Dawn of a New Rome

Constantine watched the city from the highest gallery, his cloak weighed down by morning dew and responsibility. Constantinople-no, the New Rome-seemed to stretch forever beneath the blood-red sky, its domes and chimneys veiled in ribbons of smoke and steam. The city's heart pulsed with change, every moment caught between memory and invention.

He was not alone. Valerius stood behind him, hands folded, eyes roaming the skyline for threats visible and unseen. Marcus, his old comrade and captain of the palace guard, paced the shadowed corridor. Far below, the city groaned and exhaled: the clang of iron, the snarl of engines, the shouts of dockworkers as ships from the world's farthest corners unloaded their cargo.

But beneath the surface, tension shimmered. The city was alive, but every sinew felt drawn to its limit-like a warhorse lathered before a charge.

Constantine moved from window to window, examining the city as if he could see all its weaknesses by the light of a single dawn. His empire was vast now, far beyond the Mediterranean, swelling every month as the world itself expanded-continent by continent, river by river, new lands rising from the haze at the world's edge. It was no longer enough to be emperor. Now he must become something more: master of machines, breaker of old gods, shepherd of a world whose borders would not hold.

He dressed simply, in a soldier's tunic reinforced with the new steel his own forges had produced. His signet ring felt heavy, the symbol of an empire balanced on the edge of old order and new law. He did not eat; food felt like a distraction.

A knock sounded, firm and discreet. Valerius let himself in with a report: "Augustus, there is trouble at the southern wharf. The new engine failed, and the crowd claims it is an omen. The priests whisper in the market. Your orders?"

Constantine weighed the options. "Have the foreman replaced. Question the priests-discreetly. If they speak against the machines, send them to the foundry. Let them see where Rome's bread is made now. As for the crowd, double the grain dole for the week. They will forget their fear if their bellies are full."

Valerius nodded, face unreadable, and vanished with the same silent efficiency that had made him indispensable since the days of war.

Minutes later, Constantine gathered his council in the upper chamber overlooking the Golden Horn. Valentinus, the emperor's scholar and engineer, arrived first, papers bulging from his sleeves. Marcus, ever the soldier, stood at attention, scanning the servants for any sign of disloyalty. Even Constantine's youngest son, Constans, slipped in, eyes bright with anxious curiosity.

"The world grows larger every day," Valentinus began, voice thin from sleepless nights. "Our new maps show land where there was only sea last season. The northern borders are swarming with people and beasts our scouts have never seen. And there are reports-" he hesitated, glancing at Marcus "-of miracles, or what the villagers call miracles."

Constantine's gaze sharpened. "Veles?"

Marcus stepped forward, armor creaking. "Yes, Augustus. The warlord has crossed the Black River. His men appear from the mist, strike, and vanish. Survivors speak of arrows that change course, of wolves that talk, of crops that ripen overnight and rot before dawn. The frontier is restless."

"Superstition is an infection," Constantine said. "It spreads in silence. We answer it not with prayers, but with power."

Valentinus unrolled a fresh set of blueprints. "We have begun assembling the new engines, as you ordered. The railway will soon connect the palace to the western quarter, and the foundries are ahead of schedule. But the men are tired. Some whisper of a curse."

Constantine listened, his mind measuring risk. "The world will not stop for the weak. Double the pay for those who stay. Brand the deserters and exile them from the city. The priests are to be watched. Anyone who preaches against change will find themselves laboring in the quarries."

He turned to his sons, who waited nervously. "What is a king's duty?"

Constantine II, proud and wary: "To defend the empire."

Constantius, cautious: "To judge wisely."

Constans, voice barely above a whisper: "To lead, no matter the cost."

Constantine studied them. "A king's duty is to break what must be broken and build what must be built. Compassion without strength is useless. Strength without vision is blind."

He dismissed the council and strode through the palace, boots echoing on stone. Everywhere he walked, the air was thick with change: slaves hauling timber, scribes copying new decrees, engineers arguing in the courtyards over the alignment of iron rails. The Book of the Unseen, secured in a vault beneath the palace, was now the empire's greatest treasure-and its greatest danger.

In the foundry district, the newest steam engine belched smoke and hissed, churning out iron at a rate that would have seemed impossible only a year before. The men bowed their heads as Constantine passed, wary and proud in equal measure. He stopped beside the foreman, who knelt as if before a god.

"You built this?" Constantine asked.

"Yes, Augustus."

"And what will you build tomorrow?"

The foreman hesitated. "Whatever you command."

Constantine smiled, thin and cold. "Good. You will teach the next ten men. We have a world to rebuild, and not enough hands to do it."

A sudden commotion at the northern gate caught his attention. A messenger, filthy and wild-eyed, burst through the guards, clutching a scroll. Valerius intercepted him, scanning the message before handing it to the emperor.

"The outpost at the River Halys has fallen. No survivors. The enemy left signs-strange symbols burned into the earth, animals twisted beyond nature, a field of glass where wheat should have grown."

The council reconvened. "This is not war as we have known it," Valerius said quietly.

"It is not magic, either," Valentinus insisted. "I believe it is science, or something like it-unknown laws, not sorcery. The Book speaks of harmonics that can shatter stone, of lights that can blind or heal. If Veles has found some piece of this knowledge-"

"He will use it against us," Constantine finished. "We must learn faster. Marcus, you will prepare a team to infiltrate his camp. Take only the most loyal. Anyone who returns with proof will be rewarded beyond measure."

The council dispersed again. Constantine walked alone to the old Hippodrome, now converted into a staging ground for engines and raw materials. Here, his people toiled day and night, transforming marble and bronze into something neither ancient nor modern-something new, something dangerous.

He paused to watch a team of children loading coal into the engine's maw. They worked in silence, faces smudged with ash. One, barely more than six or seven, met his gaze, and for a moment Constantine saw not fear, but a kind of defiance. The city was making its own kind of people now-harder, faster, born to the rhythm of steel and discipline.

He returned to the palace as dusk fell, the Book of the Unseen weighing heavier on his thoughts than any crown. In his private study, Valentinus waited, surrounded by pages of formulas and half-completed diagrams. "Augustus, we have succeeded in producing the glass that will not break. The engineer asks permission to begin building the greenhouse for the new crops."

"Proceed," Constantine said. "And remember: secrecy above all. Anyone who leaks a formula will not live to see the morning."

The night deepened, and the city's heartbeat slowed. But Constantine did not rest. He spent hours at his desk, drafting new decrees, planning the expansion of the aqueducts, reviewing reports from distant governors who struggled to control provinces that doubled in size every year. In the shadows, he could almost feel the world breathing-growing, hungering for order.

A knock. Helena entered, his mother, her face both loving and grave. "You build much, my son. But remember what pride cost Babel."

He listened, then set her words aside. "The old world is gone, mother. This one will obey."

When she left, he called for his sons again. By candlelight, he pressed them: "The world is bigger now than any man can rule by fear alone. You must rule by awe. By vision. By the knowledge that you hold what no other dares to touch."

Each son absorbed his lesson differently-one with pride, one with dread, one with silent hope.

The storm came again before dawn, lightning racing across the sky, thunder rattling the palace walls. Constantine stood on his balcony, watching the city below. The rain washed the streets, filling the gutters with the detritus of progress. He saw it all-the engines belching fire, the workers streaming home, the city's towers clawing higher into the sky.

He was tired, but not defeated. He could feel the world growing beneath him, a beast that would not be tamed, only guided. In the east, fires burned where Veles' men gathered. In the west, Rome still clung to its old pride, but every day the balance shifted.

He spoke aloud, his words swallowed by the storm: "The future is made by those who seize it."

When morning came, he called his council once more. "We move against Veles before the spring is out. Valentinus, build me weapons to counter his miracles. Valerius, bribe his men, steal his secrets, spread rumors of his defeat before the first arrow is loosed. Marcus, train every boy and girl in the city to defend the walls. The age of gods and kings is over. The age of iron has begun."

As the city awoke, the sun broke through the clouds, gleaming on wet stone and metal. Constantine watched it rise, his heart steady. There would be more storms, more battles, more losses. But there would be no turning back.

The world had changed. The empire had changed. And he-Augustus, Emperor, Tyrant and Builder-would change with it, or die as the last ruler of a vanished world.