Chapter 14: The Price of Defiance
The hour allotted to Marcus Clodius Pulcher and the town of Samarobriva dwindled under the indifferent Gallic sky. Alistair stood before his assembled force, a still, cold point of focus amidst the restless energy of warriors eager for action or resolution. The siege rams, crude but effective machines of Roman engineering, were positioned. Crocus’s Alemanni grew restless; a low murmur ran through their ranks as their eyes stayed on Samarobriva’s walls. Alistair’s own gaze remained fixed on the ramparts. He noted the errant flash of sunlight on armor, saw officers huddled in tight knots, their gestures growing more frantic as the deadline neared.
Constantine’s memories offered insights into the Roman military psyche: a legionary cohort, even one commanded by an arrogant prefect, would fight fiercely if cornered or if they believed their cause just and their leadership competent. But they also valued their lives, their citizenship, and the stability of Roman order. The explicit threat of an Alemanni sack, a horror usually reserved for barbarian enemies on the distant frontiers, would weigh heavily against any abstract notions of loyalty to a far-off, uncertain authority in Rome or Trier.
With mere minutes remaining, a lone horn blew from the battlements of Samarobriva – a hesitant, wavering note, not a call to arms, but something else. Then, slowly, with a groan of protesting timber, one of the main gates began to creak open.
Crocus grunted beside Alistair. "The pup has found his sense, it seems. Or lost his nerve."
Alistair watched, his expression unchanging, as a small procession emerged: Prefect Marcus Clodius Pulcher, his armor perhaps a little too polished, his face pale but striving for a measure of dignity, flanked by a few of his own officers and standard-bearers. They advanced a short distance from the gate and halted.
"He will approach," Alistair said quietly to Valerius. "Alone. His officers will remain with his standards." He would dictate the terms of this submission precisely.
Valerius relayed the order. After a moment of visible internal struggle, Pulcher instructed his retinue to wait and walked forward, his steps lacking the confident stride of a Roman commander. He stopped a respectful distance from Alistair, who remained mounted, looking down at the prefect.
"Constantinus... Augustus," Pulcher began, his voice strained. "Samarobriva... opens its gates to you. We... we recognize the will of the legions of Britannia and the... the lineage of the divine Constantius."
Alistair let the silence stretch, his gaze cold and unblinking. He saw the man’s fear, the carefully constructed façade of Roman pride crumbling. "You recognize it now, Prefect Pulcher?" he asked, his voice soft, yet carrying a distinct chill. "An hour ago, you spoke of legitimacy, of the Senate, of Galerius. What caused this... swift enlightenment?"