Dawn of a New Rome

Torch smoke hung thick beneath the beams of the strategium even after the last of the council had filed out. Constantine remained, hunched over the great table, his hand tracing the river lines of Britannia's north. The network of forts-Eboracum, Deva, Isca, and the line of the Wall-formed an uneven crescent across the parchment. Each strongpoint seemed secure in daylight, but in his mind's eye, he saw shadows gathering in every gap. If any post failed, Galerius's envoys or Severus's scouts would slip through unnoticed, and Britannia would be pierced from within.

A knock sounded, soft and hurried. The door eased open, and a boy no older than twelve slipped inside, eyes red from sleeplessness but burning with pride. He handed Constantine a wax tablet with both hands.

"From the granaries, Dominus."

Constantine turned the tablet in the lamplight. Neat rows marked out barley, beans, old grain spoiling from rain, and Valerius's scrawl in the margin: surplus can be scraped, but horses will suffer. He closed the tablet and handed it back. He thanked the boy with a quiet nod. Grain before gold, Alistair's memory whispered. An army could not be bribed into loyalty with empty stomachs.

Footsteps crossed the tiles, measured and assured. Senator Rufinus entered without pausing for permission, the edge of his toga marked with a thin band of black. His hair had been combed, his sandals polished. His face wore gravity, but Constantine read calculation in every line.

"Augustus," Rufinus intoned. "The city council requests audience at midday to discuss funeral expenditures, and of course, to offer condolences."

A merchant's priorities: coin first, comfort second. Constantine met the senator's eyes, cold and steady. "Tell the council they will be received after the second hour watch. Imperial rites are paid from Rome's treasury, not Eboracum's purses."

Rufinus bowed, but not before a flicker of irritation passed across his face. "Naturally. One further item: the vicarius of Britannia sends his fidelity but asks by what authority you levy a donative without treasury warrant."

Constantine allowed the question to settle in the air. "By the authority that bleeds if the frontier breaks," he replied. He held Rufinus's gaze, letting the silence stretch until the senator glanced away. "The warrant will arrive with the next seal from Trier. For now, Britannia stands on faith."

Rufinus withdrew, trailing his hand along the edge of the table in a silent farewell. As the door shut behind him, Crocus stepped from the shadows, his thick arms folded over a chest as broad as an altar.

"Senators are foxes," Crocus growled. "Useful when they remember their place. Dangerous when they remember their teeth."

Constantine tapped the edge of the granary tablet, the tension easing for a moment. "That is why we keep the hounds fed. Are your riders away?"

Crocus nodded, the beads in his beard catching the lamplight. "Before sunrise. They will shadow every road and river. But word always runs faster than any horse. If Severus crosses at Gesoriacum, Gaul may waver."

"Then we do not let him cross," Constantine replied. He unfurled a coastal map, fingers steady as he marked the harbors. "The Classis Britannica docks at Rutupiae. Her trieres need crew and fresh sailcloth. Give me your first thousand footmen. We will turn them into marines. If iron cannot hold the Channel, we will trust to the wind."

Crocus's laughter rumbled through the room, low and rough. "They would rather drown than lose their place in the saga. Consider it done."

Sunlight crept in, striping the stone floor as Helena entered. Her hair was bound in a mourning veil, her robe scented with cedar and frankincense. In her arms she bore a small chest, polished and heavy with bronze bands.

"Your father wished you to have this," she said, setting it gently on the table.

Constantine opened it. Within lay a spiral electrum torque, heavy as a winter shackle, and a slim codex, bound in cracked calfskin. He thumbed the pages: notes in his father's crisp, slanted hand-orders, diagrams, lists of rations and officer tallies, even the margin symbol he used to mark risk: Hostis intrinsecus. Enemy within. The words reached across the boundary of death and expectation.

Helena stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder. "Guard his wisdom. And your own heart. The eagle flies alone, but it returns to its nest among spears."

He closed the codex and bowed his head. "I will guard both," he promised. For the first time since the army had shouted his name, he felt the cost of loss breaking through the wall of command.

Midday brought the city council. Guildmasters, merchants, two bishops in violet stoles, and a clutch of anxious clerks paraded into the strategium. They spoke of expenses and tradition, of market disruptions and the cost of wood. Constantine listened, then promised remissions and tax credits if the Channel was kept secure. In return, they emptied their private granaries for the legions and pledged craftsmen to mend arms and armor. When the council departed, their voices were quieter and their purses lighter.

Valerius returned from the Wall after nightfall, boots thick with mud, eyes rimmed with fatigue. He offered a salute, then a report.

"All forts display black banners. Every commander swore the oath in your name, and each expects the donative by courier. But, Dominus-at Vindolanda, a centurion reported a rider crossing the east road, bearing imperial colors. Galerian."

Constantine's heart beat slower, then steadied. Severus had moved quickly.

"Intercept him before he reaches Cataractonium," Constantine ordered. "If he carries only condolences, return them, sealed and cordial. If he bears edicts, burn the parchments and leave him the ashes."

Valerius nodded and slipped away, already lost in thought.

Night deepened. Constantine climbed to the west parapet alone. The pyre field was dark, charred beams smoldering beneath a high, cold moon. Ash drifted on the wind, sharp and dry, dusting his face and hair.

He slipped the electrum torque over his neck. The metal was cold, settling with a weight that made the cloak seem lighter. He leaned on the stone, watching the smiths below hammer new saddles for Crocus's cavalry. Sparks burst against the flagstones, fading in the wind.

He thought in clear, relentless sequence: secure Britannia, bar the Channel, buy Gaul's loyalty with coin and bread, stall Galerius until the winter crossings froze the rivers and clogged the roads. By spring, every province west of the Alps must speak his name as fact. Only then would he decide whether to parley or to march.

Behind him, the fortress clock rang out the last watch of night. Constantine straightened, squaring his shoulders beneath the cloak, letting the ash settle on his new symbol of office. Iron and soot, reminders of the empire he inherited and the one he meant to shape.

He descended, each step firm. Dawn would bring new orders, new dangers, but also grain wagons rolling for the Wall, sails rising at Rutupiae, coins stamped with the name and legend he claimed for himself:

IMP CONSTANTINVS P AVG

Imperator Constantine, Pius, Augustus-pious not to distant gods, but to a promise forged in dying fire. Hold the West. He would, until the land itself bent to his will.