Rumors of a New Crown

The lamps of the imperial study burned late over fresh parchment and the metallic scent of ink. Constantine refused to let dusk mark the end of a day; in Trier it merely shifted the kind of work that must be done. By his command every milestone on the Via Agrippa now bore a freshly painted eagle, every toll station along the Moselle a new schedule of fees, and every magistrate a letter reminding him that the price of grain—and of corruption—would be personally audited by the emperor's office.

Claudius Mamertinus, lean with fatigue but eyes still sharp, delivered his latest ledger. "Road patrols report only two robberies this week, both near the Ardennes. Fines will pay for repairs to the bridge at Divodurum."

"Send half the seized silver to the widow's fund in that district," Constantine said. "Nothing buys loyalty faster than a rumor that justice travels faster than thieves." Mamertinus nodded, scribbling the order before the ink on his previous note had dried.

In the courtyard below, Legio XXII rotated evening watch with detachments of the Sixth. The line blurred by design: Britannic centurions now drilled Gallic recruits, while veterans of Primigenia barked cadence at Constantine's island cohorts. Officers who muttered about divided loyalties found themselves reassigned to frontier depots where complaints froze on the wind. Promotions favored merit, not accent—all could see it, and skepticism softened into respect.

Valerius drifted in and out of the palace like a shadow, dispatching riders toward every compass point. His private rolls swelled with the names of innkeepers, barge captains, even money-changers—people whose livelihoods depended on predicting which banner would hang longest over a city gate. They were eager to trade information for stability.

Helena's influence moved along quieter channels. Where Constantine's decrees spoke of coin and grain, Helena's visits left baskets of bread at a widow's door, or a new cloak with a soldier's orphan. Pagans called her Pia Augusta; Christians whispered of her kindness in house gatherings after sunset. Constantine noticed the way garrison soldiers straightened when she passed, and he marked it as another post reinforcing his bridge to Gaul.

Yet even this latticework of control could not mute the distant thunder from Italy. Reports first came piecemeal: a caravan master complaining of doubled customs, a monk describing riots on the Aventine. By the time Valerius requested a private audience, patterns had crystallised into danger.

They met at midnight. Constantine's maps lay open across the table, pinned by lead weights. Valerius's courier, dust-caked and hollow-eyed, waited just long enough to deliver a sealed scroll before staggering off to the infirmary.

"Unrest in Rome," Valerius said. "Bread queues turned to mobs when Severus's prefect raised the tax on flour. The Guard watched—and cheered."

Constantine's stylus hovered over Liguria. "And the Senate?"

"Powerless, but loud. They call Severus a butcher of tradition." Valerius drew a steadying breath. "A different name is shouted with theirs—Maxentius."

The stylus touched down, marking nothing, merely anchoring thought. Constantine's inherited memories replayed a banquet in Mediolanum: Maxentius, flush with wine, railing at the Tetrarchy that had passed him by. An ambitious man, but coddled, he had seemed more peacock than eagle then. Now Rome hissed his name like a spark near dry straw.

"Is he declared Augustus?" Constantine asked.

"Not yet. The Praetorians test the wind. They despise Severus; they have not forgotten Galerius's order to halve their ranks. Maxentius positions himself as their deliverer."

Constantine straightened. "Galerius will force Severus to act—march north, stamp out Gaul, then pivot on Rome before Maxentius can gather nerve." He tapped the Alps. "And if Severus fails, Galerius must intervene personally or yield the West to fragments."

Valerius waited for instructions, but Constantine's mind had already leapt ahead. Chaos split the attention of enemies; it also opened corridors for those swift enough to walk them. Britain and Gaul were secure, yet incomplete. Italy's turbulence offered either a highway to Rome or a quagmire to swallow legions.

"We will not wait to see which," he said at last. "Send word to Londinium: the fleet must prepare transports for another levy. Tell Crocus the northern road remains his charge, but detach a thousand of his riders—light cavalry will cross mountains faster than mules. Mamertinus will gather three months' pay and move treasury reserves to Vesontio; if the passes close, I want silver east of the mountains, not trapped behind them."

Valerius inclined his head. "And Maxentius?"

"Watch him. Whisper to the Praetorians that I restore honours to those who keep faith with Rome, not with any upstart. Let them weigh two benefactors."

He dismissed Valerius, then lingered alone, fingers tracing the map's faded lines. In Neo-Alexandria he had once modelled entire civilizations as equations. Here, the variables bore swords and grudges, but the principles remained: pressure, leverage, timing. Maxentius's gambit threatened every equation Galerius relied upon. If used correctly, it could rewrite the board.

Outside, bells marked the second watch of night. Constantine rolled the map toward Italia and slid the stylus into its crease like a dagger. The empire no longer revolved around distant edicts from Nicomedia or Mediolanum; its axis had shifted to Trier, to a young emperor who refused to pause between victories.

Tomorrow would bring dispatches, budgets, drilling schedules—another day of the relentless grind. But tonight, standing beneath the carved rafters of a palace he had seized by will alone, Constantine allowed himself one sharp breath of anticipation.

Unrest in Rome. A rival on the horizon. Not a threat—an opportunity. And he intended to be the first to claim it.