Dawn of a New Rome

The legion's water-clocks had barely marked the first quarter-hour when the engineers finished rolling out two light rams before the walls of Samarobriva. Timber groaned under the strain as wedges were hammered into place. Wicker mantlets were slapped together by men who barely needed to speak, each task practiced and swift. Everything was done in plain sight. There was no attempt at subtlety; Constantine wanted the defenders to see the precision and confidence of the Roman lines.

On the firing line, Crocus arranged a knot of his Alemanni, wolf-skin cloaks draped over their shoulders, axes carried loosely. Their laughter floated just far enough to reach the battlements. The message was clear: these were not men who feared a siege, and if they came over the walls, there would be no restraint.

Alistair sat mounted where Pulcher could not miss him, his scarlet cloak catching the rising sun, helmet cradled in one arm, the face of Constantine unmistakable. Valerius held the staff with its dragon-tailed vexillum, the old standard snapping in the breeze. Metellus stood nearby, displaying the legate's orders-promotion writ in sharp Latin, sealed with the ring of Constantinus Caesar. Every symbol reinforced the message: army, law, and a title still contested but growing more real by the day.

The morning sharpened. Each tick of the water-clock was measured by the movement of men. The sun inched higher, shadows retreated, and on the wall the defenders shuffled nervously behind their shields.

Thirty minutes after deployment, a cluster of townsfolk edged out through a postern gate. They moved in a huddle, bearing gifts of bread and salt and a small barrel of wine. Their steps faltered under the hard gaze of the Romans, but no one stopped them. When they reached Alistair, he accepted the gifts in silence, offered no words, and let them scurry back. The meaning was as much for the watching cohort as for the town: peace, if it could be had cheaply, was preferable. The alternative stood ready on the field.

At forty-five minutes, the horns on the ramparts called a hesitant muster. Shields caught the light in uneven flashes, movement without unity. The lines were thinning. Alistair could see Pulcher's grip on his men slipping away.

When the hourglass finally ran out, Constantine raised his hand. "Advance the rams."

The first mantlet trundled forward, archers jogging up to cover it. There was a muffled roar from behind the gate as Pulcher's men braced it with everything they had-still fighting by the old rules, still hoping defense would bring relief.

Alistair waited a moment longer, letting tension soak the field. Then he lifted his voice, letting it ring across the no-man's land. "Pulcher! Last chance. Spare your cohort a lesson they would rather not learn."

For a heartbeat nothing happened. Then the sound of bars drawn, bolts scraping, and the gates cracked open just enough for a single figure to emerge. Marcus Clodius Pulcher, helmet under his arm and sword unbelted, stepped forward alone. Dust clung to his boots, and sweat darkened the fine wool of his tunic. He had chosen survival over pride.

Pulcher halted a few paces short, then knelt in the dirt.

"Ave, Caesar. Samarobriva places its fate in your hands."

He offered no allegiance to Galerius. No word for Severus. Just a quiet surrender, stripped of rhetoric.

Constantine nodded, voice calm but projecting. "Rise, Prefect. Your prudence has spared Roman blood. Your cohort will gather in the forum at midday to swear the oath. You remain in command, but under Tribune Sabinus's supervision until appointments are confirmed from Trier." The message was double-edged-reward for good sense, but a leash to prevent betrayal.

Pulcher stood, relief flickering in his eyes. "It will be done, Caesar."

Crocus's men entered first, shields up but discipline held, marching in controlled ranks. Their restraint was more intimidating than violence. Behind them, two centuries of Protectores Domestici secured the armories and watchtowers. No plunder, no flames. Only Roman banners unfurled along the walls, scribes taking the names of each cohort as oaths were sworn. Constantine wanted the news to spread down every road: Samarobriva yielded, and because it yielded, its markets and homes stood untouched.

As the sun dipped, the main column of the army filed through the west gate. Legionaries and allies camped on the plain outside, refusing to quarter in the town. Constantine called a brief council in the praetorium, a stone hall that had been Pulcher's domain that morning.

Metellus gave his report: the magazines were half-full, enough grain and bacon for eight days' march once carts and wagons were collected from local estates. Valerius brought word from the scouts-no organized resistance between Samarobriva and the Somme, only scattered couriers riding from Trier. They moved singly, not in force; confusion reigned beyond the horizon.

Crocus grinned across the table. "My boys crave the Moselle vineyards. They are ready to run every mile to get there."

Constantine studied the map, marking out the next moves in grease pencil. "Two days to Noviodunum, three more to the Moselle. Every crossroad will send messengers ahead of us. The prefect in Trier must soon decide: open the gates and survive, or resist and invite a harsher fate."

He dismissed the officers early, ordering all men to rest. Then he climbed the parapet Pulcher had surrendered, standing alone while the campfires sprang up across the plain. The banners of the Alemanni hung beside those of Legio VI, the two emblems flapping side by side in the twilight. He watched the glow of ovens and heard faint applause from townspeople, emboldened by hope that the worst might pass without disaster.

But Constantine knew the truth. The crisis had only just begun. Tonight, Samarobriva was spared because Pulcher had the sense to surrender, but other towns might not prove so wise.

He turned to the east, past the fields and river, past the invisible ribbon of the Somme, and farther-toward Trier, where silver and power waited. The legions would march at first light. Delay would kill momentum, and momentum was all he had.

He drew in a long breath, letting the night air fill his chest. One more lock had opened. Trier was the hinge. If it opened for him, the West would be his to close or throw wide.

Tomorrow would be another day of road, of calculation, and of risk. But tonight, Constantine stood on a conquered wall, watching his army rest, the weight of empire pressing on his shoulders. It was not triumph-only another step, another piece on the board moved forward, and the promise of harder choices ahead.