The One-Armed Master's Dawn
In the early dawn, Beduerus stood still with his eyes closed. He was contemplating his sword. A farmer tends the fields from birth to death. Even before his coming-of-age rite, he follows his father, learning the types of seeds, how to plow the furrows, how to handle beasts. He absorbs knowledge of soil and grain, beasts and men, seasons and time as naturally as breathing. Yet even a lifetime of such learning brings failure in farming. Man strives, but in the end, it rests upon the Lord's will.
In much the same way, Beduerus had gripped a sword his entire life. As the third son of a decayed house barely scraping by, what else could he do but take up sword and shield? He advanced with grand ambitions, fighting with all his might, but in his eightieth—no, ninetieth? Roughly the hundredth battle, Beduerus lost his arm. They said it was a miracle he survived, but naturally enough, he despaired. Friends, family, comrades, himself, the gods—he cursed and clawed at all he could see, screaming until he vomited blood and fainted, time and again. Yet Beduerus clung to life tenaciously, refusing to die.
When the world turned its back on him, he turned his back on the world. On the road to death, one early dawn like this, he spotted a man working alone in the fields. The man saw Beduerus too—Beduerus without a left arm, the man without a right. After staring long, the man nodded as if understanding, then turned back and dug the earth vigorously with his left arm. It was terribly slow, but it was still fieldwork. Watching him advance steadily, methodically, Beduerus stood rooted there for a long while. Until the sun rose fully and began to set again. Only then did the one-armed farmer finish a modest plot. He glanced at Beduerus one last time, saluted with his left arm, and walked slowly toward the house visible in the distance, vanishing from sight.
Not a word passed between them, but Beduerus felt he must live. Had it been his right arm lost, he might have farmed with the left—but fortunately, his sword arm remained. From that day, he left home, wandering from odd job to odd job, sometimes begging or sleeping rough, devoting everything to swinging his sword. Sluggishly, feebly, limply. Rome's spatha was far too long for a one-armed swing. But his ungainly form faded with each repeated downward stroke.
[Whoosh—] Before long, he reached the realm where the blade cleaved at the very moment his mind willed it. This was the swordsmanship for a one-armed swordsman without a shield. A strike that must kill the instant it manifests. A fierce downward chop from above. Even in that single stroke lay countless minute angles and subtleties for adjustment. But the essence was always one: from above, with all one's might, cleave down. Shield, helmet, armor, skull—it mattered not. Unless the blade bent or chipped, cleave relentlessly.
[Whoosh—] Beduerus, who had even slashed a flying dagger mid-air, believed that in a one-on-one, as long as he kept distance, he could fell any foe. In that chaotic world, he aided the needy here and there, cleaved the dangerous, and wandered aimlessly until his steps reached Britannia, the most turbulent corner of Roman soil. There, in that gloomy isle, he heard an unbelievable rumor.
[Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—] A warrior who slew a hundred men alone in one go. His weapon: a single massive wooden club.
[Whoosh—] “Hoo—”
For Beduerus, whose life had become the sword—and who cared not for his own if it perfected his blade—he set off without hesitation toward where the monster was said to be. No need to search far; he found him by a mysterious lakeside.
“...Invictus.”
Even now, closing his eyes summoned the image of the world's mightiest warrior right before him. Vivid as that first encounter. Eyes gleaming yellow missed nothing: Beduerus's fingertips, his toes, his breath, his hair fluttering, the down on his skin rippling in the wind, the vein pulsing on his forehead. Nothing escaped. He could not move a fraction before him. He could not read his breath. No—that monster breathed not at all. Like a lion toying with prey it could crush anytime.
Yes. That was Beduerus's level against the man before him.
“Hup!”
[Whoosh—!] Beduerus unleashed his finest strike. A perfect downward cleave.
“Hooo—”
Yet against Artorius, he could not land it. Before he could, Dominus Artorius Invictus's massive club hovered above his crown.
Seeing Artorius's smile—like one who'd found something amusing—Beduerus, drenched in cold sweat, realized: 'This man is Rome's foremost warrior.' Beduerus recognized greatness at once and yearned to stay by his side. And so, ten years passed. The world began to truly grasp Artorius's worth. The wise would flock to stand behind him; his foes would all perish. Without fighting at his side, witnessing his command, none could understand Beduerus's conviction. They'd call him mad. But watch Artorius, and all come to see: he has no equal.
[Click—] His senses honed to the limit ensured the blade didn't even graze the scabbard as he sheathed it. Finishing his morning drill with a hundred downward strokes, Beduerus gazed at the new object in Artorius's front yard—which had become the city's heart.
“...”
He'd heard of it serving in the legions, mostly in the East, but never seen one. Yes, that was surely... a chariot. As a cart slipped away in the dim predawn, perhaps the gift-bringer? Bronze with brass fittings. Up close, the whip-holder bore the donor's name engraved small.
“Guinevere? If it's Guinevere... the Dominus has sinned greatly.”
Serving Dominus Artorius Invictus for years, Beduerus knew: contrary to his self-view as sharp, the Dominus was rather obtuse. With that bearish frame, it was hardly surprising. Yet Comes Uterius's daughter was bold, relentlessly pursuing the oblivious man with fierce determination. Of course, permitting it all was none other than Comes Uterius himself. Would he overlook Artorius's uniqueness that Beduerus saw at a glance?
“The Dominus's affairs of the heart may grow as tangled as our Rome's.”
Whatever transpired at the Londinium conclave, Britannia would never be the same. And no schemes could halt Artorius's ascent. The Britannians weren't fools, even if he wished otherwise. To Beduerus, it all shone brightly. Sorting his brief reverie, he stepped forth. Much to prepare if the Dominus departed today.
“Is that so? Hah—the Empire's peril we all sensed... but to lose this place so easily, so casually. Utterly abandoned. Hm...”
The children's study hour ended. True to its spontaneous birth, Avalonia developed unlike other villages. First, my near-obsessive cleanliness strengthened the already decent wastewater systems, intensified street cleaning, and banned dumping filth into the river. Downstream lay Camulodunum on the same waterway, but mainly, I hated dirt. As people grew, the river would strain, so bury what must be buried, dig new channels if needed, utilize surrounding wetlands—whatever kept it clean. Folks shunned marshes, but they were natural filters.
Romano-Britons seemed clean yet filthy, so my ways might seem excessive. But with village children and elders surviving winters hale, my efforts weren't wasted.
Thus, our village's second trait in this chaotic age: gathering children for lessons. Normally, Roman education was the paterfamilias's call. Farmer's son learns plowing, livestock; merchant's discerns true coin from false; soldier's swings a wooden sword. Only then, weighing finances and talent, might he entrust to a school. No money? No education. Worse: orphans. They filled undesired Roman jobs.
In short, I gathered my village's children and entrusted them to the scholar Hector. This gentlemanly middle-aged ex-cleric—insisting he wasn't—knew math, philosophy, Latin, Greek, even barbarian tongues, plus administration and diplomacy from youth. I treated him reverently. Wisest in the village, naturally he'd teach the children. Nothing grand: basics in letters, numbers, arithmetic so they'd not suffer illiterate; spare time for exercise, group play. For in Rome, a child's path is the father's right—and in Avalonia, I, Artorius, was father to all. I wanted my children to conquer youth's hardships together. With Hector's excellence, they shed frailty swiftly.
Thus, my deep gratitude to this frowning middle-aged Roman was natural.
“You depart for Londinium today?”
“Yes, Dominus Hector.”
Seven years—eight now? From first meeting, Hector never used servile speech. Rather, polite, elevating, as to a regional commander.
“You've followed the natural order, Dominus Artorius; who am I to advise? Comes Ambrosius and Prefectus Merlinus of Londinium are good, wise, brave men—fine allies. But Vortigernus is different.”
Hector's eyes, smoothed-shaven face stroked, held a monk's chill unbefitting one versed in scripture.
“We've seen unqualified ambitions ruin the Empire. Haven't we, Dominus Artorius? If ever you ponder your path or this land's, recall my humble words. Britannia can bear no more vain desires from the unfit. That luxury we squandered on false emperors.”
“...”
In my past life, I wasn't brilliant. Reborn, unless martial or military, I skimmed or struggled, ignoring trivia. But I'm no utter fool. Hector, my subordinates—they all seek something from me. Yet I gave no firm yes. Combining lives, I'd lived over forty years; sometimes, silence is best.
So I ended wordlessly and set forth for Londinium.
[Clatter—clatter—clop—clop—]
Ah, not walking this time. Aboard the new gift.