Gallic Shores

The order cut cleanly through the sea-wind, and the first cohorts clattered across the ramps onto the waiting transports. From the quarterdeck of the flagship Alistair watched the operation with a narrow, appraising gaze. The ­Classis Britannica—serviceable tubs compared with anything his lost century could build—rose and fell on a short, ugly swell, yet discipline held: equipment was lashed, horses steadied, ballast shifted.

Crocus planted himself beside him, boots braced, eyes on the grey horizon. Valerius moved back and forth along the rail, ticking names off a wax tablet; the tribune Lucius Metellus oversaw the loading of the legion's treasury chests. The other tribune, Gaius Sabinus—summoned in Fulvius's place after Fulvius was left behind as steward of Britannia—checked that the Alemanni were spaced among Roman ranks to discourage brawls.

The crossing was brief but brutal. Many soldiers, unaccustomed to the sea, gave their silver back to Neptune; the king of the Alemanni roared with laughter at their misery. Alistair kept to the deck, cold air in his lungs, scanning for sails that did not belong to them. None appeared.

By noon of the third day a pale line surfaced through the spray and resolved into the breakwater of Gesoriacum. Its lighthouse—an angular pillar of Roman stone—signalled vigorously. Constantine's memory supplied the commander's name: Decimus Gracchus, equestrian prefect, cautious, bends to strength. Useful.

They docked under a sullen sky. Alistair disembarked with a double file of Protectores Domestici. No banners were unfurled yet; the ambiguity of his title was still a weapon. The harbour cohort formed ranks but made no hostile move. Gracchus hurried down the pier, breast-plate tarnished, eyes darting from the disciplined legionaries to the towering barbarian retinue.

"Dominus… Constantinus? Caesar?"

Alistair let the pause stretch, then answered, voice carrying across the timbers.

"Constantinus Caesar, proclaimed by the legions of Britannia in honour of my father, the divine Constantius. Until the senior Augustus ratifies the settlement, I act as steward of his western provinces."

Behind him shields thumped once on wood; a reminder that the army's voice had already thundered Augustus whether the East liked it or not.

Gracchus's shoulders sagged. "Gesoriacum is loyal, Caesar. We mourn with you."

"Your loyalty will be rewarded. For now your cohort remains in barracks. Supply rolls, treasury accounts, and any dispatches from Trier or Italy are to be delivered to my staff before nightfall."

A short nod and the prefect retreated, hastily barking orders.

Metellus took possession of the granaries; Sabinus sealed the city gates; Crocus paraded his warriors through the forum, a living rumour of barbarian ferocity harnessed to Constantine's cause. By sunset Gesoriacum's streets were quiet and its lighthouse burned under new management.

Intelligence dribbled in with the wine and bread:

Rhine forts jittery but not openly hostile.

Couriers racing between Augusta Treverorum and Mediolanum—Severus clearly awake and moving.

Certain Gallic civic councils debating whether to recognise Severus Augustus at all or wait and see.*

Alistair gathered his senior officers in the governor's triclinium, maps unrolled across a marble dining table still sticky with provincial honey-cakes.

"Gesoriacum is a foothold, nothing more," he began, tapping Trier with one finger. "Whoever holds the Moselle mint pays the armies. We march at first light. Speed and shock are our only currencies."

Metellus outlined a rapid route along the Via Agrippa; Sabinus identified river barges that could shave days off the advance; Crocus promised his Germans would scavenge forage and screen the column's flanks. Valerius merely asked how many scouts Alistair wished thrown ahead. "All of them," was the curt reply. "I want Severus's shadow measured before it reaches us."

That night Alistair walked the quiet quays alone, the salt stink masking the odour of horses and pitch. Behind him, lamps glimmered in the commandeered villa where orders were being copied for every station between Boulogne and the Ardennes. Ahead, across dark water, lay Britannia—now Fulvius's problem. South-east, beyond unseen river bends and frightened magistrates, lay Trier and the mint that could finance either his rise or his ruin.

A gull shrieked overhead; he didn't flinch. The wager placed at Eboracum had just doubled. Tomorrow the pieces would start to move on Gallic soil, and the West would have to decide—quickly—whose coin, and whose destiny, it would carry.