The hour granted to Marcus Clodius Pulcher passed beneath a colorless Gallic sky, the light stretched thin and uncertain as if the world itself was holding its breath. Outside Samarobriva's battered walls, Roman siege rams squatted on the cold earth, their wood slick with dew. Crocus's Alemanni waited in restless knots, wolf-pelts on shoulders, axes propped across knees. Roman legionaries huddled at their posts, some whispering wagers, others checking the iron rims of their shields with workman's care.
In their midst, Constantine sat his horse, still and immovable as a carved pillar, eyes fixed on the battlements. His red cloak marked him as a point of command. He watched the walls as the time drained away, lips set, mind already mapping the next step.
Five minutes before the deadline, a horn wavered from inside the town. The main gate creaked open, protesting at the unfamiliar movement. A small procession emerged-no chaos, only discipline born of defeat. Marcus Clodius Pulcher led the way, parade armor bright but his face washed pale, his standard-bearers and aides following at a respectful distance. At a sharp nod from Constantine, the prefect approached alone, forced to cross the open space between two armies with only dust for company.
He stopped two paces from the imperial standard, voice tight with exhaustion and bitterness. "Constantinus… Augustus. Samarobriva submits. We recognize the will of the legions of Britannia and the lineage of the divine Constantius."
Constantine let silence fill the space, amplifying the moment. "You recognize it now?" His tone was even. "Moments ago you cited Galerius and the Senate. What changed your mind so quickly?"
Pulcher's jaw clenched. "A commander must guard the lives of his men and citizens. A sack would-"
"Serve only the rebels," Constantine interrupted. "Your hesitation has cost Gaul both time and certainty. Your cohort will ground arms in the forum. My tribune will address them." He let his gaze sharpen, voice as hard as iron. "You are relieved of command. Kneel."
Pulcher's pride lasted one more heartbeat. Under the gaze of thousands, the prefect dropped to his knees in the mud, dust rising around him. Soldiers along the ramparts shifted, feeling the lesson settle on their own bones.
Constantine made his words carry to the farthest wall. "Let this stand as warning: loyalty earns honor, defiance earns humiliation. Escort the prefect to camp."
The town surrendered without a sword drawn. Tribune Lucius Metellus took charge, re-oathing the chastened cohort. Most enlisted men complied with little argument. Soldiers know to follow strength. Supplies were counted by the hour. Blacksmiths set to work on spearheads and arrow-tips, the clang of hammers echoing through the night. The city's bakers, under military guard, filled ovens with enough loaves for the dawn's march.
That night, Constantine walked the darkened forum as officers saw to quartering and rations. Crocus joined him, the barbarian king's fur-lined shoulders brushing the night air.
"Many kings would have loosed my warriors for trophies," Crocus observed. "Fear makes for quick work."
Constantine's answer was dry. "Fear is a blunt tool. It burns granaries we need, breeds resentment that will haunt us down every road. Controlled pressure wins provinces. Terror is for those who do not intend to stay."
Crocus grunted, approving in his way. "You keep the wolf leashed, but let him show his teeth."
Word of Pulcher's humiliation outpaced every courier. By morning, the news had already flown ahead on the tongues of traders and refugees. Villages opened their gates, sending keys and wagons of barley as tribute. Towns dispatched delegations to swear loyalty to the son of Constantius. Officials pledged their throats-some out of calculation, others out of fear, all understanding that resistance had a new price.
The column moved before dawn, banners rising from the campfires like signals to the watching sky. Supplies loaded, gear checked, water-skins topped off. Men who fell behind would garrison the rearguard; the rest advanced. Constantine led from the front, Crocus and Valerius at his sides. Tribune Sabinus rode with the main column, Metellus organizing the baggage train with the attention of a man who had seen supply lines snap more than once.
The road unspooled beneath their boots. Rain threatened, but the legions pressed on, crossing rolling fields where the stubble of harvest still bristled in the mist. Each mile they covered sent the news of their coming farther and faster: a force that did not loot, that kept strict order, that punished only those who delayed.
Late on the third day, scouts rode hard from the southeast, splattered in mud. "Trier is in confusion," the lead decurion reported. "Praetorian Prefect Junius Tiberianus has shut himself inside the palace with the treasury guard. Orders are issued, then cancelled. The city's gates are manned, but discipline is thin. No single authority commands the legions inside."
Constantine received the news with the barest flicker of a smile. Indecision. The worst possible disease for a city that must choose between two masters. "How many legions inside the walls?" he asked.
"Two, at most, with detachments. No movement from Augusta Treverorum. The Rhine remains quiet for now."
"Excellent." Constantine mapped the next days in his mind-momentum was now a weapon sharper than any sword. "Every messenger from here to Trier must be intercepted or turned. Any sign of Severus's standards?"
"None. Some couriers headed for Mediolanum, but nothing returns."
That night, Constantine summoned his commanders to a small council in a commandeered villa, walls stained with the smoke of half a century's torches. He pointed to the map. "Gesoriacum secured the coast. Samarobriva proved our resolve. Now Trier stands between us and the mint. The empire is waiting for a hand to settle the scales."
He let them see the stakes. "We break camp before first light. Marching rations only. Any man who falls out garrisons the last town. The empire waits for no one. We strike while Trier is still leaderless."
Steel-shod feet resumed their cadence before dawn, banners unfurling in the wind. The army pressed onward, every footstep drawing them closer to the Moselle and the fate of the West.
As Constantine rode at the head, he felt the weight of the campaign settling on his shoulders-victory always measured in what comes next, not in what had already been won. The Moselle valley waited, and with it, the choice that would either unite Gaul under a single name or scatter it to chaos once more.
In the darkness behind them, the fires of Samarobriva faded. Ahead, the lamps of Trier flickered uncertainly. The time for indecision was over. Rome would soon learn whether it must kneel or risk burning at the hands of its own sons.