The First Path
Salacia, Lady of the Sea. Benilia of wind and waves. Naias of freshwater. Nereid, Amphitrite. And what else was there? Isis, Anuket, Tanit. And? Sequana, De Matrona, Sulis, Coventina, Sirona. Something like that.
Names of every deity associated with water flooded through Merlinus's mind. Every name known in these lands—especially those linked to water and goddesses—he had sought out, read, and committed to memory.
His encyclopedic knowledge of the terrain around Londinium, where he had spent his life—down to the number of hills and their elevations between any two points—had been shattered in an instant by the appearance of that lake. Ever since, Merlinus's attention had fixated on it alone, shoving aside all worldly concerns.
People might dismiss it with simple awe: "Whoa, a mysterious lake just appeared!" "What!? That's insane!"
But Merlinus couldn't believe such a massive lake had simply erupted from underground out of nowhere. And not from some volcano—it had burst forth explosively, enough to alter the flow of the river running to Camulodunum, forming a vast body of water that size in the blink of an eye? With no trace of the colossal geological upheaval that should have reshaped the surrounding landscape? He couldn't just brush that off with "That's insane!"
So Merlinus had observed the lake far longer and more obsessively than one might expect. In the process, he had scrutinized the man named Artorius as well.
A lakeside that appeared from nowhere. A hut built beside it. And a man claiming to hail from there, living off the land. All coincidence? Merlinus wasn't that naive.
There had to be a connection. One of those goddesses whose names he had listed—or perhaps a silent god whimsically stirring at last. It didn't matter which. If it was an entity poised to further destabilize the already fragile order of Romano-Britain, Merlinus had to prepare countermeasures to preserve the city and his house.
So he watched. And watched some more. Before long, that turned into patronage. And in time, Merlinus concluded that this man should be made king of Britain.
Whatever the lake's god or goddess, he would harness the force that had summoned Artorius. Merlinus had never been a devout churchgoer—not even devout in empty words—so he cared more about reclaiming the rights and properties that Romano-Britain's parade of false emperors and warlords had lavishly bestowed on the British church, driven by that peculiar get-rich-quick opportunism of local power-grabbers.
He had methodically inventoried and seized those assets from the departed nobles and high clergy, funneling them back into the state treasury, building his own preparations step by step.
And now, with victory nearly in hand, this man—who was nominally just Rome's magister militum but in truth no different from king of Britain—was spouting something unbelievable again.
"...Isca Dumnoniorum, Deva Victrix, Eboracum. Right now. Is that what you said? Did I hear that correctly?"
As Merlinus double-checked just in case, familiar faces finally entered the round table room: Comes Uterius and his cousin Ambrosius.
They too had overheard the mad—no, the words—from afar. Their faces mirrored the utter incomprehension of Merlinus and Hector, already seated, along with the other high administrators and a few centurions.
"I know it's hard to believe. I felt the same at first. But understand my position—it's tough to explain properly. No matter how much you teach a man to flap his arms, he can't fly. This is... not rational. It's instinctive, innate."
How long had it been since this man wore such a perplexed expression? Even when Britain’s finest soldiers and nobles were fleeing, declaring the land doomed, he had stepped forward, insisting victory was possible.
And he had won. Every time.
Generals undefeated throughout their lives emerge once per era, but those who truly win every battle? Even scanning the Empire's history back to the Republic, there were precious few. And one who personally led nearly a hundred major and minor engagements to victory? You could count them on one hand with fingers to spare.
Merlinus had recorded them all. Posterity would doubt their veracity upon reading the logs.
In the first skirmish: 100 against 500. 300 killed, 200 captured, zero losses under Artorius.
The most recent—the great battle at Isca Dumnoniorum against Vortigern—had scaled up by an order of magnitude, yet the outcome was similar. The enemy annihilated, their leader slain. Marcellus, Vortigern's killer, now served Dominus Artorius. Allied casualties? Negligible to nonexistent.
Any other man would have commissioned songs, scattered gold across Rome to immortalize the feats.
But Britain's Dominus Artorius? He spent on the wounded and did nothing else.
"There's no reason not to believe. Magister militum. We've all seen the lake glow, seen you draw Caliburnus with our own eyes."
Thinking back, the path of Artorius had been mystery incarnate from the start.
Constantinus and the soldiers and nobles who fled, calling the land lost—they might have been coldly realistic, even if scornfully so.
Merlinus, Uterius, Eturnus, Lot—those who stubbornly stayed to defend something—might have been the mad ones, with a screw loose in their heads. How do you defend without soldiers?
Watching Britain collapse, Vortigern-style scum rising with tales of "noble bloodlines" to claim the next false throne—that might have been the natural order.
If so, what was Artorius, who had halted that rational flow?
"So there's nothing unbelievable about it. It's just... Magister militum, how exactly—"
From Avalonia to Isca Dumnoniorum, Deva Victrix, and so on—in short, the southwestern, northwestern, and northeastern strongholds of Romano-Britain—in an instant?
What do you even call that...?
"—We won't understand how you teleport, even if we ask. As you said, no amount of flapping arms makes us fly like birds. But one concern: how stable is this teleportation?"
How much can you trust the lake's goddess? He couldn't voice that directly.
The old deities he had studied were whimsically human, woven from myths men invented. Even those tied to water and women had a softer side, but still—who knew?
"Ah—how stable? Imagine the grandest road you can. Now multiply it hundreds of times. Vast and immense. Walking it alone? Quite stable, wouldn't you say?"
Still no clue what he meant. Merlinus focused not on the words, but Artorius's face.
Long observation had taught him to read the man's inner thoughts. And there it was: the usual supreme confidence, fierce conviction. Perhaps even eager anticipation.
Merlinus nodded.
"A road that grand might feel lonely to walk alone. Can't someone join you?"
"Exactly! That's why smart folks like you... Anyway, I asked right away, but reviving something that ancient isn't feasible yet. No idea how long... Caliburnus and I are the keys, apparently. Use it enough, maybe someday? Anyway, seems only Guinevere and you truly get it. No time for more—everyone, rise."
As the king rose from his massive throne, the assembly followed with deferential poise.
Somehow, after private words, Lady Guinevere's face held only faint concern. Uterius and Ambrosius, who had just joined, stared at Merlinus in utter bewilderment.
Honestly, Merlinus understood nothing himself—no explanations to give those confused two.
Teleportation. How do you even explain that?
But Uterius sidled up, poking Merlinus's ribs and whispering.
"...Praefectus Londinium. What in the gods' names is happening? What did I just hear? What's going on?"
"..."
He had to answer—the few Merlinus respected, his old friend. But nothing came to mind.
Knowing Uterius's volcanic temper beneath the calm facade, Merlinus blurted before the next poke pierced his ribs.
"A miracle."
"?"
"..."
"...?"
"Comes Uterius. We've lived with clouded eyes, but is it normal for apple trees to bear fruit year-round, even in winter?"
"..."
Even more so, now that he said it.
"Remember that club that never broke, no matter how swung? Savages flew like bugs when struck. Does that make sense?"
"..."
"The glowing lake? Holy sword Caliburnus? The blades bestowed on the knights? At Vercovicium, you melted the gates with oil jars and javelins, liquifying the walls? I've never heard of capturing a fortress that way. You, Comes?"
"..."
Those who live too close to miracles often forget they coexist with them. Shocking at first, they become natural over time.
But miracles remain miracles.
[Whumm-]
Ahead, the man who was miracle incarnate brought another—the holy sword—to the lakeside. Even from steps back, they felt it hum.
Ripples spread across the glassy surface. Something dazzling made Artorius shield his eyes and step back slightly.
But to Merlinus and the others, it was just the sword's vibration stirring the lake.
"...So that's it."
Artorius, lost in his world for a moment, murmured low to Lady Guen hugging his arm, then turned to the crowd.
"I'll check the western frontier. If time, the Wall too. All new and strange, but let's try it—then plan its use together. I called you to see this. Watch closely! Haha!"
He kissed Lady Guen's forehead; she tiptoed, and he bent to press his forehead to her lips. Then he waded slowly into the lake.
Feet to knees, chest, waist, head, hair tips—all glowed blue, radiating fierce waves and light.
The lake thrummed silently. Massive waves rose like breakers, circling back from Artorius.
Then the receded waters gathered like a moving wall, swallowing the glowing man.
Flash.
Lightning without thunder flickered the world. The raging lake calmed.
"..."
"..."
Unlike the serene lakeside resuming its natural guise as if nothing happened, the people's hearts boiled over, erupting.
"Th-that—"
"Ah—"
As some knelt here and there, Merlinus pondered the next move.
A great road, indeed. Roads' value depends on how and where they're paved.
If commercialized...
Merlinus's eyes gleamed with fiendish light.