The echoes of the legions' roar still seemed to vibrate in the stone walls of the Praetorium. Alistair, now Constantinus Augustus in the eyes of Britannia's army, stood before a large table in the strategy room, maps of the Western provinces spread beneath his hands. The initial, intoxicating surge of the acclamation had passed, leaving behind the cold, hard calculus of his new reality. He was an emperor, yes, but an emperor on a precipice.
Crocus, Valerius, and the two senior tribunes, Lucius Metellus and Gaius Fulvius, stood with him. The Alemannic king watched with a shrewd, appraising gaze. The Roman officers, veterans of his father's campaigns, were visibly tense, aware of the monumental gamble they had all just taken.
"The donative is the first priority," Alistair stated, his voice devoid of the tremor that had afflicted him upon first waking in this era. Constantine's memories affirmed the absolute necessity of this step. "Metellus, you know the state of the provincial treasury in Eboracum. What can be disbursed immediately?"
Metellus, a stocky, pragmatic man, outlined the figures. Enough for a substantial, though perhaps not lavish, payment. "It will be sufficient to affirm their loyalty, Augustus," he concluded. "But the main treasuries in Augusta Treverorum will be needed for a full donative worthy of an imperial accession."
"And Augusta Treverorum is in Gaul, currently beyond our immediate grasp," Alistair noted, his finger tracing the route south on the map. "For now, Eboracum's coffers will serve. Ensure every legionary and auxiliary present at the acclamation receives his share by nightfall. Let it be known it is given in honor of my father's memory, and in gratitude for their faith in his son." He wanted no ambiguity. This was not a bribe; it was a rightful reward and an investment.
Next, the civilian administration. His father's comes Britanniarum, the governor, was a man named Titus Honorius, known from Constantine's memories as cautious and easily swayed by displays of power. "Fulvius," Alistair ordered, "summon Governor Honorius. I will speak with him here. Ensure he understands the… transition of authority."
When Honorius arrived, a portly man with nervous eyes, he found the young Constantine flanked by the grim-faced Valerius and the towering Crocus. The governor's initial attempt at a flowery, non-committal speech died on his lips as Alistair met his gaze.
"Governor Honorius," Alistair said, his voice cool and precise. "My father, the divine Constantius, is departed. The legions have seen fit to proclaim me Augustus in his stead. Britannia remains under the steadfast protection of my house. I trust your administration will continue its duties with diligence and loyalty to the new order."
It was not a question. Honorius, after a moment of stunned silence where his eyes darted between Alistair and the formidable figures beside him, bowed low, his face pale. "Augustus. My loyalty… my loyalty is, and always has been, to the legitimate ruler of these shores. I… I serve you, Dominus."
Alistair merely nodded. A small test, passed. The man was a reed, bending to the prevailing wind. Useful, for now. "See to it that all public announcements reflect this continuity. There is to be no disorder."
As Honorius scurried away, Alistair turned his attention to intelligence. "Valerius, I need eyes and ears beyond Britannia. Select your best men – those with sharp minds and silent tongues. I want to know Galerius's first reactions. I want to know Severus's movements. I want to know the temper of the garrisons in Gaul." This was the quiet formation of his own network, built on the foundation of his father's most trusted agents.
Helena found him there, hours later, still poring over the maps. The initial distribution of the donative was underway, the sounds of celebration carefully managed by the centurions. She carried a tray with bread and wine.
"You eat nothing, Constantine," she said, her voice still tinged with sorrow, but also a new anxiety. "This burden you've taken… it is immense."
"All burdens of rule are immense, Mother," he replied, accepting the wine. He recognized her concern, the genuine fear for his safety that Constantine's memories confirmed was a constant for her. "Fear is a luxury we cannot afford. Prudence, however, is essential." He looked at her. "You knew my father's court well. Who among his advisors in Trier can be trusted implicitly? Who wavered?"
She sat, and for a while, they spoke of names, of personalities, of old slights and loyalties. Alistair listened intently, filtering her emotionally colored recollections through his own analytical lens, cross-referencing them with Constantine's own, often more cynical, impressions of the same individuals. Her insights were valuable, another stream of data.
By evening, the envoy to Galerius had been dispatched, carrying the carefully crafted letter and the laurelled portrait – a symbolic challenge wrapped in the guise of protocol. Riders were also heading to key Britannic garrisons. Eboracum was secure, the troops placated by gold and the assertion of command.
Alistair stood alone for a moment, looking out from a high window of the Praetorium as torches illuminated the sprawling military camp. He was Augustus. The title felt like a brand seared into his consciousness. He was an eighteen-year-old youth, with the mind of a man from millennia in the future, thrust onto the deadliest political stage in the world. His historical knowledge was a double-edged sword: it gave him foresight, but also the chilling certainty of the chaos that was about to erupt. The Tetrarchy was a failing system, and he was now one of its chief disruptors.
His gaze shifted south, towards the unseen shores of Gaul. That was the next, immediate, vital step. Without Gaul, without its legions and its wealth, his acclamation in Britannia would be a footnote, a brief rebellion crushed by overwhelming force. He had bought a few hours, perhaps a few days, with his swift actions. Now, he had to use them.