Chapter 38: The Head of the Serpent
Morning mist clung to the banks of the Tiber, shrouding Rome's battered outskirts with a pale veil that might have been woven for a funeral. The night after the battle, scavengers searching the muddy shallows found something that snagged their gaffs and dulled their courage. They called for the soldiers on watch. Rhine legionaries waded in, boots sucking at river mud, and heaved a sodden corpse onto the bank. The body was armored in imperial purple, gilded tunic clinging to flesh bloated by river water. The head lolled to the side, lips parted, eyes wide and sightless. All majesty was gone, replaced by the swollen horror of defeat.
Constantine came down to the embankment, his cloak wet from the morning dew. He stared at Maxentius, this final adversary, and found nothing of the ancient rivalry between kings and usurpers. There was only a problem solved, a threat neutralized. He studied the face for three long breaths, then raised his right hand.
"Sever the head," he said, voice steady as a carpenter calling for a saw. The nearest centurion obeyed without hesitation. Steel flashed, the work done in seconds. A legionary rammed the grisly trophy onto a spear and hoisted it high. River birds scattered, startled by the crude reality of power. The men standing nearby watched in grim silence. There was no cheer.
So began Constantine's entry into Rome.
The city did not greet him with fanfares or perfumed petals scattered by senators. Instead, he came at the head of an army marching in cold silence through the Flaminian Gate, the broad stones still marked by the boot prints of fleeing Praetorians. The people were waiting. At first, only a handful stepped into the avenue-old women, barefoot children, tradesmen who had lived through every civil war since the death of Marcus Aurelius. Then the crowd grew. By the time Constantine passed beneath the half-ruined arch, citizens poured into the street, all shouting and weeping and offering olive branches and laurel crowns.
He did not smile. He rode slowly, helm off, his pale scar visible beneath the battered line of his helmet. His gaze swept the crowd but never lingered. Applause, he knew, was the currency of fear, and he would never pay more than he must.
Behind him, the column rolled forward. Rhine veterans bore the hard marks of Turin and Verona. Crocus's towering Germans marched with their captured swords hung over their shoulders. Every shield carried the same stark symbol: the Chi-Rho, freshly painted and gleaming in the morning haze. Those in the crowd who recognized it whispered among themselves, some with awe, others in confusion. Constantine caught the rumors swirling-was it a sign from Christ? Had the emperor become a Christian? He let the questions multiply, knowing that fear of the unknown could rule a city more completely than a legion on every street.
He did not detour to the ancient shrines, did not pause for the rites of Jupiter or the Senate. The column crossed the Forum, ignoring the statues of emperors, heading straight for the Palatine. By the time he dismounted in the shadowed peristyle of the palace, the entire city seemed to be watching from behind latticed windows and shuttered balconies.
The first command was issued before his boots were dry.
"Valerius," he called. The Praefectus of the Guard stood ready, every inch the soldier, his own face lined with dust and fatigue. "Take the Scholae Palatinae and five cohorts of the Sixth. March to the Castra Praetoria. Demand the surrender of the Praetorian Guard. Disarm them, strip their banners, and raze the walls to the foundations. Leave nothing standing that could shelter a kingmaker."
Valerius met his eye and saluted. There was no argument, no need for a second order. The Praetorian camp-the symbol and engine of imperial instability for three centuries-was to be erased. Soldiers filed out, shields at the ready, moving with the silent precision of men who understood that history was being unmade before their eyes.
Constantine turned to his adjutants.
"The head," he said, nodding to the spear outside the gate, "send it to Carthage. Africa must see with its own eyes that the tyrant is dead. Post new edicts at every basilica: taxes suspended for one year, the grain dole restored at half the old price. Goodwill is bought in the first hour, not the second. Act quickly, before memory sours into regret."
The rest of the day was spent settling the terms of conquest. Officers fanned out through the city to restore order and ensure discipline. Looters were executed on the spot; magistrates who offered tribute were left unharmed. Constantine received delegations from the guilds, the churches, the merchant houses. His answers were brief and practical. Rome would be respected, its wealth protected, its privileges renewed. In return, the city would send grain and taxes north to his armies, and above all, it would not rebel.
Late in the afternoon, the bronze doors of the Curia Julia swung open for the first Senate meeting since the flight of Maxentius. The chamber filled slowly. Senators entered in clusters, eyes lowered, their silk robes smelling faintly of camphor and sweat. They expected a conqueror, a man garlanded in gold, ready to play the part of an avenging god. Instead they found a lean, one-eyed general in campaign cloak, his boots still crusted with mud, flanked by twenty guards whose armor was stained with the Tiber's silt.
He did not wait for ceremony.
"Fathers of the Senate," he began, the words rolling out in the careful Latin of a man who had learned rhetoric not to flatter, but to rule. "You have survived a despot who taxed you, conscripted your sons, and let your city be ruled by thieves in uniform. I have ended that threat. Rome's dignity will be restored; your ancient privileges respected. But make no mistake: decisions of war, peace, and law now rest with me. You may debate, but you will not command. Serve well and I will be generous. Cross me, and you will be replaced as swiftly as a broken column."
No one spoke. One by one, senators nodded, some in relief, others with resentment hidden behind weary eyes. They understood the new arithmetic. The Republic was not returning; Rome had a master again.
Night spread over the city. Constantine stood at the balcony of the imperial palace, overlooking a thousand rooftops glimmering in torchlight. The Colosseum glowed orange, the domes of ancient temples and baths scattered silver and bronze in the moonlight. He saw the city not as a seat of glory, but as a puzzle of logistics and leverage. Rome's wealth was mobile-grain from Africa, gold from Spain, soldiers from the Rhine. The empire's future would not be written in the stones of this ancient metropolis. He was already planning a capital nearer the crossroads of the world, somewhere east, at the narrows between continents, where new tides of power would meet.
Boots rang on the stone behind him. Metellus entered, fresh from the work at the Castra Praetoria. "The walls are burning, sire. The eagles are already melted into coin. There was little resistance."
Constantine nodded. "Tomorrow we hold games, announce tax relief, and promise bread for all. Prepare the proclamations. And send messengers to Licinius and Maximinus Daia. Tell them Rome is united, and the West is at peace. Let the East decide how long it wishes to stand apart."
Metellus saluted and left. Constantine remained at the balustrade, watching smoke rise from the city's ancient heart. The Praetorian camp, the grave of so many emperors, was now rubble. On the streets below, crowds still chanted his name, but he listened without emotion. The real work lay ahead-in peace as much as in war. He had broken the last chains of the old order; now he must build something that would last.
He raised his eyes to the starlit sky, cold and remote above the restless city. For a moment, he remembered the sign that had burned in his mind before the battle-the cross, the promise, the riddle of faith. He could not explain it, but he did not need to. Utility was reason enough. Let others debate miracles; he would make use of whatever moved men to obedience.
Beyond the city, east and north, rivals sharpened their ambitions. Armies gathered, priests read their own omens. The West lay quiet beneath his hand, but the game had only begun. Constantine inhaled, the night air heavy with woodsmoke and prophecy. Let them come. He had measured rivers, breached walls, broken tyrants. The world would learn the weight of iron, and the shape of a new Rome.
Behind him, the city slept uncertain and changed, each dream colored by the fear and hope of a day that had rewritten the rules. Ahead, unseen in the darkness, new frontiers called-the edge of an empire, and the future he intended to rule.