(OOC thread here)
"This will be a good year."
Artorius Ambrosianus stood at the center of the amphitheater of Caerleon, clad in his scarlet cloak of office and the leather and mail armor of his cavalryman's uniform. He had been born in the cold and wet seaside fortress of Trevena on the rocky edge of Cornovia, back in the year the Saxons had betrayed Vertigernus in the Night of Long Knives, but had spent nearly a third of his life here, in the central civitas of his adopted people, the Silures. The fortress symbolized his two most cherished values; back when it had been Isca Silurum and had held an actual legion, it had been the center of two martyrdoms, and was as such a holy and sanctified center of the True Church, while its very nature made it a symbol of what he hoped to maintain, and restore: the glory and stability of the Roman civilization that was father to them all. That the fortress had begun to be called merely Caer Legionis, the City of the Legion, and even that having decayed to Caerleon, was a testament to how much they had lost, and how far he had to go.
But now, for the first time since his birth, it seemed that it could be an actual possibility.
For decades now, the Saxons had slowly encroached upon the land of the Romans, the citizens, the Christians. When he had been a boy, over half of the former Roman province on the island had been overrun. When he had just become a man, the final Emperor in Rome had been deposed by the barbarians. Even as he had assumed his office as Dux Bellorum and begun to resume the counterattack begun by his uncle Ambrosius, Syagrius, the final Roman holdout in Gaul, had been overthrown and murdered by the barbarians. Britannia had held out alone. The Saxon tribes had been stronger than ever, buoyed by their successes on the island and their brethrens' victories across the German Sea, and united under the South Saxon warlord Aelle, who had had the tenacity to declare himself Bretwalda, Lord of Britannia. For years they had played cat-and-mouse, striking along the dangerously fluid border, feinting as each had marshaled their forces, made plans, raced to the finish.
Aelle had made it to the end first, throwing his combined warhost deep into Roman territory, all the way to Aquae Sulis on the coast of the Hibernian Sea, hoping to bisect the Brythonic kingdoms to be conquered piecemeal. At least, so it had seemed to him - while in reality, he had fallen into Artorius' trap. For three days and three nights, with the sign of the Cross of the Lord Iesu Christus on their armor, the Romano-British army besieged the Saxons at Mons Badonicus, with victory coming with the death of Aelle, his thegns, thousands of warriors - and the possibility of a Saxon offensive for the next generation, the current level of pagan warriors having been literally bled white. The surviving tribes along the Saxon Shore had been forced to accept a humiliating peace treaty, with even by now most of them having fled or killed themselves in petty internecine squabbles.
It had been victory - the final, unforeseen, long-dreamed of victory. Britannia was safe for Romani and Brython, Christianity, the civilization of the elders. For the first time, the barbarians had been driven off, had failed to seize the one final relic of the Empire. A golden age, a time of prosperity and renewal had been ushered in. And it was all thanks to him. It was not that Artorius was an especially vain man, but he appreciated the value that that recognition would give him - his office was technically a military one only, but in reality it was the highest political office of the land, and his experiences in diplomacy and debate had given him an appreciation of how to best use any advantage he had.
And he would need every advantage he had - so scarce after pulling all of his previous favors in assembling the army and supported he had needed to defeat Aelle - to pull off his dream. This last bastion of Roman civilization had been maintained. The next step was to expand it - to reclaim the territory of Rome, to reform the Empire. And empire without an emperor could not exist. But first things first.
The amphitheater was ringed with a number of flags, all carrying the same image: the standard of the red dragon, an image which had dated from the legions based in this very fortress and which had been associated with the Romano-British nation since at least the days of Germanus. It was the same standard carried by his Artoriani, the same red as the scarlet cloaks he and his predecessors had worn - and not far off from his own ruddy hair. Red hair had been seen as a bad sign in the old Empire; for him, however, he had seen it as a sign that he was destined for great things. In this case, Artorius had been rather glad the Romans had been wrong. The theater had for decades fallen into disuse, but under his father's reign at Caerleon had been refurbished, and Artorius had found it - a vast, wide, flat, round table for assembly - as an excellent place to assemble and speak to his officers. Or, as in this case, visiting dignitaries.
In his grandfather's time, the better part of eight decades ago, when the island had first been granted independence, political authority had been held by a council of notables in the provincial capitol of Londinium. It had been assembled ad-hoc after the governors and representatives of the usurper Constantinus had been evicted, but the edict of Honorius granting self-government had forced it into a permanent position. It had done a decent enough job for the first few decades, until the war with the Saxons had begun, causing besides its direct disruptions the authority of local leaders to increase and the value of the old Roman institutions to decrease. The council's authority had declined even further when they had been forced to evacuate Londinium with its capture in 457, and three years later its surviving members were slaughtered by the Saxons in the Night of the Long Knives.
Since that time, the Dux Bellorum, formerly the first among equals of the council, had been the highest office in the island, with it becoming a de facto monarchy now that the council no longer existed to appoint a successor. Artorius certainly had no wish to change that; a strong monarchy was key to a strong state, every history he had read - and lived through - had proved that. He was still childless, with his own wife little more than a child herself, truthfully, but they had been wed less than a year; there was still plenty of time for an heir to continue his work of rebuilding the Empire. However, if his gains were to last long enough for a son of his to carry on his legacy, the current political situation could not - and without the unifying threat of the Saxons, likely would not - last much longer. Squabbling and increasingly insular chieftains held together only by the fear of each other and fear of the unknown was not a recipe for a stable situation, one conducive to rebuilding and regrowth. So, in the wake of his victory and ostensibly to celebrate it, he had invited all of the Romano-British chieftains to attend to an assembly here, at Caerleon, to discuss the new world order, to forge a new and lasting comity between them - a true brotherhood of citizens and princes alike.
Leo, his father in law, had been the first to be notified, although more due to the fact that he would be one of the hardest to convince. He had sent his wife back to speak with him at his capitol of Isca Dumnoniorum; he would have thought that Guanhumara would have enjoyed a chance to go across the countryside, get away from Caerleon and a marriage that was growing somewhat more, not less, awkward with each day; but she had seemed terrified at the prospect, and it was only with rather patient tending on Artorius' behalf that he had prevented another tearful breakdown on her part. Leo was a stern, aggressive man even with his subjects; Artorius could only imagine what he would have been like as a father. Guanhumara was still almost a stranger to him, yet even that thought provoked an amount of compassion in him. In any case, she had been successful, returning back with her father in tow.
Marcus Cunomorus, the Dux of the Cornovii, had been next; the nephew and successor of his mother's first husband, any familiar dislike there was counterbalanced by the fact that his own nephew and successor, Drustanus, was one of the chief officers of the Artoriani. Then there was Melwas of Glastening, who if rumors were true was the bastard son of Leo; Vortiporius of the Demetae; Urien of Rheged; and even Leudonus, king of the distant island chain of the Orcades; and dozen of others besides. He had met Leudonus only once, staying in his caer in the winter season following his battle of Coit Celidon. It had been a major victory for Artorius, yet the recollection of what had happened that winter in the Orcades had forever soured his memory - perhaps unjustly - of Leudonus. In actuality, the fact that both Leudonus and Urien had agreed to come had set him slightly on edge, knowing all too well who had been spending time in their realms.
"Dux?" Artorius was jolted out of his thoughts by the voice of his chancellor, Gaius, who despite the fact that they had been close friends ever since he had stayed at the town of his father, Hector, as a child, insisted on addressing him formally - and that professionalism was why he did so well at his duties. "She has arrived, and is asking to see you. Lady Guanhumara is attending to her now."
Artorius nodded his head. He had received word some time ago that she would come. There was no reason for her not to be here, after all, and no good reason he could refuse to either invite or allow her to come. He had thought he would have steeled himself by now. He had known her since childhood, even loved her in a way, even after her...personal views, on himself and the society he was attempting to uphold, became known. But after what she had done to him that winter in the Orcades...
"Thank you, Gaius." Artorius patted him on the back. "Have Bedwyr continue the practices. No reason not to dazzle our guests with the Artoriani once they're all here. Give them a taste of what they're paying taxes for, as if keeping their estates and little fiefdoms from the Saxons aren't good enough evidence."
"Of course, Dux," Gaius answered, nodding, starting to move off on a limp leg, a gift from a Saxon axe during their failed attempt to take Caerleon in the runup to the final showdown between Aelle and Artorius. "She and her attendant are in the Great Hall." Gaius walked off towards Bedwyr and the rest of the heavy cavalry commanders, and after another shake of his head, walked towards the caer's central building. He had just defeated the combined armies of the Saxons. He had never been afraid of a battle in his life. And now...he was reluctant to see his sister, face to face.
Well, to be fair, Morgana was only his half-sister, and an older one at that; but still, she was his last surviving relative, at least that he knew of, with any others probably just bastards or offspring of bastards. She had taken - if the rumors were to be held as true - a rather strong interest in the ways of the pre-Christian, and even pre-Roman, beliefs of the island's inhabitants. Artorius had been more than willing to overlook that, even with old Bishop Patricius and his zealous wife and his own notions of a society based upon Roman law and Christian morals. Pagan oppression of Christians had never been strong in Britannia and Artorius would not let the opposite occur under his watch. He could even appreciate that she did not like the fact that her father had been personally slain by his father; it had been a political rebellion by Gwrlais against Uthyr, but too many, Morgana included, saw it as Uthyr's attempt to take Gwrlais' wife Ygerna for himself. Artorius could forgive that, too.
What he could not forgive was her having seduced him.
In the Great Hall, he first saw the slight, tiny frame of his wife, Guanhumara's long blonde hair almost reaching the floor. She was wringing her hands before her, obviously nervous as she attempted to maintain her proper duties as not just any wife, but wife of the Dux Bellorum, in entertaining their guests. Several spaces away from the child's frame of Guanhumara was another woman, somewhat older but still young, slender and tall, her pale frame a contrast with her long, dark hair and her gray eyes a middle ground between them. Just as, standing in the middle ground between those two women, was...
"Morgana, my sister." Artorius' smile came easily, after years of political and public life. "How pleasant to see you here at my little assembly." He leaned in to kiss her cheek, uncomfortable emotions bubbling up at even that slight contact. "I believe this is your first time visiting Caerleon, is it not? Welcome to my capitol - our capitol, the capitol of Britannia, that is," a small level of pride entering his voice. "Tell me...do you plan on staying long?" Artorius' eyes moved over to Morgana's attractive companion as he stepped back from his sister, standing near Guanhumara and laying a hand on her shoulder, giving her a small reassuring squeeze.
"And...do you plan on introducing her to us?"
"This will be a good year."
Artorius Ambrosianus stood at the center of the amphitheater of Caerleon, clad in his scarlet cloak of office and the leather and mail armor of his cavalryman's uniform. He had been born in the cold and wet seaside fortress of Trevena on the rocky edge of Cornovia, back in the year the Saxons had betrayed Vertigernus in the Night of Long Knives, but had spent nearly a third of his life here, in the central civitas of his adopted people, the Silures. The fortress symbolized his two most cherished values; back when it had been Isca Silurum and had held an actual legion, it had been the center of two martyrdoms, and was as such a holy and sanctified center of the True Church, while its very nature made it a symbol of what he hoped to maintain, and restore: the glory and stability of the Roman civilization that was father to them all. That the fortress had begun to be called merely Caer Legionis, the City of the Legion, and even that having decayed to Caerleon, was a testament to how much they had lost, and how far he had to go.
But now, for the first time since his birth, it seemed that it could be an actual possibility.
For decades now, the Saxons had slowly encroached upon the land of the Romans, the citizens, the Christians. When he had been a boy, over half of the former Roman province on the island had been overrun. When he had just become a man, the final Emperor in Rome had been deposed by the barbarians. Even as he had assumed his office as Dux Bellorum and begun to resume the counterattack begun by his uncle Ambrosius, Syagrius, the final Roman holdout in Gaul, had been overthrown and murdered by the barbarians. Britannia had held out alone. The Saxon tribes had been stronger than ever, buoyed by their successes on the island and their brethrens' victories across the German Sea, and united under the South Saxon warlord Aelle, who had had the tenacity to declare himself Bretwalda, Lord of Britannia. For years they had played cat-and-mouse, striking along the dangerously fluid border, feinting as each had marshaled their forces, made plans, raced to the finish.
Aelle had made it to the end first, throwing his combined warhost deep into Roman territory, all the way to Aquae Sulis on the coast of the Hibernian Sea, hoping to bisect the Brythonic kingdoms to be conquered piecemeal. At least, so it had seemed to him - while in reality, he had fallen into Artorius' trap. For three days and three nights, with the sign of the Cross of the Lord Iesu Christus on their armor, the Romano-British army besieged the Saxons at Mons Badonicus, with victory coming with the death of Aelle, his thegns, thousands of warriors - and the possibility of a Saxon offensive for the next generation, the current level of pagan warriors having been literally bled white. The surviving tribes along the Saxon Shore had been forced to accept a humiliating peace treaty, with even by now most of them having fled or killed themselves in petty internecine squabbles.
It had been victory - the final, unforeseen, long-dreamed of victory. Britannia was safe for Romani and Brython, Christianity, the civilization of the elders. For the first time, the barbarians had been driven off, had failed to seize the one final relic of the Empire. A golden age, a time of prosperity and renewal had been ushered in. And it was all thanks to him. It was not that Artorius was an especially vain man, but he appreciated the value that that recognition would give him - his office was technically a military one only, but in reality it was the highest political office of the land, and his experiences in diplomacy and debate had given him an appreciation of how to best use any advantage he had.
And he would need every advantage he had - so scarce after pulling all of his previous favors in assembling the army and supported he had needed to defeat Aelle - to pull off his dream. This last bastion of Roman civilization had been maintained. The next step was to expand it - to reclaim the territory of Rome, to reform the Empire. And empire without an emperor could not exist. But first things first.
The amphitheater was ringed with a number of flags, all carrying the same image: the standard of the red dragon, an image which had dated from the legions based in this very fortress and which had been associated with the Romano-British nation since at least the days of Germanus. It was the same standard carried by his Artoriani, the same red as the scarlet cloaks he and his predecessors had worn - and not far off from his own ruddy hair. Red hair had been seen as a bad sign in the old Empire; for him, however, he had seen it as a sign that he was destined for great things. In this case, Artorius had been rather glad the Romans had been wrong. The theater had for decades fallen into disuse, but under his father's reign at Caerleon had been refurbished, and Artorius had found it - a vast, wide, flat, round table for assembly - as an excellent place to assemble and speak to his officers. Or, as in this case, visiting dignitaries.
In his grandfather's time, the better part of eight decades ago, when the island had first been granted independence, political authority had been held by a council of notables in the provincial capitol of Londinium. It had been assembled ad-hoc after the governors and representatives of the usurper Constantinus had been evicted, but the edict of Honorius granting self-government had forced it into a permanent position. It had done a decent enough job for the first few decades, until the war with the Saxons had begun, causing besides its direct disruptions the authority of local leaders to increase and the value of the old Roman institutions to decrease. The council's authority had declined even further when they had been forced to evacuate Londinium with its capture in 457, and three years later its surviving members were slaughtered by the Saxons in the Night of the Long Knives.
Since that time, the Dux Bellorum, formerly the first among equals of the council, had been the highest office in the island, with it becoming a de facto monarchy now that the council no longer existed to appoint a successor. Artorius certainly had no wish to change that; a strong monarchy was key to a strong state, every history he had read - and lived through - had proved that. He was still childless, with his own wife little more than a child herself, truthfully, but they had been wed less than a year; there was still plenty of time for an heir to continue his work of rebuilding the Empire. However, if his gains were to last long enough for a son of his to carry on his legacy, the current political situation could not - and without the unifying threat of the Saxons, likely would not - last much longer. Squabbling and increasingly insular chieftains held together only by the fear of each other and fear of the unknown was not a recipe for a stable situation, one conducive to rebuilding and regrowth. So, in the wake of his victory and ostensibly to celebrate it, he had invited all of the Romano-British chieftains to attend to an assembly here, at Caerleon, to discuss the new world order, to forge a new and lasting comity between them - a true brotherhood of citizens and princes alike.
Leo, his father in law, had been the first to be notified, although more due to the fact that he would be one of the hardest to convince. He had sent his wife back to speak with him at his capitol of Isca Dumnoniorum; he would have thought that Guanhumara would have enjoyed a chance to go across the countryside, get away from Caerleon and a marriage that was growing somewhat more, not less, awkward with each day; but she had seemed terrified at the prospect, and it was only with rather patient tending on Artorius' behalf that he had prevented another tearful breakdown on her part. Leo was a stern, aggressive man even with his subjects; Artorius could only imagine what he would have been like as a father. Guanhumara was still almost a stranger to him, yet even that thought provoked an amount of compassion in him. In any case, she had been successful, returning back with her father in tow.
Marcus Cunomorus, the Dux of the Cornovii, had been next; the nephew and successor of his mother's first husband, any familiar dislike there was counterbalanced by the fact that his own nephew and successor, Drustanus, was one of the chief officers of the Artoriani. Then there was Melwas of Glastening, who if rumors were true was the bastard son of Leo; Vortiporius of the Demetae; Urien of Rheged; and even Leudonus, king of the distant island chain of the Orcades; and dozen of others besides. He had met Leudonus only once, staying in his caer in the winter season following his battle of Coit Celidon. It had been a major victory for Artorius, yet the recollection of what had happened that winter in the Orcades had forever soured his memory - perhaps unjustly - of Leudonus. In actuality, the fact that both Leudonus and Urien had agreed to come had set him slightly on edge, knowing all too well who had been spending time in their realms.
"Dux?" Artorius was jolted out of his thoughts by the voice of his chancellor, Gaius, who despite the fact that they had been close friends ever since he had stayed at the town of his father, Hector, as a child, insisted on addressing him formally - and that professionalism was why he did so well at his duties. "She has arrived, and is asking to see you. Lady Guanhumara is attending to her now."
Artorius nodded his head. He had received word some time ago that she would come. There was no reason for her not to be here, after all, and no good reason he could refuse to either invite or allow her to come. He had thought he would have steeled himself by now. He had known her since childhood, even loved her in a way, even after her...personal views, on himself and the society he was attempting to uphold, became known. But after what she had done to him that winter in the Orcades...
"Thank you, Gaius." Artorius patted him on the back. "Have Bedwyr continue the practices. No reason not to dazzle our guests with the Artoriani once they're all here. Give them a taste of what they're paying taxes for, as if keeping their estates and little fiefdoms from the Saxons aren't good enough evidence."
"Of course, Dux," Gaius answered, nodding, starting to move off on a limp leg, a gift from a Saxon axe during their failed attempt to take Caerleon in the runup to the final showdown between Aelle and Artorius. "She and her attendant are in the Great Hall." Gaius walked off towards Bedwyr and the rest of the heavy cavalry commanders, and after another shake of his head, walked towards the caer's central building. He had just defeated the combined armies of the Saxons. He had never been afraid of a battle in his life. And now...he was reluctant to see his sister, face to face.
Well, to be fair, Morgana was only his half-sister, and an older one at that; but still, she was his last surviving relative, at least that he knew of, with any others probably just bastards or offspring of bastards. She had taken - if the rumors were to be held as true - a rather strong interest in the ways of the pre-Christian, and even pre-Roman, beliefs of the island's inhabitants. Artorius had been more than willing to overlook that, even with old Bishop Patricius and his zealous wife and his own notions of a society based upon Roman law and Christian morals. Pagan oppression of Christians had never been strong in Britannia and Artorius would not let the opposite occur under his watch. He could even appreciate that she did not like the fact that her father had been personally slain by his father; it had been a political rebellion by Gwrlais against Uthyr, but too many, Morgana included, saw it as Uthyr's attempt to take Gwrlais' wife Ygerna for himself. Artorius could forgive that, too.
What he could not forgive was her having seduced him.
In the Great Hall, he first saw the slight, tiny frame of his wife, Guanhumara's long blonde hair almost reaching the floor. She was wringing her hands before her, obviously nervous as she attempted to maintain her proper duties as not just any wife, but wife of the Dux Bellorum, in entertaining their guests. Several spaces away from the child's frame of Guanhumara was another woman, somewhat older but still young, slender and tall, her pale frame a contrast with her long, dark hair and her gray eyes a middle ground between them. Just as, standing in the middle ground between those two women, was...
"Morgana, my sister." Artorius' smile came easily, after years of political and public life. "How pleasant to see you here at my little assembly." He leaned in to kiss her cheek, uncomfortable emotions bubbling up at even that slight contact. "I believe this is your first time visiting Caerleon, is it not? Welcome to my capitol - our capitol, the capitol of Britannia, that is," a small level of pride entering his voice. "Tell me...do you plan on staying long?" Artorius' eyes moved over to Morgana's attractive companion as he stepped back from his sister, standing near Guanhumara and laying a hand on her shoulder, giving her a small reassuring squeeze.
"And...do you plan on introducing her to us?"
Last edited:
