421 AD
It was nowadays a common sight. Corpses of Barbarians on the left, blood of the innocent on the right-
For someone like Artamo Dardanus, this was but a normality. It was his life as a soldier, as a member of the small group of troops rallied behind the Roman known as Ambrosius Aurelianus1. A slim man of pale skin, and dark hair and eyes. His face was boney and his stare missing the warmth once wielded when this campaign started. Some would call him a mercenary due to his clothing barely resembling one owned by proper Roman Legionary, other a slave due to his subdued nature and lack of initiative in the battlefield- but Artamo stood right in the middle of both terms as he represented what many aspired to be but also loathed. A volunteer in ‘keeping’ civilization alive against the hordes of Barbarians. From the left, the Celts2 loved to raid their rearguards; from the north, the Picts3 descended to loot the villages closer to their border, and from the east and south Barbarians of various tribes4 desperately struggled to push against them and settle in the dreadful lands of Britannia5. It was no surprise that many like him were looking so lost and yet so willed in their steps.
There was a sense of hopelessness that held them from sporting smiles and bravery, but a sense of duty which prevented the mutiny. Even Ambrosius could pick up the disgruntlement, but he could hardly do much about it. Between endless assaults and his own brother cementing a kingdom that felt less Roman and more tyrannical, the situation had grown untenable against their foes. Something had to change, and it had to change quickly. It was easier to say and even easier to pray about. It was a known matter to many. Ambrosius had no major interest in ruling over Britannia, hence why his brother was allowed to administer the lands they still held.
Generals grumbled in dissent, most of them were men of dubious loyalty that were recruited for the sake of preserving the value of what Rome stood in Britannia. The order, the peace, the progress- The invaders represented the end of it. They were chaos, the corruption that pillaged sanity and shattered cultures. And there were so many of them. Artamo was no coward, but his boldness had long been tempered by fortitude. A mistake, that’s how easily one could perish. And he had seen so many die before his eyes. Friends, family- people that joined their forces by just a day to claim glory, peace or honor. Most wouldn’t go home… if they had anything left. It was incessant, unpleasant even. The cloudy skies of Venta Belgarum6 offered an apt comparison to Artamo’s current mood. Stormy, yet restrained. It was dark, and yet it wasn’t the darkest.
A day of peace spent at training as the next one was going to be bloody. The tide wasn’t turning for either sides, and it was about time that something good happened before everything was lost. Yet, it didn’t. Only numb calm persisted between those fights that harshly robbed brave brothers of his of the greatest gift that was life. All for a chance to be heard as heroes of old. Unsung, that’s what they were. People were talking near to where Artamo had took to sit down, the soldier listened silently as soldiers lashed out at each other for the successes and the losses. Victory, but not decisive. Hope, but not a true one. And the issue that would come up was one and the same. A single name, a single problem.
Uther, Uther, Uther.7
While he wasn’t around to dictate rules, their leader’s brother had made plenty of noise with his actions. An ambitious man alright, but one that displeased the Romans of old due to his attachment to druidic rituals. Rome was known to assimilate and take the best out of cultures, but Uther was the opposite of that. He allowed himself to be swallowed by a dying culture and accepted the flaws of it in his soul and body. Artamo wasn’t born in Rome, but his family was originally from the core of the Empire. Their traditions and devotions, their history and glory- all channeled in the very education that shaped him as a person. The poets of old, the artists of greatness, the politicians of the Empire, and the forever soldiers of Rome. He grew to love the tales narrating Rome’s greatest deeds. The conquering of new lands, the salvation of those damned by large and greedy Empires, and even the establishment of Rome of old as a beacon of prosperity.
Now that was but an ancient memory that hardly stood on its feet in front of the pure darkness in front of them. What’s a small flame against a world where light doesn’t exist. Everything, that’s how his remembrance of the tale of Prometheus remarked. A flame can do the difference, it’s a matter of how it can be used in the sense of good, in the sense of justice. The notion didn’t hit him at first, with Artamo preferring the quiet to rest and recover for the next spar. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more the tired man realized one thing. He was insignificant in terms of power, but his voice could have mattered if he decided to properly use it. His soul was but a fickle fire that was close to be killed off by history itself, but perhaps the embers of his passing could trigger a change. And that was where that thought allowed him to hear it, a loud snap coming from the rear of his head. It wasn’t coming from outside, but from within. It felt like he had broke through an unsolvable question, the answer fitting coherently with everything he had struggled to achieve and get through battles.
Like a string as old as time itself shredded before lucidity beyond his age and maturity. It was the peak of his sanity, and perhaps the beginning of his madness due to how risky this idea sounded. He didn’t waste time in pacing out of the training grounds, his unusual walk out of the area seen by many as either a sign of his endurance cracking, or him wishing to be left alone from fellow soldiers. And that was a wrongly-set assumption. Artamo knew where he had to go and do. He had to speak, loud and clear, and show no sign of remorse or unease. He had to, he could tell his mind was set. He couldn’t falter, not until he had given a chance to true hope. His wandering continued even as he entered the fortification near the small settlement, with just a few individuals pausing to see him pace around. And eventually he reached the doorstep which led to his destination. Fellow guards paused before him sharp eyes studying Artamo and his current lack of weapons. A sigh, they made way to the soldier as he patiently walked into the greatest battle of his life.
In here was but just a single individual. Silent and somber, dark and perplexed, yet steady and determined. Ambrosius Aurelianus didn’t catch him enter, mostly because the man was stolen by the map he was looking and dealing with. Long dark-gold hair formed a mane-like style which matched with the man’s pride and ferocity in war. Right now the leader was showing the ‘soft’ side of himself. A part of his soul just a few knew about and that Artamo had seen just twice in his whole life. His purplish clothes were a gift from Uther. He called them a ‘reminder of Rome’, purposely ignoring the fact that purple was an imperial color which neither Ambrosius or his brother were meant to don without genuinely planning the rebirth of Rome.
“Ave Caesar8,” He started somberly, yet loudly enough to shook the commanding officer off his paperwork. Muddy eyes pierced through his posture, unforgettable upset flashing through the gates to his soul.
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“I’m no Imperator9.”
“Yet you wear clothes befitting of one, Ambrosius Rex10.”
From Imperator to Rex, Ambrosius’ annoyance waned before the light comedy out of that circumstance. Yet, he lacked the amusement to ask for more, preferring to set this unexpected development as quickly as possible. That was the idea for him, but the opposite to what Artamo was willing to do here and in that moment.
“Speak up then, introduce yourself before your… Emperor.”
“Artamo Dardanus, Rex,” The soldier spoke with pride and determination. “And I came here, before you, for a request.”
“A request? How long have you served the Roman Will, Artamo? How many years you sacrificed for your home?”
“Almost seven years11, Rex,” Artamo spoke without a doubt.
A nod, Ambrosius pushed the papers aside for just a moment, interest piqued by this odd encounter. Could it be curiosity? Boredom? Or has his mind failed now and the childish madness had taken over him? That was a question the leader asked but had no response to within himself and this unusual conversation.
“And what’s your request, Child of Rome.”
“Rex, I seek victory for Rome. Please, grant it to Rome.”
Silence ensued, but it wasn’t one of calm and interest, but one of heavy irritation and frustration. To Ambrosius, this sounded like a rebellious scoff, a gallant abuse of the prestige and duty granted by this soldier to Rome just to belittle him as such. It felt unforgivable, impossible to imagine- but there was something more to it. Something about this just felt mysteriously charming.
“Are you trying to trick me, Artamo? Do you so believe Rome’s victory is around the corner? That I have the means to dictate the Barbarians’ spite and assault?”
“No, Rex. That wasn’t what I requested. I seek Rome’s victory, and there is just one thing preventing us from reaching it,” The man rebuked with might and yet some hesitation. “Rome seeks the help of Romans and those allied to them. Not of believers of the wrong faith and people that aim to grow wealthier at the expense of the dying Empire.”
It was indirect, yet Ambrosius was quick to realize who they were talking about, and the face he showed was one of dismay, gloom, and anger. Bringing up his brother, Uther, was not an easy topic. Not just by the way he was described by many, allies and foes, but because Ambrosius was fairly aware of the truth behind his antics. Of the messes he made, of the money meant for logistics and new men wasted in clear signs of betrayal. It was early, but he could see it happening. The end of Rome in Britannia and his brother held the Sword. Vortigern12 was no better in that regard, but at least he didn’t have a kingdom to abuse at his own whims.
“And you believe Rome will rise and win with my brother’s passing, Artamo? You so accept the notion that losing my sibling would solve our issue.”
“Nay. It would not solve our issue- but it would lead Rome to victory.”
“Enough! Leave before I find your sharp and unrestrained tongue anymore upsetting. I have things to think about.”
A nod, the polite posture never going missing as Artamo left the office with a fascinated look, wondering if he had convinced the Rex as he had intended. What he didn’t know at the time was that Ambrosius took hours off from speaking with anyone else. He had pains to deal with, and none could be aided by anyone but his own mind and faith. The woes of a brother standing before the worst choice a man could have to deal with. Would he lose his family for Rome, just like his soldiers did in its honor and his? Or would he allow his own unease reign supreme and condemn the Roman Civilization in Britannia? The choice was tough, but in his heart and soul, he knew the harsh truth had to be in charge of his multiple emotions on the matter. And when he gave order for a contingent to move and have Uther and Vortigern arrested, Ambrosius knew he had done his duty, at the cost of his own blood’s happiness.
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- Addendum -
1: Ambrosius Aurelanius – Defined by many historians the ‘Last Roman’ in Britain, this legendary figure is depicted in several historical and mythological pieces describing his rule in England, his successful campaign against the Anglo-Saxons and his blood ties with Uther and Vortigern, two relevant figure in the Arthurian Tales;
2: Celts – While English Celts are no more at the time, Ireland still holds stubbornly at the Celtic tradition, hence recognized as Celts by the Romans;
3: Picts – Pagans that once lived in Modern-day Scotland;
4: Barbarians of various Tribes – The Angles and the Saxon primarily;
5: Britannia – The Roman name given to modern-day England;
6: Venta Belgarum – Roman name given to Modern-day Winchester, Hampshire. Once the home of the Belgae tribe;
7: Uther Pendragon – Father of King Arthur by mythology, but seen as one of the last Roman Warlord in Britannia, Uther is regarded negatively due to the manipulation that led to Arthur’s birth and the sinful lifestyle he was known to have during his tenure;
8: Caesar – While normally attributed to Gaius Iulius Caesar, the name has long been used as an interchangeable term for Imperator;
9: Imperator – Latin for Emperor;
10: Rex – Latin for King;
11: Years – At the time the Romans and those tribes that took the concept of time from them used the Republican Calendar plus the various reforms applied during the Imperial Rome Era;
12: Vortigern – Seen by many as either a Celtic Warlord or Uncle to King Arthur, Vortigern is seen as a negative figure in mythology, but a positive one in History. Cunning and resourceful, he managed to hold up the Roman foothold for a while, but doing so at the expense of the cultural enforcement of his predecessors;