Shadows under the Laurel

The city's marble and banners glowed for Constantine's Vicennalia, but beneath every gold-embroidered awning, Rome was a hive of calculations. Twenty years had passed since he had seized the purple, twenty years since York and the long march through blood and oath. Yet as the processions wove through streets strung with garlands, he felt an undercurrent colder than the Tiber. The people cheered him, yes-but they roared for Crispus with a warmth that did not stop at ceremony.