Dawn of a New Rome

The winter rains had only just faded from the flagstones of Arelate when the imperial messengers arrived, bearing a summons sealed with Constantine's personal ring. The city was busy with the hum of new ambition-shipbuilders swarmed the waterfront, forging hulls for the Classis Germanica, while ironmongers pounded out chain and mail as if beating war into the very air. Legionaries drilled on the fields west of the Rhône, the thunder of their shields rolling like a storm over the city's tiled roofs. Into this atmosphere rode Bassianus, Caesar by the emperor's own favor, believing his star was on the rise.

He swept into the praetorium with an escort of noble sons, scarlet boots shining, every gesture rehearsed for ceremony. He found instead a stripped audience hall, lit by a single oil lamp that painted the stones with long shadows. Constantine stood alone beneath the lamp's uncertain flame, Valerius at his shoulder, and twelve scholares ranged along the walls-silent, unsmiling, more statues than men.

"Caesar," Constantine greeted, his voice filling the chill room. "You made good time."

Bassianus gave a careful bow, measuring the distance to the dais. "Augustus, I came the moment I received your letter. How may I serve you?"

"You may clarify." Constantine gestured to a table where scrolls lay half unrolled, wax seals broken, the ink of intercepted ciphers still damp. "We captured these on the Via Flaminia-letters from your brother Senecio to Domitius Alexander, Licinius's man in Ravenna."

Bassianus stepped closer, and as his eyes skimmed the neat lines he recognized Senecio's educated script and, worse, the content. Plans for a guard detachment to stand down, talk of Licinius's pledged support, even sums paid to an Aquileian banker. In black and white, his brother had promised Bassianus the purple-for a price.

"This is a forgery," Bassianus tried, too quickly. The words rang false. "Senecio talks, but treason-never."

Valerius's reply was a ledger, set down with a snap. "The bank records confirm the payments. Domitius Alexander's signet is recognized by our agents. We watched every courier that left your brother's house for a month. Only an idiot would think us so easily deceived."

For an instant Bassianus's composure cracked, calculation chasing itself across his face: could he plead, bargain, run? The guards' faces gave no hint of mercy. Constantine's expression was colder still. "I raised you up," the emperor said, "because the best lure is the one that believes itself worthy. You had every honor and more pride than sense. You made a perfect decoy."

It crashed into Bassianus, the realization that he was not heir, but bait. He fell to his knees, toga pooling in a white puddle. "Augustus, spare me-I swear my loyalty."

"Loyalty is not sworn but proven," Constantine said, turning to the captain of the guard. "Take him to the courtyard. Let the legions see what happens to oathbreakers."

The scholares hauled Bassianus to his feet. Dignity vanished; he seized at Constantine's cloak, babbling, pleading in a torrent of shame. The guards dragged him away. A moment later, from the open colonnade, a single metallic sound rang-a sword drawn and returned in one breath. Silence returned to the hall.

Fausta entered through a side door. Her face was shadowed by sorrow and calculation. "Anastasia will grieve her husband," she said, voice so low it might have been mistaken for regret.

"She will survive," Constantine replied. "Her sorrow is the price for his ambition. The empire holds no place for men who choose personal gain over order."

Valerius stepped forward, handing over a dispatch marked in the harsh hand of a Licinian notary. "Licinius has forbidden all Christian assemblies in Bithynia," the spymaster reported. "Four new legions are mustered at Sirmium-on paper to chase Scythian raiders."

Constantine scanned the parchment. "He moves behind veils. He prefers to begin with proxies, to test our patience."

Fausta's eyes narrowed. "What of the marriage bond?"

"Paper is no shield," Constantine said, already at his writing desk. With steady strokes he began drafting a letter. "To Licinius Augustus, from Constantine Augustus, greetings and righteous outrage. Your man plots with traitors. Your armies mass on my border. I demand the surrender of Senecio and Domitius, and satisfaction for this attempted murder." The words were measured, each one intended to cut without offering pretext for outright war.

Fausta read over his shoulder. "He will not comply."

"That is why the words must be so careful. When he refuses, Rome and the West will see who honors order and who shelters treason. Every temple and every church will judge his reply." Constantine's stylus paused. "He wants to bait us into moving first. We will let him hurry to his own ruin."

Valerius nodded. "The Rhine legions are ready, but the navy-"

"Ships are just timber," Constantine answered. "Resolve makes them sail. The fleet will sortie within sixty days. Meanwhile, send word north: let it be known we are unprepared, that our recruitment lags, that our legions are tired. Pride will hurry Licinius."

Evening closed over Arelate, the Rhône reflecting a bent moon. Bassianus's corpse was displayed at the city gate, stripped of honors. By morning, rumor swept the city: the Caesar had plotted regicide; the emperor had shown mercy to his widow; Licinius had paid for the knife. The tale changed in every telling, but one detail did not-the emperor's justice was absolute.

Within a week Constantine's envoys sped east, bearing his formal accusation and demand for justice. Another set of couriers rode north and west, calling the legates to Mediolanum. The great stores in the armories were opened; new mail and spears distributed; foederati chieftains invited to renew their vows. The machinery of war engaged quietly, but everywhere men sensed the gears moving.

One morning, Valerius entered with a reply from Licinius. The parchment was crisp, the signature large and angular. Licinius denied all, accused Constantine of engineering the affair, and declared Senecio a guest under imperial protection. He finished with a line that brooked no further argument: Rome would not be lectured by a usurper.

Constantine read the letter, then handed it to Fausta. "He has made his choice."

She traced a finger along the sharp script. "Will you answer with swords?"

He turned to the map table, where the river lines and frontiers coiled across the known world. With deliberate care, he moved a red marker onto Sirmium, another onto Adrianople. At last he took a golden eagle from a box and set it upon Byzantium, the city where Asia touched Europe. "The snare is sprung," he said quietly. "I will cross the Danube before the snow melts on the Haemus. The rivers are still bridges; soon they will be barriers. Our war must begin before the ice breaks."

That night, with lamps flickering against the dark, Constantine finished his final orders. Marching timetables, supply quotas, new coinage for payment to allied chiefs. Every document pushed the empire forward by a calculated step, each ink stroke a hammer fall on the anvil of fate.

Arelate slept, but across the West, garrisons woke to new discipline. Veterans dusted off battered armor. In distant Mediolanum, quartermasters recounted bolts of cloth and sacks of grain. The wheels of supply wagons were oiled, fords reconnoitered, draft horses checked for soundness. Constantine wrote until the candle guttered. He pictured Bassianus's pale face, the silent soldiers watching, the cold logic that ruled his heart.

He stood, stretching stiff arms, and gazed at the constellation of markers on the map. The scar of divided empire seemed now only a line to erase. He thought of old Alistair Finch, who had watched empires fall from the comfort of a modern world, and now, as Constantine, saw what it was to build one from blood, discipline, and iron intent.

Fausta found him at the window. "You look east, Augustus. What do you see?"

"A world that will not stay divided. A future that belongs to the one who dares to claim it."

She laid her hand atop his. "The gods grant fortune to the bold."

He nodded, but his eyes never left the dark horizon where the river met the stars. "Fortune, yes. But I trust more in men who do not break."

Beneath that sky, the last hours of peace dissolved. The counting had ended. In the stillness, the West awaited thunder.