Not All, Die Complaining

Part I, Beyond the Border

Bands of a thousand old legionaries, scored with the marks of blades. Accompanied a thousand more ill-equipped footmen and archers from the surrounding villas. In rows of dull iron, they marched onto the fallow country, outside Sissons. With their staffs of Chi Rho bent and outlining the ground before them under the setting sun. Each a personal symbol of faith hoisted in some last effort to deliver them all, another chance. But their faith sat at an all-time low, with the loss of Reims.

As the gentle rise in the land met their feet and held them steadfast in the dry dirt. With the thick forest in the distance. The thousand spat the grit from their lips, watching the Equites and Foederati ride steadily outward. Led by Syagrius, a man new to the throne and dammed of it, after the tragic end of his late father. Who taught Syagrius little in the ways of the offense, before his supposed poisoning—or fate of a far worse kind. If rumors are to be believed.

Though all the skirmishes he led before were counted on one hand, Syagrius commanded the flank with grim bravery out of a desperation for Gaul and the last of the western empire in Italia. And on horseback in that wide country, with the forest, waiting to reveal what hid beyond its eve. Syagrius gave his only speech of his first, real battle.

“I hear the Bishops from Sissons to Rennes, say that I could not bring God’s judgement to the enemy—and so it might be. Beyond our borders. But with his symbol beside us here and now, God’s blessing is worth more than the tongue of any man. And his word to conquer above the arm of any soldier. And with these two hopes, let the skill of you, my cavalry—be one more!”

His voice, undoubtedly heard by the infantry through the wind, as any other could, mounted before him. Had thought his voice faded a little at the end of the sentences or at long pauses. Seemingly, all they could do was fight, die, and delay the enemy. But it was good defense, the best they could gather.

So, the Equites obliged to hit their shields, as the mounted Foederati saw in all red of anticipation. Beyond shine of Saygrius’s helm and the youth of his face, into the forest beyond. In the foliage, they noticed something greater with their wild eyes that the Equites couldn’t.

Until the bushes gave clear way to the drab brown of wooden shields, bound by cold iron and coarse leather. Each one, accompanying the burning tips of ten thousand spears. Glinting hot, either by the late sun’s reflection, or by the blood of those poor souls in Reims.

Syagrius turned at the wild gaze in the Foederati; he swore he aged fifty years at the sight it. “Our infantry is in place. Move—and be ready to flank the enemy!”

He spoke with resolution of death ground, as a shaking horn blast followed his word. Then, the horsemen of ten score hooked to their left, making a steady pace. But inside Syagrius had been deep in thought. “That many men… Surely—Rome is doomed, if we fail…”

Even if all the voices in his mind were to scream retreat. To hide behind the walls and wait for old Ambrosius or help from Rome that might not come. He knew there would be more risk than reward, especially with the paid Foederati, itching for this slaughter already. So, his formation sat, as the wall of the Franks marched into the archer’s line of fire. Their mass of footsteps on the open plain held the beat of a drum in a chant to their pagan Gods. Time would soon tell whose lord would be silent.

But it was a great sight for all the cavalry to behold, once the enemy crossed that unseen line of fire. Where the wave of arrows was upon them like talons that wounded hundreds but only made a scratch in the army’s totality. Syagrius saw his moment and got his charge ready, as it was unlikely he’d have another. Once the Franks came closer, showing Syagrius their side, he gave the order that sealed the fate of his military career.

“Go now—CHARGE!”

The order rang in the metal of his helm, and the horn blew beside him. The Foederati were reeling with delight as the Equites grimaced in ready for the impact of flesh on the lance. They all hollered as another wave of arrows lashed the air in a sudden gust. A great distraction for the enemy who knew not to bring their shields above their heads, or in front of their face. And the looks on them said it all, dread, plea, and hate.

Syagrius couched his lance into one of hate, slicing the neck of another in dread, with his spatha. Leading the few hundred Franks left of that flank to rout in the sounds of screams coupled to the cracking of bones. All for Rome, thought Syagrius; the kill, the backs of the enemy—all of it. Yet that isn’t exactly what he sought after but who of Rome did? In the whole of these last years.

Nevertheless, there was no time to think on it. Another line backed up their battered comrades, but more importantly, above the groans and commands, came the horn of the Frankish cavalry. Syagrius among his Equites, glared down the old position of the enemy ranks, now moving onward. To see a swarm of the mounted barbarians riding out of the opposing flank in such ferocity that’d crush the infantry of Syagrius in one, fell swoop.

Syagrius would fall to his knees if not for the horse under him. God pushed him on to act quick, to ride past the Frankish infantry—yet more spearmen came to hold them there. Forcing Syagrius’s decision to retreat, leaving that side open for the enemy. But he raised his blade for the command anyway, “Retre—.”

Yet, was cut off due to no action of the spearmen, for it came from behind. Like the sound of thunder from maybe a hundred hooves, undetected until now by the absence of a horn. Skewering the backs of the Equites and their Burgundian allies in a blast greater than any other. Syagrius knew it was over.

But he’d be surly tortured without a fight, so he loosed the lance that was now useless. Fighting desperately with those comrades who remained. With no time to lament the soon to be fall of his capital, he thrust his blade into the underarm of one mounted Frank. Unable to process the man’s death cry when he blocked the swing of another. But in that breath, Syagrius noticed this one was different. The Frank wore a cape of oiled black leather, as his chiton glistened with fine metal and jewels, likely crafted from the old works of Syagrius’s own people. Though the stranger’s face lay hidden under a helm and visor of iron. Syagrius thought for certain it was the Frankish king himself, Clovis.

At the realization in his enemy’s eyes, Clovis struck hard at the chest piece of Sissons itself. Stopping by mere luck at the ribcage, forcing Syagrius to retaliate like a cornered lion back in the old games. Aiming for the neck in his pain and missing. Giving Clovis a hard knock on the head for his trouble. Yet any Roman who is skilled in battle would tell, it is unwise to anger a barbarian, a Frank in particular. Over unlethal blows.

“You Roman dog! I’ll have your sword thrust in between your legs!” Clovis pointed the bloodied tip of his sword at Syagrius, as Equites fell to the Frank’s all around them. “Then you won’t take it from me alive…” Syagrius panted, becoming unnervingly weary in his heavy breath.

Until Clovis came at him again, a quick switch of his horse gave the strike deadly force. It would’ve driven clean through Syagrius’s right shoulder, paralyzing his hand. If he hadn’t the remaining strength and skill to block with the spatha still held in his left. The edge of it knocked the other away, then cut the flesh of Clovis’s arm that held it.

Clovis tucked his arm in before staring hard behind, at the king of Sissons. Drawing the Roman’s full attention, ready to kill one another in a fashion that was more than personal. And there, In the midst of mid battle, the two kings charged each other around the growing tide of Frankish knights. But as Syagrius hit his heels against his horse, a strong push into his back plating shot a great pain and tremble across his entire body.

The corners of his vision grew in a bright white, then blurred. But he could hear the cries of thousands in the pandemonium as a dull thump of a Frankish knight’s hooves slowed to a halt on his right. Slowly fading to the sound of his breath, drowning in running blood. Now, he could only see one thing—Clovis, trotting to him. His many jewels, shining like the stars in heaven before his sentence was carried out.

“Be glad, you fall in two blows. And one by a man alike to you, Syagrius. As you should already know, your father suffered far worse.” Clovis’s voice was deliberate, words unbroken. He knew Sissons was as good as his. “Damn you for it. Son of a—” Came a coagulated cough.

Syagrius would listen no more from the savage king, raising his sword for the neck, though weak and without prayer. It was beyond doubt whose God had spoken now. And Clovis almost let it land, but why let the loser have any say in how they die? It was never wise. So, Clovis gave one thrust to the throat for the curse, killing Syagrius instantly. With not a single blink from the eyes of Clovis, he watched the Roman king fall limp on the horse he rode valiantly—no more an hour past.

As blood wet its mane, the stallion stood merely frustrated before Clovis and the Franks. Paying no mind to the barbarian king cheer on his army’s victory over Sissons. Over, the wailing of the captured and the rummaging through the dead.

Part II, The last relief

Down the main stone way of Londinium, the bright midday sun was above any other that year. As a man in white robes waited outside, impatiently asking the guard to be let through to see him. But other men, and women of King Ambrosius, cleared the shudders away from their windows within the city walls. Built into the packed concrete that made most of their buildings. While more in the multitudes on the street below, kept handfuls of roses and bluebells held close. Or threw them out into the oncoming procession of the general who proved himself to be their great victor in three battles. As the king’s only son, no less.

Who trotted before the ranks of his troop with a cordial smile toward the people above and below him. While the victory was the truest honor then. The smell of their picked flowers and voices of relief in the air all around, enheartened him the most.

Though his youth left him in the wars against the Saxons, with a few scars and a full beard to match. The whole scene managed to bring some of the illusion or magic of boyhood back to him a while. Or here and there. When the Magister Militum’s still showed their strength. When he thought the world beyond their shores were filled with the honor of adventure—and the light of the old world. Before he began his duties as the king’s marshal, before the walls of castle Camelot began to fill him with memory rather than pride.

But down the way, apart from the cheering of the crowds and the singing of minstrels, stood the city’s square. Hushed in holy reverence before one of the many churches, built under Constantine. Where the bishop of the city meditated on the blessings he’d soon speak by his own tongue. While the wife of the victor stood patiently beside his grace. And the son of Ambrosius was glad to see both as he approached, even if the absence of his mother and father in that silent crowd pained him so.

Not enough, however, for him to stop and think over much, while dismounting before the last row of the crowd. Leaving those soldiers who followed behind, but honored just this once, to stand without him. As the Bishop, Lady, and chroniclers, all under the silhouette of the church steeple—bowed. With a greeting from his grace.

 “My lord, Arthurus. We are honored in your presence.” The words of the bishop were quiet with humility, carrying clear to all the square beyond the king’s son. “You have my gratitude, your grace.” Arthurus bowed in return to him and lower, to his Wife. “Guinevere…” His tongue caught on the name.

And since they met. Arthurus found it unfair. That out of all the outlander men he brought to his sword, a mere vassal’s daughter of the north. Could put a pause on his heart like no other threat of death could.

“Come Arthurus. The people await the sanctification of your deeds.” And the look of respect Guinevere had for her Husband put aside the elegance she carried in silence so often.

Arthurus held her in a stola of an ocean blue, but in a strange and merry light because of this. Though it only lasted by the blink of his eyes before joining beside the bishop. Gazing at the soldiers and the masses—who all stood in ranks of their own. Their arms held onto loved ones, but seemingly no tighter or loose than what Arthurus remembered in the haze of the past.

“Very few Kings or Emperors see days like this.” The bishop held his bible just as close, as Arthurus turned to face his blessing. “But if your God and your Father on earth wills it. You will see this day once more, as a King yourself.” And Arthurus took that first blessing, though it came solely from the tongue of a man.

Yet the ones of their God came soon enough. Prior to the giving of the title ‘Heir Apparent’ as was tradition. A trivial award, Arthurus thought, but he no less saw faith in it. Since every sole in that crowd beheld him as such already, long before the end of the bishop’s speech. And they cheered respectfully in Latin, or in the words of the Celts. But in the end, they rejoiced as one people, witnessing a new proclamation of their sovereignty in the ever-changing world. But the world which held them was mighty big, and someone came hastily to remind them of it. When the chroniclers gave Arthurus their most illuminated manuscripts, from the Sepulcher of Constantine’s first chapel in Eboracum.

“…Let these old laws be your foundation. And the lord of lords your rock. For all the days of your life…” The bishop ended light, as it was good-will never meant to cease. Arthurus could only bow, as he had done with his wife some years ago. Though he was different and the times were too, there was yet nothing new to say. So, he only listened to the cheers go down to a murmur. As a rummage of armor and spears came to take its place.

The rummage turned sharp into a surprise uproar. A dozen gauntlets reaching, clashing together on air, and shocked voices between the ranks of the guards. “Stop him, quickly!” One spoke out, in a panicked and angry pitch for a veteran.

And if one was wise or attentive in those days, at dusk of the empire. They would fear the sudden turmoil, after such a coveted title. It could well be nothing short of some rapid attempt at interference. Or a cunning assassination.

Guinevere was nothing short of attentive, or at least careful. Lifting the bottom of her stola, to reach her husband in a run as dainty, as it was brave, given the worst might happen. That Arthurus could’ve seen of her and rebuked, for endangering her own self. If he hadn’t been transfixed, on the raised voices that demanded a name. While his holiness and all his chroniclers did so stand the like.

They, in all, did wonder as the figure held responsible for the interruption came closer, now by force. The stranger’s linen robe of white was, however, an odd choice for someone who worked in usurpation. Though most in the crowd would find it foolish to assume anything else, as they began to back away. “Is this some trick?” Guinevere heard Arthurus—over the few guards that did bid the man in robes to stand still. “My lord! He wishes to speak to you!” Came a guard’s voice, intimidating and foreign to such a hollowed square.

Guinevere followed behind Arthurus, down the square’s center. “Wait, what if you’re right? Please don’t endanger yourself!” But he did not listen, Arthurus hastened down the main isle anyway. As the crowd waited to see what was the first punishment Arthurus would give out for the interruption.

But if it in fact was a trick, as Arthurus suspected, there was no need to get restless. He’s seen it all before and would handle it justly. So, the guards waited while he approached. Their full helms hiding the looks on the faces of each, with the stranger standing simply impatient at what had happened. And yet slightly disheveled over news, or some statement Arthurus could only guess at that time.

Which is what the Heir had surmised clearly now, it was some sort of trick to the eyes. But the most bewildering thing that could be put on the curious crowd. Was Arthurus giving a friendly, almost innocent laugh on the man that was in fact no stranger to him. Save his wear, that bore no insignia of a king’s messenger, only hastily tied knots to hold the linen together. Arthurus handed his wife the scripts.

“It is alright, stay your hands—and repent for your prying eyes.” Arthurus told his guard and gave the people his first command as Heir Apparent. Then they fell into a wave of whispers. Whilst the guards complied with a few short steps back.

“Lucan? I expected more extravagance, no wonder they thought you were a vagrant, or worse!” Arthurus hit Lucan on the shoulder, a small break from his usual self, but it had been months since they last spoke. “Why are you here?” The question was sincere like any other from Arthurus. But Lucan always found the answers he had to give were always dreadful over the years they’ve known each other. He could hate it himself for anything, while never ignoring clear command. “Well, I—.” Lucan stepped in closer, he didn’t want to say more than he needed to. He knew Arthurus would understand either way.

“I’ve been sent to call you back… To the king. I’m sorry, but it couldn’t wait. I was begging to be let in earlier.” That was his reason, and all Lucan wanted now was to leave here, with at least one more trip back to Camelot. As was commanded by Ambrosius.

And Arthurus understood, turning to Guinevere. Who grew weary again at the hardening of his eyes. “He’s come to ask for my leave. I’ll oblige him… As of right now. Please, tell the bishop and let the people know, I’m needed elsewhere.”

Then Arthurus leant toward her, the dread that was across her face dwindled away. “And take the old road south when you can. I’ll be there, safe, behind the walls I promise. The war is over… But I’m not sure if the next one has already begun.” Guinevere nodded slowly, until it broke with a kiss both turned away from soon after. Neither, able to rest with one another time and again, as it would’ve been, to many others. In the countless olden days of years long passed.

Arthurus left for his horse with Lucan. Who glanced back at her, as her husband bid the troops begin their march to the south shore. It wasn’t far anyway and Camelot would supplement anything forgotten. As for her, she didn’t know Lucan, but the way she turned from Arthurus sure filled his heart with pity. Out of the whole ordeal he made. It appeared to him, Arthurus was like a ghost, to more family than just his father.

This story will continue...