Constantius. The Augustus. Alive, and asking for him. Alistair processed the words through the filter of Constantine's memories. The name resonated with a complex mix of awe, filial duty, and a thread of fear – the natural emotions of a son towards a Roman Emperor who was also his father. For Alistair, the pragmatist, these inherited emotions were data, highlighting potential vulnerabilities and leverage points. The core information was clear: the current fulcrum of power in the Western Roman Empire was close to collapse, and he, this eighteen-year-old Constantine, was being summoned.
"I will go to him," he said, the Latin words emerging with Constantine's familiar cadence. His voice was still weaker than he'd prefer, a reminder of the body's recent frailty.
Helena's worried expression tightened further, yet there was a flicker of approval in her eyes. "He will be gladdened. You… you seem clearer, son. Stronger."
Observation noted, Alistair thought. My demeanor is already diverging from this Constantine's recent behavior. He had no baseline for how the original Constantine had acted during his illness, only the chaotic swirl of remembered fear and weakness. His current lucidity, his focused intent, would likely be conspicuous.
He pushed aside the rough furs and swung his legs over the side of the cot. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and the dull ache in his head intensified. This young body was far from peak condition. He steadied himself, taking a slow, deliberate breath. Helena rushed to offer support, but he waved her off with a slight gesture. Dependence was a weakness he could not afford.
"Some wine, perhaps, if there is any. And a moment to… collect myself." He needed to assess his appearance, to understand the face this world now saw as Constantine.
Helena nodded quickly, fetching a small, tarnished silver mirror and a ewer. The reflection was jarring: a youth's face, pale and drawn from illness, but with strong bones, a determined jaw that hinted at the man he might become, and eyes that were… searching. Constantine's eyes, now looking out with Alistair's calculating gaze. The inherited memories supplied the context of who usually looked back from such reflections; the mind behind them was an utter stranger to that history.
He splashed water on his face, the coolness a welcome shock. The wine, when it came, was rough and sour, but it cut through the dryness in his throat. As he slowly dressed in the simple tunic and britches laid out for him – clothes that felt alien yet familiar to his limbs through Constantine's muscle memory – his mind was a whirlwind of analysis.
The Praetorium in Eboracum will be a nest of competing interests, he thought, sifting through Constantine's recollections of his father's court. Commanders loyal to Constantius, yes, but also those with their own ambitions, or agents of the other Tetrarchs – Galerius, Severus, Maximinus Daia. Each will be watching, waiting. He recalled faces from Constantine's past: Crocus, the King of the Alemanni, a powerful barbarian ally present with his troops; various military tribunes and centurions, their loyalties a complex tapestry.
Helena watched him, her anxiety a palpable presence. "Be careful, Constantine. Not all who smile in the Emperor's halls wish his house well."
"I am always careful, Mother," he replied, the words sounding colder, more self-assured than perhaps Constantine himself would have managed. It was the truth, Alistair's truth.
Stepping out from the dim confines of the room, the air of Eboracum struck him – cool, damp, smelling of woodsmoke, horses, and the collective perspiration of a large body of men. The rhythmic marching was louder here, a constant, disciplined beat that underscored the military nature of this provincial capital. He saw legionaries, their armor dully gleaming, their faces hardened by frontier life. They moved with purpose. Constantine's memories provided names for their legions – the Sixth Victorious, loyal to his father. But loyalty, Alistair knew, was a currency that could be devalued overnight.
Two guards, clearly from his father's personal retinue, stood waiting. They straightened at his appearance, their expressions carefully neutral, though he caught a flicker of surprise in one's eyes. Their salutes were precise. He nodded, following them.
The walk to the Praetorium's central wing, where Constantius lay, was short but illuminating. Every glance from a passing soldier, every hushed conversation that ceased as he approached, every courier hurrying by with a sealed scroll – all were data points. The tension in the air was thick enough to be a physical presence. This was an empire on a knife's edge. Constantine's memories painted a picture of his father as a capable, respected, and relatively moderate ruler. His decline clearly heralded a power vacuum, and nature – especially human political nature – abhorred a vacuum.
They reached a heavier door, flanked by more imposing guards, their plumed helmets and ornate armor marking them as Protectores Domestici, the imperial household guard. One of them, a grizzled man with a deeply scarred face whom Constantine's memory identified as Valerius, a veteran utterly devoted to Constantius, met his gaze. "Dominus Constantinus," Valerius rumbled, his voice low. "The Augustus awaits. He is… fading." The bluntness was a cold splash of reality, cutting through any residual fog. Fading. The term was unambiguous. Alistair felt a strange, distant echo of Constantine's sorrow, quickly overridden by the cold calculus of the immense opportunity, and the equally immense danger, that single word implied.