89. Unease from the East
The east was stirring uneasily. Astonishingly, this news had come straight from the Frankish chieftain, who controlled a vast swath of territory from southeastern Britannia up along the Rhine from north to midstream—a considerable domain. The Franks were a breed apart from the other barbarians scattered farther east and south. They called themselves Franks with pride in their culture and warrior society, yet they made no secret of their admiration for Rome. Embracing Roman ways so eagerly had blurred the lines; now, they were scarcely distinguishable from any average legionary. There was even crude talk that the Italian emperor had all but disbanded the Britannia and Rhine fleets because of these Frankish mercenaries. In both the barbarian world and Rome's, the Franks occupied a uniquely precarious yet prominent position.
Uterius still vividly recalled that day when Constantinus had suddenly mustered every legion from the Wall and declared he’d resolve the Gallic crisis—madness. Even before then, Frankish warriors had begun distancing themselves from Rome. The primary reason? The Rhine defenses had crumbled so pathetically that barbarians flooded into Gaul unchecked. Honorius, who should have fixed it, was pinned down in Italia by Alaricus, never venturing beyond Ravenna. What aid could one expect from an empire that refused to fight? So the Franks cut ties with Gaul and Britannia, focusing solely on defending their own lands. And that stance had held firm—until now, the first time in over a decade. For the first time, the commander of the Saxon Shore defenses received intelligence directly from the Franks.
This was monumental. “The east is stirring uneasily” clearly meant the Angles and Saxons across the Franks’ eastern frontier were mobilizing again. Until now, they’d struck without warning, but this gave advance notice. And with promises of ongoing surveillance, they’d even know when the next move would come. Barbarian raids terrified because of their surprise; know the target and timing ahead, and every one could be thwarted. Uterius tamped down his excitement and quickened his pace.
[Thud-thud-]
Even in winter, Avalonia brimmed with verdant life. Camulodunum had its traditional, rigid beauty; Londinium, a splendid ordered elegance. But Avalonia pulsed with mystery and raw power. Each visit to this improbably young city left Uterius awestruck anew. And now, its master was his own son-in-law—the de facto heir to his house. Pride swelled in his chest. Artorius and Guinevere’s child—his own grandchild. How beautiful would they be? How noble? Born of Britannia’s king of knights and Uterius’s daughter. He didn’t want to burden an unborn babe, but his grandchildren would enter the world laden with gifts—and crushing responsibilities. Their father was unprecedented in Britannia’s history.
So he’d shower them with every ounce of love and impart every lesson he could.
“Comes Uterius!”
“Hm?”
Lost in thought as he strode the grand avenue, Uterius heard footsteps catch up, accompanied by a warmly familiar voice. Turning, he saw Comes Ambrosius of Londinium.
“Ambrosius? Did the Magister Militum summon you too?”
“Just me? My cousin Merlinus was called as well. Someone had to hold Dubris fortress, so he left Comes Tor there—or he’d have summoned him too.”
“Hmm...”
Was something major afoot? Surely not—Guinevere couldn’t have...?
“Ahem.”
Uterius’s aged heart pounded fiercely. His steps quickened further until, at last, across the vast road, Avalonia’s sacred lake came into view beside its grand mansion and walls.
Despite his heavy armor, Uterius moved briskly, and Ambrosius kept pace, chattering on.
“Word is, barbarians struck from the west out of nowhere. Details pending, but that’s likely why we’re summoned.”
“The west? In winter? No—more than that, it’s not news of the grandchild?”
His racing heart slowed to its steady rhythm. His hurried gait eased.
Avalonia had grown from Artorius’s private camp around the lake, much like other Roman cities with a central forum ringed by offices. But unlike those dominated by elite villas, Avalonia’s residences clustered northward, toward the lake. The forum here—typically a city’s social and political heart—was merely a pretty square with gardens for rest and chatter. That peculiarity stemmed from the Magister Militum’s mansion hugging the northern lakeshore, its Round Table garden at the center where Britannia’s great and small matters were decided.
With most nobles from Londinium and Eboracum fled to the mainland, few old families remained, their traditions faded. The surviving central nobles? Ambrosius’s kin—Merlinus’s house—and Uterius’s own ancient line from Camulodunum.
Thus, the lakefront northern district housed only Artorius’s innermost circle—now dubbed his knights. Spacious on grander plots than Londinium’s cramped villas, these mansions offered pleasing vistas. Amusingly, most owners were absent. Britannia’s knights held honored posts on frontlines or special missions from Dominus Artorius. Perhaps the primitive form of Roman nobility—like the Senate’s origins? Uterius mused.
“Indeed, Comes—from the west. And savage winds from the east too. Troubling times.”
“Hah. I’d expect such talk from youngsters, but you, Ambrosius?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m still young.”
Right. Uterius snorted despite himself, shooting his old comrade a glance. True, younger than Comes Lot, Eturnus, or himself. This Londinium noble had roamed battlefields since boyhood. He bridged Artorius’s generation and Uterius’s—much like Tor, trusted with southern coasts.
Ambrosius and Tor: mid-generation knights? Their shared trait? Less raw prowess than the young bloods, but seasoned commanders in the classic mold. Uterius saw the divide in their origins. He, Tor, Ambrosius had defended underdogs against aggressive barbarians. Galbaginus, Caius fought under Artorius in constant victories, always attacking.
Thus, their battlefield mindsets diverged. Each had strengths and flaws, but to Uterius’s veteran eye, under Artorius, all converged: offense, ever fiercer offense.
“How fares the eastern coast defense?”
“Haven’t I reported? Comes.”
“Hearing it direct is different.”
“Steady as ever.”
Uterius still held his Saxon Shore command, with Ambrosius—ex-Londinium defender—under him. Long superior and subordinate, they needed few words to gauge each other. From Ambrosius’s grumble, Uterius sensed his ease as a soldier.
A soldier’s ease? In Britannia? Seemed lax discipline at first glance—but no. Not lounging in armchairs, idly picking olives. What then? The comfort of competence amid plenty.
“New watchtowers and forts rise where we once triaged and abandoned. Small, but backed by proper patrol fleets now. Much changed while you wintered from Camulodunum. Haha.”
Manpower and funds had forced those abandonments, yielding regions to raids despite paper defenses. No more. Ambrosius’s generation—and elders—felt profound relief. Not so Galbaginus, Caius’s cohort who’d marched with Artorius, nor the young reared on his legendary triumphs. Nor Artorius and Guinevere’s future sons, Uterius’s grandchildren onward. An emotion lost to time.
Uterius would strive for that legacy until his dying breath.
“Fortunate.”
“Yes, Comes. Indeed.”
No more words needed. In companionable silence, the soldiers passed the Magister Militum’s walls.
[Clack!]
Guards saluted sharply. Entering, the mystic aura from Avalonia’s gates amplified a thousandfold. Midway in the lake rose the rock from which the Lake Goddess’s sword—holy Caliburnus—had been drawn by Britannia’s Magister Militum.
[Clink-]
Uterius and Ambrosius knelt toward it, praying silently. Protect us today, tomorrow. Rising swiftly—lest the Magister catch them and scold—they headed to the garden. He despised kneelers.
“Ah! You’ve arrived! Comes Uterius! Comes Ambrosius! This way!”
The Round Table garden buzzed; many already gathered. Guided by a servant, Uterius caught Merlinus’s voice growing clearer—rarely flustered, now thoroughly so.
“What do you mean...? Dominus Artorius? Where and how do you plan to go...?”
“Er—hard to explain. Best show you later, Merlinus. Once all’s assembled, I’ll recap and demonstrate. Simply put, there’s another path through the world? Sounds mad, I know, but we can reach Isca Dumnoniorum, Eboracum, Deva Victrix in an instant. Some backlash, mind you...”
“Instant—as in, the blink of an eye? Like this apple falling?”
[Plop-]
“Exactly! That’s why talking to smart folks is best!”
...What on earth were they discussing?