The Emperor's Name

The news from Trier was a gift. Alistair, riding at the head of his rapidly advancing column, processed the scout's report. Tiberianus's reported paralysis – his sheer inability to act – presented itself not just as a weakness, but as a golden opportunity, a sudden opening in the enemy's guard. Alistair saw the path forward with sudden, cold clarity. Trier must be taken, and quickly, he thought. No time for a siege, no room for drawn-out talks. We strike now, exploit this confusion before anyone else grasps the advantage, or before Tiberianus himself blunders into some semblance of resolve.

He began to formulate the operational sequence: which legions would form the vanguard, how to approach the city to maximize psychological impact, who to contact first within its walls. Constantine's memories supplied detailed schematics of Trier's defenses, the locations of key administrative buildings, even the political leanings of certain lesser officials.

He gave a series of crisp orders to his tribunes, his voice carrying the absolute assurance that had swiftly become his hallmark since Eboracum. The army responded, the pace quickening further, a river of men and steel flowing inexorably towards the Moselle. He saw the unquestioning obedience in their eyes, the faith they placed in this young man who bore the name of their dead Augustus, who acted with a decisiveness far beyond his eighteen years. Constantine. The name had been shouted by thousands in Eboracum. It was the name his mother wept over, the name his dying father had charged with an empire's defense. It was the name that opened city gates and made prefects tremble.

Alistair Finch. That name belonged to a ghost, an analyst of dead worlds and forgotten histories, a consciousness ripped from its own time and place. That Alistair had observed, calculated, and survived the initial shock of transition. His knowledge, his cold intellect, were tools, honed and formidable. But tools needed a wielder, an entity with purpose and presence in this world, this time. He looked at his hands, gripping the reins – young hands, strong hands, the hands of Constantine. He felt the cool Gallic air on a face that was not the one he remembered from Neo-Alexandria, but the one that soldiers now followed, the one that would soon be etched onto coins and imperial decrees.

Alistair Finch was an echo. Constantine was the storm. The ghost has served its purpose, a final, cold thought from that fading part of himself decided. Its knowledge is now Constantine's. Its will is Constantine's. Let the echo fade. The Emperor must fully inhabit his name. And with that silent, internal decree, a subtle shift settled over him, as if a final piece of a complex mechanism had clicked into place. The cold fire of his intellect remained, but it now burned with a singular focus, under a singular name.

Constantine urged his horse onward. He was no longer a detached mind analyzing a foreign life; he was that life, given a new, terrible clarity and purpose. Trier lay ahead, a prize to be taken, the first true jewel for his new crown. Constantine's memories of Augusta Treverorum were vivid: the grandeur of the Aula Palatina, his father's basilica, its immense brick facade dominating the skyline; the sprawling imperial palace complex; the mighty Porta Nigra, a city gate of colossal black stone; the bridge across the Mosella. It was a true imperial capital, a Rome of the north. As his army crested the final rise and the city spread out before them in the afternoon light, even his hardened veterans murmured in appreciation.

But Constantine saw more than architecture. He saw a city in political paralysis, its leadership cowering, its formidable legions – the Legio XXII Primigenia, the Legio VIII Augusta, both stationed nearby – currently without decisive direction. This was the moment to strike. "Crocus," Constantine said, his voice sharp, "your Alemanni will make a wide, visible sweep to the north of the city. Let them be seen from the walls. Create a diversion. No engagement unless attacked, but make your presence known. I want Tiberianus to think a full siege is imminent from multiple directions." The Alemannic king grinned, a flash of teeth. "A pleasant afternoon's ride, Augustus. My men will enjoy stretching their legs and rattling some Roman shields from a distance."

"Valerius," Constantine continued, turning to his loyal guard commander. "You will take two cohorts of the Protectores and one of the VI Victrix. Approach the Porta Nigra. Demand entry in my name. Use the confusion Tiberianus has sown. There will be officers within who remember my father, who fear anarchy more than they fear Galerius's displeasure." Constantine's memory supplied a few names, junior officers perhaps, but men with connections. "Find them. Persuade them. The gate must open."

"And you, Augustus?" Valerius asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

Constantine looked towards the great black gate, a dark sentinel guarding the city's northern approach. "I will be right behind you, Valerius. Once that gate is open, we are not waiting for an invitation to enter my father's capital." His hand rested on the pommel of the gladius his father had wielded. The time for whispers and promises was over. The time for bold strokes had begun.