The Southern Wager

Night cloaked Portus Dubris in a salt-stained hush, broken only by the muted creak of rigging and the thunk of gangplanks as the last cohorts filed aboard. Pitch torches painted wavering gold patterns on shields and mail; seawater glimmered black between the hulls. Alistair walked the quay once, methodically, checking lashings, counting cavalry mounts already stowed in the holds, pausing to quiz a startled quartermaster on grain quotas. He offered no rousing speeches—only curt nods that carried the same force: nothing may go awry.

Valerius approached. "All manifests verified, Augustus. Two transports over their limit by nine men each—adjusted. Liburnians posted fore and aft for escort."

"Good." Alistair's gaze swept the fleet: twenty-eight transports, six light warships, two baggage scows. Barely enough for a proper invasion, more than enough for an audacious raid. Surprise and speed. His mantra.

Crocus waited at the end of the pier, a silent, hulking silhouette against the phosphorescent surf. Behind him loomed three hundred Alemanni, restless wolves among Roman ranks. The king tilted his head. "My warriors grow impatient for unfamiliar soil, Augustus."

"They'll have it by dawn." Alistair nodded toward the horizon where a faint paling hinted at the east. "Ensure they embark last—rear guard if we're pursued, shock troops if we're chased on land."

Crocus grinned, pleased by the implicit trust in barbarian ferocity.

The fleet cast off with the turning tide. Wind snapped the square sails; oars dipped in rhythmic unison when the breeze faltered. From the quarter-deck of the flagship, Alistair watched chalk cliffs recede into mist. An island unmoored, he thought, letting the mental image harden into resolve. Behind him, Metellus bent over a wax tablet, calculating distance and drift. "Sixty stades to Gesoriacum, with this wind," he murmured.

"Fifty if it strengthens," Alistair corrected, eyeing cloud-strata that promised a northern gust. He felt Constantine's instinctive seamanship mingling with his own meteorological logic; the synthesis no longer surprised him.

Mid-channel, a single trireme appeared from the south, running hard. Its signal fire flashed—three quick burns. The code, Constantine recalled, belonged to the Classis Sambrica, the Seine squadron nominally under Severus. Valerius's hand strayed toward his sword hilt.

"Hold formation," Alistair said. "Warships intercept." The two liburnians veered, sleek and low. Through a polished bronze scutum used as a crude spy mirror, Alistair watched colored lanterns trade questions and answers across the waves. When the trireme finally sheered off, its sails slackened, and it angled southwest—toward the Seine, not back to Italy.

A messenger clambered aboard moments later. "Intercepted orders, Augustus," the naval prefect reported, offering a damp scroll. "Severus commands the Seine squadron to remain in port. He expects no movement from Britannia."

A thin, satisfied breath left Alistair's lungs. Underestimation confirmed.

They made the Gallic shore before full light. Gesoriacum's harbor lay half-asleep: a few merchant cogs, a pair of patrol cutters, no legion garrison in sight. Crocus's warriors leapt from hulls into waist-deep surf, howling; legionaries followed, shields high, boots sinking into shingle. Resistance amounted to startled watchmen and a scrambling handful of town militia. By the time the sun crested the dunes, the lighthouse flew a hastily stitched standard—Constantine's labarum improvised from crimson banner and gleaming bronze eagle.

Alistair strode up the quay, water dripping from greaves. He noted warehouses intact, grain stocks unpillaged. "Signal the transports: unload in sequence. No looting. We need the townsfolk alive and the port functional."

Metellus hurried over with a civilian magistrate in tow, wide-eyed and shivering. "He asks under whose authority we seize imperial property."

Alistair met the man's stare. "By authority of Constantius's successor, acclaimed by the army of Britannia." He allowed a measured pause. "You may confirm that in Trier soon enough—or serve the lawful Augustus now and be rewarded." The magistrate swallowed and bowed.

One town, one port, Alistair reflected. Now the real race begins.

Four hours later, a forward patrol galloped in from the inland road. Their decurion saluted, dust caking his face. "Report, Augustus. Riders from the Legio XXX Ulpia Victrix out of Bonna—two days' march east—were spotted. They carry no hostile banners, but word of our landing spreads."

He turned to Valerius and Crocus. "We move before they can muster. Advance column in one hour: cavalry, two cohorts of VI Victrix, and your fastest Alemanni. Objective: secure Samarobriva bridge on the Somme by nightfall. The main body follows at first watch."

Metellus frowned. "That pushes men hard after a crossing."

"We traded rest for surprise the moment we left Dubris." Alistair's tone left no room for debate. Then, quieter, to Valerius: "Leave detachments on the coastal road, staggered, with beacon fires. If Severus learns and sends a fleet, I want warning enough to turn and fight on ground of my choosing."

Valerius nodded, already issuing orders.

Dusk found the vanguard trotting through rolling farmland dotted with late-summer vines. Alistair rode near the front, senses stretched taut. Every milestone south tightened the noose around Trier, but also around himself. Severus won't stay blind for long. Constantine's memory whispered of river fortresses, of veteran commanders loyal to Galerius, of Germanic incursions ever probing the Rhine line.

He pictured the Moselle valley, the mint at Trier striking coins with Severus's dour profile—soon, he hoped, with his own. Coin and sword: the twin pillars of power. Britannic silver bought time; Gallic gold would buy an empire.

A rider spurred up from the rear guard. "Sky fires, Augustus!" he panted, pointing north. On the horizon, orange flickers danced—beacon towers along the coast answering each other. The warning system worked. Somewhere behind them, sails had been sighted.

Alistair's jaw tightened, but his voice was steady. "Good. Now we know the race is on." He turned to Crocus, eyes reflecting torch-flame. "Tell your warriors to quicken the pace. Tonight we take the Somme crossing; tomorrow we march for Trier. We win by out-running the news."

Crocus's laughter rolled across the column like distant thunder. "Onward, Augustus. Let the Romans in Italy eat dust."

And under the gathering stars, Constantinus Augustus urged his horse forward, leading an army that should have belonged to another lifetime, toward a destiny only he could fully see.