Dawn of a New Rome

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."