Brutus...? Brutus...! Even You...!?
In Caesar's shocked eyes reflected the face of a handsome middle-aged Roman. Eyebrows raised in horror as if he couldn't believe his own deed, lips twisted in sorrow. Yet those resolute eyes held no hesitation. Caesar's expression, gazing into them, was one of profound sadness. Why, even you? Why can't you understand me? Do you think the dead Republic will revive with this? Don't you feel how bloated Rome's name has become? Who will feed the soldiers? How long does the Senate plan to cling to their farms, enjoying them generation after generation? Brutus. Brutus. Do you think my legions will stop if I die? Without Pompey, how will you stop them now...? Why don't you see this is your path to death? If you were going to decide like this, why not back Pompey fully...? Why can't the Senate, the Republic, see that's why they lost to me? Ah, Brutus. My son-like—[Stab!] "Aaaah!" [Boom! Crash!] "Hah— hah— huuuh—"
It was a stormy winter night. A rare occurrence. Uncommon even in Britannia, but a gale like this in southern Gaul? And drenched in cold sweat on his sodden bed, the man who called himself Constantinus awoke trembling in terror.
Caligula, Domitian, Commodus, Caracalla, Gallienus, and Caesar. The protagonists of the nightmares Constantinus had dreamed so far. Their greatest common trait? All assassinated by trusted aides.
Yes, even after gaining power in Britannia, Constantinus had fled that land like a coward and crossed to Gaul. Now, all his initial grandeur was lost; he suffered sea-swept nightmares even under the brightest light, seeing shadows everywhere. Shadows lurking to slit his throat.
"Guards! Anyone! Hurry! Bring me wine! Now!"
His irritable voice was parched from the night's horrors. Coughing violently as if spewing blood, Constantinus suddenly remembered: fearing assassination, he'd banished all guards from his bedchamber days ago.
In other words, no one was near enough to hear his dry cries.
"..."
Thus, Gaul's emperor dragged his shrunken, frail body—withered in mere seasons—toward the table and chair.
[Pour...]
He poured the heavily diluted wine, about to take a sip, when he glimpsed a shadow rippling beneath the cup.
"..."
[Grind...]
He clenched his teeth so hard something nearly cracked.
[Thud.]
His hand set the cup down gently, but his gaze upon it brimmed with suspicion and hatred. Perhaps someone had poisoned the wine. Maybe all those recent nightmares stemmed from it. Tomorrow, he'd interrogate the man handling his meals and drinks.
Though his body, craving the sweet aroma, urged him to drink, Constantinus turned away coldly and walked to the window. Layered with expensive glass to thwart arrows, the outside world was distorted beyond recognition. But that mattered little to Gaul's emperor. Feeling the cold air seeping through was enough.
For in that wind, he sensed his son, toiling far west in Hispania. Perhaps this chill traversing the thick panes came straight from there. If so, it carried a trace of his son's warmth. To savor it more, Constantinus slowly extended his hand.
Then a shadow fell over his hand, and he yanked it back in haste.
Soon, the face of a traitor surfaced in that lingering shadow.
"Gerontius! You damned wretch! I gave you all my trust! I sent you to save Hispania from those wicked kin of Theodosius! And you betray me like this!? Stab me in the back!?"
[Thud! Bang! Crack!]
Seizing a long candlestick and smashing it down relentlessly, Constantinus evoked his days as a Roman legionary bravely defending Britannia's walls against barbarians. But his imperial flesh had swiftly forgotten that valor; soon, only a weary man collapsed there, face hollowed, crushed by its weight.
"Hah— hah— huuuh—"
The candlestick slipped powerlessly from Constantinus's sweat-drenched hand.
[Clang! Clink!]
This uproar was too great to contain; urgent footsteps pierced the darkness from afar.
"Constantus... my son, Constantus..."
The troops meant to ally with Alaricus and overturn Italia had marched wholesale to Hispania. Led by none other than Constantus, co-emperor of Gaul and Constantinus's son.
Recalling his stalwart boy, Constantinus believed in victory. Yet, aside from personal hatred, Gerontius—a battle-hardened veteran from Britannia—left a chill in his heart.
As gnawing anxiety soaked him anew in sweat, approaching soldiers called anxiously from outside.
"Augustus! Are you alright!? Augustus!"
"...I'm fine. Come in."
The door opened; cautious armored steps oddly calmed Constantinus's mind. Questioning how it came to this was pointless now. Whether Gaul or Hispania, hadn't the world become the barbarians' who crossed the Rhine years ago? In truth, Constantinus and Gerontius alike had no choice but to play their parts.
Honorius was shockingly indifferent to the Empire, yet ruthless toward threats. Italia would surely target Gaul. And with Hispania demanding immediate attention, Gaul had no choice but a grueling fight.
So what now?
"...Britannia. The answer lies in Britannia again."
"Pardon...?"
The guards feared the emperor's mad, bloodshot mutterings. Undeterred, he sprang up, pacing in circles lost in his world.
"Must draw them in somehow... How? What to offer? Right, start with the north. Infuriating, but no choice... You there!"
"Yes, sir! Augustus!"
"Ride to Rotomagus at once! Tell them I have a proposal! I'll withdraw all border legions, so return with their representatives! Go!"
This late? To Rotomagus? The northern Gaulish coast folk hardly loved their emperor... Such doubts swirled in the soldier's mind, but before the emperor's frenzied glare, he held his tongue.
"Y-yes, sir!"
"Hurry! No rest! Go!"
Constantinus glared at the soldier's awkward salute and hasty retreat—or rather, at the shadows creeping into the vacated spot.
"Think I'll just die? You think I'll let it end like this...!?"
Under the mad emperor's fierce gaze, the innocent guards held their breath.
-----
[Clang! Clang! Thud-thud— Claaang!]
Winter made many things hard, but some welcomed its merciless cold. Blacksmiths, tied to flames by trade, found the chill better than sweltering summer.
"Huff! Huff! Hooo! "
[Clang! Clang! Clang!]
Strike in steady rhythm. Steel demanded it. Winter was war's off-season, when men flocked to forges preparing for spring. Thus, blacksmiths marked their year by winter's workload—like the hammer's beat on the anvil now.
Britannia's smiths all sensed it: spring would gleam with more steel than ever.
"Hooo—"
"Hard work. Take a break?"
"N-no, Dominus!"
A break? What did he take steel for, spouting such nonsense? A harsh retort nearly escaped, but spotting the man's bulk, the smith bowed politely, hands clasped demurely like a bride.
Magister militum or not, the figure before him was imposing, intimidating. A bear-slayer could crush a man barehanded. And Britannia's finest smith, gray strands mingling with white like snowflakes, wasn't ready to die yet.
"Seems I've bothered a busy man."
"N-not at all, Magister militum! Such grim words..."
"Hahaha. Don't overthink it. Strip the titles, and I'm just an Avalonia hunter. Fellow citizen, right? Anyway, any troubles working this steel? Differences, peculiarities?"
Just a hunter? Tavern tales hyped the Magister's casualness, but hearing it firsthand was mind-blowing. Normal hunters chased deer, rabbits—not bears or wolves, which city guards handled.
Fellow citizen...? Tonight, he'd pray lakeside for absolution. Goddess, forgive hearing words unfit for your exalted ears...
Shoving fleeting thoughts aside, the smith chose words carefully.
"It's special, Magister militum. Extraordinary."
The steel under his hammer was undoubtedly different.
"Hm? Different how?"
"Uuum..."
[Clang! Clang! Clang!]
Hammering again, he sought precise words. But this subtle sense—felt only at his lifetime pinnacle, Britannia's best—defied expression. So he spoke honestly.
[Clang! Clang! Clang!]
"It's clearly different, but how to say it... My crude mind can't grasp it, Magister. Yet with lifelong conviction, I dare say: a sword from this steel will shame even Noricum blades."
Outshining Noricum steel was no small feat. Rome's metallurgy, smelting, weaponcraft far exceeded laymen's thoughts.
Yet the Magister had summoned him from Dubris, handing over this steel unexplained. Blessed and prayed over by Dominus Artorius himself—chosen of the Lake Lady—in every forging step. It was all different.
Not mere steel; it felt, looked like another metal entirely. He held back saying so. Soon the sword would take form; testing it then would suffice.
The finest sword... Not rivaling the holy sword Caliburnus, but unseen in the world till now. Dominus.
With that certainty, the smith immersed in his world, swinging the hammer amid thick sweat drops.
[Clang! Clang! Claaang!]