Chapter 11: The Southern Wager
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."