its teeth, was skewered by spears and arrows and collapsed. Saliva mingled with blood trickled from beneath its vacant, pale yellow eyes. Amid the roaring Romans, the boy glanced at the wolf, then lifted his gaze back to the emperor. He surveyed the madly ecstatic citizens.
Rome. Worth the challenge, perhaps?
"It seems time to depart, little master."
"Yes."
"The Chanyu awaits, as does your father."
"Yes."
"Then enjoy the remaining entertainment, little master."
Before Stilicho's death, when Alaricus and his Goths roamed Greece like it was their personal playground, several pacts had been forged with various barbarians to rein him in. One such pact involved Rome and the Huns exchanging high-status children, to be raised and educated with utmost care before return. And so, in Ravenna, the Hun boy Attila—raised under Roman tutelage as part of that very agreement—fixed his gaze silently on the fallen, bleeding wolf.
A few days passed, leaving five until Artorius's wedding. Britannia had transformed into a perfect festival ground days ago. Ravenna, under the guise of harvest celebration but truly reveling in Alaricus's death, hosted endless banquets. And here, others reveled in their own festivities.
"Chase! Chase! Ha! Ha!"
"Hyah! Hyah!"
[Clop clop! Clop clop!]
[Snort! Snort!]
Far east of Ravenna, far north of the Danube and even further east lay a place closer to the endless steppes at the world's edge. Here dwelled the steppe folk who had nearly conquered the eastern world. East of the Rhine and north of the Danube—the immense pressure the Romans called barbarians—lay the Huns, relentlessly shoving those peoples into Roman lands.
"Aetius."
"..."
To greet the coming winter, the Huns launched massive hunts. Warriors from every tribe joined in a grand festival and training in one. This was simply their way of life: braving the steppe's harsh winds and winters, forever moving to survive. To stop was to die. With so little to lose, they had everything to seize.
Drunken warriors laughed heartily at the bold riders thundering past. Behind their bright cheer lurked bloodstained gold coins seized from others and slaves with uniformly grim faces. In this space where blood and oppression mingled so intimately, outsiders graced the tents as honored guests of the Chanyu himself. Romans.
Curiously, they clustered around a single boy, as if protecting him. And so they were. This boy, Aetius, was a hostage exchanged directly between Rome's two emperors and the Hun Chanyu.
"Dominus Aetius."
"...Ah."
The boy turned at the repeated call of his name. His face was beautiful, innate nobility flowing from brow to nose to chin. He would surely become a great pillar of Rome, thought his guard captain, who had watched over him these past years among the Huns. Aetius excelled as a hostage beyond measure.
"What do you see?"
"Strength. The strength of the steppe."
Riders loosed arrows in unison, every one striking the human-shaped targets without fail. From the grandest tent on this vast plain—the Chanyu's own—a tremendous cheer erupted. Eyes sparkling, young Aetius watched and spoke.
"One must live their whole life on these fields to ride and shoot like that. This is a strength we lack."
"...Dominus."
Was he too captivated by steppe life? The guard captain unwittingly voiced concern, fearing this promising youth had sunk too deep into barbarian ways. But Aetius continued with a radiant smile.
"They are strong. That's why they can't unite easily. These people live for the moment. In their world, planning for tomorrow—or beyond—is hard."
Hard to grasp words, profound beyond belief from such a young boy. The guard understood just that far, but knew Aetius was no mere admirer of Hun horsemanship. That sufficed.
"The agreed term nears its end. We'll return to Rome soon. Your father awaits."
"Is that so."
A child far from home should rejoice at news of hearth and kin, yet Aetius reacted as if hearing an intriguing tale. No surprise now. All who had guarded him knew: he was exceptional enough to earn the respect of these fearsome Hun warriors. Without the term's limit—or had he been born to a Hun tent instead of Rome—he might have become an empire-shaking threat.
But soon, this boy would return to Rome's embrace.
"Haha! Well done! Great ride!"
Far off, the boy waved and grinned at the winning rider, his eyes shimmering beneath the blazing autumn sun.
"My god."
"Is she truly so beautiful..."
A woman emerged slowly, and the eyes of the other women glazed over dreamily. By Galbaginus's long experience, this was exceptional. Not that he meant to insult these wise and virtuous Romano-Briton women he respected and cherished. But women's envy could be far thicker and chillier than men's grudges.
With the massive wedding abuzz, a jealous glare or two toward the star bride would be no shock. He'd heard tales of women smiling while drawing tears from rivals beneath thick masks. Yet the reaction to this bride in pristine white seemed genuine.
No wonder.
Women were pragmatic. This bride wasn't merely beautiful. Sole heir to Comes Uterius—the finest soldier of the prior generation in Romano-Britannia—she was successor to lands near Camulodunum and wife to this era's greatest—no, the world's most dangerous—man.
In under a year, he'd conquered Romano-Britannia and crushed western and northern barbarians. Had it been easy, Constantinus wouldn't have fled like a coward. Worthies like Uterius, Eturnus, and Galbaginus's own father Lot would have done it long ago.
They'd fought external and internal foes lifelong yet secured neither Britannia's peace nor firm rule over one region. Not for lack of skill—it was natural. Artorius was simply abnormal.
Thus, the Romano-Briton ladies gathered had long calculated: whom to befriend as wife to such a man—not a political match, but fruit of long love. Amusingly, the men differed. Normally, even at grand weddings, men's biology drew them to beauty. Empire's history brimmed with scandals; lovers slain aplenty. Antony and Cleopatra topped the list—Cleopatra had one with Caesar too.
Instinct or not, today was different. The world's fairest bride approached, face veiled in thin gauze, yet no man dared glance her way. All eyes fixed one place.
"..."
Galbaginus turned to see the man who had already strode alone ahead, down the path the bride now took. He could attend to nothing else.
"Dominus. Our Dominus Noster. You need no spectacles of the world."
Britannia's rich purple-dyed robes and cloak, short-cropped hair revealing thick brows and chiseled features. And those eyes—erasing all else. Any who'd seen blood, toed life and death's edge, could not escape that gaze. Only children ignorant of blades' terror and youths on youth's cusp cheered Artorius's name. The rest were devoured by his presence.
Yes, devoured. Beneath that colossal aura, only women and the innocent remained free. Even Uterius, grasping the bride's hand, faltered momentarily. The energy had swallowed the space.
Victory upon victory. Great Artorius, our Dominus.
Men bowed as one to the groom striding forth, unable to contain himself at his bride's beauty.
[Clank!]
Legionaries on guard instinctively thumped fists to breastplates. Unsuspecting women and children clapped and laughed. Amid Avalonia's lakeside, where solemnity met joy, bride and groom smiled at each other.