Dawn of a New Rome

Constantine rose before moonset, as the stars drained from the sky and the embers of a dying camp flickered behind him. He mounted with silent efficiency, feeling the weight of the night-its silence, its anticipation-settle into his bones. By now the old army camp in front of Verona was a ruse: a ring of watchfires, a handful of tents, Legate Sabinus overseeing the illusion of a besieging force. The true column-forty thousand men, every cohort drilled and readied-uncoiled eastward like a blade drawn from its scabbard. Constantine's own horse moved in silence, hooves muffled by leather, the air thick with the musk of wet earth and nervous breath.

Discipline turned men into ghosts. Legionaries wrapped sandals with rags, covered shield bosses in leather, cinched helmets with strips of boiled hide so not a single glint betrayed them to the city's watch. Constantine himself rode ahead at intervals, slipping from saddle to kneel and press a gloved palm into the mud, checking the ground for softness and hidden run-off. There would be no mistakes tonight. For all his command, he trusted only the evidence of his own senses at the threshold of battle.

Shortly after midnight the column reached the ford Valerius had found-a narrow band of the Athesis, fast with meltwater, glinting like a razor in the moonlight. The river here was treacherous: swift, freezing, its channel cut by stone shelves, but only a hundred paces across. The order passed back: shields overhead, spears level, no talking. The first century stepped in and were swallowed to their knees, then their waists. Some lost footing, nearly swept away, but the discipline of years held-arms locked, boots gripped stone, shields braced. Officers barked correction, then silence. When the water climbed to his chest, Constantine entered, his horse swimming beside him, the ruined socket of his eye burning with cold as the current hissed past.

Dawn, just a hint on the horizon, found them dripping, battered, but whole on the far bank. The men formed up as ordered, shivering and stamping, but still under control. The discipline was relentless: no fires, no complaints. Tribunes walked the line, checking weapons, steadying nerves. Constantine gave them little time for thought. "Form up, column of march," he ordered, voice cold and clipped. Every file swung into motion.

They crested a ridge and saw, across the grey valley, Pompeianus's field camp. Hundreds of tents dotted the grass, little lamps burning in the darkness-signs of a force asleep, their guard slack. In the distance, the towers of Verona cut black against the pale sky. Constantine watched, face unreadable, his single eye flicking from tent to wall to the gaps between.

The plan was simple, but only a man who had drilled his legions to exhaustion could trust it. Crocus and the Alemanni were divided left and right, tasked with running down any who tried to flee for Verona or the open plain. The Scholae Palatinae, Constantine's mailed hammer, stood at the core of the formation, Praetorian detachments who had sworn loyalty ranged beside them. On the flanks the infantry of the VI Victrix and XX Valeria Victrix fanned out, pila at the ready, shields locked in a shallow crescent. Metellus, with his hard-bitten veterans, was held out of sight, poised to strike if the enemy attempted to rally.

The signal, when it came, was a single, drawn-out horn. In that moment, all silence snapped: forty thousand voices roared as one, the sound rolling down the ridge like the end of the world. The legions surged forward, clubs and spathae at the ready, smashing through the first lines of tents before resistance could even form.

Pompeianus's army woke to a nightmare. Some rushed for arms, others for horses, but chaos ruled. In the gloom, units became pockets, pockets became isolated knots-each devoured in turn. Smoke and sparks flew as overturned cookfires caught canvas; supply wagons shattered under trampling feet. Discipline on one side, blind panic on the other. Constantine rode at the center, his cloak heavy with river water, lance couched for the charge. The first true resistance-a Praetorian shield wall-blocked his path, shields tight, faces grim in the firelight. He angled the Scholae's wedge, struck at the join between two centuries, and the line shattered under the charge. Cavalry flooded through the breach; bodies fell, trampled and hacked, shields splitting like bark beneath axe.

Up on Verona's walls, sentries stared in disbelief as battle bloomed behind them. The city had braced for siege, not ambush. Within minutes, Pompeianus-armored in haste, jaw clenched, voice hoarse with rage-rallied his remaining troops and called for a sortie. Verona's main gate, the Porta Leoni, creaked open, and cohorts spilled out under the scorpion banner, standards glinting. He led from the front, sword high, vowing to rescue his collapsing army or die on the field.

Constantine watched, eyes narrow, then flicked a runner toward the rear. On the ridge, Metellus sounded the clarion. Two veteran cohorts jogged down in perfect formation, their shields still clean, pila stacked. Pompeianus hurled his men at them-expecting confusion, finding steel. The line held. Pila slammed into advancing ranks; then the legions met sword to sword, grinding the sortie to a bloody halt. The press grew thick with the dead and dying, mud churned black with blood.

Pompeianus broke through to the front lines, swinging a spatha two-handed, carving a path toward Constantine's standard. The VI Victrix gave ground, only to snap back with a sudden thrust: a nameless legionary lunged beneath the prefect's sword, driving the point under his arm and through the ribs. Pompeianus jerked, eyes wide, sword tumbling from numb fingers as he crumpled in the mud. Word of his death rippled through the Maxentian ranks, killing morale in an instant. The sortie buckled, then collapsed into retreat.

Metellus pressed forward, herding the shattered survivors back toward the gates. On the flanks Crocus's riders thundered in, cutting down those who tried to break for freedom. The legionaries, now smelling victory, battered the city gates open and poured inside, shield to shield, torchlight flickering on the damp stone.

The fighting within Verona was brief but savage. Some alleys became killing grounds, others saw desperate defenders leap from rooftops or try to bar doors with furniture. But the Roman cohorts leapfrogged street by street, clearing each crossroad, storming each tower. Arrows flashed from rooftops, but Constantine's archers replied twice as fast, setting fire to barricades, driving the resistance back. By the fifth hour after dawn the city was a mosaic of battered shields and corpses, its forum ringed with Constantine's men, the Chi-Rho glinting from every standard.

Near midday, Constantine climbed to the highest tower on the east wall. From there, he surveyed the field: wagons shattered, tents burned, lines of prisoners kneeling in muck, wounded being tended by grim-faced medics and hurried priests. He watched the smoke rise, watched the rain begin, and allowed the cold drops to sting his upturned face. Every victory demanded its price; every victory hardened his legend. Below, soldiers dragged fallen friends to funeral pyres while officers coordinated the transfer of prisoners, the sorting of supplies, the preparation for the next move.

Valerius found him alone on the battlement, helm under his arm. "Casualties are under three thousand," he reported, his voice quiet. "Pompeianus is dead. The city's granaries are full; the citizens beg clemency."

Constantine nodded once. "Grant it. Spread word: the Senate will see we punish traitors, not Italians. Verona is Roman again-let them mark it as liberation."

He gazed south, following the Via Postumia with his eye as it wound toward the plains, then farther to the Aurelian Way and Rome. Maxentius still sat on the Palatine, heedless in his marble nest, trusting prophecies and Praetorians. But the world had changed overnight: his field army was broken, his strongest fortress shattered before dawn. Constantine, the builder and the breaker, had proven again that audacity, cunning, and ruthless discipline could split stone, break men, and rewrite the map in a single morning.

Rain fell harder, washing blood from the stone and carrying it to the river below. Behind him, the legions lifted a subdued cheer as the imperial banner replaced Maxentius's scorpion atop the main gate. Constantine turned from the battlement, cloak dark with rain, and descended into the city to organize the next advance. One more vertebra in the serpent's spine had snapped. The hand on the hammer was steady. The road to Rome now lay open, and the only thing left was to finish what the night had begun.