The Sun Dyes Red (1)
The Empire's triumphal processions generally followed a few standard formats. Victorious soldiers entered first, followed by the general riding in a chariot pulled by a pair of horses, basking in the citizens' cheers.
Variations came down to whether flowers were scattered or the Emperor attended. Otherwise, nothing special.
After the 18th Legion passed through the gates, I boarded the chariot prepared by the city authorities and entered the city.
"Look this way!"
"The general's looking at us!"
"Bless our child!"
The people cheered at me atop the chariot. If these had been native Britons from Londinium, they'd have shot me hostile glares, but these were Imperial citizens. The carriage trailing the chariot tossed bread and coins toward the crowd.
I scanned the citizens with a stiff expression. I was just here to fulfill my duty, yet this pompous hero act felt cumbersome—like wearing ill-fitting finery.
We marched down the main avenue to the arena. The mayor and governor in the VIP seats waved at us.
Ridiculous as it was, considering how this city had trembled in fear of rebellion not long ago, it was better they celebrated like this.
I waved back in response.
Once the procession ended, the city authorities prepared gladiatorial games in our honor. I didn't care for blood spilled outside the battlefield, but I couldn't deny the people what they craved.
Soon, under the governor's sponsorship, games commemorating the victory began.
The matchup: barbarians versus legionaries.
In name only, of course. In reality, it was captured barbarian prisoners dressed differently, forced into kin-slaying.
I watched from the front row.
Beside me sat the Briton governor, the mayor, Rikius, and others.
I asked a servant girl for more grapes.
As I quenched my thirst with a drink, trumpets blared. The arena gates opened on both sides, and haggard Britons filed in—prisoners from this rebellion.
"Boo!"
The citizens jeered at the sight.
The blond Britons glanced around with pale faces. Hostile stares everywhere. A inescapable round arena. Realizing their plight, they hesitated.
"Fight."
A few soldiers herded them forward, tossing swords and shields at their feet. Crude, worn blades and wooden shields.
Plenty sufficient for killing.
They hesitated, then picked them up.
"Kill them! Kill!"
The crowd roared. They wanted tragedy from these Britons who defied the Empire—a tale to fuel their cheers.
I savored the grapes the girl brought, smirking bitterly.
Rikius noticed and asked, "Not enjoying the games, sir?"
"Killing off the battlefield doesn't sit well. You know that."
"Yes, sir."
"But I understand it's necessary. This spilled blood will make them forget the Briton revolt all the faster."
I rolled a grape in my mouth and spat the seed.
Soon, the armed Britons split into two groups, facing off. They didn't want this fight, but their families' lives hung on it. After agonizing deliberation, a few charged with weapons raised.
Metal clashed, sparks flew. Blades savagely sought life through the air.
"The legionary side has the edge, as expected," Rikius observed.
Of course. This was a victory celebration—legionaries losing would be a scandal for the hosts.
"Figured. How long?"
"Half an hour at most. The Britons playing legionaries will win."
"Lucky bastards. I'll see the victors personally after."
"Sir? Isn't that risky?"
"You'll handle it."
I clapped his shoulder.
Thirty minutes later, the brutal bout ended. Britons in legionary garb stood panting before the stands, not bothering to hide their hatred for the Imperial crowd.
Trumpets sounded. I descended into the arena with my guards.
"Entering the arena: His Excellency Ain, Governor of Bellgorod, who beheaded the traitors and scattered the rebels in this revolt!"
"Hooray!"
The crowd roared.
I raised a hand in acknowledgment and approached the winners. They knelt grudgingly—my guards had surrounded them first.
"Fools. Had you not challenged Imperial order, no blood need have spilled. Why take arms against the Empire?"
"For tomorrow," one man said.
I shook my head.
"Cladius said the same, but your tomorrow won't come. Even in decline, the Empire isn't so weak it can't crush your revolt. That's why your dreams failed."
"What now?"
"I'll free you all."
They exchanged disbelieving glances.
I don't joke much.
"For real?"
"Yes. Freeing you shows the Empire's mercy—and our terror. Knowing 40,000 armed men were trampled like swine? They'll never try again. Right?"
They bit their lips.
"Rikius!"
"Yes, sir."
"Grant them freedom. Fetch wooden swords."
"Yes, sir."
As Rikius went for the mercy symbols, the Britons clenched fists, trembling—desperate to shake off the helplessness in my words.
But even tens of thousands couldn't manage it.
And soon they'd realize.
The Empire's iron grip was beyond their power.
I hoped they did.
Rikius returned. I tapped each shoulder with a wooden sword, declaring freedom.
One by one, they tasted liberty—but swallowed bitterness. Individual freedom paled against Briton's lost cause.
Because of me.
As long as I lived, Briton wouldn't rebel.
They accepted it, grasping that truth.
Soon after the games, traitor Cladius was burned at the stake.
The man once called Briton's king writhed in agony on dry wood, crumbling to ash.
Without me, he'd have entered Londinium triumphantly, claiming the throne.
I watched his end, then rose. My work in Briton was done. Post-rebellion cleanup fell to the local governor and legion commanders.
But with Heigirt's suspicious moves in this war, I needed to hurry back.
As I stood, the Briton governor—watching the execution—scrambled up.
"Words for the citizens?"
"You handle that. Time for me to prepare withdrawal."
"Already?"
"The mainland's tense too. Heigirt lives, border barbarians stir. Trouble could erupt tomorrow. I must return."
"I hoped you'd stay to bolster defenses. Disappointing."
Of course. Another crisis would trouble him.
But with the mainland uncertain, lingering on this fringe island was folly. I exchanged farewells and left the arena.
At the harbor, the legion had packed for withdrawal.
Supply ships were already signaled to the mainland—no heavy loads needed.
Watching gear loaded, I figured we'd reach the continent by tomorrow afternoon.
As my men hustled final tasks, the barbarians rushed theirs.
Prince Briginsa was no exception. Officially aiding only the Briton suppression, he'd return separately to Belanga.
Shorter voyage, less prep—his fleet had anchors up.
"Just sightseeing on the island, eh, Prince?"
He laughed at my half-jest.
"Fate conspired so. I wanted to serve you and the Empire, but opportunity evaded."
"His Majesty will remember Belanga's loyalty."
"Thank you."
Good words for him.
No gain antagonizing here. Officially, he was allied aid.
Scolding him for lending horses would tarnish the Empire. Best to chide gently.
Though if I had the power...
No next time.
As his fleet raised anchors and departed, I stared, swallowing rage. Sending off the one who tried trapping and annihilating us—how could it sit well?
Gazing silently at Briginsa's fleet, a beacon flared afar.
Dane pirates?
I dismissed it.
Too many barbarian incursions to startle at every beacon. Even Dane pirates hitting Briton averaged 150 yearly—every other day. No cause for alarm; local legions handled it.
So thinking, I clasped hands behind back, heading to board.
As I chatted with officers, a rooster-helmed one rushed up—18th Legion from Londinium.
He recognized me, kneeling hastily.
"Governor, sir!"
"18th Legion? What's this?"
"Dane host landed north of Londinium!"
"Dane host?"
The term felt off. Danes usually raided in hundreds at most. A host?
Solemnly: "Yes. Twenty thousand strong."
"Twenty thousand?"
My officers paled. Ferocious Danes in such numbers? No ordinary raid.
Withdrawal was off the table.
I rubbed my thick face, then to Rikius: "Rikius! Order the legion—all hands disembark."
I halted withdrawal.
(To be continued)