Sword of Albion

EPIGRAPH

A sword was forged

by dwarvish blacksmiths

who served the Giant Albion

at the dawning of this country

before it was lived in by men.

So large it is that a two-handed

hilt was made for men to wield,

and on that hilt, five blood-red rubies

symbolise blood to be spilled

in five great wounds in the last battle

fought before the world grows old,

and on the blade a fiery legend

is inscribed in words of gold:

QUI HABET HOC GLADIUM

ALBIONIS REGNABO.

(Whosoever wields this sword

Is Albion’s rightful Overlord.)

CHAPTER ONE

The cold light of a November afternoon filtered through the arched window at the far end of the scriptorium, illuminating three monks bent over wooden writing desks. A lay brother was searching for something on a shelf stacked with scrolls and codices. He found what he was looking for, despite the lack of any system of referencing, took it down with the reverence of one who is in love with the written word, and placing it on a small table, began to read.

His name was Brother Ambrosius. He had been admitted to the monastery as a small boy, and had been educated there. As he grew older, he had developed a love of learning, and looked forward to the time when he could take his vows and become a cloister monk. His secret ambition was to replace the aging Brother Boniface as head of the monastic school. He looked the part. He was tall and spare – not with overmuch fasting, but because he preferred thinking to pleasures of the refectory, and sometimes, when lost in study, he would miss his meals. Now, once again, he began to lose himself in that otherworld of words.

He was reading a Latin history by Julius Caesar which described his campaigns in Gaul. The abbot, of course, preferred the monks to read the scriptures and the works of the church fathers, but works of history and philosophy were tolerated.

He was jerked out of the world of Roman legions and Gallic tribesmen by the unaccustomed voice of a visitor. The brothers in the scriptorium spoke in hushed whispers, if at all, and this man spoke in the loud, confident voice of the outside world.

Ah! There you are! I’ve found you at last! said the voice, with annoying familiarity.

Brother Ambrosius looked up from the scroll he was reading and saw an old man in a long robe. The man’s long, grey beard told Brother Ambrosius that he was no monk, and his robe confirmed it. It was grey in colour, unlike his own brown habit, and had an elaborate border decorated with astrological symbols. In his hand he carried a long staff. There was nothing unusual about that. Many old men used a staff to help them walk, though this one had a strange looking knot of twisted roots at the upper end.

The old man was looking at him with an amused twinkle in his sharp grey eyes. Don’t you recognise me, Aurelius?

Brother Ambrosius had not been called by his given name for years – this man must know him well. He looked again at the wise old face and recognition dawned: Merlin!

To think of all the trouble I went to on your behalf, and you don’t even know me!

Brother Ambrosius stood up and embraced him. "Forgive me, Merlin, but it was so long ago! We can’t talk here or we will disturb the brothers. Come with me to the hospitium."

The hospitium was an old stone building not far from the refectory. It was so-called, because it was the place where the monks exercised their duty of hospitality. The upper floor was divided into small chambers for their guests, while the lower floor served as a common room and guest refectory. Brother Ambrosius ordered some refreshment for his visitor – bread and cheese, and small beer. It is simple fare, he apologised.

I like it all the better, said Merlin, biting into a large hunk of bread.

What brings you here?

You do. To be more precise, your foolish idea of abdicating from the Imperium in favour of your brother.

Brother Ambrosius took a moment to gather his thoughts, then he tried to explain: Uther is a man of action. He left the monastery a year ago and is now busy with military matters. I, on the other hand, am...

...a scholar, said Merlin, finishing his sentence. That is plain enough. But surely you must see that the Imperium needs your qualities. The man of action needs a wise man to guide him. You have read Plato, have you not?

Brother Ambrosius looked at Merlin with surprise. Merlin responded by making a show of being offended: You think that, because I am a wizard, I know nothing of the classics. Well, I know as much about Philosophy as I do about Druidism – all knowledge is useful to a wizard.

You are referring to Plato’s concept of the Philosopher King?

Exactly. That’s what you will be.

Brother Ambrosius smiled deprecatingly. No, I won’t, he said. In one month’s time I reach my majority, and then I will take the tonsure.

Merlin shook his head. On the contrary. You will wear the Imperial Purple.

He said this with such confidence that Brother Ambrosius could not help wondering if the wily old wizard had some unpleasant trick up his sleeve. He had – but it was not of the magical kind. After a moment of stand-off, in which the two regarded each other with fixed looks, Merlin said gently: Come with me. I want to show you something that may make you change your mind.

Well, thought Brother Ambrosius, there can be no harm in looking, so he followed the old man out of the scriptorium and out into the busy streets. Civitas Riedonum had been fortified by the Romans with a strong wall of red brick, and in one corner of the city, according to the usual Roman plan, was a fort. It was to this building that Merlin led him. They passed out of the bright sunlight into a grim, dark barracks block and up a brick staircase to a terrace which overlooked the parade ground, and there was Uther with his legates by his side proudly reviewing his assembled legionaries.

Aurelius! he exclaimed with visible pleasure. I’m so glad you could come. I sent Merlin to fetch you so that you could see... this.

He waved his arm in the direction of the parade ground.

"I am reviewing my legion. Legio I Brittaniae, I call it, because this will be the legion that will reconquer Britannia, and after that... who knows?"

Brother Ambrosius was impressed at first. The parade ground was filled with armoured men standing in well-ordered ranks. Those closest to the reviewing stand were equipped in best late Roman fashion. They wore ridge helmets with nasals, mail shirts over leather jerkins, and ankle-length hose. Each man carried a spear and wore a longsword of the spatha type. They stood to attention with their javelins in their right hands, while their left hands supported a large oval shield bearing the device of the Red Dragon.

Uther, preening himself like a proud parent, could not help commenting: I see you are admiring what I call the Imperial Guard: one hundred hand-picked men with the best training and equipment. They will be the personal bodyguard of the next emperor!

But Brother Ambrosius’ eyes were already ranging beyond the front ranks. The men behind them seem less well equipped, he said. Can we go and look?

By all means, said Uther, leading the way down to the parade ground. Of course, we are short of equipment just now – but I have a dozen blacksmiths working night and day to bring every man up to the standard of the legions of old.

The further back they went, the lower the level of equipment and the less martial the appearance of the men. The rear ranks were the worst of all, consisting of ragged-looking peasants, boys and old men with not one real weapon to share amongst them, just a collection of kitchen knives and fire-hardened spears.

One man, however, stood out from the rest. He was wearing a steel helmet of the old pattern, and a frayed blue tunic bearing the Chi-Rho emblem of Constantine the Fair. The only thing that seemed out of place was his all-too-evident age.

How old are you? asked Brother Ambrosius.

58, my lord.

Brother Ambrosius looked hard. More like 68! In any case, 58 is too old. What are you doing here?

"My lord, I served your father, the Emperor Constantine. There are few of us left of the old legion – the real Legio I Britanniae – the one that was raised to march on Rome along with VI Victrix and XX Valeria," he added proudly.

Interesting, mused Brother Ambrosius to himself, then to the man he said, What is your name?

Petronius.

"Well, then Petronius. Step from the ranks and follow me. Your knowledge of the real Legio I Britanniae may prove useful."

Shall we return to the reviewing stand? said Uther.

The inspection is not completed, said Brother Ambrosius. "Where are the equites – the cavalry?"

I have twenty horses, said Uther, but we use them for the officers.

"Very well, we will inspect sagittarii, the archers."

Uther looked blank.

Or the artillery.

Uther became flustered. The archers of Cambria will flock to our banner as soon as we land in Britannia – as for artillery, we don’t have the workshops... we don’t... we haven’t...

Aurelius could see that he had made his point, but he was determined to rub it in: How many men do you have in total?

Five hundred, and their numbers are growing fast. I hope to have a thousand by the end of the year.

And how are they paid for?

"Taxes. Every citizen must pay 500 assarii. The rich must pay more."

Brother Ambrosius turned to Petronius. "Tell us, Petronius, how many men were in the old Legio I Britanniae?"

Petronius looked at his lord and master, Uther, the legates, and the strange wizard who stood beside them, and was struck dumb.

Come man! Don’t be afraid to speak out! said Brother Ambrosius.

I command you to speak! added Uther.

5,500, my lord – at full strength.

How many cavalry?

An auxiliary unit of 300, my lord.

Archers?

300 Welshmen.

Artillery?

"I cannot be sure, but perhaps 100 ballistae and scorpiae."

Logistics?

Countless wagons and horses and mules – I never knew the exact number.

Brother Ambrosius gave Uther a meaningful look, but let Petronius’ words speak for themselves. Uther looked as though he had just discovered an unpleasant truth. He turned to his legion and seemed to see it with new eyes. Merlin looked on with bemused detachment, content to let this little drama play itself out to its pre-determined end.

Suddenly, Uther turned defensive: But we will not be marching on Rome – not yet, at any rate. This legion... this army is for the purpose of reconquering Britannia. All the reports tell us that Vortigern has no more men than we have, and most of them are mercenaries – and of the worse kind, too – Picts. We all know how unreliable they are! Another thing! When this army lands in Britannia, all loyal Britons will flock to our banner, and our numbers will be swelled to many times the size of a Roman legion!

Brother Ambrosius seemed to be considering his response. At last he said, Well done, Uther! You have made an excellent start! and turned to go.

Back in the hospitium, Brother Ambrosius said to Merlin, I see what you mean. It would be a disaster to attempt to reconquer Britannia with so ridiculous a rabble. If it is to be done at all, it must be done properly! Though I fear the tax burden. Armorica is a small country. I doubt that we could ever support a full-strength legion along with the necessary auxiliaries.

You can do it! said Merlin. You have the knowledge of military strategy, and the wisdom to implement it. Why, you got to the heart of the matter straight away – how it is to be paid for.

Brother Ambrosius wrestled with himself for a long time while Merlin looked on with patient sympathy. The bell rang for compline, but Brother Ambrosius seemed not to hear it and continued to pace up and down, deep in thought, ignoring the fading light.

Very well, he said at last. I will take the kingship – kingship, mark you! None of this Imperium nonsense! It is true that my father was emperor of Rome – even if only briefly – but I will command nothing but an impoverished former province at the world’s end. If I am to be crowned at all, it must be as King of Armorica. I will wear Androein’s old Celtic crown and no golden laurel leaves, let alone the Imperial purple.

Merlin laughed with pleasure. You will make an even better king than I thought! That is a wise decision – no end of harm has been done throughout the centuries by little men with overblown ambitions – and as for the way you treated Uther today, it was masterly. You drove your point home, yet you saved his pride at the last moment. Those are the qualities that make a good king – wise judgement in policy, and compassion when dealing with his subjects.

Be that as it may, said Aurelius, with a mournful glance towards the rows of books in the darkening library. I shall miss all this.

That night he had a dream in which all the rumours of that fated day long ago when his brother was murdered were played out like a mime or dumb show:

Two hooded villains come to Vortigern. He gives them gold, then makes them swear an oath. They hurry then to Constans in his chamber, where he is lost in private meditation; they strike away his book, and draw their swords. He spreads his arms as if to say, But why? They hesitate, then stab him as he tries to get away. The next scene in its horror draws a groan from Aurelius as he sleeps: the murderers return to Vortigern holding the severed head of Constans, dripping blood upon the floor. Vortigern feigns horror, calls his guard and orders their execution. 

Six months later, Aurelius was crowned. It was, as he had wished, a modest ceremony. The Bishop of Riedonum placed the old crown of Androein on his head and proclaimed him King of Armorica. Later, in the council of ministers, he gave a short speech to set out his policy: "As you know, I wished to devote my life to God, but circumstances have led me in a different direction. I still devote myself to God, but instead of a life of prayer, I have chosen a life of service to the people of Armorica. I will protect the true faith, administer justice and preserve the peace. For this I will continue to build up our legion. I also have another purpose in mind. When my ancestor, Conan the First, founded this country, he was king of Armorica and Britannia – Britannia Parva and Britannia Magna as they were called in those days. It is my aim to punish the usurper Vortigern and unite the crowns again. It is my birthright, and it is the birthright of all Armoricans."

The response was a ragged cheer – ragged, because the ministers were seasoned politicians and knew what was coming next.

To build up the legion, I will need to raise taxes. This will not be popular, so I want you to justify it wherever you can.

The chief minister, Judocus, spoke: How much will you raise them?

Aurelius frowned. He felt that such a specific question was not appropriate in this, his first meeting with his ministers.

That is something we will discuss later, he said evasively, though he knew that taxes would have to rise by 100% if the legion was to be built up to full strength. Still, it did not have to be all at once.

I think we should discuss it now, said Judocus. There was a challenge in his voice. He had been chief minister for many years, and also Regent, since Aurelius and his brother were too young to reign. On the whole he had been a good Regent, but it was clear that he found it hard to relinquish his authority.

Aurelius answered as gently as he could: Judocus, I am not an elected minister, as you are. I am the king. It is not a position I wanted, but since it has fallen to my lot, I intend to do the job to the best of my ability. I have told you my intentions, and I intend to carry them out. Therefore taxes must be raised. I agree that the burden of tax must be managed carefully, but this meeting is not the place to discuss details. Before we begin I need to examine the state of the treasury and speak to the chief tax collector.

Judocus looked as though he was about to say something, but he changed his mind and sat down. Aurelius had won his first political battle. He had shown that, though he was a mere youth, he had a clear vision of kingship, and the will to see it through, something that could, in part, be attributed to years of monastic discipline, and his training in philosophy and logic.

At first, Aurelius was not a popular king. He was not one for pomp and ceremony, on the contrary, he disliked public spectacle. He spent no money on public works, except to keep them in repair, his justice, though fair, seemed harsh, and he gave no public entertainments such as beast fights in the old arena. He would have been more popular if he had proclaimed himself the next emperor of Rome, dressed himself in a purple toga and a gold laurel wreath, spent vast sums on public buildings to glorify his name, and declared a new public holiday with free bread and circuses. He did none of these, but taxes continued to rise.

However, Aurelius’ reputation amongst the military was very different. Uther continued as Magister Militium, but Aurelius’ influence could be felt everywhere. The men found that they were better organised, their equipment was of a higher standard, and they were paid on time. Most surprising of all was that Aurelius frequently joined in their training. He would say, after he had thrown his double-weight practice pilum, After a decade turning the pages of a book, I need something to build up my biceps!

He particularly enjoyed practicing with the equites. In this, he had a different aim. He knew that he and Uther would have to gallop around the battlefield giving orders, and he wanted to be sure he could do it well. He chose a chestnut horse of the finest Arabic breed, which he named Achilles, and dressed in the manner of his cavalry officers: a muscled cuirass and a decorated ridge helmet. Aurelius’ had a copy of Androein’s crown affixed to the helmet and encrusted with jewels. He wore a long red cloak which complemented Achilles’ reddish-brown coat. Uther had tried to persuade him to wear purple, but Aurelius stuck to his principles. These preparations were the only time that he spent Armorican taxes on a lavish display, but he reasoned that it was necessary both for recognition and morale.

He also took part in marches, sword practice and unarmed combat. He always joked that it was to compensate for ten years on a scriptorium stool, but his real reason was to learn about the men, and