The embers of the campfire flickered against the dusky sky, casting long, wavering shadows over the gathered men. The scent of freshly harvested wheat mixed with the lingering smokiness of charred wood, blending into the crisp autumn air. Aurelius Rodrik, clad in a simple red woolen cloak, sat cross-legged on the edge of the firelight, his hand resting casually on an earthenware bowl. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, utterly unconcerned with the decorum befitting a king.
"So, you're all borderland exiles?" he asked, his tone conversational, as if he were simply making idle chatter.
A burly man sitting across from him stiffened at the question, shifting uneasily on his wooden stool. He hesitated before responding, his fingers tightening around the rough clay of his own bowl.
"Your Majesty…"
"Just call me Rodrik," the young king interrupted with a casual wave of his hand. "No need for formalities. Sit, speak freely."
The soldier's brow furrowed, and he glanced at his companions for reassurance before nodding stiffly. "Aye… Your—Rodrik. We weren't always exiles. Many of us came from ordinary families—traders, herdsmen, farmhands. I myself was a horse dealer once. But when the Berbers crossed the straits and war broke out, everything changed. The Moorish king demanded tributes of grain and coin, and when the Visigothic lords failed to provide, their lands burned. We lost our homes, our trade, our kin."
Rodrik nodded, his gaze steady. It was a familiar story, though hearing it firsthand painted the tragedy in more vivid detail. He gestured for the man to continue.
"When our lords fell, some of us took up arms under the nobles who resisted the invaders. But when the fighting turned against us, those lords abandoned their banners, fled north, and left us to fend for ourselves. We were forced to roam as mercenaries, drifting from one side to another. Eventually, we fell under the command of Captain Lucius Aetius, a Roman-born Gothic noble who had settled in Hispania generations ago. He was the only one who stood by us when others turned their backs. He refused to bend the knee to the Moors or betray the kingdom."
Rodrik leaned forward slightly, the firelight reflecting in his dark eyes. A warlord without land, a commander of exiles, an army of forsaken men… this had potential.
"Where did Aetius lead you?" Rodrik asked, his voice neutral but his mind racing.
The soldier hesitated. "At first, we served under him as free lances, fighting to reclaim lost lands. But after the disaster at Toledo, when King Roderic was slain, things fell apart. Some of our brothers defected, swearing fealty to the Moors, hoping to save their own skins. But Aetius wouldn't have it. He called them traitors, fought to the last to protect what little was left. He was struck down in the battle for Emerita Augusta." The man paused, his expression darkening. "After that, we fled north, searching for any noble still fighting for our people. And that led us here."
Rodrik exhaled slowly. A few hundred riders, hardened by war, disciplined enough to remain loyal to a dead commander rather than switching sides for convenience. This wasn't just a mercenary band. This was a foundation.
He realized that the army was not part of the Visigothic aristocracy and therefore had no complex interests. In the present situation, such an army is more reliable than the noble army within the kingdom. He thought about how to draw them in and make them his immediate force.
He let his gaze drift over the gathered men. Their faces were rough, weathered by hardship, but their postures were rigid with quiet discipline. They were not like the fickle Visigothic nobles who wavered between resistance and surrender, nor were they broken peasants crushed by war. They had chosen their path.
Rodrik tapped his fingers against the rim of his bowl, thoughts unfolding rapidly. He had studied history—at least, the history of this world as it was once recorded. Mercenary bands like this had shaped the tides of war more than once. The Byzantine emperors had used the Varangian Guard, the Italian city-states had their condottieri, even the Moors themselves employed Christian knights in their ranks. And here, now, he had a chance to do the same.
His thoughts were interrupted as another soldier, younger than the first, spoke hesitantly. "Rodrik… where do we go from here? We've heard whispers… that you don't intend to flee north like the others."
The fire crackled. The air around the camp seemed to still. Several of the riders shifted, casting quick glances at each other.
Rodrik's fingers stopped drumming. He hadn't expected word of his hesitation to travel so quickly. He measured his next words carefully.
"I don't know yet," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "The mountains of Asturias offer safety, but safety alone won't win us back our kingdom. And yet, staying here is dangerous. If we're to fight, we need men. Arms. A plan."
The men around him absorbed his words in silence. Then, after a moment, the burly soldier from before—the one who had spoken first—nodded slowly.
"Then wherever you go," he said, "we ride with you."
Rodrik studied his face, searching for deception and finding none. The oath was given simply, without flourish or empty platitudes. This was a man who had already lost everything. A man who had nothing left to fear.
And in that moment, Rodrik realized something.
So was he.
He asked the soldiers if they had heard of General Alaric de Tarraco. This is the best fighting Christian general he's ever known. But before he could receive response, a voice from the darkness cut through the night.
"Your Majesty," the speaker called, his tone smooth, deliberate. "I have brought the dessert you requested."
Rodrik turned sharply to see Sir Egilhard standing at the edge of the firelight, his expression unreadable, a small wooden tray balanced in his hands. The man had been watching him. Listening.
The gathered soldiers stiffened slightly, some shifting uneasily. The weight of authority settled back over Rodrik's shoulders, a stark contrast to the camaraderie he had felt moments ago.
He let out a breath, then forced a grin. "I suppose I can't refuse a gift, can I?"
As Egilhard stepped forward, the firelight flickering against the polished steel of his sword belt, Rodrik knew one thing for certain.
The dangerous power game had begun in earnest.