As instructed, Crocus led his Alemanni in a wide, ostentatious arc to the north of Augusta Treverorum. The sight of several thousand barbarian horsen, their wild banners flying, kicking up dust on the horizon and letting out sporadic, chilling war cries, sent an imdiate ripple of alarm along Trier’s northern walls. Watchtowers signaled frantically. From his vantage point with the main column, Constantine could see the distant flurry of activity, a satisfying confirmation that the diversion was having its intended effect. Tiberianus would now have to divide his attention, uncertain of the true point of attack.
Valerius took his force – two cohorts of household guards and one from the tough Legio VI Victrix – straight for the Porta Nigra. The great gate rose before them, a colossal structure of blackened stone, more fortress than re entrance. Its massive towers seed to dare any attack, a stark symbol of Roman might.
Valerius’s herald announced their presence: "Valerius, Commander of the Protectores Dostici, bearing urgent tidings for the defenders of Trier, in the na of Constantinus Augustus, son of the divine Constantius!"
There was a long pause from the ramparts. Figures could be seen moving, conferring. Constantine, having tid his own advance carefully, brought the leading elents of his main force into view, a disciplined sea of legionary shields and spear points, still at a respectful distance but undeniably present, undeniably powerful. The sun glinted on thousands of helts.
"They are hesitant," tellus observed beside Constantine.
"Tiberianus has sown the wind; now they reap the whirlwind of indecision," Constantine murmured, his eyes fixed on the gate. He recalled the nas of two junior centurions in the Porta Nigra’s usual garrison, n known to Constantine’s mory as having admired his father and privately despaired of Tiberianus’s timid leadership. Valerius had been tasked with seeking them out.
On the battlents, a senior officer, likely the gate’s prefect, finally appeared. His shouts were indistinct at this range, but the agitated gestures indicated confusion, perhaps conflicting orders. This was the mont.
"Signal Valerius," Constantine commanded a nearby standard-bearer. "Advance with standards displayed. Full imperial dignity. No aggression unless t with aggression. Let them see the eagles of the Sixth."
Valerius’s force moved forward, their polished armor and iconic standards a familiar, reassuring sight to any Roman soldier. As they neared the gate, a smaller side portal opened, and a single figure, a centurion, erged cautiously, then beckoned Valerius’s party closer. Constantine saw Valerius speak with him, then with another who joined him. One of the nas he had rembered, perhaps.
The tension was imnse. If Valerius failed, if the gate remained shut, a costly assault or a debilitating siege would be the only options. But then, with a slowness that seed to stretch for an eternity, the massive iron-bound timbers of the Porta Nigra began to groan. Slowly, majestically, the great northern gate of Trier swung inward.
A cheer went up from Constantine’s ranks. He raised a hand, silencing it. This was not yet a triumph. "The VI Victrix will lead," he ordered tellus. "Secure the gatehouse and the imdiate vicinity. Protectores with . Crocus will be inford to maintain his current posture until the city is fully under our control."
He rode forward, not at a charge, but at a steady, implacable pace, his personal standard, the Chi-Rho that Constantine’s mories told him his father had sotis favored in private, now displayed openly beside the traditional imperial eagle. He passed through the shadow of the Porta Nigra, its sheer scale a testant to Roman ambition. The city within was a mixture of grandeur and nervous anticipation. Citizens peered from windows and doorways, their faces a mixture of fear and curiosity. So legionaries from the city garrison stood in stunned silence, their own officers making hesitant gestures of submission or simply lting into the alleyways. There was no organized resistance.
Constantine dispatched cohorts to secure the forum, the main granaries, the imperial mint, and the bridge across the Mosella. The speed and precision of his troops, hardened by their swift campaign from Britannia, quelled any thought of imdiate opposition. The city’s own legions, caught between a cowering prefect and a decisive new claimant, seed content to await the outco.
His primary objective, however, was the sprawling imperial palace complex where Junius Tiberianus, the Praetorian Prefect of Gaul, remained ensconced. Constantine, with Valerius and a strong contingent of Protectores, made his way through the increasingly crowded streets, the populace now growing bolder, so even beginning to offer tentative cheers for the son of Constantius.
They reached the palace gates, which were closed but lightly defended by a handful of nervous palace guards. These n, seeing the determined force before them and the imperial standards, offered no resistance, practically lting away. Valerius’s n secured the entrances.
Constantine dismounted, handing his reins to a groom. He looked up at the imposing façade of the palace, a place Constantine’s mories knew intimately from his youth spent at his father’s side. Now he returned not as a son, but as a conqueror, an Augustus claiming his due. "Inform the Praetorian Prefect Junius Tiberianus," Constantine said to Valerius, his voice calm but edged with steel, "that his new Emperor has arrived and awaits him in the main audience chamber." The ga of whispers and uncertainty was over. The direct confrontation was about to begin.
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