Dawn of a New Rome

The brazier's red core pulsed like a living heart in Constantine's private study. Its glow swept across the iron curve of his cuirass, caught the brass edges of helmets stacked along the wall, and flickered over the massed maps that told the story of an empire in fracture. The air, sharp with the scent of burning pine, seemed to press the night inward.

Valerius stood at parade-still near the far window, shadow stitched across his scarred cheek. The only other motion in the room was the restless flutter of parchment on the broad table. Wind tugged at a corner, threatening to scatter a map of Italia, but Constantine pressed it flat with one hand, head bowed, shoulders set in the pose of thought that left no room for fatigue.

The name Maxentius hung between them, a spark in the dark. Constantine's gaze traced the road from Trier to Rome, finger pausing at the blank place where power had always gathered. Rome in uproar. Severus caught between rebellion and duty. Galerius far off in the east, calculating and slow. Everything depended on who moved first.

"Galerius built his house on taxes and terror," Constantine said at last. His voice was soft, almost intimate, but each word landed with weight. "Now Rome stirs both into revolt, and Maxentius strikes the match. Severus stands on three fronts: Rome in riot, Gaul in defiance, and his own doubt."

Valerius did not reply, but his stance shifted slightly. Waiting, always, for the next command.

Constantine called for his chief officers-Claudius Mamertinus, Crocus, Metellus, and the senior tribunes of both Britannic and Gallic cohorts. They gathered under the painted ceiling in an uneasy line: barbarian chief beside Roman senator, island veteran beside Rhine-hardened centurion. There was no time for ceremony. Constantine's words cut straight to the bone.

"Rome riots," he began, stabbing the map with his finger. "The Praetorians whisper Maxentius's name. Severus must ride south to smother the flames or confess his weakness to Galerius. Whichever way he moves, his back is turned to us."

A brief stir ran through the gathering. Crocus's lips curled into a thin smile. Mamertinus went pale, but his hand stayed steady on the stylus. Only Valerius remained motionless, eyes never leaving Constantine.

"Our task is not to chase their drama," Constantine continued, "but to ensure Gaul is unbreakable when survivors look north. I have written new orders." He unrolled a second scroll, its ink still damp. Messengers would ride out that night to every civitas from Lugdunum to Burdigala. Any governor who proclaimed Constantine Augustus was confirmed in office. Those who wavered would face tribunals led by the Sixth Victrix. The fate of Samarobriva's prefect-tried for extortion and executed before his own cohort-was inscribed in the margin for all to remember.

Mamertinus received the next sheet. "Repair the Via Aquitania with treasury silver. Fund emergency granary stocks at Tolosa and Narbo. A hungry city breeds bandits. Feed them, and they build walls for us instead."

"Legions," Constantine went on, sliding a roster across the table. "Detachments of the Eighth Augusta will rotate through camps with the Britannic cohorts. For two weeks, their standards will mix. Loyalty must run through every column, not gather in cliques."

Metellus, ever practical, spoke up. "Some Rhine commanders may test you, Augustus."

"They will find my will to be iron," Constantine replied. "The Rhine will learn a new tradition." His voice was cool but sure.

The next order concerned Hispania. Mamertinus would oversee a diplomatic column-four hundred riders, all bearing the imperial labarum. Their route led straight to the council at Tarraco. Letters already written spoke of Constantius's birth, his victories, and his son's pledge to lower customs on Iberian wool if the province swore loyalty now. Auxiliary drafts would follow in the spring; Constantine wanted the slingers and mountain scouts when the passes opened.

Valerius stepped forward. "Intelligence?"

"Every road into Italy," Constantine said. "I want troop counts, the mood of Maxentius's mobs, the locations of Galerius's garrisons. Use anyone you must-merchants, priests, actors, whores. The truth is worth any coin." His gaze turned cold. "If the Praetorians must wonder who fills their purse when bread is scarce, let them wonder so loudly that even Maxentius hears."

Crocus rumbled, "And if Maxentius seeks alliance?"

"We answer with silence," Constantine said. "While he and Severus bleed each other, Gaul must grow stronger. The deeper our roots, the more easily their branches break in the storm."

He dismissed the council, retaining only Valerius. Once the others had gone, the crackle of the brazier filled the silence, as if the empire itself had paused to listen.

"Have the scribes prepare an edict on peculation," Constantine ordered. "Any man caught embezzling will lose his estates. Confiscate what he owns, redistribute it to the wounded and widowed. Stamp the decree with the eagle and the Chi-Rho-let mercy speak for citizens, and judgment for thieves."

Valerius nodded, his reply swift and unambiguous. "And you, Augustus?"

"I ride to Mogontiacum at dawn," Constantine said, rolling up the map, sliding a bronze dagger through the scroll as if to fix the future in place. "Gaul must see its emperor move faster than rumor."

He crossed to the window. Below, the drill square glowed with torchlight, Britannic and Gallic standards entwined above soldiers who never slept as deeply as civilians believed. Beyond the walls, the Moselle wound silver through black fields. It joined province to province, tied his name to lands he had yet to conquer.

Chaos in Italy burned bright-a flame he could neither quench nor ignore. Let the fire roar, he thought. In the quiet heart of Trier, he would shape steel and law and loyalty until the moment came to stride south and seize what the old order had dropped.

He turned from the window, cloak stirring behind him. The ladder of chaos was before him, the first rung already under his feet, his hands closing on the next.

Tomorrow, he would rise.