The Road to Trier

The legions marched out of Gesoriacum at dawn, a river of steel and leather flowing onto the great Roman road that led southeast, deep into the heart of Gaul. Alistair rode near the head of the column, alongside Crocus and Valerius, the standards of the Legio VI Victrix and the intimidating, wolf-pelted banners of the Alemanni catching the morning light. Constantine's memories supplied a familiarity with the disciplined rhythm of a Roman army on the move, the scent of dust and marching men, the jingle of harness and hobnails. Alistair's mind, however, was consumed with the complex, shifting variables of the campaign ahead.

Speed was everything. Every day spent on the road was a day for Severus's agents to rally opposition, for Galerius's pronouncements to undermine his legitimacy, for the wavering loyalties of Gallic commanders to solidify against him. He pushed the pace, relying on the hardened endurance of his Britannic legions and the restless energy of Crocus's warriors.

The coastal regions of Gallia Belgica were, initially at least, subdued. Small towns and villas, caught unawares by the sudden appearance of an imperial claimant with a formidable army, offered little resistance. Local decurions, their faces pale with apprehension, would meet the vanguard, stammering oaths of allegiance and proffering supplies – grain, wine, fodder – more out of fear than fervent loyalty. Alistair accepted their submissions with a cool, formal courtesy that offered neither warmth nor overt threat, but left no doubt as to his expectation of absolute compliance. He left tiny garrisons of auxiliaries in a few key settlements, more as symbols of his authority than as genuine occupying forces.

Scouts, a mix of Roman exploratores and agile Alemanni horsemen, ranged far ahead and on the flanks, their reports filtering back to Alistair each evening. The news was a tapestry of hope and concern. Some smaller military posts along the Litis Romanus, the Saxon Shore defenses, had readily declared for him, their commanders old comrades of his father. But further inland, the picture grew murkier. Rumors flew of directives from Trier, from the Praetorian Prefect of Gaul, a man named Junius Tiberianus, whom Constantine's memories painted as an experienced but deeply cautious administrator, unlikely to commit himself rashly.

Several days into the march, as they approached the town of Samarobriva, a significant crossroads and legionary depot, Valerius brought word. "Augustus, the prefect of the cohort stationed in Samarobriva, one Marcus Clodius Pulcher, has fortified the gates. He claims to await orders from Augusta Treverorum… or from Rome."

Alistair's jaw tightened. Pulcher. Constantine's memories supplied a portrait of a young, ambitious nobleman, distantly related to a powerful senatorial family in Rome, known more for his arrogance than his military acumen. A man who likely saw this 18-year-old Augustus as an upstart. "He awaits orders?" Alistair repeated, his voice soft but edged with ice. "Then he shall receive them. From me."

He diverted the main column slightly, taking a strong contingent of his Protectores and a thousand of Crocus's most fearsome Alemanni warriors directly to the walls of Samarobriva. The rest of the army would follow, a clear demonstration of his full strength.

The town's walls were respectable, its gates closed and barred. Figures in Roman armor could be seen patrolling the ramparts. Alistair halted his force just out of bowshot, sending a herald forward with a simple message: "Constantinus Augustus, son of the divine Constantius, rightful ruler of these lands, demands entry and the immediate submission of Prefect Marcus Clodius Pulcher."

The wait was not long. Pulcher himself appeared on the wall, a figure made small by distance, but his disdainful posture was evident even from afar. His reply, shouted by a legionary trumpeter, was equally clear: "Samarobriva holds for the legitimate authorities recognized by the Senate and People of Rome, and by the Senior Augustus Galerius. We do not recognize provincial acclamations."

Crocus spat on the ground. "He has courage, or folly." "He has a misplaced sense of his own importance," Alistair corrected, his eyes fixed on the defiant figure on the wall. This was a test. If he failed to bring Samarobriva to heel quickly, other towns, other commanders, would take note. He could not afford a protracted siege.

"Prepare the rams," Alistair ordered quietly to a nearby engineering officer. Then, raising his voice to be carried towards the walls, he declared, "Prefect Pulcher! You have one hour to open those gates and present yourself and your cohort to swear allegiance. If you refuse, I will consider Samarobriva in rebellion. My Alemanni allies are… eager to instruct rebels in the price of their disloyalty. Your town, your people, will bear the consequence of your pride."

The threat was unambiguous. Crocus's warriors, hearing the mention of their role, let out a collective, guttural roar, brandishing their axes and spears. It was a terrifying sound, a promise of brutal, unrestrained warfare that Roman garrisons, accustomed to fighting barbarians on the frontier, not within their own towns, dreaded.

Alistair watched the ramparts. He could see agitation, figures moving hurriedly, gesturing. Constantine's memories told him of Pulcher's ambition, but also of his love for Roman comforts and his probable lack of genuine stomach for a truly desperate fight, especially one that would end in the sack of his command. The hour would be long for the prefect. For Alistair, it was merely another calculation in the cold arithmetic of power. The road to Trier had to be cleared of all obstacles, one way or another.