Dawn of a New Rome

The hallway outside Constantine's chamber was not meant for comfort. Torches hissed in their iron sconces, shadows rippling along the damp flagstones. Rain from the Yorkshire dawn had crept inside, making the seams slick underfoot. The cold soaked up through his boots as he walked. Every person he passed-a cluster of orderlies, a slave girl with water jugs, a junior tribune wrestling scrolls-gave him a quick glance, then lowered their eyes. Already, word had spread: the convalescent had risen. Rumor traveled faster than even the legions.

Valerius, the household guard's camp-prefect, stood sentry outside the apartments. His cuirass shone, polished to a black-lacquered mirror, and a scar carved a jagged line down his cheek, the Rhine's gift. He watched Constantine approach, arms crossed, face locked into the frown of a man who trusted nothing. The expression was always the same: hard, tired, unblinking.

"You walk sooner than the medicus advised, Dominus," Valerius said, voice kept low for privacy.

"Then the medicus is welcome to revise his opinion," Constantine replied, keeping his own tone measured and quiet. "Open the door."

Valerius scanned him, noting every detail: the upright posture, the set jaw, the sword at Constantine's waist-worn now with casual certainty. The camp-prefect gave a single, crisp nod, undid the bar, and pushed the cedar doors open.

The smell inside struck like a physical blow. Boiled herbs, old sweat, the sour stink of fever sweating out. Curtains draped over narrow slits in the wall let in only muted rainlight. Lamp flames glowed at the head of the bed, painting the world in gold and shadow.

Constantius Chlorus lay propped against a bank of pillows. He looked smaller than legend allowed, a thick beard shot through with silver, skin the color of old ivory. His breathing sounded wet, each inhalation rattling up from somewhere deep and wounded.

A Greek physician stood at a side table, grinding a dark paste in a stone mortar. The sound of Valerius's boots drew his gaze. He bowed, then edged back into the shadows, eyes wary.

Helena entered after Constantine, hands folded into the sleeves of a robe too formal for this hour. The lines at her mouth spoke of days spent weeping and nights without sleep. She found a seat near the window but kept silent, eyes never leaving her husband's bed.

Valerius stationed himself at the door, arms folded, the model of vigilance.

Constantine approached the bed with careful steps. The eyes that opened to greet him were clear, bright, fierce beneath heavy lids. Recognition flickered, then something sharper-an old general's pride.

"My son," Constantius rasped. The Latin sounded thick, the accent marked by the borderland's roughness. This was the voice of Illyria, not polished Rome.

Constantine knelt beside the bed, resting one hand on the coverlet, a gesture that felt both intimate and practiced. "I am here, Father."

The old man let out a laugh that caught in his chest. "You speak like a man now, not the colt I remember. They told you, then, just how close I stand to the edge?"

"I gathered it," Constantine said quietly. "And I gathered, too, that the legions will need a living Augustus, not strangers and distant voices from Rome."

A thin smile twisted Constantius's lips. "The Senate says they decide who rules. Legitimacy sits with the men holding the eagles." His voice faltered into a cough. Constantine steadied him, gripping the bony shoulder until the fit passed. The doctor started forward, but Constantius waved him off, impatience in the flick of his hand.

"Listen," the Augustus breathed, gripping Constantine's wrist with surprising strength. "Galerius wants me exiled east, to grow old while he pulls the strings. Maxentius sends gold to every cutthroat between here and the Tiber. When Rome hears I am dead, the West will break apart." His eyes burned with the need to be understood. "Unless my soldiers swear to you first. That is what matters."

Constantine felt the pressure of two selves, two histories, fuse into one calm, analytic mind. He remembered how power worked-the hard facts of loyalty, the softer edges of rumor and myth.

"Then call them," he said. "While you still have the strength to command."

Helena drew a sharp breath, her hands tightening on her robe. Valerius raised an eyebrow, measuring the words, the risk. The Greek watched with wide, uncertain eyes.

Constantius's mouth curled in a rare smile. "You are bold. Good. But boldness without wisdom is a knife without a handle. Some men will obey you at once, but others serve their own masters. You must win the right hands first."

"Who do I need?" Constantine asked, voice even.

"Crocus, chief of the Batavian cavalry. He is no Roman, but he follows strength. And Senecio, your praetorian tribune-he understands soldiers and politics both. Win them, and Valerius will not be alone."

Across the room, Valerius gave a small nod.

Helena's voice cut through the stillness. "And the Sixth?" she asked softly. "They adore you, husband. If they see you bless your son, they will follow him anywhere."

Constantius squeezed her hand. "They will, if we do this right. Roman hearts are moved by spectacle as much as by gold."

Constantine pictured the parade ground, the banners, the long line of armored men restless for news. Rain was still falling, but ceremony would break their boredom. "Form them at the principia. We present you there at midday-seated if you must, but visible. Name me as Caesar. Let the Batavians and the Sixth shout my acclamation. Then riders leave at once-west, south, across the Channel. By morning, Rome will know the truth, not rumors."

Valerius's scar pulled tight in approval. Helena let out a prayer under her breath, lips barely moving.

Constantius nodded, short and sharp. "Let them believe Rome still owns a sunrise," he said. His hand fell away, strength spent. The physician moved forward, pressing a vial of medicine to his lips. Constantine rose, turning to Valerius.

"Helena stays," he said. "You and I have orders to give."

Valerius led the way out. "You give orders easily, for a man just risen from his sickbed."

"I was never fond of shrouds," Constantine replied. "They don't fit."

The older man almost smiled. At the stairwell, Valerius stopped him. "If I put my men behind you now, there is no turning back. Do you understand?"

Constantine looked him in the eye. "Rome needs certainty. I intend to give it. Will you stand with me, Prefect?"

Valerius struck his chest with a fist, the old salute. "Until death or victory."

They found Crocus drilling his cavalry outside the fortress, mud splattering their shields as they turned and re-formed in the rain. Crocus heard the plan, gave his answer with a spear struck against the stones. "If the Augustus anoints you, we ride at your word."

Senecio came from the armory, smelling of oil and leather. His questions were pointed, tactical, efficient. "The men are hungry for a leader they can see," he said. "Stand with your father, and their loyalty will follow you."

Messengers rode from the gates within the hour, one toward Londinium, another to the Channel, a third south to the outposts of the Sixth. Each bore orders stamped with Constantius's signet and Constantine's name beside it. The words were careful, the titles left open. By evening, every market, dock, and tavern in Eboracum would be buzzing with news.

The rain eased to mist. Constantine stood beneath the portico, watching the preparations unfold. Soldiers raised a platform, polished standards, and practiced drum rolls that echoed across the stone. The parade ground was alive with tension, the taste of iron in the air.

Valerius appeared at his side. "You should rest. The fever may come back."

"Later," Constantine said, eyes fixed on the moving banners and rows of helmets. "Today is too important."

His hand rested on his sword. Somewhere, deep inside, a lifetime of risk analysis marvelled at how quickly fortunes turned. Every moment, every gesture, mattered now. Here, in the hard rain of Britannia, power was not an equation-it was a test of will.

At noon, as drums rolled and the legion gathered, Constantine made for the stairs. He would bring his father to the field. He would claim what was owed, not as a gift, but as the first move in a game where the only prize was survival.