Dawn of a New Rome

Night pressed against Portus Dubris, cloaking the harbor in a stillness broken only by the muted grind of timber and the clatter of boots on wet planks. Salt air carried the smoke of pitch torches, flickering in the dark as the last legionaries filed onto the ships. Masts rocked in the tide, ropes creaked, and across the water the hulls of transports and warships floated side by side, their shadows quivering atop black waves. Constantine, still new in the shape of his destiny, walked the length of the quay with a methodical patience. He checked hatches and counted mounts penned below, pausing to quiz a surprised quartermaster about the number of grain amphorae loaded per hull. There were no stirring speeches, no ceremony. Only a nod or a short command, each word sharper than steel: nothing must go wrong.

Valerius appeared out of the mist, the top of his helmet tucked beneath one arm, a fresh scroll-case in the other. "All manifests checked, Augustus. Two ships over by nine men each. I've reassigned them. Liburnians are stationed at the front and rear of the column for escort."

Constantine's gaze swept the harbor. Twenty-eight full transports, six warships, two baggage barges-barely enough for an army, but enough to make an empire hold its breath. He thought of surprise and speed. That was the only way, now. "Hold formation. Embark the cavalry first, then Crocus and the Alemanni last. They cover the rear if we're chased on the water, lead the charge if we land under fire."

Crocus waited at the farthest pier, his figure broad and still, a bear among the smaller shadows of his men. The king's eyes gleamed as Constantine spoke, betraying anticipation, not doubt. "My warriors grow restless for new earth, Augustus," he rumbled.

"They'll have it by dawn," Constantine replied. The first hints of morning pale already pressed at the edge of the sky. He trusted the Alemanni to hold the line-trusted them to fight with wildness where Roman order might break.

The last ropes were loosed, and the fleet drifted free with the turning tide. Sails snapped, oars dipped into the swell, and as the ships turned north and east, the chalk cliffs of Britannia faded into fog. On the quarterdeck, Metellus hunched over a wax tablet, lips moving as he measured wind and tide. "Sixty stades to Gesoriacum if the weather holds," he murmured.

Constantine eyed the sky, reading the pressure of the wind. "Fifty if the clouds break right." Constantine felt the fusion of two worlds-the memory of a risk analyst reading charts, and the muscle memory of a soldier who understood sea and sky not in theory, but in blood.

Halfway across the channel, a lone trireme emerged from the south, racing toward the convoy. Her mast flashed coded lanterns-three quick bursts, then blackness. The code matched the Seine squadron, the Classis Sambrica, under Severus's command. Valerius's hand drifted to his sword, but Constantine raised his own in silent command.

"Keep steady. Warships intercept," he said. Two liburnians angled off, low and sleek, closing on the stranger. Lanterns exchanged colors and shapes. Messages flowed across the water in light and shadow. Eventually, the trireme swung away, turning southwest, sails slack in the breeze, and faded toward the Seine.

A dripping messenger clambered aboard, offering a salt-soaked scroll. The naval prefect bowed, "Orders from the enemy, Augustus. Severus commands the Seine squadron to hold fast in port. He expects nothing from Britannia."

Constantine allowed himself a long, silent exhale. The enemy had underestimated him. Surprise would last another hour, maybe two, and he intended to use every heartbeat.

The coastline of Gaul appeared as a grey smudge before dawn. As the sun lifted, Gesoriacum's harbor came into view-quiet, unprepared. Merchant cogs lay tied to the quay, a pair of small patrol boats bobbing in the shallows. There were no banners, no posted watch. Crocus's warriors hit the surf first, boots churning water, voices raised in a wild howl that echoed across the waking town. Roman legionaries followed, shields high, boots sucking at the shingle. They met only token resistance-a few startled militiamen, some watchmen, no standing legion.

Constantine strode up the sand, water still running from his greaves. He stopped at the warehouses, nodding as he saw full stores of grain untouched. "Signal the transports to unload in order," he told Metellus. "No looting. We need the town loyal, and we need the port intact."

Within an hour, crimson standards flew from the lighthouse and the main quay. A civilian magistrate, pale and trembling, was dragged before Constantine. Metellus translated as the man asked by what right imperial property was seized.

"By authority of Constantius's successor, acclaimed by the army of Britannia," Constantine answered, calm and cold. "You may confirm it in Trier, or you can serve Rome's lawful Augustus now and prosper for it." The magistrate stammered a bow, already calculating his allegiance.

A town and a port, won without blood, but Constantine knew the price would soon come due. Within hours, cavalry patrols raced in from inland. The commander saluted, dust thick on his beard, "Riders from the Legio XXX out of Bonna, two days east. No hostile banners yet, but the countryside is alive with news of our landing."

Constantine called Valerius and Crocus to him. "Advance column in one hour-cavalry, two cohorts of the Sixth, your fastest Alemanni. We take the Samarobriva bridge by nightfall. The main force follows at first watch."

Metellus frowned. "That is a hard pace after a night at sea."

"We traded rest for surprise the moment we left Dubris," Constantine replied. "No slack. I want detachments left behind at every milepost along the coastal road, beacon fires at the ready. If Severus finds out and sends his fleet, we will meet him on ground of our choosing, not his."

Valerius nodded, already shouting orders. Crocus barked commands in his native tongue, and soon the vanguard was assembling-hooves stamping, armor rattling, men slapping the fatigue from their arms and legs. Constantine led from the front. Each milestone conquered tightened his grip on Gaul, and on fate itself.

They rode into the dusk, across farmland heavy with the last of the harvest, vines climbing low fences, cottages sending thin trails of smoke up into the coming night. Constantine thought of every risk: Severus, somewhere south, mustering his own columns; Galerius, already angry and perhaps on the march; the Rhine, a living border forever threatened by Germans. But Constantine did not allow doubt to slow him.

Near midnight, a rider galloped up from the rear guard. "Sky fires, Augustus!" He pointed north, where orange flares winked in the darkness-beacons, lit in sequence, chasing word up the coast. The warning had gone out. Somewhere, sails had been seen. The enemy was coming.

Constantine turned to Crocus, voice firm and low. "Have your warriors double the pace. We cross the Somme tonight, take the bridge, and prepare for whatever comes at first light. Every league gained now is a day bought for the empire."

Crocus grinned, fierce and eager. "Onward, Augustus. Let the Italians taste our dust."

So under a sky crowded with firelight and uncertain omens, Constantine pressed his army onward. At his side, barbarians and Romans rode shoulder to shoulder, the future drawn in sword-edge and hoofbeat. Tomorrow, Gesoriacum would be secure. Tomorrow, the race for the Rhine and for Rome itself would begin in earnest.

He rode with the full weight of empire pressing down, but in that moment, with the cold wind at his back and dawn ahead, he felt every part the master of his own fate.