"Understood, I'll take care of it," Artoria said, pulling out her notebook to jot down Kaelar's instructions. She was about to leave when Kaelar, feeling a bit uneasy, added a warning.
"Take more men with you this time. When a country is on the verge of collapse, troublemakers are bound to emerge. I have a feeling the Western Romans will try something."
Kaelar couldn't help but feel embarrassed as he said this. The Western Roman Empire, despite its decline, still held sway over parts of Britain. The Roman commander, Lucius Tiberius, kept a low profile, making it easy to forget the presence of the Roman legions.
In Roman maps, Britain was still labeled as "Britannia." King Uther and Vortigern were seen as rebellious warlords with no legal right to their thrones. If Rome hadn't split, they surely would have sent legions to crush the Celtic "barbarians."
The division of the Roman Empire into East and West marked the beginning of its decline.
Artoria's convoy would take a month for a round trip to Rome—a timeframe Kaelar deemed sufficient.
---
"The balance of power between the Red Dragon and the White Dragon in Britain is shifting," Lucius Tiberius muttered, setting down his quill. He was stationed far south of Camelot, near the Irish coastline.
Lucius bore a truly Roman name, one tied to nobility. His lineage even included emperors, making him a member of the Roman imperial family by Eastern standards.
"But things are deteriorating back in the Empire," he thought bitterly. "Those Gothic barbarians can't be trusted!"
Tiberius was frustrated. "What is Augustus thinking? The Goths once sacked Rome decades ago, and now they're being hired as mercenaries? Odoacer... he won't remain loyal."
"Has Rome truly run out of good men willing to fight?" he lamented, unaware of just how dire the Western Roman Empire's situation had become. The Romans were more than content to pay barbarians to fight on their behalf, saving Roman lives at a small cost.
But when a nation's dominant ethnicity refuses to defend its homeland, its collapse is imminent.
"Kaelar... the Saint of the Celts. He sends weapons and supplies to Rome every year."
Tiberius picked up reports from Maple Ridge, reading them to gauge the intentions of the man whose actions shaped Britain's political landscape.
"Damn it!" Tiberius cursed, slamming down the reports. "Kaelar's selling weapons to the Visigoths! What kind of saint sides with barbarian invaders?"
People are always quick to shift blame. For years, Kaelar had supplied Rome with arms, and Tiberius had seen it as perfectly justified. The Saint's benevolence was beyond question—until Kaelar stopped supplying arms to a Rome teetering on the brink of collapse. Suddenly, Tiberius branded him a fraud.
Determined to halt Kaelar's shipments, he vowed that no more of the saint's goods would leave Britain's shores under his watch.
"Furthermore, Uther's health is failing," Tiberius mused, "Time to find a new Celtic leader to back."
He paused, picking up his quill to draft a list of potential Celtic leaders, evaluating them based on their temperaments and whether they'd align with Roman interests.
---
"Lord Kaelar, the Hunnic Empire's assault on Western Rome is intensifying."
The leader of Maple Ridge's trading convoy, a sharp-eyed Anglo-Saxon with a weathered face, stood before Kaelar. His gaze revealed a keen intelligence. "King Odoacer was very pleased with this shipment. He called you the eternal friend of the Goths."
"Ha!" Kaelar laughed, shaking his head. "Odoacer is a man without scruples. He has no regard for dignity or pride. The way he kowtowed to that foolish Roman emperor would make anyone think he was a loyal son!"
Yet in the end, Odoacer did what many barbarians had only dreamed of—he deposed the Western Roman Emperor and declared himself ruler of its territories.
To be fair, his method was blunt. In China, they would have insisted on at least a token abdication, complete with ceremonial refusals, before seizing the throne.
And after toppling Western Rome, Odoacer turned to bow to Eastern Rome—a man with a flexible spine, a calculating mind, and a total disregard for pride.
"Anything Odoacer says should be taken as empty air," Kaelar said, not bothering to look up. "I'm more interested in the outcome of this trip. We don't need overpriced silks or brittle ceramics. I want grain, medicine, fine sugar, feed (soybeans and eggs), and horses..."
"Lord Kaelar, the wars have driven up food prices," the Anglo-Saxon merchant said with a regretful shake of his head. "If we'd sold our grain stocks earlier, we could've made a fortune... but I didn't dare change your orders. I bought the food, sugar, medicines, fire oil, and fodder as requested. But transporting the horses might take longer than expected."
Even in Britain, horses were a prized resource. Celtic knights wouldn't have dominated the battlefield without them. In this era of cold steel, warhorses were strategic assets no one could have too many of.
"You did well. Take a break and rest," Kaelar said, nodding approvingly. He grabbed a sheet of paper and quickly wrote a year-long leave of absence. "Go to Lily for final approval, and spend time with your family."
As Vortigern's oppressive rule sparked uprisings, many Anglo-Saxons sought refuge in Maple Ridge. They fled from tyranny, hoping to find sanctuary under Kaelar's protection.
Kaelar's reputation in Britain was formidable. Any Anglo-Saxon women and children declaring they were bound for Maple Ridge would be left unmolested by the Celtic lords.
Who would risk provoking Britain's greatest warrior over a few unarmed refugees?
Everyone knew Kaelar abhorred unnecessary killing.
Most of the women and children were spared, but the able-bodied men weren't so lucky. Those who weren't enslaved were often sacrificed to the war god.
After all, this was still Britain—a land where not everyone accepted Kaelar's ideals of mercy and justice.
"Thank you, Lord Kaelar," the leader of the Anglo-Saxon convoy said, bowing deeply until his forehead touched Kaelar's boots. He might have even kissed the ground where Kaelar had walked.
Kaelar had grown accustomed to the fervent devotion of the Anglo-Saxons, who revered him with a zeal that bordered on fanaticism. He nodded calmly. "Go. If I need you, I'll call."
---
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