Chapter 50: The Battle of the Hebrus
The third day of July broke clear, the sky hammered into a plate of bronze. Across the wide channel of the Hebrus, two Roman armies glared at each other, motionless as duelists at the turn of dawn. On the north bank, Licinius's host stretched in deep ranks along the ridge, red banners tight in the wind, palisades bristling, artillery clustered at measured intervals. On the south, Constantine's force lined the river for a mile: infantry in silent columns, cavalry feeding and currying horses, engineers stacking brushwood and timber for the day's work. The fields between them, blackened from weeks of skirmish, waited for a battle that would decide the fate of the world.
Inside the imperial tent, the air was thick with sweat and calculation. Constantine bent over his campaign map, stylus flicking from one point to another. Senior officers crowded around him-Metellus, Valerius, Crocus-each waiting for the order that would tip the scales. Constantine traced the blue curve of the river, then paused at a jagged stain where a forest pressed close to the water.
"He sits in his shell, expecting me to hammer at his front," Constantine murmured. "He's stacked every cohort on that ridge. If we go straight, we slaughter ourselves. We need to open a crack." His voice was low, confident. "Metellus, you will put on a show for him. Build a bridge, cut trees, set engineers in plain sight. Make him believe an assault will come from the center."
Metellus stiffened, frowning. "We divide the army and risk his reserves crashing down on one half."
Constantine's eye sharpened. "He will see what I want him to see. Five thousand hand-picked veterans and the Scholae Palatinae will cross at the ford upstream, in the forest. I lead them myself. When his reserves shift to the decoy, Valerius will launch the real crossing at the weakest bend. The rest is execution."
No one argued further. In that tent, to hesitate was to invite failure.
By midday, the riverbanks exploded into controlled chaos. Constantine's engineers splashed into the Hebrus with axes, laying out rafts, hammering stakes. On the north bank, Licinian ballistae flared-flaming bolts arching over the water, splashing and hissing in the current. Constantine's own archers answered, filling the sky with a storm of arrows. Down the line, trumpets blared and horns brayed. Soldiers banged their shields and shouted, baiting the enemy. Along the ridge, Licinian standards shifted, lines thickening where the noise peaked. The emperor watched and nodded. The enemy was taking the bait.
Meanwhile, five thousand legionaries and horsemen ghosted through the woods upstream. The air grew heavy with pine and river mist. They moved in silence, sandals muffled, every shield carried flat against the body to avoid glint. At the water's edge, the ford revealed itself: narrower than hoped, water swollen by snowmelt, fast and deep. Constantine waded in first, sword high. The water punched at his legs. The men followed in single file, clutching the belts of those before them. Shields floated overhead. More than one man slipped, but discipline held. They reached the far bank, cold and shivering, but together.
Within the shelter of willows and pines, they dressed ranks. Officers ran down the lines, checking weapons, counting off. The Scholae Palatinae, elite horsemen with plumed helms, aligned themselves behind the infantry. The moment waited only for a signal. Constantine looked to Valerius, who stood pale and still as a marble pillar. One nod. Then the Labarum tilted forward and the horns screamed. Legionaries surged from the trees at a run, cavalry at their heels. The first volley of pila arced out, smashing into tents, scattering startled cooks and muleteers. Shouts echoed up the hillside. Men in Licinius's camp scrambled for shields and swords, their order dissolving into chaos.
In the distance, Metellus saw the signal and launched his own attack. Trumpets sounded. Engineers toppled trees into the river, feigning a desperate bridge-building rush. Legionaries splashed into the water, shields overhead, shouting and banging swords on the bronze. Licinius's commanders, peering through the smoke and racket, mistook the sound for the main assault and rushed reserves to the center, thinning the flanks.
On the north bank, Constantine's force advanced through confusion. Auxiliary archers ran in circles, some firing arrows blindly into the underbrush, others bolting for the safety of the ridge. Supply wagons tipped over, mules rearing. A knot of Thracian infantry tried to form a shield wall but were cut down by the Scholae. The legionaries, still wet from the ford, advanced in methodical silence-throwing pila, then closing to the sword. Every man fought for space and breath.
Licinius appeared for a moment on the ridge above the camp, a dark figure outlined against the glare. Constantine glimpsed him only for a heartbeat. The enemy emperor vanished behind a wall of bodyguards, racing east toward the city. The balance was broken.
Metellus, seeing the enemy's confusion, ordered a full assault at the central crossing. Roman infantry rushed the bank, water churning around their knees, arrows pattering off their raised shields. The Licinian line, now gutted by the panic in camp, hesitated-then buckled. Constantine's cavalry looped around the rear, slicing through those still trying to form up. Crocus's Germans, late to the field but hungry for loot and glory, burst out of the woods to finish the encirclement.
By mid-afternoon the battle had become a rout. Legionaries picked through the debris, stabbing downed men, rounding up prisoners. Captured officers were brought to Constantine, stripped of insignia, forced to kneel in the mud. Most offered nothing but silence or curses; a few begged for mercy in languages from every province. He gave none. Every tenth man was sent to the labor gangs. The rest were set aside for ransom or interrogation.
A grim silence fell as the sun dropped lower. Valerius reported casualties: over thirty thousand of Licinius's men dead, twice that scattered, wounded, or captured. The Roman dead were heavy, but the crossing had held. Constantine nodded, then walked alone through the carnage, boots sinking in churned mud, breath thick with the stink of blood and horse sweat. He paused beside the ruined imperial pavilion-Licinius's banner trampled into the mud, the silk torn and stained. He picked it up, handed it to a standard-bearer. "Plant it on our earthworks. Let the world see what happened here."
As dusk fell, messengers arrived from the coast. Crispus had destroyed Amandus's fleet at the Bosphorus. The straits were open. Constantine allowed himself a thin smile, nothing more. The jaws had closed.
Orders rippled through the camp: build fires, tend the wounded, prepare to march at dawn. No man would sleep easy. The enemy emperor was on the run, but the city of Byzantium still barred the road. Constantine stared east across the plain. Already, the engineers were gathering beams and hides for siege towers. He spoke quietly to Valerius: "No grain moves, no ship sails, unless we permit it. By tomorrow, every route into Byzantium will be watched."
Night thickened over the river. The water whispered against the bank, carrying the memory of blood toward the distant city. Constantine stood alone beneath the Labarum, the cross and crown silhouetted against the stars. The land was quiet, but not at peace. In that stillness, the emperor allowed himself one silent oath: the next dawn would break not on a divided world, but on a single, iron-bound empire-his and his alone.