Constantine rose before moonset, as the stars drained from the sky and the embers of a dying camp flickered behind him. He mounted with silent efficiency, feeling the weight of the night-its silence, its anticipation-settle into his bones. By now the old army camp in front of Verona was a ruse: a ring of watchfires, a handful of tents, Legate Sabinus overseeing the illusion of a besieging force. The true column-forty thousand men, every cohort drilled and readied-uncoiled eastward like a blade drawn from its scabbard. Constantine's own horse moved in silence, hooves muffled by leather, the air thick with the musk of wet earth and nervous breath.