When Constantine came to the camp and was greeted by Julius Caesar, he had the impression that this man should have been born in the time of the Roman Kings. He had this reserved, respectable, way of dealing with everyone that Constantine wanted to emulate.

When Constantine asked where his father was, he was told he was negotiating with Germania. Apparently, Germania was crossing the Rhine into Gaul, searching for milder weather.

His baby brother couldn’t broker alliances, or understand he was in a war, but Germania could still decide to back him up. To reap future benefits, if for no other reason.

“Constantine, tomorrow, when the negotiations fail, I want you by my site to meet Rome,” spoke Julius Caesar. Constantine didn’t know what type of game this man was playing, but he knew he had to be careful.

“As you command. I was told to listen to you in all manners,” Julius Caesar nodded and looked in the bundled up Franconia.

“He has been having stomach aches for a while now. Your father said it may be due to the war. If he cries during the meeting tomorrow, hand him to a slave,” Constantine blinked. That was positively cruel. Franconia was still his baby brother and so, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Pardon me, Julius Caesar, but I was also told to take care of my brother. Not that I need such instructions…” Before Constantine could continue, the middle-aged Roman chuckled.

“And family is important to you? You, who would steal the land of your older brother Herakles?” Constantine gulped. In all his excitement to get land of his own, he had not thought about that.

“I am certain my father won’t give me Herakles’s land,” and he spoke the truth, as far as he knew it.

“You are certain? Your capital would be Byzantium, would it not? Do you know where that is?”

“It straddles the Bosporus strait,” began Constantine, unsure of himself.

“Correct. And your domain should span in the Balkans. All of them. That includes Greece and its many islands,” Constantine’s eyes widened. His father wanted to disinherit Herakles?

“I will give Herakles his land back,” spoke Constantine firmly.

“And have a hole between your capital and the rest of your domain? What do I teach you if you can’t grasp something like that?” Constantine looked down at the face of his brother.

Franconia was blue-eyed and blonde, almost entirely his mother, although he had inherited the Roman curl and nose. Herakles was a mix between his parents, and he grew slowly. He was lean, with green eyes and dark-brown curls. He imagined his face scrunching up with the accusation that Constantine was a thief. And then turned to Julius Caesar.

“Why would father disinherit Herakles?” He spoke in a small voice, knowing full well that Julius Caesar would disapprove of him for even asking.

“Because your brother wants to return to the glory days of Greece. He may have the body of a child, but he had the mind of an adult. Besides, him getting territory would mean your death. Romulus doesn’t want to see such a crime be committed under his watch,” Constantine nodded.

He had always pegged Herakles as a child. They had played together when Constantine had been younger. He had appeared a good brother, then. Although, technically, the boy was also his uncle.

“So, I can’t trust him?” Constantine sounded defeated, even to his ears. Then, he got an idea. “Can I participate in the battle to come? You seem sure that Germania won’t listen to father.”

“I am more than sure, my spies tell me that Germania has already gotten his berserkers across the Rhine,” Constantine gripped Franconia tighter. If Germania could, he’d kill both him and the baby. To hurt their father, if for no other reason. “I will arrange for some armor for you. You seem tall for your age.”

“Thank you,” Constantine bowed, but the Roman’s next words gave him a pause.

“Should you thank me, or should your brother? Should you die in the coming battle, then, I will act you being there in the first place as an act of rebellion. Leave the baby here and go to the quartermaster,” Julius Caesar handed over a slip of parchment to Constantine. “Give him this.”

“You have prepared for this?” It was both a statement and a question. Julius Caesar smiled down at him.

“I know the mind of the youth of Rome. I have been one too, you know?” Caesar winked at Constantine, who placed his brother in a nearby crypt.

“And Constantine?” Constantine stopped at the exit of the tent. “Should the barbarians reclaim your brother, after Gaul’s death, it would mean the end. Do keep that in mind.”

Did Caesar ask Constantine to kill his brother, if there was a reclamation as a possibility? Constantine didn’t know. What he did know was that he was going to make sure his brother staid safe.

He made it to the quartermaster after a bit of walking and handed him the note.

“You? In need of armor? What are you, ten?” The quartermaster handed him back the note with a snort.

“This is from Julius Caesar. You may disregard me, but, can you disregard him?”

“There is an age line, you know. I don’t know if…”

Constantine imitated one of Antonius’s stern looks, and the man quieted down.

“I must fight for the Republic and my family. Together with the proud Roman legionaries,” the quartermaster nodded and finally took the note. 

“I will need to take your measurements, to make sure I refit everything. Come inside the tent,” Constantine resisted the urge to smile. Now, more than ever, he needed to appear aloof and stern. Like a respectable Roman.

Constantine got his measurements done and then exited the tent. After which, he headed back to Julius’s tent. He did not believe that Caesar had his brother’s interests to heart. Or his own, if he was pushing him into battle.