Dawn of a New Rome

Constantine dismissed the last of his officers and stood alone in the vast, cold hall of the Arelate praetorium. The torchlight flickered along marble columns, drawing restless, claw-like shadows across the polished floor. He listened as the last echoes of armor and sandaled feet faded into silence. The hush felt heavy and alert, as if the stone itself understood that judgment was close. The room held the scent of history-lamp oil, sweat, and the unspoken cost of power.

At length, the great doors opened with a groan. Maximian Herculius entered between two silent guards, wrists ringed by fresh iron and his walk stiffened by humiliation rather than pain. His tunic, once imperial purple, had been hurriedly dyed black. The color had not set, leaving streaks that looked more like bruises than dignity. A handful of tribunes and magistrates watched from a respectful distance. These men had bent the knee to two emperors and understood that what happened next would shape more than one future.

Maximian stopped three steps from the dais. He stared up, seeking mercy in Constantine's expression or perhaps a sign of the old, uncertain prince he had once raised up on a Gallic shield. He found nothing except a scarred face and a single, unblinking eye.

"So," Maximian said at last, voice rough from thirst and defeat, "the rumors of your death were nothing but stories."

Constantine almost smiled. "The Franks do not write poetry. Neither, it seems, do you."

The old emperor bristled, but pride could not cover the edge of fear in his stance. "You baited me. You left me gold, soldiers, and the hint of your own fall. I did only what any Augustus would do."

"I offered opportunity," Constantine replied, his voice low and clear. "You revealed yourself. The Empire needed to see what you would do when you believed yourself unguarded."

Maximian's mouth twisted with bitterness. "When we lifted you at Eboracum, I believed you might seize greatness, not bury it beneath ledgers. Galerius conspires, Licinius musters his strength, Maxentius sulks in Rome, and you talk of roads and rations."

Constantine's scar twitched. "My men have food, my bridges hold, and the Rhine stands unbroken. You, twice Augustus, tried to win a throne with whispers and stolen coin. Who here lacks fire?"

He let the question hang, letting the hall fill with its weight. Maximian's eyes moved from Valerius to Crocus, then to Fausta in the torchlight-her gaze clear and still, holding no rescue, only cold comprehension.

With a flick of his wrist, Constantine called Valerius forward. The general carried a parchment bearing the imperial seal. Constantine broke the wax and read, each word final and measured.

"Maximian Herculius, once Augustus, having betrayed the oath of loyalty and disturbed the peace of Gaul, is stripped of all dignities and honors. His statues are to be removed from the forums, his name and decrees struck from the records. He is permitted the dignity of a soldier's end by his own hand; if he refuses, he will live out his days in guarded confinement, deprived of all company and counsel."

Silence followed. Maximian stiffened, nostrils flaring. "You have no right-Diocletian-"

"Diocletian tends gardens now. His laws cannot summon a single cohort," Constantine interrupted, tone glacial. "Legions follow me. Power lies in command, not titles."

A tremor ran through Maximian's body. He looked for support and found none. Even Fausta's eyes gave him only a soldier's cold acceptance.

He drew himself upright, the last splinters of pride showing through. "Allow me a final word, without witnesses. If I am to die, let it be as a man and not a trophy."

Constantine paused, then nodded. Guards withdrew to the pillars, Valerius melted into shadow, and the others followed. Only Fausta lingered.

"Leave us, Empress," Constantine said quietly.

Fausta bowed and went. The doors closed with a dull thud. The only sound was the crackle of torches and Maximian's heavy breath.

"You think me finished," Maximian said, his voice lowering, more exhausted than defiant. "But I have seen armies break men you call loyal. March on Rome with me and we will take the world. Refuse, and you will see the walls you cherish so much crumble beneath the ambition of others."

Constantine walked down the dais, close enough to smell stale wine and cold sweat on the old man. He spoke softly. "My armies follow my word. I will not spend that trust chasing another man's glory. Gaul and Britain prosper because I hold my sword. When Rome is ready to be ruled, I will march-on my terms."

He drew a dagger from his belt, its hilt worn smooth, the blade clean and bright. He set it on a nearby plinth.

"You may die as a soldier, by your own hand. Or you may live out your days as a captive. Either way, the games are over."

Maximian stared at the dagger, old ambitions draining from his face. He asked, voice small, "Will you guard my name, for my grandchildren's sake?"

"I will guard the Empire," Constantine replied, his tone leaving nothing for sentiment.

The old man straightened and lifted his hands. Constantine nodded, and a guard removed the shackles. Maximian picked up the blade and left, his step steady but heavy with knowledge. He vanished behind a tapestry, and the silence deepened.

When Valerius returned at dawn, he brought a ring and a cloak, wordless tokens of a closed chapter.

"It is done, Augustus," Valerius said.

Constantine received the relics and passed them back. "See that he is buried as a soldier. No titles, no monument."

Valerius paused. "What shall I tell the army?"

"Tell them he died as a soldier," Constantine said. "Nothing more."

Fausta heard the news in her garden, snow falling on her dark hair. She thanked him with a simple nod, relief and sorrow mingling in her eyes. "Thank you for allowing him dignity," she said. "He would have hated chains more than death."

"Chains are for the living," Constantine replied. "We have walls to mend and frontiers to watch. Let the dead rest."

She lingered. "And Rome?"

He looked to the horizon, where gray clouds rolled over the river. "When the time is right, we will march. But Rome will come to me on its knees, or not at all."

Within days, a plain grave appeared outside Arelate's eastern gate. No name marked the stone, but every veteran knew what it meant. Where Maximian's statue once stood in Trier, builders raised scaffolding for a new basilica, the old emperor replaced by the architecture of a new order.

Constantine turned back to his maps, his projects, his legions. Another rival removed. Another lesson taught. The garden of empire was more secure than yesterday, and every officer understood that mercy, like justice, would be measured with the same steel he brought to war.

There would be no more serpents in the dark without Constantine's hand at their throat. The empire stood silent and steady, waiting for his next command.