Dawn of a New Rome

Constantine rose long before the eastern sky grew pale. The canvas walls of his tent were damp with the last breath of night, the oil lamp guttered low beside a neat stack of orders. He buckled his sword in silence, took up the heavy purple cloak, and stepped outside. The predawn hush over the Pannonian plain was broken only by the distant pulse of legionary drums, the occasional call of a sentry, the subtle shift of iron and leather as the camp began to stir. Far in the east, beyond the misted vineyards and muddy river flats, the outline of distant watchfires flickered-tracing the length of the field where his fate would soon be decided.

The chill was sharp. Constantine walked alone to the edge of the encampment, the turf sodden beneath his boots, the breath in his lungs clean as the blade at his hip. He paused, watching the columns of tents dissolve into darkness, then summoned his officers: Crocus, commander of the Germanic cavalry; Ablabius, the Praetorian prefect; Valerius, map rolled and stained, ready for briefing. Each man approached with the quiet assurance of those who had marched through more campaigns than could be counted.

"Licinius moves," Valerius reported, his tone crisp, unflinching. "Scouts say he has broken camp at first light, aiming to anchor his line along the Sava, where the marshland will favor his cavalry. If we take the low ground, we fight for our lives in a quagmire."

Crocus, the old wolf of the Rhine, shook his head. "We seize the high road. Advance north, take the vineyards and the dry ridge before his lead elements arrive. No man wins in mud except the one who chose it."

Constantine leaned over the sketch of the land, his eye tracing the contours where men would soon bleed. "We deny him the mud, but we do not allow him the time to settle. Ablabius, send word to the engineers. The wagons carry planking and stone. Build me two causeways across the marsh before noon. Make them as broad as a shield, as straight as a spear. Cohorts will advance two abreast, shields locked, no straggling. The enemy must see not an army floundering, but a wall moving."

Ablabius saluted, already halfway out of the circle.

"One more thing," Constantine said. "This battle is not for plunder. Every standard-bearer is to read aloud the record of Bassianus's betrayal and Licinius's complicity. Let the legions know they march to avenge treachery, not to conquer kin. Justice fights with us today, not hunger." The words rolled slow, each carefully chosen for effect.

His officers departed. The day's machinery began to grind. Columns shifted, trumpets called the ranks to readiness, cooks slapped down the last trenchers of bread. Over all, the constant clamor of engineers grew, timber being dragged, stones hammered into place, wagons split and lashed into walkways above the bog.

Fausta appeared at the edge of the tent line, drawn in her cloak against the river mist, eyes bright with worry and resolve. She had ridden from Poetovio under guard, unwilling to greet fate from afar. Constantine took her hands in his, felt the strength that lingered behind the careful composure.

"When it is done, send word," she said quietly. "I would see your banner flying before the dust settles."

He nodded. "You will have it. Today, one way or another, the world tilts."

She pressed a kiss to his gauntlet, then allowed the Scholae Palatinae to escort her back, never looking over her shoulder. Personal warmth was always the first casualty of command.

The sun rose, burning mist from the plain and painting the camps in gold and shadow. Across the valley, Licinius's standards gathered-scarlet, black, glinting in the wind. Praetorians with bronze helms formed the core. Thracian and Macedonian cavalry spread out to either wing, waiting to sweep down at the first sign of weakness. On the ridgeline beyond, the old gods watched: Jupiter's standard, thunderbolt raised, fluttered as if to bless or curse.

Constantine mounted and rode the front, his white horse stained to the knees with turf. Cohorts cheered, pila lifted high. The banners of the Chi-Rho gleamed at each interval, freshly repainted by night. The men answered his glance with steady resolve. These were veterans of Britain, of the Rhine, of the storming of Rome itself. They did not fear the day.

On the left, Crocus led the Germans forward-mail and wolf pelts, faces smeared with ochre, spears held like a rippling fence. On the right, Britannic auxiliaries advanced in tight files, planks of fir strapped beneath their boots to keep them above the sucking mud. In the center, the Illyricum legions strode onto the makeshift causeways, shields overlapped, ranks as dense as any siege wall.

Licinius saw the maneuver and responded in kind. Thracian horsemen angled to intercept Crocus on the dry ground, while Macedonian archers ranged to harass the right. The heart of the enemy line was a knot of Praetorians, last survivors of Rome's old elite, their shields stamped with eagles and bolts. Above them, the image of Jupiter shimmered, a promise that the gods themselves would choose the victor.

The first clash erupted where Crocus's Germans met Licinius's Thracian horse amid the dregs of the grapevines. The crash was thunderous, shields breaking, blades hacking in close. Neither side gave ground. Dust shrouded the chaos. Constantine signaled his Moorish cavalry to flank the press, javelins glinting in the morning sun, hurling themselves into the swirling melee. For a moment the line held, then wavered, then snapped-the eastern horse scattering, the Germans driving deep into the rear.

In the center, Constantine's legions moved relentlessly forward. The planks creaked beneath their iron, mud sucking at greaves, but the ranks never broke. Pila whistled, striking shields and flesh with the sickening crunch of inevitability. The Praetorians met them, swords high. Here, the fighting was hand to hand-gladius against gladius, every foot gained by a corpse. Constantine rode just behind, his standard always visible, voice ringing: "Press! The gods hear only the victors!"

At the critical moment, when the enemy seemed ready to push the western centre into the marsh, Constantine unleashed his final stroke. From behind the baggage came the clibanarii-heavy cavalry armored head to hoof, their horses masked in iron. They had been held in shadow, armor disassembled, for weeks. Now, formed in a wedge, they charged across the remaining causeway, crashing into Licinius's right with unstoppable force. The line buckled, snapped, then dissolved into chaos.

Licinius himself tried to rally his reserves, leading a final thrust at the main crossing. Constantine met him with the Scholae, dismounting to fight beside his standard. His sword flashed, his scarred face terrifying in the gloom. Around him, his men closed ranks, pushing the last desperate surge back, step by muddy step.

Dusk fell. Fires smoldered along the Sava's banks, wounded groaning in the trampled reeds. The battlefield belonged to Constantine. Licinius had fled east, his remaining cavalry scattering toward Sirmium. Constantine gave no chase; he knew the marsh and the night would do his work for him.

Valerius reported, visor streaked with blood and mud. "His army is broken. Scouts mark Licinius halfway to Sirmium. There will be no rally tonight."

"Send riders," Constantine said. "Let him run, but not gather. Tomorrow, we move. Each day we gain is another city lost to him."

He stood long on the ruined planks, the smoke of victory curling about his shoulders. Standard-bearers planted trophies in the mud. Medics moved through the wounded, pagan and Christian priests alike murmuring for the dead. Above, the first stars blinked into a sky cleansed by the day's violence.

For a moment, Constantine was utterly still, his eye fixed on the east, where destiny awaited. The promise was close enough to taste: one empire, one law, one Augustus.

He whispered, "By my hand alone."

As the fires died and the legions settled, the future of Rome stood on the edge of a single will, sharpened and ready to strike again.