Dawn of a New Rome

Morning mist drifted up from the Ouse and curled through Eboracum's narrow streets, painting the world in bands of pearl and silver. From the Praetorium's balcony, Constantine watched it snake around marble columns and across the fortress yard below, where yesterday's thunder had already become today's measured activity. Soldiers gathered at muster, the clangor of arms and the call of sergeants rising in a rhythm that marked not just a day but a change in era. Today the city moved as a single body: no longer leaderless, no longer waiting.

Valerius arrived first, as he always did, helmet tucked under one arm, scroll-case held firmly in the other. He saluted, then held out the case.

"Messages from the Wall, Augustus. Vindolanda and Eboracum's vicus report full oath-rolls signed. Arbeia hesitated-until the donative arrived."

Constantine nodded, eyes sharp. "Gold melts doubt. Good." A tired half-smile flickered across his face, but the moment passed quickly. He unsealed the scrolls and scanned the neat columns: troop counts, supply stocks, notes on the mood of each cohort. Arbeia's prefect wrote of salt air that rusted spears faster than blood; Constantine added a margin note, instructing surplus to be sent from Deva's foundry. Each problem answered. Every gap patched.

Crocus entered next, bringing the scent of wet horse and leather with him. "My riders intercepted a courier east of Cataractonium," he said, voice deep and rough. "He bore two letters-one a polite condolence from Severus, the other an edict from Galerius. The edict calls you unfit for command, says your mind is too delicate."

He laid the remains of a charred parchment on the table. Blackened edges curled where a torch had met Galerius's seal. Constantine picked up the fragment, tracing the brittle edge with a fingertip.

"Let them wonder if their message ever reached us," he said. He tossed it aside. "If Severus wants the army's loyalty, he can earn it in the rain and mud of Britannia."

Another knock. Lucius Metellus, his civilian aide, stepped in with a centurion at his side. The officer set a small leather pouch on the table. Constantine opened it and poured out a handful of new-minted aurei-his own profile gleaming beside the radiate crown of Sol Invictus. The coins were heavy, the gold still warm from the mint.

"First run, Augustus," Metellus said, the old title slipping back into the new order. "Your image is already on every tongue in camp."

"Distribute them with the evening watch," Constantine replied. "And send a dozen to the guildmasters as a reminder that commerce rests on our coin, not on distant promises."

Through the morning, the fortress became a living engine. Couriers and scribes moved through its corridors, bearing orders stamped with his seal. Legionaries carried timber for the pyre, artisans refitted wagons, and smiths hammered blades for a war that no one doubted would soon cross the Channel.

At midday, the Praetorium's courtyard filled with dignitaries-black-robed priests, city councilors, guild elders, and two bishops in violet. Constantine wore a plain wool cloak, shunning imperial purple. Vanity at a father's pyre was a thing he would not allow. The bier was borne out through the western gate, legionaries lining the road with reversed shields and standards draped in black. A single kithara played a melody that bled through the air, each note drawn out like a wound.

When the torch touched the resin-soaked timbers, fire roared up into the sky. Smoke twisted and rose, burning into Constantine's eyes and stinging more than any sorrow dared. He stood until the flames began to eat bone and steel, his mother's hand gripping his for a moment before she stepped away, her face a mask of strength. For Constantine, grief was a luxury for tomorrow.

The work of empire continued. As the funeral smoke drifted east, councilors and clerks returned to the halls, clamoring for answers to problems that multiplied by the hour. Grain clerks reported on shipments delayed by rain. Armourers pleaded for tin, and shipwrights for tar and pitch. Constantine weighed each request, approving some, postponing others, bargaining for loyalty or speed. He held the map in his hands, chalk in one, a wet rag in the other, lines drawn and erased as circumstances shifted.

He addressed the council in the evening: "Phase one is secure. Britannia holds." He tapped the chalk ring around Eboracum. "Phase two: the Channel. We must command it, or Severus will."

Gaius Fulvius, his naval prefect, ran through the fleet's readiness. "Twenty trieres refitted at Rutupiae, ten more to follow. Crocus pledges eight hundred spearmen for boarding actions. Valerius offers fifty veterans who have sailed before."

"Good," Constantine said. "Phase three: the road to Gesoriacum." He drew a straight line from Londinium to Dubris, another curving across the Channel. "A sea force will take the port. Another column marches south to embark. We use smaller hulls, hug the coast, move in packets. Autumn storms are our shield. Let the heavier transports of Severus founder while we move fast."

Lucius Metellus frowned. "If Severus lands first, we face siege."

"Then we sail first," Constantine replied, unwavering. "We make landfall before them, hold the harbors, send heralds to the Rhine legions. Those men followed my father for years. They remember his pay more than Severus's promises."

Crocus's voice cut in. "And if Galerius brings his own eagles?"

"We make the Rhine our shield and Gaul our anvil. If he marches, let him find every bridge already in our hands. We have to force his pace, not match it. He will not cross rivers he does not own."

Rough laughter broke the tension, but Constantine did not smile. The night was too near. He sent the council away and took to the watch-tower above the Ouse. Below, the smiths forged new spearheads for Arbeia, the red glow of their furnaces a reminder that war had not left the island. Southward, lines of torchlight marked the path of riders leaving for Londinium with sealed orders. Their destinations: Rutupiae, Dubris, every fort and crossing that mattered.

He drew out his father's codex, turned to a blank margin, and wrote in cramped, soldier's Latin:

Day 1 after acclamation. Britannia steady. Channel plan set. Galerius hostile. Risk index: high, but initiative ours. Father-your West is not yet lost.

He closed the book and let his breath curl in the cold air. Beyond the dark horizon, Gaul waited. Beyond Gaul, ambition pressed, sharp as any blade. But for now, tomorrow would be enough.

A sentry saluted as he descended the stairs. Constantine returned the gesture, the weight of the torque warm on his throat, the empire's burden resting evenly across his shoulders at last. He stepped back into the lamplit corridors, the future's machinery already grinding toward dawn.