The Last Submission

Constantine entered Byzantium not as a triumphant butcher, but as the living verdict of history. He led a single cohort of the Scholae Palatinae, not the whole conquering host-mail polished to a mirror sheen, crimson plumes unyielding, faces set like the stones of the walls they passed. No banners snapped above them; the only music was the measured beat of shod hooves on ancient flagstones. Every shuttered window concealed a face, every portico held its silence. The people watched with the mute dread of a city waiting for fire. But the imperial column rode with discipline, lances upright, blades sheathed, eyes forward. Not one hand strayed to plunder.

In the heart of the forum, a knot of magistrates waited in the shadow of an empty rostrum. When Constantine dismounted, boots scraping the marble, their spokesman bowed so deeply that the keys of the city rattled on their silver platter.