Crack in the Granite

Dawn unfolded over the Pannonian plain, cold and red as a fresh wound. From his high saddle, Constantine surveyed the assembled might of Licinius. It was a spectacle designed to intimidate-cohorts drawn from the Danube, vexilla planted in dew-laden turf, bronze eagles blinking back the weak sun through river mist. To the east, a swath of marshland steamed as it thawed, threatening to swallow anything foolish enough to test its depths. To the west, the Fruska Gora's black shoulder rose impassible, its slopes more rumor than road. The corridor between-flat, featureless, unprotected-waited as the single avenue where the future would be forged or broken.