Dawn of a New Rome

The order cut through the harbor like a drawn blade, crisp above the constant sea-wind. At once, the cohorts began their slow, careful march up the gangplanks and onto the waiting transports. Each man's boots rang out across the wood, joined by the creak of leather harnesses and the rattle of spear-butts against shields. From the quarterdeck of the flagship, Constantine watched the operation with a narrow, unblinking gaze. The Classis Britannica had never looked more makeshift: weathered hulls with names worn away by salt, ropes patched with foreign knots, horses packed tight among the baggage.

Yet for all that, discipline held. Equipment was lashed. Horses were calmed. Ballast shifted from hold to hold as needed. Constantine marked each decision, each order, absorbing the flow of command into a single, relentless purpose.

Crocus planted himself at the rail beside Constantine, boots wide for balance, arms folded over his chest. He stared into the gray, fog-bound horizon, sniffing the wind. Nearby, Valerius paced the deck, checking every name against the lists and making certain every man was accounted for. Lucius Metellus kept a close watch on the treasury chests as they were loaded, jaw set, saying little, letting nothing distract him from the task.

The new tribune, Gaius Sabinus-trusted for steadiness after Fulvius was left behind to govern Britannia-made sure the Alemanni were distributed among Roman ranks to head off trouble before it started.

The crossing proved harsh. The Channel did not welcome them with calm. Swells hammered the hulls, driving half the legionaries to their knees. Many surrendered their breakfast to Neptune, bracing against rails as Crocus roared laughter at their suffering. Constantine stayed above decks, breathing the cold air and watching the far edge of the world for sails that were not their own. None came.

They made landfall on the third day. A pale smudge became a line, and then the familiar breakwater of Gesoriacum. The lighthouse signaled from its high tower-angular, proud, all straight Roman lines against the spray. Constantine's memory conjured the garrison commander's name: Decimus Gracchus, a cautious man who bent to strength but did not break. Useful for now.

The fleet slid into the harbor under a sullen sky. Ropes flew. Oarsmen leapt ashore. Constantine was the first to disembark, followed by his Protectores Domestici in double file, armor dark with salt. No banners flew yet; the ambiguity of his title remained a shield. On the quay, the harbor cohort stood in formation, arms ready but not raised, their discipline a silent offering. Gracchus hurried forward, breastplate tarnished and one gauntlet still unfastened, eyes darting between the disciplined legionaries and the hulking forms of Crocus's Alemanni.

"Dominus… Constantinus? Caesar?"

Constantine let the silence stretch, then answered so that every ear heard. "Constantinus Caesar. Proclaimed by the legions of Britannia in honor of my father, the divine Constantius. Until the senior Augustus ratifies the settlement, I hold stewardship of his western provinces."

A single heavy thump answered as Roman shields struck wood behind him, a wordless reminder that the army had already proclaimed Augustus. The East might hesitate, but the West had chosen.

Gracchus's shoulders relaxed. "Gesoriacum is loyal, Caesar. We mourn with you."

Constantine nodded once. "Your loyalty will be rewarded. For now, your cohort remains in barracks. All supply rolls, treasury accounts, and dispatches from Trier or Italy are to be delivered to my staff by nightfall."

Gracchus bowed his head and hurried to give orders. The tension on the quay broke, replaced by a focused urgency. Metellus moved quickly, taking charge of the granaries. Sabinus sealed the city gates, posting trusted men at every archway and tower. Crocus led his warriors in a noisy parade through the forum, the sight of armed Germans working as rumor and warning both: Rome's might had found wild new allies.

As night fell, the city quieted. Lamps burned along the docks. The lighthouse flame burned brighter under new command. Constantine gathered his senior officers in the governor's triclinium, a long chamber lined with marble and battered provincial tapestries. Maps sprawled across the table, sticky with spilled honey and the marks of a dozen hands.

Reports arrived with wine and hard bread. News from the Rhine: the frontier garrisons were unsettled, but not openly hostile. Couriers ran between Augusta Treverorum and Mediolanum, evidence that Severus was now awake and moving. Certain city councils in Gaul argued among themselves, divided over which Augustus to honor, preferring caution to risk.

Constantine began the council with no ceremony. "Gesoriacum is a foothold, nothing more," he said, tapping Trier on the map. "Whoever holds the Moselle mint pays the armies. We march at first light. Speed and shock are our only currencies."

Metellus outlined the Via Agrippa: a rapid route south and east, paved but vulnerable to ambush. Sabinus identified river barges and ferries that could be seized to speed the crossing of the Somme and the Aisne. Crocus pledged his Germans to forage ahead and screen the flanks. Valerius asked how many scouts to send.

"All of them," Constantine replied. "I want Severus's shadow measured before it finds us."

He set a hard tempo. Orders were copied out for every officer and post between Boulogne and the Ardennes. Riders would carry his seal to every city and fort that might hesitate, warning and promising in equal measure.

After the council, Constantine walked the quays alone. The night air was sharp with salt and coal smoke. Behind him, the lights in the commandeered villa flickered as aides worked through the night. Ahead, the water stretched black and endless. Somewhere out there, Fulvius now held Britannia in his own hands. Across the dark, past unseen riverbends and wary towns, lay Trier and the mint-a city whose silver would soon pay the price of power, for him or for his rivals.

A gull screamed. Constantine did not flinch. The gamble at Eboracum had doubled now. Every order written and every coin minted raised the stakes.

Dawn approached, the first light turning the lighthouse stone from shadow to gray. The column would move soon, pressed hard and fast toward the heart of Gaul. Constantine watched the stars fade, felt the wind freshen, and knew the next day would decide more than any proclamation or council. He would march on Trier and meet whatever Severus or Galerius could throw against him.

Tomorrow, Gallic soil would tremble under Roman boots, and the empire would learn whose coin-and whose vision-it would carry.