The Prefect’s Reckoning

Constantine crossed the atrium beneath mosaics that still glittered with his father's forgotten renovations. The marble echoed with his footsteps and with the muted clatter of the Protectores fanning out to secure alcoves and side corridors. A nervous clerk tried to bow and speak at once; Valerius moved him gently aside. No shouts, no drawn swords—just the hush of inevitability settling over the palace like dusk.

In the audience hall the bronze doors were half-open. Constantine entered without ceremony. Junius Tiberianus stood at the far end, flanked by half a dozen treasury guards who looked as though they would rather be anywhere else in the empire. Scrolls littered a nearby table—orders never sent, calculations already obsolete.

The prefect drew himself up, every line of his toga arranged for dignity, yet his eyes betrayed nights without sleep. "Constantinus," he began, voice formal, intentionally avoiding the imperial title. "Your arrival is… precipitous. Communications from Rome are contradictory. For the safety of the provinces I judged it prudent to await clarity—"

"Clarity is here," Constantine cut in. He did not raise his voice, yet it filled the chamber. "The Rhine frontier stands quiet. Britain follows me. Samarobriva opened its gates. Augusta Treverorum does the same. The legions outside expect an Augustus to speak, not a book-keeper to dither."

Tiberianus's gaze flicked past Constantine to the Chi-Rho standard glowing in the doorway, then to Valerius's silent guards. "I have administered Gaul for fifteen years. I know its grain stores, its tax rolls, its merchant guilds. A stable hand off the boat from Britannia—"

"A stable hand did not ride through that gate," Constantine said. "Your emperor stands before you. Kneel, prefect, and keep your ledgers—or cling to hesitation and lose everything you have balanced so carefully."

He advanced three measured paces, stopping within arm's reach. The difference in age between them seemed to shift; Tiberianus looked suddenly old, Constantine impossibly young and immovable. Outside, horns sounded as the Sixth secured the bridge. Echoes carried through the vaulted ceiling like distant thunder.

"I will not shed Roman blood in this hall," Constantine said more softly, "but do not mistake restraint for weakness. Legio XXII waits beyond the walls; its loyalty hangs on your next breath. Choose."

The prefect's shoulders sagged, as though the weight of indecision itself had broken his spine. He fell to one knee, head bowed. "Ave, Caesar. Ave, Augustus." His voice cracked on the second title, yet it rang true enough for the watching guards. They dropped spear-points in salute; a few exhaled as if released from a long strain.

Constantine offered his hand. When Tiberianus rose, the moment of submission already belonged to memory and to rumor racing through the palace corridors. "You will convene the civic council at dusk," Constantine said. "Announce the transfer of authority, open the treasury for immediate legion pay, and prepare proclamations to every town between the Loire and the Alps."

Tiberianus managed a thin, professional nod. "It shall be done."

"Good. Gaul needs grain, not speeches." Constantine turned to Valerius. "Post detachments at the mint and the food depots. And send word to Crocus—he may let his warriors rest their horses inside the northern camps. No looting."

Valerius permitted himself a brief smile. "The king will grumble, but he will obey."

As officials scattered to obey new orders, Constantine walked onto a balcony overlooking the Moselle. Afternoon light glinted off tiled roofs and the curve of the river; banners of the Sixth already rippled above the Porta Nigra. Somewhere a child shouted, then laughter answered—life resuming under new rule.

For a moment he let the quiet settle. Alistair's ghost whispered charts and probabilities, but they were no longer burdens; they were simply tools in Constantine's grasp. Rome's distant intrigues, Severus's armies, Galerius's hostile edicts—all lay ahead on the road he had chosen. Yet today a capital had bowed without a sword drawn, and the empire felt—for the first time since his father's death—steady beneath his boots.

He closed his eyes, breathed the cool river air, and allowed himself a single, private thought: The storm has only begun.

Behind him the palace stirred with hurried preparations, and the imperial day moved on.