Dawn of a New Rome

Constantine received his father-in-law beneath a sky flaring with torchlight, brass trumpets hailing the old Augustus as though he still bore the world's crown. In Trier's great hall, the walls bright with banners and garlanded with laurel, Constantine bowed before Maximian in a gesture just short of submission, and called him "my father, Imperator, restorer of Rome." Guests and officers witnessed it all, murmuring approval at a spectacle that flattered tradition and reinforced the image of unity.

Yet spectacle, Constantine knew, was a language-one that veiled intent as well as revealed it. The real audience waited far from Trier: the governors in Lugdunum, the procurators in Hispania, the nervous senators in Rome who watched every movement for signs of fracture or coup. Messengers sped out before the last toast was drunk, bearing accounts of the "reconciliation" between old and new power. In private, the emperor's face cooled into its natural lines: hard, scarred, and unyielding.

That evening's supper in the private triclinium peeled away ceremony. Maximian arrived in a mood that flickered between nostalgia and fury. The servants withdrew after the first course, leaving silver platters untouched. Wine steamed in goblets, untouched by either man.

The old emperor's hand shook as he raised a cup and set it back down with force that rang the table. "You waste the moment," Maximian said, his voice a growl born of too many years commanding armies. "Italy is unguarded. My son postures behind walls. Galerius gnaws the east. You-who hold the Rhine and the West-refuse to strike."

Constantine's tone never changed. "The Rhine is the shield. Without it, Gaul is a pasture for every German king. I will not abandon it for glory."

Maximian scowled, eyes bloodshot with sleepless ambition. "Fortune has always crowned the daring."

"And outlived the reckless," Constantine replied. "I will not throw my strength on Rome's walls for the satisfaction of old scores."

For a moment the old man's control cracked. He muttered of sons who stole their father's laurels, of colleagues who sat idle while Rome suffered. He raged against Galerius and Maxentius in equal measure. The tirade ended only when Constantine, expression unchanged, poured a second cup of wine and spoke not of Rome, but of taxes, supply lines, the state of the Moselle granaries. Maximian's anger ebbed into silence. He drank, shoulders hunched, and glared at the coals until they burned low.

But poison lingers after the goblet is emptied. Over the following days Maximian's frustration turned restless. He haunted the parade grounds, praising old campaigns to officers who admired scars. He tested the loyalty of seasoned centurions with sly reminiscences. Tribune Albinus, eager for advancement, emerged from one such meeting with a sharpened gleam in his eye, and Valerius, watching from a distance, took careful note. Constantine received his reports with the calm of a man reading rainfall; his questions were few, his answers fewer.

Winter's end brought news from the lower Rhine: a Frankish war-band, swollen by the thaw, had crossed near the delta and was burning estates along the old imperial road. The threat was real enough to warrant action. But more valuable was the opportunity it provided.

Constantine convened his generals, Maximian seated at his right. "The Franks grow bold in the mud season," he said. "We must ride north before they find courage enough to besiege our river towns." The officers listened, glancing between the old and young emperors as the plan unfolded: Constantine himself would lead the northern campaign. But before departing, he would escort Maximian to Arelate-a vital node at the head of the Rhône, lifeline of Gaul's southern trade.

The transfer of power was staged before the city's entire garrison. Constantine, in armor, stood beside a wax map of the region. "While I suppress the Frankish raids, the custody of Arelate, its treasury, and its garrison will rest with Imperator Maximian, father of my house. Obey him in all things as you would obey me."

Maximian accepted the charge with words of humble loyalty, but his hands trembled with excitement. The keys to Arelate, its gold reserves, and the writ of command over its defenders-these were tokens of trust or, to a certain mind, invitations to ambition. "I will defend it with my life, son," he vowed, voice ringing in the marble hall. The onlookers saw a touching tableau of continuity; the veterans glimpsed the hunger in Maximian's stare.

That night, Constantine did not celebrate. Instead, he summoned a single trusted courier, a man from Valerius's oldest network, one whose tongue was quick and whose face went unnoticed among soldiers and merchants alike.

"When we pass Lugdunum," Constantine instructed, "let it be whispered that I fell in a Frankish ambush. Build the tale carefully. Name the place and hour, the color of the banners, the fate of my standard. Give it faces-let every trader, every camp-follower hear the details, but let none trace it to you. The rumor must reach Arelate as a truth too plausible to doubt."

The courier bowed, reading the order as clearly as if it were etched in bronze. No more words were needed. He vanished before dawn.

The emperor rode out with the northern column at first light. The road east of the Rhône was slick with meltwater; the air was heavy with woodsmoke and the promise of rain. Constantine wore no purple, only his battered cuirass and the iron-studded helm that marked him as soldier first. Crocus rode beside him, eyes narrowed against the wind. Legionaries tramped behind, spears upright, their banners weighted with mud.

He did not look back at the towers of Arelate. His mind was cold and lucid, stripped of sentiment. He trusted neither Maximian's word nor his own luck, but he trusted the logic of the trap he had laid. In the weeks ahead, the rumor would reach the city. The old emperor would hear of Constantine's death-his own path to the throne apparently open. The keys and the treasury would become the price of his impatience.

Beyond the forests and rivers, messengers would gallop south to carry the tale. Valerius and his agents would watch, noting who rushed to congratulate Maximian, who sought to join his cause, who suddenly counted themselves loyal to another Augustus. The traitors would reveal themselves, drawn to the lure like moths to the torch.

But the true enemy was not Maximian alone. It was the impulse in every ambitious officer, every scheming magistrate, to believe that power could change hands by rumor or betrayal. Constantine intended to smoke out not only the old emperor, but every flicker of insubordination hidden behind forced salutes and feigned devotion.

As the northern forests closed around the marching column, rain began to fall. Constantine listened to the soft patter on his armor, the low talk among the ranks. The game was in motion-each step a measure of how far his authority could reach, and how many would challenge it.

For days he campaigned in the sodden lowlands. The Franks broke before his legions, scattered across the marshes, their leaders hanged at the crossroads. Constantine sent dispatches south detailing each victory, careful to note that his wounds were slight, his resolve undiminished. Yet with every messenger, a different tale also moved-a tale of his death, sharpened and honed for Maximian's ear.

Arelate, meanwhile, waited in a hush of expectation. Maximian held the keys. Officers came and went, uncertain whether the new master would prove as just-or as merciless-as the old. Tribune Albinus paraded more than usual; gold flowed in cautious streams through back channels. When the rumor finally reached the city-a panicked horseman, a bloody standard, a story of ambush and chaos-the stage was set.

Would Maximian seize the moment? Would he declare for himself, summon the southern legions, open the treasury, and call the province to arms? Or would caution win, and the trap close on an empty snare?

It mattered little. Either choice would lay bare the web of loyalty and treachery. Either way, Constantine would know his enemies, and so would Gaul.

In a dripping forest clearing, as evening settled on the battered Roman tents, Constantine watched his legates prepare for the next march. He allowed himself one small measure of satisfaction. The empire was learning to dance to a new tune-a tune whose steps he alone composed. Not even an emperor twice crowned could rewrite it.

Night thickened around the camp. The rain slowed. Constantine pressed his palm to the hilt of his sword, feeling the cold certainty in its grip. Foundations were of stone and silver; power was forged in the discipline of men and the cunning of those who held their ambitions in check.

Tomorrow, or the day after, word would ride north: the trap had closed, the serpent had bitten, the empire was one step closer to true unity-on terms dictated by Constantine alone.