Dawn of a New Rome

The hallway to the imperial privatum narrowed as Constantine advanced, as if the fortress itself braced against the coming shift of power. The light from torches danced along the old stones, smoke trailing up to the beams and carrying the scents of tallow and iron. Rainwater shimmered on the floor where boots had tracked it inside, darkening the path ahead. Every step seemed louder than the last, echoing off the walls, a counterpoint to his pulse.

Valerius waited at the end of the hall, one eye clear and sharp, the other milky from a wound that would never heal. The camp-prefect's battered armor bore the marks of old campaigns, but nothing could disguise the weight in his posture. He faced Constantine, words heavy and grave. "He is weak, Dominus. Spare him what strength you can."

Constantine gave a single nod, letting the gesture speak both as son and as the man who would soon shoulder a dying world. The meaning was not lost on Valerius, who pressed his palm to the oak doors. With a groan, they swung inward, opening onto silence thick as storm clouds.

He entered a chamber where the grandeur of Rome now waged a losing battle against sickness and time. The ceiling soared overhead, rafters disappearing into shadows. Incense burned near the beams, frankincense and myrrh twisting with the chill air. Bundles of rosemary and thyme in earthen bowls tried to mask the other smells-iron and sweat, blood dried on the sheets, the sweet-sour tang of fever.

Oil lamps, nearly guttered, cast shifting bars of gold across faded tapestries. One tapestry showed a sun cresting over Britannia, the wool worn thin from years of neglect. Another hung limp, its image of charging cavalry barely visible beneath a patina of dust. The purple dyes had darkened to the color of old bruises.

Constantius Chlorus lay at the center, swaddled in wolf pelts and legion cloaks, propped up on silken pillows. Time and illness had carved away the flesh, leaving only the lines of command and the hard set of a soldier's mouth. His breathing was shallow, each exhale a scrape across dry parchment. His eyes, sea-green and almost luminous, fixed on his son.

Constantine crossed the room with measured steps. For one moment, he saw through the haze of two lifetimes-a child lifted high on a charger, a general's hand steady on his back, laughter at a campfire's edge. Then the visions faded, and he was simply here, the only son, come to witness the end.

Helena sat beside the bed, her mourning cloak folded across her lap. Her face was pale, lips pressed tight against the tide of grief. The physician lingered in the shadows, a Greek with sleepless eyes, hands stained with the tinctures he had brewed in hope.

Valerius remained by the door, watchful, silent, already guarding the next world as the old one slipped away.

The emperor's voice broke the hush. "Constantine." The word sounded like old leather dragged over stone, dry and brittle but alive. A hand lifted, trembling, knuckles pale beneath thinning skin.

A wave of loss struck Constantine, real and raw. He let it move through him, then drew up the discipline that had carried him through storms of data and disaster. He took the hand, bowing his head, letting tradition guide him where certainty could not.

Helena's breath caught. The physician shifted, uncertain if his services would still be needed or if he had simply become another witness to empire's passing.

"They said you were lost to fever," Constantius murmured, voice hoarse.

"I recover, Father," Constantine replied, choosing words that balanced reassurance and truth. "I am ready for what comes next."

A flicker of relief touched the emperor's features. He drew in a rattling breath, turning his gaze to a folded cloak dyed imperial purple, a mark of the office that now lay within reach of both their hands. "The purple," he said, staring at the cloth, "is heavier than any shield or armor. Men crave it, but only a few ever bear its true weight. Do you?"

A test, plain and simple. The correct answer would be a vow of loyalty or a promise of glory. Constantine gave only truth. "It means service to Rome, and to the men who guard her frontiers."

Constantius's eyes narrowed, the light in them sharp as a blade. He coughed, a deep racking sound, then waved off the physician with a movement born of old authority. "The army remains loyal to our name. But loyalty needs feeding. Galerius circles, hungry as a wolf. He will name Severus in my place. They will call you a boy, say you are untried." His voice faded to a rasp.

Constantine dipped his head, listening and calculating. He mapped the possible futures: Galerius's messengers rushing north, Severus marching west with whatever legions he could gather, Rome's rumor mills grinding out new stories with every dawn. All roads led back to this room, and the men who would leave it.

"In Britannia, the Sixth Victrix will acclaim you," Constantius continued, now almost whispering. "Crocus and his German riders will join you if you show strength. But an acclamation here is only the beginning-a step onto a field lined with knives."

The emperor's hands trembled as he spoke, the words drawn from the last dregs of will. "Carry your mother's fire. Temper it with patient cunning and the resolve to endure when others falter." His grip closed on Constantine's forearm, bones standing stark beneath the skin. "Promise me-hold the West. Do not let them undo all we have built."

For a second, it was not politics or calculation that answered, but the voice of a son. "I swear, Father. Rome will stand. I will hold it. I will not fail you."

Constantius's strength ebbed. He breathed out, a sigh long and low, and seemed to let go of the world's burdens all at once. "Then go," he said, voice barely audible. "Stand before the men. Show them a Caesar who is iron."

Helena wept softly, head bent. The physician moved to help, but Constantius stilled him with a last gesture. Pride endured, even as life flickered.

As Constantine started to rise, the hand closed one last time, urgent. The dying emperor fixed him with a stare bright as any torch. "Beware the whispers. Snakes hide in every shadow. Trust, but only after you have watched."

The last words floated into stillness. Constantius's eyes slipped past him, seeing a horizon beyond the walls and tapestries, a place where empire meant nothing and old soldiers finally found peace.

The physician pressed fingers to the emperor's neck, bowing his head in ritual. "Dominus periit," he whispered. The lord has passed.

Helena's composure shattered. She crumpled over the bed, sobs muffled by the folds of a wolf pelt. Valerius closed his good eye, murmuring a prayer for the dead, or perhaps for the living who would inherit the storm.

Constantine stood apart, grief surging but held at bay. He had only moments before the void of power would demand to be filled. He moved swiftly, giving orders in a voice that rang with authority.

"To the physician: stay with the Augusta. No one enters or leaves until I allow it. Preserve his dignity."

The Greek nodded, wide-eyed.

To Helena, he knelt, hand steady on her shoulder. "His pain is over. Ours is not. The Empire looks to us now."

She blinked tears away, steadied by his presence and his new strength.

At the door, Valerius awaited orders. Constantine spoke without hesitation. "The Augustus is dead. Double the guard. No word goes forth until I command it."

Valerius signaled, posting sentries in silence.

Outside the chamber, the fortress breathed in anticipation. Torches burned brighter, boots thudded against stone, the world turning over as the balance shifted.

The plan formed in his mind: first, lock down the centers of power; second, gather the key officers; third, control the announcement before rumor distorted it. Each move built the foundation for the reign to come.

He left the room behind, passing into halls that seemed at once familiar and newly treacherous. Doors closed, shadows lengthened. Ahead, the corridors bent toward the parade ground, where already whispers gathered like storm clouds.

An empire had passed with a breath. Its future now depended on the resolve of a single man, standing where two lives met in a body both young and ancient. Constantine walked on, unflinching, ready to claim the dawn.