The Price of Acclaim

Torch-smoke rolled along the beams of the strategium long after the council dispersed. Constantine lingered over the map table, tracing river-lines with a forefinger that still shook faintly from fever and triumph alike. Britannia's fort network—Eboracum, Deva, Isca, the Wall forts—formed a ragged crescent. If any post faltered, Galerius's envoys or Severus's spies would pour through the gap like tidewater.

A soft knock. The door opened just far enough for a boy-messenger to slip inside, eyes wide with sleepless excitement. He held out a wax tablet.

"From the granaries, Dominus."

Constantine scanned the neat columns: winter stores shaved thin by recent rains; barley shipments from Londinium delayed by flooded roads. Valerius's note at the margin read surplus can be scraped, but horses will suffer. He closed the tablet and sent the boy away with a word of thanks. Food before gold, Alistair's old corporate instincts whispered. A starving army could not be bribed into loyalty.

Footsteps approached—measured, authoritative. Senator Rufinus entered without waiting for leave, the white of his toga now trimmed in a discreet band of mourning black.

"Augustus," he greeted, grave yet smooth. "The city council humbly requests an audience at midday, to discuss funeral expenditures and, of course, to offer condolences."

A purse first, condolences second, Constantine thought. Aloud: "They will be received after the second hour watch. Inform them that Rome's coffers, not Eboracum's merchants, will pay for imperial rites."

Rufinus bowed, but his eyes flickered. "Naturally. One other matter—the vicarius of Britannia telegraphs fidelity, yet enquires by what authority you levy a donative without treasury warrant."

"By the authority that bleeds if the frontier breaks," Constantine said. He met the senator's gaze until it wavered. "The warrant will follow with the next seal from Trier. For now, Britannia stands on faith."

Rufinus retreated, cloak whispering over the flagstones. Crocus stepped from the shadows as the door shut, a half-smile tugging his beard.

"Senators are foxes," the Alemannic king said. "Useful until they remember their teeth."

"Which is why we keep the hounds fed," Constantine replied, tapping the granary tablet. "Your riders left?"

"Before dawn's grey." Crocus's expression grew sober. "But word spreads quicker than horse. If Severus lands at Gesoriacum, Gaul may stagger."

"Then we don't let him land." Constantine rolled open a coastal chart. "The Classis Britannica docks at Rutupiae. Her trieres need crews and sailcloth—give me your first thousand footmen as temporary marines. If iron cannot bar the Channel, wind will."

Crocus's grin flashed, savage and approving. "Done."

Morning light slanted through slit windows when Helena entered, robes smelling of cedar and frankincense. She carried a small cedar chest bound in bronze.

"Your father meant this for you when the time came," she said, setting it before him. Within lay a spiral-bound torque of electrum and a narrow codex, inked in his father's crisp, strategic hand—campaign notes from the Rhine, marginalia on legion morale, even pocket tallies of pay arrears.

For the first time since the shield-lifting, grief breached Constantine's defences. He thumbed a brittle page, recognising the angular clause his father always used to mark risks: Hostis intrinsecus. Enemy within. He closed the codex and bowed his head to Helena.

"I will guard his wisdom," he murmured.

She touched his cheek as though he were still a fevered boy. "Guard your own heart as well. The eagle flies alone, but it nests among spears."

Midday brought the city council—guildmasters, shrill clerks, two bishops in violet stoles—who left the strategium chastened and lighter in purse. Constantine promised tax remissions once the Channel was secure; in return they emptied private granaries into legion wagons and pledged craftsmen to repair corroded armour.

Valerius returned from the Wall after nightfall, mud-spattered, eyes red. "All forts have posted the black banners," he reported. "Commanders took the oath in your name and expect the donative by courier. But, Dominus…" He hesitated. "A centurion at Vindolanda claims a messenger crossed from the east road—imperial colours, Galerian."

Constantine's pulse slowed, cold. Severus was moving faster than predicted.

"Intercept the rider before he clears Cataractonium," he ordered. "If he carries nothing but condolences, we'll return them sealed and cordial. If he bears edicts—fire the parchments and leave him the ashes to deliver."

Valerius saluted and vanished into the corridors.

That night Constantine climbed the wooden stairs to the west parapet. The pyre field beyond the wall was silent; charred timbers smouldered under a rising moon. Ash drifted on the wind, stinging his eyes.

He slipped the electrum torque over his neck—heavy, cold, unmistakably Roman—and rested forearms on the stone crenel. In the courtyard below, smiths hammered new fittings for Crocus's cavalry; sparks burst bright, died, and were trampled into dust.

One step at a time: hold Britannia, bar the Channel, draw Gaul's loyalty with food and coin, stall Galerius until winter crossings were impossible. By spring, every province west of the Alps must speak his name as fact. Only then would he decide whether to parley, or march.

Behind him, the fortress clock sounded the final watch of night. Constantine straightened, squaring shoulders beneath the imperial cloak. Ash coated the torque; he let it remain. Iron and soot—tokens of the empire he'd inherited and the one he meant to forge.

He descended the stairs, each stride falling to the measured rhythm of possibilities calcifying into plans. Dawn would bring new reports, new threats, but also the first wagons of grain leaving for the Wall, the first sails rising at Rutupiae, the first coins stamped with a youthful profile and the terse legend he'd chosen himself:

IMP CONSTANTINVS P AVG

Imperator Constantine, Pius, Augustus—pious not to gods he scarcely believed, but to the promise hammered into him by a dying emperor: Hold the West. And so he would, until the map itself bent to his design.