Chapter 12: Gallic Shores
The order was given, sharp and clear against the sea wind. Alistair watched as the first legionary cohorts, their hobnailed sandals clattering on the wooden ramps, began to embark onto the waiting transports. The Classis Britannica, a collection of sturdy, workmanlike vessels, bobbed in the choppy waters of Portus Dubris. It was a far cry from the orbital descent vehicles of his own lost era, yet the fundamental principles of projecting force across a hostile medium remained disconcertingly similar. Constantine’s memories supplied the names of the ship types, the ranks of the naval officers, the expected duration of the crossing. Alistair’s mind focused on the variables: weather, the state of the tides, the readiness of any opposing naval forces – though none were anticipated here.
The crossing itself was swift, if uncomfortable. The grey, churning waters of the Oceanus Britannicus tossed the Roman vessels, and many soldiers, unaccustomed to the sea, were ill. Alistair, drawing on whatever resilience this young body possessed, remained on deck for much of the voyage, his gaze fixed on the southern horizon. He spoke little, his presence a cold, watchful constant amidst the activity of the sailors and the huddled masses of his troops. Crocus, surprisingly untroubled by the motion, stood near him, occasionally pointing out landmarks Constantine’s memories also recognized as the Gallic coastline slowly resolved from a hazy smudge into tangible reality.
Gesoriacum. The port, known to later ages as Bononia, or Boulogne, was a key harbor, its lighthouse a familiar Roman sentinel. As their fleet approached, Alistair scanned the fortifications, the disposition of ships within the harbor. Constantine’s memories identified the local garrison commander, one Decimus Gracchus, a man known for his caution and a tendency to align himself with perceived strength.
"Valerius," Alistair ordered as their flagship neared the docks, "take a detachment of Protectores. You will accompany me ashore immediately. Metellus, your cohorts will disembark and secure the port perimeter. No unauthorized departures, no uncontrolled arrivals. Crocus, your Alemanni will follow. I want a visible, disciplined presence."
The reception at Gesoriacum was... uncertain. Word of Constantius’s death had clearly reached Gaul, but the news of Constantine’s swift acclamation in Britannia was likely still fresh, unsettling. The local garrison, a cohort of auxiliaries, seemed more confused than hostile. Decimus Gracchus, a stout man whose unease was palpable, met Alistair on the quay, his salute a fraction too slow.
"Dominus... Constantinus?" Gracchus stammered, his eyes wide as he took in the youth before him, flanked by grim household guards and the towering Alemannic king. The laurel-wreathed portrait sent to Galerius might have declared him Caesar, but the soldiers in Britannia had roared ’Augustus.’ The ambiguity was a weapon Alistair intended to use.
"Augustus, by the will of my father’s legions, Governor Gracchus," Alistair stated, his voice carrying easily over the sounds of the disembarking troops. He did not offer a hand, nor a smile. He simply held the governor’s gaze. "My father, the divine Constantius, rests with the gods. I have come to ensure the continued stability and prosperity of Gaul in his name, and in Rome’s."