Dawn of a New Rome

By early spring of 312 the cold war with Maxentius was fought with metal no thicker than a thumbnail. In Trier and Rome, rival mints worked day and night, striking the ambitions of two emperors into the world's pocket. Constantine's bright aurei, their high-relief Sol Invictus radiating spears of dawn, crossed the Rhine in merchants' pouches and soldier's purses. Maxentius's dark bronze folles, dull and weighty, clinked through Italian marketplaces beneath the boast CONSERVATOR URBIS SUAE. One coin promised a new sunrise. The other offered only walls.

Constantine studied both at a polished cedar table as Valerius entered with a dossier of fresh intelligence. The emperor rolled a Roman follis between scarred fingers, frowning at the crude strike and the silver wash already flaking from the surface. "He hides behind old stones because he lacks the strength to project power beyond them," he said, voice flat. "What else?"

Valerius set a hand on the folis, as if the tarnished coin itself could be used as evidence. "Confiscations, Augustus. Three senators stripped of estates on charges whispered by informers. He consults astrologers before issuing edicts. The Praetorians revel in bribes and parade through the streets, while the urban plebs cheer so long as the grain ships arrive. The Curia shakes. Their fear rides northward with every caravan."

Constantine flicked the follis away. Fear, he reflected, was the iron mortar of empires. Maxentius wielded it with a bludgeon, when what was needed was a chisel. The Senate's dread could be turned to his own advantage. Dread made men receptive to new patrons.

The world within the palace spun on similar tensions. That month, Fausta bore him a son-Constantine II in the official rolls, Crispus at the cradle. Helena, summoned to the birthing chamber, came stiff-backed, her exile still present in the set of her mouth. Fausta, pale but unbowed, held the swaddled child as an offering. For a moment Helena's hand hovered over the infant's brow, grief flickering across her face. But she laid her palm upon the boy's head and murmured, "May the one true God shield you." A single blessing, soft as down, and a silent armistice passed between the two women. Constantine, observing from the doorway, understood the weight of that gesture. The dynasty now possessed both a living heir and the appearance of divine favor.

Succession secured, the emperor turned his focus wholly to the army. On a raw April morning, the legions assembled on the broad field east of Trier. Sixteen cohorts of Rhine veterans formed a red wall, shields lacquered and spearheads sharp as new frost. Trumpets blared. Five regiments of the Scholae Palatinae crested a nearby rise at full gallop, horses churning through low mist. The cavalry wheeled in a perfect crescent, lances leveled, then broke into intricately braided files. When they halted, the only sound was the hiss of harness leather and the far-off rush of the Moselle. Satisfaction-hard as granite-settled in Constantine's chest. Here was a weapon Maxentius could neither bribe nor match.

That afternoon he summoned his war council-Valerius, Metellus of the Danube, Crocus the Alemannic war-chief, and Claudius Mamertinus, scholar-praetor and master of logistics. Together they studied a new vellum map of Italy.

"The tyrant of Rome bleeds his nobles, extorts the Senate, panders to rabble and augur while Africa's granaries rot from mismanagement," Constantine began, voice stripped of ornament. "I have received appeals-some public, most secret-begging deliverance." He pinned Alpine passes with iron weights. "Our road crews finished the Cottian route last week. Storehouses along the Dora Riparia hold four months' grain. The Rhine legions and Britannic cohorts number thirty-eight thousand infantry, eight thousand horse; every man has wintered under arms. The time for watching is ended."

Mamertinus cleared his throat. "Maxentius commands Italy's limits: perhaps forty thousand, plus the Guard. The Via Flaminia narrows at the gorges; a determined stand-"

"Could delay," Constantine cut in, "but not deflect. Their loyalty is to pay and spectacle. Break the purse and the circus, and loyalty cracks." He stabbed a finger at Segusio, gateway to the Piedmont. "I will march by midsummer, secure the northern towns before harvest, turn the populace, then force battle near the Tiber where his cavalry cannot maneuver."

Crocus grinned. "Steel against marble. We will show them who holds the sword."

Valerius produced a slim scroll. "Spies report omens of doom proclaimed by Rome's haruspices-comets, bleeding statues, dogs howling at noon. The citizens whisper that a northern conqueror approaches."

"Encourage the whispers," Constantine said. "But let them see a face of light, not shadow." He held up one of his own aurei. "Issue double pay in these until we cross the Alps. Every tavern in Liguria will jangle with Sol Invictus. Let them believe the sun marches with us."

He dispatched orders to the mint for a final run of high-purity coins, and to the quartermasters for an extra train of mules carrying shields-gifts for the Italian recruits certain to rally after the first victory. War was logistics before it was blood.

At dawn on a crisp May morning, he climbed to the palace balcony overlooking Trier's square. Below, senior officers stood in armor bright as frost. Thousands of soldiers watched, their breath steaming in the cold.

"Comrades," Constantine called, his single eye burning beneath the iron helm, "the heart of our world is wounded. Rome, mother of laws, groans under a despot who fattens on fear, who steals estates, who shackles senators and buys applause with stolen coin. She has cried out-not for conquest, but for rescue." He raised his sword. "We will answer."

A hush, then a crash of steel: the officers struck pommels to shields, and the sound rolled down the colonnaded avenue and echoed off the basilica walls. It was the pulse of destiny.

Orders flew. Standards dipped and swung south. Supply wagons rumbled over the bridge of Augustus; signal fires flared from the Moselle valley up to the snow-touched passes of the Alps. Within a week, the first columns were on the march, their songs rolling through forests where farmers paused their plows to listen, then saluted or crossed themselves as they saw fit.

Constantine lingered just long enough to seal letters for the British governors, guaranteeing security and trade. He gave the Scholae a final inspection. On the day of departure, Fausta stood by the gate, Crispus in her arms, the infant's fist grasping a golden amulet of Sol. Helena, a step behind, watched in silence. Constantine leaned down, brushed his son's brow, and whispered, "Guard the North. I will return with Rome."

He mounted. The cavalry standards dipped; trumpets sounded. Thirty-eight thousand veterans, eight thousand armored horse, siege wagons, and mule trains stretched in a line of steel from the gates of Trier to the horizon. The city fell into hush as the army departed, artisans whispering that the very stones had trembled at the sound.

Beyond the Alps, Maxentius dined in comfort, reassured by haruspices who promised invincibility within Rome's sacred boundary. He did not yet know that the roads he neglected were thundering with the hooves of Constantine's Scholae, nor that his bronze folles were being melted for arrowheads in Ligurian forges. He would learn soon enough.

The cold war, minted in gold and bronze, had ended at the point of a spear. The road to Rome lay open, and the sunrise that gleamed on every aureus shone brighter with each mile the legions marched southward.