Controlled Pressure

The hour granted to Marcus Clodius Pulcher slipped away beneath a colour-less Gallic sky. Siege rams crouched against Samarobriva's walls; Crocus's Alemanni shifted like wolves at the leash; legionaries checked shield rims and murmured wagers. In their midst Alistair sat his horse, a fixed point of frost-hard stillness, watching the battlements.

Five minutes before the deadline a single horn quavered. The town gate creaked wide enough for a procession to emerge. Pulcher marched out in parade armour, face bloodless, standard-bearers at his back. At Alistair's order the prefect advanced alone.

"Constantinus… Augustus," Pulcher said, voice taut. "Samarobriva submits. We recognise the will of the legions of Britannia and the lineage of the divine Constantius."

Alistair let silence stretch. "You recognise it now? Moments ago you cited Galerius and the Senate. What wrought this epiphany?"

"A commander must guard the lives of his men and citizens. A sack would—"

"—Serve only rebels," Alistair finished. "Your hesitation has already cost Gaul time and certainty. Your cohort will ground arms in the forum; my tribune will address them. You are relieved of command." His gaze sharpened. "Kneel."

Pulcher's pride cracked. Under the watching eyes of two armies he sank to his knees in the dust.

"Let this stand as warning," Alistair said, voice carrying. "Loyalty earns honour; defiance, humiliation. Escort the prefect to camp."

The town surrendered without a sword drawn. Tribune Lucius Metellus assumed temporary control, re-oathing the chastened cohort; most enlisted willingly, following strength as soldiers do. Supplies were tallied, workshops set to forging spearheads through the night, and the column marched at dawn.

Crocus rode beside Alistair. "Many kings would have loosed my warriors. Fear makes fast trophies."

"Fear is blunt," Alistair answered. "It burns granaries we need. Controlled pressure wins provinces."

Roads opened before them. Villages offered keys and grain; city gates swung wide; officials pledged their throats to Constantius's son. Word of Pulcher's humiliation travelled faster than any courier.

As the column neared the Moselle valley, scouts brought urgent tidings: Trier was adrift. Praetorian Prefect Junius Tiberianus, uncertain and isolated, had sealed himself in the imperial palace with the treasury guard. Orders were issued, rescinded, contradicted. Legions waited for a voice of command.

Indecision—Alistair tasted the word like fine wine. A vacuum that large invited a single decisive will.

That night, over campaign maps lit by guttering lamp-flame, he addressed his commanders: Gesoriacum secured the coast; Samarobriva proved their resolve; Trier would crown their momentum.

"Break camp before first light," he ordered. "Marching rations only. Any man who falls out garrisons the rear. The empire waits for no one."

Steel-shod feet resumed their relentless cadence, banners streaming into the dark. Ahead lay the Moselle, Trier's walls—and the moment Rome itself would be forced either to kneel or to burn.