The corridor outside the death chamber was no longer silent. Hushed, urgent voices, the scrape of armor, the hurried footsteps – the Praetorium was a disturbed hive. Valerius stood like a rock, but even his stony demeanor couldn't mask the tension coiling in the air. The news of an Augustus's death, Alistair knew, was a spark thrown into dry tinder.
"The tribunes will already be gathering their centurions," Alistair stated, his voice low and devoid of any tremor. Constantine's memories supplied the protocols, the likely chain of command reacting to such an event. "The Alemanni king, Crocus—where is he quartered?"
Valerius's eyes flickered with surprise at the immediate, practical question. "In the eastern guest wing, Dominus. Near the officers' mess."
"Send a runner. Tell him I wish to speak with him. Urgently, but with discretion. Here, outside these doors." Alistair's mind was already mapping the critical players within Eboracum. Crocus, with his loyal barbarian warriors, was a powerful, if potentially mercurial, piece on the board. Securing his immediate allegiance was vital.
"And you, Valerius," Alistair continued, turning back to the veteran guard, "gather the Protectores. My father's household guard. Their loyalty must be the bedrock of this moment."
"They were his shadow in life, Dominus," Valerius affirmed, a deep rumble in his chest. "They will be yours now, if you command it."
"I do command it." The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of an assumption of authority that Alistair felt settle upon him, an uncomfortable but necessary mantle. He was no longer just an observer; he was an active participant, forced into the lead role.
Minutes later, Crocus arrived. The Alemannic king was a giant of a man, his braided, fair hair stark against his weathered skin, his eyes the pale, cold blue of a winter sky. He exuded an aura of barbaric power, yet Constantine's memories also painted him as a shrewd politician, bound to Constantius by oaths and shared victories. He looked from Alistair to the closed door of the death chamber, his expression somber.
"Lord Constantine," Crocus began, his Latin accented but clear. "The rumors… they are true?"
"The Augustus, my father, is with the gods," Alistair confirmed, meeting the king's gaze directly. He saw grief in the barbarian's eyes, yes, but also a keen, calculating assessment. This was a man weighing his options. "His last words were of the army, of loyalty, and of the need for strength to protect the West."
Crocus's eyes narrowed slightly. "He was a great man. A true friend to my people."
"He was," Alistair agreed. "And his legacy must be defended. His line must continue. Galerius will move swiftly to impose his will from the East. Severus is his puppet." This was a direct appeal to Crocus's understanding of power politics, a shared distrust of the distant Eastern Augustus.
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the growing murmur from the camp outside. Then, Crocus gave a curt nod. "Your father honored me. I will honor his son. My warriors will stand with the house of Flavius."
Relief, cold and sharp, pricked Alistair. One crucial piece secured. But the greater part of the army, the legions themselves, remained. Even as they spoke, the sounds from outside the Praetorium were changing. The confused murmur was solidifying into something more organized, more resonant. Shouts. The clang of weapons. The heavy tramp of thousands of boots.
Valerius returned, his face grim. "Dominus, the legions are forming in the great courtyard. The word is out. They are calling your name."
This was it. The moment of acclamation, or of chaos. Alistair took a steadying breath. He thought of the history he knew, the thirty-four-year-old Constantine who had been acclaimed. He was only eighteen, ill-seasoned by comparison, his only claim the blood in his veins and the desperate loyalty of an army on a distant frontier, now bereft of its leader.
He stepped out into the pre-dawn gloom, Valerius and a handful of Protectores at his back, Crocus a towering, reassuring presence beside him. The main courtyard of the Praetorium was a sea of torches and faces, thousands of soldiers crammed together, their armor gleaming, their breath misting in the chill air. A wave of sound, a deep-throated roar, washed over him as he appeared on the upper portico. "Constantinus! Constantinus!"
Then, a new chant began, spreading like wildfire, fueled by the key voices of loyal centurions and perhaps Crocus's men dispersed in the crowd: "Augustus! Constantinus Augustus!"
A large shield was brought forth. Several brawny legionaries, their faces set with fierce determination, pushed their way to the front. Alistair understood the ritual from Constantine's memories. A tradition borrowed from the Germanic tribes, a public display of martial endorsement.
He allowed them to lead him down. There was no refusing this tide. His mind, ever the analyst, noted the raw, almost primal energy of the crowd, the fervor in their eyes. This was not a reasoned political decision; it was an emotional outpouring, a transference of loyalty, a desperate grasp for continuity and strength in the face of uncertainty.
Rough hands lifted him onto the shield. He rose above the sea of faces, unsteady but resolute, the torchlight flickering across his pale features. For a moment, the sheer, overwhelming force of their collective will was stunning. Then, he found his balance. He looked out over them, over the thousands of armed men who held the fate of Britannia, Gaul, and Spain in their calloused hands. They were his. At least for now.
The roar intensified: "CONSTANTINUS AUGUSTUS! HAIL, CAESAR! HAIL, AUGUSTUS!"
Alistair raised a hand. Slowly, a semblance of silence fell, though the air still crackled with their fierce energy. He knew he should speak, but the words, the right words, felt elusive, caught between Constantine's remembered oratory and his own starkly different mode of thought. Instead, drawing on an instinct he didn't know he possessed, he drew the gladius that had been belted at his side – his father's, he realized with a jolt of Constantine's memory. He didn't brandish it. He simply held it aloft, its polished surface catching the torchlight, a single, gleaming point of steel in the pre-dawn darkness. A soldier's son. A soldier's emperor. The roar that answered him was deafening, absolute. It was done. He was Augustus, by the will of the legions. And the world had just become infinitely more dangerous.