The Price of Defiance

The hour allotted to Marcus Clodius Pulcher and the town of Samarobriva dwindled under the indifferent Gallic sky. Alistair stood before his assembled force, a still, cold point of focus amidst the restless energy of warriors eager for action or resolution. The siege rams, crude but effective machines of Roman engineering, were positioned. Crocus's Alemanni grew restless; a low murmur ran through their ranks as their eyes stayed on Samarobriva's walls. Alistair's own gaze remained fixed on the ramparts. He noted the errant flash of sunlight on armor, saw officers huddled in tight knots, their gestures growing more frantic as the deadline neared.

Constantine's memories offered insights into the Roman military psyche: a legionary cohort, even one commanded by an arrogant prefect, would fight fiercely if cornered or if they believed their cause just and their leadership competent. But they also valued their lives, their citizenship, and the stability of Roman order. The explicit threat of an Alemanni sack, a horror usually reserved for barbarian enemies on the distant frontiers, would weigh heavily against any abstract notions of loyalty to a far-off, uncertain authority in Rome or Trier.

With mere minutes remaining, a lone horn blew from the battlements of Samarobriva – a hesitant, wavering note, not a call to arms, but something else. Then, slowly, with a groan of protesting timber, one of the main gates began to creak open.

Crocus grunted beside Alistair. "The pup has found his sense, it seems. Or lost his nerve."

Alistair watched, his expression unchanging, as a small procession emerged: Prefect Marcus Clodius Pulcher, his armor perhaps a little too polished, his face pale but striving for a measure of dignity, flanked by a few of his own officers and standard-bearers. They advanced a short distance from the gate and halted.

"He will approach," Alistair said quietly to Valerius. "Alone. His officers will remain with his standards." He would dictate the terms of this submission precisely.

Valerius relayed the order. After a moment of visible internal struggle, Pulcher instructed his retinue to wait and walked forward, his steps lacking the confident stride of a Roman commander. He stopped a respectful distance from Alistair, who remained mounted, looking down at the prefect.

"Constantinus… Augustus," Pulcher began, his voice strained. "Samarobriva… opens its gates to you. We… we recognize the will of the legions of Britannia and the… the lineage of the divine Constantius."

Alistair let the silence stretch, his gaze cold and unblinking. He saw the man's fear, the carefully constructed façade of Roman pride crumbling. "You recognize it now, Prefect Pulcher?" he asked, his voice soft, yet carrying a distinct chill. "An hour ago, you spoke of legitimacy, of the Senate, of Galerius. What caused this… swift enlightenment?"

Pulcher flushed. "Augustus… a commander must consider the welfare of his men, and of the citizens under his protection. A… a conflict within these walls would serve no one."

"No one but those who defy the rightful successor to their beloved Emperor, perhaps," Alistair countered. "Your initial defiance, Prefect, has already wasted precious time. It has sown uncertainty. It has necessitated a show of force that should have been directed against Rome's enemies, not her own garrisons." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Your cohort will lay down its arms in the town square. They will then be addressed by one of my tribunes. Their fate, and yours, will be considered." Alistair's eyes narrowed. "You, Prefect Pulcher, will kneel."

The command was absolute, delivered with icy precision. Pulcher froze, his face going from pale to mottled red. To kneel before another Roman, not in supplication to the gods, but in personal submission, was a deep humiliation for a man of his standing. He hesitated, his pride warring with self-preservation. Crocus's Alemanni, sensing the tension, let out a low, anticipatory growl.

That sound, more than Alistair's words, seemed to break Pulcher's resistance. Slowly, with an almost physical reluctance, Marcus Clodius Pulcher sank to his knees in the dust before Alistair's warhorse.

Alistair looked down at him for a long moment. "Let this be a lesson, not only to you, but to any in Gaul who doubt my resolve," he said, his voice resonating clearly. "Loyalty will be rewarded. Defiance will have its price. You are stripped of your command, Pulcher. You will be escorted to my camp under guard. Consider your future… carefully."

He turned his horse without a backward glance, leaving Pulcher kneeling in the road. Valerius and the Protectores moved to secure the prefect. The message to Samarobriva, and to all of Gaul, was clear.

The town itself was subdued with disciplined efficiency. The cohort, leaderless and demoralized, offered no resistance. Alistair appointed Lucius Metellus, one of his trusted Britannic tribunes, as temporary commander of Samarobriva, with orders to integrate the chastened local troops into his own force if they swore new oaths willingly. Most did. Roman soldiers, Alistair knew from Constantine's memories, were pragmatic; they followed strength and the promise of victory.

News of Samarobriva's swift, bloodless submission – and Pulcher's public humiliation – preceded them as they resumed their march. The effect was noticeable. Other towns along their route offered allegiance with far greater alacrity. Gates were opened, supplies offered, local officials effusive in their loyalty to the son of Constantius. Alistair accepted it all with the same cool detachment, his mind focused on the greater prize.

Crocus, riding beside him a day later, remarked, "You have a cold fire in you, Roman. Many would have let my warriors loose on that town, for a taste."

"A taste that would have cost us days, Prefect," Alistair replied. "And earned us the fear of Gaul, perhaps, but not its willing obedience. Controlled pressure, King Crocus, is often more effective than uncontrolled destruction. There will be time enough for… fire… should it be truly necessary."

As they drew closer to the Moselle valley, the heartland of Gallic power, the scouts began to bring more urgent news. The reports from Trier painted a picture of a city adrift. Junius Tiberianus, the Praetorian Prefect—ever a man to weigh each grain of sand before acting, as Constantine's memories recalled—had apparently barricaded himself in the imperial palace with the treasury guard. Conflicting orders were said to be trickling out of the palace, while Tiberianus himself dithered. The great city, and the powerful legions stationed nearby, were rudderless, uncertain who now commanded their allegiance in the West. Alistair allowed himself a thin, almost invisible smile. Indecision in an enemy was an invitation.