Dawn of a New Rome

The world was a different shape through a single eye of cold, iron-blue. Depth vanished, but Constantine adapted with the smallest, constant turns of his head. Weakness became calculation. Yet the real transformation was written on his flesh. A coarse lattice of stitches marked the empty socket; red and purple bruises spread across the hard lines of his face. The scar was a declaration in the open, a fact that ended debate. The boy who had left Augusta Treverorum no longer existed. In his place stood a figure more legend than man. Every audience-soldier or senator, craftsman or priest-felt the gaze, and felt something older than awe. Fear. He watched their reactions and judged fear to be the more useful alloy.

Returning to Augusta Treverorum, Constantine made the city's welcome into theater. The wide gates opened, banners flapping in a restless winter wind. The legions followed in perfect step, eagles gleaming, armor still caked in the brown of Rhine mud. Prisoners came next: a chain of battered Bructeri warriors, their heads bowed, limping behind wagons heaped with captured helms, iron mail, sacks of amber and salt. Every merchant, every shopkeeper, every child lining the road understood what this meant. The river that had haunted them for generations would now haunt others.

At the front rode Constantine. No imperial purple, no crown. He wore a battered cloak, fastened only by a silver disk-a keepsake from his father. It was enough. Soldiers saluted with the flat of their blades. Townspeople shouted "Imperator! Victorius!" Their voices rose in waves, but there was a tremor there, something less than joy and more than gratitude.

Helena awaited him in the palace courtyard, a sudden shadow of the strong matron who had seen him off to war. The moment she saw his scar she staggered. Constantine dismounted and bowed his head, letting her arms wrap around him, but when her trembling hands reached toward the ruined side of his face, he caught them and set them gently aside.

"My son," Helena whispered, voice breaking, "what have they done to you?"

"They paid for their insolence," he said. He kissed her brow, then stepped back, letting the mask of command settle over any trace of a boy's longing for comfort.

There was no time for mourning or sentiment. Within a day, Constantine summoned the council to the palace. Helena sat silent, her eyes bright, as Claudius Mamertinus read out ledgers: revenues, new grain taxes, trade figures from the Moselle. When Mamertinus reached a paragraph on a tax immunity for the river merchants-granted in Augustus's reign-Constantine cut him short.

"Rome requires every sestertius. Tradition does not mint coin," he said.

The old privilege vanished, erased with a single phrase. No one argued. No one dared.

He moved on, not slowing. The real business was justice. Games, he decreed, would be held in the amphitheater to celebrate victory on the Rhine. There would be displays-gladiators, horse races-but the centerpiece would be public execution. Ascarius and Merogaisus, the Bructeri kings, would die before the people they had terrorized. No poison, no exile, no strangling in a dungeon. They would face their end under Roman eyes.

Mamertinus flinched. "Augustus, such spectacles… we have long preferred clemency for noble foes-"

"Clemency feeds memory. Terror erases it." Constantine's words left no room for answer.

The city buzzed for three days in anticipation. Merchants set up stalls, priests burned incense, children gathered pebbles to hurl into the arena. On the appointed morning, the tiers filled until there was not a single empty stone. Guards lined the passageways, more for crowd control than for show. The amphitheater became a crucible for the entire province.

Constantine watched from the imperial box, Helena beside him, Valerius and Crocus behind. On the sand below, Ascarius and Merogaisus appeared, stripped of their armor, yet wearing their wolf cloaks, proud and upright even in defeat. No plea for mercy. The gates swung wide and wild bears were loosed, their coats matted, hunger burning in their small black eyes. Dogs followed, massive Molossians snapping at their handlers' chains.

The two kings fought to the end, but they were doomed. It took a quarter hour for the spectacle to end, but by the final moments the crowd was on its feet, screaming with the kind of wild abandon Constantine had seen only in the moments before a rout on the battlefield. When it was finished, the sand was stained, and the city's memory with it.

He watched without a flicker of emotion. When the noise had faded, Crocus leaned in, voice rough and approving. "A hard heart, Augustus. Good. The Rhine will whisper your name in fear."

"They will remember the price of crossing it," Constantine answered, and meant it.

The next morning, the mint struck new coins. CONSTANTINVS VICTOR GERMANICVS. His profile graced one side-this time, the scar was engraved in every detail, so no one could mistake the price paid for this authority. Minters hesitated, unsure if the wound should be hidden or softened, but Constantine ordered it rendered exactly. "An emperor does not hide what he has paid," he said.

The donative followed: silver, bread, wine distributed by rank. Every centurion who had stood in the Rhine mud got an extra aureus. Every wounded man's name was written in a fresh roll, to be read aloud at the next muster. In the markets, city fathers handed over hostages and oaths. From the north, Rhine chieftains sent envoys, bringing their sons as surety, begging to trade instead of raid.

With the city secure, Constantine visited the wounded. He walked the rows of makeshift cots in the cavalry barracks, speaking to every injured man, soldier or mercenary. He left a coin in the hand of each, and his presence spread quickly. Officers recorded the effect: discipline snapped into new focus, and no one now spoke of another claimant's right to the purple.

Only after dusk, when the city was quiet and wine ran slow in the streets, did Valerius arrive in the high study. Snow fell past the windows, softening the sound of boots in the corridor. Oil-lamps stretched shadows across the map wall.

Valerius carried no scroll. He needed none.

"Galerius has crossed the Alps," he said quietly. "Our scouts confirm a host-fifteen, twenty thousand spears-already at Susa. They travel heavy, with baggage trains and siege engines. All Italy is buzzing. His intent is clear: he means to end the question of Rome. Either Maxentius yields, or the east burns him out."

Constantine moved to the wall, single eye following the red pins marking Galerius's advance. His fingers traced a line from Susa to the wide sweep of the Po, then to Rome itself. He thought of Maxentius and his father Maximian, crouched behind the city walls, desperate, yet rich and still dangerous. He imagined Galerius's legions crossing the Appenines, meeting the Praetorians in the marshes below the city, bleeding each other out until neither could truly win.

"We hold the West entire," he murmured, more to himself than to Valerius. "Britannia, Gaul, Hispania. Even Africa eyes us now with more hope than dread." His hand tapped Trier, then drew a careful arc through Aquileia, up to Pannonia-old Severus's posts now left leaderless-before resting on the pale pin that marked Sirmium. "Let them bleed. When they stagger, we strike-not as opportunists, but as Rome's restoration."

Valerius's face was unreadable. "The legions are ready. Your word, and we march."

"Not yet," Constantine said. He stepped back from the map and moved to the window. Outside, city lights flickered beneath a sky of winter stars. "The next move is theirs. Our duty is patience-and readiness."

He pressed a palm against the stitches at his temple. Pain thrummed, a steady, deep reminder that the distance between life and death was a hair's breadth, and the only true shield was vigilance. He let the pain anchor him, sharpening his purpose.

Below, in the sleeping city, the people rested for the first time in months. Beyond the gates, the world churned with uncertainty, armies on the march, powers grasping for advantage. But here, in Augusta Treverorum, a single-eyed emperor watched, waited, and prepared.

He would not be outpaced. When the time came-when the whole battered empire looked for its next master-he intended to be the first to see that moment, and the only one able to claim it.