Dawn of a New Rome

"Father-in-law," Constantine's voice filled the lamplit hall of Arelate, smooth and controlled, every syllable measured to cut through the murmur of expectation that hung above the assembled crowd. Armor clinked with every movement as legionaries shifted at attention, and the air itself felt tight as drawn wire. Marble floors echoed with the memory of conquest, the memory of triumphs and betrayals. Courtiers and officers-men who had ridden through mud for both emperors-stood silent along the perimeter, each measuring the moment for its own meaning.

Maximian Herculius stood between two guards at the foot of the steps. His wrists were raw from the iron that had held him these last nights. The pride that once made emperors bow lingered on his face, but it was shrouded by the stoop of a body spent in too many battles and too many intrigues. The lines that had once marked laughter and command now pressed down in furrows of rage, exhaustion, and an unspoken plea. His eyes-eyes that had once stared down Germanic kings and Persian princes-flashed with a last, stubborn glimmer of defiance. For a heartbeat, the old Rome seemed to flicker in that gaze.

"You were reported dead," Maximian barked, voice frayed but still capable of filling a hall. He forced his shoulders back, as if physical posture might recover a world lost to history. "They said Frankish swords finished you. I moved to protect the West. The legions of Gaul needed a hand, not rumors and shadows. I did what any Roman would do faced with a vacuum of power."

A hush swept through the hall. Some faces twitched in sympathy, others tightened in suspicion. Constantine did not rise from the dais. He regarded Maximian with a soldier's cold appraisal, eyes unblinking, back unbowed by the weight of history pressing down. "You saw an empty throne and grabbed for it," he replied, voice echoing from stone to stone. "You did not wait for word or command. You did not rally the West-you tried to take what my victories, my soldiers, and my treasury have earned. You broke your oath at Carnuntum. You broke faith with your house, your city, and your Empire. This was not loyalty. It was theft, and Rome will not forget."

Maximian's lips curled in a last show of resistance. He fought to hold the mask of command, but stubborn hope twisted his face. "We are family. I am Fausta's father, your ally. My blood runs in your line. March on Rome with me. Galerius cannot last-he is hated and alone. Licinius is weak, propped up by decrees and Danubian bluster. Together, we can rule. Together, we keep the world whole. Cast aside this quarrel before it poisons everything."

Constantine answered without hesitation. His voice was low, but no one failed to hear it. "Valerius, remove him to the upper chambers. No visitors. No correspondence. This betrayal will not be repeated. Rome has no use for oaths broken twice."

Maximian tried to speak again, but the words caught in his throat. Guards hauled him away, his protests trailing into the stone corridors and vanishing like the echo of a lost age. Some among the assembled men watched him go with regret; others with relief. None protested.

A moment later, Fausta entered, her veil trailing across the marble, eyes tired but clear. She stood before Constantine, the court falling even quieter as she spoke. "My father is in chains," she said quietly, voice steady though her hands trembled beneath her sleeves. "He used my name to plead for mercy. It is the last thing he has left to trade."

"He made his choice," Constantine replied. "Ambition was always stronger than blood for him. He tried to use you as a shield, as a weapon-he would have traded your happiness for one more claim on power. Now he pays the price for that."

Fausta nodded, lips pressed thin. "Let it end quickly. He would not want a public death. He would rather vanish into the quiet, with what pride remains."

Constantine inclined his head in acceptance, the decision already made. "It will end tonight, and it will end as privately as possible."

That night, the palace was a web of shadows and memories. Constantine walked the silent halls alone, each archway echoing with footsteps from past campaigns, past councils, and past betrayals. He paused outside the guarded chamber. Within, Maximian paced, the caged energy of an old predator denied his ground. When the door opened, he lunged toward the threshold, eyes burning with the need to command, to persuade, to win one last time.

"Release me, Constantine!" Maximian's voice was hoarse, desperate. "I have worn the purple since before you could speak. I was hailed by legions on the Rhine, in Africa, in Rome itself. Do not dishonor your house by treating me as a criminal. I am Augustus, by right and by will."

Constantine's reply was cold as the marble beneath his boots. "You are a prisoner now," he said. "And you have exhausted all appeals to family, to tradition, and to power. I offer you a final mercy. Die on your own terms, by your own hand, as a Roman. Or face the axe at dawn, as a traitor. Either way, this chapter ends tonight."

He set a dagger within reach and left, the cell door closing with a quiet finality that would echo through history. The last gasp of the old regime faded behind stone and iron.

Before sunrise, Valerius returned to the study where Constantine reviewed ledgers and dispatches. "It is finished, Augustus. He chose the dagger." There was no triumph in his words, only the weight of necessity and the knowledge that the future had just shed another shadow.

"Prepare the burial," Constantine said, barely looking up. "No honors. No monuments. His grave is for soldiers, not emperors."

By midday, the official decree traveled by fast riders to every major city in the West. The text was simple and sharp:

MAXIMIAN HERCULIUS, overcome by remorse at his rebellion, has ended his own life. Let his service to Rome be remembered. Let his error warn all who contemplate betrayal.

Statues of Maximian were quietly removed from public squares. His name was erased from official orders and ledgers. Where his likeness had watched over markets and courts, masons raised new scaffolding for Constantine's basilica. The city moved on, not with mourning, but with the steady rhythm of reconstruction and command.

That evening, Constantine and Fausta met above the harbor. The river glowed red and gold in the last light. She studied his profile, tracing the way the old scar had hardened his gaze, and how the weight of loss and decision showed nowhere but in the tightness of his mouth.

"Rome will gossip," Fausta said. "Some will call you a patricide, even if it is not true. They will say you are a tyrant, or worse."

"Let them talk," Constantine replied. "Order is what matters now. Sentiment cannot rule. The West needs discipline, not stories. We hold the coin, the legions, the roads. That is what makes an empire endure."

She looked away, fighting tears. "He was my father, but he lost his way years ago. I grieve for what he was, not what he became."

He nodded once, the gesture final and without regret. "From now on, the coinage will bear only one Augustus. We strengthen the Rhine, restore the mints, and let Rome learn what happens when loyalty is bought by actions, not words."

Fausta's answer was calm, her voice steady. "Maxentius waits for chaos. Licinius follows Galerius. But here, you have soldiers, grain, and the trust of those who remember chaos. That is power."

Three mornings later, at dawn, a small guard detail led Maximian's body outside the east gate of Arelate. The former emperor was buried in a soldier's cloak, beneath a lone cypress. There were no banners, no crowds, no trumpets-only a handful of silent witnesses. Valerius placed Maximian's old signet ring atop the plain stone and scattered earth over the grave. The legionaries saluted, then turned back to the city. No one lingered.

Rumors of Maximian's death spread quickly. Some whispered that shame led him to the blade; others suggested Constantine's will had forced his hand. Both stories served the new regime. Commanders tightened discipline. Governors swore new oaths. In Rome, Maxentius trusted no one, afraid of ghosts in every shadow.

In Trier, the mint struck new folles with a single laurel-crowned head and the inscription RESTITVTOR OCCIDENTIS-Restorer of the West. Merchants tested them and found them honest. Markets bustled, roads stayed clear, and order grew from every decision.

Late in spring, Constantine rode north to review the Rhine. The fields along the Moselle shimmered with new growth. He stopped at a crossroad altar where a statue of Jupiter, fresh from the stonecutter, lifted its hand to the sky. The face resembled his own: stern, focused, and determined.

Valerius joined him. "The masons say the likeness is yours, Augustus."

Constantine wiped the dust from his glove, nodding. "That is what I intend. Let every province see what kind of ruler commands here-a builder who does not hesitate to remove what threatens the whole."

He turned his horse, columns of armored men riding behind him. The grave of Maximian faded from view, grass bending quietly in the wind. The empire pressed forward, more stable with every measured step. In Constantine's time, every betrayal was answered, and every lesson remembered. The order he built became the foundation on which Rome would survive.