Fantastic Metropolis

Hard to say. But in my mind’s eye I see the armies of the Bright Principality doing battle with the Horsemen of the Prophet. The giant Byzantine General Carolus Magnus, of Frankish descent, leads his cohorts into battle underneath the Cross, while the Seljuk, the Hindi, and the Chinese unite under the world empire of Islam. It would be glorious, and terrible. By the 12^th Century, each side would find most of their conflict in the vast Asian steppe between Moscow and Beijing, on the seas as each attempted to spread to Africa, and yet I see both as strangely capable of sophisticated diplomacy. The Islamic World-Empire would have long since learned from thinkers like Mencius and Confucius and been informed by the cultures of India, while Byzantium would have had to learn to absorb and utilize different cultures. Each tolerates other faiths as long as their main creed is supreme. In a world where direct conflict would prove destructive and pointless, where the Mediterranean is again a Latin Lake and Islam rules the Indian Ocean, you can almost imagine an uneasy peace replacing generations of war.

But I dream. It would probably be a savage war lasting hundreds of years, till one fell or both were too exhausted to continue and uneasy peaces were exchanged. Each side would have access to ancient texts we have lost, the writings of Apollonius of Tyana, the Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus, Hypatia’s Dialogues, Archimedes’ studies of siege warfare, Hero of Alexandria… their war machines would race forward, each powered by the petroleum fields in the contested middle east. First lumbering, belching carriages… then sophisticated iron and bronze juggernauts, metal whales seeking metal sharks under the sea and metal birds and insects in the skies… perhaps even suits of laminated armor (an eastern secret the Empire of Islam would gain by its expansion) powered by sophisticated internal combustion engines against huge, thick iron walkers powered by a discovery made by a Camberensian Latin born in the British Province, a kind of energy one can tap from purified earth elements similar to the primordial matter so long speculated by alchemists. Battlesuits and mecha warring across the taiga and in the Holy Land before the Renaissance happened in our paltry timeline.

Of course, all of this assumes that the name Belisarius, which as I said means Bright Prince, doesn’t have a Luciferian aspect. After all, Procopius doesn’t leave his old patron out when it comes time to dish out the charges of Satanism and debauchery. While depicting Belisarius as a dupe or an innocent caught in a sinister conspiracy has a certain appeal, what if the man was, in fact, a bringer of light in the most sinister way possible? He could well have been in North Africa seeking out the lost knowledge of the Dogon peoples or even various Manichaean sects like the one that St. Augustine of Hippo was once a member of, and his trip west might well have been a quest for power on his own… perhaps Pope Vigilius was wiser than our secular age gives him credit for: perhaps one misstep and a bright light hiding many shadows would have descended over the Vatican. After all, it’s interesting that Theodora, Justinian’s co-ruler and a loather of Belisarius, died in time for the man to be sent west. However, we can do more than make an angel or a devil of our fair General of the East. And, being that I am an admitted lunatic with a fondness for a famous king, why not drag in our old friend the Pendragon?

Imagine it: The time is the Sixth Century after Christ. The place is the former province of the now-crumbling Western Empire known as Dacia. Two of the grandest armies ever assembled face each other along the banks of the River Danube. One bears a great Roman Standard, with the Chi-Rho of Christ above the Imperial Double-Eagle symbol, while the other carries an old Cymry Battle-Flag of a Red Dragon below a great red and white Cross. While one army wears the armor of the Roman Infantry, the other is a riot of plaids gathered into great cloaks and kilts, assembled by enormous silver brooches… yet beneath such garb lies mail that is quite familiar to the other side. The horses of the armies snort and stamp the ground, and each side dreads the order to charge across the muddy banks of the river.

Then, from each side, a man rides forth to meet the other. Watching on the Western bank is an older man with a strange cast to his skin and a shock of white hair, while on the Eastern bank a man and a woman of Imperial bearing await the news, their hands locked, their manner grim. They have all traveled far to meet in the heart of what was once the Roman Empire.

The two horsemen reach the middle ford of the Danube, which is behaving itself, as if it knows that history is melting, thawing, and resolving itself anew at this nexus of time and potential. The easterner is short, stocky but powerfully built, born to ride a horse and wage war, dark of hair and skin. The western man is tall, reddish-blond of hair and beard, with an enormous sword on his hip and an ease of command that seems somehow instinctive. They face each other, brown eyes locked on blue.

And then they smile. The General of Constantinople, Belisarius the Great, quite possibly the greatest general who ever lived, reaches out a hand and clasps the forearm of the Dux Britannium, Arthur, King of Britain.

“Welcome to the empire of your ancestor Constantine, Emperor Arthur of the West.”

No, it never happened. It may not have been possible, since no one can prove that there ever was an Arthur. But if you think a little thing like historical fact is going to slow me down, well, we both know better, don’t we?