The Pact of Mediolanum

The Via Aemilia stretched in a pale ribbon beneath the winter sun, stones gleaming where the frost had receded. Constantine's column wound south and east in disciplined silence. Each town they passed put on its best face-garlands strung from arches, Chi-Rho banners painted in hurried brushstrokes, choruses of children rehearsed to cheer. The emperor received every ovation with courteous brevity, nodding from his horse, his gaze never lingering on the performances. His mind tallied harvest stores and militia rosters, assessed bridge piers for rot, watched how the local notables eyed his officers. He saw every gap in the census, every hollow in the granary, every tavern where militia drank too freely. By the time they reached Mediolanum he knew more about the pulse of northern Italy than any tax collector or magistrate would ever confess.