《Avalon - The Eternal Kingdom: Volume 1》 Of Duty and Family 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. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. ¡°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. ------------d-d-d-d-d-------------- - Addendum - 1: Ambrosius Aurelanius ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C Pagans that once lived in Modern-day Scotland; 4: Barbarians of various Tribes ¨C The Angles and the Saxon primarily; 5: Britannia ¨C The Roman name given to modern-day England; 6: Venta Belgarum ¨C Roman name given to Modern-day Winchester, Hampshire. Once the home of the Belgae tribe; 7: Uther Pendragon ¨C 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 ¨C While normally attributed to Gaius Iulius Caesar, the name has long been used as an interchangeable term for Imperator; 9: Imperator ¨C Latin for Emperor; 10: Rex ¨C Latin for King; 11: Years ¨C 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 ¨C 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; Roma Eterna, Britannia Pura 425 AD Four years shouldn¡¯t matter much about, and yet Ambrosius could tell this time it did. Four years since he took an upsetting decision to hunt down his brothers and remain the only Aurelianus of his Gens1. A true betrayal of promises he made to his parents, and yet one necessary before the sinful approach taken by the foolish siblings of his. Too cunning, too greedy- And not Roman. That last bit had been the biggest worry, and the one thing that drove Ambrosius to pursue this option. Many times his determination grew duller, and many more times it was rekindled by the tales of his stories. People that lost families, all because they couldn¡¯t have what they needed. Trained men- they needed troops. More allies, less rumors of greedy captures of their own stronghold from the brother of their most beloved Rex. Vortigern was slain first, the foolish man attempting to reach him first and attempt to kill him. A play by knives, a foolish one as his death was warranted prior the effort. Yet, the truth behind this seemingly desperate attempt came to light through one of his former servants. Ordered by Uther, the pettiest of Kings, and felled by Ambrosius, the one many considered the one and true king. In an odd display of affection, even the few surviving Celts swore their loyalties to him, shattering what Uther thought unbreakable. Disloyal subjects? Nay, the natives saw the horrific manners this ¡®invader¡¯ had taken upon them. While Ambrosius was seen as the ¡®Defender¡¯ for his duty to the frontier to preserve the few values that kept Celts and Romans working together against the aggressors. A brief siege ensued, not even those once loyal guards to his younger sibling tried to refrain from the inevitable. Uther croaked and groaned, drunk and panicking, and yet sober enough to slur insults without shame nor pride. A broken man stood before Ambrosius as he entered the throne room with his sword unsheathed. His brother mimicked the gesture, but his own blade had long ignored the need to kill for the good of what was left of their hopes and accepted the laziness of inaction. Insults, accusations- Ambrosius felt so disappointed by what he was listening and seeing. Here Uther stood, a poor excuse for a tyrant. Weakened by his own desires, and by the comforts he stole from those that couldn¡¯t afford to enjoy. Never once Ambrosius felt more determined to go for the kill. Not before, not after, just then. And the ensuing battle was nothing short of a humiliation. Uther died by a simple stab cutting into his side. His attacks were unfocused, and lacked strength. He looked so stunned, so shocked- and yet truth finally flashed by his eyes with unforgivable resolve. ¡°, O¡¯ Frater,¡±2 He muttered weakly as Ambrosius carefully eased him to the ground. ¡°Pulchritudinem Vidi, sed non turpis. Gloriae Futurae Vidi, sed non Tristis Praesens. Non paenitet, iam non sum frater, Quia¡­ quia perii. Spes Nostra. Dimitte, O¡¯ Frater, stultus cordis.¡±3 Too little, too late. The apology even now lingered heavily upon his head. But the ensuing mourning barely stopped him from claiming the spot of Rex. The court was reformed within mere days. No more druidism was concerned within the throne room as the matters of the military and of administrations persisted. Religion was to be addressed on a latter occurrence as the invasion was the primary concern. New men flocked to the banner he held, and many died when the efforts to destroy the plague of barbarians resumed. It was gruesome, admittedly worse than before due to how many barbarians had landed while he handled this issue, but the end result was different for once and it wasn¡¯t truly bad. Each day the resistance lost momentum and focus, each day chiefs and chieftains died all over the bloody field of the battles. No one held against the unforgiving army of Ambrosius Aurelianus, Britanniae Rex4. And eventually, Londinium was retaken and order was fully restored upon the lands once owned by Mighty Roma. The court moved, and so did the source of prosperity. The provisional capital received a reward for the loyalty displayed in the form of new permits of lands for the Veterans to claim as their pensions. Part of him wanted to favor the Romans of old by following the tradition to the fullest, yet it felt disingenuous due to the grand effort presented by the natives. Some were willing to accept most of their customs and had long proved themselves friends of Rome and allies. An equal redistribution was the beginning of something in that regard, but Ambrosius was still too uncertain to determine how advantageous or negative such a decision was going to be. After all, these natives were not truly certain of their own loyalty to this new shaky order. A crown was then laid upon his head, a proper confirmation of his Roman ascension to monarchical rule, yet that wasn¡¯t something that pleased him in the deepest. A tragic grimace lied on his face as the round metal sat atop his skull during the event, reminding him way too much of the first rule of Rome as the tragic era before Rome became a Res Publica5. Seven Kings, then a Republic of (mostly equals). Which is why a council had to be created, a Senate. There weren¡¯t enough Romans to seat within said council, but plenty of officers who proudly took this duty and became the members of the first Britannian Senate. Hopefully, in his heart, the start of their return to normal and potential recapture of Rome in the future to come. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Years were meant to pass and... Years had gone by, but things had changed so much compared to before when the stalemates made things feel endlessly and eternally bleak. Roman Britannia endured the storm and shattered those that by ships and boats hoped to loot and destroy what was left of old Rome. None won, none succeeded. Rome stood its ground and won. And Rome now represented the Latins and the reformed Celts that constituted its new Realm upon the Britannian lands. None like the natives from the island in the west or the ferocious descendants of Boudicca in the North6, rebellious feels among those locals under the Wall built by Adrian kept either secret or forsaken as prosperity won out their reluctance, that still sought to conquer and destroy. Peacetime was hardly lasting with these two troubles, but they were heavily dealt with either by the walls in the northern border, or through the ferocious ship-hunting in the seas by the west. Everything was set to remain as calm and prosperous as expected, and yet news from within his court left him in quite the mood when it comes to hopeful planning. Especially when the whisperer of bad developments was none other but the man he had learned to loathe and yet admire to a degree. One figure from his late brother¡¯s court survived, albeit out of ambiguity rather than genuine loyalty. Myrridin Emrys7 was a Celtic man who had been behind Uther¡¯s slow corruption, but even the servants were keen to admit that Myrridin initiated Uther into this path as a way to approach the plight of his people, but did not encourage the worsening of such a process. He was revered as a ¡®magician¡¯, one that was as amused as wary of Ambrosius. Part of him demanded his death for what he did to his brother, but Emrys won through that desire by proving his worth and sorting out any question tied to the Celts he held. Nothing tainting, but rather concerning the loyalties and the wants of these people to become proper Romans. It was about time that happened. And between riddles, trickery and frustrating antics, a bizarre approach ensued between the two. One that culminated with what for a moment felt like a punch to his guts. After his usual pacing around the castle and settling more matters tied to relocation of lands, reorganization of villages and rebuilding the broken roads, Ambrosius found himself exhausted and weary by his throne. Not one built on gold or rare gems, but one of solid wood that helped him sit there for long hours with close to no discomfort to those. Myrridin was already there, the old whelp grinning as he usually would while carrying his wooden scepter and torn robes with a grace only a few could proudly achieve. And, beyond his grudge towards his religion, Ambrosius couldn¡¯t help but see him fit well as a Senator of Old Rome. If only he had less hair on his face and he allowed his robes to be of a cleaner and more pristine color. Still, the usual banter erupted. Philosophy, inquiries about the Celts¡¯ loyalty, and ultimately the plans Ambrosius had for those set in the island in the West. Yet, as they spoke of that matter, Uther¡¯s name came up, bringing to Ambrosius a sense of upset which was barely veiled. Myrridin could see it bubble from within his face, and yet the old native spoke with a most lazy and yet calm tone. That was until the most hideous comment came forth and brought the conversation to an anomaly. The moment his ears caught the ¡®joke¡¯, Ambrosius felt the blood in his face drain and his visage grow more pale by the minute. Myrridin smirked, a most unpleasant display of teeth which held a degree of amusement within a situation the Rex could only see as negative. ¡°What do you mean, ¡®magician¡¯?¡± He demanded impetuously, tone and eyes sharpening before the jarring reaction. ¡°Uther¡¯s legacy is long dead. My brother and his foolish minions long perished.¡± ¡°Uther¡¯s soul may no longer wander this realm, but his legacy exists despite your efforts. Not through followers, but by heir. One you are most away from and will not endanger.¡± His eyes narrowed at what he felt like a threat. ¡°And why so, old Barbarian?¡± ¡°Because destiny supports those that mean well, Ambrosius Rex. You have done so to this point, and yet that could all come to an end the moment you fail to uphold the reasons driving that bloodletting, that necessary kin-slaying.¡± A most humbling retort. Ambrosius never thought he would agree to the fool¡¯s point so easily, yet the sorrow rekindled a moment of neutrality that brought back his aggression. He watched the magus intensely, the man still smiling, almost knowingly, that he won that gamble. Yet, much remained to know and he knew Myrridin was withholding truths Ambrosius had to learn. Not for himself, not just for himself. But for those that were to come beyond him. He was soon going to look for an heir, or else this child could become a threat to his line. ¡°...And what are the chances of this youth becoming King of my domain?¡± ¡°Now, that would be too telling, Rex. And while I understand your irritation at my ¡®lacking¡¯ willingness to present you the future, I can still tell you one thing: you will be happy however this situation turns out to be. So please, from the bottom of your own heart, pursue that happiness and wait for the answer to this question to reach you from within.¡± That didn¡¯t reassure him, rather, it left a bizarre pit within his chest. Ambrosius knew, to his growing dismay, that this was going to be the new unknown ¡®enemy¡¯. Not his nephew, but what his future was going to be and what it was going to mean to someone like him. The kingdom had almost collapsed due to Uther, and his son could end up being worse if those taking care of him are the same as those that tricked Uther. Time was going to give him peace, either by peaceful realization or through a deadly conclusion to his life. ------------d-d-d-d-d-------------- - Addendum - 1: Gens ¨C Roman term used to describe individuals of a ¡®family¡¯ which connected to ancestors through shared names to exalt themselves as inheritors of their legacy; 2: Latin-to-English Translation ¨C ¡°Brother, Oh Brother.¡± 3: Latin-to-English Translation ¨C ¡°I saw the Beauty, but not the horrible. I saw the Glorious Futures, but not the Sad Present. Do not repent, because I was not your Brother, for¡­ for he died. Our Hope. Let me, oh Brother, a foolish coward to die.¡± 4: Britanniae Rex ¨C King of Britannia; 5: Res Publica ¨C Term used to describe a Republic, translated as the ¡®Public Thing/Affair¡¯. 6: ¡°The ferocious descendants of Boudicca in the North¡± ¨C Describes the Picts, somewhat erroneous due to contemporary discoveries, Romans believed Boudicca to have strong connections with what, at the time, was seen as the Picts¡¯ tribes. 7: Myrridin Emrys ¨C Celtic Identity of the Arthurian Figure known as Merlin.