Valerius, the scarred household guard, pushed open the heavy oak door, his expression grim. "He is weak, Dominus. Do not tax him."
Alistair, wearing the face and memories of Constantine, inclined his head in understanding and stepped into the chamber. The room felt close, the air heavy. He could pick out the sharp scent of dried herbs and the sweetness of incense, but beneath it all was the raw smell of a failing body. Death was a palpable presence here. Oil lamps gave off a scant, flickering light, leaving the large chamber in a murky twilight. On the walls, Alistair noted tapestries – grand scenes of battle, their once-vibrant colors now dulled by shadow and time. So many victories, now just a backdrop to this slow defeat.
In the center of the room, upon a large bed draped with furs and military cloaks, lay Flavius Constantius, Augustus of the Western Roman Empire.
The man Alistair saw was a shadow of the vigorous emperor Constantine's memories portrayed. Illness had hollowed his cheeks and leached the color from his skin, yet even in his decline, an undeniable aura of command clung to him. His eyes, though sunken, opened as Constantine approached, and they were surprisingly lucid, sharp with a weary intelligence. A physician, a nervous Greek with worried eyes, hovered in the background, forgotten. Helena had slipped into the room behind Constantine, her presence a silent vigil.
"Constantine," Constantius breathed, his voice a dry rustle, far removed from the parade-ground commands remembered by his son. He raised a trembling hand, beckoning him closer.
Alistair moved to the bedside, kneeling by instinct – an action Constantine would have performed without thought. He felt a wave of this body's remembered grief and fear, a visceral reaction to his father's state. Alistair acknowledged the sensations, filed them, and focused on the dying Emperor. This was not a father, not in any true sense for him; this was the current, critical nexus of imperial power.
"You came," Constantius said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "They said… you were also touched by the fevers."
"I am recovered, Father," Constantine—Alistair—replied, his voice steady, pitched with the respect this body knew was due. He scanned Constantius's face, assessing. The man was dying, certainly, but his mind was still keen.
"Good. Good." Constantius's gaze drifted towards the tapestries. "A heavy burden, this purple. Heavier than any armor. Many covet it. Few understand its true weight." His eyes returned to Constantine, sharp and probing. "Do you, my son? Do you understand what it means to wear it?"
A test. Even now. Alistair sifted through Constantine's knowledge of his father – a pragmatic soldier, a capable administrator, not given to sentimentality but fiercely protective of the Empire's stability and his own lineage. The expected answer would be one of youthful confidence, perhaps, or filial devotion. Alistair chose a different path, guided by his own cold assessment of the man.
"I understand it means service, Father," he said, keeping his tone even. "Service to Rome. And to the soldiers who defend her."
A flicker of something – surprise? Approval? – in Constantius's eyes. "Service… yes. And sacrifice." He coughed, a raw, painful sound that shook his emaciated frame. Helena made a small, distressed noise. The physician started forward, but Constantius waved him away impatiently.
"The army…" he rasped, his breath shallowing. "They are loyal to our house, to the blood of Flavius. But loyalty must be… held. Maintained. Galerius watches from the East. He never favored my rise. He will not favor yours, especially at… your age."
Eighteen. Too young, by Roman standards, to command such power without fierce contest. Alistair knew this. Constantine's memories supplied the context of Galerius's ambition, his ruthlessness.
"He will try to name Severus as Augustus in the West," Constantius continued, his voice fading slightly. "He will see you as an obstacle. A boy to be swept aside."
Each word was a carefully placed stone, building a path – or a cage. Alistair listened, his mind racing. This was not just a dying father's concern; it was a strategic briefing, a transfer of vital intelligence. He is lucid enough to understand the succession crisis his death will ignite, Alistair analyzed. He is trying to arm me, or perhaps to bind me to a specific course of action.
"The men here, in Eboracum… Crocus of the Alemanni… they respect you, for my sake. And for your own brief service with them." Constantius's gaze was intense. "They will acclaim you. It is… inevitable, here. But an acclamation in Britannia is not an empire, Constantine. It is merely the first step onto a battlefield soaked in treachery."
He paused, gathering his fading strength. "You have your mother's heart, her fire. Good. But you need more. You need the mind of a serpent, the strength of a lion, and the foresight of… of an eagle, watching from on high." His eyes seemed to look through Constantine, into some distant future.
Then, his grip, surprisingly strong, seized Constantine's arm. "Promise me, boy. Promise me you will hold what is ours. That you will not let them break the West. That you will be… strong enough."
The demand hung in the air, heavy and absolute. This was the crux. A deathbed injunction. Constantine, the son, would have promised without hesitation, driven by love and duty. Alistair, the transmigrator, saw the commitment for what it was: a chain, a geas, but also a potent legitimizing tool. The dying wish of an Augustus.
He met his father's burning gaze.