Chapter 9: The Price of Acclaim
The roar of thousands gradually subsided into a sustained, fervent ovation as Alistair was carefully helped down from the shield. His legs felt unsteady, not from the precarious perch, but from the sheer, unyielding pressure of the moment. Crocus, the Alemannic king, was first to his side, his massive hand gripping Alistair’s forearm in a warrior’s pledge. "Augustus! We will follow you to the gates of Rome itself, if need be!"
Valerius, his face a mask of solemn pride, knelt, quickly followed by the other tribunes and centurions of the household guard who had pressed close. "Dominus Augustus, our lives are yours."
Alistair looked at their faces – fierce loyalty, opportunistic zeal, genuine grief for his father now transferred to the son. He inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than humility. Constantine’s memories supplied the expected words, the grace notes of leadership. "Your loyalty honors my father’s memory, and binds me to you. Rome will remember this day, and the devotion of her soldiers in Britannia."
He needed to move, to channel this raw energy into order before it dissipated or curdled. "Valerius, ensure the men are seen to. There will be a donative, a proper one, in my father’s name and mine." The promise of gold – the lifeblood of military loyalty. Constantine knew this. Alistair knew its absolute necessity. "Crocus, your counsel will be invaluable. Stay close."
Returning to the Praetorium was like entering a different building. Where before there was hushed anxiety, now an electric tension crackled. Staff hurried, eyes downcast or darting towards him with fear and awe. He was no longer just the grieving son; he was the source of power, however contested, however fragile.
Helena met him in the antechamber to his father’s – now his – rooms. Her face was a storm of conflicting emotions: pride warred with a deep, maternal fear. "Constantine... Augustus?" The title was a question, a marvel, a dread.
"By the will of the legions, Mother," he confirmed, his tone flat. He saw the physician from his father’s room hovering nervously nearby. "The formal rites for my father must be prepared. With all honor due an Augustus." That, at least, was a sentiment both Alistair and the shade of Constantine could agree upon. A proper burial was also a public statement.
"Of course, my son." She searched his face. "But the other Augusti... Galerius... they will not accept this."