Nullus Romanus
“Don’t forget: Nullus Romanus.”
The young fogey of Romano-Britannia, more at home with the straightforward term “Great Winter Festival” than all the trendy neologisms like Solstice, Sun Festival, or Sun Holiday that everyone was chattering about, grumbled in a voice thick with gloom. “Silentium Romanum.”
“Nulla lingua Romana.”
“Sine Romano.”
“In secret, hiding our identity.”
His subordinates responded in kind, their eyes shadowed and voices low, murmuring variations on the same theme with different words. Come to think of it, even their attire was far from the flashy plumes and red cloaks of the Romano-Britannian army—no, it was all dark brown leather and cloth, making them look like children of the shadows.
“Move out.”
Under the command of Magister Militum Artorius, Britannia had been reborn in places far and wide, and new life was still emerging even now. But the most profound changes were felt right here, along the new western and northern frontiers that Artorius-Britannia had claimed. The Wall in particular brimmed with far more vitality than in the days when the false emperor Constantinus of Gaul had posted mere Romano-Britannian soldiers there, back when the old legions still lingered. It had undergone relentless expansions and renovations.
Cunedagius and Moderatus, who had overseen the work firsthand, had secretly added a small hidden sally port beside the massive main gate—precisely for operations like this small-scale stealth maneuver.
With the Great Winter Festival nearly upon them, and a massive reconnaissance patrol of five centuries scheduled for after the Solstice, they needed to scout the lands beyond the Wall ahead of time.
[Crunch— crunch—]
The snow lay undisturbed, blanketing the world in white. As they trudged through the treacherous beauty, Cunedagius pondered: Could a single wall divide two such utterly different worlds?
From Vercovicium, the view south of the Wall was a white expanse too, but alive with ceaseless traffic, roads spiderwebbing out like veins. Dawn patrols from nearby forts and towns cursed as they cleared the snow, but roads only endure where feet and hooves keep treading them. Roads meant life—people, beasts—stirring even in the depths of this bone-chilling winter. Britannia’s clear paths pulsed with vigor, a heart that never tired, its beat reaching even this farthest frontier from the center.
Send out those waves of power without cease, and what happens? It grows, like a child shooting up. Bulks up, until the pent-up force bursts outward. Overflows.
[Crunch— crunch—]
“Hm?”
Lost in thoughts of the Magister Militum’s northern ambitions—relayed to him by Moderatus—Cunedagius’ gaze caught something off: an unnatural mound in the snow.
“Halt.”
The footsteps slowed to a stop. He crouched instantly, his men fanning out behind him, all peering intently where his eyes were fixed.
“That looks like someone tried to cover it up, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. Something’s wrong.”
“Not like an animal swept snow over it with its tail. Must be human.”
They hadn’t even reached the lakes north of the Wall yet—the unspoken no-man’s-land between. Human presence here was noteworthy intel.
“Looks like the barbarians are stirring even in midwinter, Comes.”
“So it seems.”
The 2nd Legion, stationed near the Wall, included many warriors from the Botadii tribe, and Cunedagius was not only Comes of Britannia but heir to the entire Botadii. Pedigree aside, the old tribal traditions had mostly faded into oblivion; they were practically Roman now. Still, bloodlines carried weight.
“Who could it be? I thought all the locals were dead, joined us, or fled long ago.”
“Fugitives returning, or stragglers creeping down from farther north.”
Cunedagius figured both. The exiles had likely flowed into larger, fiercer northern tribes, spreading rumors of Romano-Britannia that drew southern incursions. As firstborn son of the Botadii—who’d warred with them for generations—he trusted his instincts, but rash calls bred mistakes. More intel was needed.
“We know someone’s been here. Backtrack and hunt traces. They left a trail—find it.”
“Yes, Comes!”
Tracking in pristine snow wouldn’t be easy. But the Botadii had survived by mastering such hunts, like hounds scenting blood. Eyes wild, the pursuers scattered across the white expanse, probing everywhere. Meanwhile, Cunedagius stared silently north, his pupils narrowing.
Who said revenge was fleeting? No. It was sweet as melting marrow in the skull, a fullness swelling the chest.
When Peredir had beheaded his father’s killers and hung them where they’d displayed his father’s head, he’d finally felt alive.
“These supplies are vital—no delays. Treat them like the lives of our legions rooted in Hibernia.”
“Yes, Comes!”
“Depart at once. The skies and seas couldn’t be fairer.”
[Salute!]
He returned the salute—awkward at first, now second nature—and looked down. The bustling harbor sprawled below: a gentle bay lined with towers, docks, and jetties hammered together from timber, cement, and stone in a flash. Ships bobbed, lashed tight to pilings.
Manavia, once trembling in ruin, had transformed in a mere three seasons.
“Laudate solem, laudate sol invictum.”
Praise the sun. Praise the unconquered sun.
The Solstice had everyone chanting it. Even the local Manavians, unversed in Roman faith, embraced it without qualms, singing drunkenly into the night. They had reason: so much change in so short a time. And at its heart stood Dominus Artorius—Peredir could only be grateful.
“Praise the sun, Britannia. The unconquered sun.”
Britannia had another “unconquered” bearer: Artorius himself. Superstitious locals, sharp on symbols, saw sun-praise as Artorius-praise. And they loved it.
Why? They’d seen him. Last summer, the Magister Militum had sailed these waters, smashing and capturing every barbarian in his path.
Manavia now boasted grand bathhouses. The old “Fisher King” hilltop manor was Peredir’s office and home, warded with winter-proofing magic that kept floors and walls warm even on the coldest nights. Rebels had looted granaries bare, but now they brimmed with grains, apples, smoked fish, and meats from the Dominus.
This was magic. Winter-defying magic. How could they not praise the sun?
That was winter festival’s essence: amid deepest dark, rally the sun’s strength, urge endurance. And those who led such rites? Priests. Kings.
“Comes! Comes Peredir!”
An old soldier, loyal since his father’s days, sprinted from the docks. Traitors had infested Manavia—traitors he’d slain—but the faithful like this man were the majority. Worth defending. As was Hibernia beyond the savage western sea.
“What’s the rush? Your knees aren’t what they used to be. Tsk tsk—”
“Urgent news, Comes! Across the sea—the Muwa folk—no, from Muwa, an envoy—em— to Avalonia’s Magister Militum!”
“Delegation?”
“Yes! They’ve just arrived!”
“Muwa’s envoys...”
He’d heard briefly: the old king had defied the Magister Militum and crumbled; the new one, seizing power, pledged full cooperation. Central command knew, but in Britannia, blind trust was folly.
“...Understood. Send riders at once to Comes Caius and Drustanus. Muwa stirs, and rats like Lagin will twitch. Stay vigilant.”
“Yes, Comes!”
Peredir watched the old retainer dash off, then turned to the approaching band of barbarians. Swathed in beast pelts like sea-soaked kelp, they gawked wide-eyed at the harbor.
“...Praise the sun, you lot.”
‘Or melt before it.’
Winter passes. Even the harshest yields to time. Spring follows—and with it, the fighting season here. Across the sea, Hibernia already seemed to roil.