Samarobriva Brought to Heel

The legion's water-clocks marked the first quarter-hour almost before the engineers had rolled the two light rams into position. Timber creaked, wedges were driven, and wicker mantlets slapped together with practised speed; everything was done in full view of the walls. On the firing line Crocus stationed a knot of Alemanni in wolf-skins, axes resting on shoulders, their laughter carrying just far enough to be heard.

Alistair sat his horse where Pulcher could not miss him—scarlet cloak fastened, helmet off, the youthful face of Constantine unmistakable against the morning sun. Valerius held the staff bearing the dragon-tailed vexillum; beside it Metellus displayed the legate's orders of promotion signed Constantinus Caesar. Symbols layered upon symbols: the army, the law, the ambiguous title—each reinforcing the other.

The hour of decision

At thirty minutes a party of townsfolk slipped out a postern gate and hurried toward the Roman lines, hands raised. They brought bread, salt and a cask of wine—tokens of hospitality, but more important, of fear. Alistair accepted the gifts, said nothing, and let them hurry back under the silent appraisal of six hundred staring legionaries.

At forty-five minutes the horns on the wall sounded a ragged call to stations. Shields flashed, then wavered. Pulcher was losing his grip on the cohort's nerves.

When the hourglass finally emptied, Alistair lifted his hand. "Advance the rams."

The first mantlet trundled forward; archers jogged up to cover it. A thunder of hobnails answered from behind the gate—Pulcher's men bracing the timber. Good. They were still thinking in defensive patterns.

Alistair gave them five more heartbeats, then raised his voice. "Pulcher! Last chance. Spare your cohort a barbarian lesson."

A long pause. Then scraping bolts, groaning hinges, and the gates cracked open just enough for the prefect himself to step through. Helmet tucked beneath one arm, sword unbelted, Marcus Clodius Pulcher walked the distance alone. Dust powdered his new greaves; sweat darkened the creases of an expensively cut tunic. Ambition had not deserted him, but it now marched beside stark self-preservation.

He halted before the young emperor, kneeling to one knee in the dirt.

"Ave, Caesar. Samarobriva places her fate in your hands."

No ringing declaration of loyalty to Galerius; no mention of Severus. A capitulation dressed in courtesy. Exactly what Alistair needed.

"Rise, Prefect," he said, voice pitched for the wall guards to hear. "Your prudence spares Roman blood. Your cohort will assemble in the forum at midday to swear the oath. You remain in command—under Tribune Sabinus's supervision—until proper appointments are issued from Trier." A calculated olive branch, rewarding surrender yet shackling Pulcher to a watchdog.

Pulcher exhaled—half gratitude, half resignation—and saluted crisply. "It will be done, Caesar."

A message writ large

Crocus's men marched in first—orderly, shields held forward, making a spectacle of restraint. Behind them came two centuries of Protectores to secure the armories. No plunder, no torches; only flags unfurled on the ramparts while scribes recorded the oath. Alistair wanted the tale spread down every road: Samarobriva yielded, and not a market-stall was lost… because it yielded.

Before sunset the main column filed through the west gate and camped beyond the walls. Alistair convened a brief council in the praetorium that had been Pulcher's residence that morning.

Metellus reported the magazines half-full—enough grain and bacon for eight marching days once wagons were seized from local estates.

Valerius delivered scout-sign: no sizeable forces between them and the Somme; couriers from Trier spotted, but moving singly, not in convoys—evidence of confusion, not coordination.

Crocus merely grinned. "My boys crave the Moselle vineyards now."

Alistair marked their positions on the leather map. "Two marches to Noviodunum; three more puts us on the Moselle. Every crossroad we pass will send riders ahead of us. The prefect in Trier will soon have to decide whether to open his gates or mimic Pulcher. If he chooses badly, the example will be harsher."

He dismissed them early, wanting the army rested. Alone, he stood on the parapet Pulcher had surrendered and watched the camp-fires prick the plain. The wolf-banners flapped beside the eagle of Legio VI; Roman and barbarian sparks feeding the same furnace.

One more lock opened, he thought. Trier is the hinge. Once it swings, the whole western door is mine to close or throw wide.

The night breeze carried scents of bread baking in newly commandeered ovens, and faint applause from townspeople daring to hope the crisis might pass without slaughter. They did not understand—not yet—that the crisis was only beginning, and its fulcrum marched beneath Constantine's cuirass.

He turned inland, toward the invisible line of the Somme, and the greater currents beyond it. Tomorrow the legions would be on the road at first light. Speed was still the blade; hesitation still the death. And Alistair—Constantinus—had no intention of meeting death anywhere but on his own chosen field.