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."
Gracchus swallowed, his gaze flicking towards the steady stream of legionaries now forming up on the docks, their disciplined ranks a clear statement of intent. The Alemanni, fierce and imposing, were disembarking further down, their presence an unsubtle reminder of barbarian alliances. "Of course, Augustus," Gracchus said, his tone now more deferential. "Gesoriacum… Gesoriacum is loyal. We… we mourn the passing of your noble father."
"Your loyalty will be noted, Gracchus," Alistair replied. "You will provide my staff with a full accounting of the granaries, the local treasury, and any recent dispatches from Augusta Treverorum or from Italy. And you will confine your garrison to barracks until further notice. My own troops will see to the security of the port."
It was a dismissal, and a clear assertion of dominance. Gracchus, after a moment's hesitation that Alistair filed away for future reference, bowed again, more deeply this time. "As you command, Augustus."
Within hours, Gesoriacum was firmly under Alistair's control. Scouts, handpicked by Valerius from men who knew these coastal roads, were already fanning out, while others sought out informants within the town. Alistair established a temporary headquarters in the governor's own villa, its relative luxury a stark contrast to his rough quarters in Eboracum.
The initial intelligence reports were fragmented but troubling. Gaul was in a state of high anxiety. Some garrisons, particularly those with strong personal ties to Constantius, were rumored to be sympathetic to his son. Others were looking towards Trier, where his father's chief administrators were likely weighing their options, or worse, towards Italy and Severus. No one seemed certain who truly held the reins of the West.
Alistair addressed his key commanders that evening, the map of Gaul once again spread before them. "Gesoriacum is ours. A foothold. But it is not Gaul." His finger tapped decisively on Augusta Treverorum. "Trier is the key. The administrative heart, the treasury, the imperial mint. We march on Trier with all speed. We must arrive before Severus can consolidate his agents there, or before the Gallic prefects lose their nerve and declare for another."
Crocus grinned. "A quick march, then. My warriors grow restless with sea air and port wine."
Alistair looked at the faces around him. They had taken the first step of his southern wager. Now, the stakes were about to be raised significantly. The road to Trier was long, and undoubtedly fraught with peril. But it was the only road that led to empire.