Dawn of a New Rome

Winter pressed down on Augusta Treverorum, flattening color into a world of slate and iron. Frost rimed every pine along the Moselle. Mists rolled off the river before dawn, pooling thick in the alleys and across the drill yards. Within the palace, though, the air stayed clear and dry. The emperor's routine ran without pause, as if Constantine meant to grind the fog itself beneath his schedule.

Each morning, while hoarfrost still limned the roofs and the city walls stood blurred in white haze, Constantine walked the balcony above the parade ground. Centurions barked, their voices slicing through the gloom as Britannic veterans drilled beside newly sworn Gallic cohorts. Their shields bore different symbols, but every blow landed in the same measured rhythm. When the sun set, torches ringed the practice fields, lighting up glistening backs and bronze rims steaming from the cold. It was a symphony of order, discipline hammered into men and iron alike.

Inside, the work never slowed. Constantine spent long hours bent over lists of tax rolls, exemptions, and grain quotas. Claudius Mamertinus, shoulders stooped but mind as sharp as any sword, presented the old privileges and immunities that had tangled revenue into knots. Mamertinus tried, more than once, to invoke custom as the foundation of policy. Each time, Constantine broke the argument in a single motion-shutting a wax tablet, crossing a figure off with a black stylus, issuing a final word.

"Tradition does not feed a legion," he said, voice unyielding. "Rescind the exemption. The army comes first, the roads next. Only what remains after that is fit for merchants and guilds."

Mamertinus bit down any protest, bowed, and made it so. This rhythm-present obstacle, reduce to numbers, enforce obedience-spread through the city like a new doctrine. Efficiency replaced sentiment. Gold flowed to armorers, bakers, and builders. Rumor spread faster than any decree: Augusta Treverorum was ruled by an emperor who counted every loaf and every coin.

Through those icy weeks, the routine held until Valerius broke it. He entered the council chamber trailing melted snow, helmet tucked under his arm.

"Incursion along the lower Rhine," he reported, straight to the point. "Bructeri war bands. They burned two villas and took a watchtower near Novaesium."

Mamertinus muttered a prayer for the treasury's sake. Constantine's eyes sharpened, a rare flicker of satisfaction cutting through his discipline. "Our new army needs a crucible. The Bructeri will do."

Crocus, standing in the shadows, let out a booming laugh. "My Alamanni will enjoy German blood more than Gallic wine," he declared, pounding a fist on his mail. Orders went out at once: smiths doubled their shifts, quartermasters opened storehouses, scouts mounted fresh horses to ride east and count the enemy's banners. Constantine stalked the corridors late each night, the promise of open war humming in his veins.

As February dragged toward spring, a courier from Italy staggered through the gates of Trier. His face was wind-burnt, cloak rimed with frost, horse lathered and limping. Valerius brought him directly to the imperial study, where Constantine and Crocus were deep in maps and rosters. The messenger had barely breath for a bow before he gasped out the news.

"Severus is dead, Dominus. Forced to suicide in Ravenna by Maxentius and his father."

The room fell silent. The only sound was the pop of resin in the brazier, echoing as if the whole palace had paused to listen. Constantine nodded once, eyes flat, absorbing implication faster than anyone could speak.

Severus, for all his failures, had been the buffer between Galerius and the full weight of Roman disaster. With him gone, Galerius had two choices: invade Italy himself, or watch his Eastern legitimacy mocked from Rome to the farthest Nile village.

Constantine made his decision without hesitation. "Send condolences to Severus's staff. Dispatch riders to every Danube garrison. Many are without a master tonight-let them know there is an Augustus in Trier who pays in solidus, not empty promises."

The courier was sent for warmth and food. Crocus exhaled a whistle, half marvel, half challenge. "Italy burns. Do we ride south and claim the ashes, Augustus?"

Constantine strode to the great map pinned on the wall, his world charted not for memory but for conquest. "Not yet," he answered, voice even. "Let Galerius and Maxentius tear each other apart in the Forum. Our business is simpler-and more valuable." He laid a finger along the sinuous line of the Rhine. "We will teach Rome and every tribe beyond this river that the Western armies answer only to me."

March came sooner in his camp than in the fields. The snows gave way to muddy tracks, the frost to the thud of marching feet. Constantine assembled his army in the forum, refusing the gold-tasseled litters offered by nervous aides. He mounted a black charger, its flanks white with cold vapor, helmet plain iron but for the narrow gilded band of imperial rank.

What followed was a force unknown in living memory. Britannic cavalry led the van, followed by Crocus's Alamanni guards in ring mail, then the veterans of Legio Primigenia and the newly named Legio VI Treverica, drawn from Gallic recruits. Engineers rolled out bolt-throwers. Baggage wagons, loaded with Mamertinus's hard-won taxes hammered into spearheads and pay chests, trailed behind. The column was lean, hungry, efficient-designed to break tribes, not besiege cities.

As they moved out, citizens gathered along the mucky streets, some silent, others cheering. It was one thing to reform taxes and pay wages on time. It was another for the emperor himself to ride east in the mud, steel beside him, leaving warm marble for the stinging wind. Awe and relief mingled in every stare.

Constantine kept the pace brisk, refusing any show of weakness. Each milestone marked more than distance-it marked the re-ordering of the empire. He saw, in every battered fort and collapsed bridge, the future he meant to build: strongholds restored, garrisons united by discipline instead of nostalgia, towns grown fat on security and order. Each act pressed his claim to the West deeper into the flesh of the land.

At a crossroads just outside a ruined watchtower, Valerius rode alongside. "When the Bructeri are broken, do we turn south?" the old soldier asked.

Constantine's reply was simple, certain. "We will see what Italy has become by then. No emperor holds a throne who cannot defend his borders. Let the world see our borders are iron. After that-" He glanced east, toward where Alpine peaks hid in mist. "-we decide who else must learn the lesson."

The ruins came into view, black smoke twisting above charred timbers. The army formed up by cohorts, Crocus's warriors crowding forward, Gallic recruits silent but eager. Constantine dismounted and walked the front, face unreadable but his eyes burning. Those nearest caught a glimpse of the same cold light that had judged cases in the basilica and ended privileges in a single stroke. Now it sought its final proof: strength, tested not in law or treasury, but in battle.

He spoke only once, in a voice pitched for every ear: "Today we forge one army, one frontier. Let no man fail his place."

Trumpets sounded. The column advanced. Spring broke over Gaul not with blossoms, but with the iron thunder of its emperor's will.