The Prefect's Submission

Augusta Treverorum's main audience chamber was vast. Muted light from high, arched windows gleamed faintly on the polished marble underfoot. Great mosaics covered the walls: Jupiter striking down Titans, emperors accepting the surrender of barbarian kings – grand displays of Roman might. Yet, in the heavy silence of the room, that power felt brittle, stretched thin by the current uncertainty. Constantine walked to the slightly raised dais at one end of the hall where a massive, ornate curule chair, the prefect's seat of judgment and authority, stood. He did not sit, not yet. He turned, Valerius and a dozen grim-faced Protectores fanning out behind him, their presence transforming the opulent chamber into a place of stark military occupation.

Minutes stretched into a tense silence, broken only by the distant sounds of Constantine's legions securing the city. Then, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall opened, and Junius Tiberianus, Praetorian Prefect of the Gauls, was escorted in by two more of Constantine's household guards.

Tiberianus was a man in his late fifties, his toga impeccably arranged, but his face was the color of old parchment, his eyes darting nervously. He was attempting an air of senatorial dignity, but the slight tremor in his hands betrayed his fear. He stopped a considerable distance away, offering a shallow, hesitant bow. Constantine's memories of the man were of a cautious, overly bureaucratic official, skilled in administration but bereft of true courage or decisive leadership.

"Prefect Tiberianus," Constantine's voice was calm, almost conversational, yet it echoed with an undeniable chill in the cavernous hall. "You have kept your new Emperor waiting."

Tiberianus swallowed. "Augustus… your arrival… was swift. Unexpected. The city… there was confusion following the tragic news of your divine father's passing…"

"Confusion you actively cultivated, it seems," Constantine interjected, his gaze unwavering. "My scouts reported conflicting edicts, a city garrison without clear orders, and a Praetorian Prefect barricaded within his palace while the province drifted towards anarchy. Is this how you honor the memory of Constantius? By allowing his domain to fracture in your indecision?"

"These are uncertain times, Augustus!" Tiberianus protested, a hint of desperation creeping into his tone. "Galerius… the pronouncements from the East… Severus named Augustus… A man in my position must be… prudent."

"Prudence, Prefect, is the careful assessment of risk followed by decisive action," Constantine stated, taking a slow step forward. The Protectores mirrored his movement, a subtle, menacing shift. "What I have observed here is not prudence, but paralysis. You held the authority of these Gallic provinces. You had command of powerful legions. You had a sacred duty to maintain order and uphold the legitimate succession. You failed on all counts."

He was closer now, close enough to see the sweat beading on Tiberianus's brow. "You failed my father in his legacy, you failed the people of Gaul by inviting chaos, and you have failed me by your cowardice." Constantine stopped directly before the trembling prefect. "Your service as Praetorian Prefect of the Gauls is at an end, Tiberianus."

Tiberianus's face crumpled. "Augustus… I have served the imperial house faithfully for thirty years…"

"Faithfully?" Constantine's voice was soft, dangerously so. "Your recent actions speak otherwise. However, your past service may yet mitigate your present failures." He paused. "You will tender your resignation to me, here and now. And you will swear an oath of fealty to me, Constantinus Augustus, as the sole legitimate ruler of these Gallic provinces. You will do so on your knees, Prefect, as befits a man who has so spectacularly misjudged his duty and his master."

The demand was stark, brutal. Tiberianus looked wildly from Constantine's icy face to the impassive guards surrounding them. There was no escape, no negotiation. The choice was humiliation or ruin, perhaps even death. The fight visibly drained out of him. With a small, choked sound, Junius Tiberianus, one of the most powerful men in the Western Empire only hours before, sank to his knees on the cold marble, his head bowed.

"I… Junius Tiberianus… resign my office… and swear fealty… to you… Constantinus Augustus," he whispered, the words barely audible.

"Louder, Prefect," Constantine commanded, his voice cutting. "Let the echoes in this hall bear witness to your renewed loyalty."

Tiberianus repeated the oath, his voice shaking but louder this time, each word an admission of his utter defeat. When it was done, Constantine looked down at him for a long moment. "You will be confined to your private villa within the city, under guard, until I decide your ultimate fate. Consider it… an extended period for reflection." He gestured to Valerius, who motioned for two guards to escort the broken man away.

With Tiberianus removed, Constantine moved with cold speed. The imperial treasury within the palace, which the prefect had indeed been 'guarding,' was secured. Its contents, while substantial, were less than Constantine's memories suggested should be there; Tiberianus had likely been preparing for a long period of isolation or a hefty bribe to another power. Still, it was enough to bolster his war chest significantly.

He then summoned the leading municipal magistrates of Trier and the commanders of the Legio XXII Primigenia and Legio VIII Augusta, whose main fortress was nearby at Mogontiacum but who had significant detachments and their headquarters in Trier. Faced with a new Augustus in firm control of the palace, the treasury, and the city gates, and with the architect of their recent confusion now disgraced, they offered little resistance. Constantine addressed them in the same audience chamber, his youth offset by his iron composure and the clear backing of the Britannic legions and Alemanni now filtering into the city. He spoke of his father's legacy, of the need for unity in the West against external threats and internal division, and of the rewards that loyalty would bring. One by one, they swore their oaths.

To manage the Gallic prefecture, he temporarily appointed an aging but respected vicarius of Gaul, a man named Claudius Mamertinus, whom Constantine's memories marked as loyal to his father and, more importantly, competent and unlikely to harbor personal ambitions for the purple. It was a stopgap, but a necessary one.

By nightfall, Augusta Treverorum, the jewel of Gallic Rome, was his. He stood on a balcony of the imperial palace, looking out over the vast, lamp-lit city sprawling along the Mosella. He had faced down the highest authority in Gaul, bent him to his will, and secured a vital province with its legions and resources. The southern wager had paid its first, crucial dividend. But the cost of holding it, against the storm he knew was brewing in Rome and the East, was yet to be tallied.