Dawn of a New Rome

The name Constantius still pulsed behind Constantine's eyes long after Valerius closed the door. It wasn't a sound so much as a pressure-a pulse echoing through memories that weren't entirely his. The boy's mind stored it as parades, glinting helmets, a father's hand gripping a shoulder in approval. Alistair's deeper instincts, cold and practiced, saw only a point of crisis: a fulcrum in the West about to slip, a node on the map where the future would pivot. A summons from the emperor's sickbed was never a kindness. It was the first gambit in the game for survival.

"I will go to him," Constantine said. Latin came awkwardly, each syllable raw against his throat, yet it rang with the authority of the new body. He paused, testing the language, making it his.

Helena looked up from her seat by the shuttered window. The fatigue that creased her face lifted for a moment. "He will be glad to see you. You look stronger today."

Yesterday the fever had broken the boy. Today, someone else had filled the shell-someone who measured words and weighed faces. Miracles bred rumor; rumor, when shaped, could become a weapon. It was time to test both the man and the myth.

Constantine swung his legs over the edge of the cot. The wooden frame groaned. Needles of pain stabbed behind his eyes, and the room tilted, but he forced himself upright. Helena stepped forward, instinctively reaching to steady him. He stopped her with a short, sharp gesture. Dependence was a weakness. Weakness was always noticed. Somewhere inside, the younger self protested-this is Mother-but he buried the thought. Kindness could come later, once the throne was secured.

"Bring wine. And a mirror."

Helena obeyed without question, drawing from a battered oak chest an earthenware jug and a pewter cup, followed by a hand-mirror clouded at the edges. She poured wine, sharp and sour, smelling faintly of river mud and distant vineyards.

While she worked, Constantine stretched, rolling his shoulders, flexing wrists and ankles. Every joint protested, but the body answered-a little stiff, a little thin, but serviceable. The act itself, simple as it was, became the first illusion of health. Real strength would follow.

He studied himself in the mirror. The face that stared back was not quite the boy's. Pale skin, cheekbones sharpened by fever, dark hair tousled across a too-narrow brow. But the eyes-light hazel, direct and unblinking-no longer belonged to a youth. Behind them, calculation glimmered. Courtiers would notice. He would choose which story they told.

He took a mouthful of the wine. Acid and warmth cut through the dryness in his mouth. He dressed, pulling on undyed linen, rough wool britches, and a battered officer's cloak that smelled of Danube rain. Buckles and straps fastened with easy, practiced motions. Habits lingered in the hands, but habits could also betray him if he moved too confidently. Caution and confidence would need to walk hand in hand.

As he tightened the belt, his mind ticked through variables: the size of the Eboracum garrison, the senior tribunes, the seasoned centurions, the officers whose loyalties would shift like weather. Crocus's cavalry, the Sixth Victrix, the absent eyes of Galerius, Severus, and Maximinus Daia, all hungry for a share of imperial blood. He weighed the chances of instant acclamation-high. The odds of civil war within the year-also high. Every possibility needed its plan.

Helena watched him, anxiety and pride warring in her expression. "Not every face in the emperor's hall is a friend," she murmured.

He let a cold smile flicker. "Then I will remember whose lips forget to smile." The words were meant to reassure her, but their true target was himself.

A knock broke the tension. The guard, right on time. Constantine slipped the cloak over his shoulders, feeling it settle across collarbones and ribcage. The weight was symbolic as much as physical. When he stepped into the hall, two legionaries of the Sixth stood waiting. Their helms bore the wolf crest; rain still dripped from their boots. They saluted. Both assessed him quietly, eyes narrowing. They saw a boy changed overnight. They would have to decide if he was still their leader, or something more.

"Lead on," Constantine said, making his voice a shade lower, steadier. He walked with a hint of a limp, not enough to seem weak, just enough to be believed.

The corridor was thick with smoke and whispers. Courtiers lingered behind curtains, scribes dashed past clutching tablets, slaves bent over pails and kept their eyes low. Incense stung his nose, fighting the stench of cold stone and human bodies. Every conversation paused as he passed, each silence measuring him.

They reached the open arcade that overlooked the parade ground. In the mist below, the Sixth practiced formations, spearheads flashing, centurions barking cadence. The memory of the boy who had ridden those lines not so long ago nudged at his mind. Now those same spears might defend him, or cut him down, depending on how this morning played out.

At the entrance to the private quarters, the Protectores Domestici stood shoulder to shoulder. Their armor was polished, shields stacked neatly, faces impassive. Valerius waited, broad-shouldered, one eye clouded by a film, the other sharp as a hawk's.

"Dominus Constantinus. The Augustus fades."

A knot of real grief twisted in Constantine's gut. For all the calculation, something in the body still mourned. He forced it down, focusing on what had to be done. "I will see him now."

Valerius nodded once. The doors swung open. Lamp oil flickered, filling the air with heat and the smell of sage. The metallic edge of sickness lingered. The emperor lay among piled cloaks and rough pelts, beard bristled, skin waxy. The air rattled in and out of his chest in short, struggling breaths.

A physician lingered nearby, hands stained with medicine. Helena entered behind Constantine, her presence steadying.

Constantius turned his head, eyes focusing with effort. He managed a weak smile and motioned his son forward.

Constantine knelt by the bedside. For a heartbeat, everything fell away. He was young, scared, both child and stranger. He let the feeling settle in his chest, showing what needed to be shown.

"You have come," Constantius whispered, voice hoarse. "They told me the fever claimed you."

"I am recovered. Ready to serve you, Father."

The old man's hand trembled, yet he gripped Constantine's arm with the force of a dying ruler. "The purple is no prize, boy. It is a stone round the neck. Galerius wants Severus on the throne. They will call you a child, not a Caesar. You must hold the army. Hold Crocus, hold the heart of Rome. Promise me, now."

Something like love answered before analysis. "I promise. I will hold the West. I will not fail our blood."

Relief broke across the dying emperor's face. Fingers dug into Constantine's arm, desperate for the answer to last. "Trust the eagle's sight, not the fox's whisper," he managed. His chest hitched. One last, ragged breath, then nothing. Silence pressed in.

Helena's hand covered her mouth, eyes rimmed with tears. The physician murmured a prayer. Constantine stood, feeling the world shift under his feet. The center had moved. He was the fulcrum now.

He addressed the physician first, voice clear and hard. "Remain with the Augusta. Speak to no one unless I order it." The Greek bowed, eyes wide.

He turned to Helena, placed a hand on her shoulder. "His pain is finished. Ours waits. We have work to do." Grief steadied itself into something sharp; she nodded, jaw set.

Facing Valerius, Constantine's words were simple. "The Augustus is dead. Double the guard. No word leaves these halls until I speak it."

Valerius saluted. "By your command."

Steel on stone echoed outside the chamber. Word would try to spread, but he would shape it, not chase it. The next hour was for securing this room; the second for gathering the legion. The third for crafting the story that would define a reign.

Any misstep, and everything-oath, empire, hope-would break. He straightened his shoulders, feeling the weight of an empire drape itself invisibly over his back.

He stepped into the corridor, where the torches flickered and boots beat a steady rhythm. The night beyond the shutters was lengthening. Somewhere, Eboracum's citizens whispered and waited. Inside these walls, the first night of his reign had begun.

And in the dark, he swore the world would know his name-no matter how many lives it cost.