The legions marched out of Gesoriacum at dawn, a river of steel and leather flowing onto the great Roman road that led southeast, deep into the heart of Gaul. Alistair rode near the head of the column, alongside Crocus and Valerius, the standards of the Legio VI Victrix and the intimidating, wolf-pelted banners of the Alemanni catching the morning light. Constantine’s mories supplied a familiarity with the disciplined rhythm of a Roman army on the move, the scent of dust and marching n, the jingle of harness and hobnails. Alistair’s mind, however, was consud with the complex, shifting variables of the campaign ahead.
Speed was everything. Every day spent on the road was a day for Severus’s agents to rally opposition, for Galerius’s pronouncents to undermine his legitimacy, for the wavering loyalties of Gallic commanders to solidify against him. He pushed the pace, relying on the hardened endurance of his Britannic legions and the restless energy of Crocus’s warriors.
The coastal regions of Gallia Belgica were, initially at least, subdued. Small towns and villas, caught unawares by the sudden appearance of an imperial claimant with a formidable army, offered little resistance. Local decurions, their faces pale with apprehension, would et the vanguard, stamring oaths of allegiance and proffering supplies – grain, wine, fodder – more out of fear than fervent loyalty. Alistair accepted their submissions with a cool, formal courtesy that offered neither warmth nor overt threat, but left no doubt as to his expectation of absolute compliance. He left tiny garrisons of auxiliaries in a few key settlents, more as symbols of his authority than as genuine occupying forces.
Scouts, a mix of Roman exploratores and agile Alemanni horsen, ranged far ahead and on the flanks, their reports filtering back to Alistair each evening. The news was a tapestry of hope and concern. So smaller military posts along the Litis Romanus, the Saxon Shore defenses, had readily declared for him, their commanders old comrades of his father. But further inland, the picture grew murkier. Rumors flew of directives from Trier, from the Praetorian Prefect of Gaul, a man nad Junius Tiberianus, whom Constantine’s mories painted as an experienced but deeply cautious administrator, unlikely to commit himself rashly.
Several days into the march, as they approached the town of Samarobriva, a significant crossroads and legionary depot, Valerius brought word. "Augustus, the prefect of the cohort stationed in Samarobriva, one Marcus Clodius Pulcher, has fortified the gates. He claims to await orders from Augusta Treverorum... or from Ro."
Alistair’s jaw tightened. Pulcher. Constantine’s mories supplied a portrait of a young, ambitious nobleman, distantly related to a powerful senatorial family in Ro, known more for his arrogance than his military acun. A man who likely saw this 18-year-old Augustus as an upstart. "He awaits orders?" Alistair repeated, his voice soft but edged with ice. "Then he shall receive them. From ."
He diverted the main column slightly, taking a strong contingent of his Protectores and a thousand of Crocus’s most fearso Alemanni warriors directly to the walls of Samarobriva. The rest of the army would follow, a clear demonstration of his full strength.
The town’s walls were respectable, its gates closed and barred. Figures in Roman armor could be seen patrolling the ramparts. Alistair halted his force just out of bowshot, sending a herald forward with a simple ssage: "Constantinus Augustus, son of the divine Constantius, rightful ruler of these lands, demands entry and the imdiate submission of Prefect Marcus Clodius Pulcher."
The wait was not long. Pulcher himself appeared on the wall, a figure made small by distance, but his disdainful posture was evident even from afar. His reply, shouted by a legionary trumpeter, was equally clear: "Samarobriva holds for the legitimate authorities recognized by the Senate and People of Ro, and by the Senior Augustus Galerius. We do not recognize provincial acclamations."
Crocus spat on the ground. "He has courage, or folly." "He has a misplaced sense of his own importance," Alistair corrected, his eyes fixed on the defiant figure on the wall. This was a test. If he failed to bring Samarobriva to heel quickly, other towns, other commanders, would take note. He could not afford a protracted siege.
"Prepare the rams," Alistair ordered quietly to a nearby engineering officer. Then, raising his voice to be carried towards the walls, he declared, "Prefect Pulcher! You have one hour to open those gates and present yourself and your cohort to swear allegiance. If you refuse, I will consider Samarobriva in rebellion. My Alemanni allies are... eager to instruct rebels in the price of their disloyalty. Your town, your people, will bear the consequence of your pride."
The threat was unambiguous. Crocus’s warriors, hearing the ntion of their role, let out a collective, guttural roar, brandishing their axes and spears. It was a terrifying sound, a promise of brutal, unrestrained warfare that Roman garrisons, accustod to fighting barbarians on the frontier, not within their own towns, dreaded.
Alistair watched the ramparts. He could see agitation, figures moving hurriedly, gesturing. Constantine’s mories told him of Pulcher’s ambition, but also of his love for Roman comforts and his probable lack of genuine stomach for a truly desperate fight, especially one that would end in the sack of his command. The hour would be long for the prefect. For Alistair, it was rely another calculation in the cold arithtic of power. The road to Trier had to be cleared of all obstacles, one way or another.
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