Dawn of a New Rome

Night surrendered with grudging reluctance, the sky above Eboracum fading from black to an iron-grey dawn. The fortress roused itself slowly, each sound part of a measured ritual. Boots hammered against the stones in a syncopated rhythm. Leather straps tightened across cuirasses, shields knocked against spear shafts, and the scrape of benches being dragged into orderly ranks filled the parade ground with anticipation. A cold mist clung to the yard, swirling around ankles and catching the light from torches set high along the wall.

Constantine stood just within the portico of the principia, shadowed by Valerius and Crocus. Valerius's armor caught the lamplight, the old soldier's stance unyielding. Crocus, the German chieftain, wore a wolf pelt across his shoulders, eyes narrowed as he watched the ranks assemble. His men, barbarian federates with spears slung over their backs, lounged at the parade ground's edge, less disciplined than the legions but no less dangerous. Crocus had arrived quietly before midnight. His answer to Constantine's summons was a single, silent nod. He stayed now out of respect-and calculation, measuring the man who called him here.

Clerks moved with quick, nervous efficiency. Scarlet banners were unrolled, standards set upright in their iron sockets. The eagle of the Sixth Victrix gleamed bronze in the pale light, still damp from last night's hurried polishing. A vexillum bearing Constantius's faded cipher drooped at half-staff. Beside it, a staff stood bare, ready for whatever emblem would claim the day.

Valerius leaned in. "First cohort in position. Drums will wait for your word."

Constantine watched the mist curling across the stones, weighing every detail. He wanted the silence to grow heavy, to root itself in the gut of every soldier. News of an emperor's death grew in that hush, swelling in the space between breaths. He counted out the moment, as he once counted market cycles, letting the tension gather until the quiet itself became an order.

A cornicen at the far end of the field lifted his horn. Constantine inclined his head. Three long notes sounded, rising, holding, falling. The call echoed along the wall walk, stirring birds from the battlements. In answer, other horns took up the refrain, drums began to rumble, and the ground shook as the legion stamped their feet into place-six thousand hobnails biting at the flagstones in unison.

He stepped out onto the dais.

Mist pooled around his boots, lit by the first glint of sun along the ramparts. The faces before him were pale and sharp, legionaries with breath fogging the air, eyes locked on their commander. Sixth Victrix stood at the front, shields aligned edge to edge, helmets polished to a dull glow. Beside them, the Twentieth Valeria Victrix shifted quietly, auxilia archers at their rear, German riders to the flank. The parade ground seemed both vast and close, the world contracting around a single voice.

Constantine did not shout. He did not need to. The tension in the yard was so taut that a whisper would have carried.

"Soldiers of Rome," he called, his voice clear, "your Augustus, my father-has crossed the final river."

A collective exhale swept the yard, the sound soft and heavy. Behind him, a lone drummer tapped a single beat-a slow, mournful cadence-then fell silent.

"He commanded me to tell you this: the purple is heavier than iron. You bore him across the Rhine and the Humber on your shields and your spears. You know the weight he meant. That burden is mine now-if you choose to place it on my shoulders."

He moved to the edge of the platform, scanning the front ranks. He met the eyes of the centurions, saw the calculation in their faces. Some looked for a falter, some for a promise. The legion waited, weighing the future.

"I will not promise you ease," he said. "Galerius will send Severus, with new eagles and empty words, to claim what your blood has already won. He will tell you that coins struck in distant Nicomedia matter more than the loyalty you swore on British soil. I say this: your oath made this empire. Your blades keep it whole. If you would follow the blood of Constantius-follow me now."

For a heartbeat nothing moved. The air itself seemed to pause. Constantine stood still, feeling the hinge of history beneath his boots, every outcome balanced on the choice of men before him.

Valerius was the first to break the stillness. He drew his sword, the steel bright in the dawn, and lifted it high. His voice rang out, rough and certain.

"Ave Constantine Augustus!"

The cry split the morning. It was echoed by the centurions, then taken up by the cohorts, building in strength, shields thudding in unison, spear-butts hammered to the stone. Horns blared. The sound rolled over the yard in crashing waves, every shout an oath and a warning.

"Ave Augustus! Ave Augustus!"

Crocus threw up a hand and his riders added their own wild voices, swords glinting as they saluted the new emperor. The empty staff beside the fallen vexillum shivered as two officers rushed forward, unfurling a fresh banner-double-headed eagle over thunderbolt, the emblem still damp from last night's needlework.

Constantine waited, letting the roar crest and recede. Then he lifted a hand and the noise dissolved into ragged silence.

"Your acclamation binds me," he said. "And I bind myself to you. Double rations today. Tribute to the funeral pyre tonight. Tomorrow we march south. First to Gaul, then east-to show Severus that Rome's heart beats here, in the chests of men who do not surrender their emperor with his corpse."

A fresh cheer broke loose, but Constantine's eyes never left the officers-measuring their loyalty, reading their doubts. The response was what he wanted: agreement, calculation, the beginnings of discipline. They would follow, but he would have to keep them fed, busy, and rewarded if their oaths were to endure.

He stepped back as Valerius sheathed his sword, the old prefect's jaw clenched hard, eyes rimmed with unshed tears. "They would have followed you into the sea," Valerius murmured.

"Let's hope rivers suffice," Constantine replied. He turned to Crocus. "Your riders will screen the column as we march."

The Alemanni chief bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. "We will ride ahead of Rome's new sun."

The parade ground shifted. Officers moved quickly, voices barking orders. Men formed columns, standards dipped in salute. Constantine felt exhaustion settle into his bones, but the gold of dawn painted the eagles and banners, and for a moment the empire felt less like a burden and more like a structure-heavy but possible to bear.

He stood for a breath, cold air and smoke stinging his lungs, the taste of iron and the distant sea on the wind. Somewhere, Galerius would soon open a wax tablet and realize the empire's axis had tilted.

Descending from the dais, Constantine made for the staff offices. There would be dispatches to send, a funeral to plan, orders for rations and horses. The work was endless. Yet, beneath it all, he carried the echo of six thousand voices, thunder still humming in his chest.

Augustus. Augustus.

It was no longer just a title. It was a claim forged by steel, sealed by the will of an army. Constantine swore to himself that he would bear its weight, whatever it cost, until empire itself bent or broke around his hands.