The Sword of Brittania

The Centurion stood near the shrine, his arms crossed and a scowl across his face. It was near dusk, and the air was hung with fog. His helmet felt cold against his cheeks and as he let out a breath, it escaped in a white mist. Near him, planted in the damp grass, was his old battle standard. They had come a long way, that standard and him, like an old and trusted comrade. His mind wandered back, as it often did as of late, to the events that led him to his current situation.

It was almost twenty years, or so his scribe reckoned, since he had left Gaul with the remnant of his legion. It had been a week after Odoacer, that Goth barbarian, had deposed Augustulus and ended the line of Caesars. Orestes, his commander at the time, had issued an edict of some sort that made the whole thing official. Rome was no more. The Goths would rule Rome. Bugger that.

Now, he had been young at the time, and impetuous. When the Legate had offered the chance to the men of his legion to travel to Brittania, he had jumped at the chance. Most of the legion followed suit, some three thousand strong. They had followed their standard from Libya to Illyria, and now they would follow it to the last surviving remnant of a free Roman province.

It had been a shock, to be sure, when they arrived. The land was in turmoil. If he had hated the Goths, he loathed the Saxons, and their Jutish and Anglian brothers. While the Goths respected Roman tradition and even sought to emulate it, these barbarians loved nothing but their pagan gods and bloodthirsty traditions. The surviving Roman administration in Brittania had welcomed his legion with open and desperate arms. Most of the southeast of the island had fallen to the invaders and the west was collapsing as well. They had changed all that. His legion had cut a swathe of Christian and Roman fury through the barbarians, crushing them like grapes at harvest. At least for a time.

Almost two decades of intermittent fighting had followed. The men of his legion, as they slowly dwindled, were replaced with local tribal levies, volunteers, and even mercenaries. Now, few remained of the men who had joyously crossed the channel so long ago.

Back to the present, the Centurion looked at the multitude gathered around him. Several thousand eager and anxious eyes. They were good men, to be sure, but all was changing in Brittania. Warlords in the north, men who spoke no Latin at all, were using old Roman titles to justify horrible civil wars and tyrannical slave raiding. In the south, more and more people were choosing to teach their children Saxon along with British. Latin survived only in the churches. Even British rulers were dressing like Saxons and marrying off their daughters to Jutes and Angles. What was he fighting for?

There would be a final battle, one that would decide the fate of this island for generations to come. The Saxons had amassed a host of men and struck west, trying to once and for all to destroy opposition to their imposed rule. He, and what he stilled referred to as ‘his Legion’, would meet them. But first, this deed needed doing.

His men were no longer paid soldiers, and they needed some extra motivation these days. His scribe had informed him of an ancient pagan shrine with a legend attached to it. Of course, as a Christian Centurion he had been vehemently opposed to such pagan nonsense, but in the end he had conceded. If doing this would prove to his men that they were destined for victory over an invader, so be it. For Rome. No, not for Rome, not anymore. He would do it for his wife, Igerna, and their children. He would do it for them.

Reaching down, he gripped the handle of the sword. It was old, ancient even. Rusted and tarnished, it probably couldn’t kill a single Saxon without snapping in half. How long had it sat in this rock? It didn’t matter. He pulled, and since his scribe had already made sure it was loose, it came right out.

He lifted it high. The men cheered and called him by the bastardized British version of his birth name. “Arthur!”

Artorius prayed to God that this pagan deed would not be what his ancestors remembered him for.