The Roman Tinderbox

The brazier's red core pulsed like a heartbeat in Constantine's private study, washing maps and armor with restless light. Valerius had delivered his word, and now hovered at parade-still; the only motion was the flutter of parchment under a winter draft. Across the table Constantine stood unmoving, head bowed as though communing with the inked ridges of Italia.

Maxentius. A flame in Rome's tinder, dangerous—but illuminating.

At length Constantine spoke, voice low enough that Valerius leaned to catch it. "Galerius built his house upon taxes and terror. Now Rome kindles both into revolt, and Maxentius strikes the match." He raised his eyes. "That makes three fronts for Severus: Rome, Gaul…and his own doubt."

He called for Claudius Mamertinus, Crocus, Metellus, and the senior tribunes of the Britannic and Gallic legions. They assembled under the painted ceiling in ranks that straddled two worlds: barbarian chieftain beside senator's son, island veteran beside Rhine centurion. Constantine wasted no syllable.

"Rome riots," he began, a finger stabbing the map. "The Praetorians whisper Maxentius's name. Severus must march south to smother him or confess weakness to Galerius. Either way he turns his back on us."

A murmur rippled through the chamber. Crocus's wolfish smile flickered; Mamertinus paled but steadied his stylus.

"Our task is not to chase that drama," Constantine continued, "but to ensure Gaul is unbreakable when the survivors look north."

He unrolled a second parchment—fresh orders already inked in his hand.

Gaul. Messengers would ride this night to every civitas from Lugdunum to Burdigala. Governors who proclaimed Constantine Augustus were confirmed in office; those who wavered would face tribunals of the Sixth Victrix. The example of Samarobriva—its prefect tried for extortion and publicly beheaded—was written in the margin as a reminder.

Roads and grain. Mamertinus was to redirect treasury silver to repair the Via Aquitania and fund emergency granary stocks at Tolosa and Narbo. "Hungry towns birth bandits," Constantine said. "Feed them and they build walls instead."

Legions. Gallic detachments of the VIII Augusta would rotate through camps with the Britannic cohorts, exchanging standards for a fortnight to break old cliques. Promotions listed in neat columns elevated officers whose loyalty reports read certissima.

Metellus cleared his throat. "Some Rhine commanders may test your resolve, Augustus."

"Then they will discover it to be iron," Constantine replied. "And the Rhine will learn a new tradition."

Next parchment.

Hispania. A diplomatic column—four hundred riders bearing the imperial labarum—would depart within two days under Mamertinus's oversight. Letters to the Tarraconensis concilium cited Constantius's birth at Naissus, his victories for Hispania, and his son's pledge of lowered customs on Iberian wool if they affirmed Constantin-ian rule. Auxiliary drafts of hardy mountaineers were to follow in spring; Constantine wanted their slings and javelins when the Alpine passes thawed.

Valerius stepped forward at last. "Intelligence?"

"Every road into Italy," Constantine answered. "I want counts of Severus's cohorts, the temper of Maxentius's mobs, the disposition of Galerius's eastern garrisons. Use traders, priests, courtesans—truth cares nothing for the mouths that speak it." His gaze hardened. "And if the Praetorians in Rome must wonder who fills their purse when bread grows scarce, let them wonder loudly."

Crocus's voice rumbled like a drum. "And should Maxentius seek pact or parley?"

"We answer with silence," Constantine said. "While he and Severus bleed each other, Gaul must bloom. The stronger our trunk, the more branches break in the wind."

He dismissed the council, keeping only Valerius. In the emptied hall the brazier's crackle returned, as if conversation with the Empire itself had ceased.

"Have the scribes prepare an edict," Constantine said, softer now. "On crimes of peculation. Confiscation of estates, redistribution to wounded veterans. Stamp it with the Chi-Rho and the eagle: mercy for citizens, judgment for thieves."

Valerius inclined his head. "And you, Augustus?"

"I will ride inspection at Mogontiacum at dawn," Constantine replied, rolling the Italian map tight, sliding a bronze dagger through its scroll to pin possibilities in place. "Gallia must see its emperor moves faster than rumor."

He walked to the window. Below, torches marked the drill square where Britannic and Gallic standards twined under the night. Beyond the walls the Mosella glimmered, a silver thread stitching provinces together—and tying his destiny to lands yet unconquered.

Chaos in Italy, he thought, feeling the pull of distant fires. Let it roar. In the quiet forge of Trier he would hammer weapons and policy alike, until the moment came to stride south and claim the molten crown.

He turned from the window, the decision already set. The ladder of chaos had presented its first rung; Constantine had both feet upon it, and his hands reached upward.