Hector's Hidden Truth
“You must know me as Hector, Tribunus Marcellus. Come, sit.”
“...There is no one in all Romano-Britain who does not know the name of Dominus Hector. It is an honor to be invited, Dominus.”
“Hahaha... I am not our Dominus Nostrum Artorius. I am merely an old man who need not be burdened with such excessive courtesy. So relax your guard.”
Tribunus. That was Marcellus's official rank in the Romano-British army. This land of Romano-Britain had several peculiarities compared to other regions. One of them was the active employment of turncoats like Marcellus himself.
Though it was his own life at stake, frankly speaking, even if someone had killed the filthy traitor Marcellus and his standard-bearers on the spot, no one in Romano-Britain would have pointed fingers at Dominus Artorius. They might have even praised it as upholding the strictness of the law.
Yet Dominus Artorius had seen a single use for Marcellus and his men—and for that, they had been spared. In exchange, they were ground down to the bone with grueling labor, but surviving to occasionally see their families' faces... what greater happiness could there be? Thanks to that, Marcellus's faith grew daily.
Though the direction of that faith was not always toward the cross.
Anyone who had witnessed the Magister Militum of Romano-Britain fighting on the battlefield firsthand—who had seen him calm the shining lake and draw forth that massive sword from its depths—would inevitably hang a symbol of the war god Mars beside their cross necklace: a sword, a spear, a shield.
And though most kept it hushed, everyone knew whom that symbol of the “God of War” truly honored, without needing to say it aloud.
“Wine?”
“No, thank you. Water is enough.”
I cannot afford to get drunk before this man. Even the slightest lapse could be fatal.
A kindly Roman with deep wrinkles around his eyes. Marcellus had thoroughly studied everything about Friar Hector.
The man who had built Avalonia from the ground up alongside Dominus Artorius. Effectively, Avalonia's Praefectus. One of Dominus Artorius's oldest advisors, alongside Comes Uterius.
In other words, one of the hidden powers behind Artorius's regime in Romano-Britain.
His origins? Murky. One could only speculate that he came from the far east, like Beduerus or the newly joined Palamedes. He spoke Greek effortlessly, even tongues from farther eastern lands, was versed in every classic, and especially knowledgeable in theology. People simply assumed he had received a high education from some lofty place.
If anything, the question lingered: why would someone so educated come to this remote frontier?
“A fine soldier's posture. You never drop your guard, even for a moment. A truly difficult feat to maintain.”
“I mean no disrespect to your hospitality, Dominus Hector. Please do not misunderstand—it's simply that my situation differs from that of other Romano-British soldiers. In truth, I am little more than a war captive of Dominus Artorius, no different from a slave, so I must tread carefully.”
“...”
*Pour.* Friar Hector slowly filled his own cup with wine. A sweet aroma wafted up, but to Marcellus, it held not a trace of sweetness.
Dominus Artorius was astonishingly merciful even to barbarians and former enemies, but Marcellus understood better than anyone that this mercy stemmed from overwhelming power.
And that power? Enough to pulverize a man like Marcellus with a single punch, without even needing that massive sword, Caliburnus.
Marcellus did not want to die. So he had been cautious in every action, selective even in whom he met. Yet he could not refuse this man's summons.
Thus, even on that late evening when Dominus Artorius had drawn the sacred greatsword from the sacred lake, he had hurried here.
Hector's home was as spartan as rumored—small, austere, devoid of even the simplest decorations. For a friar's dwelling, not a single cross was in sight.
As if he had set it out only for show and had no intention of drinking, Hector's gaze lingered on the table until the wine's aroma somewhat filled the room's emptiness. Then his mouth opened.
“That is precisely why I summoned you, Tribunus Marcellus.”
“...What do you mean?”
“You have no powerful backers in this land. Vortigern was a fool to the end.”
The fact that Marcellus had killed Vortigern was an open secret. Though despised, he had been a regional ruler with no real stain on his legitimacy. Naturally, many were entangled in the affair. All of it suppressed solely by Dominus Artorius's presence.
No doubt eyes still sought Marcellus even now. Considering this, Dominus Artorius had never assigned Marcellus or his direct subordinates anywhere near Isca Dumnoniorum.
“If I reveal your opponent's shame, I must show my own secrets to prove my sincerity, yes? In truth, my name is Pelagius. As the name suggests, I hail from Britannia. Born in Londinium, raised in Thessalonica, educated in Alexandria. Distant kin to Merlinus—very distant—and I've known Comes Uterius since childhood. Quite the amusing backstory, no?”
“...”
“Hm. Where to begin? That covers my personal history well enough. Once, I believed in our Lord more than anyone. I truly believed in miracles. The notion of original sin from birth, baptizing infants—it was hard to grasp, but I believed anyway. Then came Thessalonica, where 10,000 citizens' lives vanished overnight. Have you heard of it?”
“...”
Heard of it? Of course. Twenty years ago, the boy Marcellus had been terrified upon hearing the tale. He had etched Emperor Theodosius's name deep into his memory then.
“...In the great hippodrome of Thessalonica, the emperor executed the rebels, they said. All Rome buzzed with it—I could hardly not know.”
“The emperor executed the rebels. In truth, no. I was there; I saw it clearer than anyone. Hahaha.”
A hollow laugh. His eyes did not smile in the least.
Cold sweat trickled down Marcellus's back.
“When 10,000 die in one space, an unbelievable stench rises. Have you ever smelled it, Tribunus Marcellus?”
“...”
He knew it all too well. Just this year. In the battle against Dominus Artorius's forces, when the heavy infantry of Isca Dumnoniorum and the Dumnonii beyond were annihilated in a single blow.
They hadn't fought poorly. They had followed doctrine faithfully, given their utmost, fought bravely. And the result?
...Had they not surrendered, they truly would all have died. The stench of that battlefield still haunted his nights, leaving him sleepless, his wife wiping his brow each morning with worried eyes.
Those blazing eyes of the enemy commander! The thunderous voice of the terrifying giant, the crunch of limbs as his massive club smashed and swung, sending men crumpling, flying, blood spraying—it all lingered vividly.
He would never escape it in his lifetime.
“Why must those people have died? At the time, Thessalonica's hippodrome hosted a promising charioteer. But a Gothic general stationed nearby took a dislike to him. He arrested him forcibly, and naturally, the people grew angry. Add to that the petty clashes that always arise when garrison troops enter a city, and it erupted into a riot. The Gothic general didn't know how to soothe the furious crowd; he responded harshly and ended up seized and killed by them. Then Emperor Theodosius decided to make an example. And so, 10,000 citizens were herded into the hippodrome and slaughtered overnight. Lured by the charioteer's return to the races, they walked into waiting Roman legionaries. The proud blades of Theodosius stabbed and slashed through Thessalonica. Blood flowed like rivers, soaking the vast arena, and the legionaries roared victory cries like their gladiator ancestors—shouting the emperor's name, Christus Sanctus, and our Lord's name—as if it were all just and God's will. Quite the amusing tale, isn't it?”
The low voice carried a bard's rhythm. Hints of some far-eastern speech pattern slipped through unbidden.
The wine's aroma no longer smelled like wine. It was as if blood's scent seeped in from somewhere; Marcellus found himself holding his breath.
“That event was my turning point. Questions I'd ignored surged up at once. I meant to cross to Africa to debate it seriously when I heard a rumor from my birthplace. An unbelievable tale: a mysterious lake and a mysterious man had appeared. He guards Britannia's eastern coast. From the land he secured, grain and barbarian slaves flow even to Thessalonica. So I came to see for myself. And I found things the rumors hadn't conveyed. Tribunus Marcellus, I have not abandoned God. If I've abandoned the Empire, so be it—but I have no doubt the Lord once walked this earth. It's just... now I do not know. My fascination with Dominus Artorius stems not from the mysterious lake or sword. It's something more essential about the Dominus.”
*Scrape.* Pushing aside his wine cup on the rough wooden table, Friar Hector—no, Pelagius—leaned closer across the flickering candlelight, his eyes gleaming with a touch of madness.
“All those mysteries reveal something even more profound. Returning to the beginning: I cannot accept human original sin. To me, it sounds like an excuse to justify the world's injustices and evils. A logic merely to protect someone utterly. Thus, I believe in human free will. The freedom to believe—the utmost tolerance the Magister Militum has shown this land these past ten years. The Empire's fall is not from lack of faith here. On the contrary, it shows faith is not power. So what should the Church's place be? I despise the Roman Church's drift toward secular power. At least in all lands the Magister Militum shall rule, I will not see churches or faith-hostage groups claiming stake in Dominus Nostrum Artorius's achievements. I know them too well; I know they will become that.”
Pelagius's eyes, reflected in the candle, held an uncanny resemblance to Merlinus's. Distant kin, he said. How could these frail, swordless men be so chilling, so fearsome? Marcellus could not comprehend.
“Now that this old man has bared his soul, let us to the point. I've heard many Romano-British soldiers now honor Mars and Sol Invictus. Soon it will be eight days before the new year—the church's holy day, but truly the Dies Natalis Solis Invicti, the birth festival of the Unconquered Sun. Do you know it derives from that? I seek to bind all faiths under our Dominus Nostrum through the sun, common to every creed. You, Tribunus Marcellus, shall be the first instrument.”