Chapter 17: The Prefect’s Submission
Augusta Treverorum’s main audience chamber was vast. Muted light from high, arched windows gleamed faintly on the polished marble underfoot. Great mosaics covered the walls: Jupiter striking down Titans, emperors accepting the surrender of barbarian kings – grand displays of Roman might. Yet, in the heavy silence of the room, that power felt brittle, stretched thin by the current uncertainty. Constantine walked to the slightly raised dais at one end of the hall where a massive, ornate curule chair, the prefect’s seat of judgment and authority, stood. He did not sit, not yet. He turned, Valerius and a dozen grim-faced Protectores fanning out behind him, their presence transforming the opulent chamber into a place of stark military occupation.
Minutes stretched into a tense silence, broken only by the distant sounds of Constantine’s legions securing the city. Then, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall opened, and Junius Tiberianus, Praetorian Prefect of the Gauls, was escorted in by two more of Constantine’s household guards.
Tiberianus was a man in his late fifties, his toga impeccably arranged, but his face was the color of old parchment, his eyes darting nervously. He was attempting an air of senatorial dignity, but the slight tremor in his hands betrayed his fear. He stopped a considerable distance away, offering a shallow, hesitant bow. Constantine’s memories of the man were of a cautious, overly bureaucratic official, skilled in administration but bereft of true courage or decisive leadership.
"Prefect Tiberianus," Constantine’s voice was calm, almost conversational, yet it echoed with an undeniable chill in the cavernous hall. "You have kept your new Emperor waiting."
Tiberianus swallowed. "Augustus... your arrival... was swift. Unexpected. The city... there was confusion following the tragic news of your divine father’s passing..."
"Confusion you actively cultivated, it seems," Constantine interjected, his gaze unwavering. "My scouts reported conflicting edicts, a city garrison without clear orders, and a Praetorian Prefect barricaded within his palace while the province drifted towards anarchy. Is this how you honor the memory of Constantius? By allowing his domain to fracture in your indecision?"
"These are uncertain times, Augustus!" Tiberianus protested, a hint of desperation creeping into his tone. "Galerius... the pronouncements from the East... Severus named Augustus... A man in my position must be... prudent."
"Prudence, Prefect, is the careful assessment of risk followed by decisive action," Constantine stated, taking a slow step forward. The Protectores mirrored his movement, a subtle, menacing shift. "What I have observed here is not prudence, but paralysis. You held the authority of these Gallic provinces. You had command of powerful legions. You had a sacred duty to maintain order and uphold the legitimate succession. You failed on all counts."
He was closer now, close enough to see the sweat beading on Tiberianus’s brow. "You failed my father in his legacy, you failed the people of Gaul by inviting chaos, and you have failed me by your cowardice." Constantine stopped directly before the trembling prefect. "Your service as Praetorian Prefect of the Gauls is at an end, Tiberianus."