The Bearing of Trajan

The morning air carried the lingering chill of the autumn night, and though the sun had risen, a heavy overcast sky loomed above Mérida, casting a dull, gray light over the camp. Aurelius Rodrik emerged from his tent, dark circles under his eyes, his face drawn from a sleepless night of frustration and contemplation.

Despite the weight of fatigue pressing on him, Sir Egilhard, ever vigilant, showed no such signs. Clad in full armor, he sat on a stone beside the tent entrance, his sword resting against his knee. As soon as Rodrik stepped outside, Egilhard immediately rose to his feet and bowed his head.

"Your Majesty," he said, his voice firm but respectful. "Captain Lucius Aetius has awaited your summons since last night. Though pardoned, he remains uneasy and would not dare disturb your rest. I have had him wait in the adjacent tent. Shall I call him in?"

Rodrik stifled a yawn, rubbing his temple. "Did I not already say to forgive him?"

Egilhard remained silent, his head bowed.

Rodrik sighed. "Fine. Bring him in."

Even though he lacked a personal connection to the man, he understood his anxiety well enough. Aetius was a seasoned commander, but the threat of execution, even if lifted, was not something a soldier took lightly.

More importantly, Rodrik needed to secure the loyalty of men like Aetius.

He might not have been a master of politics, but he had read enough books and seen enough historical dramas to understand one simple truth—in times of crisis, the greatest threat to a king's life rarely came from scheming ministers or conniving bureaucrats. They might seek to control him, but they would not dare assassinate him outright.

No—it was the men with swords in their hands who posed the real danger. Men like Lucius Aetius, Sir Egilhard, and every other commander who held sway over battalions of soldiers.

The tent flap was drawn aside, and Captain Aetius stepped forward. He was around thirty years old, his features more refined than those of a typical warrior, with the bearing of a former nobleman rather than a hardened soldier. And that was no coincidence—he had once been a scholar, trained in law and letters, before war had forced him onto the battlefield.

Rodrik recalled that in the fallen Kingdom of the Goths, Aetius had once passed the royal examinations in Toledo, a rare distinction for a man of his kind. His current title—Captain of the Red Cross Riders—might have been a military rank, but it was clear he had the background of a statesman.

Or at least, that was what Rodrik assumed.

Not that he could be certain—Visigothic bureaucracy was a labyrinth of meaningless titles, honorary distinctions, and overlapping ranks.

He barely understood half the official positions surrounding him. Even Sir Egilhard's title of "Royal Attendant" seemed to apply to both a battle-hardened knight and a collection of eunuchs tasked with dressing the king.

It was ridiculous.

And if he ever got out of this mess alive, Rodrik swore he would burn every pointless title and rewrite the entire damn system from scratch.

But that was a problem for another day.

For now, he turned his attention to Lucius Aetius.

"Aetius," Rodrik said, his voice steady. "I know you bear a heavy heart. So let me ease your mind. From this day forth, fifty men from your company will serve as my personal guard, equal in standing to the royal knights."

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to fall.

Silence stretched for only a heartbeat—then, Aetius' breath hitched, and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

Behind him, several of his officers exchanged looks of astonishment. For mercenary riders who had long existed on the fringes of the kingdom, this was not merely a pardon—it was an elevation.

Even Sir Egilhard, unshakable as ever, seemed caught off guard.

Rodrik ignored them all.

"Take care of them," he continued, his tone firm. "You will remain at my side, but I expect you to keep your men disciplined. In return, they will be treated as royal guardsmen in every respect. You may begin their integration today."

Aetius lowered his head in a deep bow, his previous unease melting into something resembling devotion.

"Your Majesty… I am humbled by your trust," he said, his voice steady. "I shall not fail you."

Rodrik nodded, already turning to leave. "Good. The weather is turning. Have the men light the fires and eat while they can."

Aetius left at once, his officers hurrying behind him, barely containing their excitement.

Egilhard, however, remained where he was.

Rodrik was about to step back into his tent when he heard the knight murmur, "Your Majesty carries the bearing of Trajan today."

Rodrik stopped mid-step.

Trajan.

Not just any Roman general, but one of Rome's greatest emperors—a ruler whose name had become synonymous with military conquest, strategic brilliance, and the rare ability to inspire both his soldiers and his people. A leader whose reign was the golden standard by which later emperors were judged.

For a Visigothic noble, especially one of Egilhard's background, to invoke Trajan was no empty compliment.

Rodrik slowly turned, studying the knight's face. Egilhard's gaze was steady, unreadable, but his words had been deliberate.

The silence between them stretched.

Rodrik had no illusions about what he had just done. His decision to integrate Aetius' men into his personal guard was a gamble—a subtle but unmistakable challenge to the power structures around him. He had just planted the first seed of his own independent military force.

And Egilhard had taken notice.

There was no need for further words.

If he really "carries the bearing of Trajan", wouldn't it be enough to kill Sir Egilhard, lead his army to raid the aristocratic faction, and seize power? But the reality is not like that. Sir Egilhard is not only tall and fully armed, but also has a very high prestige in the guards. He is not an easy opponent to deal with. He thought all night last night: to fight against Muslims, we must first seize the actual control of the kingdom. And the first step to seize control is to win over a group of trustworthy forces. Today's move is a "blessing in disguise."

Rodrik let out a slow breath, offering a faint, almost tired smile. "A fine compliment, Sir Egilhard," he said at last, his voice carrying a touch of dry amusement. "Though I suspect some of my ministers might prefer I follow the example of a more… passive emperor."

"Then they would be fools," Egilhard replied simply.

Rodrik narrowed his eyes.

It wasn't the words themselves that caught his attention—it was the way the knight had said them. Calm. Neutral. But without hesitation.

Something had shifted between them.

Egilhard had always been the ever-watchful sentinel, the silent sword at his side. A man loyal to the throne, but not necessarily to the one sitting on it.

And yet, this was the first time he had openly voiced disapproval of the ministers.

Rodrik turned away, stepping back into his tent. But as he lay down, staring at the canvas above him, his mind raced.

Had something changed in Egilhard?

Had the knight merely been testing him?

Or… was this the first crack in the power that had been holding him in place?

He didn't know. But one thing was certain.

He needed to find out.