Dawn of a New Rome

The lamps of the imperial study burned late, scattering gold light across a table covered with fresh parchment and the metallic scent of ink. Constantine rejected the notion that dusk should mark the day's end; in Trier, it simply marked the hour when plans grew sharper, distractions fell away, and only the necessary work remained.

By order of the emperor, every milestone on the Via Agrippa now bore a freshly painted eagle. Toll stations along the Moselle displayed new schedules of fees. Magistrates across Gaul received letters warning that the price of grain-and the cost of corruption-would be personally audited by the palace. These decrees moved not only by imperial signature, but on the strength of the networks Constantine had quietly assembled since his father's death. Authority was a circuit; he tested every link for weakness and repaired what he found.

Claudius Mamertinus arrived near midnight, thin and tired, yet his eyes burned with the same intensity that marked every staff officer who survived Constantine's scrutiny. He offered the latest ledger without ceremony. "Road patrols report only two robberies this week, both near the Ardennes. The fines paid will cover repairs to the bridge at Divodurum. Merchants are content, for now."

"Send half the seized silver to the widow's fund in that district," Constantine ordered. "Let the rumor go out that imperial justice moves faster than thieves." Mamertinus jotted the order before the ink on his last note had dried, nodding once before disappearing into the gloom, already planning the next day's disbursements.

Outside the window, torchlight played over the parade square as Legio XXII rotated the evening watch with detachments of the Sixth. The boundaries between legions blurred by design. Britannic centurions drilled Gallic recruits, while old veterans from Primigenia barked orders at Constantine's island cohorts. Any officer who complained about divided loyalties soon found himself posted to a frontier depot where his doubts froze on the wind. Promotions followed ability and reliability, not accent or seniority. The troops noticed. What began as skepticism hardened, day by day, into respect.

Valerius moved through the palace as quietly as smoke, dispatching riders to every corner of the province. His private rolls expanded with the names of innkeepers, barge captains, and money-changers. These were the people whose fortunes depended on knowing which banner would fly longest over a city gate. They traded information for the promise of stability, and for a modest retainer paid out of the new treasury.

In the city's quieter streets, Helena extended a different arm of the regime. Where Constantine's decrees named coin and grain, Helena's work was in bread left at a widow's door, or a cloak for a soldier's orphan. The pagans called her Pia Augusta, the pious empress. Christians whispered of her charity at house gatherings after sunset. Constantine noticed how soldiers straightened when she passed and counted it as another foundation stone in his bridge to Gaul.

Still, not all news was good. Even a tightly woven net could not silence the distant rumble from Italy. Reports came first as rumors-a caravan master grumbling about doubled customs at Ariminum, a monk describing riots on the Aventine. By the time Valerius requested a private audience, the pattern had become clear. Trouble brewed to the south, not as random unrest, but as the result of a policy error that might soon upend the whole Tetrarchic order.

The two men met at midnight in Constantine's private study. Maps lay open across the desk, marked with lead weights. A courier, hollow-eyed and dust-stained, delivered a sealed scroll before collapsing onto a bench to await the surgeon.

"Unrest in Rome," Valerius reported. "Bread queues turned to mobs when Severus's prefect raised the flour tax. The Guard watched. Some say they cheered."

Constantine listened, head tilted, stylus tapping on Liguria. "The Senate?"

"Powerless, but angry. They call Severus a butcher of tradition. And now, another name rises in the crowd: Maxentius."

Constantine paused. He remembered Maxentius as a vain man-more peacock than eagle, full of bitterness at the Tetrarchy that had sidelined him. The memory replayed itself: a banquet in Mediolanum, Maxentius ranting about lost inheritance, wine and arrogance staining his words. He had seemed ridiculous then, a disappointment to his father. Yet power finds its way to the hand bold enough to seize it.

"Is he declared Augustus?" Constantine asked.

"Not yet," Valerius replied. "The Praetorians are testing the wind. They despise Severus. Galerius tried to halve their numbers; they have not forgotten. Maxentius calls himself their champion."

Constantine stood and walked to the map, gaze fixed on the line of the Alps. "Galerius will force Severus to act-march north to crush Gaul, then pivot back before Maxentius can rally Rome. If Severus fails, Galerius must intervene or yield the West to us all."

Valerius waited. He knew better than to interrupt when Constantine calculated aloud. The logic of crisis was familiar to both men: a divided enemy is an opportunity, if a ruler moves fast enough to exploit the opening.

Constantine's voice sharpened. "We will not wait for Severus to decide. Send word to Londinium. The fleet must prepare another levy. Crocus holds the northern road, but a thousand of his riders will be detached-light cavalry can cross the mountains faster than mules. Mamertinus will move three months' pay and treasury reserves to Vesontio. If the passes close, I want silver east of the mountains, not trapped behind them."

Valerius accepted each order with a single nod, jotting notes for his messengers. "And Maxentius?"

"Watch him. Let the Praetorians know that honors and gold will flow to those who remain loyal to Rome, not to any upstart. If they want a benefactor, let them weigh their choices."

Valerius saluted and left, quiet as always. Constantine remained alone in the lamplight, the map of Italia unrolled before him. His fingers traced the road from Turin to Rome, feeling the edge of the Alps as if it were a blade, the Tiber a live wire waiting to be seized. In the world he had left behind, he had modeled civilizations as equations, but these variables were flesh and steel and hunger. Pressure, leverage, timing: the laws did not change, only the consequences.

Outside, bells marked the second watch. Constantine rolled the map up, slid the stylus inside the crease, and stared out into the night. Power had shifted west, away from old capitals and fading emperors, settling here in Trier-on the shoulders of a man who understood that history was written by those who never paused.

Tomorrow would bring more budgets, more schedules, more training sessions. But tonight, as the moon drifted over the Moselle, Constantine allowed himself one cold breath of satisfaction. The empire was unstable, opportunity howled at its gates, and Rome was calling for a new master.

He would answer before anyone else dared.