Dawn of a New Rome

They emerged from the shadows of the Sanctuary just as the first true sunlight struck the peaks above Phrygia, setting the world aglow in gold and ice. Rain still clung to the grass and stones. For Constantine, each detail-every drop, every glint-seemed sharper, more laden with meaning. He felt the world's axis had shifted beneath him. The Book of the Unseen pressed against his side beneath his cloak, its weight a secret burden, its presence radiating power that both exhilarated and unsettled him.

His companions moved in a tense, silent line. Marcus glanced over his shoulder again and again, half-expecting to see the earth split or some ghostly hand reach from the broken stones. Valentinus walked close, shoulders hunched, one hand on a battered satchel of notes and glyphs. Only Valerius, face set as stone, showed no fear, though his eyes were bright and watchful.

As they reached the hollow where their horses waited, Constantine allowed his mask of command to slip for a moment. He gathered the men near, his voice low but edged with steel. "What happened below is not to be spoken of outside this circle," he said, fixing each man in turn with a cold stare. "There are secrets here that could end the empire, or reshape it. The world above would tear itself apart for even a rumor of this book. You understand."

They nodded, each in their own way-Marcus with a tight, soldier's nod; Valentinus, swallowing hard, his eyes haunted; Valerius, a single shallow dip of the head, the barest sign of assent.

Valentinus found his voice first. "Imperator… what comes next? What will you do with it?"

Constantine stared east, toward the band of fire on the horizon, the hills folding into cloud and promise. "We begin the work," he said. "Quietly. Carefully. The knowledge must be tested and mastered-never displayed. A single mistake, and every king, priest, and sorcerer in the world will come for our throats."

He felt the nail and wood fragment against his chest, the twin relics suddenly less mysterious in the presence of the book. He wondered what other artifacts lay in the shadows of the earth, waiting for the hand bold enough to claim them.

The company set camp near a bend in a swift river, shielded by willows and the lingering morning mist. They ate in silence, the bread hard, the cheese salty, each man lost in thoughts of what they had seen. Constantine, even as he chewed, was already studying the first pages. The book resisted him at first-letters swam, diagrams changed when he blinked, the sense of some alien mind coiling just out of reach. But Constantine's will was iron, the patience of a man who had broken codes and conquered cities. Bit by bit, he forced the meaning into shape, laying bare patterns and laws no Roman had ever seen.

He read of harmonics, of metals tuned to certain voices, of the binding of light to stone, of numbers that summoned wind or stilled pain. Valentinus hovered nearby, copying glyphs and notations, but dared not interrupt. Marcus patrolled the camp's edge, blade drawn, watching for more than wolves. Valerius scribbled a single message for his most trusted agent in Nicomedia-a ciphered report to be sent only if they vanished.

As dusk stretched the shadows, unease began to ripple through the little camp. Valentinus muttered about rumors already moving among the villages-stories of torches flickering in the hills, strange lights on the wind, "ghosts" stalking the wild. Shepherds whispered that the Emperor himself had been seen riding the ancient roads, consorting with powers older than the gods of Rome. Constantine listened to these tales with cold calculation. He knew such stories had to be managed, contained, or snuffed out at their root.

Before sunrise, they broke camp, traveling by deer trails and forgotten roads, winding beneath dripping boughs and through gullies thick with bramble. They kept to the shadows, speaking little, a band of fugitives from the future. Every sense was alert for pursuit, for the first signs that word of their mission had slipped free.

They skirted villages at dawn, the smell of woodsmoke and baking bread sharp in the air. At a ford where the river ran black and fast, Constantine paused to water the horses. Valentinus approached, his face drawn. "Augustus, we cannot travel like this forever. The men are exhausted. The horses-"

"We will not be stopped by fatigue," Constantine cut him off, his voice clipped, brooking no argument. "Every hour we linger, the world closes in. We reach Nicomedia by week's end."

True to his word, they pushed hard, riding from first light until the stars wheeled overhead. When they finally reached the outskirts of the city, they were gaunt with hunger and hollow-eyed from lack of sleep. Constantine kept the book wrapped in oilcloth, hidden at all times. In Nicomedia, he met with no one save his own agents, dispatching Valerius to spread gold where it would buy silence and threats where it would enforce it.

The return to Constantinople was made in utmost secrecy. Constantine rode under an assumed name, the relics and book hidden in a battered satchel. They slipped through the city gates at midnight, as rain lashed the marble walls and the sea roared in the dark. Even the palace was subdued, the storm having swept the city clean and left a hush behind. Constantine's first act was to summon his most trusted architects, engineers, and scribes to a private chamber-no titles, no ceremony, only absolute loyalty.

He locked himself away for three days, devouring the book's first chapters. Each hour, he forced more of the shifting code into shape. Here were instructions for machines that could move water uphill; here, formulas for making glass bend light or cut steel; here, methods for preserving grain, for healing wounds with sound, for forging alloys stronger and lighter than iron.

When he emerged, the world seemed changed-yet only he could see the new web of possibility. He sent for his sons. They arrived, wary and disciplined, the lessons of their father's cold love branded into them. He pressed them harder than ever, testing not only their knowledge of war and law, but now of number, of proportion, of the new sciences. "Strength is more than force," he told them. "It is the power to shape the world, to see order where others see only chaos. You will learn, or you will be left behind."

Word spread quickly through the palace and city: the Emperor's energy was tireless, his reforms sweeping. He summoned blacksmiths and glassworkers, demanding new forges and better tools. Blueprints appeared in the hands of trusted craftsmen-designs for strange engines, unfamiliar pumps, doors that opened without a key, wheels that spun without visible force. The city's aqueducts were remapped, waterwheels doubled, the first of the steam-driven pumps tested in the lower districts. Grain flowed from the fields to the city's heart, fresher and faster than ever before.

It was not just industry. In the palace's hidden chambers, Valentinus and a chosen few experimented with lesser formulas from the book. A lump of iron struck just so, inscribed with a spiral glyph, became lighter than wood for an hour-then reverted, with a sound like the sigh of the sea. A cask of wine, placed in a circle of sigils, remained unspoiled for weeks while the rest of the cellar soured. These wonders were tested, measured, documented, then hidden away. Constantine warned all: a single whisper outside these walls meant death, for all involved.

The news of wonders did not stay hidden for long. In Alexandria, a Greek merchant boasted of seeing water boil in a philosopher's hands, with no fire at all. In the wilds of Armenia, word spread of a Roman patrol driving off a barbarian band by "calling lightning from a staff." Each rumor was traced, every witness bribed or made to disappear. In distant cities-Antioch, Carthage, even far-off Londinium-men began to whisper of a new age rising in the East, of miracles and terrors lurking behind the veils of power.

Beyond the empire, the world was not still. On the steppe, Slavic chieftains read omens in the stars, readying their tribes for war or alliance. In the forests of Germania, old seers warned of an age of wonders and disasters, while Persian traders spread tales of cities glowing with lights unknown to their ancestors. The world trembled, sensing change on the wind.

Within the empire, the old order felt the threat. The Senate in Rome bristled, sending envoys with gold and subtle poison to slow the tide of reform. Priests grew uneasy, their prayers sharper, their sermons warning against pride and forbidden knowledge. Only Helena, Constantine's mother, seemed to understand the true scale of what was coming. Her letters arrived thick with warnings-gentle, loving, but edged with prophecy: "You are touching mysteries that belong to the gods, my son. Do not forget that pride can blind even the wisest."

Constantine met every challenge with cold resolve. He used the old tools-bribes, threats, political marriage-but more and more, he relied on his new gifts. Every law, every command, every plan now rested on the unseen foundation he had unearthed beneath the earth. He moved his pieces on the board with ruthless precision, reshaping the city and empire to his will.

Each night, he stood alone on the balcony above the Bosphorus, the air cool with salt and the perfume of distant fires. He watched the towers rise, cranes swinging their burdens into place, steam winches clattering in the deepening dusk. The city was changing. The world was changing. Sometimes, in the quiet between the bells and the laughter of distant crowds, he felt the weight of what he had set in motion. There would be no turning back.

He dreamed, too. Each sleep was brief, haunted by visions-cities of glass, engines roaring, men and women who spoke words that made the world bend. He woke with the taste of iron and honey on his tongue, with the memory of the Guardian's warning burning in his mind: The deeper the knowledge, the higher the price.

The days blurred into one another as work continued. Projects moved from dream to blueprint to reality with a speed that stunned even Constantine. The first engines thumped and hissed in the palace workshops, and news of new inventions began to seep through the cracks of secrecy, trickling into the alleys and markets. The city's pulse changed-faster, harder, more hungry.

His sons felt the pressure most of all. Constantine drove them like soldiers, demanding not only obedience but understanding. They learned the new mathematics, the new science, the new language of power. He watched for weakness, for any sign that they might fail to bear the weight of empire and secrets alike. He remembered the price he had paid for a single misjudgment, the shadow of Crispus never leaving him.

Outside, the world braced for change. Kings and warlords sharpened swords, priests sharpened words, and the common people watched the rising towers and wondered what god or demon now ruled Constantinople.

On the last night of that first month, Constantine stood above the city, the Book of the Unseen on his desk, its secrets still unfurling. He traced a finger over the diagrams, mind racing with plans. Below, the city's new machines rattled and roared, drowning out the old songs. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine not only a new Rome, but a new world-a world built on logic and strength, ruled by those clever and ruthless enough to seize the code by which reality itself was written.

He knew the cost. He knew that every gift demanded sacrifice. But he would not flinch. The door of light had opened, and what lay beyond would be his, whatever the price.

The empire was stirring. The age of wonders had begun.