Constantine, the Amorican native Festuscato dragged to Britannia and appointed to be the Dux Bellorum, leader in battles, and the first Pendragon of Greater Britain moaned on seeing Festuscato return from his travels. “Small annual contributions are coming in from all over the island, and it adds up well enough, but I am damned no matter how I spend it. If I build up and strengthen the fort here, I am being selfish. If I improve the roads in Britain, then Wales and Cornwall complain. If I start a coastal watch around Wales as you insist, Britain and Cornwall feel undefended, like I am playing favorites. King Ban here says we should strengthen and rebuild Hadrian’s wall where it has fallen down. Damned, no matter what I do, and the money just won’t spread to cover everything.”
“Doesn’t need to,” Festuscato insisted. “Ten percent of the cost will tell the Welsh they have friends, they are not forgotten, and in time of need you will come to their aid. No reason you should pay for it all. The Welsh should be quite willing to pay for the bulk of the coastal watch since it will be their homes and families directly affected by Irish pirates or Pictish coastal ships or Saxon raiders. Same with the roads and Hadrian’s wall and the rest. You are here to promote peace among the many Lords of Britain, Wales, and Cornwall, and to call out the troops when needed. You are not a king. Roads and such will help the army move faster and better when needed. They will also promote trade and help bring prosperity. But if a local Lord doesn’t keep his road in repair, it will be his neck when the army gets bogged down trying to come to his rescue.
“That is right. And Ban, if he starts acting like a king you have my permission to sit on him until the swelling in his head goes down.” Ban laughed, but Constantine just moaned.
“But how can I possible keep all the accounts and contributions straight. I can’t hardly prepare to defend the land if I am bogged down in paperwork.”
“Find some honest men to keep the accounts. Rome depends on a whole class of accountants.”
“Use clerics,” Patrick suggested. “They can read and write, most of them anyway.”
“Exactly,” Festuscato supported that idea. “And most of them are honest as well, as much as any man can be honest.”
“Entice them with paper and ink,” Patrick continued with his thought. “Let them make copies of the scriptures in their spare time.” Festuscato just grinned and thought, one small step for man, one giant leap for Medieval kind.
“That could work,” Ban said before he got interrupted by the word, “Father.”
Ban’s daughter, Princess Ivy came in with the baby in her arms. Constans, Constantine’s son followed not far behind. Mirowen got up to see the baby, and Festuscato imagined Ivy and Constans were never more than a minute out of each other’s sight since they married.
“Little Ambrose wants to see his grandfathers,” Ivy said sweetly as she stepped up and slipped the baby into Ban’s arms. The gruff old king began to talk baby talk before he had a thought.
“He doesn’t need to be changed, does he?”
“Father!” Ivy protested and turned to hold Constans. He looked happy to oblige. Then Constans’ friend, Vortigen came in and Festuscato lost his smile. Vortigen irked him for some reason, and he thought to take Patrick outside for the promised talk.
Patrick nodded, but he had something else on his mind. “Your Four Horsemen are not welcome in Ireland. My job is to convert the heathen, as Palladius said, not to chop them into little pieces.”
Festuscato nodded. “I have already talked to Julius and the men of the Dragon. They are assigned to Constantine and will not be joining us.”
“Dibs,” Mirowen said. She had followed them outside and sat on the steps of the great hall. “You told him about Hermes and Greta, and he thought he could do that.”
“Eh?” Patrick had not heard the story.
“A troop got assigned to protect Greta and ordered to stay with her at all costs. Hermes was the sergeant in charge, and when Greta went off on her quest, he went with her. He let his troop return to their commander with the word that he kept following orders and stayed with Greta at all costs.”
“Did that work out for him? I mean, military types can be thick headed when it comes to the rules.” Patrick got curious.
“I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know when I find out.”
“So Dibs,” Mirowen repeated.
“Only in plain clothes. No Roman uniform and no Dragon.” Festuscato shook his finger and Mirowen nodded. She would see to it, only now Patrick stared at her.
Patrick shrugged as Festuscato took up the conversation. “I will speak to the Four Horsemen. They can be stubborn and will be disappointed, but they will follow orders. At the same time, you want to get to Ireland safely and in one piece so you can begin your work, and I intend to see that you do. That was Archbishop Guithelm’s charge to me. At some point, I may have to overrule your stipulations and limitations. My judgment. And don’t think I am going to drop you on the Irish shore and go away, either. I will be staying long enough to see you make a good start. You want to succeed at this enterprise and I want to see you succeed, so there is no need to argue about that.”
Patrick slowly nodded. As Gaius reported, Patrick was the only Bishop who seemed to have some common sense. This work might eventually kill him, but he was practical enough to know he needed to make a good start, and for all his sins and foolish affectations, Festuscato seemed to be the best man on the island, or in the whole world as he might say, who might be able to insure that. No doubt that was why the pope anointed Festuscato to come to Britannia in the first place.
It took a week to get ready to move. Festuscato felt nothing near the same hurry Patrick felt, but the wait turned out to be fortuitous. Lord Pinewood, the fairy Lord that came with Festuscato all the way from Rome, flew into Cadbury with a message. A thousand Saxons had come out of Saxon lands. They were burning and slashing their way across the countryside, headed for the old tin mines of Cornwall. Someone told them that where there were mines, there had to be gold, and the Saxon chiefs wanted it. Refugees were already pouring into Exeter to hide behind the strong city walls, but in abandoning their villages, the Saxons found easy pickings and that encouraged them to loot and pillage their way across Devon.
Julius blanched at the news. He had hoped since the planting of the sword in the stone in Londugnum, there might be peace in the land. No such luck. Constantine looked equally unhappy with the news as he sent out messengers to bring in the troops. This whole enterprise of having a Pendragon, a war chief still felt like a new and fragile arrangement. Only Festuscato grinned at the turn of events. He knew that every success in driving the enemies out of the land strengthened the ties and resolve of all the British, Welsh and Cornish Lords. He went to bed happy, and only felt sorry he had another engagement.
R6 Festuscato: Cornwall. Tintangle is under siege. The Saxons are out of their place. The army gathers under the Pendragon to set things right before Festuscato, Patrick, and their companions trail into Cornwall and pick up a pixie passenger along the way. Monday (Tuesday and Wednesday). Until then, Happy Reading