The initial chaos in Eboracum had settled into a tense, purposeful hum under Alistair's new authority. The donative had been distributed, quenching the immediate thirst of the legions and binding them, for now, with the satisfying weight of fresh silver. His father, Constantius, lay in state, the preparations for his body's eventual journey to the imperial mausoleum underway with solemn Roman efficiency. But Alistair's mind was already far south, across the turbulent waters of the Oceanus Britannicus.
Gaul. The word was a constant refrain in his strategic calculations. Constantine's memories painted it vividly: vast, wealthy, populous, the true heart of his father's western domain, its legions more numerous than those in Britannia. Augusta Treverorum, Trier, with its imperial palace, mint, and strategic position on the Moselle, was the administrative capital. Without Gaul, his acclamation in Britannia was a fleeting footnote. With it, he was a genuine contender.
He summoned Crocus, Valerius, and the tribunes Metellus and Fulvius to the strategy room. The map of Gaul, its cities and military roads meticulously detailed, dominated the table. "Britannia is secure, for the moment," Alistair began, his voice devoid of any youthful uncertainty. "But it is an island. Our power must rest on the continent. We sail for Gaul at the earliest opportunity."
A heavy silence greeted his declaration. Metellus, ever the pragmatist, spoke first. "Augustus, the passage is perilous, even in summer. And Severus? Galerius will have named him Augustus of the West. His legions in Italy and Pannonia will be a formidable threat. He will expect a challenge from Gaul, not Britannia."
"Precisely," Alistair countered, his gaze sweeping over them. "Severus will look south, towards Rome, or east, to defend Italy. He will underestimate a swift strike from the north, from an island he likely deems contained." Constantine's memories confirmed this assessment of Severus – competent enough, but lacking true strategic foresight, too reliant on Galerius's patronage. "We use the Classis Britannica. We land a strong force, secure a port, and march on Trier before they can fully react. Surprise and speed will be our allies."
Crocus grunted, a sound of approval. "A bold plan. Barbarians fight best when the blood is hot. The men will follow such a decisive leader."
"My Alemanni will be eager for a taste of Gallic wine and Gallic plunder," the king added with a wolfish grin, quickly amended at Alistair's cool glance. "…And to secure the rightful heir, of course, Augustus."
Alistair ignored the barbarian's slip. Mercenary motives, properly channeled, were as reliable as any other. "Fulvius, you will take command of the force that remains in Britannia. Maintain order, continue to gather intelligence from across the sea, and ensure the grain shipments to the northern garrisons are uninterrupted. Your loyalty is paramount."
Fulvius, a younger man than Metellus but with a reputation for diligence, bowed. "I will hold Britannia in your name, Augustus, or die in the attempt."
The logistical machinery began to turn. Orders flew: to the prefect of the Classis Britannica at Portus Dubris to assemble all available transports; to the quartermasters to gather supplies for a swift campaign; to the chosen legionary cohorts and Crocus's Alemanni to prepare for embarkation. The details of Roman military logistics – supply chains, legionary equipment, shipping manifests – consumed him. It was startling how readily Constantine's ingrained understanding of these procedures arose to meet Alistair's own demand for efficient resource allocation. He found himself approving march routes with an intuitive grasp of the terrain he'd never seen, vetting quartermasters with an eye for detail that belied his eighteen years, and questioning centurions with a precision that left them scrambling for exact answers. Each decision was sharp, practical, leaving no doubt as to who was in command.
Helena watched these whirlwind preparations with a mother's dread. "So soon, Constantine?" she asked one evening, as he reviewed manifests by lamplight. "Your father's ashes are not yet cold, and you seek new dangers."
"My father's greatest honor will be the preservation of what he built. That requires action, not prolonged mourning," he stated. He watched her absorb his words. Helena's public piety, her deep connection to the memory of Constantius—these were not small things. Her approval, even unspoken, would carry weight with many. An invaluable ally, he thought, if she chose to be. A problem, if she did not.
His last act in Eboracum was to stand before his father's bier. The body, embalmed and shrouded in imperial purple, was a still, silent effigy. Alistair regarded it without a flicker of the grief Constantine might have shown. Instead, a stark thought: I wear his son's face, command his son's authority, yet I am the one who effectively erased him. And now, he was bound to defend the legacy of the man whose place he'd taken, to fight enemies who should have been this Constantine's. A bitter sort of cosmic jest, if he'd believed in such things. He gave a curt nod, a soldier's farewell, and turned away.
The march south through Britannia was swift. The core of the Legio VI Victrix, augmented by Crocus's formidable Alemanni warriors and a contingent of the Protectores Domestici, moved with a disciplined urgency. Alistair rode at their head, not on a lavish imperial charger, but on a sturdy cavalry mount, sharing the discomforts of the road. Constantine's memories told him this was how a Roman general earned respect. Alistair saw it as efficient leadership.
Days later, they reached the chalk cliffs overlooking Portus Dubris. Below them, the choppy grey waters of the channel stretched towards the hazy coastline of Gaul. The assembled ships of the British Fleet, mostly sturdy transports and a few swifter liburnians, rocked at anchor. The air was salt-laden, carrying the cries of gulls. This was the true beginning. Britannia had been a reaction, a desperate seizure of an unexpected opportunity. Gaul would be a conquest, a deliberate imposition of his will. Valerius rode up beside him. "The fleet is ready, Augustus. The winds are favorable." Alistair stared across the water, towards the unseen continent. His expression was unreadable, his eyes holding the cold, distant light of a calculating mind weighing immense risks against the glittering prize of an empire. The southern wager was about to be placed.