CDXXIX | ANNO DOMINI


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II

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In the darkness of the overgrowth, the dark forests that was sanctuary to his people, Merlin stood atop a great branch, hanging his grip upon a tree trunk as he watched the battle commence, and watched his warriors spent. The battle had looked like it would go their way, that this Roman dignitary would be easily taken and made hostage. It would be better than how the Romans treated their hostages over the years.

Then the knights appeared. Arthur had come. Eight knights should not have been enough to turn the tide but these eight, these knights decimated the most hardened warriors he'd known—men and women he'd raised since they were babes, cut down like winter's wheat. Their fruits of life left to waste away.

Merlin received the message and commanded some men to retrieve young Taliesin from the old oak. When his apprentice returned to his side, he could not meet the druid in the eye. "Mae'n flin gyd fi, maddeuwch imi," said Taliesin, "I am sorry, please forgive me."

The druid shook his head, excusing him for his shortcomings. There was no shame in defeat, least of all to Arthur Castus.

"What do we do, master?"

The Woads all looked to Merlin, though they awaited the words and commands of their leader, they all had a pretty good idea of their only course of action. After their attack on Hadrian's Wall more than two decades ago, barely a things has gone their way. Sure there were victories here and there, but against Arthur Castus, those victories were trivial, and then with the disappearance of Merlin's only child, vanished somewhere in Britannia Prima, it was difficult for the druid to see an upside in his struggles.

"Perhaps it is time to go home," Merlin sighed.

—o—

While the Roman cavalry were recomposing themselves, seeing to the wounded and pulling rank, Arthur marched over to the coach where his knights: Bors and Gawain who waited for him with a look of what he could only describe as severe disappointment.

"Bors?" he addressed his bulky friend.

The knight held the door and curtain open, pointing inside. "Well, what a bloody mess."

Arthur peered inside to find that there was only one passenger— a man, dressed in ordinary priestly vestments…and an arrow protruding out the side of his head. In his death, the priest had soiled himself and even there, Arthur could smell it's defined odour. But Arthur shook his head at them, no doubt that the dead man was a holy man, a priestly fellow, and it had been years since he'd last seen Germanus, he also trusted his gut well enough. "That's not the bishop," he said simply and closed the curtains.

As his men watched him step away from the carriage with confusion, Arthur and walked over to where the Roman cavalry had lined up before another, more senior member that probably planned this escort mission. That one eques who actually looked like he knew what he was doing on the battlefield, though it seemed he was not entirely a skilled rider; the way his horse trotted about chaotically. Perhaps not an eques?

"Arthur Castus," the supposed cavalryman approached him, an overly confident grin on his face. "I have not seen you since you were a child but you bare your father's image well."

The centurion walked over to him and began caressing the cavalryman's horse to steady it. "Bishop Germanus," he hailed the older man with a slight bob of his head. "Welcome to Britain."

Germanus chuckled to himself and plopped off of the white steed to give the centurion a proper greeting, and embracing him like old friends. He did not seem to fit the description of a pious religious leader, certainly not like the priest whose body they had mistaken to be the bishop's. Germanus wore the standard Roman military uniform like any other soldier. Distinctive only in the extra pieces of gold adorning his armour here and there. Yet there was also a twinkle in his eyes like to him everything seemed a fun game, a change of scenery and source of excitement.

"I see that you have retained most of your military training," Arthur commended him. "You fought well."

"Ancient tricks…for an ancient dog, and I am especially of that old guard," the bishop chuckled. When he saw his men start to pull the dead priest from the carriage, he stopped them immediately. "Gather our dead and load them into the coach. We'll take them to Eboracum for proper burial. Father Ulfius was an old friend of mine from Gaul. I had implored for him not to come but he insisted."

"We'll take care of it, bishop."

"Thank you, Arthur."

Meanwhile, Gawain had just helped one of the Roman nobles up to his feet, helping him to lean against the side of the cart. He began to pray once more, with unsteady hands and words.

"God help us," the aristocrat quivered, holding his hands together and shakily muttering Christian prayers in-between words. "What are they?"

Bors inspected the boy, timid, thin, dressed like a typical Roman citizen, the type they'd seen every now and then when they came to visit or migrate themselves. "Blue demons who eat Christians alive," he paced about the boy who looked like he was on the verge of breaking down and crying. "You're not a Christian, are you?!" Bors bellowed, point a finger aggressively at him.

The boy simply continued to shriek and shake as he prayed.

Curiously or mean-spirited, depending on who you'd ask, Bors asked the young man if praying like that really worked. The Roman didn't answer him and meekly went back to his mutterings. Pushing farther, Bors emulated the boy's gesture, interlacing his fingers together, closing his eyes and uttering testaments of faith from under his breath. When he stopped and opened his eyes, he looked up and around him, then with a coy smirk, said, "Nothing. Maybe I'm not doing it right…"

"Leave him alone, Bors," said Ector. "The boy's half- starved and on the verge of a breakdown. You'd sooner give the lad a heart-attack and that'll just add to our problems."

All of the knights chuckled and laughed at the Roman's expense, and Lancelot, still atop his horse could only manage a small smile and directed his mount towards Arthur.

"That is Lucius," Bishop Germanus clarified. "Lucius Meridius, my loyal manservant."

Arthur called for one of his knights to provide the Roman aristocrat with his own horse, one of the few that survived the onslaught.

"I thought the Picts controlled the lands north of Hadrian's Wall?" the bishop speculated, inspecting one of the many bodies of barbarians that littered the ground.

"Well, the Vallum is no longer in full operation," Arthur began. "Rome's anticipated withdrawal have only emboldened them, and it isn't just the Painted Tribes of Caledonia, Your Grace. The Picts have formed a coalition with several rebel factions across the country. Pagan Celts, many of which are tribal kings that have fallen out of favour of Rome, or British famers who've lost their lands to one devastation or another. We call them Woads, collectively."

Intrigued even further, Germanus asked him who was leader of this coalition.

"His name is Merlin— a dark magician, some say," said Lancelot a little bit coy at seeing the disturbed looks on some of the equites.

"Anyone know his story?"

"Only rumours and here-say," Arthur shrugged honestly. "Chief among them is that Merlin was a nobleman from Secunda in the west, that reached out to the Pictish king Drest. So far, their attacks mostly stick to the north and western borders but they've been pushing down south very slowly. We've done our best to keep them from invading Imperial lands like Flavia and Prima, and we've been rather successful in that regard."

"Oh, I'm sure you have, Artorius…" Germanus then began to look around him, searching and identifying the faces of Arthur's men. "So, these are the great Sarmatian knights we have heard so much of in Rome."

"You hear that, Percy?! We're famous in Rome!" Bors yelled out over the field to which all that the distant knight could respond with was a half-hearted thumbs up as he towed Taliesin towards one of the old oak trees.

"I grant that they are not what you expected, Your Grace, but as today has surely demonstrated, we have the situation sorted. And had we known that you'd docked, I would have come to escort Your Eminence myself." Arthur bowed. "Alas, we are here now and you could not be in safer hands."

"Oh, I have no doubts, Commander. No doubts." With that Bishop Germanus hopped back onto his horse while the knights proceeded to collect the dead and carefully place them into the Roman carriage. Arthur then ordered Tristan take another Roman rider forward to scout ahead before they ventured forth. Merlin knew when to call it a day, but with someone as prominent as Bishop Germanus under their protection, the centurion could not afford to be careless.

The new caravan went under way with Arthur at the head and Ector riding rear-guard. They did not follow the Hull, instead cutting across the plain, back toward the Isura River after which they'd follow it up river, all the way to Headquarters. When they got to the river, they allowed themselves ten minutes to rest and wash the blood off of their skin before continuing on.

It was a full day's ride and the sun had already begun to set by the time Arthur could see the double-sided fortress city of Eboracum, the City of Legions come into view. On the south-east bank of the river was formed the city itself, shining and new. It had grown vast, mirroring such centres like Londinium and Venta Belgarum in the South, with thick walls of stone to protect it. Here you would find a prosperity of residential homes and multi-storey apartments, of varying sizes, from small timber-framed buildings to large, stone structures with elaborate mosaics. There were craft-workshops, metal and leatherworking shops that occupy whole streets, a few small churches and bustling marketplaces as well as a tall amphitheatre where gladiatorial amusements still brought forth an audience, albeit mostly the non-Christian kind. The Roman bathhouse were still popular however, and Arthur's men often found themselves using that public service after every mission.

They entered through the eastern gate and followed the narrower stone path until they got to the main Praetoria road ran through the city in a straight line toward the Isura, they rode behind the caravan of Roman cavalrymen through the titanic gates of Eboracum Colonia, Tristan finally joined them, and with a sharp and loud whistle, a Great-Spotted eagle flew down and onto his hand, rewarding his avion with some treats.

Behind the Germanus' retinue, Percival continued to stare daggers at the back of the bishop's head, brows contracted into an intense frown. "I don't like him," he said. "That Roman. If he's here to discharge us, why doesn't he just give us our papers?"

Percival was a unique case as compared to the others. He and a couple of others now long gone, were raised in the Roman barracks in Greater Sarmatia. Even though he was born into service, his father having been the person to begin his training at a much younger age, Percy experienced much more of the freedom of the homeland. He stayed there for the first ten years of his service, but once he had lost his father to disease, they had shipped him off to Britain to serve the remaining fifteen. He would be the youngest recruit among them, and the only one who couldn't really resist conscription.

Gawain cocked a brow at his friend, whom he had taken upon himself to bring under his wing. "Is this your happy face?"

When they all convulsed into fits of laughter, it didn't take long for Percy's dour look to melt away. Gawain, Bors and Lancelot had all come to Britain together, part of the original team that followed Arthur in retaking Bredigunum. Three of sixty brought in to serve a mighty empire, three of sixty to survive an unforgiving land, forgotten by that mighty empire.

"Percy, do you still not know the Romans? They won't scratch their arses without holding a ceremony for it," Gawain remarked.

Bors leaned in over his horse. "Why don't you just kill him, and then discharge yourself afterwards?"

The young man scoffed at this, especially upon seeing Tristan overtake him. "I don't kill for pleasure…" he shot back. "Unlike some people I know."

Now, Tristan was more of a mystery to them, even if they profess to know him personally. All they knew was that he wasn't part of the regiment that trained with Arthur. It was speculated that he was personally recruited from Sarmatia by King Constantine of Britain, co-regent to the Roman Emperor Honorius. Those first few years were spent in Dumnonia, tucked within the south-western corner of the Isle, mainly to protect the tin mines there. But when Constantine died seventeen years ago, Arthur came down to the stables to find this mysterious young man, though around the same age as he and his knights, had already the bearings of an old, weary and broken warrior in his unfeeling eyes.

It took Arthur years to bring him back to the realm of the living. "Well, maybe you should try it someday and you might get a taste for it." Tristan was speaking to Percival as if he were conversing with a spoiled, pompous noble brat, eliciting further chuckles from the others.

Business or pleasure, it made no difference, it was a part of them and their culture— Sarmatians were warriors. War, death, killing, it was in their blood, but when Bors reminded young Percival of this he was rebuffed.

"No, no. No. As of tomorrow, when we get our papers…this was all just a bad memory," Percy declared sullenly.

The Colonia was bustling though business was beginning to see its conclusions for the day. Those they passed were not too busy to hail or greet the knights, and even the presence of a Roman entourage did not stir up too much of a fuss. When the company passed by a bakery, Leith and his family of bakers would often chuck bags of bread to the lofty knights. One of Leith's daughters came up beside Gawain's horse and hoisted a larger sack of bread for him.

She seemed to have had a small crush on him and it wasn't beyond him to see her attractiveness. Brianna was a Briton around seven years younger than him and being friends with her father, a match wasn't too out of the question. But the problem was just that, she was a Briton. He's often thought about what going home would mean after all this. "It's different for you guys. I've been in this life longer than the other, though unlike Percival, I still had a life to remember," the knight huffed, looking back over his shoulder to shine a small smile at Brianna. Seeing her blush brightly drove home those troubles. "So much for home for its not so clear in my mind."

"Oh, you speak for yourself. It's cold back there and everyone I know is dead and buried," Bors grumbled like an old dog, and seeing as he was the oldest member of Arthur's knights, appropriate. "Besides… I have, I think— a dozen children."

"Eleven children," Gawain corrected.

Bors then pointed at him. "When the Romans leave here, we'll have the run of this place. I'll be the governing my own village, and Ector will be my personal guard, and royal arse-kisser," he laughed heartily, looking back at the huge brick of a knight behind them. "Won't you, Ector?!"

"Well, the first thing I will do when I get home is to find a beautiful Sarmatian woman to wed." Gawain declared.

Bors looked to Ector, Percival and Lancelot with a brow raised to peaking. "A beautiful Sarmatian woman?" he questioned. "Why do you think we left in the first place?" Bors contorted his face to mimic that of an auroch, grunting and mooing to the other's amusement. "What about you, Lancelot?"

"Yeah," started Percival. "Any plans for home?"

"Well," the decurion chuckled, "if this woman of Gawain's is as beautiful as he claims, I expect to be spending a lot of time at Gawain's house." They all then started to explode in laughter. "His wife will welcome the company."

"I see, and what will I be doing?"

A lopsided grin was playing on his face with pride. "Wondering at your good fortune, on why all your children look like me."

"Is that before or after I hit you with my axe?"

Though they saw each other as brothers, they wouldn't put it past Lancelot to just hump every one of their women at least once behind their backs. But make no mistake, neither of the Sarmatians knights there would be above gutting the pretty-boy Lancelot in a moment of passion. Feeling his welcome waning thing, Lancelot kicked his horse forward to ride alongside Arthur.

It wasn't uncommon to see the commander riding alone, especially at the head, he was their leader after all. Beyond that, it was his own stoic nature that he'd value quiet and reflection when riding. But Arthur was also a knight, he was a man of the army.

In Arthur's head, they were all in the same boat, fighting the same battles, and he knew his men had no problems seeing that, in fact he often found it is the commanding officers, those in authority who easily forget this. With the men he was charged with leading, Arthur found a family to stand the test of time, shared in the desire to see home once more. For them it was the Scythian plains, and for him it was Rome.

"What will you do, Arthur?" inquired Lancelot. "You know, when you return to Rome?"

"Give thanks to God Almighty that I survived to see it," he replied firmly yet with an airy contentment that Lancelot seldom saw in his best friend. Still, his answer did tickle his funny bone as it often did.

"You and your God!" he sighed. "You disturb me, you know that."

The topic of religion and deity-worship did not come up quite as much within their circles. Arthur wasn't as familiar with Sarmatian gods as he was the blasphemous ancestors of the Roman people. Yet when it came to his own men, he more or less respected whatever position they held on the subject, so long as they did not begrudge him his. With Lancelot it was different—for out of all of his pagan knights who observed their religion either faithfully or casually, his friend Lancelot seemed to look upon them with great suspicion.

When his knights received their papers of discharge from military service, he'd hoped to have Lancelot travel with him and Morganis back to Rome. Their services would be finished, but Arthur's would not be. When he asked him to at least visit him in the heart of the Western Roman Empire, he'd merely scoffed.

"…It's a magnificent place, Rome," he'd proclaimed. "Ordered, civilised, advanced…"

"A breeding ground for arrogant fools," the decurion interjected, he recounted Emperor Diocletian's decision to divide the empire into two sections which completely split a hundred years later, or the myriad of mad emperors who nearly destroyed the empire on multiple occasions.

Alas, Arthur countered, "The greatest minds in all the lands, coming together in one sacred place to help the betterment of mankind. Some of those minds held fruitful ideas, some have failed. It is the mark of a free mind that can make those decisions, and we must live with those choices…glorious or tragic."

Arthur made a good point, and it wouldn't do for Lancelot to fight him further. Perhaps he ought to go with Arthur to Rome. One more question would determine this though. "And the women?" he whispered, leaning ahead.

The Roman chuckled softly at his friend, his brother.

The knights soon crossed a large bridge out of the Colonia, it would take them to the Headquarters of Fortress Eboracum itself. Built by the Legion IX in AD 71, this City of the Legion would be a staging ground for the invasion of Caledonia from henceforth. But now, the Ninth Legion is gone, and many more have been recalled by the Empire to fight barbarians in the Northrealms of the Continent.

Unlike Eboracum Colonia, which sprang up to become your standard city, with winding streets, so intricate and no lacking in aesthetic beauty, Eboracum fortress was built upon a rectangular plan, emulating a military encampment of cavalry, infantry, artillery and armament, placed in such an orderly fashion that it bordered on obsessive, with Headquarters built smack in the middle.

The fanfare was minimal, a few Roman legionnaires greeted them, at the iron gates of their Principia. Some servants came to take the reigns of their horses with Arthur's loyal servant Coel given additional commands to organise a burial for the fallen soldiers in the coach.

Upon hopping down, Arthur offered his own bedchambers to the bishop, who gratefully accepted and thanked him. They were tired and Arthur was sure they'd all welcome the rest before a meeting could be called at the Table.

The only civilian woman there was for Bors— Enid was a lowly Briton from Britannia Secunda, a former slave, captured during one of their raids of Merlin's home at Moridunum. "Oh, my love, I—"

Bors was stopped abruptly by her hand, slapped harshly across his cheek. "Where have you been?!" she bellowed at the knight. "You were supposed to wake me and I'd see you off. I was so worried."

Brought to heel by her fire, Bors scooped his lover up into a deep and fervent kiss. "Oh, my flower. Such…such passion!"

The rest of the knights merely smiled at them, tapping his shoulder as they passed by the couple. Then they were joined by a swarm of scruffy-looking children. Bors called upon his little bastards and the family disappeared into the castrum.


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