The Black Gate

The army rolled down from the heights in tight columns, half a mile of crimson and iron flowing toward Trier's massive curtain walls. Banners snapped in the steady wind; sunlight flashed along spear-tips. Constantine rode at the front, gladius resting across his thigh, Crocus and Valerius to either side like paired wolves. Before them the Porta Nigra loomed, its weather-darkened stones swallowing the afternoon glare.

Crocus peeled away with two thousand horse and light foot, arcing north into the fields where vineyards crawled toward the river. Their war-cries drifted back—jagged Alemannic syllables meant to prickle every nerve atop the battlements. Dust blossomed beneath their hooves; distant horns answered in confused, uneven cadence. Constantine allowed himself a thin breath. Good. Let them imagine a siege they cannot measure.

Valerius spurred ahead with his chosen cohorts. The Protectores marched in silence, shields lacquered, crests bright, the Britannic legionaries following in lockstep. When they reached bow-range Valerius signaled a halt, raised Constantine's silvered standard, and called for parley. From above came only the rattle of armor and the uncertain flutter of a vexillum caught in the wind.

Minutes ticked away. Constantine's main column shifted, restless—yet disciplined. He rode its front, letting the men see his face: the imperial scarlet cloak, the steady gaze that never lingered long enough to betray doubt. Constantine, not Alistair. The echo had indeed faded; what remained was purpose carved into living flesh.

At last the gate's narrow postern groaned and swung open. A tribune emerged—Caius Petronius Sabinus, if memory served—a veteran who had once carried dispatches for Constantius. He removed his helmet, stepped forward alone, and saluted.

"Augustus," he called, voice carrying, "the prefect Tiberianus begs time for deliberation. The palace guard is… uncertain whom to—"

"Open the gate," Constantine interrupted, every syllable edged steel. "Deliberation ends now. My father's treasury, his legions, and the safety of the Moselle demand it."

Sabinus glanced toward the walls, weighing fear against duty. Behind him Valerius's cohorts advanced three measured paces—nothing overtly threatening, yet the air thickened like a drawn bowstring. Above, helmets disappeared from crenellations; the defenders whispered, calculating odds that shifted by the heartbeat.

Keys clattered. Great timber beams slid aside. With a thunderous groan the Porta Nigra yawned open, spilling lamplight onto the paving stones. Constantine nudged his horse forward, Valerius falling in beside him, the eagle standard rising behind. No cheer broke from the onlookers—only a hush charged with relief and foreboding. His cavalry poured through, fanning along broad avenues toward the palace district; infantry followed, boots drumming a conqueror's cadence.

Inside the city Constantine guided his retinue straight toward the imperial basilica. Citizens lined the streets—merchants frozen beside carts, women clutching children, slaves kneeling instinctively. Some faces shone with hope, others with wary calculation, but nowhere did he glimpse open defiance. News of Samarobriva had done its work.

The basilica's bronze doors stood half-open, guards arrayed uncertainly before them. Constantine dismounted, leaving Valerius to marshal the perimeter. He ascended the marble steps alone but for two shield-bearers. The vestibule smelled of incense and old authority. At its far end Tiberianus waited—broad-shouldered, grey at the temples, eyes haunted by sleepless councils. Behind him a knot of treasury guards lingered, spears dipped neither low nor high, mirroring their commander's confusion.

"Praetorian Prefect," Constantine said, voice carrying through the vaulted hall. "Rome's western provinces require a hand, not a trembling pen. I am that hand." He drew his father's gladius—not in threat, but in declaration—and set the blade upright before him, palms resting on the pommel. "Swear the oath, and the empire's business continues. Refuse, and anarchy owns tomorrow."

Silence pulsed. Tiberianus's gaze slid to the open doors, to the forest of spear-points filling the courtyard beyond, then back to the young man whose certainty seemed carved from the stone around them. At last he knelt, head bowed.

"I served your father faithfully," he murmured. "I will serve his son."

Constantine touched the gladius to the prefect's shoulder—once, twice—then offered a hand and drew him to his feet. "Summon the legates of the Twenty-Second and the Eighth. Mint new coin in my name before dusk. Announce that pay chests will be full on the morrow."

The old administrator managed a weary, almost grateful smile. "It shall be done, Augustus."

Outside, bells began to ring—hesitant at first, then gathering boldness—as word rippled through Trier like spring thaw across ice. Constantine stepped back into the light, the basilica doors swinging wide behind him, and a cheer rolled up from legionaries and townsfolk alike. Banners dipped; horns blared; the pulse of a re-forged empire quickened.

He raised his sword in salute, feeling the weight of past and future settle into perfect balance along its edge. Constantine—emperor by acclamation, by lineage, by ruthless necessity—had taken his capital without a single stone cast. Ahead lay councils, campaigns, intrigues, perhaps even the whispers of magic that had begun to stir at the fringes of his scouts' reports. For now, though, the city of the north belonged to him, and the road to Rome stretched open beneath a gathering storm of his own making.