Winter settled over Augusta Treverorum, cloaking the city in a pall of grey mist and biting winds. For Constantine, it was not a season of rest. The legions, a new, blended force of his Britannic veterans and the absorbed Gallic troops, drilled relentlessly on the frost-hardened fields outside the city, their movents slowly evolving into a single, cohesive war machine.
Inside the palace, Constantine sat with Claudius Martinus, a stack of provincial tax rolls between them. The old prefect was explaining a complex exemption for a guild of river rchants. "It is tradition, Augustus," Martinus said, gesturing to a particular passage. "It is an inefficient one that benefits a few wealthy n at the expense of the state treasury," Constantine countered, his finger tracing a line of figures. "The exemption is revoked. All rchants will pay the sa fair rate. The state requires every resource. We are done here." His finality was absolute, cutting through any further debate.
It was during one such eting, while reshaping the province’s finances with this cold pragmatism, that Valerius entered, his expression urgent. "Augustus," Valerius began, interrupting without ceremony. "A report from the lower Rhine. The Bructeri are across the border in force. They have burned several farms and overwheld a watchtower."
Martinus looked aghast. "A barbarian incursion now? Augustus, we must consolidate, not divide our forces..."
"The Franks offer us a gift," Constantine interrupted, his eyes alight with a sudden, dangerous energy. He saw not a problem, but an opportunity. "They give a reason to blood this army, to forge its loyalty in battle, to win a victory in my own na. And to reward the n with sothing more tangible than promises." He stood, his decision instantaneous. "We will march to the Rhine. We will make an example of these Bructeri that will be rembered for a generation."
Crocus, when inford of the plan, roared with delighted laughter. "Now you speak like a true king, Augustus! My warriors have grown fat and lazy on city life. The promise of barbarian blood will sharpen their spirits!"
The preparations were swift. As the army was making its final preparations in the early spring of 307, another courier arrived from Italy, this one bearing news that would change the entire strategic landscape. Valerius delivered the report in private. "Augustus... Severus is dead."
Constantine’s expression did not change. "How?"
"Maxentius and his father Maximian, fearing Galerius’s own impending invasion of Italy, forced Severus to... take his own life. His authority had collapsed entirely."
Constantine stood before the great map in his study, absorbing the news. He traced a finger over the Alps, towards Ro. Severus gone.Galerius must now march on Italy himself, he thought. A massive, perilous undertaking. He will be mired there for months, perhaps longer. A slow, cold smile touched his lips. While the world’s eyes are fixed on that fire, my campaign on the Rhine will be an afterthought to them. It is the perfect mont.
A week later, Constantine led his army out of Trier. They did not march south, towards the chaos of Italy, but east, towards the dark forests of Germania. He rode at the head of a force that was now truly his, forged by his will, paid for by his new treasury, and eager for the victory he had promised them. He was not rely reacting to the moves of his rivals anymore. He was taking the initiative, building his own legend on his own terms. While they tore at each other over the heart of the old empire, he would secure its borders and prove to the world that the strength of Ro did not lie only in the city of its birth, but in the will of its new, unyielding Emperor.
Reviews
All reviews (0)