Chapter 14: The Gates of Trier
The army rolled down from the heights in tight, unwavering columns-a river of crimson and steel flooding toward the black walls of Trier. Sunlight flickered along spear-tips. Banners snapped in the breeze, red and gold striking against the pale afternoon. Constantine rode at the head, gladius resting across his thigh, Crocus and Valerius bracketing him with silent vigilance.
As they neared the city, Crocus peeled off with his cavalry and a wedge of Alemanni, veering north through the vineyards. Their war cries knifed through the air, carrying just far enough to rattle the defenders behind their battlements. Confused horns tried to answer but failed to find unity. Constantine watched the effect with a slight nod-let the enemy feel surrounded before the first order was given.
Valerius advanced with his chosen cohorts. The Protectores marched in silence, shields gleaming, steps measured. The Britannic legionaries followed, every line precise. They halted within bowshot, Valerius lifting the silver eagle high and calling for parley.
For long minutes, the city replied only with the clink of armor and the sigh of the wind. Constantine paced the front ranks, his red cloak unmistakable. He locked eyes with his soldiers, reading tension and anticipation, then letting his own focus settle them. This was not the moment for words-only for presence.
Finally, the postern gate creaked open. Caius Petronius Sabinus stepped out, helmet tucked beneath his arm, the lines on his face cut deep by sleepless nights.
"Augustus," he called, voice steady. "Prefect Tiberianus asks for time to deliberate. The palace guard is uncertain-"
"Open the gate," Constantine said, cutting through the plea. "Deliberation is finished. The legions and the treasury wait for a leader, not another debate."
Sabinus hesitated, glancing toward the ramparts. The Protectores moved forward three paces-subtle, but the message was unmistakable. Above, more helmets vanished from sight, the defenders already sensing a shift.
A clatter of keys echoed as great beams slid aside. With a groan, the Porta Nigra opened, throwing a band of torchlight onto the stone road. Constantine nudged his horse forward, Valerius beside him, eagle standard lifted. The army advanced.
The cavalry swept into Trier's streets, taking each main avenue and intersection with cool efficiency. They moved with purpose, their discipline and confidence impossible to miss. Infantry followed, boots landing in perfect unison, their presence as steady as a drum. At every corner, citizens watched: merchants pausing at their stalls, mothers pulling children close, slaves kneeling at the curb. Some eyes glimmered with hope, others with suspicion, but nowhere did open defiance appear.
Constantine rode at an even pace, guiding his retinue through the city's heart. The afternoon light slanted across the cobblestones, shadows stretching as the columns moved. Word of Samarobriva had prepared Trier: here was no riot, no barricade-only the breathless calm of a city waiting to see who now held its fate.
At the basilica, the doors stood ajar, guards clustered uncertainly. Constantine dismounted, leaving Valerius to arrange the cordon. Two shield-bearers followed him up the steps into a vestibule scented with incense and age. The ceiling arched above him, lanterns burning along the marble pillars.
At the far end stood Prefect Junius Tiberianus, armor pristine, face shadowed by fatigue. Behind him, treasury guards gripped their spears, unsure which way to lean.
"Prefect," Constantine called out, his voice filling the chamber, "the West needs a steady hand, not hesitation. Swear your oath, and the empire continues. Refuse, and chaos will rule tomorrow."
Tiberianus paused, his eyes flicking to the open doors and the massed ranks beyond them. He searched Constantine's face for doubt, but found only resolve. The prefect sank to one knee, head bowed.
"I served your father. I will serve his son."
Constantine drew his father's gladius and set the blade upright, resting both hands on the hilt. He touched the sword lightly to the prefect's shoulder, then offered his hand to help him rise.
"Summon the legates of the Twenty-Second and the Eighth. Have the mint begin striking new coins before nightfall. Announce full pay for every legionary at dawn."
Tiberianus nodded, some tension leaving his shoulders. "It will be done, Augustus."
Constantine strode back toward the doors, now swung wide. As he emerged, the city's murmur grew to a cheer-timid at first, then rising as banners dipped and horns blared from the squares. Legionaries saluted, townsfolk joined the chorus, relief and awe mingling as the new Augustus raised his sword.
The crowd swelled in the plaza. Bells rang, their notes growing bold, marking the end of one rule and the start of another. Constantine stood at the head of the steps, sword high, sunlight playing along the blade. Trier belonged to him now, taken not by blood, but by resolve.
Inside, the machinery of empire roared to life-clerks tallying coin, couriers sent to every quarter, smiths stoking new fires. Constantine gave a final nod to Valerius, then turned to survey the city below. Crocus and the Alemanni would hold the north roads; the legion would lock down the rest. For this night, at least, the empire was quiet and in his hand.
As dusk fell, Constantine let the sounds of the city's new loyalty settle over him. He sheathed his sword. More challenges would come, but Trier was his, and the road ahead-toward Rome and destiny-lay open.