Dawn of a New Rome

Night pressed cool and clear against the palace windows, scattering torchlight across the Moselle in patterns that shimmered like molten coin. Constantine lingered on the balcony long enough to watch the last patrol lanterns blink into place along the ramparts. He did not rush. Every minute that Trier remained quiet beneath his banners strengthened his rule and sent tremors across the western provinces.

When he stepped back inside, Valerius waited. The old commander stood in a pool of lamplight while a handful of clerks and orderlies moved quietly through the shadows, sorting the day's spoils. In Valerius's hands was a leather folder, its seal pressed deep with Tiberianus's crest.

"The treasury books," Valerius said, holding out the ledger. "Less silver than we were promised. Most of it is paper-notes of credit, debts, tallies. The coin is thinner than the walls."

Constantine took the folder and weighed it as if it were a blade. He flipped through the brittle pages, eyes tracing columns of numbers, then closed the cover and handed it off to a waiting scribe. "Coin can be minted," he said. "Loyalty cannot. Strike the dies at dawn. My father's image on one side, mine on the other. No merchant or soldier in Gaul will doubt who rules here."

Orders followed, clear and precise. The city's grain stores, measured and recounted, would hold for two months at current rations. The mint and arsenal were secured by detachments of the Sixth. All bridges and gates flew the eagle and Chi-Rho, banners that could be seen from every market square and city approach. The tribunes of Legio XXII had sworn obedience after a brief review in the courtyard where Tiberianus had knelt. The junior officers of Legio VIII, still on the march from Mogontiacum, had sent word requesting instructions. Constantine dictated a reply, his tone both welcome and warning: enter the city under arms, but know that the final decision remains with your emperor.

It was well after midnight when Claudius Mamertinus arrived to accept the prefecture. The older man offered not a senator's bow, but the crisp salute of a career soldier. Constantine acknowledged it, then briefed him with the same clipped efficiency he expected from his staff: rebuild civic confidence, audit the treasury, keep the baths open and the bread ovens hotter than the city's gossip. Mamertinus left with sharp eyes and a purposeful stride, already issuing orders to aides who followed like sparks behind a torch.

In the hours before dawn, only Crocus remained to be satisfied. At first light, the Alemannic king appeared in the basilica arcade, his iron rings clinking against his breastplate. He looked unimpressed by the marble but curious about the new order.

"Your Romans are tight with their purse," Crocus began, voice half complaint, half challenge. "My men thirsted last night. The wine cellars were locked."

Constantine met his gaze directly, leading him to the balcony where morning sun lit the parade square. "They are open now. Your riders will receive the same ration of wine and pork as the Sixth. In exchange, they will guard the northern road. Anyone trying to send word to Rome or Italy will use that valley."

Crocus stroked his beard, eyes crinkling. "Guard duty is dull."

"It pays," Constantine said, signaling to a steward. Two chests, heavy with new-minted aurei, landed on the tiles. "Half now, half when you can tell me the road stayed quiet for thirty days."

The barbarian grinned, teeth flashing. "A Roman who bargains like a merchant. The valley will be silent, Augustus. Your eagles can rest easy."

Throughout the day, Constantine set the machinery of empire into motion. Couriers rode west to Lutetia, bearing instructions for the city council to mint no coin without the emperor's authority. Others sped south to Lugdunum, ordering river barges requisitioned for the movement of grain. Still more galloped east to the Rhine, offering pardons to any frontier post that swore fealty before the solstice. Each dispatch bore his new seal-an eagle clutching a Chi-Rho, the memory of Constantius fused with Constantine's own claim.

In the afternoon, Constantine summoned both the local bishops and the old priesthood of the temples. Many arrived wary, expecting favor for one and ruin for the other. Instead, he confirmed tax exemptions for the temples and granted the Christians use of an abandoned granary outside the city walls. "Prayers differ," he said, watching their confusion, "but Gaul kneels to a single throne. You may honor your gods, but you will obey one emperor." They left together, muttering about a ruler who played destiny and gods as easily as soldiers and coins.

Evening brought a rare lull. Constantine walked the corridors of the palace, rooms once familiar in his childhood now recast by power. The mosaics seemed smaller, the victories depicted within them strangely brittle. He found himself in the old map room. Lamplight traced the edges of the empire-Dacia lost, Africa restless, Mesopotamia a bleeding wound. There were cracks everywhere, yet the stone under his feet felt solid tonight because he had chosen action over hesitation.

His gaze lingered on Italia, the true prize. Severus and his Danubian legions waited there, restless as wolves in winter, while Galerius coiled in the east. Sooner or later, both would come, their banners demanding proof that the storm in Gaul was more than local thunder. When they arrived, they would find roads repaired, soldiers fed and drilled, and a treasury filling with coins stamped with the image of a new Augustus.

He left the map for the scribes to copy and strode to the balcony. Below, the changing of the watch sent a bright ring of spear on shield through the evening air. The sound pulsed in his chest, steady as a drumbeat. Britain had been the first move, Gaul the second. The march to Rome itself would follow, not as rumor but as iron fact.

Above the rooftops, the moon climbed, cold and pale over the Moselle. Constantine let the river's shimmer settle in his mind. He thought of his father's last breath, of all the futures minted that night in the cooling vaults below. He turned at last, cloak whispering against the stone, and stepped back into the corridors of rule-his empire, his burden, his to shape or lose.