Dawn of a New Rome

Smoke rose above the legionary camp at dawn, curling in black columns that split and drifted like banners of omen. The air was raw and cold, heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and boiled grain. Every soldier moved with the silent purpose that followed a storm-restless, determined, glancing at the ramparts as if expecting news or orders with every passing moment.

Inside the principia's strategium, Constantine claimed the broad cedar bench at the head of a long table. Maps hung from the walls, marked with ink and grease from years of campaigns. The skins of northern wolves and red deer draped the beams overhead, reminders of old victories. The seat creaked under his weight, lighter than his father's had been, but the hush that settled on the room belonged to a throne, not a chair. Each Ave Augustus murmured in his direction nailed him to it.

Valerius took his place to Constantine's right, cloak stiff with frost. The camp-prefect stood, as always, with the wary stillness of a man who trusted few. Crocus sprawled on the opposite side, massive arms folded, wolf pelt draped over his mail. The tribunes of the Sixth and Twentieth took their seats with a deference that was equal parts caution and calculation. Quartermasters hovered nearby, eyes darting between their ledgers and the faces of the high command. Scribes and tabularii, dressed in gray, formed a crescent at the far end, quills poised above parchment. Senator Lucius Aemilius Rufinus arrived late, his toga a slash of white among the ranks of scarlet cloaks. He nodded with the smooth gravity of a man who weighed every moment for its political yield.

Constantine let the silence build. Each man and woman in the room understood the nature of power-how it filled every gap, how quickly it turned. When he spoke, the words came cold and clear.

"The funeral comes first," he said. "The pyre is to be raised beyond the north gate. Timber from the imperial stockyard. The work begins at once."

No one questioned the cost. Quartermasters paled but did not protest. Constantine pressed on, his voice the steady crack of command.

"Cohorts One and Two of the Sixth will form the honor guard. The Twentieth will light the torches. Fatigue is no excuse. Loyalty is measured by endurance. Tonight, the emperor is committed to fire."

Quills scratched again as scribes hurried to note the orders. Constantine dictated three proclamations for public reading: first, the official notice of Constantius's death; second, the acclamation of Constantinus Augustus by the armies of Britannia and Gaul; third, the promise of a double donative-two aurei for every legionary, four for every centurion, ten for each of the protectores. There was a faint intake of breath at the cost, but Constantine gave nothing away. Coin kept accounts, but only gold in the hands of soldiers forged devotion.

He watched faces as the news sank in. Even the senator's well-trained composure slipped for a moment as he calculated the treasury's drain. Constantine let it pass. Rome could print new coins or levy new taxes. Loyalty lost could not be bought back at any price.

He gave the next order to the room. "Couriers leave for Londinium at noon, for Gesoriacum by dusk. Orders to reinforce the Channel fleets go with them. Galerius will know soon enough, but I want our lines secure before his messengers cross the Alps. Rome's senate can wait. Ships cannot."

Senator Rufinus listened in silence, his fingers steepled in his lap. Constantine made a note to watch him. Ambition behind a white toga was more dangerous than any sword at a general's belt.

As the hall emptied, Constantine called for Valerius and Crocus to remain. The other commanders filed out, leaving only the scent of wax and the low hum of morning voices outside.

Senator Rufinus would be back. Constantine expected he would return before nightfall, claiming to speak for the provincial elites but searching for signs of weakness. He would be given nothing but courtesy.

Crocus rolled his shoulders and stood. "My riders are already saddling, Augustus," he said. "The roads will be clear. No one will come within sight of the walls without my knowing it."

"See that it is so," Constantine replied. "If banners appear, I want a count of their horse and a report on their colors before the scouts taste Roman dust."

Crocus grinned, teeth flashing white against the tangle of his beard. He left with the heavy tread of a man who understood the value of a strong first impression.

Constantine turned next to a scroll of supplies: grain, iron, coin, and the line that caught his eye-oil and salt rations. The columns ran thin. If the legions lingered in Britannia, famine would follow. Within seven days, Constantine decided, the army must be either marching or boarding ships. Delay was a luxury he could not afford. They would burn the pyre tonight and move south two dawns from now.

Night fell quickly. The wind drove the clouds in from the sea, turning the sky a bruised violet. Beyond the city walls, the funeral pyre rose like a siege tower. Hundreds of soldiers gathered wood, stacking it higher until it stood well above their heads. The timber was heavy with sap and resin, split with the care that came from the knowledge of what it would carry.

Constantine dressed for the ceremony with ritual precision: polished armor, crimson cloak clasped by the eagle brooch, sword at his side. He mounted the ramp built beside the pyre, his boots loud on the fresh-cut planks. The faces below him blurred into a sea of helmets and torches. Drums beat a slow, steady rhythm. Smoke already coiled above the stacked wood.

He laid his father's sword across the topmost layer, pausing for a breath that caught in his chest. The blade gleamed in the firelight, a final token of an emperor's will.

Valerius stood at the base of the pyre. He gave a silent nod, and the Twentieth advanced, each man with a torch held high. The first flames licked at the wood, then caught, climbing in sheets of gold and red. Fire devoured wolf pelts and silk, crackling up through the timber until the pyre burned as if it would outlast the night.

The soldiers bowed their heads as the flames reached higher. Constantine stayed until the first bones cracked in the heat, the air thick with the smell of pine and myrrh. He watched as sparks stormed the sky, carried away on the same wind that would bear news to every frontier.

When he descended, face streaked with soot, Valerius was waiting. The old soldier spoke in a low voice, but it carried all the weight of duty. "Armories are open. Fresh kit is being issued. We will march at dawn."

Constantine nodded, gaze locked on the dying fire. "The West will not wait for Galerius to send word."

He stood for a long while, letting the heat from the pyre wash over him, letting memory settle. Good-bye, Father. The lessons you gave are embers now. I carry the flame.

Behind him, pine, incense, and the flesh of an emperor collapsed to ash. The wind shifted, blowing south. Constantine watched it go, knowing that by morning every man would be ready for war. The proving would begin, and only those who marched with purpose would shape the fate of Rome.